Contents

Summary

James Hunter's Mailing List

ONE: Deadly Game

TWO: Warm Up

THREE: Choices

FOUR: Elder’s Decree

FIVE: Talisman

SIX: Two-Faced

SEVEN: Small Talk

EIGHT: Walmart

NINE: Witness Report

TEN: Case Files

ELEVEN: Tag Along

TWELVE: Teihiihan

THIRTEEN: Recovery

FOURTEEN: Interrogation

FIFTEEN: Body Count

SIXTEEN: Wild Bob’s

SEVENTEEN: Nora’s Story

EIGHTEEN: Sideswiped

NINETEEN: Yawkwawiak

TWENTY: Reality Check

TWENTY-ONE: Complications

TWENTY-TWO: Sanctuary

TWENTY-THREE: Fallout

TWENTY-FOUR: Roots and Legends

TWENTY-FIVE: Bad Medicine

TWENTY-SIX: Face to Double-Face

TWENTY-SEVEN: Fistfight

TWENTY-EIGHT: Peace Talks

TWENTY-NINE: Binding Circle

THIRTY: Friend of the People

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

Other Works by James A. Hunter

Other Works by eden Hudson

Books from Shadow Alley Press

About the Authors

Dedication

Special Thanks

Copyright

Summary

Ancient Demons. A Terrible Curse. Only one woman can save the day … though she’s not really a woman at all.

Winona Treesinger is a Bigfoot—and no, she doesn’t just have large feet. She’s literally an eight-foot-tall walking myth, and the last great princess of the People of the Forest.

All she and her people want is to dwell in the deep places of the forest, well away from mankind and the destruction they bring to the land and the world. But when Winona hears about a string of grisly murders in the nearby city of Missoula, she knows in her gut it’s the work of an ancient evil, driven away from their lands long ago.

Against the wishes of her father, Chief Chankoowashtay, Winona leaves the forest and ventures into the world of men, disguised as a frail human, in order to set the balance straight and stop the killings. And with the help of a handsome, slick-talking city detective named Chris Fuller, she might be able to do it. But if Chris finds out what she really is, stopping the creature might be the least of her worries.

James Hunter's Mailing List

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ONE:

Deadly Game

There is a beauty to Inworld forests, unmatched even by the Great Trees of the Sacred Grove. My people believe I am ridiculous for thinking so—how can one who has walked among the Great Trees her entire life find beauty in the scrawny oaks and scraggly pines of Earth? Are the Little Brothers and Sisters not destroying these forests, chopping them down, burning their stumps, and splattering reeking asphalt and lifeless concrete on their graves? they ask. They shake their heads at my foolishness, assuring I will grow out of these absurd fancies. Hoping to convince themselves, perhaps, that I will do so before my father’s chieftainship passes to me.

They are wrong.

My people no longer set foot in Inworld. They fail to see the fierceness of the trees here. Struggle is a thing unknown to the Great Trees—they live unchallenged in a world of peace and comfort—but on Earth, the trees fight to survive.

The wiry pines grow tall in spite of insurmountable opposition, the delicate aspens spread their beauty in the face of encroaching ugliness, and the tenacious oaks reach for the sky though they may be cut down at any moment. They are a thing beautiful beyond words, and even if I did not need to patrol this world, I would come just to walk among them. To feel the loamy soil underfoot and the breeze of Inworld brushing against my cheek.

The wind kicked up around me as though responding to my thoughts, whistling through the broad leaves and pine boughs and trickling into my nose. I breathed deeply but recoiled, lips drawing back in a disgusted grimace. Something was wrong. The wind carried sickness. Hurt. The sharp, metallic scent of fresh blood not far from here. I squinted, searching the undergrowth, and stole forward, maneuvering through a tangle of vegetation on padded feet, slipping past towering trees without so much as a rustle of noise.

There, adorning the upturned side of a half-buried rock, was the blood. Just a spatter of vivid crimson, which started at the stone and trailed off deeper into the wood. I inched closer, crouching down to inspect the unnatural stain, hoping it belonged to a wounded deer. Or a bear, even. I would never wish them harm—especially since there are so few bears left in this area—but at that moment, the death of a small forest creature was infinitely preferable to the alternative.

I swiped one broad finger into the streak of red and raised it to my nose. The blood did not smell of deer or bear or any other creature of the forest. It smelled human.

Overhead, the moon broke through the haze of clouds, shining a dull yellow like ancient bones. Its light hit the blood, turning it a malicious red. The color of murder. Of anger, hate, and violence.

When I first sensed the presence of an Outworld being in our territory this night, I had set out hoping to find a creature benign. Not all those who deal in shadow are evil. Many are unfamiliar with this world but wish to do no harm. Others, though, are hunters. Predators. Their instincts control them, but still they do not seek to murder and destroy, only to subsist.

And then, there are monsters.

Finding the spilled blood of a human shattered any hope I held, no matter how slight. This area, deep in what the humans name the Bitterroot Forest, was far removed from the nearest city, and filled with wild game that a hunting predator could easily have taken. Humans were not among them. I wiped my finger through the dirt, scrubbing away the blood, then warily followed the trail a handful of strides in either direction. I realized the blood led away from Missoula, the closest human city, and into the heart of the forest.

The creature had intentionally gone into the city to find a victim, before retreating here to hide. There could be no question, then. A monster.

I set off after it. Not all beings of shadow are evil, but some are. And they must be stopped.

A grub of guilt gnawed my stomach as I slipped through the trees like an unseen spirit, tracking the sporadic blood trail. Some small part of me wished I could take this matter to my father, to seek his wisdom and guidance. But my father did not know I was out patrolling on this night. In fact, he had … in a way … forbidden the People to patrol our Inworld territory at all.

After what Achak Kinslayer and his human pet had almost done to my kind, my father had decided we must withdraw from the world of man. He and the Elders were prepared to give Earth up as a problem belonging to the Little Brothers and Sisters. There were too few of the People left, they said. We must protect ourselves, or we would surely be destroyed.

And there was a certain wisdom in that. Perhaps, such a choice was best for the People of the Forest. But it was not the best choice for me. My conscience would not let me sit idly by while the humans were left to die. It has always been the responsibility of the Chiye-tanka to protect the Little Brothers from the dark things of the Spirit World. Always. And with the Guild of the Staff—the magi who once protected humanity—broken and at war with itself, creatures like this new evil preyed on the humans unchecked.

If the rest of my people would not protect the Little Brothers and Sisters, then I would.

I crossed a rocky stream, the water black as the clouds in the night sky, then found the creature’s trail once more. The sharp scent of blood gave way here, overpowered by the reek of the creature. Its stink was as loud as a shout in my nostrils—old and strange, a combination of that which should be dead but is not and that which has been long dead.

The gap between us was closing.

I sprinted on, encouraged by the gain. The wind clawed at my hair and howled in my ears like a wild beast. Boulders and pines stepped aside at my mind-whispered request, leaving me a straight path to my quarry. I slowed my pace as a herd of white-tailed deer exploded through the tree line ahead, nearly colliding with me as I ran. They came so close that the many-pronged antler of the buck brushed my arm hair as he bounded past, scrambling and desperate to get away from some unseen thing.

Something ahead had startled them.

Though the undergrowth in this part of the forest had long since been smothered by a thick carpet of pine needles, I slowed even more to silence my passage completely. If the herd was fleeing from the creature I tracked, I wished to creep up on the being both unseen and unheard.

I skirted around a large rock ahead, then easily straddled a downed tree trunk, overgrown with moss. A moment later, I broke through the trees and discovered the source of the deer’s fright: a truck sitting on one of the small dirt roads that allowed human rangers access to the forest. Its headlights shined and its engine rumbled, clouds of exhaust rolling from the back end and disappearing into the cold night air.

The door hung open, as if the driver had leapt out in a great rush.

Dark clouds passed over the yellow moon, leaving only the artificial glare of the headlights. Still, my eyes were far sharper than any human’s and it was easy to pick out the star symbol plastered across the open door, surrounded by letters reading Missoula County Sheriff’s Department. It belonged, then, to one of the local lawmen, like my friend Ferraro.

I searched the fine upper layer of dust on the road. The tracks there indicated that the lawman had jumped from the driver’s seat, run around the front of the vehicle, and followed the creature into the forest ahead. Though humans were small creatures in comparison to my kin, I had seen enough human prints to know instinctively this one belonged to a man sporting cowboy boots. In several places, the lawman’s prints fell directly on top of the bloody trail the creature had left behind.

There could be no doubt that the lawman was pursuing it. But did he know what this creature was? There were few humans who knew of such things. Or, more likely, had he simply stumbled upon the creature by accident, completely ignorant of the dangers of the Spirit World?

I faltered for a moment, unsure how to proceed.

Yes, my veil would prevent the human from seeing me, even if I stood at his side. But this creature’s bloody trail proved that it cared naught for human life. If it attacked, it would do so to kill. Should that happen, I could not stand by and do nothing. I would have to intervene. But a scuffle like that would almost certainly ensure the lawman would see me, and that was the greatest taboo. The People do not reveal themselves to uninitiated humans. Not anymore. Not for a very long time.

“Freeze!” shouted a voice dead ahead.

This shout—weak, helpless, small—made the decision for me. They are such fragile things, the Little Brothers.

I scurried from the road, giant legs pumping, the lesser trees shifting to accommodate my passing as I beelined toward the creature and the lawman.

Several long strides brought me to the edge of a clearing that reeked of the creature’s rancid and unnatural scent: dead, yet undead. This close the smell was overwhelming, serving only to reinforce that this was a thing that should not be, that did not belong in this world.

Not far off, the lawman stood in the open grass, his feet planted wide, a matte black pistol in one hand, raised and leveled. In his other hand, he held a flashlight. But the flashlight was not working. The man jabbed at the button with his thumb, his frustration and fear evident in the lines of his body. He beat the flashlight uselessly against his tiny thigh. The light inside flickered sporadically before going dark again. Often, dark magics could do such things.

I slipped up behind a gnarled oak and glanced out around it, brow furrowed as I watched the scene unfold.

“Get your hands up!” the man shouted, sticking the useless flashlight in his belt and bringing his free hand up to steady the gun.

The hazy cloud cover pulled away from the moon, shedding pale light on the creature at the center of the clearing. The monster was covered in a veil, though a poor veil it was, and I could see the creature’s shadowy blur hidden beneath.

It was almost the shape of a human, but wrong. Too long in the arms and legs, bent in places humans are not, too thin in places humans are full. The creature turned to face the man. It did not move like a human. It swayed and lurched on overlong legs. The misshapen arms it could have used for balance were instead folded inward as if to grasp its distended belly.

“I want to see hands!” the lawman shouted.

A strange request. Hands would not reveal this creature to us. I wanted to see its entire body. Then, maybe, I could identify it.

The creature showed us neither hands nor body. Instead, it fell forward and broke into a skittering run, loping toward the lawman on all four limbs, like a strangely proportioned wolf or a four-legged spider.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” the lawman yelled, his eyes wide and wild. He was afraid, I could tell—terrified even—yet he stood his ground, refusing to back down despite the creature charging him like a rabid bobcat.

The creature ignored his warning, scrambling onward, closing the distance with unnatural speed.

He shot, once, twice, the bark of his gun echoing in the air. The bullets smacked into its blurry body with a pair of wet thuds, but the creature only ran faster. The man stepped backward toward me, emptying his weapon’s remaining bullets in a flurry, as if he believed the first shots were ineffective because they had been applied too few and too slow. Each hit jerked the creature’s body, momentarily slowing its rush, but doing nothing to stop it.

At five feet out, the creature leapt, its hands leaving the ground and reaching for the lawman’s head. It would kill the man just as it had killed the owner of the blood decorating its body.

I watched from behind my tree, knowing he would die if I did nothing, and yet unable to move. My father’s face appeared in my mind, furious that I would endanger the People by revealing myself to a human. I could almost see the deep creases in his leathery black forehead, his green eyes—like old-growth moss—crinkling not just in fury, but in disappointment. Perhaps I could be forgiven for patrolling Inworld against his wishes if I explained that I had sensed a new Outworlder there. But showing myself, even in defense of a human life? Disobedience of that level was unconscionable. Unthinkable.

Before me, the lawman rooted his feet in a defensive stance, as if proper balance would help him defeat this unnatural creature of magic and death. He was no mage and clearly knew nothing of the creature’s nature if he thought mundane bullets would kill such a thing.

I strangled the hysteria in my throat, though whether the sound was a laugh or a cry of dismay, I cannot say.

The lawman was going to die. And I would have to watch. To live with my inaction forever.

The creature swept its overlong arm at his head. The man backpedaled, deflecting the blow with his forearm. Cloth ripped and droplets of blood flew, but the man ignored the wound. Instead of retreating, he shot forward, slamming a shoulder into the monster’s face with a grunt. His body weight did not move the beast even a fraction of an inch, but he seemed undeterred.

He bolted right, dodging a clumsy swipe, and lashed out, driving his empty gun into the creature’s head like a club. The creature lazily batted the strike away as though it were nothing more than a troublesome gnat. The gun sailed into the high grass. The lawman was panicked now, backed into a corner and unarmed, but still he fought. With a roar, he lunged, throwing every ounce of his insignificant weight into a feeble punch, but his movement was too slow. Far too slow. The creature’s head jerked forward, thudding into the man’s skull with a thwack like a thick hickory branch swung full force at a cedar’s trunk.

The lawman dropped backward from the blow, a nasty gash running across his forehead, leaking blood down his face. He wobbled uncertainly on his feet, but still he did not give up. He shook his head, droplets of blood sailing away, and raised his fists up as he slowly circled left. The creature just grinned and shot in again, driving a closed fist into the side of his temple with devastating force. The lawman fell, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head as his legs refused to support his weight.

And this time, he did not get up.

The creature laughed—a rasping, hissing, feminine sound that was nearly human. Nearly, but not quite. It raised a long, misshapen arm to the lawman’s helpless form, and even through the veil, I could see the creature’s wicked talons painted with drying human blood.

It had killed once this night, and it was about to kill again.

TWO:

Warm Up

There was a time when my father, Chief Chankoowashtay of the People of the Forest, bore the Second Seal, which contained Azazel the Purros, Horseman of War. My father, like all People, is meek and gentle, harboring no ill will toward any creature and wishing harm to no one. But when he bore the Seal, moments of unchecked rage in battle would unleash the second horseman’s demonic power, transforming my father from the wise, strong chief of the People into a devastating and furious force unmatched on this or any other plane.

In those moments, my father knew no friend or kin, only destruction, and I feared that he might lose himself forever, unable to restrain the horseman again. If my mage friend, Yancy Lazarus, had not taken the Seal into himself to save the People from Achak Kinslayer, the responsibility of bearing it would have passed to me at my father’s death. As heir apparent to both the chieftainship and the Seal, I had trained from my birth to control and contain the rage that provided Azazel a doorway to this world.

But when I heard the creature chuckle as it raised its hand to the lawman’s unconscious body, I felt as if the second horseman of the apocalypse had broken free in my chest. The monster no longer fought to defend itself from the man. It could have fled—the lawman was no longer conscious and could not follow—but it was choosing instead to kill for no reason beyond its own entertainment. It was laughing at what would be the death blow. This was an action without honor, a creature without restraint.

Flowers of red fury bloomed in my vision, and all thoughts of concealing myself fled. I roared as I burst from behind my oak. I charged, slamming my shoulder into the creature’s soft potbelly. The creature cried out in shock. Its overlong limbs slapped against my back as it folded with the impact. I was no tiny human to be swatted away or laughed off.

We skidded across the clearing, tearing up chunks of grass and clods of dirt, and rammed into a dead tree on the opposite side. The trunk shattered. Dry needles and rotted wood rained down upon my fur. The creature clawed at my face, slicing open my jaw. The scent of my own blood curled into my nostrils, feeding the flames of my rage. I wrapped my arms around the creature, heaved it up, and smashed it to the ground. Before it could recover, I leapt onto its body and began raining down punches.

With a strength that should not exist in limbs so thin and long, the creature threw me off. I hit the grass and rolled back to my feet, prepared to face an offensive attack.

But the creature only stared at me. Through the poor attempt at a veil, I saw its head tilt.

“I have no quarrel with the Chiye-tanka princess,” the creature said, its voice the same strange combination of dry rasp and nearly human female as its laugh. “She will step aside and return to her trees.”

I bared my teeth. “I will not! You have murdered once this night, and now you seek to take the life of a creature weaker than yourself.” I drove a fist into the ground. The thud it made shook the leaves and needles in the trees encircling the clearing. “You will answer for this evil!”

“The princess meddles in things she doesn’t understand,” the creature said.

“I understand that you do not belong here,” I growled. “And I will to send you back to the Spirit World.”

I bounded toward her. Rather than stand and fight, she spun on her gangly legs, returned her long arms to the ground, and loped off into the forest. Mind-whispering a request to the lesser trees between us, I sprinted after her. They slipped out of my way, making straight my path to the creature. Through her veil, I saw long black hair whipping behind her head like a raven’s wing. She moved with the speed of a wind spirit, but it seemed she could not speak to the trees as I could—or if she could, they refused to grant her request—for she had to duck around their trunks and under their branches.

When she was within reach, I swung my arm at her too-long, too-thin legs, jerking them out from beneath her. She fell flat on her stomach with a whoomph that scattered pine needles in all directions. I locked my fingers together and raised my connected fists high to crush her head, but she flipped onto her back and kicked me in the stomach.

The kick drove the breath from my lungs and knocked me backward. How could a creature with the limbs of a walking stick be so strong? I grabbed a boulder, ripping it from its home in the loamy earth. She would not be so strong when those stick-limbs were broken.

I flung the heavy stone at her, chasing it down as it flew. I would not give her a moment to recover after the boulder struck. I would reach through her veil while she tried to disentangle her snapped limbs, and then I would rip the head from her unnatural body.

Rather than sidestepping the boulder or turning to run again, the creature bent her legs in the wrong direction—inward and backward—flattening her belly and head to the dirt while her splayed feet remained flat on the ground. My boulder sailed harmlessly over her back and collided with a pine. The tree cracked and crunched as it fell.

Fury at her evasion burned in my chest. I growled as I dove at her. With one hand I palmed her head and with the other her bony shoulder. My muscles flexed as I pulled.

I would never harm a brother or sister buffalo for any reason, but if I were to grab the horn and shoulder of one of the tatanka and pull as I did in that moment, their head would have been wrenched cleanly from their neck.

This creature’s head did not tear away as it should have. Perhaps given several more tugs and better leverage, I could have separated it from her body, but she did not hold still and allow me to try again. Her long arms folded into her belly, and she lashed out with her elbows, striking lightning-fast, razor-sharp blows to my chest and stomach.

Each elbow landed with crushing force, beating me back until I was pinned against the thick double-bole of a grown-together pair of pines.

My swipes and punches seemed to have no effect on the creature. She continued to work my body over, landing so many hits that it felt as if she had grown extra arms. One of my lower ribs cracked under a heavy blow, and I bellowed at the pain. But broken bones and bruising were not the only damage her hits did. Under each blow, I felt muscle and flesh tear, laid open like a shocked mouth gasping in the cold night air. Hot blood rolled down my sides, matting my hair to my skin. She meant to disembowel me or to puncture something vital.

I attempted to kick her away, only to have my leg sliced open as she batted it aside. A desperate headbutt connected with her skull. The crack thundered through the trees. The creature fell back a step. I wove dizzily to one side, thinking I would attack from a flank, limiting her access to my major organs.

But the creature shot forward, grabbing my head by a hank of hair. I pummeled her face with both fists. The punches landed with fleshy smacks, but she ignored them as a mother wolf might ignore the playful bites and barks of a cub. Perhaps the damage she had done to me was even greater than the pain I felt.

“I wouldn’t—have fought—one of the People,” the creature rasped in her two-toned voice, the sentences broken up by my determined blows to her face and neck, “but the princess—refused to—mind her own—business!”

She wrestled me to the ground and planted her feet on my arms, clutching them with the clawed, scaly toes of a bird of prey. I kicked and roared, but she held me down. Her grip was unbreakable.

She jerked my head backward by the hair, forcing the exposure of my neck. I whipped my head, flexed my arms, and kicked my legs, but she held me fast. Her strength was greater than mine.

Her free hand drew back, her long, sharp talons five dark silhouettes against the yellow moon.

In that moment, I envisioned my purple blood on her hands, joining the red of the murdered human’s, another shade and layer to her gruesome skin painting. This creature was too strong, too tough. Fight though I did, I could not break free of her grip. She would tear bloody furrows in my throat. So far away from the medicines and healing herbs of my home, I would die.

She swung. Air whistled across her talons as they sliced toward my exposed throat.

A shrill screech exploded from the creature’s mouth—neither a victorious cry nor a bloodthirsty howl of anticipation—and she stumbled backward off of me as if thrown. She doubled over, screaming again, her voice almost entirely devoid of the rasping overtone.

I clambered unsteadily to my feet, preparing to do battle again.

But the creature gave an agonized wail and clawed at her own face as if she wanted to tear it off. Her body convulsed and contorted. Her taloned hands trembled violently like the limbs of a Green-Charlie eater too long without its favored drug. Hysterical sobs broke free of her body, a pulsing song of horror and pain. Her shoulders and knees twisted inward toward her potbelly as if she would turn inside out. She fell on her hands and knees, retching. A foamy wet splash followed. The scent of liquor-soaked vomit mingled with the creature’s rancid stink, assaulting my nostrils.

My head spun as I took a lurching step toward her.

She shrieked when she saw me coming—a sound now completely unlike the rasping creature—and scrambled through the vomit to her feet. Without a backward glance, she bolted into the forest.

I tried, but could not follow. I had to grab the sturdy trunk of a nearby pine to stabilize myself. I rested my forehead against its stringy, sap-covered bark, silently thanking it for its support. I pressed my nose to it and inhaled, wishing to mask the terrible smell of sickness and undeath lingering in this place. From my head to the soles of my feet, puncture wounds and slashes that felt as numerous as the trees in this valley cried out for my attention, blood steaming in the cool night air.

Slowly the creature’s scent faded. I blinked, took another breath, and her trail was cold.

I shook my head to clear it. The sharp yank of dried blood on my hair made me grimace. Gingerly, I rubbed my hands across my head and torso, trying to unstick my hair from my skin. I must have blacked out standing there. A check of the moon and stars’ positions confirmed that several minutes had passed without my knowledge.

What in the name of the Great Redwood, Nookomis Giizhig, was that creature?

Stronger than me, for one. Her head had been adorned with long black hair, and her body hairless, but covered in talons, claws, and razor-sharp spikes—all of which she used with brutal efficiency. A monster from the Spirit World, one who knew of the People. She had called us by our Lakota name, the Chiye-tanka, and had even known my status as heir apparent, told me to return to my trees and stop meddling in her affairs.

What had stopped her from killing me as she would have that lawman? The reversal from gleefully violent to violently ill had been immediate and seemed to shock her as much as it had me. Her shrieking had been filled with the panicked terror of someone awakening into an inescapable nightmare.

Whatever she was, whatever had stopped her, this creature was evil. A monster who took joy in the murder of those weaker than her. And if I could not best her, then the frail bodies of the Little Brothers and Sisters stood no chance. While she still roamed free, no human in this area would be safe. She had to be stopped.

THREE:

Choices

The question of the creature lay heavy on my mind as I made my way back to the clearing where the lawman had fallen. He obviously had not known the creature’s magical nature when he followed her into the forest, but it seemed his pursuit had been deliberate. If that was the case, he might have information that would help me identify and find her again. I felt conflicted, though—involving him further could be a mistake. Humans were strange things, and most handled change poorly. Besides, there was my father and the People to consider.

The lawman was unconscious when I arrived at his side. Like all humans, he looked impossibly fragile asleep, but even more so lying there beaten and injured in the grass.

I stooped to inspect him more closely, prodding him tentatively with one finger. His chest rose and fell, telling me he was alive, but his breathing sounded forced and labored. Unhealthy. Red blood had dried around the numerous defensive wounds across his hands and arms. His thin, nearly hairless skin had provided almost no protection against the creature’s slashing talons. The ruby scab covering the gash on his forehead sparkled in the pale light of the moon. That wound looked to be the worst of his injuries.

The fact that he had not regained consciousness yet—though helpfully preventing him from seeing me—was a bad sign. It indicated bleeding on the brain. He needed medical attention. If the pressure in his skull had not already built up enough to do permanent damage, then it soon would.

I frowned. I could not risk taking him into Missoula to the human hospital. The likelihood I would be seen was far too high. If my father would have been furious to know I had revealed myself to a single human, then there was not yet a word for what he would be if I allowed a city full of humans to see me.

And even if I could get this lawman to a hospital without being seen, I might never be able to find him again, let alone speak to him about the creature. He was the only lead I had.

If I had access to my collection of roots and herbs, I could treat his injuries myself. I had studied native and Outworld medicine extensively, and many of their cures were far more effective than the small doses of poison and haphazard guesswork human doctors seemed to favor. But my ingredients were all safely stored on the shelves in my room in the Great Redwood, completely useless from here. Even at top speed, there was a chance I could not make it to my room, create a healing, and return to this clearing to treat him before irreversible damage was done to his brain.

I could not make it there and back in time … but I could make it there.

Surely the necessity of dispatching this unnatural evil from Inworld justified bringing one single human into the Sacred Grove. With his injuries, he would most likely remain unconscious the whole time, anyway. And once the lawman was stable, I could bring him back to Inworld and question him about the creature he was chasing.

I stood, decided. I picked the lawman up, stabilizing his neck and cradling him carefully in my arms, then sprinted for the Cave of Changing.

Firs, pines, aspens, and oaks blurred around us as I ran, parting respectfully at my passage. Earlier this night I had followed a circuitous route through the forest, covering as much of our Inworld territory as possible while searching for that which was out of place. Now, I cut a direct route through the foliage, taking the path of the crow toward the Cave of Changing—a thin place connecting Inworld and Outworld. From there, I could step from the Bitterroot Valley into the Sacred Grove, nestled at the far edge of the Spirit World. Home to my kind.

As the rock face housing the cave came into view, I slowed and shifted the lawman onto my shoulder. From the outside, the narrow fissure looked unremarkable, but to those who could see true, the way was as bright as Father sun at noonday. I could cast a powerful veil to hide the lawman from the sharp eyes of my friends and kin, but walking with my arms outstretched as if I were carrying an invisible load would only raise their suspicions. It was awkward to balance the lawman on my shoulder—I had to lean to my right and raise my left shoulder to keep him from rolling off—but if I walked slowly and used a veil, no one should notice that I carried a human into the heart of the Sacred Grove.

I cast the veil, then put a simple glamour over myself that would make it look as if I were unharmed. Then I turned sideways and ducked into the Cave of Changing. A chill of power poured across my flesh, as icy as runoff during the spring melt. The lawman did not respond to the stimulus. Another bad sign. In the space between the realities, time twisted and contorted, stretched and folded into a moment that felt endless.

Finally, my foot hit the stone floor, grounding my body in the Spirit World. My perception of time returned to normal, and I set off down the stone tunnel toward my home.

The opening at the opposite end of the Cave of Changing was much wider and taller. I stepped through it without ducking, entering into the presence of the Great Trees. Colossal pines, immense cottonwoods, and hearty oaks towered overhead, deep black shapes against a slightly less black sky studded with infinite stars.

It was still hours from dawn, and most of the People would be in their homes. Our dwelling places are grown from the branches of the Great Trees, and I surveyed these as I passed, trying to look into all of the windows at once. A few were lit with a pleasant glow, but the majority were dark. I did not see anyone looking out into the night, but still I felt as if I were being watched.

A guilty conscience can do such a thing.

I continued through the Sacred Grove, toward the heart of the forest, attempting to appear nonchalant. I cannot whistle, but I wished then that I could. I have seen humans do it, and when they do, they seem very relaxed and as if they are up to nothing suspicious.

As I approached the Great Redwood, I tore my attention from the dwelling near the top—no shadow darkened its balcony—and focused on the pair of guards at the base. Though the People are peaceful, that does not mean that we do not stand ready for war, and ever since the Kinslayer’s betrayal, we are on our guard, even in our home.

My heart pounded in my ears like a ceremonial drum. It is most common for the Chiye-tanka to communicate in our minds, but on this night, I could not be sure my thoughts would not betray me.

“Kanti,” I said, nodding my head at the older guard, a tawny-haired Chiye-tanka female to the left of the entrance. My voice barely shook at all. I forced a smile that felt too wide, then greeted the younger guard. “Nakoma. I am just returning from a long night stargazing at the edge of the Sacred Grove. It is much easier to see the stars from there. Have you looked to the heavens this night? They so beautiful this time of year.”

Nakoma and Kanti exchanged a glance. Kanti is many years older than I, and so the mild incredulity she turned on me was perhaps deserved. Nakoma is of an age with me, and had certainly not earned the expression of long-suffering he affected. Making himself seem wiser and older than his years had always been his way, though.

“No, Winona”—he spoke aloud as if to humor my eccentricity—“we have not been staring at the stars. It is our duty to guard the Great Redwood this night, and guarding it we have been.”

“A duty you have been doing admirably,” I said, reaching for the door between them. With the lawman on my shoulder and my body cocked to the side, my balance was far from on center. The door felt heavier than I had ever known it. Why was it not opening? Was I too weak from fighting the monster? My smile felt frozen and terrified.

Another glance passed between Kanti and Nakoma. As if his heels were suddenly nipped at by a hellhound, Nakoma hurried to obey her silent order and opened the door for me.

When Kanti turned back to me, her black lips turned up in a fond smile. Her mind touched mine like a pat on the back. I could not hold her out without arousing suspicion, so I opened a small window of thought through which she could speak to me.

There is no shame in seeking solitude to mourn, child, Kanti sent. Your loss was great. The Kinslayer may have betrayed us all, but it was your heart he broke.

A sudden spike of pain in the back of my throat made my eyes water. I blinked and forced a new smile, the one I had become accustomed to wearing when friends or kin spoke pityingly to me.

I would not mourn a monster, I replied, anger fortifying the mental wall between us. He was destroyed, as all monsters should be.

But Kanti’s sea-green eyes were a bit too understanding.

I closed the window of thought abruptly, and entered the ground floor of the Great Redwood, in my haste nearly forgetting to step carefully and keep my shoulder lifted under my precarious secret load.

Inside, the banquet table sat clean and untouched at this late hour. Likewise, our rugs and seating pillows, woven in all the colors of Inworld and Out, lay empty. On another night, I might have selected a leather-bound volume from the many shelves that grew from the Redwood’s walls, and stretched out on one of the pillows for a relaxing read. This night I had eyes only for the staircase.

Like all the Great Trees, the heartwood had remained intact and unbroken while the Redwood’s center was grown into a dwelling place. The staircase sprouted from the core, spiraling around and up past the guest quarters, kitchens, libraries, armories, galleries, and storage. My rooms were on the penultimate level of the tree—the ninth. I met no one on the stairs, though I saw a few people through the doorways at each level. To each I gave a respectful yet casual greeting, but unwaveringly continued my climb.

Though the lawman was tiny, he seemed to weigh more with every step. I knew it was not a good sign that he did not stir, yet I also despaired of any sound or movement he might make that would alert my kin to his presence. My conviction that finding the creature was more important than breaking this taboo had not wavered, but I also did not want to be found out before I could stabilize his injuries and question him about what he knew.

This was not sneaking … I was just doing what had to be done to protect the Little Brothers and Sisters.

All the same, when I arrived at my rooms, my shoulders sagged with relief. The lawman slipped, and I had to catch him in both hands before he tumbled to the floor. I closed the door behind me, placed him on my sleeping rug, and dispelled the veil.

He looked like a child’s toy lying on my rug.

The gash on his forehead would need to be treated first.

I worked quickly, picking ingredients from my shelves and mixing them with practiced ease. I applied a tincture of yarrow and oak to his head wound. This would stop any hemorrhaging and bring down the swelling inside his skull. Next, I coaxed the lawman to swallow the tiny, slimy gray gland of a Little Brother of the Blade—the reptilian offspring of a Lamia—to help him begin regeneration of the damaged tissue. I had harvested several many months ago, after an impromptu trip into the dank sewers beneath the Hub, but this was my first opportunity to use one since. Lastly, a paste of greenbriar went onto each of the lawman’s cuts to purify his blood of any diseases the creature’s talons were carrying.

While I waited for the lawman’s wounds to set, I spent a few moments applying the greenbriar to my own lacerations. I did not want any monster diseases in my blood, either.

My nose wrinkled in disgust. Beneath the aroma of the medicines, I could smell that creature’s vile stink clinging to me like a tick. I wished desperately for a bath—the dirt, wood dust, and blood in my hair made me feel disgusting—but I could not leave the lawman’s side until his condition stabilized.

Slowly, the bruising around the worst of his wounds turned from deep purple to a yellowed gray-brown. His face, slack and lifeless before, frowned as if lost in a perplexing dream.

I beamed at his still form. Finally, a good sign!

“You are no longer in danger of coma or brain-death …” With a jolt of surprise, I realized I did not even know my patient’s name.

A quick search of his pockets revealed a wallet containing a badge and license to drive.

“You are no longer in danger, Detective Christopher Fuller.” I returned the wallet to his pocket. “You fought well. Now sleep well.”

I stood, grinning with accomplishment.

The detective had endured a long night and would probably sleep for quite some time yet. While he did, I could wash the grit of the battle and the stink of that creature away. My stomach rumbled. Perhaps there would even be time to find something to eat. However, when I opened the door to the hallway, my satisfaction evaporated like dew in the morning sun.

My father stood in the doorway, all nine feet four inches of him hunched and hulking, his huge arms crossed and his moss-green eyes glaring down at me.

FOUR:

Elder’s Decree

My father’s wide nostrils flared. Step aside, Winona. This voice was a stern whip-crack of command inside my head. No defiance would be tolerated.

Father—

No. He pulled me into the hallway, then shut and barred the door to my rooms.

Slowly, my surprise dissipated, and I realized my father was accompanied by Enyeto, a cousin of the Kinslayer and one of the strongest Chiye-tanka in the Sacred Grove. He was a foot taller than my father and nearly twice as broad in the shoulder. This night, Enyeto’s flame-red hair was flattened in places and sticking up in others, as if he had been summoned from a sound sleep, but his algae-green eyes were alert.

“Guard the door,” my father ordered Enyeto aloud. “Do not allow anyone to go in or come out.”

Enyeto nodded so sharply that a tuft of his mussed hair fell forward into his eyes. With an embarrassed glance my way, he swept the hair out of his face, then put his back to my bedroom door, crossing his arms as if to mirror his chief’s intimidating stance.

Enyeto has never been regarded as overly intelligent.

Father, I said again, turning to appeal to him, but he did not listen.

You will accompany me to the Hall of Meeting immediately. He spun and marched away, his long arms swinging furiously to match his pace.

I strode quickly after him to catch up.

Chief Chankoowashtay is a wise and loving father, the best in Inworld or Out. A mountain of a Chiye-tanka, he took the mantle of both parents upon himself after my mother’s death—a task made even more complicated by his many responsibilities to the People and to containing the second horseman of the apocalypse. He will forever be a hero to me for this. But when my father is angry, it feels as if a black cloud of wrath radiates from his body, pushing away anyone foolish enough to venture too close. There are many among our tribe who fear his anger.

I do not.

But I also do not push him.

I did not try again to explain while we made our way to the Hall of Meeting. Appeals would serve no purpose but to anger him further.

As soon as we entered the hall, a dozen ancient gazes shifted to us. The Elders were already gathered and waiting. Their pillows formed the innermost semicircle, with the younger council members’ seats behind them. They sat, ancient spines stooped but proud, no longer speaking mind-to-mind with one another as they likely had been, but glaring at me. I felt their disapproval settle about my shoulders like the first freeze of winter.

I moved to take my accustomed seat with the council, but Elder Mahal stopped me, shaking her graying head.

“You will take the Seat of Guilt, Winona Treesinger,” she said, pointing a wizened finger at the empty pillow at the center of the semicircle.

A nest of snakes slithered in my stomach. My carefully rehearsed arguments regarding the encroaching evil fled, and I was left as shamefaced and flustered as a child caught in the act of disobedience. Worse yet, I had disobeyed, and so was guilty.

Every eye in the Hall of Meeting watched me lower myself onto the Seat of Guilt, folding my legs beneath me. Every movement I made felt strange, my breathing sounded too loud in my ears, and even the way I usually rested my arms on my thighs felt unnatural. I moved to cross my arms, then remembered Enyeto and placed my hands on my knees instead.

It seemed as if hours passed as I waited for the Elders to begin.

“Winona Treesinger, you have brought an outsider into the Sacred Grove of the People of Peace,” Elder Napayshni said, his deep voice croaky with age. “In doing so, you have knowingly endangered our home. The Little Brother you attempted to smuggle in unnoticed could even now be searching through your rooms, learning of our secrets, and devising plots to expose us to the world of men.”

Elder Ayiana took up where Napayshni left off. “You have committed this offense when we are at our weakest, while we still recover from the havoc and death Achak Kinslayer wrought upon the community.” Her jade eyes were too wide, showing whites yellowed with age, and her brows rose high on her leathery forehead. The tone of her voice rose nearly a full octave as she demanded, “Would you see us destroyed, princess?”

As though watching a well-crafted veil vanish, I saw the council before me—truly saw them—and realized that the disapproval and anger I had at first read in their faces was hiding a pall of fear. The council was not as infuriated by what I had done as they were frightened by it.

“No, Elder Ayiana,” I hurried to assure her. “It was never my intention to endanger anyone.”

“And yet you have done just that,” my father said, his voice sharper than an arrow’s head. “You were forbidden to set foot in Inworld, and yet you walked there this night. Do you consider yourself to be above the laws of your people, Winona? Or is it that you believe yourself to be wiser than the Elders and more capable of discerning right from wrong?”

My face burned at the accusation. “No, Chief Chankoowashtay.”

“Yet you ignored our prohibition against patrolling the forests of Earth,” he barked. “You risked revealing yourself to mankind.” He paused, frowning. “You knowingly brought a human into the heart of our Sacred Grove.”

I bit the insides of my lips together and stared down at the floor. My father spoke the truth. But he did not understand.

“Arrogance leads to disobedience and disobedience to destruction,” my father said as if he were lecturing a naughty child. “And not only self-destruction. Ripples flow outward until they reach the shore, Winona. The Kinslayer walked the same path, first believing that he knew better than the Elders—”

“I am not like him!” I shouted, unable to contain the sudden flare of rage at being compared to that monster. “Achak lost his way. He was corrupted by power and evil.”

“And you will not be corrupted”—Elder Mahal’s lips quirked upward as she sprang the trap my father’s accusation of arrogance had laid—“because you are wiser and more upright than the Kinslayer was?”

This was not going at all as it should. I inhaled deeply to calm my emotions and gather my thoughts.

“I will not be corrupted because I do not seek anything for myself,” I said. “I want only to help the Little Brothers and Sisters. There is an evil stalking them. An old spirit of Earth, I believe. I spoke to it tonight, and it seemed to know of the People. It … it seemed to know of me.”

A few heads cocked at this, and several bodies leaned forward, forearms resting against hairy thighs. I took this as a sign of interest, and continued to relate the story.

“The human is a detective, Christopher Fuller of the Missoula Sheriff’s Department. He was pursuing the creature through the Bitterroot Forest when I came upon them. He fought it, but it was much stronger, and it injured him gravely. You see my own injuries as evidence of its destructive power.”

For a heartbeat I considered telling them that if the creature had not suddenly fled, I would most likely have been killed. Then, I decided against doing so. That would only give them more cause to claim we must stay out of this fight to protect ourselves. “I brought the detective here to treat his wounds—he would have died otherwise—and to learn what he knows of the creature so I can help the humans defeat it.”

A murmur ran through the council.

“You would join with the humans?” Elder Napayshni said, disbelief clear in his face.

“To help them defeat the evil,” I replied evenly.

Napayshni’s leathery forehead wrinkled. “Winona Treesinger, this reminds us more and more of the Kinslayer. He, too, discarded logic and wisdom, choosing to lean on his own understanding and work with a human. That Hogg”—he spat out the offending name as if it were a rancid berry—“claiming it was for the good of the People. Instead of saving us, Achak Kinslayer and his pet human brought more pain and death upon us. You seek to help the humans, but from this side, you cannot know what unintended harm your misguided quest will do to those of us who remain.”

“I do not wish to be disrespectful,” I said looking from one set of aged eyes to the next as if I could convince them with the sheer depth of my sincerity, “but if this evil is a spirit of old, then is it not our responsibility to stop it? The humans cannot stand against it or any other creature of shadow—but they do try to stand against them. They fight against evil though they cannot possibly win. Perhaps this man Hogg was evil, but he was only one among many. Most humans are good and want to do good. Do you not remember that when the Kinslayer and Hogg enslaved the People, it was the humans who aided us? Was it not Yancy Lazarus and Nicole Ferraro who saved us? Should we not repay this debt to their kind? We are their only hope.”

“Winona,” my father said in a weary voice. “The weak die. This has always been the way of nature. If humans cannot fend for themselves, then they were not meant to survive. The People cannot be forever rescuing them. We are strong, but our numbers are few, and every year we are fewer.”

I opened my palms in a helpless gesture. “But if we stand together—”

“What do you think the reaction of this detective will be if you reveal yourself to him, daughter? Do you think he will gladly accept your assistance?” My father shook his head. “No, he will call you a monster. He will see you as no different from the creature you wish to hunt. The humans will turn on you. They will hunt you. With few exceptions, the world of men has forgotten us and the old ways. We must use this to our advantage and disappear into their legends and myths. It is safer that way.”

I opened my mouth to speak again, but my father raised his hand to stop me.

“The matter is closed,” he said. “The Elders have reached a decision.”

Until this moment, Elder Ciqala, the most bent and shriveled of all the Elders, had been sitting silently with his eyes closed and wrinkled head bent forward. Either he had been deep in thought or had dozed off during the discussion. Now his spring-leaf-green eyes snapped open and he raised his withered face to me.

“Winona Treesinger,” Ciqala said, “you will return the human to the world of men. Further, you will use your mental magicks to wipe his memories of the last twenty-four hours. This is the will of the council. Will you bear it out?”

I swallowed the objections in my throat. To plead my case in the face of their accusations was one thing, but to argue with the Elders after they had stated their will was a thing not done.

“Yes,” I agreed.

The Elders nodded, accepting my consent. The younger council members stood and helped the eldest to their feet.

The meeting was over, the matter decided, and I was dismissed to do as I had been ordered.

FIVE:

Talisman

When the final member of the council had shuffled out of the Hall of Meeting, I left and headed down the stairs, lowering my gaze whenever I passed an Elder or knot of council members. I hoped to look contrite, as if I were on my way to my room to do as I had been ordered. In truth, I did not want to invite any of them into a conversation. If that happened, they would walk with me while we spoke, and if they walked with me, they would realize I was not returning to my room. Not yet.

After a quick glance over my shoulder to make certain I was not being observed, I took the staircase down rather than up.

The armory was located on the third level of the Great Redwood. It sat completely unguarded, the final room at the end of a rarely used corridor. This lack of security, I knew, would come as a surprise to my handful of human friends, but it has always been this way, and has remained so even after the Kinslayer. The People do not steal. We are one, and all possessions belong to all People; therefore, there can be no theft. Though I could hear and smell that the corridor was empty, a nagging anxiety that I would be caught twice in one night caused me to glance over my shoulder once more.

Imagine how this would feel if I were attempting to do something evil instead of good, I thought. Wrongdoers must always have a pain in their neck from watching their backs.

As I slipped into the armory, a muffled stillness pressed in on me. The shelves and hooks growing from the walls were so full—feathered tomahawks, bearded spears, horned buffalo headdresses, and breastplates made of bone beads and leather covering every available inch—that they seemed to close like doors behind me, offering protection from disapproving eyes. I spent a moment in quiet reverence, allowing my gaze to roam freely over this library of war. Though these artifacts were mostly ceremonial, most was not all.

A few of the items were powerful, even deadly, and the People could make use of them if necessary.

And, in spite of what my father and the Elders had said, it was our responsibility to defend those who cannot defend themselves. I had not come here to directly defy the Elders’ will, but I would not stand by and do nothing. Who had helped us when the Kinslayer and Hogg enslaved the People? Who had fought him and rescued the Chiye-tanka from destruction? Humans. They might be a people weak in body, but they were strong in spirit. I would not leave them to face this monster alone, not when the chance had come to finally return the kindness they had done for us.

When the moment of quiet reflection passed, I continued through the weapons and armor toward the farthest wall. The object I sought lay on a shelf at the back of the armory, stored alongside the sacred rattles, medicine switches, war drums, circlets, and the rest of the magical items.

I found the necklace on a low shelf, covered in a layer of dust and lying like an afterthought between a turtle-shaped clay pot filled with a sandy greenish-brown mud and a long pipe dressed in buckskin and eagle feathers.

The collar of the necklace was crafted from four rows of carved bone and turquoise beads, made to fit snugly around a neck my size. The amulet, which would sit at the hollow of the wearer’s throat, was a stone medicine wheel. Each direction had been woven with a string of yellow, red, black, or white—the sacred colors—but inset at the crossing of the spokes were a pair of turquoise figures, one half the size of the other. A Little Brother and an Elder Brother.

Silky dust coated my fingertips when I picked the amulet up. I blew it off, then instantly regretted doing so. The tip of my nose itched as if I had rubbed it in a handful of grime. I scrubbed my bicep across my face, hoping to dispel the feeling with a patch of mostly clean hair, but the itch only increased and spread. It was the sort of maddening itch that comes from moving hundreds of ancient books from one shelf to another, the sort that lingers until you wash your hands and face with soap and water.

As if the layer of dirty grit, rotten wood chips, and dried blood that still covered my body and matted my hair were not enough. I took a breath to sigh, wishing my plan would have left time for a bath.

Then I turned my head and sneezed at the top of my lungs. Twice.

I know many females—Chiye-tanka and human alike—who sneeze delicately, much like newborn kittens still getting used to their tiny, adorable noses. My sneezes are neither delicate nor adorable. In the reverent stillness of the armory, on my mission of stealth, I sneezed violently enough to rattle the beads on a breastplate hanging nearby. Repeatedly. So violently that I nearly smashed my face on the shelf before me.

By the third sneeze, I managed to clasp my hands—still holding the dusty amulet—over my nose, stifling some of its force, but adding to the immediate problem. I sneezed three more times in quick succession before my nose was satisfied.

Eyes streaming, I sprinted back to the entrance of the armory and surveyed the hall for anyone who might have heard my sneezing fit and come to investigate.

Miraculously, the hallway was still empty. I wiped my eyes and face on a soft buckskin shirt, then balled the amulet in my fist and hurried back up the spiraling stairs to my room. Just because no one had come to investigate yet did not mean that no one was on their way.

The amulet I’d taken had been given to my people long ago, when men and Chiye-tanka still fellowshipped like tiyospaye—extended family. Perhaps the mage who crafted the amulet had known a day would come when men would forget the old ways and the People of the Forest would no longer be able to commune with humans openly. When worn, the amulet would give me the shape of a human female. My magicks and strength would remain, but to human eyes, I would be indistinguishable from any other Little Sister.

This was not a direct defiance of the Elders’ will. I was still going to fulfill their order to return the human to Inworld. I would just do so looking like one of them. And if the detective never saw me in my true form, but as a fellow human who happened to know about the evil creature he had been chasing, he would have no memories of the People for me to erase. We would defeat the creature together, side by side. I would, perhaps, even make a new human friend, restoring the bond between our peoples, and show my father and the Elders that protecting those who need us is not the dream of a naïve child.

Excitement swelled in my chest as I imagined our triumph over evil and the fears of my people; I had to bite the insides of my lips together to force a serious expression in place. It would raise suspicions to be caught looking delighted only minutes after I had been chastised by the entire council.

I forced myself to glare at the floor as I turned down the hallway toward my room. Discreetly, I clasped my hands together behind my back, the fist containing the amulet encircled by the other.

Enyeto was still guarding my door. His green eyes cut to me, then jumped back to staring dead ahead as if I were not there. He straightened his back and puffed out his chest. The image of that tuft of mussed hair falling into his eyes returned to my mind, and I realized the unruly tuft had since been raked into submission. He was making my attempt to look severely reprimanded very difficult.

I opened a very small window in my mental defenses and spoke to him with an appropriate level of embarrassment.

The Elders came to a decision, I sent. I am to return the detective to Inworld immediately. Your work here is complete, you can go back to your home. My deepest apologies for waking you with my actions.

Enyeto’s voice was a low rumble of thunder in my mind. Chief Chankoowashtay ordered me to stand guard over this room. He said no one goes in or comes out. He did not say, “No one except Winona goes in or comes out.”

Frowning was suddenly much easier.

If you do not let me in, Enyeto, how will I do as the Elders ordered me to? I gestured to the door behind him. I cannot magically move an entire room from the heart of the Great Redwood to Inworld. Did my father order you to make obeying the will of the Elders impossible?

No, but … He shifted from one massive foot to the other. The chief gave me this order. I should wait for him to dismiss me.

More and more I understood why my father had chosen Enyeto to guard the detective rather than any other. After the huge Chiye-tanka’s mistake of supporting his cousin’s doomed campaign to save the People by enslaving and corrupting us, Enyeto was incredibly wary of trusting the word of anyone but the chief himself. This was in its own way wise.

A thought occurred to me then, a way I could use this caution against him. Just thinking it made me feel as if I had somehow ingested the rancid stink of that creature. Still, it might be the only way to convince him to leave.

I stood to my full height—though nearly a foot and a half shorter than Enyeto—and raised my chin as if I had every right to pull this awful trick on him.

Enyeto Ironarms, I am the daughter of Chief Chankoowashtay, princess of the People of the Forest, heir apparent, and your future chieftain. If anyone is able to dismiss you from a post my father gave you, it is me.

He grimaced and shifted his weight again, clearly uncomfortable.

As you wish it, I said, sighing audibly. If you feel it is necessary to pull your chief away from matters he clearly feels are more important than dropping everything to dismiss a single guard so the daughter he ordered to return the human to Inworld with all haste—

All right! Enyeto stepped away from the door as if it had burned his backside. I did not mean to hinder the will of the Elders or cause extra work for the chief. I only wish to do as he ordered.

The grub of guilt that had gnawed at my stomach earlier this night was now gulping down fistfuls of entrails left and right, quickly growing into a hundred-pound parasite of self-loathing. Enyeto sought to do his job and show loyalty to my father … while I sought to sneak away behind my father’s back and undermine the will of the Elders. If either of us deserved to be treated with contempt, it was me.

I stared at Enyeto’s feet as I traded places with him, unable to meet his eyes.

Enyeto turned to leave.

I wrapped my hand around the handle of my door, but stopped.

I apologize, I sent to Enyeto’s retreating mind. I let go of the door handle to touch the pink barrette holding back my bangs. I shrugged although I knew he was no longer looking my way. This night has been long and not gone at all as I anticipated. I am sorry for—I am sorry.

It is nothing, Enyeto said, but I felt him distance his thoughts from mine, as if afraid of being stung again. You are my future chieftain. I should have done as told.

With that, he was gone.

My shoulders sagged. I exhaled heavily and shut my eyes, resting my forehead against the smooth, warm redwood of my door. The parasite of shame gleefully munched away inside my rib cage.

That had not been the action of an honest and fair future chieftain.

But the humans needed my help, I reminded myself. If I could rid them of that monster, then perhaps I would not be as vile as the last few moments had demonstrated.

I took a deep breath, attempting to resummon the conviction I had felt earlier.

Slowly, the fire rebuilt. I fanned it mercilessly, digging into the festering wound in my heart for kindling. Evil is wrong, dangerous. It corrupts even the most well-intentioned. Look what it had done to Achak, who was once kind and loving and good, concerned only with protecting our people. Look at how the evil he thought he could control had twisted him until he had done the most unforgivable of things—slaying and consuming his kin, enslaving our people, profaning all we held sacred.

Leaving me behind as if my love for him had never meant a thing.

Or perhaps it was not that my love had meant nothing to him, but that the power had just meant more.

Whichever it had been, Achak Kinslayer was proof that evil could not be allowed to flourish. If good could ever hope to win, evil must be destroyed root and branch. I straightened my shoulders and stood tall—there was no time for doubts or second-guessing. A monster roamed the world of men, one who needed to be stopped.

I checked up and down the hallway for anyone who might be watching, then fastened the magical amulet I had taken from the armory around my neck.

SIX:

Two-Faced

As soon as the clasp of the necklace closed, the bone beads hugging my throat began to heat up. I heard the long-noted wail of a medicine man. The warbling trill of a courting flute, a siyotanka. The jangle of a bell-lined Chegah-Skah-Hdah. The rhythmic thrum of the frame drum. The music came together in my head, conjuring images of feet shuffling through the dirt—ceremonial ankle-rattles quivering—while firelight flickered in the night, sending a plume of smoke toward the sky. I saw buffalo trundling across the plains as gray-furred wolves stalked through the snowy forests.

The sound did not echo down the hallway, but grew loud only in my ears, as my heart pounded away in time with the steady drum.

My bones burned inside my flesh, their heat radiating outward through the muscle tissue and tendons. There was no pain, only the heat, and a sensation like melting. For a moment, my bones felt soft. I grabbed the door frame, afraid my legs would give out beneath me, but the melting quickly gave way to solidification, and a sort of compacting. The swirl in the woodgrain directly in front of my eyes seemed to rise as my spine and long bones shrunk and compressed. I looked down, watching my hands, chest, and feet grow shorter and narrower until they looked as if they belonged to a child.

Meanwhile, the heat continued to surge outward. When it reached my skin, the hair on my body shriveled, withered, and disappeared into my flesh. The skin left bare lightened until it was a soft red-brown only a shade darker than buckskin. My scalp crawled, and something brushed the back of my neck. I batted it away, only to have a fan of long black hair wrap around my head and hit me in the face.

When the melting, compacting, and hair-growing finally stopped, the beautiful melody faded away as well, leaving the room quiet and somber. The amulet, however, remained hot to the touch.

Which was strangely comforting. Being a human—bald everywhere but my head—was cold. A shiver ran down my spine. Although the interior of the Great Redwood stayed warm and pleasant year-round, the slightest draft made this pale, bare skin break out in bumps. I hugged my arms over my tiny, narrow chest, rubbing my hairless biceps with both hands until the chill abated.

I could not tell how much time had passed while the amulet’s changing magic worked, but I needed to get the human out of here soon in case my father returned to make sure I was doing as the Elders decreed … or to dismiss Enyeto from his post. I opened the door to my room and let myself in.

“Stop right there,” a voice said.

My eyes focused on my pallet. The detective was awake. He shoved the blankets off and stumbled to his feet. He reached into his jacket, frowning when his hand landed on an empty holster.

“Oh, your gun. It is still in the clearing.” At his frown, I hurried to reassure him, “But you will not need it here. We will retrieve it when we return to your vehicle.”

“I’ll decide when I do and don’t need my gun,” he said, glancing up, then began patting his pockets as if he might find it hidden in one of them. “Just stay where you are, miss, until …”

His head rose slowly until he was staring at me. His eyes widened, and I saw that the irises were a dark, loamy brown the color of moist, fertile earth.

“You have very pretty eyes,” I said. “But they camouflage your pupils so that I cannot tell for certain if they are the same size.” I stepped closer to inspect the yellowed bruise on his forehead. “How is your head feeling?”

“I’m not going to tell you again—stay there.” He raised one hand as if to stop me. Splotches of his jaw were turning red. With his free hand, he reached down and grabbed a woven blanket from my pallet, then tossed it to me. “Put this on.”

I caught it and wrapped it around my shoulders.

“Thank you,” I said. “I was very cold.”

The red in his jaw darkened. “I noticed.”

I nodded. “Because you saw my bumps. I do not know how you people survive the winters. Montana is not a kind environment.”

The detective cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to be rude, miss—”

“Winona,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. I nearly laughed aloud when I realized the human body the amulet had given me was almost two inches shorter than the tiny Detective Fuller. I could not have been more than six feet tall! “Winona Treesinger.”

“Miss Treesinger,” he said, taking my hand. He staggered and nearly fell when I pumped his arm up and down, although I had seen many humans greet each other that way without falling. Perhaps he was not healing as quickly as I had hoped.

“Are you all right?” I asked. “Do you feel any weakness, vertigo, or nausea?”

“I’ll ask the questions, Miss Treesinger,” he said. “Now, I’m Detective Fuller with the Missoula Sheriff’s Department. The last thing I remember, I was in pursuit of a suspect in the back woods. I need to know where we are now and how I got here.”

“This is a simple matter,” I said. “You are in a sacred place. I brought you here to treat your injuries. The creature you were chasing was an evil spirit from the old earth. You fought bravely, Detective Fuller, but it would have killed you if I had not driven it away.”

He leaned his head back and looked at me down the length of his nose.

“An evil spirit.” He nodded slowly. “And you drove it away?”

“Not from Earth,” I said. “Only from you. But I will help you find it and send it back to the Spirit World, where it belongs.”

His answer was another slow nod. “And you’ll do this how?”

I did not like the idea of deceiving my new friend, but the song of the amulet had given me inspiration for a half-truth that I could tell him which would not be quite as bad as a lie.

“I am a winyan wakan, a powerful medicine woman. I frequently deal with monsters and evil spirits. This is my responsibility.”

Detective Fuller rolled his eyes and ran his hand through his short sandy hair. “Okay, honey, first of all, the only kind of evil monster you drove away tonight was the human kind. That murderer is responsible for four deaths that we know of so far—one of whom was a police officer with my department.”

“Four deaths?” The chill bumps returned to my skin though the blanket remained wrapped around my shoulders. How long had this monster been ravaging Inworld unchecked? “This night’s victim was not its first kill?”

“You didn’t hear about it on the news?” He sounded as if he were trying to remind me of something I should already know. “Officer Bruce Corley, local high school football star turned cop? Channel three televised the funeral procession.”

“I am sorry,” I said. “Was he your friend?”

Detective Fuller blinked, then pushed the sides of his suit jacket back and rested his hands on his hips. “The point is, I’m sure you can understand that this is a very sensitive case for my department. Emotions are running high because this guy murdered one of our own. Thank you for trying to help me—I mean that—but if you see something like that again, please stay back and let trained professionals handle the situation.”

“I am trained in this profession—”

“Not a trained medicine woman. An officer of the law. We get paid to fight the bad guys and keep people like you safe. Now”—he checked the timepiece strapped to his wrist and swore under his breath—“they’ve probably got somebody out looking for me. I need to get back to my vehicle ASAP and call in. Can you take me back there?”

“Of course,” I said, bemused. “This is what I have been attempting to do.”

Detective Fuller clapped his hands together once. “Good deal. And if you really want to help us get this guy, then I’ll need you to come down to the department with me to make a statement.”

I cocked my head at him. “Go to the department?”

“Just to make a statement,” he repeated. “The basics—what you saw, heard, smelled—anything you can remember about the suspect. You’re not being detained and you’re not under suspicion. We’ll have you write out what happened tonight, then you’ll be free to go. You won’t have to do anything else, and anything you can tell us will help more than you know.”

I took a deep breath and let it out. I had prepared myself mentally to work with one human, reasoning that a single human was not as much of a betrayal of my people as if I were walking into the midst of a whole group of them. But going into the sheriff’s department with Detective Fuller would certainly involve many more humans. He was my only lead, however. And it was not as if I would be revealing my true self to anyone. I had the amulet, after all.

Detective Fuller sensed my hesitation.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We don’t need to talk about why you were running around the woods naked or anything you might have been on tonight. We’re just interested in bringing in this suspect. Anything you can tell us will help.”

I shrugged. “It is not clothing which concerns me. My people do not bother with it—except for very formal occasions.”

“Look, lady,” Detective Fuller said, slicing a hand through the air. “I know I’ve only been in Missoula for a few months, but I haven’t seen any other Native Americans running their errands as naked as a jaybird. You don’t have to make excuses to me and blame it on some ‘new guy wouldn’t understand’ bull. I’m not here to bust you for a little pot or whatever you might’ve been smoking tonight. My main concern right now is getting the creep who committed these murders off the street before he kills again.”

“We have the same concern,” I said. “Though I do not believe the creature to be a male. It sounded female to me.”

He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “Yeah, I remember that. A real raspy, feminine voice, right?”

“It had two tones,” I agreed. “One a human female and one non-human, but I think also female.”

“We need to get to the station and get this down,” Detective Fuller said. “I’ll wait over here while you get ready, then let’s get going.”

“I am ready,” I said.

“Ah no,” he replied folding his arms across his chest. “You’re not going out like that in the middle of October.” His dark eyes glanced toward the blanket before jumping back up to meet mine. “Now get some … get some clothes …”

He trailed off as I slipped into his mind.

As a general rule, it is wrong to invade the consciousness of an unwilling creature—the Chiye-tanka almost never do it—but I was not attempting to do the detective any harm or force my will upon him. I only wanted him to fall asleep so he would not see the Sacred Grove or any other Chiye-tanka, and short of knocking him unconscious, this was the only way.

At first, Detective Fuller fought my suggestion that he needed to rest—his spirit was very strong—but in truth, he was exhausted. I did not need to convince him of something he already felt with every fiber of his being. Through his mind, I could sense several heavy weights threatening to overwhelm him, pulling him down toward unconsciousness. So much to do. So far to go before he could rest. And when those problems were taken care of, what then?

It wasn’t like this murder was a one-time thing. If he managed to catch this psycho, some other crazy jerkoff would just step up and take their place. And there was his sister and her kids to worry about. And that damn identity-theft thing to straighten out. And the hometown BFFs’ club at the department to deal with. So far to go before he could rest? More like half-past never before he could rest. There was always going to be something else to deal with. He just had to soldier on and get it done. If he didn’t, who would?

I will, I told him. You will see. Rest now, and you will see.

With that, I gave his mind the slightest push. It was so off balance from his many concerns and frustrations that he tumbled right over the edge into sleep.

His legs folded, but I caught him before he fell and attempted to lift him onto my shoulder. I was so small as a human that his body would not fit on my shoulder. I could carry him in my arms, but it would be a slow, awkward walk.

No matter. I could not walk through the Sacred Grove wearing this amulet anyway. I took it off, gladly returning to my normal-sized, much warmer self.

With the amulet hidden in my fist, I hefted Detective Fuller’s sleeping form in my arms, then set out for Inworld.

SEVEN:

Small Talk

Detective Fuller’s vehicle was still running when we made it back to the access road. I propped his unconscious body against one of the tires, then went to find his discarded gun.

The weapon was still in the high grass of the clearing where the creature had knocked it. The metal felt icy to the touch. It had collected a bit of dew from the night, but otherwise looked unharmed. I brought it back to the detective, sliding it into his holster before laying the corner of his jacket over it.

I braced myself for the temperature shock and put the amulet back on. The ancient music of the medicine man filled my mind and rolled through my limbs like a wave. My bones and body melted and compacted, compressing the entirety of my mass into the form of a much smaller Little Sister. When the change was complete, I hugged my arms across my hairless chest, shivering.

I was beginning to see the wisdom in Detective Fuller’s objection to me returning to Inworld without any clothing or coverings. It was much colder here than it had been in the Great Redwood, and my bald body seemed unable to withstand this temperature. I should have brought that blanket from my room.

This was a good lesson—not to discard the opinion of another just because it did not seem prudent at the time. I only wished I had not had to learn this lesson in the form of bitter cold.

In a hurry to get out of the cold, I reached into the detective’s mind and pulled him back up from the deep fog of sleep.

He groaned and scrubbed his hands across his face, wincing when he touched the remains of the bruise on his forehead.

“Good, you are awake,” I said.

He glanced up at me and frowned.

“And you’re naked again.” He looked around, studying the trees and dirt road as if disoriented. “Where are we? Is this—” He grabbed the wheel and pulled himself to his feet, looking into the driver’s side door. “How did we get back to the cruiser?”

I attempted to shrug, but my shoulders were shivering too hard. “You fell asleep, so I carried you.”

He raised an eyebrow as if he did not believe me. “You carried me? By yourself.”

I nodded, hugging my arms tighter around myself. My teeth were beginning to chatter.

“For Pete’s sake.” He whipped off his jacket and shoved it at me. “Put this on.”

“Thank you.” I slipped my arms into the sleeves and wrapped the jacket around me. His body heat had warmed it wonderfully. “This is much better.”

He gave me a wry smile. “That’s why we wear clothes. That and so guys won’t stare at your … bumps. You ought to look into getting some of your own.”

“I have been considering it,” I admitted. “Can we get in your car now?”

“Hop in,” he said, gesturing toward the opposite side. As I crossed through the beams of the headlights, I heard him sigh. “Of course, right in front of the lights. Football … football … Huge, sweaty guys in pads and tight pants. UMSL looks awful this year. Shouldn’t have changed up their backfield at the last second …”

I climbed into the passenger side and shut the door behind me, thinking that humans’ thought patterns made no sense at all.

The inside of the car was much warmer. Hot air blew from grated vents in the dash, heating the leather seat in spite of the open driver’s door—a fact my bare legs and backside greatly appreciated.

Though I had never personally ridden in a human’s vehicle, I had learned much of cars from a pair of Chiye-tanka who studied human means of transportation extensively. The interior of the detective’s car was nothing like the diagrams and drawings my friends had shown me. Wires and screens and buttons dominated the space, intimidating, but neatly ordered. A tiny computer stuck out of the barrier between the seats, the screen facing away from me. My heart sank within this new, narrow-chested body. I had seen computers before, in an underground laboratory run by that abomination Dr. Hogg—large electronic things monitoring his evil experiments.

Attempting to swallow my uneasiness, I swiveled the screen around to face me so I could see what this detective might be monitoring.

Please let it be nothing evil, I prayed to the Grandfather Spirit.

The screen was divided into a grid of blank boxes, each labeled with things like “Plate Number,” “State,” “Name,” and “License Number.”

The detective folded himself into the driver’s seat—apparently finished talking nonsense to himself—and saw me inspecting the screen. He gave me a look of reproach, then swiveled it back toward him.

“This isn’t for checking your Facebook,” he said. “Don’t touch.”

I ignored the foreign word, not wanting to be distracted from the matter at hand.

“What is it for?” I asked.

“Running plates and checking for warrants,” he said.

“Warrants?”

“I take it you’re not a Cops fan,” he said. “A warrant is like a notice to arrest someone for not appearing in court when they were supposed to or to bring them in for a crime they committed.”

“Oh!” The tension in my shoulders and stomach released, and I smiled. “This computer helps you capture lawbreakers. That is not evil. That is good.”

Detective Fuller’s lips twitched into a puzzled smile. “I like to think so.”

“Please forgive me if I was unclear,” I said. “What I meant is if you were evil, then I would have made a great mistake in accompanying you, and perhaps even in saving your life. So I am very happy you are not evil.”

“In that case, me too.” He took a key ring from his pocket, selected a brass-colored one, and slipped it into the ignition.

“How was your vehicle running without a key?” I asked, leaning closer to get a better look. “I was told all vehicles required a key to start.”

“Cruisers nowadays all have run lock ignitions,” he said. “That way they can keep charging the battery and running the laptops”—he nodded at the computer—“to help us capture lawbreakers. You take out the key when you get out, then if somebody tries to put it in gear while you’re gone, the whole contraption shuts down. It’s kind of like a safety, but for a cop car instead of a gun.”

I nodded as if that analogy made sense.

Detective Fuller pulled down on the stick beside the steering wheel, and the car began to move backward. He looked over his shoulder, watching out the back window.

“I’m pretty sure we’ve got enough gas to get back into town,” he said, shifting the stick again and looking out the front window as we pulled onto the dirt road. “But if not, maybe you can push us.”

“That will be easy,” I said with a nod. “I have pushed a vehicle longer than this before.”

He raised an eyebrow at me, and I realized his eyes were twinkling though his expression remained serious.

“But you were only joking,” I said. “You do not believe I can.”

He shrugged. “I moved up here from the Show-Me State, Miss Treesinger. If you want me to believe a woman your size carried me through the backcountry all by herself, you gotta show me.”

Several seconds passed while I considered the implications of this conditional belief.

“I suppose that is not entirely unwise,” I conceded finally, absently tucking a strand of loose hair behind my ear.

Detective Fuller chuckled, more a breath of air than an outright laugh. “I suppose that’s not entirely an insult, so thanks.”

We drove on in silence, the car warming much faster now that both doors were closed. I held the jacket open and leaned forward, allowing the hot air to blow across my bald skin. It was incredibly soothing.

Detective Fuller saw what I was doing and scowled. “No. Nope. Stop that right now. Can you please just sit back and cover up? Like a normal person.”

“I was warming my flesh,” I said.

“It’s warm enough in here.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glaring out at the road. “Just shut that jacket and put your seat belt on.”

I agreed to do so, then searched out the seat belt. Putting one on was much more complicated than it had appeared in my friends’ diagram. Whenever I pulled on the belt, it lurched to a halt with a loud clunk.

“Let it back in, then pull it out slowly,” Detective Fuller said.

I did so.

Clunk! It slammed to a stop again.

“Slowly,” he repeated.

“That is what I did,” I said.

“Slower, then.”

I tried again.

Clunk.

And again.

Clunk.

And again.

Clunk.

Frustrated, I jerked the belt as hard as I could.

Clunk—snap—zeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

The belt came loose and yards of its length whirred out around me. The end of the belt, slightly frayed, fell into my lap.

Detective Fuller stared at the broken belt lying across my thighs, his mouth hanging open.

My face burned. I swallowed, took a deep breath, then carefully—very carefully this time—I picked up the buckle and snapped the slack belt into its correct place.

“I have friends who are able to repair that if you wish,” I said, folding my hands in my lap.

“Uh, don’t worry about it,” he said, shifting uncertainly in his seat. “I’m pretty sure the manufacturer’s required to foot the bill if the safety belts are defective.” His face darkened with annoyance, and he threaded his fingers through his hair. “I’ll just let the sheriff know when we get back.”

I chewed on the inside of my lip and stared out the window. Trees flashed past, and I caught the occasional glimpse of an owl, hawk, or squirrel. I searched every corner of my mind, but could think of no appropriate ways to engage the detective in conversation. Human men, I had learned in dealings past, were very emotionally attached to their cars. Breaking one was not a good way to begin a friendship, let alone reopen relations between our peoples.

After traveling several miles in silence, Detective Fuller used a radio handset to call another male named Dispatch. He told Dispatch our location and that he was returning to the sheriff’s office with a witness, then hooked the handset back in its place.

“I am the witness,” I guessed.

“You are the witness, fairy princess,” he said.

My heart raced, frightened that he could somehow sense my true nature.

“I am not one of the fae,” I said, which was true. The lie that followed was a bit harder to speak. “I—I am a human, like you are.”

Detective Fuller’s tongue clicked behind his teeth. “Or are you an alien?”

“I am not an alien!”

“Well, you talk like an alien, so …”

“What do you mean?” My brow furrowed, and I swallowed, trying my best not to sound strange. “I speak as you do.”

“No,” Detective Fuller said, a hint of teasing creeping into his tone, “you speak as the fairy princesses in epic fantasy do. Or like Data from Deep Space Nine … which I guess would technically make you an android, not an alien. The point is, I haven’t heard you use a single contraction yet.” He stole a sidelong glance at me, then offered me a lopsided smile. “That’s pretty weird.”

My face heated again. “It is not weird.”

“Your friends and family don’t make fun of the way you talk?”

“They all speak as I do,” I said.

“Huh.” He spun the wheel, and we turned onto a paved road. “So, where’re you guys from originally? You and your family, I mean.”

Sudden comprehension drove away my embarrassment. He had only been teasing me about my diction as a tactic to elicit information.

“We have always been around the Bitterroot Valley,” I said, shrugging to appear nonchalant. “Though many of my people are thinking of moving away for good.”

“Why?”

“They are wary of your people,” I said.

He thought about this for many long seconds. “You’re not from out at the Flathead Rez, are you?”

I cocked my head at him.

“Not to assume or anything,” he added, raising his fingers from the wheel as if to forestall an accusation. “Just, you know, Native American medicine woman whose people don’t like my people.”

“The Flathead Indian Reservation is within the boundaries of our territory,” I said, “though we do not venture there any more often than we do the rest of the forest.”

In truth, we ventured there less, as the concentration of Little Brothers and Sisters there was nearly as high as in any of the small towns nearby.

“Tell me who ‘we’ is, Winona.” He glanced my way. “By the way, do you care if I call you Winona? Seems strange to be so formal with a naked woman wearing my jacket and tearing up my cruiser.”

I smiled. Perhaps he wanted to be friends in spite of my mishap.

“May I call you Christopher?” I asked.

His brows twitched toward suspicion, but he smoothed this away quickly with a practiced smile. “You can call me Chris if you tell me how you knew my first name.” He watched me from the corner of his eye. “I know I’ve been in and out a couple times tonight, but I remember clearly identifying myself to you as Detective Fuller.”

“I looked at your badge and identification while you were unconscious,” I explained.

He frowned, and his hand leapt to his chest as if to locate the badge, but landed on the empty breast pocket of his white shirt.

“It is here,” I said, opening the jacket he had lent me and pulling out his wallet from the inside pocket. “I did not mean to pry, but I wanted to know whose injuries I was treating.”

“Thanks.” He took the wallet and slipped it into his pants pocket. “No offense, but I’m a little jumpy about people messing with my stuff these days.”

“I take no offense,” I assured him.

He smiled at me strangely, then went back to watching the road. I looked as well, realizing I could see the orange-yellow cloud of light pollution from Missoula shining above the trees. Missoula is not a large city by modern standards, but it is the largest in the area. While there are a few communities of human-Outworld creature hybrids in nearby towns like Lolo, Missoula is filled with tens of thousands of Little Brothers and Sisters.

I leaned toward the glow, unable to suppress the urge to grin. The Chiye-tanka have so little contact with the world of men that I could barely contain my excitement at the thought of driving into the city, of riding in a police car like any other human.

“So, you were telling me about your people,” Detective Fuller—Chris, I corrected myself—said. “Are you registered with any of the local tribes?”

“That is very unlikely,” I said, watching the glow of the city approach.

“Do you have any identification? Something official like a driver’s license, library card, birth certificate?” He looked across at me, glancing at the borrowed jacket. “Obviously not on you. But do you have a social security number or some other proof we can look up that says you are who you say you are? It’ll streamline the statement process a little.”

“I am sorry, Chris. My people do not have any of those things.”

Chris shook his head. “It’s fine. We’ll figure something out.”

The wall of trees on either side of the car pulled away as we left the two-lane blacktop for a much larger highway marked 93/12/Bitterroot Rd. A hulking blue tractor trailer as long as the Great Redwood was wide moved to another lane to make room for us. Our speed increased until we were going nearly as fast as I could run. Perhaps even faster.

Out my window, I caught a glimpse of the moon reflected on a wide river that passed below the highway, its surface as calm and motionless as stone. Then buildings and dwellings took the river’s place. The car slowed, and we turned into a huge parking lot facing a long building with a pair of taller pitched roofs like turrets placed symmetrically on either side of its lighted sign.

“Walmart?” I read the white letters. “This is not the sheriff’s office.”

“We’re going there next,” Chris said, easing the cruiser into a parking space as far from the entrance to the building as possible. He pulled the key from the ignition, the engine still rumbling in its absence. “Right now, we’ve got one glaring issue to cover up, so I’m calling an audible.”

“If you are certain it is absolutely necessary, we will go to this Walmart first.” I reached for the door handle. “But we must hurry. Stopping the monster is a matter of utmost importance.”

He pointed a finger at me. “Yeah, you’re not coming in. I know everybody says you can walk into Walmart wearing pretty much anything and no one’ll look twice, but I doubt that extends to a woman wearing nothing but a suit jacket. So, you’re going to wait here. I’ll be right back. Do not leave this car.”

“But—”

“Just trust me on this one, fairy princess.” He reached over the computer and pushed a button on the dash. The word Loading… appeared on a small glowing blue screen above the radio. “Hang out, stay warm, listen to some music. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I am not—”

The door slammed. Outside, Chris clipped his badge to his belt, then jogged toward the Walmart.

“—one of the fae,” I finished.

EIGHT:

Walmart

I frowned and leaned back in the seat. I had not heard of this Walmart or its dress policy, but I wanted to immerse myself in human culture while I helped Chris search out this monster. How could I do that if he would not even let me leave the car?

Suddenly the car was filled with the cheerful sawing of twin fiddles propelled by a heavy backbeat and a man’s voice. The glowing blue screen Chris had turned on before he left now read Heartland – George Strait. It was a song of celebration, though unlike any the People have ever sung. The shuffling dance I associated with the sacred songs seemed a mismatch for the music coming from the car’s speakers. The dance to something like this would involve twisting and jumping and great whoops of celebration.

My body began to move of its own volition, swaying and bouncing in the seat. My feet tapped and skipped, giving tiny hops now and then. I wished I knew the words so I could sing along. The use humans had made of electric instruments was ingenious! Every note seemed to burst inside my skull—brilliantly colored images of rain, rivers, and woodlands.

That song ended far too soon, but with a joyful spiraling cycle of chords that lifted my spirits too high to feel disappointed that it was over. I clapped and cheered along.

The next song was even better—another jubilant tune—with a singer who was nearly laughing while he recounted the story of how his family protected their farm by playing music until the cows came home, though he did not say from where. As I danced along, I attended the lyrics of “Cadillac Ranch – Chris LeDoux,” carefully, memorizing them so that I could sing when they were repeated. I was beginning to sweat, but the music was so catchy that I could not hold still. I took Chris’s jacket off and laid it across his seat. Human music was so much fun! I bounced to the beat and raised my arms over my head to flail along with the chuckling guitars.

My door wrenched open. I froze, startled.

Chris stood staring at me, his brows raised. He blew out his cheeks on a long exhale, and turned away as if he were giving me an opportunity to regain some lost dignity.

Heat flooded my cheeks. I lowered my arms and sat motionless in my seat, back straight, eyes focused on the dash in front of me. Obviously, I had done something humiliating. Was dancing outside of holy ceremonies a thing not done in the world of men?

At my side, Chris cleared his throat. Plastic bags rustled as he held them out to me.

“Here,” he said.

I took them and pulled out a pair of denim jeans with a frayed rip in the knee, a pink-and-gray flannel shirt, a neon green athletic bra, a package of multicolored cotton underwear, and a plastic package of white socks. I turned each item over in my hands, inspecting them doubtfully.

“Look, I get that you’re a free spirit,” he said, “but you have to wear clothes. It’s the law.”

“They look very small,” I said, holding up the jeans.

“Just try them on. If they don’t fit, I’ll run them back in and get you a different size.”

He pushed my door shut and turned his back to the car, staring out across the nearly empty parking lot.

A new song began to play as I tore open the underwear package and pulled on a pair. The tone of this song was eerie, almost ghostly, the fiddle mimicking the sigh of a forlorn spirit. I wanted to memorize its story as well, but lost track of the words as I wrestled the athletic bra onto my body. Its band cut into my sides, and the cups smashed my breasts against my ribcage until they were nearly flat. There was not an inch of give.

That could not be right. I shook my head and peeled the bra off again, nearly dislocating my shoulder as I grappled with the elastic. I shoved it back into the bag, then turned my attention to getting the shirt and jeans on.

In contrast to the bra, the shirt and jeans fit well, and they felt as if they would be a decent substitute for hair in this climate. Chris, it seemed, was a much better judge of my new size than I was. The pink of the flannel even matched my barrette. A very good judgement call. Though I could not see the wisdom in choosing a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee. I decided I would not bring it up in case these were the best his people had to spare at the moment.

The package of socks I returned to the bag unopened. I will not cover my feet. Ever.

Completely dressed, I opened my door and handed him the bag containing the bra, the rest of the underwear, and the socks.

He braced one arm on the roof of the car and leaned down to inspect my clothing.

“Looks good,” he said. “Everything fit?”

“Very well, Chris, thank you. All except for the bra, but I do not think this article is strictly necessary. I am warm enough without it.”

“Good enough,” he said. “Let’s head out.”

He came around the back of the car and climbed into the driver’s side, tossing the bag over the seat.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the highway, I stretched, bent, and twisted, testing the range of motion of these new clothes. Slightly restrictive—especially around the shoulders and legs—but I would adapt. Chris watched this from the corner of his eye, but did not comment.

Another song began. He turned the volume up and began to pat the steering wheel in time with the steady rhythm.

I looked at the screen. “Lord, I hope this d – Don Williams.” It was slower than the first two celebratory songs had been, but faster than the sighing spirit of the third song. The gentle strumming and calm beat was accompanied by the occasional plucking of an acoustic guitar. I did not think this song was terribly exciting, but I listened anyway, intent on soaking up its cultural significance.

Then a smooth baritone joined the strumming, a soft voice asking the White King for just one good day. The singer poured out his heart in a calm but blunt way, not complaining or whining, only admitting frankly that he felt alone and forgotten. Chris sang along under his breath, seemingly oblivious to the pain in the song.

I swallowed and shut my eyes, attempting to hold back the tears, but I could not. It was as if a needle were piercing my heart. One spilled down my cheek. I sniffed and dragged the flannel sleeve of my shirt across my face to wipe it away.

Chris glanced my way, returned his gaze to the road, then snapped it back to me.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed. “Why are we crying?”

“Can you not hear him?” I gestured at the radio with both hands. “His life has been so hard, and yet he refuses to mourn. He only asks for one good day.”

Chris laughed, but he looked uncomfortable rather than amused. “The guy’s just looking for a break, Winona, same as anybody.”

I sniffed again, harder. “I do not think that you understand.”

“No, I get it,” he said. “Believe me, I do. But you’ve got to take it easy. This’s nothing to get upset about. It’s just a song.”

“Songs are our cry to the holy people, the language of our spirits.”

“Even ‘Cadillac Ranch’?” he asked, his lips quirking up at the corners.

“That was a celebration of victory,” I said.

“Which is why you were dancing naked to it in a Walmart parking lot?”

My face burned, and I picked at the frayed hole in the leg of my jeans. “Were my movements wrong or poorly executed?”

“Your moves weren’t the issue,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Your lack of clothes, however …”

“You are very concerned about clothing.” This came out a touch harsher than I intended because of my embarrassment.

The car pulled to a stop at a red light, and Chris flipped a stick on the opposite side of the steering column. An arrow on the dash began to blink on and off.

“What I’m very concerned about is strange women I find running around the woods in the middle of the night without clothes,” he said. “Especially when there’s a potential serial killer on the loose.”

“You do not need to fear for me, Chris. I have handled myself against all manner of monsters, and I have done so without clothing.” I plucked the flannel shirt away from my chest and let it drop back into place. “Which, now that I am wearing some, I do not believe would offer much additional protection in combat.”

The light turned green. Chris eased the car back into motion, watching over his shoulder as he turned onto a smaller street.

“We’re only about two blocks from the sheriff’s office,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m kind of hoping it doesn’t come to a combat situation before we get there.”

We passed a series of one-story businesses, all adorably human-sized. Almost all of these seemed to be closed for the night except for a shop with tinted windows and a neon sign declaring that it bought and sold guns, gold, and coins 24 hours a day. We turned again, and the businesses gave way to tall red brick buildings several stories high.

A little thrill raced down my spine every time I caught a glimpse of a person through the windows. A few sat hunched behind computers, while others stood guard over doors or walked windowed halls. Still others were busy cleaning floors and emptying wastebaskets into larger rolling cans. My eyes followed each man or woman for as long as possible, not wanting to give up their hold on a single one. Perhaps these activities were the boring nightly routine of the humans who carried them out, but to me they were magical and unique. I yearned to capture fragments of them in my mind, to take them back with me like souvenirs. They went about their business, playing their part in human society just as the Chiye-tanka do in ours, so like us and yet so different.

As we drove, I noticed Chris glancing at each of the buildings, too, but his dark eyes jumped from one to the next without staying too long in any one place. He seemed to be confirming that everything was as it should be rather than taking an interest in the occupants.

The vehicle slowed in front of a wide, manicured lawn, where a trio of flagpoles stood in front of an imposing white building. We pulled into a parking space facing the building. A set of columns as thick as lesser trees stood on the porch, leading the eye upward to a clock set in a domed cupola.

“This is the sheriff’s office?” I asked Chris. “It is majestic.”

“Yeah, it’s something all right,” he said, looking at building as if he were bracing himself to go into battle.

For a moment, the weariness I had felt in his mind appeared in pools of shadow around his eyes. Then I blinked, and it was gone.

He shut the cruiser off and opened his door.

“Let’s go get that statement, fairy princess.”

NINE:

Witness Report

Chris’s cowboy boots clunked and scraped against the sidewalk as we approached the huge white stone building. The concrete was rough and icy against the soles of my human feet. My small, hairless brown toes froze as I kept stride with Chris. This, however, was greatly preferable to stuffing my feet into the confinement of those socks.

I had assumed we were going into the large set of double doors at the front of the building. However, when we reached the steps, Chris rounded the corner and approached an annex. In spite of the hour, a row of fluorescent lights lining the ceiling burned harsh and bright and unnatural.

Chris held the door while I stepped inside.

The tiles in the floor were real stone, but stone that had been rudely dug up, cut to geometric shapes, fitted together, and treated with some sort of shiny wax that looked slimy. Much like the light above, the stones seemed unnatural—lifeless and dead. My lips turned down in a grimace, and my toes tried unsuccessfully to curl away from them. Ignoring the cold trickling up through the soles of my feet, I followed Chris to the staircase. He took them at a practiced jog. On the second-floor landing, he opened a door marked Sheriff’s Office and gestured for me to precede him inside.

Here, synthetic, industrial fibers bristled against my feet like blades of dry, dead grass after a long winter.

The office floor plan was divided into what smelled like a maze of fabric-covered particleboard. I sniffed. Particleboard, coffee … and fried eggs?

Along the west wall was a human-sized desk in front of an assortment of filing cabinets and a copy machine. A thick, dark-haired man with a thin mustache and a rumpled uniform sat at the desk with a headset hooked over one ear. When we came in, he glanced up from the computer as if waiting for someone, but almost immediately returned his glazed stare to the screen.

“Stedman.” Chris nodded at him, lips pressed into a tight, professional line.

“Fuller,” the uniformed man replied without looking up again.

Chris’s eyes darted toward a door on the southern wall. “Sheriff in?”

“It’s five twenty-seven in the morning,” this Stedman said, clicking something on his computer. “What do you think?”

“I’ll catch him later, then.” Chris picked up a pen and a black plastic binder full of paper, and filled in a line with what looked like an eyeless cave dwelling creature’s attempt at human script. “Got a witness in the Corley case.”

Stedman double-clicked. “I’ll get the six o’clock news on the phone.”

Behind us, someone snickered. “Nice one, Kenny.”

I spun around to find a tall deputy with a severely red complexion and hair shaved so close to his scalp that I could only make out its pale yellow coloring by the way the stubble sparkled. These contrasting tones made his head appear wet, as if he had just surfaced from deep underwater into bright sunlight, and beads of water were still lying on his scalp. His uniform—and the egg sandwich in his right hand—looked strangely dry in comparison.

Chris’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing to this new officer.

“Right this way, Miss Treesinger.” Chris gestured toward a corner of the maze.

The wet-looking officer—his nametag read Deputy Sheriff Khuri—wiped toast crumbs from his mouth with a napkin, then frowned.

“Ma’am, did Fuller even tell you that you’re allowed to give your statement to any officer you feel comfortable with? Deputy Stedman, myself, or any of us local boys would be happy to help you through the process. Hell, you could even give it straight to Sheriff Greene when he gets in, if you want.”

As a future chieftain of the People, I have been called upon many times to moderate disputes between two or more of our people. In these cases, I strive to be firm and fair to all parties involved, while responding with wisdom and respect no matter how heated the argument may become. But these officers were being rude and dismissive to Chris for no reason I could discern, and I did not like it. Not at all.

“I feel comfortable giving my statement to Detective Fuller,” I said, emphasizing the title this Deputy Khuri had left off. I inspected the portion of him I could see over the particleboard wall with a look that I hoped my human face would translate to disdain. “I would not give anything to you for fear you would get it wet.”

Lines of confusion furrowed the wide red plane of Deputy Khuri’s slick-looking forehead.

Chris turned his head to check the clock on the wall, but I saw his jaw hollow and flex as if to bite back a laugh. When he saw me watching, he gestured again toward the corner of the maze, but said nothing.

I preceded Chris around the maze, passing Deputy Khuri. From this angle, I could see Khuri was standing at a smaller version of Stedman’s desk, this one hidden behind the particleboard and covered in manila file folders and an open portable computer.

Chris caught up to me, silently leading the way past two more of these office stalls, both empty. He stopped at the one on the end and pulled up a rolling chair from the stall next door.

“Here,” he said, offering it to me.

“Thank you.” I tried not to look excited as I lowered myself into the seat. I had seen rolling chairs before—several times in human office furniture catalogs, and once in person—but had never been able to try one. It wheezed and sank under my weight, the cushion surprisingly soft beneath me. I planted both feet firmly on the ground, anchoring my toes on the carpet, then gave the smallest push backward.

The chair rolled back an inch.

I could not hold the grin inside. I anchored my toes and pulled this time.

The chair rolled over the thin industrial carpet again, as smoothly as water courses over stone.

A giggle escaped my lips. I slapped my hand over my mouth and looked up at Chris, who had paused in the middle of flipping open the portable computer on his desk to stare at me.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Having fun?”

“I apologize,” I said, unable to stop smiling. “My people—”

“Don’t believe in roll-y chairs,” he finished, turning back to his computer. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he typed in its password. “If we were here alone, I’d tell you to take it for a spin around the room, but since that would undercut the burn you gave Khuri—”

“I did not burn him!”

“Yeah, you did,” Chris said. “Third degree, at least.”

“With what?” I demanded, clutching the amulet sitting in the hollow of my throat. It was hot, but not enough to burn anyone. A host of remedies came to mind—powdered roots that would neutralize strong acids and bases, salves to cool blistered skin, healing songs to counteract magical burns, linctuses that would promote recovery and minimize scarring.

“With your words, Winona,” he said, straightening up from the computer. “You insulted him. Not that it made a lot of sense, but it threw him off his game, and that’s what counts. It’s the first step in disrupt, disarm, incapacitate, and it deserves some coffee. Or water. Whichever drink your people believe in.”

My brow furrowed as I tried to follow this human logic. Had Chris concluded this talk of physical and emotional injuries by offering me a drink?

“You are calling verbal affronts ‘burns’?” I asked.

He smiled at me strangely. “You really don’t get out much, do you?”

“I am outside almost all of the time.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. “Slang and contractions. I’m going to go grab us that coffee.”

Chris turned on his bootheel and went to the northeast corner of the room, where a stack of Styrofoam cups, a pair of sugar shakers, and an electric drip coffee machine had been arrayed across a tiny card table.

I pressed my toes into the floor and twisted the seat of my rolling chair back and forth a few times. On my third pass, it screeched as if my mass was too great a burden to bear. Perhaps it was. The amulet—unable to break one of the few great laws of the universe—had not changed my weight, only compressed and redistributed it. I was nearly six hundred pounds in my true form; shrinking me to the size of a Little Sister only concentrated my mass over a smaller area.

Just in case, I stopped testing the chair’s limits. I did, however, make a promise to myself to get a rolling chair for my room when this was over. Perhaps it could be reinforced or adapted for Chiye-tanka use. A minute later, Chris returned with a cup of coffee in each hand and two bottles of water under his arm. He arranged them on his desk so that we both had one of each, then dropped into the rolling chair at his desk and began thumbing through a sheaf of papers.

“Thank you for the coffee,” I said, picking it up. A wisp of steam drifted from its inky black surface and curled into my nostrils like a half-burnt tentacle made of asphalt.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Chris said, scribbling something in his messy handwriting. “If I had to guess, I’d say that pot’s been on the burner all night. Probably won’t see a fresh pot ’til Maziarka clocks on at seven. But I can rustle you up a fork if you need one.”

I stared down into the cup. “For what?”

“Never mind.” He clipped some pieces of paper to a clipboard. “Are you able to read and write in English, Winona?”

“I am literate in several tongues, both those native to this world and those belonging to the Spirit World. Mastering modern English was no trouble compared to many of these.”

“Slang, contractions, and yes or no questions,” he said, handing the clipboard and a pen to me. “Fill these out as completely as you can. If you don’t have something it asks for, or you’ve never heard of it, just skip that box and we’ll talk about it later.” He flipped the page to a lined sheet. “This is where you put down exactly what happened tonight from the time you saw the suspect until the time the suspect got away. Any details you can remember, no matter how small they might seem. I’ve got some paperwork to fill out, but I’ll be right here if you need anything. Once you’re finished, I’ll go over the statement with you, we’ll both sign it, and your work here’ll be done.”

I rested the clipboard on the corner of Chris’s desk and skimmed the sheets. The first seemed to be entirely related to quantifying who I was, while the second carried a stiff warning about the ramifications of making intentionally false statements. The final two were for writing out my statement. I considered the warning on the second page for several long seconds before signing at the bottom that I understood. These lawmen could not enforce any of their human penalties of lying on me—should it come to that, I would simply cast a veil and return to the Sacred Grove, far from human reach. Still, the warning brought to mind my father’s lecture that ripples flow outward until they reach the shore.

I was there to help, I reminded myself, not to be the cause of detrimental ripples.

So, I very carefully set about writing the events of this night, avoiding any description of myself, focusing almost entirely on my observations of the monster and Chris. In this way, I would neither have to lie about being human nor betray my people by admitting that I was a Chiye-tanka.

Chris typed while I wrote, the steady click-clacking of his keyboard filling the tiny office stall. I detailed the trail of blood, the frightened deer, the abandoned police car, spotting the monster in the clearing but being unable to see past her veil, her one-sided fight with Chris, Chris’s injuries, her intention to kill him, my intervention, and our battle. Several times I had to close my eyes and think back. Picturing her clawed raptor feet. Feeling the puncture of her razor-horned elbows. Hearing the two-toned rasp of her voice. Even smelling the rancid decay or the vomited liquor. Chris had said every detail, no matter how small, could be important, so I took my time.

During one of these moments, Chris caught me with my eyes shut.

“Need a break?” he asked.

My eyes popped open. “No, I am only remembering.”

“You sure? An encounter with a murder suspect can be a lot to take in. If it gets to be too much, we can take a quick walk outside or something.”

“You are forgetting that I have encountered many monsters before, Chris. I do not require delicate handling.”

“All right,” he said, raising his hands. “But the offer stands.”

When I was finished, I read through my account to make sure I had not forgotten anything, then handed it to Chris, satisfied with my telling. He spent several minutes reading it. Each minute seemed to etch the frown lines deeper into his face.

“The clawed feet of a bird of prey?” he asked, glancing up at me.

I nodded. “A large one. Comparable in size to a thunderbird.”

He raked his hand through his hair. “And you say you think she was wearing some sort of veil? Like a hood maybe?”

“No, she had cast a veil to obscure her from sight, most likely using shadow magicks. This is why I could not see her face.”

Chris’s hand made another pass through his hair and he blew out his cheeks on a long exhale.

“Winona, I’m trying really hard to be sensitive to your place in Native society. I understand that part of your job is to uphold your people’s spiritual and oral traditions, but my job is to investigate crimes so I can get the perpetrator off the streets before they commit more crimes. What I need from you is facts, tangible things that are observable in the real world. The liquor, the long black hair, the feminine voice—those are tangible. They’re something I can go on. I can’t investigate a bunch of myths and legends.”

“None of what I have written is myth,” I said, annoyed that he could so easily brush aside the truth. “Is there no evidence from the crime scenes which will confirm—”

“Nope, no way.” He shook his head and let out a humorless chuckle. “We’re not going to talk crime scenes, fairy princess. You can read whatever you’re allowed to know in the newspaper, right along with the rest of the viewing public.”

Bzz bzz. Bzz bzz.

The sound was coming from Chris. He pulled a blocky smartphone from his jacket and checked the screen.

“Sorry, I gotta take this.” He stood and started to raise the phone to his head, much the same way we use speaking crystals, but stopped and assured me, “I’ll be right back.”

He took a step toward the window, turning his back to me before he spoke quietly into the phone. I did not intend to eavesdrop on his conversation—his voice was low enough that the others in this room would not be able to listen in—but Chiye-tanka have very sensitive hearing.

“Hey, what’s up?” A pause as he listened. “This afternoon maybe. … Don’t tell the boys yet, I’m supposed to be off, but things are kind of crazy at the department right now, so I don’t know. I’ll text you when I find out.” His absently ran his palm across a cheek studded with stubble and sighed. “If they call you again, tell them that I already filed formal complaints with all three credit bureaus and the FTC, and give them my number … Don’t let those assholes harass you, Ruthie. They’re not allowed to ask you for anything but how to get in touch with me.”

He shook his head as if the person he was speaking to could see him. “It doesn’t matter. Until this gets cleared up, they have to assume I’m the one who owes them.” He snorted. “Trust me, that’s nothing. Apparently, I’ve got a record now. In addition to being a deadbeat who keeps skipping out on the payments for all these maxed-out credit cards, I’m a wife beater and drunk driver, now, too. Almost lost my job over that little bit of excitement.”

Chris leaned back and stared at the ceiling for several long seconds. “Hey, look, it’s nothing to worry about. It’ll get straightened out eventually, and then this’ll all be hilarious. I promise. Tragedy plus time, right? … Fine, let me know when we start laughing about that. I’ve got a couple good jokes saved up that he would’ve liked. Yeah, I’ll let you know about tonight. Okay. Talk at you later.”

He tapped the screen and returned the phone to his pocket before coming back to his desk.

“Sorry,” he repeated as he lowered himself into his chair. “My sister’s moving across town, and I said I’d come pack heavy stuff for her.”

I opened my mouth to ask him about the harassment and drunken debts portion of the call, but a whip-crack voice radiating anger that rivaled even the wrath of my father drove the question from my mind.

“Fuller!” A heavyset man with a snow-white cowboy hat and rich brown skin the color of walnut leaned out the door in the south wall. “My office. Now.”

TEN:

Case Files

The badge pinned to the man’s uniform pocket gave him away as the Sheriff Greene that Chris and the other officers had been talking about earlier. I had not seen or heard him come in, but much of the particleboard and fabric maze was alive with day-shift officers who had arrived while I was writing out my statement. At the large desk by the west wall, Stedman had been replaced by a petite red-haired woman who was busy taking calls on the headset and directing civilians to sit and wait in one of the three seats along the north wall.

Before Sheriff Greene’s summons to Chris had finished ringing through the air, the cowboy-hatted man spun on his heel and disappeared back into his office.

“This should be good,” Chris breathed, his tone implying the exact opposite. He turned back to me and tapped the clipboard holding my statement. “Hang tight a minute. We’ll talk about this when I get back.”

I nodded. “I can explain in greater detail, then it will be simpler to understand.”

Chris opened his mouth as if to he wanted to say something, then shook his head and shoved himself out of his chair. His shoulders tensed and his boots made muffled clunks on the carpet as he stalked toward the sheriff’s office.

The door had barely slammed behind him when the shouting began.

“Wanna tell me what the hell this report of damage to one of my cruisers is about?” Sheriff Greene bellowed. “I don’t know how they ran things down in Bumfuck, Missouri, but the motor pool here at the MCSD wasn’t put on Earth for you to use as your personal toy box.”

Through the closed door, I could not hear Chris’s reply, only the low rumble of his voice. I did, however, hear that he was still speaking when Sheriff Greene cut him off.

“And a Discharge of Weapon report in one night! All nine rounds fired at an oncoming suspect? Where’s the suspect, Fuller? You miss all nine times? Is it time to head back and requalify?”

Chris began to answer again, but the sheriff did not listen.

“Is that so? Well, then you oughta have plenty of defensive wounds, shouldn’t you? You don’t look beat up to me. You look like somebody who spent the night out in the backcountry drinking and shooting beer bottles.”

Silence. Chris did not even attempt to answer this time. I wanted to speak to him mentally, to urge him to tell the sheriff that I had treated him and that was why the abrasions were gone, but I could not do so without shattering the illusion that I was just another human.

I scowled. I did not like this Sheriff Greene any better than I liked Deputies Khuri or Stedman. Why had he interrupted Chris in the middle of attempting to investigate this monster to shout at him over these trivial concerns? I felt guilty about causing the damage to Chris’s police car, but did such a small thing matter compared to the monster he and I were trying to stop? Did the sheriff not realize that there was a murderer rampaging through his streets?

“That’s what I thought,” the sheriff snapped, slamming a hand down on something with a sharp bang. “You better damn well hope that the next time you pull a stunt like this you end up in the hospital, or I’ll put you there myself. After the FBI cleaned out Kelly and his cronies, every damn eye in Montana’s been watching this department for funny business. I won’t abide nonsense from anybody, least of all some wet-behind-the-ears, out-of-state punk who moved into a power vacuum because he wanted an easy ride to detective.”

Many of the day-shift officers in this outer room had stopped their tasks to listen to the sheriff’s tirade. A few of the deputies snickered openly. Civilians shifted uncomfortably in their seats or craned their necks as if to see through the sheriff’s closed door. The red-haired woman who had taken Stedman’s place covered the microphone of the headset as she answered a call.

I shut my mind to the sheriff’s shouting, checked over my shoulder to see whether anyone was watching me, then rolled my chair closer to Chris’s desk. Stacked on either side of his computer were manila file folders—some stuffed full of stapled and dogeared papers, others barely thicker than a sheet of spring ice. Each folder had a human name and a date on the tab.

Case files.

I checked again to make absolutely certain no one was watching me, then cast a glamour that made it look as if I were sitting quietly, drinking coffee, and waiting patiently for Chris to return. This left me free to search through the case files without being discovered. First, I picked through the folders on my side of the computer, only opening the ones dated over the past week. There were records of a domestic dispute, a suicide, and a few missing person reports, but none seemed related to the monster from the forest.

On the opposite side of Chris’s computer, though, I found a quartet of files bound with a thin rubber band, the topmost file labeled Jefferson, O. and dated the night before. When I flipped it open, violent red images of death leapt at me. A face hanging from a skull in shreds. Gaping puncture wounds across the chest and stomach cavity. Ragged bite marks. The body had been so savaged that it was impossible to tell from the photos whether the victim had been male or female. According to the report beneath the photos, this Otto Jefferson had to be identified by the serial numbers on surgical screws in his shoulder.

In spite of the warm flannel shirt Chris had given me, chill bumps pebbled across my skin. I found the same grisly carnage in the other three folders. The red of human blood crawled inside my mind, filling every corner. The punctures, the slashes, the bites. The gleeful mutilation. Each victim had suffered a similar gruesome death.

I closed my eyes and saw the razor-sharp spikes on the monster’s elbows, the wicked talons, the long black hair, the two-toned voice.

Anukite Sharp-Elbows, the Double-Faced Woman.

Anukite was a powerful demon from the Spirit World with a host of evil servants including the Teihiihan—cannibal dwarves she allowed to snack on her victims in exchange for their undying worship—and the stiff-legged bear, Yawkwawiak. Unlike the demons who served her, Anukite had not always been a monster. She had once been a beautiful but vain human. But she attempted to seduce a married man and was cursed with two faces as punishment—one beautiful, and one horribly ugly. Furious with her fate, she took to mutilating young women and children to steal their youth and beauty.

It was an old story, but one known to all the People of the Forest.

But as I read through the reports beneath the crime scene photos, doubt blossomed in my head.

The victims represented in these folders were not Anukite’s usual targets. They were male, for one. Two were addicted to Inworld drugs and had long lists of criminal offenses—breaking and entering, possession, domestic abuse, assault, battery, assault with deadly weapons. The third was a local mail carrier, who by all accounts was a friend to everyone along his route. His criminal record was nearly clean but for a warning for driving with an open container of alcohol and an accusation of domestic abuse that was later repudiated as slander. And the fourth victim was the lawman Chris had mentioned. Deputy Bruce Corley had one citation for Disorderly Conduct since joining the sheriff’s department earlier this year, but nothing else.

The crime scene photos screamed Anukite, but she could not harvest youth or beauty from these men—her witchery worked only on women and children. If a murder would not benefit her beautiful side, then the vain demoness would have little interest in committing it.

The thump of a fist against wood made me jump.

“I don’t wanna hear it, Fuller!” Sheriff Greene bellowed. “You’re not getting paid to play grab-ass with pretty girls, you’re getting paid to catch a murderer. I get that you barely knew Corley, so you don’t give two shits about this case, but he had a hell of a lot of buddies on the force who wanna see this guy brought to justice. If you can’t do that with your fancy criminal justice education, Detective, then I’ll ship you back to Mayberry and let one of them have a shot at it. Now get that witness’s statement, get her out of here, and get your ass back to work!”

I flipped the folder closed and hurried to return it to the rubber band with the rest. These I dropped back in place on the opposite side of Chris’s computer. Then I pushed myself away from his desk and dispelled the glamour, folding my hands in my lap so that I would look as if I had been waiting patiently, not reading through case files or listening to the sheriff scold him.

The door to the sheriff’s office opened, finally allowing Chris to escape. He slouched down the row of desk stalls like a beaten cougar and dropped into his chair, defeat worked into the lines of his body, his jaw tight and twitching.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Chris said, voice strained. He snatched the clipboard and pen off the desk, lifted the warning page, and quickly scribbled something on the paper below. “Here,” he said, handing the clipboard and pen to me and pointing to a line at the bottom of my statement. “Sign here.”

He would not meet my eyes.

“I thought you said we were not finished with this conversation,” I said.

“Well, we are,” he growled, his voice the low snarl of a wounded animal warning challengers and predators to stay away. “I’ve taken up enough of your time and MCSD resources.”

“Those do not matter, Chris, finding this monster—”

“Is not your responsibility,” he said, his dark eyes glaring into mine. “Thank you for your time and assistance, Miss Treesinger, but your part as a concerned citizen is done. The sheriff’s department will handle the investigation from here. Your job is to go home and stay safe. Now, will you please sign here?”

I wrote my name in careful human letters beside Chris’s messy scrawl.

“Thanks.” He took the clipboard and tossed it onto his desk, then turned his chair to face away from me.

My brow furrowed as I frowned. I was being dismissed.

Slowly, as if my limbs were rigid, I stood and started to walk away. Then I stopped and looked at Chris. His elbows were propped on his desk and his head rested in his hands.

“For what it is worth, Chris, I believe the sheriff is overly concerned with trivialities,” I said, speaking quietly enough that only he could hear. “If I could singe him with my words for you, I would. I believe he deserves it.”

Chris sighed. “Burn, Winona. It’s called a burn.”

But he did not look my way.

ELEVEN:

Tag Along

Morning hits suddenly in the mountains of Inworld, the early stages of Father Sun’s rise blocked by the tallest peaks, until all at once shade and chill is burned away by brilliant rays of light. When Chris and I had entered the sheriff’s department, the yellow moon had still been high in the black sky. As I returned to the outdoors alone, however, dazzling morning light washed over my face.

Beneath my feet, the rough concrete of the annex steps clung to the chill of the night, but all around me, the white stone of the building reflected the long rays of the sunlight onto my back. I stopped on the stairs and closed my eyes, the sting of Chris’s dismissal momentarily forgotten. A few sets of footsteps passed me—two going into the annex behind me, another following the sidewalk around the corner—but I put them out of my mind while I basked in Father Sun’s warm embrace. Once full winter hit, the strength of his presence would dwindle as he distanced himself from Earth, but for now, he was still close enough to warm the daytime.

A thought occurred to me then: Father Sun also aided Mother Earth in binding Anukite Sharp-Elbows during the day. It was only under the shadow cover of night that she could run free, but both Yawkwawiak and the Teihiihan cannibal dwarves who worshipped her could walk in the daylight.

There were still too many inconsistencies to be certain that Anukite was the monster perpetrating the murders, but if she was, Chris could be in danger. She could send her minions after him at any time.

I could not leave Chris to face a threat like that alone. With his obstinate refusal to believe anything until he had seen it—the creatures of the Spirit World, especially—he could be dead before he even saw an attack coming. My people’s talent for passing unseen was proof that just because a creature was unnoticed did not mean that it did not exist. Besides, Chris was still my best lead for gaining more information on the monster. If I continued to work with him, we could verify whether Anukite was the evil that had murdered these men, then either find a way to stop her or track down the true culprit.

It was decided, then. I left the rough concrete of the stairs and found a lush spot beneath an oak tree whose leaves were just beginning to take on the reddish-brown hues of fall. From there, I could observe the door to the sheriff’s department while meditating in the soft coolness of the grass. I sat, folding my legs beneath me—somewhat uncomfortable in these tight jeans humans wore—then cast a veil over myself and mind-whispered a respectful request to Mother Earth, asking if she would please restore my energy. She is such a loving mother that she would have given of herself whether I asked or not, but it is always better in the view of the People to be polite.

Time passed while I rested, and Mother Earth restored to me that which the lost sleep and battles—both verbal and physical—of the night before had taken from me. Father Sun continued on his path across the sky, and the shade the oak cast around me grew shorter and shorter.

More than an hour after I had left the sheriff’s department, the door to the annex swung open, releasing Chris to the day. The muscles in his shoulders were bunched and his hands were coiled into fists. He scowled into the morning glare and shielded his eyes with one hand, taking a moment to scan the lawn as if to search for potential threats. His gaze slid over me without slowing. Then he turned and stalked down the sidewalk, away from the place we had parked his police cruiser the night before.

I sent a quick message of gratitude to Mother Earth, then popped to my feet and ghosted silently behind him. Luckily, the slight breeze was blowing my way. I could smell his sweat and the subtle trace of aftershave, but as long as he did not change directions and backtrack, he would not be able to catch wind of me.

When I caught up to him, Chris stood at a street intersection, his jacket unbuttoned and pulled aside, hands planted on his hips while he glowered at the cars, trucks, and bicycles flying past. His nostrils flared, and his jaw worked as if he were chewing a particularly tough piece of gristle. Or rehashing a heated battle he had lost.

Overhead, the traffic lights changed, and the vehicles flowed to a stop. Chris crossed to the opposite corner, jogging the last few steps. I followed a few yards behind.

Here humans lined the sidewalks. They passed by on either side of us, walking alone or in clumps of two or three, talking and laughing, sipping paper cups of coffee, or carrying plastic bags marked with the names of the businesses that surrounded us. They were oblivious to my presence, of course. Chris, however, seemed to draw the eye of every postpubescent female he passed, but he was too wrapped up in his anger and frustration to notice their stares.

Was it possible that a man like Chris might be considered handsome among humans?

I pondered this as I shadowed him, trying to see my friend’s short, six-foot frame and pale, hairless flesh as appealing. The idea was so alien that I nearly giggled.

Then I ducked my head, ashamed of myself for laughing at Chris while he was so clearly upset. But just imagine being attracted to a tiny little creature with hair nowhere but the top of its head. It was very hard to keep a straight face. I did not see how the human females managed. Not that their own bald, fragile bodies were any more practical than the males’.

As I followed Chris to the next block, the scent of coffee—this brewed with much greater care than that of the sheriff’s office—danced across my senses. Soon after, the scent of coffee gave way to the tangy, smoky, meaty aroma of a human specialty called barbecue. My mouth watered as the aroma tickled the inside of my nose, conjuring a rumble in my stomach. I had not realized how hungry I was. A neon sign in the window of one of the buildings we passed advertised Pit BBQ, and Whole Hog Catering Now Available!

The word hog—though only a homophone to the name of the evil doctor who had helped the Kinslayer bring so much chaos and pain upon the People of the Forest—sobered me immediately. I was not here to make light of a less fortunate species or sample their delicacies. I was here to catch a monster and make certain my friend did not become a target.

I banished the mouthwatering smells from my mind and padded after Chris across another street and into a riverside park. The path here turned from cement to red brick, which carved its way through manicured lawn, where the grass was still vibrantly green so late in the year. We cut across the park to a path that wound alongside a rushing river. I wondered idly whether this was the same river I had seen when we drove into Missoula last night.

As Chris turned onto this brick path and began to stride along the riverside, short bursts of electronic buzzing reached my ears. He pulled his phone from his jacket and checked the screen as he walked.

The wind carried the sound of his frustrated growl to me. He took a deep breath, then thumbed the screen and held the phone to his ear.

“Fuller.” After a pause, he laughed bitterly. “No, I don’t want to pay off my balance today.”

Rather than walking along the trail, I picked my way across the bricks to the tufted brown grass growing along the rocky bank. The brick was smoother than the concrete sidewalk, and warm from the sun, but could not compare to the feel of the mud squishing between my toes and the dry grass brushing across my feet. All the rain of the past few weeks had swollen this river within its banks. The gray-brown water rushed over ripples and around sandbars, eating away at the manmade boundaries a grain of sand at a time. I took a deep breath, savoring the lung-clearing smell of cold water.

Unfortunately, I also caught the stench of unwashed bodies, dried blood, and rotten breath.

“Yeah, no,” Chris said, “I don’t want to make any payment today. … Because I didn’t run up that balance, my identity was stolen. Listen, this should already be in your records.”

I breathed deeply through my nose, searching the area for the source of the smell.

Along the path ahead, the thin, leafless branches in a copse of scrubby trees rustled and shifted as if an animal had brushed against them. I stared hard at the place I had seen the movement. There. The shimmer of magical veils distorted the lines of the trees.

Chris continued walking, oblivious to the fact that he was blundering into an ambush. “No. I told you people yesterday, I filed a report with the DCI. They put a freeze on—” He sighed, curled his hand into a fist, and shoved it into a pocket. “Yeah, but I’ll have to look it up. Can you give me a second?”

He stopped walking for a moment and took his phone from his ear. I ran to catch up to him, coming to a stop within arm’s reach. Ahead, the veils were spreading out, attempting to encircle us. I counted at least twenty, low and close to the ground. Where had the rest of the humans gone? Had there not been people jogging through this very park and playing with dogs just a moment before? I was sure I had seen a pair of humans going through the slow motions of Tai Chi just over there. Yet now this place was as deserted as the Wastes of Outworld.

Chris was so absorbed in reading the screen of his phone that he did not hear the crunching of small feet in the grass. He brought the phone back to his ear and said, “Ready? The confirmation number is three one eight—”

At once, the creatures dispelled their veils. Teihiihan, the cannibal dwarves.

Chris trailed off, his brows drawing low in confusion as he looked from one dirty, scraggly-haired dwarf to the next.

Like the monster in the forest, the Teihiihan appeared almost human, but where the monster from the night before had been too long and thin, these were too lumpy and solid. None of them was more than four and a half feet tall, and every inch seemed to be made of balled muscle. The shoulders of even the smallest dwarf were three feet across and did not sit symmetrically on either side of the Teihiihan’s spine. They looked as if they had been put together by someone who had heard about humans, but never seen one.

Most of the dwarves carried melee weapons of some sort—metal pipes, lengths of thick chain, rusty machetes—though an even greater unseen danger lay in their bite. Like the Komodo dragons of Inworld, the Teihiihan’s saliva was so filled with the bacteria of rotting flesh that, left untreated, a bite from one would fester and become septic within hours, killing prey that thought it had escaped with only minor injuries. I shuddered at the thought. If Chris and I could not avoid this fight, then we would require significant amounts of ashwagandha root to clean our wounds after.

The Teihiihan crept closer on all sides, tightening the circle around us.

Chris lowered his phone and slipped it into his jacket. His face turned to a mask of professionalism.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked, his voice commanding though it was a question.

The ring of Teihiihan constricted again. Any gap or avenue of exit Chris or I might have taken was well within reach of two pairs of dirty, muscular arms. They swung their chains and brandished their machetes menacingly, baring grins full of pointed black teeth as they stole forward like a pack of wolves waiting for the first drop of blood to spill. A few licked their lips.

None of them seemed to have noticed my veil right beside Chris. Perhaps they were too hungry.

“I’m a detective with the Missoula County Sheriff’s Department,” Chris called out to them, one hand dropping to the butt of his gun. “Stop where you are and identify yourselves. Nothing has happened yet. No one is in trouble for anything, and no one needs to get arrested.” He paused and looked from one set of yellow eyes to the next. “Yet.”

Neither his tone nor expression betrayed his fear, but I could smell it on the wind, strong and sour. And if I could smell it, then the cannibal dwarves had to be salivating over it.

As if in answer to my thought, the tallest among them—nearly four and a half feet tall—slurped back a mouthful of drool. In one lumpy hand, he held a black wooden club, studded with rusty eight-inch gutter spikes and marked Louisville Slugger in faded white lettering. He spun the club in one hand, then flicked the matted dreadlocks away from his dirty face and stepped toward us.

Chris drew his gun, holding it in both hands, but pointing it at the ground rather than the Teihiihan with the club.

“I said to stop where you are,” Chris ordered. “This doesn’t have to end badly.”

They did not stop where they were, of course. The threat of being shot did not frighten them when they had a meal cornered and enough disposable pack members to catch the stray bullets while they took it down.

I dispelled my veil.

Chris’s head snapped around to me. He nearly raised his gun, but stopped himself when he saw it was me.

“Winona? Where did you come from?” he asked.

“You should point that at them,” I said. “In case this does not work.”

At my appearance, the encroaching net of Teihiihan hesitated.

“You do not want this fight,” I told them. “The People of the Forest know what is happening here, and we will stop it.”

The approaching dwarf with the spiked club eyed me for a long moment as if trying to decide whether I really was the Chiye-tanka I claimed to be.

Then he grinned his sharp, black-toothed grin. He had decided I was bluffing. Just another human trying to seem more dangerous than she truly was. An extra helping of meat.

He glanced around the noose of tiny, misshapen bodies, then raised his spiked club. With a wordless howl, he charged. The horde of bloodthirsty little cannibals followed.

TWELVE:

Teihiihan

“Get behind me!” Chris barked.

But I was already rushing the tallest dwarf, my legs eating up the distance between us in a flash. He swung his spiked club at my hip—I batted it aside with ease. The rusty spikes dug furrows across the back of my forearm, but my swipe caught the dwarf hard in the cheek and sent him spinning, dark blood flying from his mouth. Without giving him time to recover, I smashed a fist squarely into the side of his head. His misshapen skull caved in with a wet crunch, and his body cartwheeled into the swollen river.

“Or maybe I should get behind you,” Chris mumbled, his voice eerily flat.

I waded into the oncoming wave of Teihiihan, making a mental note to check later to make certain that Chris was not in shock. A swipe of my arm sent another pair of cannibals flying backward, feet over head. The smarter ones at the back of the pack split off, circling around in an attempt to flank me, but four of the stupidest, fastest ones continued to sprint directly toward me.

“You will want to start shooting now!” I yelled to Chris, hoping this would break through any shock or indecision he might be experiencing. “And do not let them bite you!”

I need not have worried. Behind me, Chris’s gun barked twice in quick succession. The guttural battle cry of a dwarf cut off, and chain links clanked as if dropped into a heap.

I grinned as my right fist crashed into a tiny, dirt-covered nose. The nasal bone snapped and folded inward, driven up through the dwarf’s brain. Anukite had not counted on my friend being able to handle himself.

Another Teihiihan leapt over the corpse of the dwarf I had just killed, his long, matted hair billowing like a cape as he swung a machete at my face. For being so short and stocky, they were surprisingly fast and nimble, but they were no match for my strength. I sidestepped left, avoiding the incoming blade, and drove my left fist into his jaw. Globules of noxious slobber and jagged black teeth rained from his mouth, and his head whirled one hundred eighty degrees on his neck. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Pain lanced through the muscles of my lower back, just beside my right kidney. I roared.

“Winona!” Chris yelled. His gun barked again.

Forgetting the dwarves still charging headlong into my reach, I spun around, stumbling a little as a deadweight crashed against the backs of my knees. Chris had shot the Teihiihan who had stabbed me, but the weapon was still lodged in my back. I swiped at it, trying to remove the obstruction. A rusty stiletto came free in my hand, followed by waves of pain, which washed outward from the empty hole the weapon had left behind.

A pair of Teihiihan rushed Chris from either side, distracting him from a third, who leapt at his exposed back. I moved like the wind, bounding forward and stabbing the stiletto through the top of the leaping one’s skull. The force of my attack drove his body down into the dirt with a thud. Meanwhile, Chris shot the one darting in from his left. Neither of us was fast enough to stop the one sprinting in on his right. It swung a lead pipe at Chris’s wrists—a blow that would have broken them both if it had connected—but hit the pistol instead. With a clang, Chris’s gun flew from his hands and tumbled away.

Chris cursed and shook his hands as if stung. Then he raised them and dropped into a defensive stance, facing down the dwarf with the lead pipe.

Before I could intervene, a tiny body jumped onto my back, throwing muscular arms around my neck, then sinking its teeth into the meat of my shoulder. I grabbed its matted hair and attempted to wrench it free. The mouth tore away a chunk of my flesh, but its thickly muscled arms refused to let go of my neck.

A length of chain wrapped around my free forearm. The dwarf holding it screeched in victory and yanked, perhaps thinking that the weight of its packmate on my back would throw me off my balance. I whipped my wrist around, grabbing hold of the chain, then jerked with every ounce of strength in my body. The dwarf’s eyes widened in surprise as his feet left the ground. Still, he did not let go of the chain. Perhaps he was too astonished. More likely he was too stupid. Teihiihan are not known for their intelligence, only their gluttony.

He flipped over my head like the ball on a flail and smacked against the Teihiihan clinging to my back. Their skulls smacked together, transferring the momentum from the first to the second, then slammed against the back of my head.

Bright stars flashed in my vision, but I ignored the flare of pain and shook viciously, trying to dislodge my unwelcome passengers. The Teihiihan clinging to my back flew off and did not rise again, but the other still had a death grip on the end of the chain.

I snarled. If he wanted to act the part of the flail, so be it.

I whipped the chain over my head, swinging it into the midst of a creeping trio of dwarves like a wrecking ball. One crumpled under the force of the strike, his head driven down into his chest cavity and his leg bones driven up into his stomach. One long leg bone impaled the Teihiihan clutching the opposite end of what was now my chain. He howled and sailed away, bowling over another of his packmates. The third skidded to a stop and attempted to scramble out of my reach.

With the chain in my hand, my reach was now much, much longer. I lashed out with the weapon, slapping away the jagged bit of scrap metal he was wielding. I jerked the chain back and swung again. The tail end of the chain cracked against the dwarf’s orbital socket, and his eyeball popped from its mooring, ripped away from the strands of nerve tissue. He screamed and fell to his knees, clawing at his face with one hand while attempting to pick up his destroyed eye with the other.

From behind me came the thud of metal on bone. I whirled to find Chris now holding the lead pipe. The Teihiihan he had taken it from lay sprawled on the ground, twitching but deceased.

As another rushed him, Chris bolted right—narrowly avoiding a switchblade—then swung the lead pipe at the back of its head with both hands. The dwarf stumbled from the blow, but did not fall. Instead, it wheeled around, brandishing a rusted butcher’s cleaver. Unfazed, Chris raised the pipe like a wood splitter’s axe and smashed in the front of the dwarf’s skull. The creature crumpled, his eyes glazing over as his legs gave out beneath him.

I turned slowly, searching for the rest of the pack. There could not be many remaining—I counted at least twelve broken bodies strewn around us, and the thirteenth had been carried away by the river—but the few who had survived the initial onslaught would be the most cunning.

“There were more,” Chris yelled, spinning on his heel, searching for the rest of our attackers. “Where’d they go?”

To his right, a slight distortion in the light like heat waves in the desert caught my attention. I pointed.

“There!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Chris swung his pipe. It connected with a dull thunk. A throaty gagging sound filled the air. Chris lunged forward and tried to hit it again, but his pipe sliced through empty air. The veil now was pressed against the grass. The Teihiihan had dropped to its knees, either because of the pain or to avoid just such a follow-up strike.

A veil shimmered at Chris’s back.

“Behind you!” I shouted.

A set of razor-sharp teeth tore into my calf, almost low enough to lame me. I bellowed with rage and lashed out with chain and foot, losing sight of Chris and his attackers. My chain wrapped around an invisible neck by my leg just as my undamaged heel connected with a tiny, musclebound chest. I stomped down, then jerked up on the chain.

I was rewarded with the crackling sound of a green branch breaking. The Teihiihan’s veil dispelled as he expired. I kicked free of his corpse, grimacing at the sight of my purple blood smeared across his nasty teeth.

Glimmering veils surrounded me, one at each point of the compass. Beyond them, I saw Chris, now weaponless and rolling around in the grass, grappling with unseen assailants. I could not tell how many of them were piled on top of him, since their veils were blending together.

I tossed my chain out as far as it would go. A veiled Teihiihan dodged and rolled away, but that did not matter. They would not escape me for long. I spun like a tornado, allowing the centrifugal force to pull the chain to its full length. I felt it connect twice. On the second hit, it became entangled. I jerked the veiled body to me, throwing a punch to meet it. My fist landed with devastating force—teeth and bone shards embedded themselves in my knuckles. A moment later, a dead cannibal appeared, falling to the ground, still wrapped in my chain.

From the corner of my eye, I caught a shimmer. Something was crawling toward me across the ground. I whirled toward it, swinging my leg above my head—the sound of ripping denim registering in the back of my mind—and bringing it down in a lethal axe kick. Tiny, deformed ribs snapped like twigs beneath my heel. No time to celebrate—I spun to find Chris straddling an invisible body, raining down crushing blows with his right fist. Black blood splattered onto his face and down his white shirt, but the creature beneath him was clearly not dead yet.

Suddenly, Chris lurched backward mid-punch. One of the dwarves had tackled him.

Chris shouted, his lips pulled back in a snarl, and began battering the shimmering air over his bicep. The fabric of his jacket tore, and bright red blood soaked through.

In a heartbeat, I sprinted to his side, lashing out with my knee, clobbering the unseen biter with all my might. Chris flipped over with the momentum of the blow. The veiled Teihiihan screamed unintelligible curses at me as it flew above the grass and landed with a crack on the path. Its lifeless body appeared, black blood pooling on the bricks around its head.

Chris pushed himself up and clambered to his feet, scanning the area warily.

“There were two more,” he said. “Weren’t there?”

“If my count was correct,” I agreed. I clenched my fists and turned slowly, straining my eyes for any trace of veils.

“What are the odds that they ran scared?”

“Teihiihan do not fear. They only hunger.”

I caught the stink of rotten breath and unwashed body odor, carried to me on the wind. I turned into the breeze.

Chris’s gun lay on a flattened patch of grass upwind of us.

And then it was gone.

I dove at Chris, dragging him to the ground and rolling as I cast a veil over us.

Gunshots punched through the air where we had been—more followed as the creature attempted to follow our trajectory. A bullet grazed my cheek, its touch hotter than the glowing red embers in a cooking fire. We came to a stop on the brick path, near one of the dead. As soon as we stopped moving, Chris disentangled himself from my arms and jumped to his feet, leaving behind the safety of my veil.

One of the Teihiihan was showing itself.

Chris bull-rushed it.

It was not the one with the gun.

“Do not!” I shouted. “It is a trap!”

But it was too late. The little monster cackled as Chris dropped his shoulder and slammed into its gut. The gun began to fire again from behind me. Near misses whined past my head.

Then a click, click, click.

I rolled up to my feet, sniffing, searching, listening. Adrenaline heightened every sense.

A metallic rattling to my left. A shimmer of veil.

I twisted and pounced like a cougar. One of my hands met dirt-caked hair. I latched on and dashed its head against the brick, feeling it explode like an overripe melon against my palm. The Teihiihan appeared on the path beneath me, its head flattened, brain matter and blood oozing from several eruption points around its skull.

When I stood to go help Chris, I found him standing over the bludgeoned body of the final dwarf, his shoulders and chest heaving and his fists coated in Teihiihan lifeblood.

“Are you all right, Chris?”

“Is that all of them?” he asked, breathing hard, his eyes darting from the copse of trees, across the grass, and back to the river.

“I believe so,” I replied, carefully inspecting him for gunshot wounds as I joined him. He did not appear to have been shot, but he was peppered with scratches and had at least one visible bite. “We must clean these wounds. Their saliva is full of bacteria.”

Chris did not respond. His face had lost all color, and as I watched, his hands began to shake.

“Chris?” I said, carefully stepping closer. “We must—”

He held up one trembling, white hand to silence me, then tilted his head as if listening to something only he could hear.

My ears perked up. Now that I was not talking or moving, I could hear it, too. A tiny voice shouting, frantic. But it did not sound far away. It sounded … it sounded as if it were coming from Chris’s stomach.

Chris reached into his jacket and withdrew his phone. He lifted it to his ear.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the phone was still on. No, it’s all right, no one’s been shot. Everything is okay here. No one needs an ambulance. I know what it sounded like, but that was just a movie I was watching.” He swallowed and shut his eyes. “None of that was real. Theater surround sound. It’s like you’re really there.”

THIRTEEN:

Recovery

After Chris hung up his phone and returned it to his pocket, he surveyed the Teihiihan corpses strewn across the grassy area that had become the site of our battle. Sweat was drying at his temples and sticking his white shirt to his chest. I could smell it on the breeze—acrid mingling with adrenaline.

“What,” he asked, “the hell. Was that?” His nose wrinkled briefly in disgust at the sight of one cannibal dwarf’s brain matter leaking from its crushed skull. “Since when does Missoula have roving gangs of bloodthirsty midgets?” His voice was quickly losing the affectless calm and rising in panic. He scrubbed his palms against his pants as though that could wipe away the death sprawled out all around us. “Like, shit, I know I’m the newbie, but you’d think that’s the kind of thing even an asshole like Stedman would warn a guy about.” He threw up his hands. “It’d be all over the news. How is this not all over the—”

“Chris.” I reached out and laid my hand on his elbow. The motion caused pain to radiate in waves from the knife wound in my lower back.

He jerked away, and I winced. All of the pain I had not felt during the combat was now washing over me. I needed desperately to meditate, to ask Mother Earth for another helping of strength, but I did not want to do so here among the piles of dead.

Beside me, Chris’s eyes skipped across the battlefield. I could see a vein in his neck throbbing. Rather than slowing as it should have now that the fight was over, his heart rate was increasing.

In my limited involvement with humankind, I have found they do not always react well to confrontations with beings of the Spirit World. Some gloss over the reality of what they have seen and convince themselves that nothing magical happened. Others cannot escape the truth and either go insane or accept reality as it is, only to be treated as insane by their loved ones. The elderly, or those with weaker hearts, sometimes even go into cardiac arrest. Chris looked like a relatively healthy human male, but if his pulse did not begin to slow soon, I would have to put him to sleep to avoid a heart attack.

“Chris, we must leave,” I urged, attempting to catch his eye. “The spirits of Teihiihan dead remain entrapped in the bodies until the flesh is removed. They call out to their brethren for release. More Teihiihan will come for the ritual Death Feast. If we stay, we risk another battle, and neither of us is in any condition to fight a second pack.”

“More?” Chris’s eyes finally focused on my face. “You think there are more of these guys out there somewhere?”

“Of course,” I said, preparing to invade his mind and push him into sleep.

But this revelation seemed to push him into action instead of terror. His shoulders lowered and his back straightened. The throbbing in his neck slowed and evened out.

“If more of these freaks are running around attacking people in broad daylight, then we need to get back to the station and put out an APB. No, it’d be faster to call in.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “What did you say their gang was called?”

“They are the Teihiihan, the cannibal dwarves of the Spirit World.”

He began to tap the screen with his thumb. “They take their name from some kind of local superstition?” He glanced at the twisted remains of the nearest corpse, then quickly turned back to his phone. “They don’t look Native American. Are they all … uh …” He faltered, then lowered his voice. “Are they all little people?”

I grabbed his wrist. “They do not take their name from a superstition, Chris. They are the Teihiihan. They feed on human flesh, and they worship the monster who I believe you are searching for. The one who committed these murders.”

“No,” he snapped, slashing a hand through the air in front of me. “Not right now, okay? People’s lives are on the line. Do you want to stand there and tell me ghost stories knowing that somewhere in Missoula right now, these little bastards might be attacking a preschool or a laundromat full of people just trying to get their laundry done? Hell, they could be all over the shopping center back there, massacring the damn place!”

“They were not sent to attack those places,” I said. “They were sent to attack you.”

The distant scent of unwashed bodies and rotten breath slipped into my sinuses. They were upwind. Over Chris’s shoulder, I spotted the shimmering of a veil racing over the rocky bank of the river toward us. Two more joined it, then a third and fourth.

“They are coming,” I said. “Only a few now, but more will join them soon. We must go.”

Chris craned his neck to follow my line of sight. His eyes roved over the expanse of the park, then snapped back to the shimmering along the riverbank and squinted.

“No, there’s nothing there,” he said. “It’s just heat waves coming off the rocks. On hot days—”

As if solely to prove him wrong, the cool autumn wind gusted harder. Its chill blew through my flannel shirt and torn jeans. I shivered and saw Chris do the same.

At the farthest reaches of our battleground, the leg of a dead Teihiihan rose up from the ground. The whole body lurched as unseen hands tugged at the leg.

Chris flinched and took a step backward.

“We must go,” I repeated more forcefully. I grabbed his arm, gritting my teeth against the pain in my back, and pulled him back in the direction of the street that led to the sheriff’s office. “For now, there are few enough to glut themselves on their fallen, but more will come.”

This time Chris did not resist. He stumbled a few steps, then fell into step beside me, looking over his shoulder as we left.

I glanced behind to make certain we were not being followed. Three more veils had joined the first five, and were spread out among the corpses, ripping chunks from dirt-smeared flesh and crunching pieces of bone. One veil raced ecstatically between five different corpses, tearing bites from each in its excitement. Another was pulling a dead Teihiihan north at a run, likely hoping to find a place to hide where it would not have to share. It blinked out of existence, the body disappearing with it.

I sped up slightly. The knife wound in my back and the bites littering my body—especially the one in my calf—screamed for my attention with every step.

“I need to call this in,” Chris said, matching my pace. “Sheriff Greene needs to get units on the street watching for these Teihiihans. They’re a serious threat to public safety.”

“Do you truly believe the sheriff will listen to you, Chris?” I asked, perhaps not as kindly as I should have. “I heard the way he shouted at you—everyone in the office heard it. He did not believe a word you said. His only concern seems to be berating you for doing your job. And the rest of your colleagues? Will they back you, any of them?”

Chris’s face darkened. As we stepped onto the sidewalk, he turned away from the scene we were leaving and glared down at the concrete. The muscle in his jaw was working again.

“A pair of Teihiihan can consume a fully grown human in three minutes,” I told him. “Skeleton and all. Their own tiny bodies will take much less time. If you tell the sheriff what happened—after he has finished shouting at you—if he believes you enough to come here, he will find nothing. The bodies will all be gone by then. I heard you on the phone when you said that your job was already jeopardized once this week. Will your job be safe when the sheriff feels as if you are making up ghost stories, as you call them?”

Chris’s lip curled in a silent snarl, but he did not speak. He looked over his shoulder again at the quickly disappearing corpses. He took a deep breath, then exhaled, the argumentative expression fading from his face. He looked at me, opening his mouth as if to say something, but his eyebrows leapt upward toward his hairline.

“That’s a nasty cut you got there, fairy princess,” he said, studying my cheek.

I touched it. My fingers came away dark purple.

“One of the bullets grazed me,” I said.

“I’ve got a first aid kit in my cruiser,” he said. “We’ll go there first and get you patched up—I got a couple spots myself that could use a little triple-antibiotic ointment—then we’ll talk about what we’re going to do next.”

“You were bitten at least once,” I said, remembering. My eyes roved over his jacket and pants searching for more blood. “Are there any other places where their teeth broke your skin? We must disinfect these immediately as well. Their saliva is very harmful, and they carry a number of diseases they contract from the humans they consume.”

Chris raised a hand as if to stop me. “No cannibal ghost stories right now, Winona. Just let me think for a minute, okay?”

I nodded my consent, but kept an eye on him as we crossed the street into the shopping center. The color had returned to his flesh, and he seemed to be doing much better physically. Mentally, I could not say. He walked even faster now than when we had passed this way the first time, and his gaze roved over the midsections of shoppers and diners as if searching for mops of matted unwashed hair, spiked clubs, and jagged black teeth roving low to the ground.

On this trip, we crossed the streets without waiting for lights, only watching for the traffic to wane enough to jog across. I followed him, but at more of a limp than a run. The pain in my back was pushing away my ability to think clearly, and I could feel my blood soaking the shirt and the back of the jeans.

Finally, the great stone building that housed the sheriff’s department came into view with its wide-open manicured lawn. I sped up, eager to reach that expanse of earth. As soon as my foot hit grass, I lay down, sinking into its embrace and closing my eyes.

“Winona?” Chris asked, a twinge of worry in his voice.

“I am fine,” I said, attempting to sound reassuring. “I only require a few moments’ rest.”

“I’m gonna go get the first aid kit, okay? I’ll be right back,” he said.

I nodded. His boots clunked away quickly, jogging again. I reached out to Mother Earth. She responded immediately, full of concern and eager as always to help in any way she could. I admitted that the stiletto had wounded me beyond my ability to heal and that I was stranded without any salves to aid in the regeneration of the tissue, then asked if she would please assist me. Complete healing would not be necessary, I assured her. Just enough so that I could properly dress my friend’s injuries.

Soothing warmth flooded into my bare feet from the ground and raced upward through my legs and lower back, searching out the knife wound. The muscle and skin surrounding the gash tightened suddenly, pulling together. I gritted my teeth and arched my back against the flash of pain, but did not remove the soles of my feet from the ground. Muscle and flesh reknit itself quickly and efficiently. In moments, the pain disappeared, and the healing touch receded. I sighed and fell limp on the grass, sending out my gratitude.

The clunk of Chris’s boots grew loud again, coming toward me this time. I opened my eyes and sat up, crossing my legs. He dropped to his knees in the grass beside me with a red-and-white plastic box in one hand.

“Hey, fairy princess,” he said. “You scared me there. I was about to call an ambulance.”

I snatched the box from him. “I do not like being accused of being fae. They are capricious, untrustworthy creatures who care nothing for human life.”

He huffed a silent laugh. “I don’t know. I think the nickname’s starting to catch on.” He sat back on his heels. “You oughta let me put something on that scratch.”

“First, I must clean our bites,” I said, popping open the box and pawing through the contents. “They are the priority.”

I scanned labels, searching through the ingredients lists until I found a powerful enough disinfectant.

“Take off your jacket and shirt,” I said.

Chris looked as if he were going to protest.

“If you do not, I will,” I said, reaching for the buttons.

He started unbuttoning.

“The guys can probably see me from the window,” he grumbled.

“At least your wounds will not become septic and kill you,” I said. “That should be your concern.”

He rolled his eyes, but a smile crept onto his lips. He pulled his arm from the sleeve of his formerly white shirt and allowed me to pour disinfectant onto the jagged teeth marks in his bicep. There was a second bite on his forearm. After disinfecting them, I wrapped them in gauze. Smearing a tincture of ashwagandha root across each bite would have been preferable, but I resolved to work with what limited resources Chris had until I could find better.

With his bites cleaned and dressed, I rolled up the leg of my jeans and unbuttoned my shirt to tend to mine. By the time Chris finished telling me to get my shirt back on and frantically examining the lawn for anyone who might have been as concerned about my nakedness as he was, I had finished the process.

“Okay, you disinfected them.” Chris snatched the box away from me. “Now, get your shirt back on.” The word came out in a panicked whisper.

As I buttoned my blood-soaked shirt, Chris dug a yellow tube marked Triple Antibiotic Ointment out of the medical kit and began dabbing it onto my cheek with one calloused finger. I wished I could see his progress better, but the wound was just below my eye.

“Quit your squirming,” he said.

“It is just that this is very strange,” I said, forcing myself to hold still. “I am not used to others treating me. In general, I do not prefer to be the patient, but you are doing a good job.”

A slight blush crept in around his jawline, but he dismissed my compliment with a shake of his head.

“I just do what the instructions on the back tell me to.” He taped a strip of gauze over the scratch. “That’ll keep it from getting infected, anyway.”

I was about to thank him when the buzzing of his phone interrupted.

He grabbed his jacket off the grass, turned it over, and pulled the phone from the pocket.

“Fuller,” he answered.

I could not make out the words, but the caller sounded much like the redheaded woman who had taken Stedman’s place at the desk in the sheriff’s office.

“Got it,” Chris said. “I’ll be right over.”

He tapped the screen and rubbed one hand down his face.

“They found another body,” he said.

FOURTEEN:

Interrogation

Chris’s dark brows pulled low as he looked into my eyes.

“I’ve got a question, Winona, and I need an honest, straightforward, yes-or-no answer—no fairy princess runaround, okay? I sent you home over two hours ago, and you followed me to the park. If I send you home now, are you going to follow me to the crime scene?”

“Yes,” I said. “I told you, it is my responsibility to send this monster back to the Spirit World, where she belongs.”

His lips pursed into a tight line. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He stood, putting on his jacket and picking up the medical kit. “Then you’re gonna have to come with me.” He headed for his cruiser. “Let’s go.”

I bounced to my feet, a grin pulling at my lips. “Does this mean we are partners?”

“No, it means I don’t want you poking your nose into the investigation all alone while this Teihiihan gang is playing defensive line to a serial killer. If you’re going to tag along anyway, you’ll be safer with me than by yourself.” He faltered. “Not that you can’t take care of yourself,” he muttered. “You’ve already saved me twice.”

“Only because you were dealing with creatures you do not understand,” I said.

“Yeah, not saying I believe you, but I’ve got a few questions about that.” He glanced sidelong at me, his eyes roving over my shirt and jeans. “But first, if we’re not going to tell anybody about those cannibal midgets yet, then we need to make another stop by Walmart. You’re covered in blood.”

“You are as well,” I said.

“I carry a spare shirt in the cruiser,” he said. “Never know when you’re gonna need to appear fresh and fancy in court after an all-nighter on the street.”

When we reached the car, I leaned against the back door while Chris opened the trunk and pulled out a duffel bag marked University of Missouri – St Louis. Wiry little knots of muscle flexed in his stomach and chest as he stripped off his bloody shirt and traded it for a slightly wrinkled but bright white one from the bag. Chris, at least, had a little more hair than the female body the amulet had given me—a smattering across his chest, a line down his stomach, and little tufts under each of his arms. Unfortunately, this did not seem to offer him any extra protection against the chill breeze.

“Mind not staring?” he asked, turning his back to me while he buttoned the clean shirt. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”

My eyes returned to the red human blood soaking the shirt in the trunk. I lifted the tail of my flannel shirt and twisted it around to the front, inspecting the dark purple stain where the Teihiihan with the stiletto had stabbed me.

“Chris, have you not noticed a difference between the two of us?”

He laughed. “I’ve noticed one or two, yeah.”

“Between the colors of our blood?” I asked. “You did not mention it while you were dressing the scratch on my cheek.”

“That would be because I’m color blind,” he said, turning back to me and shrugging into his shoulder harness. “Unless I really focus, red, dark red, pink, magenta, purple, and fuchsia—they’re all just pretty words for blue to me.”

I nodded. I had read that this type of deuteranomaly was not uncommon in human males.

“That is fine then,” I said.

Chris smirked. “Thanks for the dispensation.” He inspected his torn, bloody jacket, then tossed it into the trunk with the stained shirt. “I think I can get by without the jacket for now. Let’s get going.”

Chris started the cruiser as I slipped into my seat and closed the door behind me. The seat belt was still in tatters, so I decided to ignore it completely as he eased the car into drive and pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.

After another stop at the Walmart—which Chris again would not allow me to enter, this time because he said my blood-soaked shirt and jeans would draw too much attention—and a change of pink flannel and jeans, Chris turned the car north toward the new crime scene. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove, in time with the song on the radio, but as if his mind were far away from the music.

“So, these Teihiihans,” he said. “You think they’re working for the murderer?”

I nodded. “They do her bidding during the day because she cannot walk in the sunlight.”

“Right, so they’re the muscle. And you said her name was?”

“I did not say. I have been thinking about this friendship, Chris, and you have shared almost no information with me.”

He grinned. “Says the fairy princess who claims her family has always lived around these parts. I’ve told you lots of stuff. Besides, this is business, not personal.”

“If I ask a question related to the case in exchange for answering any question you might ask related to the case, will you agree to answer me?”

“Yeah, but you already know what my first question is. What’s yours?”

“Are the other officers so rude to you because of all the phone calls you get about debts? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

Chris shook his head and offered me a tired smile. “They’re not related. Some jerkoff from Rapid City stole my identity. He opened up and maxed out a bunch of credit cards in my name, and now I’ve got all these criminal flags on my record because he keeps using an ID with my name on it whenever he gets arrested. But other than giving Sheriff Greene another excuse to chew my ass, it’s got nothing to do with the local best buds’ club giving me the cold shoulder.”

I scowled. “To make someone else responsible for your crimes is a thing without honor. Does he think he will not be caught?”

“He probably won’t be, Winona,” Chris said in a world-weary tone I had heard my father use on many occasions. “This kind of thing happens all the time, and the DCI doesn’t really have the resources to track down every single one. I’m getting it cleared up, though, it’s just taking a while.”

“But if this is not related, why do the sheriff and officers treat you like a pile of droppings they have stepped in?”

“Hang on there, missy.” Without looking away from the road, he pointed a finger at me. “You promised me a one-for-one trade. You answer my question, then you can ask another one.”

“I will,” I said, crossing my arms and leaning back in my seat. “Though I believe you answered a question I did not ask so that you would not have to answer the one I meant to ask. Perhaps it is you who are related to the fae. I will word my next question more carefully.”

“You do that,” he said, taking an exit into a residential neighborhood. Small houses in desperate need of repair blurred past our windows. “Now, name that murderer.”

“Her name is Anukite Sharp-Elbows,” I said. “She was a beautiful woman once, but she attempted to seduce Father Sun and supplant his wife, the moon. As a punishment, she was cursed with two faces—one beautiful and one horribly disfigured—and bound to walk only in the darkness, mutilating and murdering the innocent to retain her youth. Though her usual victims are young women and children. I was not certain she was our killer until the Teihiihan attacked you. They worship and serve her, and in return, she allows them to eat pieces of her kills.”

“All right,” he said slowly. “If we accept this Anukite Sharp-Elbows as a suspect—which I’m not saying is even remotely possible, especially now that I know she’s a celestial homewrecker—but if we did suspect her, what would her motive be? You said she usually attacks women and children. All of the victims so far are male, between the ages of twenty-nine and forty. The youngest vic had a list of drug-related and violent priors as long as I am tall. A guy like that’s not innocent by any stretch of the imagination. And serial killers aren’t known for switching up their victim types or MO. So, why—if it was possible that your girl did it—would she completely go off the rails and start attacking men instead of women and children?”

Rather than admit that this question had been plaguing me as well, I pointed a finger at him, mirroring the pose he had taken with me only moments before.

“It is my turn to ask a question, Chris. You are such a stickler for obeying the letter of our agreement that I know you did not forget.”

He grinned at the windshield. “No white devil with a forked tongue’s gonna get one over on Dr. Winona, Medicine Woman, huh?”

“A medicine man or woman is not analogous to the contemporary doctors you are accustomed to,” I replied. “The term medicine in modern English refers most often to the prescription and distribution of manufactured pharmaceuticals, whereas the native meaning of medicine relates to knowledge of magic, healing, and the Spirit World.”

“I forgot that your people don’t believe in television, so your mom probably wasn’t obsessed with that show when you were growing up,” Chris said. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re a lot nicer than Dr. Quinn was—and most of the real doctors I’ve met.”

I smiled. “Thank you, Chris. You are in the top two of the nicest lawmen and women I know as well. This makes it even more perplexing to me that the deputies at the sheriff’s department do not like you. Will you tell me now why that is?”

He scratched the back of his neck, then sighed. “I don’t suppose you heard about the FBI busting the previous sheriff and a bunch of the force in Missoula for corruption a few months back?”

My smile evaporated like water under a desert sun. The officers Chris spoke of had allowed Dr. Hogg and Achak Kinslayer to conduct their vile experiments—had even served as guards—in exchange for payment, as if enough money would cleanse their spirits of the evil they had allowed to flourish.

“I know of them,” I said. “They were bad men working with other bad men.”

“No kidding,” Chris replied, eyes narrowing. “Into everything from extortion to human trafficking to murder and conspiracy. It was the single largest investigation into a law enforcement agency in state history, and it left the department with barely any manpower. The Bureau hired on a bunch of locals whose applications had been left with the previous sheriff but for whatever reason never got hired. But the Bureau was worried the corruption might be a lot more widespread than just Missoula, so they started pulling in people from all across the country to make sure this didn’t happen again.

“Anybody who was willing to relocate immediately got priority and a promotion.” He paused, shrugging. “I was looking at another six years with the St. Louis PD before I would even be considered for homicide investigation—and let’s be honest, at this point, the chances of a cop in the Lou shooting somebody on the street and resigning in disgrace as a scapegoat for the department are a lot higher than the odds you’ll keep your record clean long enough to make detective. I did the math and decided to go with the sure thing. Besides, my sister lived up here in Anaconda and needed some help. It all made sense in my head at the time.”

“The sister whom you promised to help lift heavy things,” I remembered.

“Yeah, I need to text her,” he said as if reminding himself. “Anyway, I put in for detective and got the job. Problem is, I’m an outside hire forced on the new sheriff and his good-ol-boys’ club by the FBI. So, at best I’m a cherry-picking opportunist who stole detective from every hometown deputy who ever dreamed of investigating homicides, and at worst I’m a spy for internal affairs planted by the FBI to keep an eye on the locals.” His shoulders hunched slightly, and he leaned back in his seat as if deflated by the sheer amount of words he had said. “That’s why they don’t like me—because they can’t trust me.”

This human distrust of outsiders was not so different from the isolationist tendencies of the Chiye-tanka Elders. I considered this as I watched the lawns grow wider and wider, the houses grow larger, and trees fill in the gaps between.

“There may be some wisdom in reserving friendship for only those one can trust,” I said finally. “But perhaps, once Deputies Khuri and Stedman or Sheriff Greene get to know you, they will realize you are very likeable and trustworthy, and wish to be your friends.”

A corner of Chris’s mouth lifted, and he huffed a soundless laugh. “I don’t care what the mean girls at school think about me, Winona. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to do my job and get murderers off the street. And speaking of …”

Flashing red and blue lights drew my attention to the street ahead. A patrol car was parked just inside an open wrought iron gate, blocking the lane to a well-maintained red-and-white house that looked as if it had been a large cattle barn at one point.

Chris parked his cruiser behind the patrol car.

“Time to get to work,” he said.

FIFTEEN:

Body Count

I had assumed, based on Chris allowing me to ride along, and his insistence that I change into bloodless clothes, that he understood I would need to accompany him into the crime scene proper to determine whether Anukite Sharp-Elbows was responsible. When I reached for the handle on my door, however, I learned otherwise.

“Hang on a second,” he said, grabbing my arm. “You’re not going in.”

“I cannot tell who committed the murder from here, Chris. I can barely even see the house from this distance.”

“Didn’t we just talk about how far up my ass Greene is?” Chris said. “I’m not bringing a civilian to a crime scene.”

I fixed him with a flat stare. “Why not? Because the sheriff will like you less? A moment ago you did not care what they thought of you.”

“What I care about is getting fired for breaching basic protocol. If Khuri shows up while you’re in there, I’ll be unemployed before I make it back to the car.”

I leaned forward in my seat, looking through the windshield at the uniformed officer stretching a roll of yellow tape from one side of the decorative gate to the other. She was a young female with thick, dark hair tied in a bun at the back of her neck beneath the wide brim of her hat.

“That does not look like Deputy Khuri,” I said. “But perhaps he is already inside.” I gestured at the patrol car—the only law enforcement vehicle at the scene so far. “Is that his car?”

“No, but—”

“I am very fast when I need to be,” I said. “I will inspect the body and leave before any other officers arrive. Deputy Khuri will not even know that I was here.”

“Winona, I’m not saying you haven’t been helpful so far—”

“So helpful that I saved your life on two separate occasions,” I said. The grub of guilt which I had hoped to leave behind in the Sacred Grove reappeared, chomping happily away at my stomach. Demanding to have my way and holding the rescue of a nearly helpless creature as a debt until he conceded to my wishes was not only dishonorable, it was childish. But the only way I could determine if Anukite truly was the monster responsible for these murders was to inspect a victim firsthand. I had to know whether it was her if I was going to stop this evil. I swallowed the self-loathing and looked into the depths of Chris’s dark brown eyes. “You would be dead if not for my intervention.”

He glared back at me for several long moments, his jaw sawing. Then he grunted in frustration.

“Five minutes,” he said. “Five minutes, then you’re gone. Got it?”

Rather than a sense of triumph and accomplishment, this manipulated victory filled me with shame. Chris was angry with me, and he deserved to be. This was no way to treat a friend.

“I understand,” I agreed solemnly, nodding. “Thank you, Chris.”

He grunted and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. I climbed out and followed him to the young officer taping off the crime scene.

As we approached, she stopped wrapping the yellow tape around the iron bar of the gate and looked at us. She stood up straight when she saw Chris.

“I’m setting up the perimeter, Detective.” The hand not holding the roll of crime scene tape twitched as if she wanted to salute Chris. “One confirmed dead. Donald Shelley. Housekeeper called it in, and I was first on the scene—I got her statement here if you want to see it.” She dug a tiny spiral notepad out of her uniform pocket and began frantically flipping pages. She stopped on one covered in black scribbles and handed it to Chris. “Okay, here it is.”

“Thanks.” Chris skimmed the writing. “This your first murder?”

She swallowed and nodded.

“You’re doing great,” he said, offering her a reassuring smile. “Did you touch or move the body or any object in the house?”

“I …” She faltered and her face paled. “I was going to take a pulse—I mean, he’s definitely dead, like, obviously dead, nobody could live through—but it’s regulation, so—but I couldn’t find anything left of the …the …” She touched her throat. “So, no. I didn’t touch him. I did open the front door, but that’s it.”

Chris nodded and handed her back the notepad. “Put that in here. The housekeeper said his wife and kids are out of town?”

“She said Shelley told her they left last week to visit the wife’s parents over in Helena. He didn’t mention when they’d be back.”

“Do we have a last seen on Shelley?”

The young deputy shrugged. “I saw him last night at the Ranch & Home when I was ordering feed for my mom’s horses.”

“Get that in your report, too,” Chris said.

“Yes, sir.” She began searching her pockets for a pen.

Chris checked his watch. “Heard from forensics yet?”

“They’re fifteen minutes out,” she said.

“Okay, I want to take a look at the scene before they get in there and get their hands on it,” he said. He ducked under the crime scene tape, then lifted it so I could follow. “And you’re going to want to wrap that end, not tie it. The coroner’ll have to back the ambulance up to the door to bring the body out, and forensics will have equipment to bring in. You’ll be ripping it and retying it all day.”

“Yes, sir.” Then the deputy pointed at me. “But wait, she can’t go in there. Unauthorized civilians—”

“It’s all right,” Chris said. “She’s BIA, from the Department of the Interior.”

The deputy’s black brows furrowed in confusion. “Why would the Bureau of Indian Affairs send an agent here? Don wasn’t—”

“Possible connections to a crime on the rez,” Chris said. He stepped back toward the deputy, leaning in close and lowering his voice enough that if I were truly human, I would not have been able to hear him. “Look, I know this is our jurisdiction, but they’re riding Greene hard on this one, and he ordered me to bring her just to shut them up. She’ll be out of our hair as soon as she confirms that it’s not related to her suspect.”

“Oh,” the deputy said, though she was still frowning at me. “Okay.”

Chris turned back to me and nodded at the house. I fell into step beside him. The gravel crunched under our feet as we made our way up the lane.

When we were out of the deputy’s hearing range, I said, “I like her much better than the other deputies I have met. She, at least, seems to respect you.”

“Yeah, well, she’s a new hire, too, straight out of high school,” Chris said. “She doesn’t know any better yet. And the good-ol’-boys club’s been going back and forth between treating her like she’s their personal secretary and treating her like jailbait, so it’s not as if she’s got a ton of friends at the department right now, either.”

“I do not know what a jailbait is,” I said.

Chris glanced away, cheeks flushed, and shook his head. “It’s not important. The point is, when you treat people in accordance with their abilities and their job, they respond to it better than if you treat ’em like crap. That’s why she likes me. Of course, if Traeger gets fired because someone finds out she let a civilian wander around a crime scene, I doubt she’ll think so kindly of the detective who lied to her.”

I frowned down at the gravel, but did not respond. I deserved that.

At the house, we ascended a set of concrete steps to the red front door. The window set into the center was made of brightly colored stained glass, depicting an idyllic sunrise over a pasture full of horses. Chris grabbed the door handle, but did not turn it.

“I’m not exactly sure what we’re walking into here,” he said, “but if it’s anything like the previous murders, it’s not going to be pretty. If you feel like you’re about to puke, try to make it outside so you don’t contaminate any evidence.” He glanced down at my bare feet. “And try not to step in any blood.”

I bobbed my head in understanding.

Chris inhaled, filling his lungs, then opened the door.

The hardwood floor creaked as we stepped inside. It was coated in the same sort of slimy wax that had covered the stone floor of the annex leading to the sheriff’s office. I curled my toes and shifted my weight to the balls of my feet, attempting to make as little contact with the disagreeable substance as possible. Though I could see no sign of the body from the entryway, the scent of blood—long since gone cold—filled the air.

Just ahead of us was a set of stairs leading up and to the left. Portraits hung on the wall beside it in stair-stepped intervals. One depicted reedy twin girls nearly the same age as the deputy outside posing behind a plump woman in very heavy eye makeup and a broad-chested man with a full beard. Each girl had one hand on their mother’s shoulders as they smiled into the lens of the camera.

These were just the sort of beautiful young women Anukite would be drawn to. But the deputy had said the mother and children were not even in town this week, that only the father had been attacked.

To my right, a hiss of air left Chris’s lungs.

I tore my eyes away from the family portrait and joined him, looking into a wide doorway at a living area with gore-splattered ceiling tiles, a huge flat screen television flickering behind a film of dried blood, and a U-shaped sectional couch draped in ropes of intestine. Blue and silver cans littered the floor, most of them crumpled and lying in a wide pool of blood, like misshapen aluminum boats on a red-black sea.

For a moment, I giddily wondered whether the blue of the cans and the red of the blood all looked the same color to Chris. Then one can in particular caught my eye. It was clutched in a bloody hand that ended in a ragged stump. A soggy plaid sleeve lay nearby, the rest of the shirt disappearing behind the sectional.

Chris’s boots clunked softly on the hardwood as he stepped into the room and made his way around the back of the couch.

With a start, I realized I was holding my breath. I braced myself, then inhaled.

The smell of slaughter, blood, excrement, and alcohol was so overwhelming that it battered my sinuses. Intertwined with this miasma of death was the rancid stench of unnatural decay.

The monster from the forest.

I blinked as if that would alleviate the assault on my nostrils, then switched to breathing through my mouth. Neither seemed to help.

Warily, I followed Chris around the couch. He was crouched at the edge of the blood pool, studying what was left.

I had seen the harrowing crime scene photos of the previous murders, but standing on the site of the butchery … staring down at the tattered remnants of a human, a man who had once walked these floors with his wife and daughters, a man whose life had been ripped from his body in the most violent way possible … I was not prepared for that.

I pressed my hand to my mouth.

“Outside if you need to throw up,” Chris said.

I shook my head. “It is not nausea. This is a sin against nature.” I struggled, searching for words strong enough to do justice to the carnage surrounding us. They did not exist. I slammed my fist against my thigh. “She will pay for what she has done.”

Chris glanced at me. “You’re still thinking this Anukite chick could’ve done this?”

I forced myself to see past the blood to the gaping hole in the throat. The scraps of bearded flesh that were not in remotely the correct place. The slashes, puncture wounds, and torn abdomen. The disembodied arm covered with jagged bite marks that matched the ones I had treated on Chris and myself—a sure sign of Teihiihan.

“I do not know why she is attacking such strange victims,” I said, “but there can be no doubt that she is the murderer.”

Chris stood, pushed back his sleeve, and checked his watch. “Forensics’ll be here any minute.” He slipped over next to me, a frown lining his face as he cataloged the remains. “See everything you need to?”

I nodded.

“Good deal.” His hand came to rest at the small of my back, and with a gentle push, he maneuvered me toward the exit. I allowed him to propel me outside, thankful for the comfort of the living grass against my feet.

“We must find her before she does this again,” I said as we retraced our steps back down the lane to the car.

“We’ll get her,” Chris promised, for once forgetting to protest that this investigation was not my responsibility.

As we approached, the young deputy held the crime scene tape up for us. Chris and I ducked under, then he turned to have a word with her. I did not feel like waiting or listening to their conversation. I beelined for the car and climbed in, letting the door slam shut behind me. A minute later, Chris nodded goodbye to the deputy. She smiled at his retreating form until he climbed into the car, then gave him a wave as he put the vehicle in gear and backed out of the lane.

Recalling the stares of the women in the shopping center, a thought occurred to me.

“Chris, do you think perhaps Deputy Traeger is attracted to you sexually?”

He snorted. “No.”

“Granted, I may not be a good judge of what makes a suitable mate, but the signs of infatuation can often manifest as mutual respect or friendship between colleagues. And she would be considered desirable as well, correct?”

Red flooded his jawline, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Winona, I might treat her like an adult, but that doesn’t mean I forgot she can’t even legally buy alcohol yet. Now, will you please stop trying to hook me up with teenagers, so I can ask you an important question?” He looked over at me, an expression of the utmost sincerity on his face. “Are you hungry?”

I took a moment to assess the hollow feeling in my stomach and realized I had not eaten since late yesterday evening before I left to patrol Inworld.

“Yes,” I said. “Very much so.”

“Thank God.” He put on his blinker and merged into the flow of traffic on the highway. “I didn’t want to be the only one thinking about eating right after leaving the scene of a violent homicide, but I’m starving. How do you feel about bar food?”

SIXTEEN:

Wild Bob’s

“Wild Bob’s Saloon?” I asked, eyeing the pink neon sign over the wood-sided building’s porch. The parking lot was loaded with cars, trucks, motorcycles, and even a pair of beefy-looking trikes with white-walled tires.

“I’d say it’s a Slaughterhouse Five reference, but I don’t think Bob’s ever read any Vonnegut,” Chris said. “My guess is it’s a Wild Bill Hickok joke.”

As I watched, a group of men and women in flashy Western dress spilled out of the door onto the wooden porch, laughing, talking, a few reeling from intoxication. The fringes on one woman’s buckskin jacket fluttered in the breeze. It looked like the ceremonial dress my people wore on the most special of occasions, though sized down to fit humans. Was this, perhaps, some sort of sacred site to the humans? I fingered a button on my plaid shirt self-consciously, realizing I could hear the steady beating of a drum through the walls.

“You wish to eat here?” I asked, unsure.

“Don’t jump to any conclusions based on the outside,” Chris said, misreading my hesitation. “Bob makes some incredible food. Seriously, everything here is good—terrible for your arteries, but good for the soul. Besides, I already know you’re gonna like the music. Just give it a chance.”

“Am I underdressed?” I asked, eyeing the flashy jacket again.

“Now you care about clothes?” He smiled and jerked his head at the door. “Trust me, you’ll be fine. Come on.”

Inside, the music washed over me like a tsunami, a combination of screaming steel guitar, dashing piano keys, and pounding drums. A man’s voice raced through lyrics so fast I could hardly understand them. It was not until he came to the chorus that I realized he was spelling the word “trouble.”

In spite of my concern that I was intruding uninvited into a sacred singing, a grin stretched across my face. When I looked up, I caught Chris staring at me with one corner of his lips quirked. He looked away quickly.

“See, I knew you’d like it,” he said, scanning the hustle and bustle filling the room. “There’s a seat. Let’s get it before somebody else does.”

We wound our way between the tables, leaning out of the way of waitresses carrying huge platters of food and drink and jumping aside whenever someone pushed their chair away from their table without checking behind them. Discarded peanut shells crunched beneath my feet wherever I stepped, but it was a cheerful crunch, and the scent of grilled meats, fried vegetables, and smoky sauces bombarded my nose. Lariats, tack, barbed wire, paintings of wild horses, and colorful neon signs covered the walls. I could not decide whether to look up, down, or around. I had never been among so many humans at once. People laughed and yelled to one another over the music; others sang along.

This saloon was exhilarating.

At a tall two-seat table in the corner, Chris pulled out a high-backed stool and gestured for me to take it.

“Thank you,” I said. This human body was so small that I had to step on the bottom rung of the stool to sit. The wood let out a creaking groan beneath me as I settled in place. No sooner had I situated myself upon the vinyl seat than something bumped the back of my stool. It bucked onto two feet, then fell back into place. I glanced over my shoulder. Chris was attempting to push the stool back to the table, but his tiny muscles could not budge my weight.

His jaw turned red as he let go of my seat and stood straight.

“Must be caught on something,” he mumbled, skirting the table to take the stool opposite mine.

I reached down with one foot and pulled my seat forward easily, wishing I could dispel my friend’s embarrassment about his weak body. Should a squirrel be ashamed that it cannot push a buffalo? If it can push another squirrel, then it is strong among its people.

Before I could tell Chris this, motion at the bar caught my eye. A man at least twice as wide as he was tall waved at Chris, his large belly straining the buttons of his Western shirt, and long, stringy gray hair hanging down from the back of his cowboy hat.

Chris waved back.

“Wild Bob,” he told me, leaning in so I could hear him over the music.

“You are friends with the man who created this sacred meeting space?” I asked.

“Friends might be a bit of a stretch,” he replied. “I spend about half my salary here on the Big Sky Burger and Rings, and Bob’s an all right guy. Talk your ear off if you sit at the bar.”

“Do you usually sit at the bar and speak with him?” I asked, concerned my presence had caused a rift in etiquette. “Should we move to those seats?”

Chris shook his head. “Not this time. I’ve got a couple things about the investigation I want to talk to you about. Bob’ll understand. He’ll probably assume … Well, he’ll understand, anyway.”

A waitress wearing a denim shirt with the ends tied in a knot above her navel appeared at our table and handed us each a folded plastic menu covered with pictures of food.

“What can I start y’all off with?” she asked, grinning at Chris with a mouthful of bright white teeth. “Beer? Coke? Pile a onion rings?”

“Nice as a beer sounds, I’m gonna need a coffee if I want to stay awake,” Chris said.

“All righty, one coffee for the handsome public servant.” The waitress turned to look at me. “What about for you, honey?”

“Me as well,” I said, hastily pretending to cover a yawn with my hand. “I also need a coffee. I am very tired.”

Chris smiled that strange smile at me and added, “And could you bring us an order of onion rings, too? With the chili ranch sauce if you’ve got it.”

“Sure thing,” the waitress said. “I’ll put that in and be right back to get y’all’s order.”

I barely had time to look over the menu before she was back with our drinks. I did not know what to order—I was so hungry that my mouth watered at every picture of food—so I duplicated Chris’s order again, this time for a Big Sky Burger with fried jalapeno straws.

When the waitress left again, Chris pulled out his phone and tapped out a message. Then he sat it on the table and leaned toward me.

“So, first off, I just want to be really clear here—I’m not saying this Anukite Sharp-Arms is real—”

“Sharp-Elbows,” I corrected him, taking a sip of my coffee.

“Sharp-Elbows. I’m not saying she’s real. But all of our vics were married or had been married and were divorced at time of death, so the homewrecker angle might not be so far off base.” He tapped the screen of his phone and pushed it toward me. “Does she look familiar?”

On the screen was a picture of a frail-looking human female who appeared to be of an age with Chris. Her high cheekbones, red-brown skin tone, and strong nose indicated that she was descended from the Nations, perhaps even a Lakota or Nakota. But her hair was a color that seemed to shift between blonde and brown, and her eyes were as blue as a cloudless summer sky.

“I have not seen her before,” I said. “She is much more like Anukite’s preferred victims, however. Do you believe that she could be a future target?”

Chris shook his head. “This is Nora Corley, wife of the first vic. I’ve only talked to her once, right after, with Khuri hovering over my shoulder, but she was practically in hysterics over what had happened. She doesn’t seem like the type who’d be able to eviscerate one man, let alone four—I mean, she’s barely five foot tall, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet—but she’s the only connection between victims we’ve had so far. In addition to finding her husband’s body, we have footage of her a couple blocks from the third victim’s house on the night of the murder. Could be a coincidence, but we don’t have anything else to go on right now.”

The waitress appeared with an elliptical platter of fried onion rings surrounding a tiny metal cup of red-orange sauce. Chris grabbed his phone and slipped it back into his pocket as she set the food between us, then assured us she would be right back to refill our coffees.

As she left, Chris returned his forearms to the table, picked up a ring larger than his hand was wide, cracked the golden-brown batter as he folded it in half, and dunked it in the sauce. Half of this he ate in one bite.

“Anyway, I figured we’d go talk to her next, see if anything shakes loose.” He finished off his onion ring, then said, “Maybe she had some suspicions about her husband. Most people have some idea if their significant other’s sleeping around behind their back. What do you say?”

“You are asking my opinion,” I said, my heart glowing. “We are partners.”

Chris took a very long time selecting his next onion ring from the tangle.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still think you’re crazy, but there’s been an awful lot of crazy stuff going down lately. Cannibal midgets who can go invisible and disappearing bodies…” He shrugged, refusing to meet my eyes. “Or maybe it’s all the knocks on the head and lost sleep. Let’s just say you don’t sound as crazy as you did last night and leave it at that.” He nudged the platter of onion rings closer to me. “Try one. They’re not that frozen premade junk. Bob batters them by hand.”

I chose the smallest ring I could find—barely large enough to fit around my human body’s smallest finger—and turned it over to inspect both sides. A sprinkle of mysterious red seasoning that smelled like a combination of paprika, curry, and woodsmoke stuck to my fingertips. I had never cared for onions, but I did not wish to be rude, so I popped the whole thing in my mouth, hoping to get the experience over with as quickly as possible.

The crispy shell of breading crunched between my teeth, and a salty caramelized taste that only hinted at the onion it had once been flooded my mouth. The flavor of the seasoning unfolded across my tongue next, rippling across the salt and caramelized onion like a warm, spicy cloud of smoke.

“Mm!” My eyes closed of their own accord and I breathed deeply, savoring the taste. “It is delicious, Chris! I do not even like onions, but these are so wonderful!”

Chris chuckled. “Wait ’til you try it with the chili sauce.”

“May I ask your friend Bob how he makes them?” I craned my neck to see if he was still behind the bar, but I could not find his large body or cowboy hat.

“You can ask him, but I doubt he’ll tell you,” Chris said. “I’ve been asking since I first moved here. He says it’s a secret family recipe.”

I dipped a ring into the sauce and popped it into my mouth, sighing as the tangy ranch and zesty chili further complicated the flavor. With the right ingredients and enough trial and error, I thought I could discover the secret of Bob’s family recipe. Frying palatable onions could not be harder than learning the proper steps to create healings and medicines.

Our hamburgers arrived next, disappointingly tiny—less than a pound of beef apiece—but charred over a wood fire and slathered in sugary barbecue sauce. I piled a few of my onion rings onto the meat and crushed them beneath the top bun. The combination was superb.

At my urging, Chris did the same.

“That’s actually pretty damn good,” he said, hiding his mouthful behind a fist. He swallowed. “I don’t know why I never thought of trying it before. If this medicine woman thing doesn’t work out, you might have a future in the restaurant business.”

We devoured the rest of our hamburgers and onion rings in companionable silence while the music danced around us.

I was looking for the waitress so I could order a few more burgers—it would take at least three more to fill me up—when something caught my eye. On a lower section of the floor near the center of the room, waitresses and a pair of young men with large gray tubs began clearing tables and moving the chairs off to the side. One of the aproned young men came through pushing a broom, then dust mop, cleaning up the peanut shells and white straw wrappers to reveal a handsome parquet wood floor.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

Chris glanced up from the hamburger in his hand. “That’s their dance floor. They clear it off about this time of night for the boot-scootin’ crowd. We might even get to see Bob out there before we go. He’s got some pretty mean moves.”

“He is not required to dance?” I asked, my brow furrowing in confusion. “This is his sacred space, is it not?”

The waiters and aproned young men were still picking up tables and moving them aside when couples began to pull one another onto the dance floor.

“Sacred’s not really the word I’d use,” Chris offered, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “It’s just a place to eat and have a good time. Nobody’s required to dance. Anybody who wants …” His eyes widened, and his words trailed off as if he were just now realizing something.

I clapped my hands, excitement buzzing along my appendages.

“Wait,” he said, shaking his head. “No way.”

“Please, Chris?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Oh please,” I begged, grasping his wrist. “I do not know the proper steps. I wish so desperately to learn how to dance to your people’s music correctly. I promise I will do exactly as you say. Please?”

He sighed and dropped his napkin on his plate, but he seemed to be struggling to contain a smile.

“Listen,” I insisted, indicating the music. “They are playing your song!”

His shoulders shook with laughter. “I don’t have a song, Winona.”

“The one you mentioned before about scooting boots.” On the dance floor, people were falling into a line, whirling and stepping in time with the strutting bass guitar. They turned and kicked in unison, then turned again. Couples stepped around the outside of the synchronized dancers, tipping and spinning one another. “Can you teach me the motions to it?”

“I don’t know any line dances,” he said, pushing back his chair. He came around the table and held his hand out to me. “The two-step’s the best I can do.”

I leapt out of my seat and grabbed his hand, pulling him to the dance floor.

Chris held me back at the edge of the parquet. We waited while an elderly couple in Western shirts decorated with red and black flames shuffled past. The old man nodded at me, his dropping chin momentarily obscuring his turquoise-set bolo tie. I waved back, unable to contain my ecstatic grin. When they had passed, Chris turned me around to face him. He took my hand and raised it slightly, then rested his other on my hip.

“You’re going to scoot your feet backward,” he said, pushing gently with the hand holding mine. I stepped back, and he repeated the motion. “Two with your left, then two with your right.” With his other hand, he nudged my hip twice. I moved in accordance. “That’s why it’s called the two-step.”

“Okay, let us go!” I backed out onto the dance floor, too eager to wait any longer.

Chris laughed and hurried to catch up with me. Soon we were scooting and shuffling along as naturally as the elderly couple who had preceded us. It was so much fun that I could not stop smiling though my cheeks ached.

“You are very good at this,” I yelled at Chris over the music.

He dismissed the compliment with a shake of his head. “You’re doing better than I am already. Look out.”

His arm wrapped around my back as he spun me away from another couple.

I giggled. “This is the most fun I have had in longer than I can remember. Thank you so much!”

“Thank my seventh grade PE coach. He’s the one who required a semester of dance.”

We two-stepped through two more songs before the tempo of the music changed. A ghostly piano picked out a haunting melody, and a mirrored silver ball lowered from the ceiling, sending streaks of white light sparkling across the dance floor. The people who had been dancing in a line found partners. The women rested their heads on the men’s shoulders, and the men held them close.

For a moment the pain in my heart was overwhelming as the memory of laying my cheek on Achak’s strong, solid shoulder cut through my chest, and I could almost feel the soft kiss my betrothed had pressed to my forehead.

The strangeness of where I was and what I was doing washed over me all at once. The music was suddenly too loud, the lights disorienting, the smell of food nauseating. I jerked away from Chris.

A look of shock covered his face, but he smoothed it away quickly, clearing his throat and checking his watch. “We should get on the road if we’re going to talk to that Corley woman,” he said. “I’m gonna go settle up with Bob. Meet you at the car?”

I nodded, unable to say anything, and made my way to the door.

Humans were dead, I reminded myself as I stepped out into the cool sunset. I could not afford to be distracted by fun and music and food while this monster and her minions prowled Inworld unchecked. Evil must be destroyed wherever it was found. Someone had to pay for these sins. I swiped angrily at a tear tracking down my cheek.

I would find this monster, and I would make her pay.

SEVENTEEN:

Nora’s Story

A vivid red-orange sun lingered just above the horizon as Chris drove us toward the outskirts of Missoula. He attempted to draw me into conversation twice, but I could not bring myself to invest in more than the minimum response required to maintain courtesy. Sensing I was in no mood to talk, he fell silent, too, and allowed the low crackle of chatter on his police radio and quiet twang of music to fill the space around us.

Out my window, restaurants and businesses gave way to vacant lots, boarded-over gas stations, and run-down dwellings interspersed with patches of tree growth. Chris slowed as he turned the cruiser down a street filled with cracks and potholes. The pitted asphalt ran out a block later, replaced by a gravel road bordered on one side by a massive junkyard fenced off with spray-painted sheets of plywood. On the other side sat a lot full of single and double wide trailers.

The faded, dusty sign at the entrance marked this place as Camelot Trailer Court.

The cruiser’s shocks bounced and squeaked as we pulled into its lot. A few of the mobile homes we passed were neat and tidy with well-kept lawns and clean siding—a sure sign of someone doing their best with the resources at hand. Most, however, wore a layer of green algae, dirt, and mineral discoloration as if to camouflage themselves within the blind of grass and vehicle parts surrounding them. One trailer slumped at a precarious angle; through the missing pieces of its skirting, I could see it was missing a cinderblock under its northwest corner. Another trailer had more of its windows shattered and covered in cardboard than whole and uncovered.

It was at this defeated-looking cardboard-covered trailer that Chris parked the cruiser.

“Number twenty-four,” he said more for himself than me, shutting off the engine and removing the key. “Home of Nora Corley and her late husband, Officer Bruce Corley.”

I cocked my head, inspecting the broken-down trailer more closely. “One of your fellow lawmen lived here?”

“The job doesn’t always mean glitz and glamor, Winona. Besides, Corley was a new hire, too. One of the locals. Before he got killed, he spent a lot of time mouthing off around the department about applying for a loan, so he could buy a big fancy new house in town, but I guess he never got the chance to do it.”

“You do not sound very concerned,” I observed.

Chris exhaled a long breath through his nose, hands curling into tight fists. “Well, Corley was a dick. Grade-A. Part of the good-ol-boys’ club even before he got hired on. But not every victim is the kind of person you want to be best friends with. That doesn’t mean I want their murderer to get away scot-free.” He grabbed a file from the dash and opened his door. “Come on.”

We followed the cracked concrete pad up to the trailer house. A small woman with blonde-brown hair and blue eyes stood just inside the dented screen door, watching us.

“I already talked to you people,” she said, hugging thin arms around her tiny chest as if fighting off a chill. “I told y’all everything. Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

Chris stepped forward and gave her a practiced smile. I wondered whether he used it to appear less threatening to other humans.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Corley,” he said, holding up the file. “But I got stuck with paperwork duty. There are a couple things in here I’m supposed to clear up before I can clock out for the night. I promise not to take up too much of your time. Can we come in for a minute?”

A spasm of fear crossed her face. She looked over her shoulder at something inside, shivered, then nodded.

“Just for a minute,” she agreed.

Disentangling one frail arm from her body, she opened the door and stood back to allow us through. Chris and I stepped into what looked like a war zone.

The lights were off, but even in the diminishing red sunlight coming through the windows, I could see liquor bottles, beer cans, envelopes, coffee grounds, used paper towels, and empty food packaging scattered across the floor. A trash can without a bag lay on its side by the stove, a broom propped against it. A broken dropleaf hung askew from its table, the brass hinges twisted and torn. A metal chair with ripped seats had been overturned nearby. A second one sat upright and pushed in, unaffected by whatever had destroyed the rest of the kitchen.

As if he did not notice the state of chaos the room was in, Chris righted the overturned chair and seated himself at the table, flipping open the file.

Nora Corley stepped closer, trying to see the contents.

“Do you mind if we turn a light on?” Chris asked, smiling again. “Just trying to read my notes.”

One of Nora’s tiny hands darted to a switch on the wall. Abruptly, yellow light filled the kitchen, casting the dark purple circles under her eyes into stark contrast with the haggard lines of exhaustion etched into her face. She was even thinner than I had first thought, and long scratches lined her forearms. Chris glanced up momentarily, his eyes logging her face and filing away each scratch, then returned to the dossier before him.

“You can have a seat if you want, Mrs. Corley,” he said, digging a pen out of his pocket. “I just have to ask you a couple questions, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

She looked up at the clock, then from Chris to me.

“Okay.” Her voice was almost a whisper. She slipped into the chair across from Chris. Rather than wrapping her arm back around her midsection, she began chewing the ragged corner of her thumbnail.

Chris ran his pen down the paper. “Nora Anne Corley. Maiden name?”

“Walker,” she said. Beneath the table, her leg started to bounce up and down. The linoleum crackled with every twitch of her socked foot.

“And are you from Missoula originally?” Chris asked.

Nora shook her head. “Lolo. I moved up here for college.”

“And liked the place enough that you never left, huh?”

The sharp scent of blood cut through the smell of garbage. With a shrug, she spit the bit of nail she had torn off onto the floor and switched to chewing on her index finger.

“Well, Bruce liked it here.” After a moment, she hurried to add, “And I did, too. We both liked living so close to U of M. That’s where we met.”

Pretending to be fascinated by the peeling wallpaper, I took a deep breath through my nose, testing the air. There was something strange about this woman’s blood. It was not unnatural or decaying like Anukite’s had been, but it did not smell entirely human.

“What were you studying?” Chris asked.

“Business,” she said, glancing at the clock once more. “Is that important? How’s my major going to help you find my husband’s killer?”

“No, I was just curious how you and he met,” Chris replied smoothly. “I didn’t know Bruce long, but I got the impression he was more interested in the football and partying side of college than the schooling side.”

“My sorority was hosting a party after one of the games, and we bumped into each other.” Nora’s eyes drifted, unfocused, while she relived the memory. “Mom didn’t care for him the first time I brought him home, but then again she didn’t want me dating anybody until after I graduated. Single moms. You know how that goes.”

Chris nodded in understanding, lips pressed into a tight line. “My mom was the same—nearly had an aneurism the first time my sister told her she had a boyfriend. She thought for sure Ruthie would end up a pregnant high school dropout.”

A flicker of sadness crossed Nora’s face. “Did she?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “Got the degree, the two-point-five kids, and the happily ever after with the two-car garage.”

“Oh.” Nora’s gaze fell to the table. “Mothers’ instincts are usually right.”

“Were your mom’s instincts right about Bruce?” Chris asked.

Nora’s blue eyes snapped up to meet his. “Why are we talking about my mom? I thought you were going to ask me a couple questions about the case and then get out.”

“I have to run down all the leads,” Chris said. “It’s the job. I know some of this stuff sounds dumb, but cops have gotten lucky and found connections that way more often than you’d think.”

“Well, Mom doesn’t have anything to do with”—she faltered, swallowing—“with what happened.”

“How’d she feel about Bruce after you guys got married?” Chris asked.

“They made up,” Nora snapped. “Jesus, don’t you think that if she really hated him enough to—” Her voice cracked. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her body trembled. “Bruce and I’ve been …” She sobbed. “We were married for nine years. Why would she wait nine years if she hated him that much?”

“Maybe something changed in your guys’ relationship,” Chris said. “The stress of his new job, the long hours. Maybe there was an affair, or maybe you two were just drifting apart.”

Nora laughed, the sound tinged with hysteria and choked with mucus. “There wasn’t anybody else. There was never anybody but him.”

“What about Bruce?” Chris asked. “Did you ever suspect he might be seeing someone else?”

“Are you trying to say that I … That I would’ve”—her body shook like a leaf in a tornado—“done that? How can you even suggest? Bruce wasn’t having an affair, but even if he was, to hurt him like that …” She trailed off, eyes wide. “I saw his body, Detective.” Her voice shattered like a thin layer of ice under a heavy tread when she said, “He was ripped apart. God, the blood—he was butchered. Physically, even, how could I possibly have done it? Bruce was twice my size. And not just him, but the other men y’all’ve been investigating. How?” Tears streaked down her ashen cheeks. “Why? Why would anybody do something so awful?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Corley.” Chris reached across the table and rested his hand on her elbow. The touch seemed to further upset her. She lowered her head and closed her eyes, weeping silently. “I know this is the worst possible time to ask questions like these, while you’re still dealing with the grief and shock, but it’s the only way we can catch the guy responsible before he does this to somebody else.”

Chris seemed truly concerned by the woman’s emotional state, and perhaps with good reason. Her husband had been torn apart by this monster, leaving her to deal with the shredded remains of her life alone. But, whether intentionally or by accident, she had not answered any of Chris’s questions. She had avoided every single one. And her blood—she did not smell like a half-breed, but she was certainly no pureblooded human.

“Now, this is gonna sound like I’m accusing you of something,” Chris said softly, “but I need you to tell me what you were doing at the corner of Brooks and Agnes Avenue Tuesday night.”

“Agnes?” she asked, shaking her head as if dazed.

“You were photographed there by a security camera an hour before the fourth murder was committed a few blocks away.”

Understanding dawned a moment later. Nora scowled.

“I work at the Denny’s on Brooks, Detective. Some of us don’t get the MBA and the kids and the Barbie Dream House. Some of us have to wait tables for a living and come home to a shitty trailer so we can shower off the stink of chili-cheese fries.”

Chris scribbled something in the file. “Were you working Tuesday night?”

Her pale eyes narrowed. “How about if y’all don’t want me photographed all over town, you go back to your department and ask Sheriff Greene when the hell my dead husband’s truck’s going to be out of the impound lot? Then I won’t have to walk to work, and you won’t have to come around here harassing me all the time. How about that?”

“I will ask him, and I’ll let you know what he says,” Chris promised, flipping the file folder closed. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Corley. I’m sorry again to have bothered you.”

She did not respond to this, just looked up at the clock.

Chris stood and caught my eye. At the door, he pushed open the screen and waited for me to precede him outside.

I closed the distance between us and whispered, “Give me a moment. I want to speak to her.”

“She’s getting belligerent,” he replied, his voice low. “Notice how she keeps looking at the clock? She’s waiting for somebody—probably her dealer. Maybe she’s been on something for a while now. Maybe she started taking it to deal with her husband’s death, but whatever she’s on, she’s not interested in talking to anybody until she’s got more of it.”

“I will not leave until I have spoken with her,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.

Chris stared into my eyes, attempting to assert his dominance. I did not look away.

Finally, he sighed. “Okay. Fine. I’ll be in the cruiser.”

The screen door slammed behind him.

I turned back to Nora. She had risen from the table and was now at the counter, plucking at dishes in the sink. She did not turn on the water or pick up the soap, however. The movements did not appear to have any significance or purpose, just busying motions for hands which could not stop fidgeting.

“I thought you were leaving,” she snapped.

“Nora, you are a daughter of the Nations, correct?” I asked.

She dropped a spoon into the sink with a clatter. “What?”

“Your family is descended from one of the Great Nations.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You are not behaving like a daughter of your people,” I said. “You did not tell Chris the truth when he asked about your husband—you did not tell him anything.” My stomach twisted as I said, “There is no honor in deceit and evasion.”

She snorted. “Who are you, Grandmother Willow? Gonna tell me to follow my spinning arrow?”

I stepped toward her. “By withholding information, you are hindering our investigation. Please, help us to find this murderer. Tell us what you are holding back.”

“Did you two cook up this scheme because you think I’m more likely to cry on a girl cop’s shoulder?” Nora shook her head and turned back to the sink, moving plates and cups around at random.

“I am not a cop,” I said. “I am a medicine woman, a winyan wakan. The killings, your husband’s as well, bear resemblance to a great evil from the Spirit World—”

“Not this mystical crap.” She looked up at the clock, out the window over the sink, then back at me. “None of that stuff is real. It’s all just scary stories made up around the campfire. It’s imaginary.”

“That is not true. The monster that killed your husband—”

“Get out.” She pointed at the door, her hand shaking violently. When she saw that I noticed, she folded her skinny arms, hiding her hands from view. “Leave.”

I did not move. “I will not go until you tell me the truth, Nora.”

Her eyes darted to the clock and back at me. “I’ll call the cops if you don’t get out now!”

“I believe they would ask the closest unit to respond, and as my friend Chris is parked in your driveway—”

“What do you want me to say?” she shouted, tears filling her eyes once again. “That my life is horrible and shitty? That my mom was right, that Bruce’s temper only got worse, never better? I spent my whole life with him trying to do everything possible to avoid getting hit. Nothing I do—” She choked on a sob and tears cut new paths down her cheeks. “It didn’t matter what I did. He found reasons.”

The clock on the wall marked the passing seconds while Nora attempted to compose herself. I waited silently, certain that she was not finished speaking. My patience was rewarded when she swallowed a final sob and looked up at me.

“You can’t scare me with evil spirits from old stories.” She dragged the back of her hand across her cheek and sniffed. “I lived with a monster for nine years, and he was born and raised right here in Missoula. I don’t know who did this to him, but honestly?” She nodded, then shook her head, as if her body was unable to decide which motion was correct. She squeezed her arms more tightly around her frail body. “Honestly, I’m glad he’s never coming home again.”

EIGHTEEN:

Sideswiped

“Damn,” Chris breathed when I finished telling him what Nora had said. “I knew Corley was a dick, but …” He shook his head in disgust.

I sighed and watched as the empty lots and abandoned gas stations out my window gave way to a dark strip of encroaching lesser trees. For once, their scrappy determination to survive where so many of their fellows had perished did not lift my spirits. Night had fallen while we spoke to Nora Corley. An entire day had passed, and it felt as if we had made no progress.

“All we have learned is that one of Anukite’s victims did not deserve to be saved,” I said, gaze skipping over the landscape rushing past like the wind.

“That’s dangerous thinking,” Chris replied. “If a guy like Corley deserves to be murdered, then what about rapists, pedophiles, and drug dealers? What about neo-Nazis, negligent parents, and animal abusers? The line gets fuzzier the farther down that rabbit hole you go. Pretty soon you’re asking yourself whether the guy who drives drunk or the girl who plays on her phone while driving really deserve to live because they’re taking other people’s lives in their hands every time they get out on the road. Just because somebody killed an awful person doesn’t mean that murder was any less wrong. They’ve still got to be stopped and brought to justice for what they’ve done.”

I picked at the bandage on my cheek. “What you say is true. I spoke rashly because I am disappointed. Nothing we have learned today brings us any closer to finding Anukite.”

“You never know what might break the case,” Chris said with a noncommittal shrug. “As long as new information is coming in, then we’re getting somewhere.”

The corner of the medical tape came loose under my fingernail, and I peeled the bandage off.

“I suppose there is some wisdom in that,” I admitted, turning the bandage over in my hands. The wound on my cheek had long since healed, but the gauze was stained with gore. In the weak light from Chris’s cruiser computer, my purple blood looked as black as the Teihiihans’. “However, it feels like a very useless strategy. As if we are waiting for Lady Luck to intervene. What if we never find out the piece of information we need?”

“Hey, I don’t like waiting to get lucky any more than the next guy.” Chris said this as if he were about to suggest a different course of action, but rather than expounding, he looked at me with a lopsided grin.

I nodded. “Yes, go on.”

He chuckled softly and returned his attention to the road. “Never mind. I forgot for a second there that slang was on our list. Slang, contractions, and—what was the other one?”

“I do not understand the significance of this list you keep referring to.”

“Aaaaanyway, our next move is heading back to the department and getting everything we’ve learned today into the case file.” His smile lost all humor, and he shook his head. “And I thought I was unpopular before. When I start accusing everyone’s dead best buddy of—”

Glass shattered. Metal crunched, and tires squealed. Centripetal force whipped me from my seat. I saw a flash of the computer screen, then my temple smacked against something hard. Everything disappeared.

From far away, I heard Chris’s muffled cursing. Hands pushed at my back. I blinked, unable to make sense of what I was seeing. A large black curve with ridges, and beyond that the gray-green needles of a cedar.

I was lying across the driver’s seat, my face pressed against the steering wheel, my legs tangled in the broken remains of Chris’s computer. As I realized this, sound seemed to rush in from all directions—a metallic ticking, endless static from the police radio, a single discordant note from a song hammering over and over at my eardrums.

“Winona.” Chris shouted this as if he had done so many times already without a response.

“Something is wrong with your music,” I mumbled softly, my head throbbing.

He wrestled his arm out from underneath me and stabbed a button on the dash. The music stopped.

“You okay?” he asked, a note of tightly constrained fear lingering beneath the words.

The muscles in my neck protested stiffly as I straightened them, but the cervical spine did not exhibit signs of damage. I groaned and used the steering wheel to pull myself out of Chris’s lap and back over the destroyed console into my seat.

Out my shattered window, in the glow from the single unbroken headlight, I saw that the fender of the cruiser was crumpled inward around the hardy bole of a cedar. Many yards behind us lay the highway we had been traveling on just moments ago. Long, muddy skids tore through the grass to the cruiser, but inferring how they had been made felt like an impossible task for my rattled brain.

“Winona, can you hear me? Are you okay?”

“I am fine,” I said, massaging my neck. “What happened?”

“Wreck.” Chris’s seat belt clicked as he unbuckled it. “I didn’t see the other vehicle, but somebody must’ve T-boned us.” He leaned forward and reached for the radio’s handset under the dash, but pulled up short with a wince. He rolled his right shoulder gently, then grabbed the handset awkwardly with his left hand. “Try not to move around too much while I call this in. Then I’ll see if everybody in the other car’s all right.”

I groped for my door handle. “I should be the one to assess their injuries, Chris. I have studied medicine extensively. If they require—”

A deep bass-noted roar reverberated through the cruiser like the sound of a hurricane making landfall. The boughs of the trees around us seemed to shake with the fury of it. But as the roar died away, the boughs continued to quiver and dance. They pulsed as if in time with some unknown heart. Thump, thump, thump. The vibrations carried through the cruiser floor and into my feet—the heavy thud of colossal footfalls. My lips peeled back in a feral sneer as I lifted my nose and sampled the air.

Blowing in through Chris’s broken window—so strong I could nearly taste it—came the gamey scent of hot fur and stinging sulfur. My eyes widened, and my heart raced.

“What the hell?” Chris twisted in his seat, attempting to look out the rear window.

“We must get out of the car.” I wrenched the door handle, but the door did not pop open as it had before.

“Wait, why?”

“We must get out now! He will crush this vehicle with us inside!” I threw my shoulder into the door. It squealed open, fighting every inch, then thunked to a stop against the trunk of an oak, leaving a gap of less than a foot.

For a split second, I was afraid I would have to punch through the windshield to escape this metal death trap. As I raised my fist, however, I saw that it was not the powerful hammer I was used to, but a weak human hand. The amulet. I was in human form. My true body could never squeeze through an opening so small, but this tiny human frame could. Quickly, I wormed my way through the gap and stumbled out onto the grass, grimacing at the stiffness in my neck and back.

Approaching the cruiser from behind was a four-legged monstrosity as tall and as wide as the elephants of Inworld. The ground trembled with every step it took, and its shoulders rolled like waves on a storm-struck ocean to compensate for the lack of joints in its tree-trunk sized legs. Its shaggy hide gleamed in the moonlight, a vibrant purple shot through with stripes of black. Bony plates ran the length of its spine, each one topped with a serrated bone spike: heavy armor meant to inflict injury as much as to defend. His musky odor burned in my nostrils.

Yawkwawiak, the Stiff-Legged Bear. This demon of Outworld was beholden to Anukite Sharp-Elbows for teaching him to walk between the planes. Fed a steady diet of human flesh and dark witchery, he had far outgrown even his largest Inworld cousins.

A quick glance over my shoulder showed me that Chris had not even opened his door, much less gotten out of the cruiser.

I stepped forward, putting myself between the demonic bear and the vehicle, drawing Yawkwawiak’s attention away from the easy prey.

The demonic bear pulled back dark lips and bared shining six-inch-long obsidian fangs, then let loose with another bone-shaking roar. Clouds of steam billowed from his mouth into the cold night air as fat strings of saliva dripped down his chin. He bucked upward, ripping up chunks of grass and dirt, then slammed both forepaws into the ground, the force of the blow nearly great enough to knock me from my feet.

My blood turned to ice. This was a challenge. Any trace of weakness would light up Yawkwawiak’s predatory instincts like foxfire in the night.

I swallowed all trace of my fear, resolve hardening, and bellowed, “Do you think to frighten me!” I squared my shoulders, slammed my fist against my chest, and took an aggressive step toward the bear. “I am a Daughter of the Forest! Mother Earth loves me more than she loves you, demon! You do not belong in her world, and I will see you wiped from it!”

The response did not come from Yawkwawiak as I expected, but from a lumpy, misshapen creature I had not noticed riding on the bear’s back.

“Daughter of the Forest,” a craggy voice, unsuited to human language, shouted. A Teihiihan with long, matted dreadlocks and a rust-pitted kukri sat just behind Yawkwawiak’s head. He braced his wide, offset shoulders against the bear’s first jagged bone spike, his free hand clenching a tuft of hair for balance. The cannibal dwarf pointed his kukri at me. “We bring a message from our mistress: stay away or perish!”

NINETEEN:

Yawkwawiak

My reply was on the tip of my tongue. But as I opened my mouth, intending to snarl at the Teihiihan that I did not answer to his vile mistress, two shots rang out behind me.

Yawkwawiak bawled in pain, rearing up onto his back legs. Apparently, the dwarf did not have a very good grip on the bear because its tiny, misshapen form went flying into the trees.

I spun around to find Chris slowly advancing, his sidearm raised and fixed squarely on Yawkwawiak.

“What are you doing?” I shouted at him, eyes wide, a new fear wriggling inside me. “Run!”

But my order to flee was drowned out by the sharp report of Chris’s pistol.

“New rule,” he yelled over Yawkwawiak’s roaring. “If it’s bigger than a Mack truck, I shoot first and ask you what it was later.”

I flung my arm out in frustration. “No, you must run! Your tiny bullets cannot pierce—”

A monstrous paw slammed into my side with the force of an avalanche. Every ounce of breath left my lungs in a whoof, and my feet were ripped from the ground.

As I flew, more gunfire shattered the night behind me. More roaring from Yawkwawiak, most likely wondering what tiny creature kept stinging him. As the grass and graveled edge of the highway came up to meet me, I tucked my head and rolled into the fall. My shoulder took the impact, dispersing the force of the fall, and my heels hit pavement as I bounced to my feet at the edge of the highway.

Headlights slid across me. One driver in a mud-covered pickup honked as she passed, the truck’s horn distorted in the night. I ignored this, spinning on the ball of my foot and sprinting back to the battle.

Yawkwawiak was advancing on Chris, the demonic bear still standing to its full height. I curved my approach so that I could flank the massive creature from the side. Against a foe as large and powerful as this, surprise would be crucial.

Out of habit, I lowered my shoulder, intending to slam into Yawkwawiak’s ribs. In my Chiye-tanka form, a blow like this would stave in ribs and send the enemy and myself tumbling. However, as the amulet had shrunk my entire mass into the form of a Little Sister, my shoulder connected with its hip. My mass, concentrated in such a small area, combined with my speed sent the humongous bear flipping end over end above my head. I skidded to a stop and turned to face him. He landed hard on all four feet with a thud that shook the earth.

With a furious growl, Yawkwawiak spun on his jointless legs and bounded toward me. I sprinted all out to meet him, legs churning, offering a wild war cry as I chambered a fist. The creature opened his maw, returning my shout with a booming roar of his own. I did not care—this creature was a wicked thing, and I would cleanse the earth of it. My knuckles landed dead center on the demon’s fat, wet snout. He ground to a halt, stunned, pawing at his nose, eyes wild and confused. Yawkwawiak staggered back a few paces, shaking his massive head while his little round ears flapped against his heavy purple jowls.

The blow had stunned him more than harmed him.

“Holy crap, Winona,” Chris said.

My head snapped around to find him. He stood at the front fender of the cruiser, the vehicle’s door between him and the Stiff-Legged Bear. Still, he had his pistol drawn and ready.

Behind him, a flicker of shimmer and shadow crossed the beam of the cruiser’s single working headlight.

“Behind you!” I shouted at the same moment as Chris’s gaze locked on something over my shoulder and he shouted, “Behind you!”

I pivoted and dropped to a crouch just as Yawkwawiak’s claws slashed through the air where my head and neck had been, catching nothing but a few strands of my black hair. From behind me, I heard grunting and the thud of a body hitting the cruiser, but I did not have time to see whether my friend was all right. Chris could protect himself, I assured myself. He would have to while I dealt with Yawkwawiak. The dread bear lunged, another paw lashing out like a battering ram, consuming my whole focus.

I leapt right, throwing myself into another hasty roll, narrowly avoiding evisceration, then feinted left as claws ripped into the earth, leaving deep furrows in the ground. The creature was momentarily open, so I moved. Lacing my hands together—forming a club—I bolted inside his guard and drove my fists upward into the underside of the demon’s chin. Unlike the punch to the snout, I threw my whole body into the maneuver, and the damage was obvious.

His jaws snapped shut with an audible click, several fangs fracturing from the impact, blood spraying from his mouth. Not a death blow, but the attack would let him know I was no prey animal, easy to hunt.

In reply, the creature snarled in rage, rearing back, one paw flashing through the air. I backpedaled, but not quickly enough. His swipe caught me along my left arm and shoulder, tearing through my flannel shirt and into flesh and muscle. The scent of my blood filled the air as pain, then numbness, cascaded down my arm. The appendage hung limp at my side.

This was not working. Under normal circumstances, my reach would nearly be a match for Yawkwawiak’s, within a few inches at least. As a human, however, I could not begin to contend. This was not a battle I could win by trading punches. I would have to neutralize his advantage.

I continued my backward motion, turned once I was outside his reach, and sprinted for the forest.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the Teihiihan swing his kukri at Chris. The detective sidestepped the slash, then knocked the dwarf’s overextended arm aside with a hammer fist strike. He grabbed the little cannibal’s blade hand and swept the creature’s leg with his own, throwing the creature off balance and sending it to the ground with a thump. Somehow, despite the fall, the Teihiihan kept its grip on the kukri. Chris did not seem to care. Chris held the weapon tight and stomped on the cannibal’s arm with his heel, trying to wrestle the kukri away.

I grinned as I ran, but had not the breath to shout encouragement. For a human, my friend was a very good fighter indeed.

The thunder of rampaging footfalls shook the ground behind me, and I could almost feel the hot stink of Yawkwawiak’s breath on the nape of my neck. I increased my speed, perspiration breaking out along my forehead from both the exertion and the adrenaline in my system. Cedars, pines, and oaks blurred as they closed in around me, welcoming me home like old friends. I made use of my smaller size, dodging without asking for them to move. I needed to speak with someone else first.

Mother Earth, please help me, I sent as I ran. I did not wish to ask for your assistance again so soon, but I am fighting a demon stronger than me, and my left arm has been rendered useless.

It was the word “demon” which drew Mother Earth’s ire. Demons were evil, unnatural things she hated above all others—arrogant creatures who had no regard for her laws. Jolts of healing surged upward through my feet with every step, racing through my body like wildfire, infusing my arm with renewed strength. I gritted my teeth as the torn muscles jerked together and knit themselves closed in time with my strides.

Behind me, branches snapped and cracked. Yawkwawiak roared in frustration. The gigantic demon bear was having to force his bulk through the close-growing trees.

When I was certain Yawkwawiak was thoroughly tangled, I wheeled and sprinted back toward the stink of gamey sulfur and the sound of infuriated growling, angling myself to come in from his flank once more. The broad side of the bear came into view just as the last stitch of muscle repaired, leaving my skin whole and perfect again. Mother Earth cut off our connection with a final stab of righteous anger, a command that I remove the demonic disgrace from her world.

Gladly, Mother, I sent in reply.

Yawkwawiak must have smelled me as I drew near, because he roared and tried to whirl, but the trunks of hardy young pines resisted. He thrashed and bucked, throwing his weight into them, jaws snapping, limbs flailing. The trees shook and crackled under the assault, but did not give.

I scooped up a pair of small boulders—each the size of a basketball—protruding from the forest floor, one in each arm. I hurled them at Yawkwawiak’s writhing form, one after the other. Two solid thunks sounded in the night. A fresh whiff of blood wafted into the air, but the injuries only seemed to enrage the creature further. With a booming roar, the beast reared up, his huge paws slashing at the pines that had hindered his movement. With the weight of his body behind the strikes, one tree finally gave way with a snap.

But, I had a third stone waiting for the bear, this one the size of a human skull.

I wound my arm back and launched it at his chest with all my strength, then sprinted after this third projectile, determined not to allow the demon a moment to recover before my next attack.

Yawkwawiak saw the boulder coming and slapped it aside. I was right behind it, however. As soon as he batted the rock aside, I leapt, cocking my fist back for a skull-shattering haymaker.

When Yawkwawiak’s purple-and-black eyes met mine, I knew I had made a mistake. In my attempt to gain height and angle, I had overcommitted to this punch.

Giving me an ursine grin, his eyes narrowing to hateful slits, Yawkwawiak wheeled one hundred and eighty degrees, exposing the bone-spiked plates of armor all down his spine.

I shut my eyes and attempted to make myself as small as possible while bracing for impact.

A bony spike ripped into my calf. The serrated edge of another scraped across the bridge of my nose. This frail human body crashed against the obsidian plates with the full force of my Chiye-tanka mass behind it. My right shoulder and hip took the brunt of the impact, slamming into the demonic armor. A sharp pain and loud pop let me know the arm had come from its socket. Bright white lights danced in front of my eyes while black crept in on the edges.

The blast of a shotgun echoed through the dark forest. Yawkwawiak rocked back on his heels. I screamed as the movement swung me, leaving me hanging from a jagged bone spike by the shreds of my jeans and calf muscle.

Another blast. I thought I might have seen the muzzle flash in my peripheral vision, but could not tell if it was that or the pain-lights still obscuring my sight.

Yawkwawiak lumbered forward, sending fresh waves of agony tearing through my impaled leg. My head slapped against his tail with every step. Nausea forced the onion rings and burger I had eaten up my throat, gravity helping it along. Only my desire not to vomit on my own face kept my mouth clamped shut and my screams from spilling into the night.

“Yeah, that’s right, you big, ugly bastard, come on!” Chris hollered, pumping the shotgun and chambering another round.

The weapon barked again, belching fire, and Yawkwawiak lurched.

I grabbed the nearest bone spike, attempting to stabilize myself in any way possible. Its serrated edges cut my palm, but the spike gave me a flash of inspiration.

Folding at the waist, I reached up again and grabbed the next highest spike. Then the next, and the next. Blood poured freely from my palms, but this took much weight off of my ruined calf.

When I reached the spike I hung from, I planted my good foot against Yawkwawiak’s bony plates and wrenched the spike downward with all my strength, muscles straining as I fought. Finally, it snapped, slipping from my calf in the same motion.

The pain was severe enough that I prayed for unconsciousness. It did not come.

Instead, I tumbled down Yawkwawiak’s backside and hit the ground, my injured leg folded beneath me. With a grimace, I pushed up onto my good leg—blood running down my skin and staining the jeans—and stabbed the spike into Yawkwawiak’s side, near where his kidney would be. Fur parted, and fat enveloped my hand, but I kept shoving, wriggling the impromptu weapon deeper and deeper in, warm, wet tissue enveloping my hand, then wrist.

As if over a great distance, I heard Yawkwawiak roaring, then felt the world around me shudder as the back of a furry paw smashed into me and sent me sprawling in the grass and dirt.

Black nothingness winked around me.

When I opened my eyes, I lay against the white trunk of an aspen. The world pulsed as the throbbing inside my head vied for attention, but lost out to the searing pain in my calf and the burning fire of my lacerated hands.

Another shotgun blast erupted to my right. I rolled over onto my belly with a grunt and pushed myself up onto my elbows.

The dense cloud cover had rolled back, moonlight shining down on Yawkwawiak’s purple-and-black-striped hide. He stalked forward, claws digging divots in the earth, approaching new prey: the tiny lawman who kept shooting him with that thunderstick.

Fury bloomed in my chest. No. Yawkwawiak would not touch my friend!

Blocking out the hurt, I pushed myself up and onto my single working leg, then grabbed the nearby aspen in both hands. With a roar, I pulled, arms and back straining as I ripped the tree from the ground. Dirt fell like rain from the torn roots. Tree in hand, I lurched into motion, slamming the trunk into the ground as I ran, using it like a cane to keep the weight off of my mangled right leg. When I reached Yawkwawiak’s side, I balanced on my good leg, picked up the tree like a club, and lined up my shot.

In front of the demon, in the glow of the cruiser’s headlight, Chris frantically loaded rounds into the chamber of his shotgun as he retreated toward the treeline.

Yawkwawiak lunged.

I swung.

Air whistled through the leaves of the aspen, drawing Yawkwawiak’s attention, but it was too late. He had only enough time to turn his head and see the tree coming before the branches bashed into his face. I followed through on the swing so that the blow threw Yawkwawiak to the ground. The dread creature landed on his side with a thud, one eye swollen shut, great strings of bloody drool seeping from his maw, limbs splayed out.

With a minor adjustment for balance, I rose the makeshift club again and slammed it down on the demonic bear’s head. He struggled and bucked, rocking like a turtle on its back, but could not fold his jointless legs to get up again. For now, at least, he was at my mercy. But there would be no mercy for such a monster. I smashed the tree down over and over again, only pausing now and then to adjust my one-legged balance. Yawkwawiak wheezed for air and his struggles slowed, then finally ceased.

The bear was not moving, but to be absolutely certain he could not heal himself, I raised the tree above my head and drove its roots through Yawkwawiak’s skull and into the ground below. Neither warm bone nor cold dirt wished to yield, so I was forced to twist the tree backward and forward as though boring a hole, until its roots had drilled deep enough into the earth that the aspen stood on its own again.

I dropped to my posterior in the torn, dewy grass, surrounded by broken branches and leaves ripped from their moorings, and patted the mistreated aspen’s trunk.

“I am so sorry, friend,” I panted.

Cautious footsteps stole to my side. The breeze carried Chris’s aftershave and sweat to my nostrils before he spoke.

“Is it … is it dead?” he asked.

I shook my head as I leaned back against my palms. “Yawkwawiak cannot die. But his physical form is too badly damaged for him to continue inhabiting it. His spirit will return to the dark places of the Spirit World until he can reform.” I saw the panicked look in my friend’s eyes. “Oh, do not be afraid, Chris. That will take him days, at least.”

TWENTY:

Reality Check

“Days?” Chris spat. “Days? That thing—whose head you just crushed with a tree, which we are totally gonna talk about by the way—will be running around here again in a few days?”

“You are upset,” I said. “That is to be expected after such a confrontation—”

“Upset?” Chris threw his head back and laughed at the stars above, hands pressed into his belly. “No, Winona. Upset is what Greene was when he found out the FBI was forcing a bunch of outsiders into his lap. Upset is what you are when you find out somebody stole your identity.” He tapped his chest. “What I am is beyond upset. I’m … I’m … freaked the hell out. In fact, I’m not too sure whether I’m still walking around Missoula a free man or locked up in a loony bin somewhere drooling down the front of my paper nightie and hallucinating all this crazy shit!”

I considered this, then nodded. “That is not an entirely unreasonable reaction for a”—I swallowed the word human—“for someone in your place. Perhaps it is time we had a talk. That you knew the truth.”

I stumbled onto my good foot, gripping the aspen for support, and broke a thick branch from it to use as a crutch until the torn muscle in my calf healed itself. I did not wish to burden Mother Earth again—already I had taxed her more than any respectful, honorable Person of the Forest should—and I planned to wait this healing out naturally. It would take no more than a few hours of quiet meditation. Perhaps Chris would consent to a short rest after our discussion.

Painstakingly, even with my crutch, I limped toward the cover of the forest.

But the sound of Chris’s footsteps did not follow me. I turned to look back and found him glaring at the dark woods.

“We’re going in there?” he asked, eyes squinted in suspicion. Though fear did not come through in his tone, I could smell it in the air and see it in his white-knuckled grip on the shotgun. He glanced at the open door of his cruiser and then back at the woods. “After all this, that’s where you want to go?”

“Outside, in the woods, the winds will carry the scents and warnings of danger to us,” I replied evenly. “In your cruiser, we will be cut off from the sounds and scents around us, just as we were when Yawkwawiak drove us from the road. Please, come with me so I can explain. Do not be afraid. I will protect you.”

A long, tremulous breath hissed through Chris’s nostrils. He swallowed, then turned away from me. When he did, I caught sight of the kukri he had taken from the Teihiihan shoved into the back of his belt. Moonlight glinted off the black blood staining the blade. Without a word, Chris headed for the cruiser, walking on legs that seemed as jointless as Yawkwawiak’s.

I sighed, certain I had failed once again to make this human see reason. I cast about my mind, searching for any argument I could use. The only thing that sprang to mind was football. Chris spoke of it at the strangest times with no logical connection to anything we had been speaking about before. If I only understood how human brains worked, perhaps football could have helped me.

But when he got to the cruiser, Chris leaned inside and shut off the headlights, then turned off the engine. He slammed his door, then strode in that stilted gait to the open trunk. He pulled out a plastic bag marked Evidence, shook it open, and slipped the kukri inside. These he returned to the trunk. Next, he grabbed a handful of shells from a box of ammunition and reloaded his shotgun and its shell carrier. Finished, he slammed the trunk with a thud and turned to me, the shotgun clenched tightly in his hands.

“Let’s go.”

I did not wait for him to change his mind.

Though this strip of woods was long, it was not particularly wide. I could hear the rushing whine of human vehicles on another road less than five hundred yards away. To keep from being spotted from either road, I selected a place down in the draw of a dry creek bed, found two pieces of flint, and set to building a fire from the dead grass and brittle tangles of exposed roots sticking out of the bank. It is well known that the bright, warm colors and heat of a fire are psychologically pleasing to humans. I hoped this element would give Chris a measure of peace while I explained to him that everything he thought about the world was wrong.

When the flames were dancing cheerfully over a bed of burning red embers, I pushed in a rotten log, then lowered myself gingerly to the ground. My injured calf would not tolerate folding, so I stretched out both legs and dug my toes into the rocky soil. Already the earth beside the fire was picking up the radiant heat.

On the opposite side of the blaze, Chris kicked a mossy boulder closer and—after thoroughly scrutinizing the trees around us in every direction for a threat—sat down with his shotgun cradled in his arms.

“You wanted to talk,” he said, “so let’s talk. What do you have to say that you think will make everything that just happened all right?”

“It is not within my abilities to make everything all right. I cannot give you a sense of well-being or make you accept what happened, Chris. All I can do is explain what you have seen tonight.”

“Please. Explain away,” he said, his voice dripping with false optimism.

I took a moment to collect my thoughts, absently tucking a loose strand of black hair behind my ear. How this was presented was likely as important to Chris as the information itself.

“The world that you know is only a half-truth,” I said after a time. “You say that you will not believe in a thing unless I have shown it to you. Tonight, and earlier this day, you saw the other half of that truth. These lesser trees, this dirt, Father Sun and Mother Earth are real, but they are only a portion of what is real. This plane you live in, called Inworld, is only one among many. The Spirit World is another—we sometimes call it Outworld—and occasionally its beings walk into your world. Because your people do not believe in them anymore, many go largely unnoticed. Some are harmless, quietly integrating into your society or operating just out of sight. Others are mindless predators—”

“What about that big-ass stegosaurus-bear?” Chris interrupted, his dark eyes blazing in the firelight. “That wasn’t any mindless predator. It knew exactly what it was doing.”

“Yawkwawiak.” I nodded. “Anukite sent him. He and the Teihiihan are a darker sort of creature. Demons, a stain of evil on all life. Like their mistress, they kill and mutilate for pleasure rather than out of instinct or necessity. They are why I am here. As I told you, it is my responsibility to stomp out evil wherever it takes root.”

For several long minutes Chris stared into the dancing flames of the fire. His jaw flexed as if he were chewing this information over in a literal fashion. It would be no easy thing for a man of his philosophy to swallow, I reminded myself. Accepting this would be as hard for him as it would for me to accept that suddenly there was only one plane, no magic, and no intelligent beings other than the People.

“What about you, Winona?” he asked finally, his voice nearly a whisper. His eyes flicked up to meet mine. “Are you one of them? You went toe-to-toe with that monster.” He laughed, the sound rippling up the scale toward hysterics. “Hell, I saw you rip a fucking tree out of the ground and beat that stegosaurus-bear to death with it. Are you a monster, too?”

My heart slammed against my breastbone in a violent panic. Icy cold and burning heat chased one another through my body. Though nothing physically had changed, this human form suddenly felt too small, almost claustrophobic. A manic desire to throw the amulet off and reveal my true self to Chris flooded me. This was the perfect moment. He had asked me outright whether I was one of them, and while I was not a monster, the People of the Forest were Outworlders. Seeing me take my true form might show Chris that not all Outworlders were evil. That many of us fought to eradicate it.

But the words of my father rang in my ears—What do you think the reaction of this detective will be if you reveal yourself to him, daughter? Do you think he will accept you? No, he will call you a monster. He will see you as no different from the creature you wish to hunt.

My eyes dropped to the shotgun in his lap. It was not raised to his shoulder and searching for a target, but his hands held the trigger guard and forestock, ready to return the weapon to action at the slightest sign of danger.

Chris was good, I was certain of that. Surely a man so dedicated to bringing a murderer to justice in spite of his feelings about the victims must be good. But I could not be certain that his reaction to seeing me would be any different than his reaction to seeing Yawkwawiak. Would I look so different to him? Fear was known to cause the best of people to do terrible things. When I opened my mouth to speak, I found it as dry as the creek bed where we rested. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“I—I am not,” I said, the words sticking sideways in my throat like a fishbone. “Though all I have told you this night is true, I am simply a powerful medicine woman, no less human than you. I am only able to fight the evil ones because I draw strength and magic from Mother Earth.”

Chris stared at me long and hard. Perhaps his instincts as a detective had somehow seen through my story. I hoped desperately that he would accept this lie, just this one. He was my only friend in this human world and I did not want to lose him. Greater than my fear of being hunted was my fear of losing him.

Guilt and anxiety churned in my stomach, now too large and turbulent to be compared to something as small and cheerful as a grub or entrail-gnawing parasite. It was more like a tornado that only I could see, tearing through everything and intent on destruction. With no small twinge of irony, I recalled that less than an hour ago I had told Nora Corley that there was no honor in lying, that she was not acting as a daughter of her people should.

As if she had heard me speaking her name, Mother Earth chose that moment to shoot warmth and healing upward through the rocky soil into my leg. I hissed in pain and pulled up the jeans to watch as the torn fibers of my calf knit themselves back together. Sorry to my core, I told her that I had not meant to trouble her further, that I could spare the time to allow my body to heal naturally, and though I did not intend to communicate it, she felt my profound sense of slimy unworthiness through our connection. With a pride and love that only made me feel more disgusting than slushy scat, she made it clear that she would not have me walking her plane injured after defeating a pair of demonic interlopers in her name.

When the healing ended, I let the pants leg drop and slumped over my knees, sick at heart. The worms in the dirt were no lower than I.

“Is that why you don’t wear shoes?” Chris was staring at the torn, bloody patch on my jeans, eyes wide. He must have been watching while I healed. “So you can draw the … um … earth magic?”

I nodded, unable to force one more lie through my lips.

Chris mirrored my nod, his rigid posture relaxing visibly as he accepted this.

“Okay,” he said. “All right. I can deal with that. Magic. I just had to know, you know?”

“That is understandable,” I croaked.

He gestured toward my leg. “Can you walk on that thing now?”

“I can.”

“Good deal. We need to get back to town and get all this into the case file—as much of it as we can without being Sectioned for insanity.” He grimaced, but a hint of a smile stole through. “And I’ll need to fill out another damage report for the cruiser. Two in one day.” He chuckled and shook his head. “And you thought Greene was pissed before.”

I sighed and rose to my feet. “I believe you are misusing this verb as an adjective.”

“And I believe that you’re covered in blood again,” Chris said, falling into step beside me. His sudden good mood felt a sharp contrast to mine. “You go through more changes of clothes in a day than most people do in a week.”

“Does this mean we are going to Walmart again?” I asked.

“Since they don’t have a place around here where I can buy flannel and jeans in bulk, yeah, back to the Walmart. See if I can’t break their record for the Most Women’s Clothes Bought By a Man in One Night.”

TWENTY-ONE:

Complications

When we made it back to the cruiser, Chris shifted the vehicle into what he called “four wheels.” The SUV tore out of its muddy ruts, bounced across the grass, and pulled back onto the road with ease. Shifting it back down, he turned us south toward the center of Missoula and the Walmart. We had traveled less than a mile, however, when the police radio under the dash began to squawk frantically.

“… the hell are you, Fuller? Respond immediately!” it shouted.

At the same moment, Chris’s phone buzzed over and over again.

Chris silenced his phone, then snatched the handset from under the dash.

“Dispatch, this is Fuller. I was in the dead zone on 91. What do we have?”

“Another body,” Dispatch snapped. “Mario Brandstatter, forty-five, found murdered in his home thirty minutes ago. Sixteen hundred Stoddard, apartment nine. CSI’s en route.”

Chris let out a string of curses before pressing the Talk button and saying, “I’m ten minutes from the scene.”

“What would we do without you,” Dispatch said in a voice that conveyed the exact opposite sentiment. “Over and out.”

Chris slipped the handset back onto its hook, then flipped a toggle on the dash. Red and blue lights bloomed, flashing across the hood like dancing pixies. The engine growled as the cruiser accelerated. Soon we were going faster than I could run. Cars and trucks pulled to the side to clear a path for us as we flew past. Chris did not say anything as we drove, and I did not feel as if I should ask him any questions. He glared out the cracked windshield the whole way, and I could not be certain whether he was angry about the murder or concentrating on driving safely in the dark with only one working headlight.

When we arrived at the sprawling four-story apartment complex, cruisers with matching red and blue lights lined both sides of the street. Chris parked behind one and hopped out, slamming the door shut with more force than strictly necessary.

I followed uncertainly, casting a quick glamour to hide the blood and dirt on my clothing. There were many more lawmen here than at the house this morning, and I did not want to make my friend lie for me a second time. I was already mired enough in my own deceptions. Still, I had to see the crime scene if I wanted to know whether Anukite had been here too.

Deputy Khuri met us at the door to the lobby. He hooked his ruddy, wet-looking thumbs in his gun belt and fixed Chris with a toothy grin. “Well, well, well, about time you showed up, Detective.” His pale blue eyes scrutinized Chris’s rumpled and torn clothing, the grass stains on the knees of his pants, and the defensive bruises and abrasions along his forearms. “Been out having a good time?”

“Yeah, a blast,” Chris said flatly, his face a thunderhead. “Get out of the way so I can inspect the scene.”

Deputy Khuri did not move. Instead, he shifted his weight and folded his arms across his chest. “Hey, the apartment manager here seems to think a certain detective lives in this building. Even tried to call said detective when he found the vic’s door hanging open, but he couldn’t get an answer. Where do you think that detective was, Fuller?”

“I was in the dead zone out of town,” Chris said. “The radio and my phone were out of commission.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you got a lot of explaining to do about where you were tonight, Detective.”

“I’m giving you an order, Khuri,” Chris growled. “Get the hell out of the way so I can do my job.”

The deputy’s eyes glinted like frozen dew on a winter morning, but he kept smiling. He took only a half-step, not removing himself from the way at all. “By all means. Better late than never, right?”

The muscle in Chris’s jaw twitched as he stepped around Khuri and opened the door. I started to follow him inside, but he flung out an arm and swept me back. I leaned around Chris’s shoulder to see what he was looking at.

Inside, a crowd of humans in civilian clothing—one cradling a sleeping baby in fuzzy, footed pajamas—stood by watching as a pair of paramedics wheeled a stretcher through the lobby. A bulging black body bag rested on top. One of the stretcher’s wheels stalled beneath its heavy load, squeaking across the tile, then it straightened out and began to spin again. Some of the onlookers cringed at the sound, but the paramedics continued as if they had not heard it. Chris held the door as they wheeled the victim through. At the end of the sidewalk, an ambulance with open back doors waited to receive their gruesome cargo.

As they passed, the reek of blood and excrement attacked my senses. Mixed in with that awful musk was the unmistakable scent of Anukite’s unnatural decay.

“She was here. Anukite,” I whispered in Chris’s ear. “Her stench is strong on the body.”

He gave the smallest jerk of his head in acknowledgement.

When the stretcher had passed, Chris went into the lobby. I made to follow, but Khuri stepped in my path.

“Just where do you think you’re going, missy?” His hand landed on my elbow and I was strangely disappointed to find that it was not damp as I had supposed. “This here is police business.” He grinned at me, smug and oddly satisfied. “That means not you.”

“She’s not here for the crime scene,” Chris said. “She’s going up to my apartment.”

I managed to stop myself before I blurted out, “You live here?”

Luckily, Khuri was too busy smiling at Chris to register my surprise. “See, that’s interesting because a pretty little rookie named Traeger told me you brought some Indian gal from BIA to the Shelley scene this morning.”

Not wanting my friend to be in trouble because of me, I imagined one of my father’s jaw-cracking yawns. As always, this image triggered a yawn of my own. I covered my open mouth with one tiny human fist.

“This is why I am going to his apartment,” I told Khuri in my weariest voice. “The investigation I have had to conduct this day has exhausted me, and I wish to rest. You may take your hand off me now.”

Khuri pulled his hand back, looking from me to Chris.

“In that case, I’ll be happy to escort you straight to Fuller’s apartment,” he said. “Which number did you say it was, Fuller?”

Chris locked eyes with me. “Seven.”

“Seven!” Khuri cackled. “Right across the hall from the vic, eh? Lotsa stuff to explain, Fuller. Lotsa stuff. Come on, Miss Indian Affairs, I’ll make sure you don’t get lost and accidentally walk into a crime scene.”

Chris and I made our way silently through the lobby and up the stairs with Deputy Khuri whistling merrily between us.

As with the street outside, the hallway of the second floor was filled with officers. The stench of death hung in the air—sharp, metallic, and rotten. Chris pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to me, then he disappeared into the open door of apartment number nine.

“Here we go,” Khuri said, leading me across the hall to a door with a black metal 7 nailed just under its peephole. “The place you were definitely planning to go all along and nowhere else. I’ll just post up out here and keep an eye on things so nobody bothers you.”

I drew this human body up to its full height and lifted my chin. “You may do whatever you wish, Deputy.”

It took me several tries to figure out how the key worked. The People do not have locks because we have no reason for them, and I usually preferred to smash my way through locked doors rather than unlock them. As this was my friend’s home, however, I resisted the urge to crush his door to toothpicks.

Deputy Khuri watched my struggles with an equal amount of amusement and bewilderment. I ignored him and focused on the lock. After a complicated series of movements involving inserting the key, twisting it to the exact correct degree, and jiggling the handle, the door swung inward.

I looked at Khuri, feeling a scorch-insult was necessary to the occasion.

“Thank you for your assistance,” I said most sarcastically, then went inside and slammed the door behind me.

In the dim light shining through the blinds, I saw that I was in a sitting room not unlike the one in the Great Redwood. Except, of course, scaled down to human size. A case of books lined one wall, and a leather sofa rested against another with a scratched coffee table in front. A television sat directly across from the couch on a black particleboard entertainment center stacked with DVD cases and a video game console.

This place smelled of Chris, but faintly, as if he did not spend much time here.

On the coffee table sat a picture frame with a brightly lit LCD screen instead of glass. I crept closer and squatted down to inspect it. As I watched, the frame rotated through pictures: A younger version of Chris wearing a black uniform being hugged by an older woman with his dark eyes beaming with pride. A young woman with Chris’s nose and sandy hair, her arm slung around Chris’s neck, both of them wearing conical party hats and blowing noisemakers at the camera. A pair of young boys climbing on Chris’s back and throwing handfuls of dead leaves at him. One of the boys standing in front of a whiteboard dressed as a policeman and holding a sign that read When I grow up, I want to be.

Taped to the frame was a note in much neater handwriting than Chris was capable of producing.

Hang up some pictures, weirdo. This place looks like a hotel with no housekeeping.

Love,

Your favorite sister

The yowl of an angry mountain cat startled me from studying the note. My heart thundered in my ears, and I threw up a veil reflexively as I searched for the creature.

A shadow flitted across my field of vision, but the bright screen of the picture frame had tainted my dark vision. All I could see was twin pinpricks of light flashing in the darkness, looking directly through my veil. Belatedly, I realized that I smelled warm fur and feline scent glands.

“I greet you, brother cat,” I said, dispelling the veil.

The cat hissed and darted through a door into what looked like a bedroom. The comforter and sheets hanging off the unmade bed swished as he disappeared under them.

I smiled. He was exactly like his wild cousins.

The apartment door opened. I spun around as Chris turned the overhead light on. The smile died on my lips.

He was scowling. He ran a hand down his face, took a few steps into the room, and slammed a fist into the side of the entertainment center, shaking the television and spilling a few of the DVD cases onto the floor.

“She played us!” he yelled. “While we were screwing around fighting that stegosaurus, she was here dicing up the nicest damn guy in this building.”

“Chris—”

“When I moved in, Brandstatter helped me carry half this crap up the stairs, and then he brought me beers to celebrate the new place. The guy lives right across from a damn cop, and he still got murdered because the cop fell for the oldest distraction in the book!”

“Chris, this was not your fault. Anukite is known for her cunning. She was a quiller before she was cursed, Chris.” I let that sink in. “A quiller.”

The air whooshed out of his lungs in a heavy sigh, and he shook his head. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to signify, Winona.”

“She tricked porcupines out of their quills and wove these quills into beautiful robes. It is an art which requires great cunning,” I explained. “This is a thing all People know.”

“Not my people,” Chris said. “How the hell are we supposed to catch somebody who’s magic? Where do we even start looking? Grimm’s Fairy Tales? Because as of right now, I’m out of real leads. I’ve got a body right on my doorstep and not a damn thing I can do about it.”

“Perhaps you have exhausted all of your legal channels.” I slammed my fist into my open palm as an idea trickled into the back of my mind. “But that only means it is time for you to try exhausting my channel.”

Chris planted his hands on his hips and squinted at my face as if he were searching for any trace of deception. Given all of the lies I had told him thus far, I could not hold up under the scrutiny for long.

“Why are you staring at me?” I snapped, shifting uncomfortably under this stare.

“Come on!” he said, tilting his head at me. “That was an innuendo. Admit it.”

“An innuendo?” My eyebrows scrunched together as I tried to recall something suggestive I might have said. “About the quilling?”

Chris waved his hand dismissively and sighed. “Forget it. Which one of your channels do you want me to explore, fairy princess?”

“We must get past Deputy Khuri first.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Chris said. “Greene sent Khuri back down to watch the front entrance while CSI processes the scene. We can go out the back. Where we sneaking off to?”

“Lolo,” I said.

TWENTY-TWO:

Sanctuary

“So, when are you going to tell me what’s in Lolo?” Chris asked as we pulled away from the crime scene.

I watched Deputy Khuri shrinking in the rearview mirror until the flashing red and blue lights swallowed him up.

“I told you of the mostly harmless creatures from Outworld who live and work within your society, the ones who go unnoticed by your people,” I said.

Chris nodded. “The Illuminati, right?”

I snorted and shook my head. “The Illuminati are obsessed with the purity of human blood, Chris. They would never allow an Outworlder to join.”

“You know, sooner or later I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut and just let you say what you were planning to say,” Chris said, turning us onto the highway, heading south. “Tell me about these creatures and how they relate to us going to Lolo.”

The wind from my broken window whipped the long black hair the amulet had given me into my eyes and mouth. I gathered it the best I could and held it away from my face.

“At times, beings of Outworld intermingle with your people and produce offspring,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the wind. “Halfies these offspring are called. As creatures of both worlds, many feel they will never be accepted by humans and so return to Outworld. Others settle in this world and integrate into the society they already know, disguised as humans. The safest and simplest places for halfies and purebloods to live in Inworld are Sanctuary towns. Lolo is one such place.”

“Seriously?” Chris asked. “Lolo, Montana? The same Lolo that’s barely big enough for a supermarket, that’s the place where all the monsters settle down?”

“They are not monsters,” I snapped, squirming in my seat as if I could burrow my shoulders into the leather. “Not all of them, anyway.”

“Sorry,” Chris said. “I don’t mean to be … racist, I guess. I’m just having some trouble imagining a small-town speed trap like Lolo full of giant stegosaurus-bears and roving gangs of cannibal little people.”

“Evil is not tolerated in Sanctuary towns in any form,” I explained, glancing at the trees rushing past us in the night, feeling calmed by their presence. “The Outworlders who live there look and function almost indistinguishable from your people. And they never eat humans. It is part of the Sanctuary agreement.”

“So, basically, these are just immigrants trying to get by,” Chris said, nodding. “Yeah. Okay. I can get on board with that.”

The grub of guilt returned to my stomach. I chewed the inside of my lip. Here was even more evidence that Chris was a good man. I should have told him the truth when he asked what I was. He would have understood that I was not a monster, that I was on his side.

I could tell him now, I thought.

But to say he understood while far away from a halfie was one thing. The People have a saying—“All with mouths will speak; few with mouths will act.” Chris might claim to understand now, but if I were to show him my true form right here in the cruiser, his reaction might be completely different. After all, only moments ago, he had assumed all Outworlders were monsters. True, he had said he did not mean to assume, but could the second thoughts of a human really be trusted?

Purposely casting my friend in an unflattering light just so I would not have to tell him the truth only served to increase my self-loathing. I slumped lower in my seat.

Chris misunderstood my change in posture as being related to the wind blowing in through the broken window. “I should’ve grabbed a trash bag or something from my apartment to cover that up. We’ll stop by Walmart on the way out of town, get some cardboard and some clothes that don’t make us look like mass murder victims.”

As we drove, the wind worked the shorter hairs from my grasp and sent them slapping at my face again. I attempted to rake these back into my hand, only to lose control of the longer hairs. Human hair was a battle that could not be won.

Chris cleared his throat. “So, is it, uh, offensive of me to assume that because this Anukite thing is an evil monster, you’re suggesting we go to Lolo the Supernatural Sanctuary Town to flush out some magical informants who might know where she is?”

“I am not offended by this,” I said, letting go of my hair. Immediately the lengths were whipped into the swirling air currents from my window. I squinted to protect my eyes. “It is a very logical assumption. I know of a halfie who lives in Lolo who we can speak to. He owns the pawnshop and has a reputation for dabbling in the black market.”

“Hold on,” Chris said, opening one hand on the wheel as if to stop me. “Just a second ago you told me these were good people—creatures—whatever—just trying to get their piece of the American dream.”

“Most of them are,” I insisted. “Merv, however … is less so. But he often traffics as an information broker, and it is not only Anukite we are searching for.”

“Please tell me there aren’t any more giant predators known to hang out with her.”

“No, I do not believe there is anyone left for us to face now but Anukite herself. However, I cannot escape the feeling that Nora Corley is involved in this somehow. I told you all that she said after you left, but it is not this that concerns me most. She smelled …” I searched for an appropriate description of the olfactory confusion and came up empty-handed. “Not human,” I finished weakly.

“You think she’s one of these Outworld creatures in disguise? A halfie?”

“I do not know exactly,” I said. “She did not smell or look like a halfie. But she did not smell purely human, either. Perhaps she is second or third generation. Her blood diluted.” I shrugged.

Chris tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel while he thought this over. “This is new territory for me. In your experience, what’re the odds that one supernatural being would be involved coincidentally in a murder where another supernatural being is the killer?”

“I am hoping Merv will be able to tell us.”

We pulled into the Walmart parking lot, Chris once again bringing us to a stop far away from the other cars. He got out of the cruiser, then leaned back inside to look at me.

“Aren’t you going to ask if you can come in with me?” he asked.

I shook my head. The way I had been behaving lately, I did not deserve to see the interior of an Inworld store. Especially not a place as majestic as this Walmart.

He lingered a moment longer, fingers absently drumming on his thigh. “You all right, fairy princess?”

“I am only tired,” I said. This, at least, was not a lie. Deception was exhausting work. I could not fathom where villains found the emotional stamina to do it for extended periods of time.

“Do you need to reconnect with nature while I run in?” Chris asked. “Get an extra shot of magic so you can keep going?” He glanced around, then jerked his head toward the edge of the parking lot. “There’s a strip of grass over there. Or is that a stupid suggestion? Can you draw on the earth through asphalt?”

I forced what felt like a very weak smile. “I am fine, thank you.”

“All right, I’ll be back in a sec,” he said, backing out of the cruiser and slamming the door. Chris started toward the entrance, but as he passed my broken window, he gave me a lopsided grin. “You rest up. I’m supposed to be the one exhausting your channels, not this investigation.”

I leaned back in the seat. After a moment, I reached out and directed the heater vents toward my body. Without the wind tearing through my hair, this car was actually quite warm and cozy. I closed my eyes, intending to open them again right away.

Plastic bags rustled in the wind.

“Winona,” came someone’s voice. No, not just someone’s. Chris’s.

I bolted upright, wiping a bit of wetness from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. My friend was standing outside my window, his hands full of plastic bags.

He passed one through the window. “Unless you complain, I’m going to keep getting you the exact same stuff.”

I pulled out the pink flannel and denim.

“I like these very much,” I said. “Thank you.”

Eager to be out of the blood-encrusted clothing, I unbuttoned the old shirt and pulled it off.

“Hoookay.” Chris spun on his heel suddenly, looking away. “How ’bout you thank me by giving me some warning when you’re about to get naked?”

“Chris, I am about to get naked,” I said, pulling on the new shirt.

He chuckled. “If sarcasm was on our list, I officially revoke it. You seem pretty familiar with its use.”

“Perhaps I am learning from you.” I peeled off the jeans next and replaced them with the new pair. “I am clothed again. You may stop watching this empty parking lot for anyone who might see me.”

Chris turned around and started pulling duct tape and garbage bags out of the other plastic sacks.

“I was giving you some privacy,” he said.

“Privacy that I did not require,” I pointed out.

“Well, maybe I did.” He opened my door and folded a garbage bag over the window. “Now, hold this while I grab a piece of tape.”

TWENTY-THREE:

Fallout

The ride to Lolo was much more pleasant without the cold October wind assaulting us. In my true form, I had never noticed the bite of the winter cold, but as a frail, hairless Little Sister, it was hard to think of much else. The black garbage bag whipped and buzzed as we drove, but it held out most of the noise from the highway and held in most of the warmth from the heater. Chris tried to get the music working again, but was unable to make it stop playing the same note over and over again. He concluded that the collision with Yawkwawiak must have damaged the CD player. After a few minutes of fiddling, he silenced the player, and we rode in relative quiet.

Once in Lolo, I directed Chris to our destination: a square concrete building, painted a harsh shade of green, which stood out even in the dim streetlight. Yellow neon letters spelled out Froggy’s Pawn amongst flashing green and pink lily pads.

“Place’s lit up like a casino,” Chris mumbled as he shut off the cruiser.

“Merv is not known for his subtlety,” I agreed.

The air nipped at our exposed flesh as we jogged from the cruiser to the pawnshop’s entrance. The temperature had dropped drastically since we left Missoula, and the scent of snow hung in the air.

The sound of running water greeted us when we stepped inside. Just in front of the door lay an eight-foot-by-ten-foot green-tiled pond populated by flowing strands of waterweed and drifting colonies of algae. A tiny alligator snapping turtle surfaced, raising its snout for air. When it saw us, it ducked back under the water, stirring up a cloud of greenish muck.

“Guess we know where he got the name,” Chris whispered to me, stealing sidelong glances at the pool.

I did not have time to correct his assumption, for in the next moment, a door behind the long glass display counter slammed open and a booming voice shouted, “Come in, come in! I have half price on all electric guitars today through Monday only.”

In contrast to his enormous voice, Merv was actually quite small—a squat dark-skinned man in a pinstriped waistcoat and patched trousers. His wide human face was covered in a patchy beard, and he covered his hairless head with a straw boater hat with a speckled ribbon hanging from the back. Unlike many halfies, Merv’s human skin fit well, and its shiny complexion could be easily attributed to sweat or grease. His eyes, however, were not quite right. The bulging could be explained away by any number of diseases and disorders, but anyone who knew he was not human would spot the fat, almond-shaped pupil and lace-patterned iris as soon as they saw him.

It was these eyes which leapt over me in a flash and settled firmly on Chris’s badge and gun. Merv’s tongue darted out to lick his thin lips, and he tucked his meaty fingers into the pockets of his straining waistcoat.

Chris saw the change in attitude and wasted no time pressing his advantage.

“Merv Benevides?” he asked, giving the name I had supplied him with.

“If you’re here about the Saturday night special, officer, I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed.” He grabbed the lapels of his waistcoat and raised his chinless head. “I have never and will never supply weapons to those undesirables with a criminal history. We here at Froggy’s Pawn have a strict policy of—”

“Save the filibuster, Mr. Benevides. I’m not here investigating any hot firearms. Yet. Especially not if you can help me out,” Chris said, pulling out his phone. He opened the picture of Nora Corley and pushed it across the counter toward Merv. “What can you tell me about this woman?”

Merv inclined his head enough to study the picture. He blinked his bulging eyes slightly out of sync, then shrugged his round shoulders.

“Never seen her before, officer.”

“Never, huh?” Chris said. “You’ve been in business here how long?”

“Shop’s been in the family for sixty years next January. You should come back then. We’re having an anniversary doorbuster. Seventy-five percent off select—”

“Your family’s been in Lolo for sixty years, and yet you’ve never seen Nora Corley? She grew up here.”

“Looks a little young for my crowd,” Merv hedged. “But Corley … now, that name sounds familiar. She’s not related to that heroic young officer who lost his life this past week, is she?”

Chris nodded. “She’s the widow. Maybe you remember her by her maiden name—Walker.”

“Walker.” Merv’s eyes flicked closed and open again, still just out of time with one another. He sighed. Shrugged. “I’ve had a few dealings with a Ms. Sue Walker. She pawned a few signed records, some jewelry, but never picked them up. It happens now and again, especially in a community as poor as this.” He leaned in and lowered his voice as if we were not the only customers in the shop. “Nice lady, but I think she might be losing the fight with the bottle, if you know what I mean.”

I rolled my eyes. We were getting nowhere like this. I searched the shelves behind the counter.

There. A delicate blue-and-white patterned porcelain jar with a lid.

“How many humans have you drowned in your pond, Merv?” I interrupted.

His bulging gaze jumped to me. “Drowned?” He chirped an unconvincing laugh. “In that glorified kiddie pool?”

“It violates your agreement with the Lucis Venántum.” I pointed at his porcelain jar. “You may lose your right to Sanctuary if they were to learn that you have been collecting human souls.”

“Now, see here, young lady, I don’t know what all this nonsense is about, but I won’t be accused of murder in my own—”

“And if no answer comes from the Lucis Venántum, then there will be trouble with the People of the Forest,” I said, flexing my hands, then curling them into tight fists. “They do not look kindly on such infractions in their territory. And Lolo is their territory.” My eyes flashed. “I may, however, be inclined to forget what I have seen if you will provide us with the information we need.”

Merv’s gaze narrowed and a sly smile rippled across his face. His flesh mask slipped away, revealing the wet, frog-like head and mossy stubble beneath. He shook one gray-green webbed finger at me.

“Princess Winona,” he said, his forefangs flashing. “In my store, of all places! You had me going for a second there. I didn’t recognize you.” He leaned over the counter to study my body. “It’s top quality. Doesn’t look homemade at all.”

I glanced at Chris, fearful he might have realized what the half-vodník was implying, but Chris did not look as if he were following the conversation at all. He had taken a huge step back from the counter when Merv revealed his true form, and he was not breathing. His hand rested on the butt of his sidearm and shook slightly as if he were fighting the impulse to draw.

Careful not to startle him, I reached out and touched his elbow. Chris’s dark eyes met mine. He blew out a whooshing breath, then began to breathe again almost normally. Very slowly, he took his hand away from the gun.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I wasn’t expecting …”

“It is all right.” I took my hand back and turned to our informant. “Merv, we need to know how Nora Corley—formerly Walker—fits into the halfie community. We understand that her mother lives here, and we are aware that Nora is not exactly human. What can you tell us about her?”

The vodník tipped the brim of his boater hat back with one webbed finger. “What’s the information worth to you?”

“This is a matter of life and death,” I told him. “Six humans have been killed already. To me, it would be worth forgetting that I saw your soul pot long enough for you to release the soul voluntarily.”

“Psh, that? My father collected that back in the Old Country before he immigrated. One of the czars, I’m told. I’ve never taken one, myself. Though not for lack of trying.” He winked at me. “But once I figured out half-vodníci can’t collect, I gave up chasing the futile and started going after the retail.” He swept his arm around to indicate the shop, then grabbed his lapels again. “Anywho, I don’t see what your interest in these murders is, Princess. Since when did you Sasquatch-types ever care what happened in the human world?”

“Wait,” Chris said, turning his ear toward Merv as if he had not heard correctly. “What’s this about Sasquatch-types?” He looked at me. “You’re a medicine woman. You said you were.”

I opened my mouth, not certain what I would say, but desperate to babble my way out of this situation in any way possible.

But Merv’s booming laughter cut me off. “Yeah, sport, she’s a medicine woman, all right. An eight-foot-tall medicine woman with size nineteen feet and more shag than a 70s’ carpet. What? Didn’t she tell you?”

“What’s he talking about, Winona?” Chris asked. He took a step toward me. “You said you were human. You looked me in the eye and said, ‘I am no less human than you,’ in your weird fairy princess talk. You’re human, right?”

My mouth opened, but no words came out. I could not think of a single thing to say. The image of a sandy riverbank crumbling into the water ran through my mind in an endless cycle.

Chris tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Of course. I took it hook, line, and sinker just because I …” He gave a humorless laugh and shook his head, looking at me. “I didn’t even follow up and check your facts. I just let you lie to me. What are you, Winona? I want to see.”

“Chris, I—”

“No!” he yelled, slashing his hand through the air. “I’m done listening to your lies. Show me what you really are.”

The words of my father rang through my head: Ripples flow outward until they reach the shore. Suddenly, I could see the clear path I had walked to get here. My arrogance had led to disobedience, my disobedience to the theft of the amulet, the amulet to lies about who I was, the lies to the ruin of my friendship with Chris. Every step of the way, my spirit tried to warn me of the destruction I was causing, but I had ignored it.

The only sound in the pawn shop was the trickling water and Chris’s heavy breathing. Merv had shrunk back behind the counter as if afraid this argument might become violent. If it did, I knew I would have no one to blame but myself.

I hung my head, the black hair of this false body falling around my face like a curtain. With shaking hands, I reached behind my neck and unclasped the amulet.

The warble of the courting flute sounded shrill in my ears, and the jingling Chegah-Skah-Hdah sent shivers down my spine. I could not tell whether the pounding I heard was the rhythm of the frame drum or the beating of my heart.

Slowly, the long black veil hiding my face from Chris’s pulled back into my scalp. My hair returned to its natural auburn color and spread all over my body. The third set of human clothes Chris had given me ripped at the seams as I outgrew them.

I could not look at my friend’s face. I watched his cowboy boots take a step away from me, then another.

“You told me—you swore to me—” Chris stuttered, his voice filled with disgust. “I trusted you, Winona. I liked you.”

Tears burned in my eyes, blurring my vision.

I swallowed the pain in my throat. “I am sorry. It was not my intention to—”

“To lie to my face?” His shout rang through the pawnshop like a gunshot.

“Chris—”

“No, forget it. Forget this. I’m out.”

His boots stomped across the tile floor. The door swung open, the electronic chime dinging in his wake. Before the door had fully closed, the cruiser’s engine roared to life. A moment later, tires squealed, and a single headlight flashed across the pawnshop’s windows as the cruiser whirled around and disappeared into the night.

I let out a shuddering breath.

Behind the counter, Merv crept back to standing. “Princess, I’m sorry. Really, I am. I didn’t think. Well, I guess I assumed he’d take it better, you know? The way he kept making those puppy dog eyes at you … I mean, sometimes the ones who’re really into you are willing to overlook the differences, but … You just never know with humans. They’re so—”

I sniffed hard and wiped my eyes. “Please just tell me what you know about Nora Corley.”

“Sure thing, kid. Yeah.” Merv straightened his boater. “She’s not a halfie, but her mom’s got some ties here. Walker’s the daughter of some Indian halfie, born and raised right here in the community.” He chirped a weak laugh. “Guess that makes this Nora kid an eighthie or something, huh?”

“Can you tell me where Ms. Walker lives?” I asked, clearing my throat to disguise the threatening flood of fresh tears.

“Let me check my records.”

He disappeared, and I used his absence to compose myself. One deep breath after another. If I could stop Anukite before she took another life, then perhaps I could salvage some small bit of this folly. I clenched my fists at my sides. The damage I had done pursuing her this far demanded recompense.

The vodník returned carrying a business card with an address and a crude map of Lolo scribbled on the back. “It’s on the other side of town,” he said, handing it to me. “Pretty run-down place, if I’m thinking of the right house.”

I cleared my throat. “Thank you, Merv.”

“You’re, uh, planning to forget about my dad’s old collector’s item, aren’t you?” he asked. “You did say you would if I helped you out.”

“I promise I will not speak of it until the next full moon,” I said, turning to leave. “By then, you will have done the right thing.”

“I sure will, Princess,” he called after me. “You’re good people, you People. And forget about that guy. If he can’t deal with the truth, then he’s not worth—”

I tore open the door and fled out into the cold, dark night.

TWENTY-FOUR:

Roots and Legends

Hidden behind a veil, I followed Merv’s directions and the street signs across town to a residential area. Rows of well-maintained houses blurred by on either side of me. Decorations hung from the limbs of trees and stuck up like teeth from otherwise neat lawns. Fluttering white plastic with screaming black eyes. Flashing orange and purple lights. Fluorescent cottony strands. Inflatable spiders larger than myself. Thin Styrofoam painted to look like stone and marked with the letters “R.I.P.” Carved pumpkins littered doorsteps, many glowing from within, lit by what looked like dim corpse candles.

Try as I might, I could not get these winking lights and strange ornamentation to resolve into anything I understood. How foreign this human world was. My father was right, I did not belong in this place. Even lying through my teeth, I had not fit in among the humans. In my fist, I clutched the amulet that had served as the focus for my deceptions. What would have happened if I had been honest with Chris from the beginning? Would it have mattered at all?

I huffed bitterly to myself. Of course it would have mattered. Perhaps Chris still would have thought me a monster, but at least my own spirit would have remained untainted by lies, my conscience clean. I would have behaved as a daughter of the People should, and that would have made all the difference. This pain and shame would not have been of my own making.

Beyond Lolo, the dark shapes of the mountains stood out against the moonlit sky. Far away from human influence, hidden in that beautiful wild, was the door to my home. My heart ached for the Sacred Grove—ached to walk among the Great Trees and stare up at the bright and scattered stars which never seemed as visible from this world. I longed to return to my room in Nookomis Giihzig, the Great Redwood, to stretch out on my own pallet, and breathe in the familiar scents of the herbs and cures.

I would stop Anukite, then I would return and face the shame of what I had done. Regardless of what the humans thought of me—regardless of how I felt—Anukite was still the responsibility of the People.

Near the edge of town, I found Sue Walker’s residence. The house was set back from the road, its porch roof falling in and its weathered wood siding speckled in places with paint chips of an unidentifiable color. The grass in the yard was brown and dead, the longest patch tangled around a rusted, gray-brown sedan. A pair of tiny faces peered at me through the broken back windshield as I went down the driveway, and I smelled the gamey trash-scent of a family of racoons.

I hesitated at the edge of the sagging porch, uncertain how I should approach this woman. A cowardly voice whispered to me that one more lie would be necessary—that to show my true form would send this woman into a panic. If I wanted to get to the root of this investigation, the voice reasoned, the amulet was my only option.

I rubbed the face of the amulet absently with one thumb, which suddenly felt too large. The threads wrapped around the medicine wheel bumped along the whorls and lines of my thumbprint. I could not see their colors in the thin moonlight, but I knew their meanings. The journey from light to dark, from childish naivety to knowledge. Could I say I had learned anything if I hid myself once more behind a false face? Would I now convince myself that there was honor in deceit?

No, I could not repeat the same actions and expect a different result. I was Winona Treesinger, Daughter of Chief Chankoowashtay, Heir Apparent, and Future Chieftain of the People of the Forest. I would not hide myself any longer.

I climbed onto the porch, the rotting boards groaning dangerously under my weight. I opened the screen and was about to knock on the peeling paint of the warped wooden door inside when it swung wide. The two-eyed glare of a double barrel shotgun chased me away from the threshold.

“You get on outta here, whatever the hell you are,” a female voice growled. “I don’t want no part of this. Bullets might not kill you, but I’m loaded for bear, so it ain’t gonna be no cakewalk, neither.”

Attached to the other end of the shotgun was a woman as frail as Nora Corley, too thin, with skin that looked oddly waxy in the bare bulb illumination spilling out from inside. Her long black hair hung over her bony shoulders, hiding her face in shadow. The sharp smell of liquor emanated from her small form, but her hands held the gun steady.

“Please, Ms. Walker,” I said. “This is about your daughter, Nora.”

The shotgun swung my way, settling on my chest in spite of the veil hiding me from sight.

“I don’t talk to disembodied voices coming outta the night,” Sue Walker said. “Show yourself or I start shooting.”

I braced myself and dispelled the veil, raising my hands in a gesture of peace. Sue gasped and took a step back. But she did not pull the triggers.

“Please do not be afraid,” I rushed to explain. “I am a winyan wakan of the Chiye-tanka. A powerful medicine woman—”

“I ain’t so white that I don’t know what a winyan wakan is, Elder Sister,” Sue said, lowering the shotgun to the ground. The tension leaked from my shoulders, and I breathed a sigh of relief to have the gun pointed away. “You better get in here if you don’t want no bigfoot hunters seeing ya.”

She stood back and held open the door for me. I squeezed myself into a sparsely furnished but neat kitchen. A fifth of whiskey sat open on a scrubbed table, only a few inches of the amber liquor remaining in the bottom.

Sue noticed that I was looking at the bottle. She dropped into a seat and picked it up, offering it to me.

“No, thank you,” I said solemnly, hoping I did not offend her.

She shrugged and took a deep drink, grimacing as she swallowed.

I stood beside the sink, leaning against the counter.

“Ms. Walker, I need to speak to you about your daughter. A terrible evil is loose in your world, and I am afraid Nora is involved. When I spoke to her today, she said she did not believe in the old stories, but—”

Sue tipped back her head and cackled like an old crow. “Nope, not my Nora. You know what she told me when she was four years old? We were camping, and I was telling her the tale of the ghost witch and the lost hunters, and she tells me—this little baby wearing pink-dotted mud boots—‘I’m too old for make-believes, Mama.’ Can you believe that? Four years old!” Pride and sadness battled across the wrinkled expanse of Sue’s face. “No, there ain’t no such thing as magic to my little girl.”

“You have not told her of your heritage?” I asked.

“I was trying,” Sue said, shaking her head. Then, as if she had realized what I said, she looked up at me. “Heritage? You know?”

“I spoke to Merv Benevides at the pawnshop,” I admitted. “But even if I had not, I can smell that she is no ordinary human. Neither are you. Were you trying to tell her the legend of the ghost witch so you could explain the truth about her ancestors?”

Sue nodded, that mix of pride and sadness returning to her face.

“It was my grandfather, the skudakumooch, but the hunters never did burn him like in the story. That’s just make-believes, as Nora would say.” Sue spun the whiskey bottle’s cap on the tabletop. It dropped off the table and rolled under the stove. Sue watched it go. “No, he found my grandmother, settled down, had my mother, and she had me. And every one of us knew the truth until Nora. That girl flat-out wouldn’t hear it.”

“Ms. Walker, Anukite Sharp-Elbows has been murdering humans in Missoula, and I believe Nora is connected somehow.”

She sniffed and nodded. “That, Elder Sister, is why I been keeping the shottie and the Wild Turkey close by.”

“I have come here to stop Anukite and return her to the Spirit World,” I said, “but I must know how she came to Inworld in the first place. Please, if there is anything you can tell me—”

“There’s a lot I can tell you,” Sue interrupted. “But none of it’s good. I tried to do the right thing, give my daughter the life she deserved … I just wanted her to have it better than me. Her dad run off before she was born—good riddance, I said. I’d get my baby what she needed by myself. Worked my fingers to the bone so she could go off to that white man’s college and get herself a degree, and of course the first pretty face she saw she fell in love with.” She paused, staring past me, eyes hazy with memory.

“Bruce,” she said eventually. “He was sweet at first, but I could see what Nora couldn’t.” She grimaced and shook her head. “I met his people at the wedding, all smiles and cake, but they couldn’t hide it. That woman flinched every time her man moved too quick, and them boys? Hell, they looked straight down their noses at her like they’d been watching it their whole lives and couldn’t feel nothing but disgust for her. Wasn’t too long before the honeymoon ended, and Nora found out what kinda things Bruce’s dad taught him about being man of the house.

“I tried to talk her into leaving, but she just wouldn’t hear it. My girl’s always been a headstrong one. At first, Bruce’d do things like tell her he hadn’t meant it, that his temper got outta control and he’d promise to change. After a while, though, Nora was just downright scared to leave. A person gets trapped that way. And Lolo—well, if you know Merv, then you know Lolo—but we used to have a sheriff up in Missoula who knew the community. Dumbass got cocky and ended up corrupting himself right out of a job. The FBI came in and cleaned house. After that, the sheriff’s department was running too low on bodies, so they hired on a buncha folks who’d been blacklisted before for stuff like psychological issues or criminal misdemeanors—including Bruce and his shithead friends.”

Sue glanced up at me. “Excuse the language, Big Sister.”

“It is nothing,” I said.

She accepted this with a gracious nod.

“Having that power, being the law, it made Bruce even worse. There was one night he beat her so bad, she—” Sue’s voice cracked. She swallowed hard before she could continue. “Nora was two months pregnant, and she lost the baby. I tried to get her to come home from the hospital with me, leave that asshole behind, but she called the cops instead and reported him.”

I clenched my fists at my sides, certain I knew where this was going, but unwilling to interrupt. This was a story Sue needed to tell as much as I needed to hear it. Evils like this required witnesses, rememberers.

“Course, being best friends with Bruce, they didn’t do shit,” Sue growled. “Except rat her out to Bruce. He come home that night and damn near killed her. Told her he would if she ever tried to ruin his good name like that again.” Her shoulders stooped in defeat and she let out a hateful cackle. “Good name. Yeah. That was a couple weeks ago. I didn’t hear out of her for days after that. She wouldn’t answer her phone, wouldn’t text me back. I had to go over there while Bruce was working just so I could talk to her, and of course she was too scared to leave him. All I could do was give her the book.”

“The book?” I asked, my head canting slightly, muscles tensing.

Sue took another deep drink, finishing off the bottle, then looked into its open mouth as if she needed more to tell this part of the tale. “My mother gave the book to me when I left home, and Grandfather gave it to her right after my grandmother died, just before he left this world forever. It’s a book full of ancient rites and deadly curses. Bad medicine. I never thought Nora’d use it—it’d just be another make-believe to a girl like her—but I …”

Sue looked up at me, desperation written in the lines of her face. “I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t reach her, and I didn’t want her alone in that trailer with him, defenseless. Even if she never read the book, it was like a piece of Grandfather’s spirit would be there watching over her. And if she ever did use it—the great-granddaughter of the skudakumooch himself …”

A cold chill wriggled down my spinal column in spite of the protection of my hair and the warmth of the kitchen.

“The Double-Faced Woman is here because of me, Elder Sister,” Sue said, in the tone of a woman confessing her crimes. “Because I was hoping … no, praying my daughter would read Grandfather’s book and find something really nasty in there for Bruce. Give him what he deserved. And I guess she did.”

TWENTY-FIVE:

Bad Medicine

The moon was hidden behind a layer of black cloud when I stole out of Lolo. The cold could not reach me through my thick coat of hair, but the scent of snow lay heavy in the air, mingled with a faraway hint of ozone. Intermittent winds gusted down from the mountains, strangely warm for this time of year, and I wondered whether Inworld would see a thundersnow tonight.

It had taken Chris and me half an hour to get to Lolo in his cruiser. Cutting through the backcountry, I made it to Missoula in fifteen minutes. I skirted around the edges of the city under a veil until I came to the rear of the junkyard across the road from the trailer court where Nora lived. I did not want to alert her to my presence before I arrived for fear she would flee. She and I had much to discuss.

Through the cardboard covered windows, I could see no lights on in Nora’s trailer, and no vehicle sat in her driveway. Remembering, however, her insistence that Chris get the sheriff to return her husband’s truck so she would not have to walk around town, I approached the trailer cautiously. She did not have a vehicle of her own, and so it was possible she was sleeping or even passed out, given the liquor bottles I’d seen earlier. When I came to the porch, I saw that the screen door had been torn from its hinges. The inner door hung open wide, leaving a gaping black cavern leading into the trailer. A draft from inside blew the scent of alcohol and garbage out to meet me.

“Nora?” I called softly, stepping inside.

Plastic food wrappers and coffee grounds gritted against the bottoms of my feet with every step. My eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly. The kitchen, which had been a mess before, was now a disaster. Food-encrusted silverware and shards of broken plates and bowls lay scattered across the floor, adding to the layer of trash that had already been there. The refrigerator had been overturned while open, and various liquids leaked from beneath. A chair lay on its side by the stove, one leg bent outward, and the dropleaf table had been ripped from its moorings on the wall and tossed carelessly down the hallway.

“Nora? Are you here?”

No response. I held very still and concentrated, flattening the soles of my feet against the curling linoleum floor. I could not feel the slightest vibration which might indicate a living being hiding in the trailer. I was alone.

There was no time to wait. Anukite had killed once already this night, and she could be stalking Missoula for another victim even now. I had to find some sort of clue as to where Nora had gone. I needed to find her, to find a way to undo the evil she had unleashed upon Inworld. I glanced around the room, wondering where to begin the search. Panic and hopelessness attempted to find a foothold in my mind, telling me that I had no hope of finding anything in this mess. I shoved it away. If the kitchen was an impossible task, then I would save it for last, when I had exhausted all other options.

Turning my back on the trash-strewn room, I followed the path of destruction down the shadowed hallway, angling my shoulders to fit its human dimensions. The first doorway revealed a bathroom too small for me to turn around in. A dusty vase of fake flowers had been overturned in the sink, the lid of the toilet tank sat misaligned but whole, and a ripped shower curtain hung from a single ring. I leaned the upper half of my body inside the little room, tipping the trash can toward me so that I could see inside. No needles or drug paraphernalia, only wadded toilet paper.

I squeezed my way in farther and opened the medicine cabinet over the sink. It was filled with the usual chemicals humans put into their bodies for headaches, constipation, diarrhea, allergies, and colds, as well as saline solution, a contact case, and a pair of glasses. If Chris were there, I could have asked him whether any of it was unusual. Perhaps he would have had some insight into these humans that I did not. But I could not ask him. I was on my own.

The hopelessness spoke up again, more insistent this time. You are out of your depth, it said. You would not know a clue even if you saw one. Perhaps there was truth in that. These were humans I was attempting to understand, the least logical of all Inworld creatures. Any of this trash could mean anything, and I had no chance of deciphering it in time to stop Anukite.

I backed out of the bathroom and took a deep breath to drive the doubts from my mind. Panic would help no one. Once more, slowly, inhale through the nostrils—

I froze. Had I smelled … blood?

I took another breath. Deeper. Filling my lungs.

The scent was faint, almost hidden beneath the stink of liquor, but it was there. Human blood. I followed it to the end of the hallway and through another door. An unmade bed sat between a pair of nightstands. Across the room, a flat screen television sat on top of a dresser. Layers of clothes had been thrown to the floor—dresses, uniforms, suits, and slacks—many with wire or plastic hangers still inside. A cold draft blew in through one of the boarded-over windows, shifting the curtains and moving the shadows on the wall, making the whole room appear as if it were underwater.

The scent of blood was stronger here, though still not as hot or powerful as freshly spilled blood.

I crossed the room, sniffing it out.

The mirrored sliding door of the closet hung askew on its track, its glass shattered in a spiderweb pattern. Stuck to a sliver of glass at the center of the spiderweb was a strand of blonde-brown hair and a russet smear. Unbidden, the image of Nora’s frail head smashed face-first into this door propelled by a large male hand flashed through my mind. I flinched away from the imagined crunch of the impact.

This tiny spot of blood was not enough to explain the strength of the smell, however. I reached out and, with a little difficulty, forced the shattered door to roll out of the way.

Inside, a ritual area had been set up, but backward, wrong. Four candles stood at the four points of some unknown and unnatural compass, a twisted thing the antithesis of everything a medicine wheel should represent. Looking at it made my teeth ache and my hair prickle all down my spine. I had to suppress the urge to destroy or correct it. Sigils marked each of the alien compass points, glowing a sickly peach-green with some unidentified power. At the center of this eerie compass sat one of Nora’s kitchen bowls, filled with dried human blood.

The words of Sue Walker echoed in my mind—Bad medicine.

There is no worse medicine than that which requires the essence of living beings. Vim.

Next to the ritual area lay a toppled mostly empty bottle of vodka and an old journal whose yellowed pages were filled with beautiful threadlike writing and careful illustrations. The book was open to a page of writing interspersed with drawings of the sigils that had been used in the shrine. I sank to my knees before it and studied the page. It was not a spell to release Anukite into this world as I had suspected, but a curse to exact vengeance.

Nora was channeling the demonic spirit.

That explained why the victims were so unlike Anukite’s usual prey—Nora was partially controlling her. But according to the book, this ritual was meant only to summon Anukite’s spirit once, to take revenge on a single victim before returning her to the Spirit World.

I scanned the wording and drawings again, comparing them to the ritual area and searching for inconsistencies or mistakes. The unnatural compass was exactly as described, twisted and wrong. The strange sigils had been reproduced correctly. The bowl of blood had been offered from Nora herself, if she had followed the instructions.

My gaze came to rest on the vodka bottle, lying on its side with its open mouth aimed at the heart of the strange compass. The sharp chemical scent of the liquor tingled inside my nose as if looking at it had triggered the odor. I pressed my fingertips to the carpet, tracing the path of a potential spill.

There.

The line of a sigil marking the anti-east point of the compass had blurred and run together with the edge of a second sigil, blocking the path that would have ended Anukite’s possession after the first death. According to this ritual, Anukite’s spirit would linger on indefinitely, inhabiting Nora’s body every night when Father Sun left the sky.

I thought back to Nora’s jumpy behavior while Chris and I questioned her. She had not been afraid of being caught with a drug dealer, she had been afraid of the sun going down before we left.

I flipped through the pages of the skudakumooch’s book, searching for any help in reversing this curse, but found only more dark rites and twisted medicine. Either Nora’s great-grandfather had been content to bring evil into the world and let it roam free, or he had not foreseen an instance where his witchery would be improperly performed and need to be corrected.

The only way I knew to banish a spirit was to drive it from the host’s body during possession. Unfortunately, there were only two ways to do that: convince Nora to reject the spirit herself … or damage the host body so badly that it could no longer contain the spirit, as I had done with Yawkwawiak. But in this case, Nora Corley was the host body—she would never survive such a beating. Dark choices. But evil must be destroyed wherever it was found. A monster like Anukite could not be allowed to murder and mutilate unchecked. I closed the book and stood.

I would do whatever necessary to finish this.

I started to leave the bedroom, but turned back to the closet almost immediately. I could not leave it like this. With a swipe of my hand, I knocked aside the bowl of dried blood. I removed the candles from their strange points and peeled up the pools of wax that had cooled at their bases. As the unnatural compass was dismantled, the green-peach glow of the sigils faded. Without power, their ashy lines easily smudged into nonsense under my palm. In their place, I set the candles at the proper points of the compass, lit them, then sung a quick prayer to apologize to the Grandfather Spirit for this perversion.

When I finished with the prayer, I blew out the candles and left the bedroom. To properly cleanse this dwelling, I would need to burn sacred sage and perform a ritual singing four nights in a row, but that was time I did not have at the moment. I had to find Nora before the sun rose and Anukite left her body for another night.

I made my way back through the narrow hallway, my shoulders angled once again to fit. As I stepped out into the dining room slash kitchen, I caught a glimpse of the sitting room on the opposite side of the kitchen wall.

A couch sat in front of a bank of boarded-up windows. Lacy curtains swung lazily in an unfelt breeze as if to distract from the crudeness of the cardboard behind them. Another television sat on an entertainment center, this one twice as large as the one in the bedroom. Beside the couch was a large leather recliner with a cupholder in the arm, an open beer can inside.

In the corner, a shoddy-looking desk leaned slightly to one side and probably would have collapsed had it not been resting against the wall. On the desk sat a personal computer identical to the one Chris had at his desk in the sheriff’s department—though this one was open, its screen rotating through pictures of scantily clad women stretched across the hoods of various muscle cars or drinking beers with the logo turned toward the camera. A little wooden sign hung on the paneled wall above the desk, the words Bruce’s Office painted on it in black letters.

As soon as I touched the computer’s wireless mouse, the pictures of women and cars and beers disappeared, and a familiar screen appeared. I had seen it over Chris’s shoulder at the sheriff’s department while I wrote out my statement. Nora was logged in to the police database. The question of how she had gotten into the database was easily answered—a blue scrap of paper taped just above the keyboard read username: bcorley password: go22grizfootball.

I leaned in for a closer look at the screen. The criminal records for Missoula were open, and a search had been done for “domestic violence.” I clicked through each of the files. One by one the faces of Anukite’s victims filled the screen, from the mailman Otto Jefferson—who had been identified by the surgical screws in his shoulder—to the Brandstatter man who had lived in the apartment across the hall from Chris. In each file, the words “domestic violence” fairly leapt off the page, highlighted in orange.

When I clicked on the final file, my eyes flew open wide and I took a step back.

“No,” I whispered.

Chris was staring back at me wearing his blue dress uniform. I scanned the file. Amongst charges of falsified checks and mail theft were the words “domestic violence” highlighted in bright orange.

It was a mistake, I knew. Chris’s identity had been stolen. Some honorless criminal from Rapid City had been passing himself off as Chris every time he got arrested.

But Nora did not know that—and Anukite would not care.

After everything that had happened, thinking of Chris was painful, but the thought of Anukite butchering him was a thing beyond horror. Perhaps there was no chance I could ever repair what I had damaged between Chris and me. If he could feel nothing for me but hatred, that was deserved. But Chris was a good man. I could not live with myself if I let him come to harm.

I raced from the trailer, the dented screen door ripping off its remaining hinge in my wake. Praying I was not too late, I cast a veil over myself and sprinted down the middle of the gravel road.

TWENTY-SIX:

Face to Double-Face

I left the trailer court, passed the junkyard, then cut through the strip of woods where Yawkwawiak had attacked us. This spit me out onto the highway that led into the heart of Missoula. I stuck to the shoulder—wrapped in a veil—and headed south as fast as I could go, outpacing all but the fastest of vehicles traveling this night. Though I could see the trees, buildings, and cars blurring at my sides, it felt as if I were trying to run in chest-deep mud. Tiny snowflakes danced around me, nearly invisible until passing headlights illuminated them.

Each icy crystal seemed to mock my efforts, claiming I would never reach Chris in time to save him.

As I neared the center of the city, the shoulder disappeared from the road, and the traffic increased. It required all of my concentration to maintain invisibility while dodging between the cars, trucks, and SUVs. The squeal of tires behind me told me that a vehicle had slammed on its brakes. With a concerted effort, I strengthened the rear of my veil and picked up speed. Hopefully, the driver would assume what he had seen was a trick of the light and snow flurries.

I gazed down each street as I passed, terrified I would miss the correct one and have to waste time backtracking through the city to find it. Why had I not paid more attention when we were driving? This gas station looked familiar, and so did that car lot, but that could mean anything. Or nothing. I might have only caught a glimpse of them as we passed.

Finally, what felt like hours later, I spotted the street sign for Stoddard Avenue, the road Chris’s apartment complex was on. Being so close to my destination momentarily lifted my spirits. I put on an extra burst of speed, racing down the center of the road.

The police cruisers that had lined the street earlier were gone, replaced by the parked cars of the regular residents. Without the cruiser’s flashing red and blue lights, the neighborhood seemed strangely dark and lifeless. No gunshots rang out, no obvious signs of disturbance rent the night. All appeared quiet and still. Peaceful, even.

Despite that, I could smell the creature’s unnatural stink. It lingered in the air around the apartment complex as powerfully as in the clearing when I had first seen Anukite. To make matters worse, I could also smell the ripe body odor and toxic breath of the Teihiihan.

Anukite was somewhere close by and so were her minions.

I forced myself to slow to a creep, scrutinizing the area around Chris’s building. No humans or Inworld animals wandered nearby, perhaps kept inside by the late hour and the snowfall. Small, shimmering veils roved among the manicured bushes that lined the building, undeterred by the weather. I counted at least twenty, all clustered around the front entrance, waiting for their next free meal. Thankfully I was downwind of the bloodthirsty little cannibals.

Silent as a thought, I slipped around to the rear of the building and found the door Chris and I had snuck out of earlier. Here only a pair of shimmering Teihiihan veils patrolled.

As I watched, they stalked through the open iron gate to the pool. The pool cover twitched, giving off a muffled watery splash, then twitched again. One of the dwarves was poking it with something sharp. The cover ripped, and I heard gurgling laughter from both tiny throats.

Two Teihiihan were nothing. I could destroy them without a problem, but if I did, their spirits would call the rest of their brethren to the corpses for the Death Feast. Then, the pack would alert their dark mistress to my presence, and Anukite would either flee—free to come back to possess Nora and attack Chris another day—or she would wade into the midst of the battle and fight alongside her minions, leaving me both outnumbered and outmatched. I had no doubt that Anukite would call the Teihiihan pack to her when I finally confronted her, but I wanted to keep the element of surprise on my side for as long as possible beforehand.

I scanned the windows on the second floor. From my place on the ground, I could not tell which, if any, belonged to Chris’s apartment, but each and every one was dark.

A flicker of deja vu nagged at the back of my mind: How many times since the Kinslayer’s defeat had I returned to the Sacred Grove from patrolling to find the hour so late that all Chiye-tanka dwellings were dark? Too many to count, and yet every time I had come home empty-handed, angry to my very core, unable to find any monster to defeat or any wrong to right. Here, finally, was true evil. An affront to nature. A disease that must be eradicated. And only I had the power to stop her.

Perhaps it was suicide to face Anukite alone—she had already proven herself more than capable of beating me in single combat—but I could not help smiling.

I checked that my veil was perfect, then, without a sound, I slipped past the pool enclosure to the back door. The Teihiihan guards did not even look up from playing with the shredded pool cover. I heard another rip and garbled laughter as the door wheezed shut behind me.

At least the snow was not sticking. No evidence of my passing would remain to be found later by more competent patrols.

Inside the building, the stench of unnatural decay was so strong that my eyes burned. If I had not known which apartment Chris lived in, I was certain I would have been able to follow the stink to find it.

More veiled Teihiihan roamed the hall and lobby of the first floor. A quick count gave me at least a dozen. Between the cloud of their body odor and the eye-watering reek of Anukite’s monstrous form, I had no fear of them catching my scent.

I waited for a clear path to the stairs, then snuck past the Teihiihan veils and made my way up to the second floor.

The hall leading to Chris’s apartment was empty. No shimmering veils, no law enforcement personnel. After seeing it bustling with deputies and paramedics earlier this evening, the stillness was eerie. Apartment number nine, the site of the most recent murder, sat unguarded. Stretches of yellow crime scene ribbon crisscrossed the door, and a shiny new latch and padlock had been screwed to the frame. A piece of paper had been taped under the peephole, stating that entry without the express permission of the Missoula County Sheriff’s Department constituted a Class 6 Felony and was punishable by up to two years in jail or a $10,000 fine. No one seemed to have tampered with it since the deputies had left.

Across the hall, however, Chris’s door was a different story. It hung ajar just a hair, enough that I could see the bolt had not caught.

I stopped and listened, straining my ears for any hint of a struggle. No sound came from the apartment. I braced myself, then took a deep breath through my nose. Rancid undeath and decay assailed my nostrils, making my lips pull back in an involuntary grimace, but the hot, coppery scent of freshly spilled human blood was mercifully absent.

The tension gripping my heart eased a degree. I was not too late.

I eased the door open and slipped inside, quiet as a field mouse in the night. A yellow slice of light from the hallway followed me into the darkness of the sitting room, then disappeared as I closed the door behind me. Just as it had earlier that evening, the only illumination came from the streetlights seeping through the blinds and the little electronic picture frame sitting on the coffee table. My eyes searched the room for movement, but found only the lumpy shadow of the couch and the sharp corners of the entertainment center.

Where was Anukite? And where was Chris?

I ghosted a step farther into the room. A picture in the electronic frame caught my attention—the two young boys climbing on Chris’s back and throwing dead leaves at him. When Chris had taken his sister’s call that morning in the sheriff’s department, I overheard him asking her not to tell the boys he was coming over until he knew for sure he would not be working.

A sliver of optimism worked its way into my chest, so desperate that it hurt. Perhaps after the disaster in the pawnshop, Chris had gone to help his sister move as he had promised, and because of the late hour, decided to stay the night. Certainly, after his rejection and anger at learning what I truly was, my heart had longed to return to the familiar embrace of my home and people. Perhaps Chris was the same.

Or perhaps like Achak, my friendship had not mattered at all to Chris. Perhaps he had only been outraged at my lies because I was a monster passing myself off as human.

Wherever Chris was, whatever the truth was, I hoped he would not return until after the sun rose.

A feline yowl raised the hair down the back of my neck, and a furry shadow came rocketing out of the bedroom and disappeared under the couch.

A rasping two-toned chuckle followed close on his heels. Floorboards creaked under an unseen weight.

Eyes locked on the doorway to the bedroom, and concentrating harder than ever on remaining silent, I crept to the wall and pressed my back against the entertainment center. My pulse pounded in my ears, and my legs felt weak. I clenched my hands into fists, determined to strike the moment I saw motion in the doorway.

“Well, if it isn’t the princess who wouldn’t go back to her trees,” the half-feminine, half-grating voice purred. “She was warned not to meddle in things she didn’t understand. Whatever she gets now, she brought on herself.”

A long, spindly arm whipped out of the bedroom, clawed talons grabbing me by the throat before I could move and slamming me into the entertainment center. The television crashed against the wall, plastic and sheetrock cracked, and DVD cases scattered across the floor. I clawed at her scaly hand, but could not pry her talons from my neck.

The clicking of claws crossed the hardwood floor as Anukite came out into the sitting room. The pressure on my throat tightened until it felt as if my eyes would burst from their sockets. Curtains of red light rushed in from the sides, closing my vision down to a single distant pinprick. My body prickled, and my arms went heavy and numb until I could no longer tell whether I was still scrabbling at her talons or my own throat.

Then abruptly, the pressure disappeared. The curtains of red pulled back and Anukite’s face filled my vision, so horrible and beautiful that my reeling mind struggled to comprehend what I was seeing.

“But maybe I will show her mercy if she tells us where the detective is.”

By degrees, my blood-starved brain began to make sense of the leering creature in front of me. No shoddy veil obscured her features this night. Spidery arms and legs, too long and too thin, seemed to bow under the weight of her sagging breasts and distended potbelly. Her fingers and toes were talons sharper than any bird of prey’s, and giant razor-edged spikes jutted from her bony elbows like wicked black thorns. Straight black hair draped itself around her face and over her shoulders like a hooded cloak, and from its depths, a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth glinted at me.

Anukite lifted her chin and leaned in closer, studying me with mismatched eyes—one faded to nearly white and leaking a milky pus, the other as clear and blue as a cloudless summer sky. For the first time, I saw the origin of her name, the Double-Faced Woman. Directly down the center of her face ran a line of scar tissue like a shiny pink mountain range. On one side of the divide was the chalk-white flesh of the demon, crisscrossed with scars. On the other side was the taut flawless red-brown skin of the human she was possessing.

The Anukite side sneered at me—her demon lips pulled up in a lopsided smile—while the Nora Corley side gaped in terror.

“Nora?” I whispered, my throat suddenly dry.

At the mention of her name, Nora’s blue eye rolled to focus on me, widening until bloodshot sclera showed all around the iris. No hint of recognition lit her expression. Almost immediately, her eye began to rove again as if she were searching for some hope of escape. Her side of the mouth yawned open in a silent scream. She seemed no more connected to this reality than a woman trapped in a nightmare and unable to wake.

Gently, Anukite lowered my feet to the floor and stroked my cheek, the edge of her talon pressing down hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to draw blood. The gesture was clear, though: she could draw blood if she wanted to.

“Tell us, Chiye-tanka princess, where has he gone?” Her dissonant voice purred, giving off both the disused rasp of desiccated vocal cords and the frantic minor harmonics of a frightened human female. “Where is the detective?”

This close, I could smell the sharp tang of liquor cutting through the rancid decay on her breath. My lip curled in disgust, and I twisted away from her touch. “I do not know where Chris is,” I said, praying with renewed desperation that he was far, far away from Missoula. “But even if I did, I would not tell you.”

“Oh?” On the right, Anukite’s mangy black eyebrow rose, the movement mirrored by Nora’s fine-haired one on the left. “And why would the princess protect a batterer? An abuser? She is so vocal about protecting the weak from predators, but she won’t allow the strong to rain down vengeance on those who deserve it?” She paused, reaching up with her free hand to tap at the line of pink scar tissue bisecting her chin. “I think the princess is changing the rules to favor her friends.”

I shook my head. “Chris is not what you say. The criminal records you saw are incorrect. Another man stole his identity and is passing their crimes off as his. Chris told me.”

Anukite laughed, an unnatural hissing sound sprinkled with hysterical girlish notes like shattered glass. “Of course a batterer would say this! What do a few lies matter to a man who would beat his woman?”

“You are wrong,” I insisted. “Chris is a good man.”

“If the detective is so good, then where is he now?” Anukite asked, looking from one side of the sitting room to the other in mockery. “I don’t see him anywhere. Did he send the princess to fight this battle for him? He must know she can’t win. Did he send her to die for him? The princess should open her eyes and see how expendable she is to this good man.”

“He does not know I am here,” I admitted with a grimace. “But he is a good man and my friend … even if he does not consider me to be a friend any longer. He protects the weak to the best of his ability. He even seeks justice for the worthless human predators you murdered.”

“Or maybe he only seeks it for those who are like him,” Anukite spat, shifting from foot to foot, swaying like a cobra mesmerizing its prey. “Abusers avenging abusers out of self-preservation—out of the fear they will be next.”

I paid no attention to the demon so intent on twisting my words. My focus turned sharply inward as I realized Chris was a more honorable creature than I. For so many months, I had been searching for a tangible evil, a monster I could fight, not because I wanted to rid the world of its stain, but because I was hurt and angry. The Kinslayer’s betrayal had poisoned my heart, left me feeling helpless and stupid because I had been unable to foresee or stop it. In response, I sought out the forces of darkness, hoping that destroying them would cleanse my spirit and make me feel whole again.

Chris, however, did not fight out of a personal vendetta. He laid aside his feelings about those who had been murdered and soldiered on through opposition from the very people he worked alongside, pursuing justice for every human because that was his job, his responsibility, just as I so often claimed it was mine.

Perhaps my father was partly right about humans. Perhaps they would never see me as anything but a monster, but there was so much good in so many of them. If it was true that evil should be destroyed root and branch wherever it was found, then it only stood to reason that each tiny bit of good discovered should be protected and nurtured so it could flourish.

“I will not let you harm my friend,” I growled, resolve hardening as I straightened to my full height and curled my fists at my sides. “No matter what you may believe, he is worth saving.”

Anukite’s mismatched eyes narrowed, a frown working into the lines of her face. She crept back a step, crouching down until her overlong legs were folded on either side of her. Her knees stuck up above her shoulders like the arms of a slingshot ready to fire.

“Maybe this is true, Princess. But is he worth dying for?” she hissed.

I nodded, fully aware that I was signing my death warrant. “There is not much else on this earth which is.”

“Then die!” Anukite launched herself at me.

TWENTY-SEVEN:

Fistfight

Anukite hit me with the force of an avalanche, slamming me backward through the remains of the entertainment center and into the wall. The thin particleboard splintered, plastic cracked, and dust rained down on us as the drywall caved in around my shoulders. My feet tangled in cords and fallen electronics. My left heel punched through the screen of the television—liquid crystal spurted out like arterial spray.

While I was still fumbling for balance, Anukite darted in beneath my guard and started working my body with her elbow spikes, blows falling fast and heavy. Despite her relatively small stature, she was murderously strong and her speed was dizzying. Desperately, I fought to block with my arms, but she crowded in under them. Her spikes ripped into my ribs and stomach over and over again like oversized porcupine quills, drawing fresh blood with every hit. Disorienting pain screamed across my nerve endings, but I pushed it away.

Focusing my mind to a single purpose, I howled and rained heavy fists down on her back. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Hammer blows smashed into unnatural flesh, leaving behind deep bruises, but they did not seem to deter the creature. Instead, Anukite hunched in on herself, muscles flexing, as she increased the frenzied pace of her onslaught. Somehow, her needle arms landed faster, harder, each strike piercing flesh and tearing muscle tissue.

Inside my guard, she had superior position and leverage. Perhaps I could change that.

With a grunt, I grabbed the back of Anukite’s head, tangling my fingers in her long stringy hair. I jerked my knee upward, slamming her face with the force of a rockslide. Her nose crunched, and viscous fluid washed onto my fur, but she did not back off. Her taloned feet scrabbled on the hardwood as she dug in and smashed her head into my torn stomach like a battering ram. More drywall crumbled around me, powdery dust choking the air, and I folded over. I tried kneeing her again, but a slash from her razor-sharp claws ripped open my thigh.

The exposed muscle stung in the open air as drywall dust settled in the wound.

She followed up by headbutting me again. From the front, the gaping holes in my ribs shrieked that irreparable damage was being done. From behind, nails and broken two-by-fours jabbed into my shoulders and back.

Desperate to get out from between Anukite and that wall, I tore one hand free of her hair—strands and flecks of scalp coming away—then brought my elbow down on the back of her neck. Her arms went limp for a heartbeat, then she grabbed her head, wrestling to free herself from my other hand, still wrapped in her hair. I used the moment of distraction, pushing off from the ruined wall with one foot, then hurling an uppercut into her chin. This time, she staggered back from the assault, but did not get far. I still had her hair.

With a renewed bellow of challenge, I lurched left and yanked the creature from her feet, swinging her by her filthy locks. Huge tangles of hair tore from her scalp as she arced through the air and slammed into the edge of Chris’s kitchen counter.

I glanced down, shaking the clumps out from between my fingers, revolted.

The gash in my thigh burned as I limped toward the coffee table. I grabbed it by the corners and hefted it into the air. But before I could turn to smash Anukite’s teeth in with it, long sinewy arms snaked out, wrapping around my neck. My kind is fast, but her raw speed was too much. Clawed feet ripped into my lower back, scrambling for purchase as she scampered up, lodging herself in place like a pesky forest tick. My back howled with the pain as her claws shredded fur and flesh. I would have cried out as well if the arm around my throat had not suddenly cinched tighter than a garrote.

I threw myself backward onto the floor, hoping to crush her spindly limbs under the combined weight of myself and the coffee table. Her skull hit the hardwood with a sickening thump. Her foot-claws tore into me with renewed desperation, fighting to kick me off. The pain was crushing, but thankfully Anukite’s grip on my throat weakened as she tried to escape from beneath me. I tossed the coffee table away, the crunch of wood and the tinkle of breaking glass filling the air. I ignored both, flipping myself over and straddling her across the hips, using the weight of my body to pin her in place.

With lightning speed, I wrapped one hand around her throat, shoving her head against the floor, and drove my opposite fist into her odd, double-sided mouth. Teeth broke. Arms flailed. Talons slashed at my throat, landing high and laying open my right cheek to the bone. I tucked my chin to protect my carotid and jugular, but Anukite started gouging at my eyes instead. I squeezed them shut and swung blind punches at where I remembered her face to be. Some connected. Most did not. One particularly vicious punch slammed into the hardwood, and I felt the flesh over my knuckles part.

Anukite’s talons continued to slice at my face while her feet clawed at my sides, trying to throw me off. I kept throwing off-balance punches, hitting the floor more often than I hit her, but unable to open my eyes for more than a split second without losing one.

This was madness. Chaos. I needed to think, but the pain and the mayhem made that nearly impossible.

Finally, one of her clawed toes buried itself in my skin, hooking fast into the muscle below. With a flick of her overlong leg, Anukite sent me flying. I slammed back-first into the coffee table I had discarded. It snapped in half with a crack louder than an ice floe breaking up. Instantly, Anukite’s talons clacked and scratched on the floor as she scrambled to regain her feet. The creature was more relentless than a honey badger with its blood up, and just as vicious.

Quickly, I rolled onto my stomach and heaved myself up on trembling arms. Slivers of broken glass embedded themselves in my palms and crunched under my knees, sending renewed pinpricks of hurt lancing upward.

A giddy thought flitted through my mind as I staggered to my feet: If only I could reach Mother Earth, I would not be too proud to ask for her help now.

A flicker of shadow from the corner of my eye was the only warning of the next attack. I snatched up a leg of the broken coffee table—a sizeable chunk of the top still attached—and swung it one-handed across my body.

WHACK!

The club connected, the bone-crunching impact running through the club and into my arm. The bit of tabletop still attached to my makeshift club broke off and tumbled across the couch as Anukite’s head snapped to the side. Black demon blood flew from her mouth, splattering across the white wall. She faltered, reeling unsteadily, eyes narrowed, and spit out shattered needlelike teeth on the floor.

Instead of savoring the small win, I hobbled after Anukite’s staggering form, somehow miraculously managing to stay upright, and gripped the coffee table leg with both hands. Before she could fully recover, I swung again, throwing all of my weight into the blow. The flash of movement seemed to trigger some part of Anukite’s brain. Instinctively, she flung up her skinny arms to block the incoming weapon, but my club blew right through them, connecting solidly with her flabby chest and sending her sprawling onto the couch.

I leapt at her, raising the club overhead like a headman’s axe.

But her clawed feet caught me in the stomach, driving the air from my lungs with an oof! I doubled over and shuffled backward, unable to breathe, my mind panicking as my body struggled for even a hint of air. Once, as a young girl, I slipped into the churning waters of the Bitterroot River—my head slapped against a moss-slick stone and the rapids quickly drew me under, water dashing into my mouth and lungs. This felt much like that. The same panic. The same powerlessness. I clutched at my belly while white lights wormed and sparkled around the edges of my vision.

Talon-tipped fingers, wet with my blood, grabbed me by the throat and arm. Somehow, I still had the makeshift club clutched in my hand, but I could not convince my winded body to straighten up and fight back.

With nothing but sheer brute strength, Anukite lifted me from my feet and tossed me across the room.

I smashed again into the battered wall where the entertainment center once stood. This time, the frame gave way. I landed in a heap of two-by-fours, drywall, and—most surprisingly—pillows.

The bedroom.

As if startled into action by the landing, my lungs finally inflated. For a moment, I lost track of everything in my hurry to drink in the beautiful oxygen.

Then the clickety-clack of claws on hardwood broke through my rejoicing.

I needed to get up. Blankets and pillows tangled around my legs as I tried to get off the bed. I kicked and fought, but could not extricate myself in time.

Air whistled between talons as they slashed for my throat. I swung the club off-handed, clumsily batting that swipe aside, but a razor-spiked elbow darted in right behind it. I reversed the club, hoping to catch the blow before it landed, but I was not fast enough. The spike plunged into my shoulder, snapping my collarbone in an instant. Red washed through my vision.

I roared with pain and blindly lashed out.

The club struck something, then was yanked from my grasp. I rolled into a ball, pulling my legs up against my tattered stomach, wrapping my arms around my head to protect myself from the pounding that was surely coming. I gritted my teeth and flexed my muscles, bracing for impact, but instead of the blunt force trauma I expected, sharp elbow-spikes ripped into my back. One after another, falling so fast and consistently that they sounded like hail. The pain was a wildfire spreading across my skin.

I kicked and clawed at the mattress in attempt to escape, half-swimming through the blankets and debris. My face hit open air and I tumbled to the floor, landing hard on my shoulder. But the spikes followed me to the ground. I tried to wedge myself under the bed—to get something, anything, between me and the spikes—but I was too big, and it just scooted away. There was nowhere I could hide, no way to protect myself. Slashes from the clawed talons of her feet butted into the torturous rotation.

Spike, spike, claw, spike, spike, claw.

I could not think. I could not see. Everything was pain and the need to escape from pain.

A hissing, shrieking sound from above made my blood run colder than spring melt.

Anukite was laughing.

She loved this. The mutilation, the destruction—she was enjoying tearing my body apart piece by piece, looking forward with hellish eagerness to the moment she would end my life. She was stronger than me, faster than me, and tougher than me. The realization hit me like a lightning bolt from a clear blue sky: When I fought Anukite in the forest, her only goal had been to get away without being identified. Now, she did not care about escape or hiding her identity. Now her only goal was to slaughter me.

This was not a fight I could win. It was not even a fight I could survive.

Little by little, I pulled myself across the floor, knowing all the while that it would not stop her assault, but unable to prevent myself from trying. Slowly, the strength drained from my limbs, and a numbing coldness took its place, starting at my fingers and creeping its way up my arms.

I was bleeding to death. I was going to die here in this cramped human dwelling in the middle of this overcrowded human city. I would die surrounded by the unnatural stink of a demon, far away from my home. Far away from the trees and dirt and scent of cold, clear water. I would die a failure, a liar, a disgrace to the People and to my father.

Worse yet, because of my failure, my friend was going to die.

My left shoulder bumped against wood. The doorway. My head rested in the sitting room, but the rest of me lay in the bedroom. To make it through the door, I would have to angle my shoulders, but I did not have enough strength left to try.

The wheezing, shrieking laughter above me reached a fever pitch.

“Is she ready to give up yet?” Anukite taunted. “Or does she want to keep playing?”

Razor-sharp claws dug into my bicep. I slapped at them weakly, my hand too cold now to feel whether I made contact or not.

With an almighty jerk, Anukite flipped me onto my back. My head bounced off the floor and bright white lights flashed in my vision. With a groan, I tried to get up, but could not manage to lift my shoulders more than an inch off the ground. Not that it mattered.

A moment later, Anukite planted a clawed foot on my chest, pinning me in place. Her face loomed inches from mine, half scarred demon, half terrified human. Tears ran from Nora’s blue eye, and her side of the mouth opened and closed convulsively as if she were begging or praying. Anukite’s eye dripped pus and her half of the mouth grinned, baring broken rows of needle teeth, stained black with her own blood.

“I say we finish it,” Anukite hissed in her two-toned rasp, spraying blood and saliva onto my face. One of her nails delicately smeared the wetness across my cheekbone. “The princess has proven herself a naïve and worthless adversary, and the Teihiihan are hungry. It’s been too long since they feasted on Chiye-tanka flesh.”

The sitting room light clicked on, throwing Anukite’s startled face into sharp relief.

“Those little guys outside? They’re way too busy chowing down on their bullet-catcher buddies. I don’t think they’re gonna have room left for Winona.”

My heart soared and died at the sound of that voice.

“Chris,” I choked out, tasting my own blood in my mouth. “Run. Get away.”

He kicked the hallway door shut with a foot as he tucked the butt of a tactical shotgun into his shoulder. “Nope.”

TWENTY-EIGHT:

Peace Talks

“The detective has to wait his turn,” Anukite said, smiling once more. “When we’re finished with the princess, we’ll take care of him.”

Chris racked a shell into the chamber and pointed the shotgun at her chest. “If you want to kill her, you’re going to have to kill me first … Anukite or Nora or whatever the hell you are.”

“If he insists.” She straightened up on her spindly legs and waved a skinny, overlong arm at Chris’s weapon. “Does he honestly think a shotgun can stop me when Winona Treesinger, Legend of the People of the Forest, can’t?”

“Not really,” Chris said, edging around the perimeter of the room, but keeping Anukite in his sights. “That doesn’t mean I’m just going to let you kill my friend.” His dark eyes flicked to me, then back to Anukite. “She’s my partner. If you’ve got a problem with one of us, you’ve got a problem with both of us.”

Anukite crept toward him, arms swaying, fingers flexing. “Pretty words from a woman-beater.”

“Actually, I was kind of hoping”—he dropped the barrel of the shotgun and laid it on the couch, then held up his hands as if to show her he meant no harm—“that I wouldn’t have to beat you, Nora. I think you’ve been through enough of that already.”

Anukite faltered, her head canting to the side. Nora’s eye focused on Chris, and her silently screaming half of the mouth went still. For the first time, her half of the face seemed fully aware.

“I know about your husband,” Chris said, speaking directly to the human side of the Double-Faced Woman. “I talked to the attending physician at the ER tonight. She was on duty two weeks ago, the night Bruce put you in the hospital. The night he killed your baby. Doc said last time she talked to you, you were dead set on filing charges and getting a restraining order. But when I looked, I couldn’t find any record of a complaint with the sheriff’s department. Then a couple days later you were right back in the hospital? It wasn’t too hard to guess what went down, what with your husband and his buddies running the department. You tried to get help, but you got beat half to death instead.”

“No.” Anukite’s long arms and legs spasmed, then her head shook as if she were trying to expel his voice from her head. “The detective’s trying to confuse you, pretending to care, pretending that he’s different.”

“I’m not pretending anything, Nora,” Chris said, his face earnest. “I hate like hell that that happened to you. That you were all alone and that the people who were supposed to protect you betrayed you.”

A shudder tore through Anukite’s spider-limbed body, jiggling her sagging breasts and potbelly. “He lies! Remember Bruce? Remember how he charmed you? How he manipulated you? Next the detective will fill your head with false promises about how he’ll help you. How he’ll protect you. He is no different than the rest of them, Nora. No different than the rest of the men who worked with your husband.”

Her hands crept inward toward her core. It was a preparatory move I had seen her do just before lashing out with her elbow spikes.

“Chris, be careful,” I warned.

He kept speaking to Nora as if he had not heard me.

“I’m not here to feed you lies, Nora,” Chris said, his hands still raised. “I can’t change what happened, and I can’t make it better. But what I can do—what I was working on before one of my neighbors called in a disturbance and I hauled ass over here—is make sure the officers who covered up what Bruce did are investigated. If you’ll help me with that, Nora, I can put them behind bars for a long time.”

“Lies!” Anukite lurched forward drunkenly, grabbing her head with both hands.

Chris backpedaled out of her reach, but did not grab his shotgun. “I don’t want to hurt you, Nora, but the killing has to stop. This kind of revenge doesn’t help anyone. If you’ll work with me, we can do this the right way and help a lot of people.”

Anukite bellowed, a two-toned demonic howl of black-souled rage that rattled what little glass remained in the sitting room windows. She shook her head furiously, long hair whipping around, and clawed at her double-sided face.

I seized the sides of the doorway and tried to pull myself up, to throw myself between them, afraid that she would launch herself at my friend and tear him to shreds. But my battered body refused to stand. I fell back to the floor and began crawling toward them instead.

But the creature did not attack. She trembled as she had in the clearing, like a junkie in the throes of withdrawal. One of her overlong arms shrank to human size, then returned to full length. Her flesh flickered from ashy undeath to red-brown and alive, then back again. The sagging breasts and potbelly disappeared, becoming the taut-skinned body of a human female, then returned. Her body seemed to boil and writhe before my eyes, as if it did not know what it wanted to be.

I stared, praying that what I thought was happening was truly happening.

Anukite shook and staggered, her body flickering between demonic and human, faster and faster.

Human … flicker … Demon … flicker … Human-flicker--Demon. Human-Demon.

Slowly, an eerie blue glow began to envelop her body.

“Yes!” I breathed. Nora was fighting the spirit. She was trying to reject Anukite.

“Fight, Nora,” I pleaded, pushing myself up to sitting with trembling arms. “Do not listen to Anukite. You do not have to be this monster. You have a choice. We all have a choice. And this is not you. We are more than our appearances. More than our past mistakes. Fight, Nora!”

Anukite stumbled and fell into a crouch, mewling softly. She clutched at her head as though trying to hold herself together. The blue glow grew brighter until it outshined the sitting room light. Her mewling turned into a feral, angry growl and bloody talon-tipped fingers dug into her hair, tearing up fistfuls of scalp.

“You are not the monster, Nora, she is!” I shouted to her hunched form. “Do not allow her to control you! Force her out!”

The growl morphed again, this time into an ear-shattering scream, which ripped through the apartment. It was the single-voiced note of a human female straining beyond her strength—a sound of birth and labor pains and death. Sinewy muscles stood out like ropes down the length of the creature’s overly long arms. Then they were Nora’s arms, quaking with effort. Black demon’s blood ran down her face from the claws dug into her scalp, then, in a flash, it was running down the double-face of the demon.

The scream warped into a raw, full-throated roar, the howl of a creature proclaiming its dominance. The blue light shrouding Anukite-Nora intensified until my eyes burned and watered. I raised a hand to shield my vision, catching a glimpse of Chris on the other side of the room doing the same.

As the light reached its brightest, the sound of rending flesh filled the apartment. It was a wet noise—one full of pain and suffering—that reminded me of a wolf eating a fresh kill, or a hunter skinning a young doe with a razor-edged knife.

The brilliant blue glow flared one final time, then disappeared. Bright yellow afterimages scarred my vision, making the rest of the sitting room appear dark.

Nora slumped to the side, holding her head. Chris caught her before she hit the floor.

Anukite’s spectral form lingered in the air where they had been crouching.

The demon’s natural form was even more horrendous than the double-faced creature had been—a revelation of the corruption hidden within. Ten milk-white eyes stared out of a bristle-covered head, still leaking that spectral white pus into the hairs. Fat, spine-covered mandibles snapped open and closed around rows of bone needle teeth. Five pairs of multi-jointed legs supported a swollen, gooey-looking abdomen covered in ashy flesh. The only hints of Anukite’s former humanity were the pair of flabby breasts hanging from her segmented body and her pale face, surrounded by a sea of black hair.

Chris and Nora skated away from her, backing into the corner, expressions of disgust and horror painting their faces.

I grinned. Anukite’s spirit was disturbing to see, but she could not harm us like this. She was at her weakest now, without a host body to give her a corporeal focus, and I could banish her from Inworld.

As if she could hear my thoughts, Anukite raised her four front legs, waving them in the air in a panic, and began to scrape one fat claw-tipped leg across another.

“Teihiihan!” Her voice filled the apartment like the droning rasp of a sky-darkening plague of cicadas, the sound coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Attack! Kill them all!”

TWENTY-NINE:

Binding Circle

I sat up, bracing myself with my arms, and winced at the flares of pain the motion raised all over my chest, shoulders, and stomach. Cut off from the earth, my healing had slowed to near human sluggishness. The bleeding had stopped—blood clotting in my shaggy hair—but warmth and strength had not yet begun to return to my limbs.

“Chris!” I shouted over the drone of Anukite’s cries.

My friend dragged his gaze reluctantly away from the spectral arachnid before him to the floor where I sat.

“Winona, are you okay?” He glanced from me to Anukite and back as if steeling himself for a charge to save me.

“I will be fine. Anukite is no longer a threat. I can defeat her, but the ritual will take a few minutes to execute, and I will be defenseless while I do it. You must hold off the Teihiihan until it is finished.”

Relief flooded his features. “Cannibal dwarves I can do.” He lunged toward the couch, still eyeing the demon spirit, and grabbed his shotgun.

“It is very important that I am not interrupted,” I explained as he whipped the sling over his head and checked his rounds. “I cannot stop my song once it has begun or the holy people will be offended.”

“Okay.” Chris nodded sharply. “Blast anything that looks at you. Got it.”

Something slammed against the door from the outside with a thud. Then a second, then a third. The Teihiihan attempting to break it down so they could rally to their mistress. More thuds rattled the door on its hinges, followed by the groan of cracking wood. Either they were too dimwitted or too frantic to consider turning the handle.

“Give me a gun,” Nora demanded, holding out her frail-boned hand. “I can help.”

Chris and I traded uneasy looks before turning our gazes on the former host of Anukite. Could she be trusted? I searched her face, her eyes, looking for remorse. Searching for any sign of the hatred I had seen present in the Double-Faced woman.

“Look, what you said … that I’m not a monster. Well, I sort of am. I did this. I brought her into this realm. Let me help kick her ass to the curb.” The words were earnest. Sincere. “Besides, if the old stories are true, we do not want to offend the holy people,” she said, a touch of panic creeping into her voice. “I learned at least that much from my mom. I’ll help hold them off, just give me something that goes boom!”

The door shuddered under another barrage of lumpy flesh battering rams. Wood crackled and groaned, hinges screeching in protest. Still, the door held. For now.

Christ shot me one more look, his lips pressed into a thin line. I nodded, give her a weapon. With a sigh, the detective pulled his sidearm from his holster and slapped it into her palm.

“Safety’s off. Should have a full clip,” he said. “Shoot anything that comes through the door.”

Nora nodded, her face ashen, sweat lining her forehead. Holding the pistol in shaking hands, she pointed it at the shuddering door. Chris took a few steps away and squared his body, then tucked the shotgun into his shoulder and rested his finger on the trigger, waiting.

Fiery arrows of pain shot through my torso as I pushed myself onto my hands and knees. I had to hold the wall for support as I tottered onto my unsteady legs, and for a moment, my vision narrowed to a tunnel. Injured or not, I needed to get up. The banishment ritual required both voice and body to work, the representatives of the spiritual and physical planes speaking in concert.

A slow one-two thunder beat drummed in my mind. Excruciatingly, purposefully, I shuffled toward Anukite. The solemn jingle of the sacred rattle joined in, matching time with my steps. I filled my lungs and began to sing. The words I formed were older than Chris’s people, older than the Great Nations, older than the People of the Forest. It was First Language, the tongue of the holy people from when the world was new made.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the door crack down the middle and fold inward, the noise that should have been there hidden behind a wall of song. Cannibal dwarves with melee weapons climbed over one another in their rush to flood the apartment. Chris and Nora opened fire. Bullets ripped through Teihiihan flesh, dropping many in their tracks, but the scene appeared far away and hazy, as if viewed in a memory distorted by time.

My pain, I realized, was growing distant as well. It was not that I could not feel my body any longer. In fact, I was more aware of its every contour than I had ever been. But it was as if the whole of my body was border: a line drawing with no muscle, organ, or tissue inside. The wounds Anukite had inflicted were simply gaps in the lines, nothing more. Removed from the pain, I danced with new determination, my shuffling steps circumscribing an unbreakable hoop around Anukite. The terrible spirit flailed its many legs and howled, its rasping, droning voice the only sound from inside the apartment I could hear.

“The Chiye-tanka princess! Kill the princess!” she screamed.

Teihiihan corpses piled up in the doorway, but still the dirt-matted little cannibals streamed in, eager to do their dark mistress’s bidding in spite of the danger. Chris and Nora edged backward toward my containment circle with every new minion that appeared. They were determined to keep the Teihiihan away from me, but were losing ground to the dwarves’ superior numbers. Anukite’s call must have summoned more packs to converge on this plane. Though Chris and Nora had so far been able to hold them off, they would not have enough ammunition to kill them all.

I saw this all as I sang, but felt no anxiety or fear. My prayer to the holy people filled every corner of my mind. My whole being was nothing but the list of Anukite’s crimes against nature, the request that the holy people take this evil back and cage her in the Spirit World once more. I opened up my arms to the west as I made the hoop again, palms up, appealing to Wakinyan, the Thunderer, enemy of evil.

As I watched, Chris grabbed for his shotgun’s shell carrier, his fingers landing on emptiness. He was out of shells. He let the shotgun fall on its sling and lunged for a black-iron meat cleaver hanging from the lifeless hand of the closest Teihiihan carcass. Still the onslaught came. Chris raised the cleaver in his right hand and set his feet defensively. His lips pulled back in a snarl as he faced down a charging Teihiihan that Nora’s shots had missed.

“Yes,” Anukite howled. “Kill the man, and then kill the princess!”

The drums pounded all around us, punctuated by the jangling of the Chegah-Skah-Hdah. I sang and raised my hands to the west again. Only two more to go.

I turned again.

Nora was no longer firing—likely her gun was empty, too. She’d cast the weapon aside, and now wielded a large bone club, studded with iron spikes. Teihiihan tried to dart in past it, but she swung in wild arcs, throwing her shoulders into each swing, knocking down any who came too close and almost spinning herself around with every swipe. Chris had caught one misshapen little cannibal by the throat and was swinging the cleaver like a tomahawk, aiming for the creature’s misshapen skull. While he was distracted, another Teihiihan with a curved dagger leapt onto his back.

My feet shuffled on and I turned again, my companions momentarily slipping from view.

As I came around the hoop, I lifted my hands to the west a third time, still singing my plea to the holy people, telling them about my heroic warrior friends and their desire to stop Anukite even if it meant their death. Behind me, a black glow began to trace my steps, pulling all light into it. One more circle and the ritual would be complete. I thanked the great Thunderer for hearing my prayer and wished him happy hunting in his never-ending battle against evil spirits.

I turned again.

A dreadlocked Teihiihan had Nora’s club tucked under his arm while another flanked her and still more waited for their chance, their bodies pressing in, greedy hunger painted across their faces. Chris was completely overrun, now. Tiny bodies wrapped around his legs and piled on his back. One stood at his head, raising a ball-headed war club high in its meaty fists, ready to crush my friend’s skull. A small jolt of panic flashed through me—there was nothing I could do.

I turned, lifting my hands to the west for the final time, completing the ritual. The drums and rattle slammed to a stop.

Anukite let out a wail of anguish as the light-devouring black of my circle closed with an audible pop. Abruptly, the Teihiihan froze in place, staring at their mistress with a mixture of shock and fear. No one moved. No one breathed. Even the cannibal ready to cave Chris’s head in faltered. Change was in the air, and they could feel the power. Lightning struck inside the hoop, a cacophony of thunder following hard upon its heels. The scent of a cold, cleansing spring rain flooded the apartment along with a blast of ozone.

The floor disappeared beneath Anukite’s spectral feet and a yawning black void opened wide like the throat of some monstrous dragon. Her legs and gooey-looking body compressed and stretched, limbs folding in on themselves as the darkness drew her in. Down. Her screaming distorted as her mandibles elongated and warped. Then, with a final flash of lightning and almighty clap of thunder, Wakinyan removed her to the Spirit World.

The opening in space-time collapsed in on itself, the black void winking out of existence, and the hardwood floor reappeared.

Pain and sound and thought all crashed down onto me at once like an incoming tsunami, knocking me to my knees beneath their weight. Suddenly, every ache, every scrape, every cut and break burned with new life and fury. Punishing me for ignoring them for so long.

I kneeled, swaying slightly, and surveyed the room. I watched through a haze as living Teihiihan swiftly blinked out of sight, slipping behind hastily cast veils. They were beaten, and by some miracle their thick minds had grasped this fact. Teihiihan corpses lurched into motion, pulled by veiled hands.

Released from beneath the crush of tiny bodies, Chris jumped to his feet, bleeding from a nasty gash across his eyebrow and several bite wounds all over his body, yet searching for something more to fight. He rolled his shoulder, facing the door with his cleaver at the ready. Blood dripped onto his cheek from the gash on his eyebrow, and his chest rose and fell in time with his heaving lungs. Behind him, Nora lashed out at the air with her bone club a final time and caught a fleeing Teihiihan by chance. The veiled creature tumbled across the floor, righted itself, then grabbed one of its fallen brethren and ran.

Soon the entire pile of dead had been cleared away, removed to some unknown place where the Death Feast could be carried out uninterrupted.

“Are they gone?” Chris asked me, his voice hoarse with adrenaline, his eyes wild. “Was that all of them?”

“’Twas all of them,” I said.

He nodded absently, still glaring at the door as if expecting them to return at any moment.

“Chris, did you hear me?” I was unable to suppress a grin as I slowly pushed myself upright. “I used a contraction just like you do.”

Chris’s posture relaxed slowly, and he turned to stare at me as if he could not grasp what I was saying.

“I have never used the word ’twas in my life, Winona.”

“I sounded very human,” I insisted.

“You sounded like a fairy princess reciting Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare was a human,” I said, proving my point.

Chris dropped the cleaver and flopped backward onto the torn, bloody remains of his couch. After a moment, his chest and shoulders began to shake with silent puffs of laughter.

I could not contain myself. I began laughing, too, though not out of amusement. We had survived, and for some reason that coaxed forth a fit of uncontrollable giggles from the very pit of my stomach.

“Um, excuse me,” Nora said, leaning the bone club against her hip. “Hate to break up y’all’s laugh riot, but what do we do now?”

With some effort, I managed to compose myself.

“This is a good question,” I said, looking to Chris. “Will you arrest Nora?”

He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. “For which part? Turning into half of a monster’s face and then tearing her apart, or summoning that giant spider demon to Earth in the first place?”

“The murders,” Nora said, clearly not impressed by his making light of the situation.

Chris sighed and shook his head, rubbing at one temple. “You’re missing my point. What I’m saying is there isn’t any part of this story that a judge would buy. Look at this place.” He swept a hand around the room. “We just fought off an army of supernatural cannibal midgets. I mean, there’s a Sasquatch standing in my apartment. Who’s gonna believe this? I’d be better off handing in my badge and writing myself a one-way ticket to the psych ward than trying to charge you for something here.”

Nora fidgeted with her shirt for a moment, then crossed her arms.

“So, am I, like, free to go?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“If you promise to come into the department sometime within the next week and give me an official statement against any of the officers you suspect might have helped Bruce bury your domestic violence charges.”

“Okay, yeah.” Nora nodded. “I’ll do it.”

“Where will you go?” I asked her.

She stared at the floor as she considered the question. “Lolo. For tonight, at least. Maybe try to set things right with my mama.”

“That is good,” I said, thinking of Sue Walker’s concern for her daughter. Then I remembered the double-barreled shotgun and whiskey. “But perhaps you should call on the way so that no one is caught off guard.”

THIRTY:

Friend of the People

After Nora left—taking her new bone club with her—I helped Chris put his apartment back into some semblance of order and set the pieces of the door up where it had been until he could get a new one.

“What will you tell people?” I asked him as I held a garbage bag over a broken window. “You said one of your neighbors called this in as a disturbance. Surely the sheriff will be expecting a report.”

Chris ripped a strip of gray duct tape from the roll.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said, affixing it to the makeshift window cover. “Best I can come up with is somehow a bear got in and tore the place up.”

“Does this building not have closed circuit cameras mounted at the entrances?” I asked, thinking back. “I was certain I saw one in the lobby, and another over the back door.”

Chris shook his head. “They’re fakes. The manager put them up because they deter vandals and graffiti, but they don’t really work. Otherwise, we’d have a perfect picture of that Anukite-Nora thing sneaking in to kill Brandstatter.”

“And again to kill you.”

“Yeah, that, too.” He smoothed out the final corner of the garbage bag before applying the last piece of tape.

We stepped back and inspected our handiwork.

“So, did you come running over here to save me as soon as you figured out what was going on?” he asked, not looking at me.

“Of course. I could not just let her butcher you, Chris.”

He picked at a corner of tape on the roll, though the window did not need more. “I’m sorry I blew up when I found out you weren’t human.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

“I am sorry I lied to you,” I said. “I should have been honest with you from the beginning.”

“I probably wouldn’t have believed you. Or, if you had come in looking like this”—he waved the roll of tape to indicate my body—“I probably would’ve crapped my pants and then shot you.”

I smiled and stuck out my hand. “In any case, I am glad to have met you, Chris Fuller.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, eyebrows drawn low over his dark eyes. “Why are you talking like this is goodbye or something? Aren’t you sticking around? I think I’m finally starting to get used to this. Besides, now that I know about all this—the supernatural stuff—I kinda feel like I need to know more, you know?”

“I do. And now that you know, you will begin to see more and more. It is the way of things. As for me, I will be around,” I said, shrugging, “But in the shadows. One thing I have learned during our investigation is that the world of men is much more complicated than I thought. It is worth fighting for, worth saving, but so are my own people. I need to return to them and face the punishment for disobeying the Elders.”

Chris searched my face. “So, I can’t talk you into staying?”

“I will not hide from the consequences of my actions. It is a thing the future chieftain of my people should never do.”

“Well,” he said, tossing the duct tape on the couch. “Can I at least give you a ride?”

I smiled and rolled my eyes, feeling very human. “I suppose that is acceptable.” We left the demolished apartment and headed for his beat-up cruiser. I could not fit comfortably in the vehicle in my true form, so I donned the amulet a final time, then climbed in as the human female Chris recognized. Rather than frantically protest my being naked, my friend reached into the back seat and pulled out a Walmart sack.

“I bought two sets of clothes the last time around,” he said in explanation. “I figured you’d need at least one more before the night was out. Guess I was right.”

My heart blazed like the sun.

“Thank you, Chris!” I leaned over the broken remains of the cruiser’s console and pulled him into a hug.

His shoulders tensed, and he stared out the window in the opposite direction.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” he replied, his jawline flushed. “Just put some clothes on, all right? When you look like that … all human and … Well, you don’t look like a giant hairy Sasquatch, that’s for sure.” Under his breath he added, “Don’t feel like one, either.”

“That is because I was being gentle.” I settled back in my seat and began pulling pink flannel and denim from the Walmart bag. “If I were not careful, my grip would crush you.”

Chris snorted and shook his head, putting the cruiser into gear. “It’s been way too long since I last watched a football game.”

Unable to decipher any meaning from this sudden change in subject, I let it pass without comment and finished dressing.

The city lights passed us by in what felt like a heartbeat, and soon we were driving under open sky. Here and there alongside the road, light dustings of snow caught the moonlight and shined white against the darkness. Chris and I did not speak. He seemed consumed by his thoughts, and anxiety was beginning to take root in my stomach.

I loved and respected my father beyond words. He was a great hero, both to the People and to me. I did not fear his anger or rebuke, but his disappointment—the possibility that he might be ashamed of me—that I could not bear. I wished both that the drive would stretch on forever so I would never have to face him and that we would arrive immediately so I could swallow this bitter pill already.

Chris flipped on a blinker and we turned onto the gravel access road that led deeper into the Bitterroot Forest. I planned to have Chris drive until we came to the place near the clearing where I had first found him, but as we came around a turn, Chris slammed on his brakes.

There in the middle of the road, illuminated by the cruiser’s single working headlight, stood my father, all nine feet four inches of his powerful body hulking over the vehicle. His moss-green eyes glared through the windshield, piercing my heart. He did not mind-whisper to me. He did not need to.

With a series of clunks, Chris shifted the cruiser into park.

I looked over to find him staring wide-eyed out at my father.

“It is all right,” I said, though I did not believe it to be true. “It is my father.”

Chris nodded slowly as if he were fighting to regain motor function in his limbs.

Outside, more of the People appeared from beneath skillful veils, the Elders and many others, standing alongside my father. I pushed down my fear and embarrassment, telling myself it was better that the community witness my punishment. If I could not stand as a hero to them like my father did, then at least I could be an example of what not to do.

Bracing myself for shock and outrage, I opened my door and stepped out. I hurried to take off the clothes—unwilling to destroy the last pair Chris had given me—then unclasped the amulet and returned to my true form. But not before the forest of eyes around me took in the Little Sister I had been masquerading as. I swallowed hard and approached my father, holding out the amulet. Silently, he snatched it from my hands.

I bowed my head, unable to look him in the eyes.

Then behind me, Chris’s door slammed. His boots crunched through the gravel and came to a stop beside me.

I could only stare at him. What was he doing? Surely he saw the folly in this?

“Excuse me, sir,” Chris said, planting his hands on his hips and tilting his head back to look up at my father. “I hear you don’t approve of what your daughter did, coming into town and helping us fight off that monster. But you need to know her actions saved a lot of people, myself included. She’s a credit to her people, and one of the sweetest souls I’ve ever met. There’s nobody else I’d rather have fighting on my side.” He paused and stole a sidelong glance at me. “You should be proud of her.”

I bit my lip and chanced a peek at my father.

His face remained stony. Stoic. Without a word, he took a step toward Chris, towering over him like the Great Redwood over a scrawny Inworld sapling.

Chris flinched, but did not reach for his gun and did not back away. If my father attacked, I was not certain I could intervene to save my friend.

“Do not lecture me on things I already know, human,” my father growled. “We could hear the thunder of the holy people from the Sacred Grove. Word of Winona’s actions in your world has penetrated even there.” His glare shifted to me, then suddenly softened. He smiled, his leathery skin creasing. “I cannot be anything but proud of her.”

Tears of joy and relief filled my eyes. I wiped them away with a shaking hand.

“And we are ashamed of ourselves,” my father said, waving a hand at the Elders. “We have not behaved as People of the Forest should. We have allowed cowardice and selfishness to rule us, shirking our responsibility for comfort. We were so afraid of following in the path of Achak Kinslayer that we forgot which path we were created to walk. We are a people of peace, yes, but we are also protectors of the land and the Little Brothers and Sisters who inhabit it. Your actions have reminded us of our place, Winona.” He turned back to Chris. “And you, Detective Fuller, you have given us hope that one day our two peoples might live in fellowship again, as we did in the old days. For this, I name you Friend of the People.”

With this pronouncement made, my father spoke to my mind.

Will you come home, daughter?

I will, I said. But I must say goodbye first. It is considered polite among the humans.

My father nodded once, then turned and disappeared into the forest. The Elders followed him.

I beamed at Chris, my entire body trembling with the turbulence of emotion. He returned the smile, but sadness touched it at the corners.

I grabbed his tiny hand. “Do not be upset, friend. I will see you again.”

“Yeah, but will I see you?” he asked.

“You are a friend of the People,” I said. “And you are my friend. I will make certain you see me.”

“All righty then, I can live with that.” Chris slipped his hand from my grasp.

I picked up the discarded flannel shirt and jeans and held them out to him.

“Keep ’em,” he said with an easy grin. “You never know when you might want to run around dressed like a human.”

I tucked them under my arm. “Thank you, Chris. For everything.”

He gave me a wave and started walking backward toward the cruiser. “You take care of yourself, fairy princess.”

“I will,” I said, heading for the tree line. “Give Deputy Khuri a scorching blister from me.”

Chris chuckled.

“We’ll work on slang next time,” he said.

I slipped into the forest, disappearing into the shadows. I stopped just out of his sight and waited.

Chris did not get into the cruiser and drive away for many long seconds. But when he did, I heard the muffled sound of country music escaping through the broken window. The CD player was working again.

I turned and sprinted for home, humming along with the tune.

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

If you enjoyed reading about Winona and Chris and want to stay in the loop about the latest book releases, awesome promotional deals, and upcoming book giveaways be sure to subscribe to my Mailing List Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.You can also connect with me on my Facebook Fan Page: James Hunter Fan Page Also, be sure to check out eden Hudson’s other books by checking out her Amazon Author Page

Word-of-mouth and book reviews are crazy helpful for the success of any writer. If you really enjoyed reading about Jacob and the gang, please consider leaving a short review—just a couple of lines about your overall reading experience. You can click here to leave a review at Amazon, and thank you in advance: Two-Faced: Legend of the Treesinger (Book 1)

If you love Winona’s crazy, mixed up world and need more right this minute, then be sure to pick the next book up in the series Soul Game: Legend of the Treesinger (Book 2)

Other Works by James A. Hunter

James A. Hunter

Strange Magic (Yancy Lazarus Episode One)

Cold Hearted (Yancy Lazarus Episode Two)

Flashback: Siren Song (Yancy Lazarus Episode 2.5)

Wendigo Rising (Yancy Lazarus Episode Three)

Flashback: The Morrigan (Yancy Lazarus Episode 3.5)

Savage Prophet (Yancy Lazarus Episode Four)
Brimstone Blues: A Yancy Lazarus Novel

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MudMan (A Lazarus World Novel)

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Viridian Gate Online: Cataclysm (Book 1)

Viridian Gate Online: Crimson Alliance (Book 2)

Viridian Gate Online: The Jade Lord (Book 3)

The Artificer DLC 1.1: A Viridian Gate Online Novel

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War God’s Mantle

Other Works by eden Hudson

eden Hudson

Revenge of the Bloodslinger: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 1)

Beautiful Corpse: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 2)

Soul Jar: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 3)

Garden of Time: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 4)

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Halo Bound (Redneck Apocalypse Book 1)

Lion’s Den (Redneck Apocalypse Book 1.5)

Hell Bent (Redneck Apocalypse Book 2)

God Killer (Redneck Apocalypse Book 3)

Books from Shadow Alley Press

Aaron Crash

Damnation Robot: Galactic Demon Hunters (Book 1)

Neutron Dragon Attack: Galactic Demon Hunters (Book 2)

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War God’s Mantle

About the Authors

James A. Hunter

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thailand. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

eden Hudson

I am invincible. I am a mutant. I have 3 hearts and was born with no eyes. I had eyes implanted later. I didn’t have hands, either, just stumps. When my eyes were implanted they asked if I would like hands as well and I said, “Yes, I’ll take those,” and pointed with my stump. But sometimes I'm a hellbender peeking out from under a rock. When it rains, I live in a music box.

But I’m also a tattoo-addict, coffee-junkie, drummer, and aspiring skateboarder. I love you. Let’s be friends.

Hang out with me on Goodreads

Drop me a line: imedenhudson@gmail.com

Take a look behind the curtain: WhiteTrashCappuccino.com

Dedication

To great partnerships, and awesome people.

Special Thanks

James A. Hunter

I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, and my wonderful kids, Lucy and Sam. They are my constant motivation and inspiration. A special thanks to my parents, Greg and Lori. A quick shout out to my brother Aron and his whole brood—Eve, Brook, Grace, and Collin. Brit, probably you’ll never read this book either, but I love you too. Here’s to the folks of Team Hunter, my awesome Alpha and Beta readers, and to all the awesome people at Shadow Alley Press: Aaron Crash, Jason Henry Evans, and the amazing eden Hudson—the coolest writer on the planet. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Tamara Blain who rocked this book (if you need editing, go to her, she’s seriously awesome: www.acloserlookediting.com/ ).

—James A. Hunter, February 2018

eden Hudson

Thank you so much for reading Night Moves! The best parts of this story exist because James Hunter dreamed them up and then made them awesome, so if you get a chance, check out the rest of his books. They’re grrrrrrrreat!

I don’t know if I’m allowed to say that without being sued for copyright infringement.

Lawsuits aside, I would also like to thank a few other beings whose very existence helped bring this book into being.

God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. Without Him, none of us would be here, and I’m so very glad you are.

Everyone at Shadow Alley Press, the best publisher ever. If you hate my writing and wish I would go out of print already, they’re the ones to complain to.

The Op boys and girl—Kensey Stedman, Ronny Khuri, and William Greene. Somewhere out there.

Grandpa and Granny Smith and their tales of settling Big Sky Country.

Grandpa Hudson and my brother Buddy, who hate snow because it’s white and it’s on their land.

And my Joshua, who doesn’t care what kind of monster I am, as long as I’m his.

Copyright

Two-Faced: Legend of the Treesinger Book 1 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by James A. Hunter and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

JStrode@ShadowAlleyPress.com