Eileen Wilks: Humon Error

The footstool Sheila had brought him wasn’t necessary, but he appreciated it. Having his feet propped up let him look at the handmade leather moccasins he was wearing—one of Arjenie’s gifts. She’d also given him two shirts, a book on archaic weapons, a beautiful custom scabbard for his machete with a smaller, matching one for his favorite knife, and a fistful of candy, toys, and novelties in his stocking.

Everyone who was in the Delacroix house on Christmas morning got a stocking. That was one of the rules. Even people who were supposed to be outside guarding the house, which had thrown Josh and Adam into confusion. There were other rules, like everyone had to have at least one item for everyone else’s stocking, and you had to sneak to slip in your contribution. Arjenie had a big advantage on the sneaking part.

Arjenie must have noticed what he was looking at. “You like the moccasins.”

“They’re great. I can’t believe how well they fit.” Though he knew why they fit so well. His old moccasins had vanished for two weeks, mysteriously reappearing shortly before they left. She must have given them to someone to copy.

She snorted. “I give you shoes, a couple shirts, a book, and a scabbard. You give me a house. This is not exactly equality in action.”

He turned his head to look at her. She was glowing, her eyes so bright and happy it made his heart stutter. “You’re forgetting the nightgown and earrings and the holster for your Sig.”

“Well, I do win on the number of presents given, but a house?” She snuggled closer, so he put his arm around her. “What do I get next year? A jet plane?”

“I was thinking of a nice casserole dish. Or maybe a blender.”

She chuckled. Her eyes were happy, but the lids were drooping. They’d been up late last night, fashioning their own, private celebration. Then, of course, they’d been up early this morning. No one could sleep through a tornado of hyperexcited kids on Christmas morning, and who would want to?

All of these kids, happy and healthy and safe. Everyone here—safe.

Benedict’s arm tightened involuntarily around Arjenie as he thought of how nearly . . . but she hadn’t been hurt. Not even a scratch. And K. J. Miller wouldn’t put her family in danger again.

The authorities ruled it a heart attack. The man had been over fifty and had smoked for most of those years, so that was believable. It might even be true. Benedict didn’t know what exactly Coyote had done, but he’d never forget the look of utter terror on Miller’s face when something drifted up out of little Havoc and swept down over the skinwalker.

It had worked out. It had all worked out, even the presents he’d been so worried about.

He’d made a bowl for Robin, hand-turned from the stump of an old elm, then hand-finished using beeswax, because that way she could use it in her spellwork if she wanted. For Clay he’d found an antique blacksmith’s hammer—nothing he would use, probably, but he might want to display it. Seri and Sammy got lift passes at a ski resort Arjenie said they liked. Pretty much everyone else got gift certificates, which was a cop-out, but he hadn’t known any of them yet.

Next year, he thought, he’d do better.

But the house . . . that had kept him awake nights. Was it too pushy? Would Arjenie see it as him tying her down or assuming too much? But one reason she’d hated giving up her apartment was that she’d put a lot of effort into decorating it, making it hers. He’d hoped that planning a house together, making it theirs, would ease the sting.

It seemed to have worked, even though, properly speaking, he hadn’t given it to her yet—just the appointment with the architect. He’d put the man’s business card with the day and time of the appointment in the small box he’d made out of mahogany. A real pleasure to work with, mahogany.

Naturally, the card had required explaining. When he did, there had been a moment of complete silence in the room. Ambrose had broken it, saying with a shake of his head, “A custom-built house? Way to blow the curve for the rest of us, Benedict.”

Everyone had laughed then, and the normal chaos of paper-ripping, exclaiming, and zooming-around kids had resumed.

Havoc came trotting up, propped his forepaws on Benedict’s leg—the uninjured one, fortunately—and inserted his head beneath Benedict’s hand. Benedict chuckled and gave the little dog a good ear rub. Ever since their adventure, she’d considered him pretty much hers to order around.

In other words, she’d accepted him. Like everyone else here. He didn’t understand. Nothing had gone right, not from the moment he’d stepped onto Delacroix soil. He’d turned into a wolf, then gotten caught up in circumstances that never let him present himself as normal. As one of them.

But the kids all called him Uncle Benedict now, and the adults were as relaxed and teasing with him as they were with each other. Maybe he’d gotten the sympathy vote because of his wound. If so, he’d take it.

He looked at Arjenie, intending to ask her about the little charm her aunt had given her, the one that had them exchanging sly grins. And smiled. In the midst of all the noise and commotion—outside, kids were shrieking as they pelted each other with snow—she’d fallen asleep.

Havoc apparently though a nap was a good idea, because she hopped up into Benedict’s lap, turned around twice the way dogs do, and settled down. He grinned and stroked her head. Life was good. Life was very good.

In the woods behind the Delacroix home, a man sat on the snowy ground, leaning against a tree trunk. He was lean, with a compact body, neither especially tall nor short. He had a blade of a nose, a small dimple in his chin, and the high, harsh cheekbones of one of the People. His hair was like his height, neither short nor long, but it was definitely shaggy.

On this bright winter morning three days past solstice, he wore only jeans, boots, and a western-style snap shirt. He looked utterly relaxed sitting there in the snow, though his eyes were unfocused.

At the moment, he wasn’t using them. He’d borrowed some from a friend.

After another moment of stillness, merriment jumped into those dark eyes. He shook his head and laughed. Oh, such plans he’d had. He’d intended to walk up to the door, knock, and present himself in this body—a perfectly good body, and he’d missed it when that silly cub bungled his calling spell. He’d been looking forward to seeing their faces. Especially Benedict’s.

Once inside, he would have informed them he was there to complete the task he’d been called for. That was nonsense, of course, but they would have believed him. He was always believable—what kind of trickster would he be if he couldn’t manage that?—and he’d had the best of motives. Benedict was one of his people even if he was a part-time wolf, and Benedict had wanted so much to be accepted.

The plan had been to tell them he was acting as judge of Benedict’s relationship with Arjenie, then steer his witnesses—all of them, really, but especially those twins!—into explaining to him why Benedict was right for Arjenie. Then he’d have them explain why she was right for him. It was all quite obvious, but people were amazingly able to overlook the obvious if you didn’t give them a nudge.

Even him. He chuckled again and got to his feet. He wouldn’t be needed here, after all. That family pulled together just fine. But it was a nice day for a walk, a lovely, sunny day, and as he headed for the road he enjoyed the play of muscles and the sunshine, glad to be back in his favorite body. Maybe he’d find someone else who needed a little help.

Whistling softly, Coyote set off on the road, ready—happy—to lend a little of his special brand of help.