Klaus left a trail of melted snow tinged with blood. His shoes came off, resting a few yards apart in a bloody patch.
The blood reminded me that Ed was a vampire in every way. A hunter. A predator. A killer.
However. Edmund swore fealty to Molly and to Angie Baby. No matter what else, I knew he would protect them all.
Molly, however, wasn’t so sanguine. She and Evan stepped over the trail and headed to their rooms. Her narrowed eyes followed Ed as he went through the house and out the mudroom door, Klaus’s body banging over the threshold and down the steps. The door closed behind them. Silent, without looking at me, they went to their rooms.
***
I checked in on my clan. Bruiser was busy with the high-level vamps in Shaddock’s cottage, talking about the immediate future battling Shimon, and the more distant future when the Flayer of Mithrans was dead. It was a formal parley, the kind of meetings that Leo Pellissier had reveled in and the kind of meetings that I slept through. In his room, Eli was sleeping off a near-death experience with Thema curled around him. They were both naked and I didn’t want to know what had happened between them. Molly and Evan and the kids were in their rooms with the door shut. Moll’s sisters were closetedwith them. Alex wasn’t talking to me, bingeing on energy drinks. I was on my own.
I pulled on a sweatshirt over my comfy clothing, found the arcenciel scale, the eagle feather, and my father’s medicine bag. And my own. I took three throwing knives and a vamp-killer, just in case more vamps found a way onto the property, and walked through the now-swirling snow to the sweathouse.
There was no music here accusing an “Evil Mama” of doing bad things. It was silent and cold, even the ashes. I closed the door on the ice and started a fire using matches, a bag of Fritos, and a tiny bottle of vodka I had swiped off the wet-bar shelf. It wasn’t traditional. I didn’t care. The combo of greasy corn and alcohol lit the curls of bark and dry splinters, and the fire spread quickly to the larger pieces. When I had a good blaze going I used the long pole I found in the corner to open the small door in the dormer that would both let out smoke and let in light, so I’d know when it was dawn.
I sat by the fire and took the weapons, pushing them behind the nearest half-log seat. I dug the snowball crystals from the fur between my toes and flicked the melting ice into the dark.
Carefully, I spread my treasures on the dirt floor in front of my bent knee, all but my gold nugget and mountain lion tooth, which I wore around my neck. I had the eagle feather. The arcenciel scale. The medicine bags. The Glob. The crown of my Dark Queen office.
My own medicine bag was dyed a dark green on one side. I opened it and found it wasn’t as empty as I had believed. There were two bits of waxed paper, folded over. Inside one was a pinch of raw native tobacco. In the other waxed envelope was what smelled like white sage. The bag was too small for the golden eagle flight feather, but its contents were a good start on a real medicine bag, which should contain the things the earth gave, the symbols of a life well lived. Eli had chosen well.
My father’s medicine bag was old and faded, the edges soft and powdery. I hadn’t noticed until now, but once there had been something sewn on the bottom. Maybe abeaded fringe. Maybe a bit of woven fabric. The ancient medicine bag was full. I had never gone through it, never searched the contents. It had seemed disrespectful, until now.
Carefully, I opened my father’s bag. It was so old there was only the hint of scent. Rotting deer hide. Tannins. Inside was a small length of jawbone, the teeth attached, a child’s teeth. Mine, if the memory and my brother were right. I didn’t remember and he hadn’t been alive when I was hit by a white man hard enough to break my jaw, to knock the bone chip from my face. Five-year-old me had tried to kill him for raping a Cherokee woman. He had tried to kill me right back and nearly succeeded.
I shivered, my spine frozen, my face and chest and hands warming at the fire. One-handed, I rearranged the rocks ringing the fire. One rock was actually a rounded-out bowl, shaped and smooth. Another rock was long with a rectangular cleft, like a tunnel down the middle. Ceremonial objects. Still one-handed, I set them to the side.
My bone and teeth felt alien and oddly menacing in my other palm.
Slowly the sweathouse warmed and my shivers decreased. Time passed. I sweated. I woke once to find myself lying by the fire and added logs to it.
I dreamed and, in the dreams, I hunted as Beast. Deer, turkey, catfish, alligator, were all my prey. Blood and fury flashed through me as I tore out the throat of a man who was cutting down the trees of the forest and denuding the mountains. I mated with a strong male, the pain intense and tearing, followed by the contentment of knowing I carried kits. I raced along high ridges and leaped down cliffs onto small ledges to climb into a tiny a den. I suckled a litter, hungry, and knowing there was nothing to eat, not anywhere.
Scents changed. I smelled the warmth of spring and fresh blood and the glory of the hunt. I smelled the memory of my first shift, the excitement and the fear sweat. I chased my first rabbit asWe-sa. I tasted my first fear-soaked blood and ripped the steaming meat from the carcass.
I dreamed the memory of fightingtlvdatsi. And stealing Beast’s body and her soul.
I heard the door of the sweathouse open and I sat up. Grit from the floor was crushed into my face, along with the teeth of my childhood. My brother stood in the opening. He entered and closed the door on the icy night. The firelight illuminated him. Tall, dressed in jeans, snow boots, a down vest, and a peacoat. The clothing was deeply wrinkled, as if it had been balled up and put away for months. He peeled out of the coat and removed his boots and socks.
I brushed the grit from my face, gripping the teeth and bone in my palm. The dream was lucid, intense, rich with texture, scent, sound, vision. I could even feel the irritation of the sweaty grit beneath my fingers.
Barefooted, Ayatas FireWind, my brother, came to the fire and bowed his head to me. He said,“Nuwhtohiyada gotlvdi.”
I tried to swallow but my throat tissues were too dry. I croaked softly, “You asked that once before. I said no. Why ask again?”
“I came to you with an impure heart. I came to youudalvquodiand withkanalvisdi—arrogant and in secret anger. I came with the jealousy of a foolish boy. I deserved no gift of peace from you. No welcome. I carry the shame of my weakness and I beg forgiveness of the elder sister, the beloved woman of my clan.”
Beloved woman.A Cherokee phrase forwar woman. I gave him a tribal shrug and a soft grunt. It communicated that I was listening, and that, while I wasn’t accepting all he came to say, I was hearing his words, allowing his presence, and I wasn’t going to try to kill him. Yet.
“May I sit at your fire? I have broughtnodatsi aditasdi. It is the recipe made by our mother. It will quench your thirst.”
Nodatsi aditasdi.Spicewood tea. One made strong, of sarsaparilla and other herbs, with notes of vanilla, caramel, wintergreen, and licorice. I remembered. My mouth wanted to water and would have if I hadn’t been sweating for hours. I inclined my head. Ayatas sat across the firefrom me and stretched an arm up, removing a pack that had been slung around him on a single short strap, hanging at his back. The bag smelled of leather and steel and herbs and gunpowder. And oddly of jungle cat and the ocean. He pulled out a liter of spring water and reached around the fire to the equipment left by my Cherokee Elder. His hand paused, as if startled, as it passed over the war drum. But he took the mortar and pestle from the center of the pile. Removed a zipped plastic bag from his near-empty gobag and poured some dried herbs into the stone mortar. The intense scent of sassafras filled my nose and I dreamed a dream within a dream, of my mother, sitting on a low stool before the fire, pouring tea for me to drink.Nodatsi aditasdi.Mama’s spicewood tea. This time my mouth did produce a little moisture.
My brother ground the spices and poured them into the bowl I had placed in the fire. The stone was hot and the herbs made little popping sounds as he added water, a little at a time. As he worked, his yellow eyes lifted to me several times. “You came to sweat with no water. Was that intentional?” He added another log. Sparks and smoke rose on the air.
I gave the Tsalagi grunt again. My braid slid over my shoulder. It was gritty and crusted with sweat salt. A messy braid with several duplicated twists and hanging strands. The braid of a Cherokee was an indication of spiritual status and mystical strength. The hair was re-braided only by someone completely trusted. Ayatas’s braid was perfect, a complicated weaving of maybe a half dozen strands. It was neat and economical and beautiful. Angie had braided mine hours ago, and from a style standpoint it was awful. But it was braided with love and that counted for more than style.
I couldn’t decide if I cared.
