Turkey vultures, for all their bulk, are not built for aerial combat. They are scavengers, built to eat dead meat quickly and contract few (if any) diseases from digesting said meat. They are constructed to glide for eons in search of immobile snack foods. So when they encounter a flying predator used to snatching extremely mobile prey like rabbits and mice, they are hopelessly outclassed—even if they have First World spirits juicing up their systems.
I tangled with one of the vultures and it screeched in a combination of rage and astonishment, like a high school boy might when a teacher boldly confiscates his bag of Cheetos. It tore at me with its talons and pecked at me with its beak even as I tore at it—I felt bits of rib meat and my stomach being torn away—but I activated my healing charm and did my best to get hold of its neck with my talons. It thrashed desperately; its wingspan was as great as mine, if not greater, and we began to fall, since neither of us could beat the air sufficiently when we were beating each other. But I managed to roll around to the top and lock on to its neck with one taloned foot and yank upward, and this had a singular, unexpected effect on the creature. The vulture skin made a sucking, popping sound and the human fell from underneath it, screaming, to fall headfirst and splatter wetly on the mesa strewn with poisoned nails.
It did not immediately move afterward and pretend that nothing had happened. It did not, in fact, move at all. Victory! I thought, since the vulture skin was still in my talons. I let it drop harmlessly onto Tyende Mesa. But the other skinwalker saw his brother broken on the ground and cried out, abandoning subterfuge and diving straight for Frank, perceiving him to be the softer target.
They didn’t have unnatural speed, I saw, in the air: They could move only as fast as the air would allow the physiognomy of their forms. As bobcats they could take advantage of unnatural musculature. As vultures they could rely on aerodynamics only—their stronger shoulders would allow them to flap more than vultures normally do, perhaps, but it wouldn’t allow them to fly at peregrine-falcon speeds.
The hataałii saw the skinwalker coming and thrust Moralltach high above his head to make landing difficult. I tacked about and adjusted my course before diving after it. Owls dive faster than vultures; they are designed to do so. I hit him at an angle from above, talons first, and bore him to the ground, barely missing the blade of Moralltach. The creature shrieked and began to bubble and buck bizarrely underneath my grasp. It was more than I could hold on to as an owl, so I shifted directly to a wolfhound and quickly moved to lock my jaws on the back of its neck. As I did so, it shifted as well, from a vulture to a human with the vulture skin and feathers lying on top, but it seemed involuntary. My cold-iron aura, I realized, was causing the transformation to the natural human form; that was why the first one had fallen out of his skin once I’d clutched him in my talons and why the skin of the bobcat had rippled as it chewed on my neck before Coyote shot it.
The neck I was after wasn’t so scrawny anymore but was still within the compass of my jaws. The problem now was that there were human limbs and musculature to deal with, and he had a speed and will to wield them viciously. Even as Frank yelled a “Hyaaah!” and brought Moralltach clumsily down across the back of the skinwalker, the creature’s left arm buffeted me backward. This gave him time to roll over and kick Frank powerfully in the gut before I could descend upon him again. Frank staggered backward, Moralltach sailing from his hand as he reflexively sought to cushion his fall and protect his head. He fell outside our circle and onto the waiting caltrops—or so I imagined, judging by peripheral vision and what I heard, which was a dismayed “Shit!” I was too busy tearing after the skinwalker’s throat. The creature punched my ribs so mightily with his right hand that I heard them crack.
In the movies, you go flying away into the night after a shot like that, landing ruinously against a rock or cement wall, and somehow your mere flesh and bone shatters said rock or cement and you get up afterward and brush dust off your shoulders as the soundtrack swells dramatically. In reality, what happens is that your lungs empty of all air and you fall over—and if you do fly into a rock wall, it will shatter your bones long before you shatter it.
My healing charm was already working on the flesh the other skinwalker had torn as a bird, but it did nothing to reinflate my lungs. As I lay gasping, the cursed thing—Robert or Ray Peshlakai, if Sophie was right—staggered to his feet to finish me off. Instead, he collapsed on top of me, further injuring my ribs as black ruin suffused his entire twitching body, spreading from the wound that Frank had delivered with Moralltach. Unlike my Fourth World poisons, the Fae enchantment on the sword was more than the First World spirit could heal—Fae magic being as alien to First World as the other way around. He died with a hoarse cry of terror, and I think I might have joined him—partly because it was the only sound I could manage and partly because watching a head shrivel and turn black right next to yours is profoundly disturbing.
I couldn’t kick him off me, nor could I struggle out from underneath him, injured as I was. I would have to shift back to human to help Frank and call Granuaile for help.
Shifting with bone injuries is never a great idea, but I didn’t see what choice I had. The transition nearly turned the cracks in my ribs to breaks, and my half-strangled cry of pain, when added to all the other cries in the night, caused Granuaile to call out from the hogan.
“Atticus? You all right?”
I didn’t answer right away. I would be fine eventually, but I was worried about Frank and trying to recover my breath. He rolled back into the circle, several caltrops sticking out of his back and perhaps more elsewhere that I couldn’t see. His right hand fumbled into his back pocket for the antidote I’d given him.
“Yes!” I managed to say, trying to encourage him. I shoved the blackened corpse off me with revulsion and winced at the pain the exertion caused. I began to crawl toward Frank. His hand was shaking as he took the box out of his pocket. He dropped it to the ground in front of him and gasped—his breath was wheezy and unsteady already.
“Let me help, Frank,” I said, shutting down my pain to allow me to move faster. He had three caltrops lodged in his back and I yanked these out as quickly as I could, being careful about the points, then reached for the antidote. The box was mashed up a bit, and that worried me. I remembered how he’d fallen. “No, no, no …” I breathed, my fingers scrabbling at the box to get it open. The syringe inside was broken, crushed when Frank’s full weight had fallen on it.
Frank’s elbow trembled and unlocked on him and he collapsed, then rolled over, clutching his chest. His breath came in short gasps and he was in obvious distress.
“Hold on, Frank, I’m going to try something,” I said, discarding the useless antidote. I reached for the side of his neck, intending to heal him directly in spite of the risk to myself—if I caused him any harm while using magic, my own life would be forfeit. He clutched at my arm and the ghost of a smile passed his lips as his eyes flicked to the dead skinwalker.
“Got … the fucker,” he whispered.
“Yeah, you got him,” I agreed. “Just wait a sec, I’m going to fix this.”
But his hand left my arm and returned to his chest, his eyes squinting shut in pain. This was wrong. The poison shouldn’t be acting this quickly. I should have time to break down the toxins so the ambulance could get here. I should be able to keep him alive until he got to the hospital, where they’d have the antidote for alkaloid poisoning.
“Frank, are you having a heart attack?” My fingers sought the pulse in his neck and found it, but then it disappeared even as all the tension drained from his limbs.
“No!” I flung his hand away from his chest and began CPR. There are no bindings to restart a stopped heart. All healing depends on a functioning circulatory system, and all life needs a will to live. I began shouting at him as I pressed his chest. “Frank, come back! I have something to tell you! Don’t go, Frank! There’s so much I can teach you, and I need you to teach me! Frank! Breathe!”
/> A chill wrapped itself around me, and I scrambled away from Frank and turned on my faerie specs, dreading what I would see but needing the confirmation. Frank’s ch’įįdii was there, looking at me. It was a pale, weak, nebulous thing compared to Darren’s, barely more than a whisper of breath in the cold, and it meant Frank wasn’t going to come back. It also meant that most of Frank, gods bless him, was already in harmony with the universe. I knelt there, defeated, and stared at it. It returned my stare with cold equanimity.
“All right, then, Frank,” I said softly, holding out my arm and letting the ch’įįdii wrap itself around me and disperse. “Those were good last words. Go and be at peace.”
Frank’s ch’įįdii was merely the smallest wisp of a ghost, and if it had any power to affect the living, I can’t imagine it was capable of doing much beyond bringing on a bad mood. It wasn’t the only ch’įįdii hanging around, however. When I turned around to see the ch’įįdiis of the skinwalkers, I flinched backward. Their ch’įįdiis were gothic horrors, larger than the men themselves, and far, far worse than Darren’s. They pulsed and writhed with disharmony, and I realized that they each had two sets of eyes. There were two things attached to those bodies, and they were intertwined as well—a black menace and a blacker one.
“Well, hello there, First World spirits,” I said. “Guess you’re bound to those men a bit closer than you’d wish right now.”
The nearest one—the one Frank had killed—lunged in my direction. I was beyond the length of its metaphorical chain, however, and grateful for it. I wasn’t anxious to plunge my arm into that darkness; it wasn’t a simple ch’įįdii to disperse but a being with its own identity and a sense of purpose.
The rumble of an engine and the yellow cones of headlights tore my gaze away from the spooky eyes in the darkness. I dispelled my faerie specs but kept the night vision.
“Granuaile!” I called. “It’s okay to come out. See who’s in the truck.”
I retrieved my clothes, moving a bit gingerly due to my injured ribs. I pulled on my jeans but left off the shirt, since my wounds weren’t fully closed and still rather bloody. I wiped some of the blood off with the shirt and focused my efforts on closing up the skin.
When the truck engine cut off, I heard two doors slam. Then Granuaile’s voice rang out, raw with anger.
“You got a lot of nerve showing up now, you bastard!”
It was Coyote. And he’d brought a friend.
Chapter 30
I searched frantically for Moralltach. I didn’t know what Coyote’s intentions were, but his arrival at this particular moment spoke of calculation on his part. He was far too conveniently present after the skinwalkers had been dispatched. Stepping carefully around the caltrops, I found the sword and picked it up, then minced my steps again going the other way so that I could give Coyote my two cents’ worth.
“Now, calm down there, Miss Druid,” he was saying. “I ain’t the bad guy here, not by a long shot.”
“Well, you’re damn sure the coward here,” she said.
“Coward, you say? Who let himself get chopped to pieces for the sake of your master? Who let himself be a doggie treat for a giant hound from Hel? Was that a coward that did that?”
“Where have you been while we’ve been dealing with your mess?” she demanded, ignoring his retort.
“I wouldn’t mind hearing the answer to that myself,” I said as I approached.
Coyote turned and spied me coming. “Ah, Mr. Druid. A good evenin’ to you.”
Apparently we didn’t have to worry about using fake identities in front of this stranger. “Whatever, Coyote. Where have you been?”
“I been down to Many Farms, messin’ with the many farmers. Runnin’ some errands on your behalf while I was at it.”
“On my behalf?”
“Yeah, but we can talk about that later. How are the skinwalkers?”
“You know very well how they are, or you wouldn’t be here.”
Coyote grinned shamelessly. “That’s right. You kilt ’em for me, just like I knew you would. You got some o’ that noble shit in your aura, you know that?”
“I can’t see my own aura, Coyote, only the white glow of my magic.”
“Well, it looks like a really pompous yellow. Most self-important color I ever did see.”
“Frank is dead, Coyote,” I said, and Granuaile gasped. “You brought him in on this project, and now he’s gone because of you.”
“You’re lookin’ at it the wrong way, Mr. Druid. Two skinwalkers are gone because of him. That hataałii over there was one o’ the best men I knew. He did what was right for the Diné. And that’s what I’m doin’ too.” He turned back to his truck, and his boots crunched on the gravel of the mesa as he walked to the bed. The man who’d gotten out of the passenger side of the truck had said nothing, but a tiny smirk on his face indicated that he found our irritation amusing. His hair was long and straight underneath a white cowboy hat. He wore blue jeans and boots, a black undershirt, and a blue denim jacket over it. He held what looked like a jish in his right hand. Perhaps he was another hataałii. Granuaile followed close on Coyote’s heels.
“And what about Darren Yazzie?” she asked.
“Look, Miss Druid,” he said as he pulled a red plastic gasoline container and a thick manila envelope out of the back. Most of the good humor had bled out of his tone and now he sounded tired. “I didn’t know they was gonna get kilt. But I sacrificed myself twice and saved Mr. Druid’s life while I was at it. So I’ll be waitin’ for a thank-you note or maybe a nice batch of cookies from you. I think I’ve earned a coupla cookies.” He stalked away from the truck and headed for the nearest skinwalker corpse. The anonymous second man kept pace with him.
“I don’t make anyone cookies!” Granuaile growled at his back.
“Ain’t it time you learned?” Coyote said over his shoulder. “You ’n Betty Crocker can bake someone happy.”
Granuaile balled her fists and started after him, and I put a hand on her shoulder.
“Hold on, Granuaile, he’s just pushing your buttons.”
She shrugged off my hand and whirled to face me, pointing at Coyote’s back. “I’m going to kick him where it counts and give him a sad sack. I’m tired of his chauvinist bullshit and his cavalier attitude about people dying for him while he runs off and hides somewhere.”
“Well, you’re welcome to try that a bit later when he’s not expecting it,” I said in low tones. “Right now I want to see what he’s up to and meet this other guy, so hang back a bit and follow my lead, okay?”
She gathered herself with some effort and exhaled, letting the anger go for now. “Okay, sensei.”
We followed Coyote and his friend up to the nearest skinwalker body, the one Frank had killed with Moralltach. We stayed outside the ring of caltrops. Coyote hardly spared the body a glance. He directed his gaze above it, where the ch’įįdii was. I flipped my faerie specs on to take another look. If anything, it looked worse than before. The seething blacker portion of the spirit was overwhelming the darkness of the ch’įįdii.
“Ah, yes, this is one of the old ones,” Coyote said. “He’s tryin’ to break loose. Give ’im all night and he’ll probably manage it. The ch’įįdii will start to disperse, and then he’ll be free to go find some other black soul to turn into a skinwalker. Can’t let that happen.”
“Nope,” said the mysterious man.
The last time I’d looked at Coyote in the magical spectrum was back at a high school courtyard in Mesa. We’d been fighting a fallen angel together, and at the time I’d found him somewhat mesmerizing to look at; he was a kaleidoscope of shifting colors, an infinite potential of shapes confined to this human form only so long as he willed it. He still looked that way, but what surprised me was that the nameless man beside him looked precisely the same.
“Hey, Coyote, who’s your friend?”
“That’s Coyote. Coyote, meet Mr. Druid.”
“Howdy, Mr. Druid,” t
he man said. His voice was deep, like Michael Clarke Duncan’s, a low resonant bass that you felt as much as heard.
“Hi,” I said, then frowned at Coyote. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Is he from another tribe?”
“Nope, he’s from the Diné,” Coyote replied, obviously enjoying my confusion. “You don’t know our stories as well as you should. Most tribes have only the one Coyote, but in some versions of the Diné Bahane’—the tale of Emergence—there are two.”
“I’m Great Coyote,” the deep voice said. “Or sometimes Coyote Who Was Formed in the Water.”
“And I’m the one the Diné call Áłtsé Hashké,” Coyote said, then tossed his head at his companion. “He definitely has the better reputation. I get blamed for everything.”
“Two Coyotes?” I said. “What should I call you? Black Hat and White Hat? I can’t call you both the same thing.”
Coyote in the white hat said, “I tell people sometimes that my name is Joe,” he said. “Does that work for you?”
“Very well,” I said, and turned to Coyote in the black hat, who’d apparently been playing me for a sucker much longer than I thought. “And what about you?”
“You ain’t gonna call me by my real name, so just keep callin’ me Coyote and that way you won’t get confused.”
It was no wonder, I thought, that Frank hadn’t been sure which one of the First People Mr. Benally was. His comment that they were “capable of trickin’ a fella pretty good” made much more sense now. To my magical sight, Coyote and Joe looked exactly the same. There was no way to tell them apart. Only in the visible spectrum did they appear any different, and I’m sure that was by choice.
“Gotta thank you, Mr. Druid,” Coyote said. “Haven’t been able to get a shot at these boys in a long time.”