Patricia Briggs - River Marked

I sighed in resignation. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

He hauled me in and out without embarrassment—on his part anyway. Then he took me for a walk down by the river. He carried me because the ground was too rough for a wheelchair. It could have been uncomfortable, but he paid no attention to the forced intimacy, so I didn’t have to, either. I’d been trying to be as little trouble as possible, so the only time I’d been outside since we’d gotten back from Maryhill was to go to doctor’s appointments.

“You look better,” I told him. It was true; he was still on the lean side, but he no longer looked like a stiff wind would carry him away.

“I took a trip to Portland last week and brought back a couple of people,” he said, sounding sad. Vampires didn’t hunt for their sheep, the people they would keep in their menageries, in their own territories. “I tried to find people I thought would blend in with the rest, but we’re still having territorial negotiations. I need a few more, but I’ll wait until things settle down. Warren said that he and Ben were happy to continue to be food until I didn’t need them anymore.”

I patted his shoulder. “I hate being dependent, too. It sucks.”

He gave a rueful laugh. “We do seem to be in the same boat, no? I suppose we must work on being gracious and grateful until we can do for ourselves. Someday the wheel of fate will put us in a position to be of use to them, and we will remember how much easier it is to give help than it is to accept it. Now, why don’t you tell me of your adventures? I’ve heard quite a bit from Warren, of course, but I prefer to get the story from the source whenever possible.”

So he walked and I talked until I was hoarse and cold. Then we went inside and played Battleship.

“B-7,” I SAID.

“Miss.” He was gloating because he was working his way down my last and biggest ship, and I was still looking for his two-peg patrol boat. “C-2.”

“Hit and you know it,” I grumped.

He looked at me, then his eyes focused over my shoulder.

“D-4,” said Coyote.

Stefan came to his feet, and said, “Who are you?” at about the same time I turned my chair around regardless of scarring my hands up, and said, “Am I glad to see you. We were worried.”

“Of course you were,” Coyote told me. He stared at me a moment. “Mercy, what did you do to yourself?”

“River Devil and otterkin,” I said.

His thumb brushed under my eye, and he held it up. “You are leaking, Mercy. Maybe you need a few more stitches.”

I laughed and wiped my face. “All my stitches come out in four more days. I thought you were dead.”

“I was,” he said. “That’s what the plan was. Don’t you remember? Why do you have a vampire in your basement?” He narrowed his gaze at Stefan, and with ill-concealed hostility said, “Vampires kill walkers.”

“Mercy,” said Stefan, “is this Coyote?”

“Yep,” I agreed. “Stefan, meet Coyote. Coyote, meet Stefan Uccello. He’s a friend of mine.”

Coyote’s gaze grew noticeably colder. “I remember you.”

Stefan smiled at me. “I have not battled with any walkers for a hundred years or more. But I think that it would be good for me to take my leave until your guest is finished. You have your cell phone?” I held it up; he’d retrieved it when we came in from our walk. “Call me when he leaves. I promised Warren I wouldn’t leave you alone. I will tell him that you said he could come back tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.

He kissed my cheek, ignoring Coyote’s throaty growl. Then he disappeared.

Coyote straightened, staring at the place where the vampire had been. “I’ve never seen one of the blood drinkers do something like that before.”

“Stefan is special,” I agreed. “I’m so glad you’re back. How did the others fare, do you know?”

Coyote took Stefan’s chair and sat down with a groan. “Thunderbird—Gordon Seeker—was the only one who beat me back. Surprised both of us. There aren’t any more Thunderbird walkers, and we were certain that he would never return with no one to anchor him. Just goes to show you that no matter how old you are, life can still surprise you. Do you have anything to eat? It’s been a few days.”

“In the fridge,” I told him. “Help yourself.”

He did. He carried me and my wheelchair up to the kitchen and made himself a huge sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and sat down with me. I told him about killing the river devil and the otterkin. I also told him about how worried I’d gotten about the walking stick.

It hadn’t done anything since killing the otterkin, but there was an eagerness, a shadow of violence, that seemed to lurk around it. I had noticed that when I was at my most prickly, the walking stick was usually somewhere nearby. Maybe it was my imagination—I wouldn’t have told Adam, for instance, without better evidence. But Coyote ran more on instinct than logic, so I thought he’d understand. I think I hoped he’d have some sort of suggestion for me, but he just listened and nodded while he ate. I even told him about coping with a broken hand and a broken leg while a pack of werewolves tried to take care of me despite myself, and had him laughing milk out his nose. My leg still hurt, my stitches still itched, and Adam was still all the way in Texas, but somehow I felt better anyway.

Coyote told me a few stories about himself. He used the rude versions, too. Potty humor shouldn’t be funny to anyone over the age of twelve—and then only to the male half of the species. But somehow it was different when Coyote told it, both sly and innocent at the same time.

He leaned forward and touched my nose. “You’re tired. I’d better get going.”

“Stop in again,” I invited him.

Coyote looked around the kitchen, then he looked at me. “You know, I think I will.” He got up and, behind my back, said, “That is very beautiful.”

I turned as far as I could in my wheelchair and saw that he’d picked up the walking stick, which must have been lurking around. He gave it a Charlie Chaplin swing.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more gracefully etched or cleverly carved,” he said. Then he looked at me and smiled, waiting for me to understand.

“Would you,” I said carefully, remembering what Charles had taught me about guests and things that they admired, “care to accept it? It has delighted me for many days, as have you—which makes it a fitting gift for such an honored and welcomed guest.”

He smiled at me as if I had been exceptionally clever. “But it’s gotten a bit dangerous recently, yes? We shall have marvelous adventures, this walking stick and I.”

I’d given it back to the fae quite often when it first came to me—and it had always returned. But somehow, I thought that it would stay with Coyote.

“Take care of yourself,” I told him. “And tell your sisters ‘hi’ from me.”

“I’ll do that,” he promised, opening the back door. He stopped in the doorway and turned back to me.

“You tell your mate that I expect him to take care of you,” he growled.

“I will.” I smiled a little. “Have fun.”

“Oh, I will,” said Coyote. He shut the door, but I heard the last bit anyway. “I always do.”

Dearest Adam,

If you are reading this, I guess it means I didn’t make it out this time. Damn. I was really worried about this one, and if there had been any way out of it, I’d have found it.

Words aren’t my best thing, not when it’s time to tell you how I feel—but you know that. I’m much better with actions than explaining myself. I think it’s because I don’t think in words about you. How can I reduce what I feel for you to mere letters on a page? “I love you” doesn’t seem big enough somehow, and everything else I tried (you can go through that little garbage can under the sink if you want to see the drafts of this letter) sounds like really bad poetry, which is even worse, so I’ll just stick to the simple words. I love you, Adam.