C.E. Murphy - Coyote Dreams

You gotta balance things out, Jo. The way you go ain’t healthy . Gary’s words came back to me and I tightened my fingers around the railing. Punishing myself wasn’t going to bring Coyote back. Trying to maintain the damaged hermitdom I’d imposed on myself was a hundred percent counter to what he’d wanted me to do. It shouldn’t take people dying to get me to pay attention, but if it did, I was goddamned well going to listen.

“Yeah,” I heard myself say, very quietly. “I’d like that. Thanks.”

Surprise lit his face like a sunbeam and Thor waved me off, smiling broadly. “Awesome. We’ll talk about it later. Go save the world.”

That wasn’t the first time a good-looking man had given me a go save the world send-off. It wasn’t even the first time today. I could feel my usual sarcastic litany running through the back of my mind, things like, that can’t be a good sign , and it’s clear the world is in a lot more trouble than words can summarize if it needs somebody like me to be its savior . I usually enjoyed wallowing in that kind of woe-is-me patter.

Right now I was so disgusted with myself I wondered how I’d ever gotten any relief from it. That I couldn’t stop it from nattering on made a bad taste in my mouth, bitter and sharp enough that I felt like I was holding back vomit. I could even feel it in the way I held my face, as if what I really needed to do was get to a bathroom and spit out a mouthful of nastiness. I was still holding my mouth that way when I walked into Morrison’s office.

He was in the midst of shrugging a jacket on, and for the first time in history he said, “What’s wrong?” instead of berating me or looking frustrated that I was still around. I ignored him and got a cup of water from his cooler and washed the dredges of coffee out of my mouth, then sat without answering. Morrison stared at me, then slid the jacket off again and came around his desk, leaning on it as he folded his arms and looked at me. Concern flashed through his aura, dark patches in colors already blackened by stress.

Part of me admired how fast I’d adapted to seeing auras. Half an hour of it and it hardly seemed worth mentioning anymore. The rest of me just sat there and gave the button above Morrison’s belt a thousand-mile stare, like it might turn out to be hiding the secrets of the universe. It was more likely hiding Morrison’s belly button. For a few seconds I was actually grateful for my mind’s idiotic tangents while I tried to remember where standard-cut men’s waistlines hit the waist in relation to a standard-man’s belly button, and decided that yes, probably the first button above the belt was about right.

The jeans Mark wore rode considerably lower than that. I crumpled the water cup and put my hand over my eyes, beads of water making like tears down my cheeks. “How many more?”

Morrison was so quiet I thought he hadn’t understood my question. I’d just about convinced myself to look at him when he said, just as abruptly, “By the end of the day it’d piled up to a quarter of the force. Some of their families, too.”

“Like Melinda.” Not that Mel was really a good example, as she and I had been mystically involved. Which sounded like the sort of thing a person might call a 1-900 number for. Great. I didn’t know how I was going to break it to Billy that I’d been having an illicit psychic affair with his wife while he slept, but I’d give just about anything for the chance.

“Like Melinda,” Morrison agreed, blissfully unaware of my unfortunate internal monologue. I had a brief moment of envying him. At least he could get away from me. I didn’t like me very much right now, and I was stuck with me twenty-four/seven. “You all right, Walker?”

“Fine.” I dropped my hand, fingers still curled loosely around the cup, and looked at the jacket he’d left on his chair. “You’re here late. I’m keeping you. You have plans.” I wasn’t sure if that last was a question or not. Morrison took it as one, nodding.

“Dinner.”

“Sorry. I’ll get out of your hair.” I got up and Morrison stepped into my path. I was wearing sneakers, so he had the very slightest height advantage, less than half an inch. Nobody else would’ve noticed it, but we both did. I wanted to take a step backward to make it less obvious, but there was a chair behind my knees. Morrison knew perfectly well he was in my personal space and didn’t have the slightest intention of moving out of it, so I just waited, looking that all-important fraction of an inch up at him.

“Talk to me, Walker. You look like your best friend just died.”

“No.” An image flashed through my line of vision, a petite pretty girl with hair like buckwheat, thick and straight and long. For some reason I could see her aura, too, though I certainly hadn’t been able to thirteen years ago. It was tight against her skin, bubbling with wrath, just as her expression was full of rage. She’d been the only person who’d ever called me best friend , until I’d gone and slept with a boy she’d said she didn’t like. “Just a friend.” Butterfly-winged blackness swept Sara Buchanan’s memory away as easily as it’d swallowed Coyote, and for an instant I wanted to thank the nightmare thing for taking away that image.

Morrison wouldn’t step out of the way, his mouth tight with concern. “Who?”

“Coyote. My…it doesn’t matter, Morrison. He’s dead because I screwed up again. He got caught in whatever’s making people sleep, and if he can be dead, other people are going to be, too, so I just need to get out of here and do my job. I just came by to see how bad it was today.”

“Walker,” Morrison said again, this time as if the name was insufficient. I debated telling him my first name was Joanne and he could try it out for size, but I had the very real feeling that would lead right back around to a discussion of Siobhán Walkingstick , and I didn’t want to talk about her. “Coyote is your spirit guide, isn’t he?” It was barely a question, and I wanted to know how he knew that and what it cost to ask, but not enough to pursue it. I closed my eyes and turned my head to the side.

“Yeah. Or he was. Now he’s dead.”

“I wouldn’t think a spirit guide was something you could kill.” Morrison was treading on very thin ice, the words strained, and the only reason he was doing it was for me. I looked at him and wondered what he’d do if I curled myself against his chest and held on. I didn’t even think I had it in me to cry. I just wanted to be somewhere safe for a little while, and Captain Michael Morrison’s arms seemed like the safest place in the world right then.

“Walker,” he said, one more time, and sighed.

I was actually changing my weight to damn the torpedoes and step closer to him when his office door opened and Barbara Bragg walked in.

Had there not been a chair immediately behind me I probably would have leapt back like a guilty puppy to put distance between myself and my boss. As it was, I had to clench my stomach muscles to keep from simply falling into the chair.

Morrison, who neither shared my guilty conscience nor, very likely, any half-formed fantasies about sweeping me protectively into his arms, glanced toward the door and smiled. “Barbara. I’d like you to meet Officer Joanne Walker. Walker, this is Barbara Bragg.” He stepped away from me easily, making space for Barbara and me to shake hands.

She came forward, giving me a smile sunny enough to make Kewpie dolls look dour. She wore another sundress, different from last night’s, but just as becoming to her. It had capped sleeves, and I found myself staring at her left shoulder, where the butterfly tattoo was hidden. She and Mark both had one, all vibrant dark colors like the ones that haunted the nightmares. My heart started pounding too hard, heat burning my jaw and working its way toward my cheeks.