Coyote Dreams

particularly with ambitions to be a cop, but Morrison had pulled me into it and I was starting to realize that I liked helping people.

But there was a huge chasm on the other side of that question. Two questions. He’d asked me two questions, and no matter what I said, answering the one precluded the other. Was it real did not, would not, could not fit into the same universe as would you take a promotion. And Morrison knew it. He hadn’t said, “I’m promoting you.” That would’ve closed the door on was it real. It would’ve told me something, and that he left that door open…

…that told me something, too.

Color pounded in my cheeks, so high I knew my tan would never hide it. My throat hurt. My heart hurt. My hands hurt. As if the bracelet and the necklace and the medal all lay tight and piercing those places, maybe trying to build a shield of protection that for the first time, I didn’t want and didn’t know how to do without. If I’d thought a sword was any good for stabbing myself with, I’d have drawn Cernunnos’s blade from its astral sheath at my hip and thrown myself on it, but that kind of behavior required something to prop it on, or someone else to hold it. I didn’t want to blink, knowing more of those tears that were coming too easily lately would fall. Regardless of what I said, I was going to lose something.

I knotted my hands into fists until my fingernails cut into my palms, and said, “I’d take the promotion.”

Morrison let out a breath like he’d been holding it and inclined his head. “Congratulations, then.”

That was all there was to say: he stepped away, turning to his vehicle. I whispered, “Thanks,” as he pulled the door open, then raised my voice abruptly to say, “Morrison.”

He looked back over the Toyota’s door, squinting in the sunlight. “Mel’s making dinner for everybody at their place tonight. You want to come?” I heard my own voice with a distant sense of astonishment, wondering what exactly I thought I was doing. Trying, maybe. Trying to tell him something my choice didn’t allow for.

There was the faintest hint of expression I couldn’t read in Morrison’s blue gaze. No: I could read it. All it would take was shifting my sight a little, letting myself see what the colors of his aura told me. I didn’t do it, and after a few seconds he said, “I think I’d better not.”

I didn’t mean to close my eyes. I didn’t want to. It was too much of a give-away. Still, my eyelids pressed shut for a moment, my heart lurching like I’d taken a hit. Or, maybe more accurately, a hint. The door on was it real had closed. I opened my eyes again and nodded a little, somewhat astonished at my ability to keep breathing. “See you at work, then, sir.” One more nail in the coffin. I offered a faint smile that felt like regret, and said, “Captain,” very softly.

“Detective,” he said, almost as softly, and now that we knew where we stood, he got in his car and drove away. I watched sunlight glitter off his bumper as the Toyota turned out of sight, then put my chin against my chest, eyes closed for a few moments. Making a deliberate choice as to my path didn’t feel quite as liberating as I wished it did, but it was a place to begin. I exhaled and scooped up my toolbox, patting Petite’s roof as I slid the box into the passenger-side foot well and climbed into my car after it. There were a few hours until dinner. Maybe I’d see how fast and how far I could go, before then. “It’s a place to start,” I murmured aloud.

Petite rumbled agreement as I turned the ignition. I even found a smile by the time we hit the road.