“No. That one’s a rabbit.”
“Rabbit,” he said indignantly. “That’s a coyote.”
I laughed, but that was a mistake. My vision went black for a few minutes, then, slowly, the sky, clouds, and grass were back.
“Don’t do that,” said Coyote. “It makes it difficult to hold you here. I break things, a lot of things, but I don’t want one of them to be you. So just rest here.”
“What about…” It was difficult to be worried; most of me wanted to just watch the clouds drift by.
“Let me talk,” Coyote said. “You don’t know what questions you want to ask. Unusual decision to bring Joel into the pack. You could have used the walking stick to cut the threads of Guayota’s spell, and that would have done the same thing as you managed to do with the pack spell.” He paused. “Maybe. Maybe it would have just burned to ashes. I don’t know. It’ll be interesting to see what happens to the pack with a tibicena in it.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I told him. “I gave the walking stick back to Beauclaire.”
“Did you?” said Coyote. “Hmm. Anyway, Guayota, being separated from that which gave him life—the volcano—needed two anchors to hold him in his human-seeming and allow him his power. Two anchors who were connected to his island. Why two? Why male and female? Who knows. Doubtless there is a reason, and if you meet him again, you might ask because the answer interests me.”
“Never,” I told him. “I am never going to the Canary Islands.”
There was a little silence beside me, and I realized that he was lying in the grass, too. “It’s supposed to be beautiful in the Canaries,” he said a little wistfully. “There’s this underground lake lit by torches…”
“No,” I told him.
“Maybe Gary will go,” Coyote said contemplatively. “But in any case, when you claimed Joel, tibicena and all, it threw the magic that allowed Guayota to live away from his island out of balance, and it unraveled.”
“Then Joel will go back to being just human?” I asked.
“That depends,” Coyote said.
“On what?” I turned my head, glimpsed his face, then my world went black again.
“Why don’t you just die?” hissed someone in my ear.
After a moment, I realized it was Christy.
“I know it was you. I know it. And now I look like a freak.” Something dripped on my cheek and touched my lips with salt.
“Mom,” said Jesse. She sounded appalled and … amused.
“She’s nasty and vindictive,” Christy said. “Everyone thinks she farts rainbows—and look what she did to me. I’m blue.” She wailed the last.
Christy had used the bottle of shampoo she’d left in my bathroom. I hoped the dye hadn’t stained the tile, but it would be worth it if it had. There were some noises, then Jesse’s breath was warm on my ear.
“She’s gone to get coffee, Mercy,” she told me. “I love her, but—the dye was inspired.” She giggled. “You are terrifying. I can’t believe you got her while you were…” She cleared her throat. “While you were in the hospital.” She laughed again. “I told her she should leave it. I’d dye my hair blue again, and we could be twins. Even Auriele laughed at her expression, though she turned her head so Mom couldn’t see.”
There was a long, peaceful silence, and then Jesse said, “I want so badly for her to be happy. But I can’t make her happy. All I can do is love her. Do you think that’s all right?” She patted the pillow beside my head. “You need to wake up pretty soon, though. Dad needs you. So do I.”
The sheets were very white and scratchy and the blankets too thin. My toes were cold, and I was lying on my side. I wiggled to try to pull my feet up and get them warm.
“Mercy?” Adam said.
“We need to get new blankets,” I told him, and he laughed.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
I took a deep breath and realized that I really was awake because it hurt. The sun was shining, the AC was on too high, and I was in a hospital bed.
Adam leaned forward and kissed me. Then I kissed him back. With interest. He laughed and rested his forehead on mine, and I felt his whole body go limp.
“You are so stoned, baby,” he said.
“Am I fried?” I asked.
“What?” He rolled his head a little so he could see my face.
“Burned like a crispy steak,” I clarified.
“No. Not as bad as it could have been.” He hesitated. “Not as bad as it was, I think, is a better answer. The cheek scar will have a companion on your forearm, and I’m afraid the shotgun-pellet scars have some company. Might be a while before you are happy about walking on your left foot, but that was just blisters, and Samuel says it should heal with no scarring.”
“No modeling contract,” I said mournfully.
“Not in your future, no,” he said, and his dimple flirted with me. “You’ll have to make do with me.”
“Coyote said I was dying,” I told him. “And Christy wanted me to.”
“Coyote, eh?” He gave me an odd smile. “I went to grab some coffee that first night you were here, and when I got back, he was sitting on the edge of your bed. As a coyote.” He rubbed his face and took a deep breath. “Samuel said the first X-rays showed that you’d broken your neck. He … wasn’t optimistic. But after Coyote had his visit, things got better. As for Christy—” His skin next to mine flushed, and his eyes lightened to amber for just a moment. His voice was calm, though. “Christy has been banned from the hospital. She decided to stay at Auriele’s until she figures out whether she is going to move back to Eugene or job search over here. They managed to get the blue off her skin, but she had to dye her hair black. You are not her favorite person.”
“Auriele’s okay?” I asked, suddenly anxious.
“Shh,” he said. “Auriele is a werewolf. She was down for a couple of days, but, as of yesterday, she’s fine.”
The muzzy feeling was retreating. “How long have I been out?”
“Three days,” he said. “And you’ve only been mostly out. Samuel said you wouldn’t remember much of it, though. He also said that they’d probably let you out tomorrow morning. Since there are now no signs of a broken neck.”
“Joel?”
He laughed, a happy uncomplicated laugh. “And I thought I threw the fox in the henhouse when I brought you into the pack. Joel is … yesterday he stayed human for almost an hour.”
“Coyote said something about Joel.” But try as I might, I couldn’t remember what it was. “Coyote also said we should avoid visiting the Canary Islands for a couple of years.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” He was quiet for a while, resting his upper body alongside mine. Eventually, he sat up. “If I don’t move, I’m going to fall asleep,” he said. He looked tired. Beautiful, but tired. “I’m going to go find some food, and I’ll bring some back for you, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t cause any trouble.”
“Me?”
The dimple came out again. “I’ll be back soon.”
As soon as he left, I sat up and started unwiring myself. I had to pee, and I had no intention of letting my bathroom activities be a public event ever again. I wasn’t as bad off as I had been after the fight with the river devil. As long as I didn’t need a wheelchair—everything else was gravy.
I sat up and swung my legs down—and realized that Adam’s recitation of my injuries had limited itself to the burns. My left leg was encased from my toes to about six inches above my knee. My right forearm was bandaged, but my left elbow was immobilized by something with more structure. That I hadn’t felt them meant that I was still on a lot more drugs than I’d figured. I gave the IV still hooked to my right hand a look of respect and decided not to pull those out the way I’d intended to. The IV stand was on wheels—it could come, too.
I slid off the bed and got about six feet when it occurred to me that this might have been a bad idea. I wobbled, recovered, wobbled agai
n, and would have fallen if I hadn’t grabbed the walking stick at the last minute.
“Well, hello,” I told it. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story, as all my stories do, owes much to the people who go through it and find all the oopses, plot holes, and whatnot any book collects over the months that it is being written. The mistakes that are left are mine. The following people read through bits and pieces and parts to make the book better: Collin Briggs, Mike Briggs, Linda Campbell, Michael Enzweiler, Deb Lentz, Ann Peters, Kaye and Kyle Roberson, Anne Sowards, and Sara and Bob Schwager. If you find this book enjoyable, you and I, dear reader, owe them a debt of gratitude.
Patricia Briggs, Night Broken
(Series: # )
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