Standing in the shadows, I studied my brother and the woman I called grandmother, fighting down the desire to be rude and combative. When I entered, Ayatas FireWind had been sitting in the guru position, knees crossed, and he stood slowly, his bare legs unfolding gracefully. It was really unfair. We were both skinwalkers, and he was graceful, while I was more often a klutz. He was also a senior special agent and the regional director of the Psychometric Law Enforcement Division of Homeland.
“Igidoi,”he said softly.Sister, the possessive form, as inmy sister. It set the tone for this meeting. He was here as a brother, not as a cop.
There were many ways to respond, many different ways to saymy brother. I had been studying the proper forms of address for the last week, but hadn’t been able to decide on one until now. I chose“Agidoi,”which literally meantmy sibling of opposite sex, and was also possessive. No combative words here. Nope, nope, nope.
He nodded at my choice of address, and his braids swung forward. He wore two, both of them neat and spare and perfect. I wanted to toss my braid behind me to hide it. For the Cherokee, the state of one’s braids was indicative of many things, and mine was sloppy and careless. But I held still.
Ayatas was dressed in a breechclout, which he must have brought with him, because it was colorful and not the undyed cotton of the ones in the bins. It was also a traditional Cherokee covering and was more conservative than the one he wore the last time I saw him wear one. This breechclout was a length of bright red woven cloth that passed between his legs, draped over in front to the knees,and was tied around his waist with a second piece of rust-colored cloth that also secured his medicine bag at one hip. It left his buttocks mostly bare but covered the essentials. It was appropriate attire for hard work, fishing, or hunting in hot weather, and for ceremony.
The flames flickered over his bare chest and face. Like me, he was yellow-eyed, tall, too lean, his musculature clearly defined. He was also beautiful, while I was... interesting. Striking sometimes. Never beautiful.
I transferred my eyes to the old woman sitting on the log seat in the place of honor, more or less at the point of north. It was low to the ground, and her knees were bent, relaxed. She was heavily wrinkled, her braided hair a mix of intense black and steel gray, streaked with pure white. Her yellow eyes sparkled in the firelight, her gaze tight on me.
The memory of the last time I saw her flashed through my mind and was gone. She looked older than the night the white man had tried to kill me on the Trail of Tears. To save me, she had forced me into my bobcat form and shoved me into a blizzard to live or die. To the child I had been, bleeding and broken, she had always been old, but that had been over 170 years ago. Now she looked ancient.
Like me, she was wearing a linen shift, one from the plastic box outside. Beside her was a small, traditional drum, a pitcher for water, and a basket of dried and fresh herbs with mortar and pestle. I would not be drinking anything she made for me.
“Enisi,”I said to her. It meantmy grandmother, the possessive implied, though not stated. Cautious, informal, respectful.
“Vgilisi,”she said. It meantmy daughter’s child, but was less specific as to relationships. It wasn’tmy granddaughter.“Jaladi.”A polite form ofsit down.
I sat across from her, at south, folding down as gracefully as I could. Aya sat as well, and there was an empty wooden cup at his knee. We studied each other. “I thank you for coming. I don’t remember much of the speech of The People. Do you mind if we speak English?”
Enisi, better known as Hayalasti Sixmankiller, gave a single nod, but her lips went hard and flat. “I understandyou have adopted two men into your family.” She threw a fresh branch of rosemary on the fire. “You should have spoken first with tribal leaders. There may be disagreement with this decision.”
Ahhh.That was better. Provocation was something I could deal with. I gave a tiny shrug. “There may be disputes,” I agreed. “The elders have cared nothing for me for a hundred and seventy plus years. Tell me why I should care what they think now.”
“You want help.”
“My brother,” I hesitated and looked at Aya, “myadoptedbrother, not you, believes you can teach me to manage my skinwalker magics better.”
“Your shifting is uncontrolled,” she stated.
“It has become more difficult to control,” I hedged, which was true enough.
“We will go to ceremony—the ceremony of Full Circle—to heal families. You will participate. You will yield to me as did Tsu Tsu. I will teach you and govern you.”
Aya’s eyes shot to his grandmother. His expression didn’t change, but his fingers tensed the tiniest bit. Yeah, got it. Not acceptable language around a Full Circle firepit. Not aTsalagiconcept. And I didn’t know what a tsutsu was, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t like it.
“Full Circle is always voluntary,” I said. “My elders, Aggie One Feather, her motheruni lisi, and Savannah Walkingstick, would tell me that you can’t command me in this.”
“You would disobey me?”
“In a heartbeat.”
Hayalasti Sixmankiller’s eyes flashed again. My nose, which was better than human, caught a faint scent beneath the rosemary. Unpleasant. Then it was gone.
“You. Will. Yield,” she said.
Inside me, Beast hissed in displeasure, showing killing teeth.
I stole a sound from Leo Pellissier and laughed softly, letting the sound ripple along my skinwalker magic. Inside me, Beast’s ears perked up high. Outside me, silver and charcoal skinwalker energies scattered through the air, all laced with hundreds of darker motes of power. The magicof I/we. The magic of the creature we were together—Beast.
As my magic rose, so did my grandmother’s magic. I could only see magic with Beast’s vision, not my own, which meant Aya and Grandmother likely didn’t see energy at all. If she did, she would have hidden her power. Her energies were black, shot through with motes of red. The feel of her lightless energies sliced along my skin like tiny knives. Black magic...
“No,” I said. “I will notyield. I will, possibly, work with you. But I will not be ruled.” I touchedle breloque. “And not just me. The Dark Queen will not yield.”
Hayalasti’s eyes flashed again, and I got a good look at them this time. The strange light in her eyes was the reflection of fire, but not the fire between us. In her eyes was a roaring fire that spoke of battle and war. I caught a whiff of the stink again, tantalizingly familiar, and then it was gone. Her power shaped into a long-fingered hand. It reached for me.
