“You think I kept Frey from Sarah and John-John?”
“Didn’t you?”
“I didn’t even know about them until recently.”
“But you and Daniel—”
“There isn’t any me and Daniel. We are friends. That’s al.”
George gives no indication what he’s thinking. I get the feeling, though, that I haven’t convinced him. I rub my hands over my face and ask wearily. “What happened last night, George?”
He looks at me with cold suspicion. “What kind of question is that? You know what happened.”
“No. I don’t mean the accident. I mean at the council.”
A flash of satisfaction flares in his eyes. “You don’t know, do you? Your request was turned down. Al this”— he sweeps a hand around the room—“was for nothing.”
George brusquely pushes himself away from the table and stands up and away as if he needs to put distance between us. “You are unclean. Evil. A dead thing. I hope Daniel puts an end to you and stays here with his son where he belongs. I can’t be here with you any longer. Tel Daniel I wil see him at the burial.”
He leaves without another word through the back door, back unyielding, long strides stiff yet brisk, determined to waste no time in getting away from me.
So much for the cordiality of our first meeting. Can’t say I blame him, though.
I watch him leave. In spite of what Frey thinks, I am unconvinced he could not be the skinwalker who planted that bead in my arm. Even before he knew Sarah’s request was turned down, he might have thought the quickest way to rid the tribe of my presence was to rid it of me. Maybe the surprise I saw in his eyes when I met him at the door was not because Kayani was here but because he didn’t expect me to be.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I stil hear soft voices from the living room. I can’t intrude on Frey’s time with his son. I let myself quietly out the back door and find myself drifting down toward the corral in the back of the house.
The sun has risen over the horizon, not in a blaze like yesterday but in smeared shafts of light filtering through the clouds. The horses watch me approach with intense curiosity and nickering expectation. Feeding time. I wonder if they’l let me get close enough to feed them. Animals tend to react badly when they sense a predator. They do indeed start to shy away, but when I pick up a pitchfork and toss a couple of flakes of hay into the feeder, their natural defenses are overcome by another compulsion — the need to fil their bel ies. I am ignored as they start to feed.
I climb up on the fence to watch. There are three horses.
Smal of build, sturdy and wel cared for. Two are pintos, brown and white with dark manes and tails. One is a buckskin, golden coat shining, tal er than the other two, dark mane and tail and four black hooves. I wonder which was Sarah’s and which was John-John’s. Did the third belong to Kayani?
I haven’t been on a horse for a long time — since a long-ago birthday party and that wasn’t real y a horse at al but a pony. Mary’s invitation springs to mind and the gloom deepens. We won’t be taking that ride after al.
I close my eyes and let senses take over from emotion.
The smel of the horses, warm, earthy, pungent; the smel of sage and mesquite and hot sand; the warmth of the sun where it touches my face; the sound of the horses crunching the fragrant hay; wind blowing softly through desert juniper; the sound of a fox slinking back to its den; the cal of a crow circling overhead—
My eyes snap open.
A crow.
I jump down from the fence and scan the heavens. Against the horizon, a large black crow flaps glistening wings, flying due east away from me.
Shit. It could real y be a crow.
Or it could be George off to spread the bad news that I’m stil alive.
CHAPTER 25
I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I STAY IN THAT POSITION, back against the fence, eyes on the sky. Partial y it’s because I’m stil numb with what’s happened, partial y because I hear George’s words repeat in my brain.
He’s right. Worse, what happened to Sarah and Mary is my fault. If I hadn’t persuaded Frey to come, if I hadn’t been so curious about a shaman I won’t be al owed to meet, if I hadn’t once more drawn Frey into my own private battle, John-John would stil have a mom and an aunt.
How can Frey ever forgive me?
Movement from the house breaks through the pal of despair shrouding my thoughts and look I over to see Frey coming toward me.
He’s alone.
“John-John?”
“Cried himself to sleep. He’s on the couch. I don’t want to be gone long in case he wakes up, but I wanted to check on you.” He looks around. “George left?”
Couldn’t leave fast enough. I glance toward the sky then nod.
“Did he feed the horses?”
“No. I did.”
“You did? Wouldn’t have thought a city girl like you knew the business end of a pitchfork from a branding iron.”
“Like you’re the expert. How much time have you spent on the range, cowboy?”
He lets a tiny smile touch the corners of his mouth.
“Touche.” The smile is gone as quickly as it appeared. He leans back against the fence, resting a foot on the lower rail.
Once again we’re side by side, silent, weighed down by sadness that pul s at us the moment we let an unguarded thought slip through.
The sky should be light by now, the sun casting shadows across the burnished landscape. Instead, the clouds crowd thicker and lower until a light mist begins to fal.
I put a hand on Frey’s arm, afraid if I don’t say it now, I’l lose courage. “Frey, I’m sorry.”
He straightens up, not meeting my eyes, pretending, I think, not to hear. “We’d better get inside.”
We trudge back to the house. John-John is stil asleep on the couch. I give Frey a gentle push toward his son. “Go. Be with him. I’l make coffee.”
Frey settles himself on the couch, gently lifting John-John’s head to rest on his lap. The boy stirs but doesn’t waken. Frey rests his own head back against the cushions and closes his eyes, too. I leave them and head for the kitchen.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Sarah has no coffee in the house. Only various kinds of loose tea in glass canisters. I pick one up, feeling a tingle of irritation until I catch myself.
The woman is dead. I’m criticizing her because she doesn’t have coffee in her own home.
She’s dead because of me. She’s dead because I let Chael influence me. She’s dead because I didn’t have the backbone to do what I should have the moment I saw him in my house.
And I’m irritated because she drinks tea.
My fingers tighten convulsively around the glass canister and with a crack that shatters the quiet, the canister breaks, sending shards of glass and tea as fragrant as sage across the kitchen floor. I glance down at my hand. Only the metal ring lock is left. It glistens with blood from the gash across my palm.
There’s no pain and as I watch, the cut starts to heal. Skin tingles as it reknits over the gash, blood soaking down through the skin until it’s reabsorbed. Soon there’s nothing to show but a faint flush and then that’s gone, too.
Why can’t I perform that same magic on Sarah and Mary?
