The green chili was from somewhere good, the real kind with enough heat to require a moment of respectful acknowledgment after the first bite. I ate as she talked.
“My grandmother’s people called themyee naaldlooshii, which means ‘sometimes it goes on all fours’ in English, but these days people who still remember them call them something else.”
“What?”
“Skinwalkers.”
Silas had called them the same thing.
“Most of the legends describe them as humans, wielders of dark, elemental magic who were corrupted by it.” She watched me over the rim of her glass. “But that’s not true. What’s been following you was never human. Its kind walked the Earth long before ours did.”
“Silas… the shifter, told me they’re elemental spirits. Born from the dark side of the earth’s magic, or something like that.”
“Yes.” She set the glass down. “And they don’t choose targets at random. If one has been following you, then at some point it caught your scent and decided you were worth the effort.”
“Silas said it wants to mate with me.” I paused. “Because of… what I am.”
“A she-wolf, you mean.” She said it matter-of-factly, with no hint of surprise.
“How do you know about shifters?”
“My grandmother had stories about wolves who walked as men, sometimes even living among us, but I’m reasonably confident this is the first time I’ve been in the same room with one.”
I looked at my wrapped forearm on the table. “I found out a couple of days ago.”
“How are you doing with that?”
“Excellently,” I said. “Handling it beautifully. No notes.”
The corner of her mouth moved. It wasn’t quite a smile but it was adjacent to one.
“What does it do?” I asked. “When it mates with someone. What actually happens?”
Her expression settled back into the careful register. She looked at the food between us, then at me. “My grandmother told me the offspring kill the mother as they’re birthed and the skinwalker’s spirit passes into the litter. Then the creature dissolves into dust, though I doubt that’s of much comfort to its chosen mate.”
“It’s a little comforting,” I admitted. “I mean, at least it’s not personal I guess…”
“Oh, it is very personal,” she said. “They follow a scent for weeks before they act, and they fixate completely on a target. As long as it’s alive, it’s coming for you. Not anyone else. You.”
“Will I be safe here?” I asked.
She held my gaze and didn’t look away. “Not indefinitely, no.” She was quiet for a moment. “But it’s injured. It’ll need time before it’s mobile enough to start hunting you again.” She glanced at the narrow, high windows. “And this property has some advantages. My friend’s clients occasionally require discretion from things more conventional than what’s after you.”
“Meaning what… there are some weapons hidden here or something?”
“Meaning someone thought carefully about what makes a building hard to find and harder to enter.” She began clearing the food. “It’s the best I can offer right now. Your other option is turning yourself in to the FBI, who of course want to ask you about quite a few things by now.”
“Thus my face on the front page of the newspaper.”
“Yeah.” She said it like she was unsure what else to say.
“Thank you,” I said. “For at least not treating me like I was brain-damaged.”
“I saw it in your eyes at the hospital.” She zipped the canvas bag and stood. “People who are confabulating have a specific quality when they talk. They’re searching for the story while they tell it. You weren’t searching. You were reporting.”
She carried the bag to the door, then stopped and turned back.
“The shifter.” She measured her next words. “He’s going to find you himself before long.”
