River Marked (Mercy Thompson #6)(26)
Author: Patricia Briggs

Gordon Seeker laughed. "Better than death and destruction, surely–but those often follow change anyway. Very well." The eyes he turned to me were fever-bright.

He reached out and tapped my injured leg. "River marked. It meant for you to be its servant– good thing for you that coyotes don’t make good servants. But it means more than that. It tells me that tomorrow you need to go to Maryhill Museum. Enjoy the art and the furniture built by the foreign queen–and then go see what they have in their basement. At noon, you meet my young grandson at Horsethief Lake, and he’ll take you to see She Who Watches."

I knew what She Who Watches was though I hadn’t ever actually seen her in person. She was the most famous of the pictographs at Horsethief Lake.

"The tours are only open on Fridays," commented Adam. "At ten in the morning."

The old man grunted. "Indians go anytime they want to–it is our place." He tapped me. "She’s Indian, no matter what she believes. My grandson is Indian. The two of them can take one Anglo wolf who belongs to an Indian coyote girl."

He stretched and tossed the empty pop can to Adam–who caught it. "Time for this old Indian to go." He looked at me again. "If you are going to use white man’s words to describe yourself, `avatar’ is more accurate than `walker.’"

He took his bag and indicated the little pot with his chin. "Better you keep that, little sister. A coyote will get herself hurt a lot if she runs with wolves."

And then he left.

Adam and I both waited, holding our breaths, but we heard neither footsteps nor car or boat.

After a moment, I shed my clothes and took coyote shape–and I had about one more change in me tonight. But it was better that I changed than Adam. He opened the door of the trailer and walked out behind me as I put my nose to the ground and scent-trailed the old man. He’d headed for the river and not the road.

I followed him down to the little backwater where Adam and I had played in the river. About ten feet from the drop-off to the beach area, Gordon Seeker’s scent and the imprint of his cowboy boots just disappeared. "WHAT DO YOU THINK? WAS HE A GHOST?" ASKED ADAM, as he scrubbed my feet again while I sat on the couch.

I’d told him they were fine. But he’d ignored me and insisted on cleaning them again after I’d gone out running around on them, even though I’d been on paws and not bare feet. It didn’t hurt as much as it should have because the salve had healed the minor cuts better than any mundane Bag Balm could have. All I had left was a whole bunch of bruises.

"I think that there is more in heaven and earth, Horatio," I said. "I can usually tell if someone is a ghost. Or if I can’t, I’ve never found out. How about you?"

"He smelled like woodsmoke and predator," said Adam. "He breathed, and I could hear his heart pump. If I had to guess, I’d say not a ghost. But I’ve never actually seen a ghost, so it’s just a guess. A ghost was the first explanation that occurred to me for his disappearing act."

"You’ve never seen a ghost?" I saw them all the time, so I forgot how seldom other people could perceive them.

"No. So what do you think Gordon Seeker was?"

"You know," I told him, "there’s an old Indian custom that Charles told me about once. If a visitor comes to your lodge and admires something out loud, you are supposed to give it to them. Charles says there are three reasons for the custom. The first"–I held up a finger–"is because generosity is a virtue to be encouraged. The second"–I put up another finger–"is to teach you not to be too attached to or too proud of things. Family, friends, community are important. Things are not. Can you guess the third one?"

He smiled. "Charles told me that one. Be careful who you invite into your lodge. I didn’t think of it until after Seeker was already in the trailer. Maybe he was the Indian version of a witch. Medicine man."

"Charles says that medicine men and witches aren’t very much alike."

My leg itched, and I pulled up my pant leg and contemplated scratching.

"River marked," said Adam, touching the mark lightly.

"He was as bad as the fae," I complained. "He didn’t answer anything and just left us with more questions."

Adam kissed my knee, which should not have done anything to my pulse. I mean–the kneecap is as far from an erogenous zone as I know of. But it was Adam, so my heart rate picked up nicely.

He put my feet down. "The magic salve did its job. I don’t think you’ll need another application tonight. I have a funny feeling that you might need it more later. Speaking of the fae, though, when we start getting people missing and bloody, it’s probably time to give Uncle Mike a call and see what he’s set us into the middle of."

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Uncle Mike’s number. I heard the sound of loud music, and someone answered in Cornish.

"It’s Hauptman," Adam said. "Get Uncle Mike for me." He started pacing the length of the trailer as he sometimes did when he was on the phone. I pulled my feet up–resting them on the towel to keep the couch clean. Without my feet on the floor, Adam had an extra half pace to use. My eyes drooped, and I had to fight to keep them open.

There were several clicks, and the music died down abruptly, as if Uncle Mike had gotten on a quieter extension.

"Adam," he said. "Congratulations. And why would you be calling me while you’re on your honeymoon?"

"Otters," said Adam. "More precisely, otters that look like they’d be more at home in the Old Country and who smell of glamour."

He’d sensed it, too, then. That little bit of magic when I was trying to get the boat out from under the tree. It hadn’t been Benny or the boat. The otters were the next best thing.

There was a little silence, then Uncle Mike gave a sigh of relief. "They are there, then. Edythe told us that none of her people had seen them for a while."

"Which is why you and Edythe sent us down here?"

Uncle Mike cleared his throat. "Not exactly. Edythe gets hunches sometimes. One of them was when a Roman ex-slave named Patrick came back to Ireland. We all wish we’d killed him right off just as she advised–except probably that would have only meant the Church would have sent someone else, and there would be a Saint Aiden or Saint Conner or some such instead of Saint Patrick. Harbingers are often like that old seven-headed dragon that grew three new heads whenever you cut one off."

"Hydra," Adam said.

"That’s the one. Anyway, she doesn’t have those moments very often, maybe no more than once a century. Last one was right before Mount St. Helens blew. After that Patrick thing, we all listen to her. A week ago she told me that she had a premonition that it might be a good idea if you and Mercy honeymooned at her campground and took a look at what the otterkin had been up to." "What have they been up to?" Adam had stopped pacing and was looking wary. Edythe, whoever she was, had a premonition once a century or so–and had had one about us being here. That sounded a lot more serious than a man losing his foot to a bear or ghosts dancing beside the river, no matter how much they had affected me.