Coyote.
Athrill. She—her other self—wants to meet him, speak to him. But he iswary. She circles. He springs. She dashes ahead, cuts him off. Hewhirls on hind legs and again she blocks his way. He’s bigger, butshe’s faster. She is no threat, her hackles are down. If she can showhim that she only wants to talk—
Shesits. So does he, some distance away. She licks her snout. Her otherself, the daytime, two-legged self is struggling, she wants words toexplain, but she only has this body, so she lies down, tucks her tail,waits.
Andso does he. Rest, just rest.
Sheis uncertain, confused, curious, not sure this is safe. But his manneris calm. Her other self urges her, sleep, sleep . . .
Rubbingmy face, I woke from strange dreams. I didn’t always remember my timerunning as Wolf. Images, the taste of blood on my tongue after a hunt,flashes of vision. This time felt particularly odd, unreal. Then Iremembered a name: Coyote.
Isat up, forest dirt covering my naked side. My hair was a tangle, and Iitched.
Ayoung man sat across from me, leaning up against a beetle-eaten pinetree with sparse boughs and dried-out needles. He wore a blanket overhis shoulders but was otherwise naked. I took a breath, and yes, he wasmy quarry, the coyote. Were-coyote. I’d never met one before.
“Hi,”I said, sitting up, hugging my knees to my chest. About twenty feetseparated us. Just enough to really look at each other, far enough awayto not feel threatened.
“Hi,”he said back, without enthusiasm. His straight black hair fell to hisears. He was lean, muscular. His dark eyes were wary.
“I’mKitty,” I said, and waited for him to introduce himself.
Hestared. “Ofcourse you are.”
Cormacjogged up, then stopped, looking back and forth between the two ofus. The coyote flinched, but held his ground.
“Whoare you?” Cormac demanded, and I was sure the were-coyote would fleeagain, so I interrupted.
“Cormac,I think that envelope is for him.” He had the envelope tucked under onearm, he’d gone back for it, as if he suspected he mightneed it. Under his other arm, he held a bundle of clothes. “Are thosemy clothes? May I have them, please?”
Hehanded them over. I dressed as quickly and smoothly as I could, whichwasn’t very, wiggling to pull up my jeans. I just shoved the bra in mypocket.
“Youhaven’t been a lycanthrope very long, have you?” I asked the coyote. Heglanced away, picked at the edge of the blanket. “That’s why you’re outhere, hiding. While you figure out how to keep it together.”
“Feelssafer here,” he said.
“Wehave a message for you,” I said. “I think. Cormac?”
“Fine.Take it off my hands.” He tossed the envelope to the guy, who fumbledwith the blanket for a moment but managed to catch it.
Warily,he opened it. Inside, several folded sheets formed a letter. The guyheld it up. The outside of the sheaf of pages had one word written onit in block letters: COYOTE. Brow furrowed, confused, he unfolded thepages and started reading.
Cormac’sface was expressionless, as if he was just done having opinions aboutthe whole thing. I went to stand next to Cormac, scuffing my bare toesin the dirt. He’d forgotten my sneakers when he’d picked up the rest ofmy clothes.
“Whatdo you think this means?” I asked softly.
“Idon’t really care anymore, as long as the check clears.”
Well,deciding not to think about it was certainly one solution. The coyotekept reading. Then he glanced up at us.
“Well?”I asked. “What’s it say?”
“Ican’t tell you,” he said. “But . . . thank you. This is important.”
“Butwhat is it?” I pleaded, almost whining.
“Sorry.”The young man seemed more at ease than he had a moment ago. He leanedback against the tree, snugged under the blanket, and regarded thepages of the message like it had told him something wonderful. Maybe ifI was fast enough I could grab it from it. Run away with it just longenough to see what it said. Maybe.
“Well.What’s your name, then?”
Heoffered half a grin. “Can’t tell you that, either.”
Akey from fifty years ago. A safe-deposit box from ten years ago. A guywho wasn’t born yet in the first case and would have been just ateenager in the second, and certainly not living anywhere near wherethe postcard had marked his location . . . “None of this makes sense.It’s not, like, time travel—”
“I’llsay this much,” the were-coyote said. “Mr. Crow sends his regards.”
Ifumed. Clenched my hands into fists and set my jaw. I wanted to yell.“And who is Mr. Crow?”
Hejust grinned, for all the world like a coyote yipping in mockery.
Iglared a challenge. “My Wolf could have totally taken you, if she’dwanted to.”
“I’msure she would,” Coyote said, grinning.
“Kitty,we should go,” Cormacsaid.
ButI hadn’t gotten the whole story. I wanted to know. I said, “My packruns in the foothills south of Boulder. You know, if you ever want tocome visit.”
“MaybeI will. But he’s right, you should get going.”
Cormacwas already walking away. In the end, I knew a wall when I saw one. Andthis guy . . . he had a big story, I could tell. As much as him nottelling me might drive me crazy, I couldn’t do much about it. So Ifollowed Cormac back to the tiny cabin, found my shoes, and we left.
Wespent the drive back in silence, at least until we hit I-70. Returningto the reality of big highways and traffic seemed to break a spell.
“It’snot time travel,” he said, abruptly.
“No,”I confirmed. “It’s not time travel, because if time travel existed,then it would always already exist and would never not exist and wewould know about it.”
Hestared at me. “I don’t think I understood a word of what you just said.”
“It’snot time travel,” I reiterated.
“So what was it?”
“Coyoteand Crow,” I said softly. “Tricksters. We’re in someone else’s story.”
Hetilted his head, as if listening. Amelia, explaining to him, maybe.“It’s probably for the best we don’t know more,” he said finally.
“Probably,yeah.”
“It’sprobably messy. Messier.”
“Yeah.”
“Wedon’t really want to know.”
“That’sright.”
“Goddammit,”he muttered.
Westared ahead, driving away from the westering sun.
Sealskin
RICHARD'SHAND WAS SHAKING. The noise, the closed space, the lack of easy accessto the door
