Raven Calls

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Eight and twenty, Mom? Really?” Still, I got up and offered her my hand. Right hand. The left continued to be a dead weight. Sheila frowned and instead of taking the one I offered, reached for the useless other. I pulled about half an inch away, realized there was nowhere to hide and slumped as she caught the bitten flesh in her hands.

Her eyebrows drew down. “What’s this magic you’re working, my heart?”

“Magic I’m wo— I’m not working any magic! I got bit by a damned werewolf a couple days ago!”

She gave me a puzzled look. “So?”

“So my magic’s screwed up because I’m trying to keep from going all furry!”

Silence met my outburst. After a long moment, my mother said, as gently as she could, “Sure and you don’t think a bite transforms you into a werewolf, do you, cuisle mo chroí?”

“Of course it does. Everybody knows tha…” I swallowed. “Everybody knows that.”

The queen of the banshees looked like she was trying not to laugh. “You’ve watched too many movies, Joanne. Where does magic come from?”

“Within.” I actually knew that one, and as soon as I said it started to feel uncomfortable. “I mean… Well, yeah. It comes from within.”

“And so how,” she wondered, “could a bite, an external wound, change you from one thing to another?”

My face heated up and I grabbed my arm defensively. A wave of pain washed over me, which helped my righteousness as I snapped, “It’s an infection. It gets into the blood. That’s the whole idea of how werewolves work.”

“Magic is bloodlines, my girl. It can’t be forced on you from without. At most it can suggest, but the mind must be willing.”

“Bullshit. I turned Morrison into a wolf last week. You can’t tell me he was willing for that to happen.”

Gary cleared his throat. “Didn’t you say that whole spirit dance thing was softenin’ people up for transformation, Jo?”

I gave him a gimlet stare. “Yeah. Spiritual transformation, though, not physical.”

He shrugged one big shoulder. “Maybe, but you can’t tell me Mike ain’t willin’ to take on you and your magic, sweetheart.”

My jaw worked. Gary widened his eyes in an approximation of innocence. I spluttered, then muttered, “Okay, fine, you may have a point. But it’s not like I’m lining up to turn into a werewolf!”

“You have the shifting power within you,” Sheila said, and my stomach turned to lead. “If the thought is buried in your mind, Joanne, that this is what happens, then the magic within you may well grasp the magic without and bend toward its will. The wolf blood is borne from mother to daughter, but if an adept embraces the change, why should the blood not accept her?”

“So you’re saying I’m turning myself into a werewolf?”

Way at the back of my mind, that obnoxious little voice I hadn’t heard for a while said, “Ding!”

Its long silence did not make its return any more welcome. It was the voice of reason, the one I’d only started noticing around the time my shamanic gifts woke up. I hadn’t thought about it, but if I had, I’d have thought I’d incorporated the voice of reason into my everyday thoughts, thus muffling its irritating commentary. Apparently I hadn’t quite managed it.

If I was my own worst enemy, that explained why Áine had failed in cleansing the werewolf venom out of me. It also explained why Rattler had come closer to succeeding, but had still ultimately failed. I stared at my enflamed arm like I could set it on fire with the power of my mind, then despite myself, grinned. Good thing Caitríona had gone home, or she’d no doubt be glad to do it for me.

Humor faded, though, leaving me staring at my arm. “Can you heal it, Mom? Caitríona said you used to give them magic Band-Aids.”

She shook her head as I glanced up. “Mage I may be, but healing lies within the realm of the living, alanna. It’s your own self who’ll have to do the job.”

I’d been afraid she would say that. “You realize this is not a good time. I mean, we’re hanging out in the Irish underworld, which the Master has corrupted half of, we’ve killed one of his dragons and his head banshee, and the new banshee boss in town is the twentieth-century version of his arch-enemy. And you think I should go have a nice communion with myself and get the werewolf bite all sorted out now?”

My mother, who had no particular right to use a Mother Knows Best expression on me, assumed one. “Do you think going into battle against the Master with his poison running in your veins is wise?”

It was just not fair that she actually did know best. I’d gotten this far with the infection—it had even been helpful in some ways—but I didn’t really like to think about just how badly I might get twisted around if he could use the bite against me.

What I did like to think about was how much my odds of survival improved with Sheila MacNamarra on my side. I’d sworn up and down I’d take it to the mat this time if I had to, and I meant it. I was almost looking forward to it. The Master and I had had a date looming for over a year now and I’d grown eager to get it over with. And Mom had held him off more than once in the past, so maybe between the two of us we actually had a shot at—

—well. Who was I kidding. We weren’t going to eliminate death and illness and horror. But maybe we could haul it back in line to some degree. Push for a world where as much money was spent on peace efforts year in and year out as was spent on war efforts. Fully funded schools while the Air Force held a bake sale to build their next bomber. That kind of thing. If we could drive the Master far enough underground, I could easily spend the rest of my life working to clean up the mess he’d made of the European Lower Worlds, and that could be considered a life well spent. I had other things I was planning to spend my life well doing, too—like one Captain Michael Morrison of the Seattle Police Department—but that wasn’t at the top of my priorities just now. I said, “Okay,” mostly to myself, then arched my eyebrows at Gary and Sheila. “Don’t do anything fun while I’m gone, okay?”

“You mean like learn ta shapeshift?” Gary asked with a not-very-credible glower.

“Hey, you’re the one who went off on shore leave with the guys for three days. You could’ve stayed home and been there for the fireworks.”

Gary got a look that said he’d had some fireworks of his own over the weekend, and I realized I’d barely even asked him how the party had gone. There was a laundry list of catching up to do, never mind his adventures through time about which I’d not yet heard a peep. I pointed at him, said, “We gotta talk,” then marched back to where Aibhill had fallen and gathered handsful of Gancanagh’s dusty remains. It didn’t take much to draw a small power circle around myself, and when I was done I sat in its center, black dust glittering in the failing light. Macabre, maybe, but it seemed suitable: he was of this land, and I could use all the friendly surrounds I could get. And Gan had certainly been friendly.

Circle in place, I was as safe from the Master’s minions as I could get. I waved at Mom and Gary, then let my heartbeat be the drum that carried me to my garden.

For a rarity I came up through the water when I entered the garden, and strode out feeling a bit Diana at the hunt. That lasted right up until I saw an agitated Coyote pacing the stubbly grass. Technically he shouldn’t have been able to wander into my garden uninvited, but that concern came secondary to why he was there at all. “Are you okay?”

He spun around on his heel, changing from animal form to man as he did so. He was breathtaking, as always. Brick-red skin, not a human color at all, and flawless black hair that fell loose to his hips. That, he had in real life, but not the skin tones or the golden eyes, which were currently shining with worry. He ran the few steps across the grass to catch me in something that wasn’t exactly a hug and wasn’t quite a shake, but fell somewhere in between. Then, as Gary often did, he set me back so he could see me, but with him there was a definite rattling of my teeth involved in the motion. “Me? Are you okay?”

I put my hands over his wrists and squeezed, not gently. Red-brick beauty or not, Coyote was two inches shorter than me both in real life and in his garden perception of himself, and I was, if not his equal in strength, pretty damned near. I was certainly strong enough to grind his wrist bones together, even if we hadn’t been in my garden, where my will reigned supreme. He frowned, then let go of my shoulders as my grip grew increasingly clamplike. “Ow!”

“If you ever shake me again it’s going to be a whole lot more than a little ow.” I only released him after childish hurt turned to comprehension in his eyes. His “Sorry” was the grudging apology of a man embarrassed to have been caught out. I nodded and exhaled my own anger away. “What’re you doing here, Cyrano?”

Maybe not all my anger, then. I’d spent a long time thinking Coyote was a spirit animal. After discovering he was a real live human boy—and learning his name—I’d started using the latter occasionally. Generally when I was annoyed with him. He noted it now, and his grudgingness melted away in a thin, acknowledging smile that turned slightly incredulous. “You came tearing into my garden, demanded the spear, went rushing off again with no explanation and you wonder why I’m here?”

Oh. “Oh. Everything’s okay. I was just in a tight spot.”

Coyote, with wonderful neutrality, said, “In Ireland’s underworld.”

“Right. Hey, look, since you’re here, you want to gi—”

“JOANNE WALKER!”

I sat down hard and nearly swallowed my tongue as I looked up at him, all innocent eyes. “What? What?”

Coyote thrust a finger out. Not quite at me. Not after I’d squashed his wrists for shaking me. Just an imperious thrust, piercing the air. “What are you doing in Ireland, in the underworld, asking for the spear, which I see you no longer have, and what is wrong with your arm!”

Between him and my mother I was getting about all the outraged-parent scenario I could handle. I took a moment to be grateful Dad had raised me on his own so my parents couldn’t double-team me, then said, as pleasantly as I could, “I’m in Ireland’s underworld trying to find a cure for a werewolf bite,” which was succinct and, in its way, accurate.

Coyote’s long smooth hair took on a life of its own, strands rising like static pulled them hither and yon. It was a rather appealing show of magic and concern, and regret sluiced through me. It probably always would, when it came to Coyote. Some things couldn’t help leave a mark. He, unaware of my thoughts, demanded, “And the spear?”

“I gave it to the Irish Mage.”

His mouth opened and shut, but evidently he couldn’t find fault with that particular answer. After a minute he, too, sat, rubbing his hands over his face. “Werewolf bite, Jo?”

“It was,” I said for the hundredth time, “a rough weekend. Look, I’ve left my dead mother and Gary hanging around in the underworld while I’ve come here to try to heal this thing, so while there’s an awful damned lot I need to talk to you about, right now is probably not the time to do it. You’ve known me longer than anybody else. Do you think you can help?”

“Jo, a werewolf—a shapechanger, a skinwalker of any kind—a skinwalker shouldn’t be able to…” He struggled for a word and settled on, “Infect. Shouldn’t be able to infect you. The healing magic should keep it away, and you can’t shapeshift yet, so—”

I said, “Actually,” into my elbow, and he fell into a voluminous silence. Poor Coyote. For the past week I’d been doing variations on rushing into his consciousness, screeching for help and rushing out again with nary a word of explanation. I ran through the details of the past several days mentally, then summarized it all with, “The shapeshifting lesson this weekend went fine. No flounders. I did what you told me, I kept an animal in mind to shift into and so far I’ve done a snake and a coyote and a werewolf, but according to my mother the whole wolf thing is me embracing the shapeshifting in a totally screwed-up way.”

Coyote, with what struck me as remarkable restraint, said, “Isn’t your mother dead?”

“Yeah.”

“I see.” He sat there waiting for more for a full thirty seconds before concluding I wasn’t going to delve any deeper into that particular well, then sighed from the depths of his soul. “Of course I’ll help.”

He didn’t even put a caveat on, which I thought was very gentlemanly of him. I leaned forward and caught his hand with mine. “I swear I’ll call you and tell you the whole story, all of it, no holds barred—” except maybe the part about Morrison kissing me “—and then I’m going to beg you for mentorly advice, because, holy crap, am I in over my head.”

“Call,” he said, making a phone with his fingers, “or call?” he said, gesturing around the garden.

“Call,” I said, repeating the garden motion, and he smiled.

“All right. If I may, then?” He nodded toward my overheated left arm and I flopped it toward him. A hiss escaped between his teeth as he touched it and almost withdrew. “Sorry if that hurt.”

“Actually, it didn’t.” I knew perfectly well that was worse than it hurting. It suggested somewhere within me I’d started accepting the changes, and that was bad. “I’m fighting myself,” I said quietly. “My hind brain is running with the ‘werewolf bites mean turning into werewolves!’ thing and the healing magic, which I guess is smarter than I am—”

Coyote gave me a look that suggested tree frogs were smarter than I was, but didn’t say it. I half smiled and continued. “Anyway, I guess it’s going great guns holding the infection in place, not letting it spread. Or not spread quickly, anyway. Nobody else has been able to get a foothold against it.”

“Who’s tried?”

“A goddess and a spirit animal.”

Coyote’s eyes popped like Sylvester the Cat’s, but he got his expression back under control. “Were either of them invited?”

“Not per se.” I knew a cue when I heard one, though, and straightened my spine so my lungs could be properly filled and my “Coyote, will you heal me?” could come out as a nice solid request.

For some reason it made him laugh. I huffed and he laughed again, then, trying for ritual solemnity, replied, “I will,” before cracking up a third time. “Sorry. I just expected something a lot more formal. Magic makes people talk funny, have you noticed?”

“Have I ever. But I couldn’t figure out a way to dress it up any more than that.”

“No, asking for a healing is really pretty straightforward. All right, listen, Jo. Two things. One, this is probably going to hurt, and two…” He hesitated, regret creasing lines around his mouth. “It’s going to require not holding anything back. That shouldn’t be hard....”

It shouldn’t be, because we’d had a handful of amazing days together only a few months earlier. We’d gotten under each other’s skins, into each other’s magics and seen each other’s souls in a way that only a couple of magic users could ever do. It had been the safest, most comfortable, most erotic intimacy I’d ever imagined.

And then Coyote had gone home to Arizona, and I’d stayed in Seattle, and the truth was, neither of us was going to give up our lives for the other.

More than that, though, was Morrison’s presence in my life. I’d been half in love with Coyote since I was a teenager. He was home to me in a way nobody else could ever be. But Morrison was the one who made me dizzy and weak-kneed and splendidly angry and passionately happy. Coyote’s magic was breathtaking. Morrison’s solidity was my world. Coyote and I both knew it. It hurt him more than it hurt me, but I didn’t want to rub salt in the wound.

On the other hand, I didn’t want to turn into a werewolf, either. I sighed. “No holds barred, ’Yote. I said that already.”

“Okay.” He kept my left hand in his right and put his left over my heart. Nice circle, I thought: heart magic. Without thinking I put my right hand over his heart, too. Not as intimate as the left hand, heart-to-heart, but since my left hand was a festering lump of burning infection, that was probably okay. Coyote nodded once, and I Saw his power light up, blocking the poison magic from the rest of my body with the circle he’d created.

Then desert heat exploded in my veins, and everything went white for a while.