Eileen Wilks: Humon Error

“Now?”

“I can’t teach you the chant. It would have no power in your mouth. He says he’s not Wiccan, and Coyote answered his call, so he must be right.”

“Sammy,” she said, holding out her phone, “Nettie Two Horses wants to talk to you.”

Hesitantly, as if she’d offered him a snake, he took the phone. “This is Sammy.”

Seri moved closer. “What’s going on?”

“Nettie thinks it’s a skinwalker. She’s going to teach Sammy a chant to . . .” Arjenie kept moving but stopped talking. Paying attention to another sense.

“What?”

“Benedict’s moving awfully fast all of a sudden. And it seems like . . .” She walked several feet and checked again. “He’s headed for Delacroix land. We need to cut left, through the woods, and I think . . . I don’t know why, but I think we need to hurry.”

The house was a tidy frame cottage. Flowers had bloomed in its gardens last summer; those beds were trimmed and mulched now. There was a swing set out back. A bicycle and a tricycle waited for their owners on the front porch.

Inside, Sheriff Porter stood by the window in a small living room crowded with people—four Delacroix men and one woman who was Delacroix by marriage. Another woman, one with soft brown hair and terrified eyes, said frantically, “Nothing? You can’t get anything?”

“I’m sorry,” Robin repeated, feeling helpless. “It feels like something is blocking me. That’s never happened before, so I don’t know if . . .” Foulness washed through her. Her eyes went blind as the land spoke to her in its own language, one far removed from words. “Clay,” she whispered.

He was already there, slipping an arm around her waist. “What is it?”

“It’s on our land. It crossed onto our land. Arjenie was right. And it . . .” She swallowed. “I’m blocked. I can’t touch it. And it has the little girl.”

They must have walked five miles—two and a half out, two and a half back, though at an angle. They wouldn’t be entering Delacroix land at the same place they’d left it, but coming in closer to the house. She hoped she’d triangulated correctly. The mate sense was certain, but the terrain made them veer this way and that.

Sammy had finally given her back her phone. He was murmuring to himself, repeating words she didn’t know. Navajo wasn’t one of her languages. “Nettie Two Horses wants me to go see her,” he’d told Arjenie quietly when he ended the call. “When this is all over, she wants me to go to her. Do you think . . . could she mean to teach me?”

The hope in his face was so raw. “Did she say so?”

He’d shaken his head. “Only that I was a young idiot, and I was to come to her.”

That sounded like Nettie. “Then you’d better come to California with me.”

Five miles wasn’t so much, Arjenie told herself. She had no business being tired already. At least all the walking kept her warm, except for her face, which was freezing. Had she already acclimatized to San Diego, or was it really as far below freezing as it felt? The snow kept drifting down....

Her phone vibrated against her hip. It had occurred to her when Sammy gave it back to her that she didn’t want it singing Christmas carols if they happened to be near the bear, so she’d set it to vibrate. She took it out. “It’s Aunt Robin. Hello?”

Four minutes later she returned the phone to her pocket. “Sammy, what kind of shape are you in?”

“What?” He turned a puzzled face her way.

“Can you run four or five miles?”

“I suppose. But you can’t. You’re doing great, but running—”

“I know.” Not in the snowy dark. Sometimes dignity had to be set aside. “Josh? Time for Plan B.”

Benedict lay on his stomach. Over three hundred yards away, and so well out of sight if not hearing, a man chanted in a voice so low he picked up only the sound of it, not the words. Snow still drifted down slowly, some of it caught by the branches of the oak he lay beneath. His haunch and leg throbbed along with his heartbeat. His breath frosted the air.

The little terrier huddled against him. Settle down.

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as twitched.

You’re twitching plenty inside.

I won’t let him kill that child.

The terrier huffed out a breath. Benedict could see it in the cold air. She sleeps. She isn’t hurt. I’ve promised to let you know in time to commit suicide by bear if he finishes his preparations before they get here.

We’re too far away.

If we go any closer, he’ll detect us, revert to bear, kill you and Havoc, then finish his chant and kill the girl. He’s not finished. Wait.

He knew how to wait. He hated it, but he knew how to do it.

Havoc/Coyote shivered and tried to get closer.

Can’t you use some of your magic to keep poor Havoc warm?

It takes a lot of power to watch him without him noticing me.

How close to the end of the chant is he?

I told you, the chant isn’t a set length.

First the skinwalker would chant and dance to ready his mind, Coyote had said. Then he would chant and dance to gather power. Has he started gathering power?

A pause . Yes. How close is she now?

Benedict checked his mate sense for the dozenth time since they began this hellish vigil. Four or five miles.

She’s not very fast.

He growled.

All right, all right. I know her old injury won’t let her run over rough ground covered by snow in the dark, but . . . what?

She’s coming faster now. Benedict paused, checked again. It made no sense, but . . . A lot faster.

Twenty minutes later, Benedict decided the waiting was over. She’s almost here. I’m going to her.

In your other form. You need to tell her about him.

I don’t intend to hop to her. And if he Changed here, he’d be reduced to hopping. The wound on his right haunch would translate to his upper thigh. I’ll Change when I see her. It was a lot of Changes in one day—a day when he’d covered twenty miles or so after being wounded. But that couldn’t be helped. You . . . Havoc won’t be too cold?

The little terrier snorted. I’m going with you. Moving will warm us.

The two-hundred-pound black wolf and the fifteen-pound, mostly white terrier set off together, one of them on three legs, the other’s four legs working hard to keep up.

A single low hill separated them. Benedict crested it and saw Arjenie, Josh, Sammy . . . some distance away, Seri struggled to keep up, and while he didn’t see Adam, the wind carried his scent. And in spite of everything, he grinned in the way wolves and dogs do.

His mate had found a way to move quickly. She rode piggyback on Josh—who could have left the human Sammy behind, even with his burden. Arjenie didn’t weight much. That he hadn’t meant . . . what?

Benedict headed down the hill to her.

“Benedict,” she whispered as he drew close. “Oh, it’s so good to . . . Your leg! You’re hurt. I knew you were, but—how bad is it? Oh, you can’t answer. Josh, put me down, I need to get down—”

Benedict stopped. Let the moon’s song reach through him, uniting with earth . . . and wrenching into one solid, shrieking pain.

His fourth Change of the day took longer than the first three. Most of the pain vanished as soon as he stood on two feet once more, except the wound. Which had opened up slightly when it shifted from haunch to hip and thigh.

A hundred and twenty pounds of warm woman wrapped herself around him. “You must be so cold. I’ve got Adam’s jacket—he’s roving in wolf form—his pants and shirt, too, if you want those. Your poor leg.”