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O'Do
All I could do was watch as he walked to the shelves that held the rocks and touched something on the top shelf. It clicked against the fake wood shelf. He stood there for a moment, his fingers petting whatever he touched, his whole body focused on that small item.
For a moment I was disappointed. If he was just repeating something he'd done every day, I wouldn't learn anything from him.
Then he jerked upright, responding, I thought, to a sound I could not hear and he walked briskly to the front door. I heard the door open with his motions, but the door, more real than the apparition, stayed closed.
This was not a habitual ghost. I settled in, prepared to watch O'Do
He knew the person at the door. He seemed impatient with him, but after a moment of talk, he took a step back in invitation. I couldn't see the person who came in—he wasn't dead—or hear anything except the creaks and groans of the floorboards as they remembered what had happened here.
Following O'Do
Something grabbed him around the neck and shoulder. I could almost make out the shape of the murderer's hand against the paleness of O'Do
It was so fast. One moment O'Do
I'm not a terrific lip reader, but I could tell what he'd tried to say.
Mine.
I stayed where I was and shook for minutes after O'Do
Eventually, I remembered that I had things to do before someone realized there was a coyote ru
Distinguishing any scents at all here proved difficult with O'Do
Other than that, it was like trying to pick up a trail in the Columbia Center Mall. There had simply been too many people in here. If I was trying to pick out a scent, I could do that—but trying to distinguish all the scents…it just wasn't going to work.
Giving up, I went back to the corner where I'd scented Uncle Mike just to see if I could pick him up again—or figure out how he managed to leave only the barest trace for me to find.
I don't know how long it was there before I finally looked up and saw the raven.
CHAPTER 5
It watched me from the hall doorway, as if it had simply found the open back door and flown in. But ravens are not night birds despite their color and reputation. If there had been nothing else, that alone would have told me that there was something off about this bird.
But that wasn't the only thing. Or even the first.
As soon as I caught the glitter of the moon's light in the shine of its feathers, I smelled it—as if it hadn't been there until then.
Ravens smell of the carrion they eat overlaying a musty sharp scent they share with crows and magpies. This one smelled of rain, forest, and good black garden soil in the spring. Then there was its size.
The Tri-Cities has some awfully big ravens, but nothing like this bird. It was taller than the coyote I was; easily as big as a golden eagle.
And every hair on my body stood up to attention as a wave of magic swept through the room.
It took a sudden hop forward, which moved its head into the faint light that trickled through the windows. There was a spot of white on its head, like a drop of snow. But what caught most of my attention were its eyes: bloodred, like a white rabbit's, they glittered eerily as it stared right at me…and through me, as if it were blind.
For the first time in my life I was afraid to drop my eyes. Werewolves put great value on eye contact—and I'd blithely used that all my life. I have no trouble dropping my eyes, acknowledging anyone's superiority and then doing whatever I please. Among the werewolves, once dominance was acknowledged, the dominant werewolf could, by custom, do no more than cuff me out of his way…while I then ignored him or plotted how to get back at him as I chose.
But this wasn't a werewolf, and I was consumed with the conviction that if I moved at all, it would destroy me—though it was not making any sign of aggression.
I value my instincts, so I stayed motionless.
It opened its mouth and gave a rattling cry, like old bones shaken roughly in a wooden box. Then it dismissed me from its notice. It strode to the corner and knocked the walking stick to the floor. The raven took the old thing into its mouth and without so much as a glance over its shoulder took flight through the wall.
Fifteen minutes later, I was well on the way back home—in human shape and driving my car.
Being not exactly human myself and raised by werewolves, I'd thought I'd seen just about everything: witches, vampires, ghosts, and a half dozen other things that aren't supposed to exist. But that bird had been real, as solid as me—I'd seen its ribs rise and fall as it breathed and I'd touched that walking stick myself.
I'd never seen one solid object go through another solid object—not without some pretty impressive CGI graphics or David Copperfield.
Magic, despite Bewitched and I Dream of Jea
Maybe, just maybe, I'd been like the rest of the world, accepting the fae at their face value. Acting like they were something familiar, that they were constrained by rules I could understand and feel comfortable with.
If anyone should have known better, it would be me. After all, I well understood that what the public knew about the werewolves was just the polished tip of a nasty iceberg. I knew that the fae were, if anything, worse about secrecy than the wolves. Though Zee had been my friend for a decade, I knew very little about the fae side of his life. I knew he was a Steelers fan, that his human wife had died of cancer shortly before I met him, and that he liked tartar sauce on his fries—but I didn't know what he looked like beneath his glamour.
There were lights on at my house when I pulled the Rabbit into the driveway and parked it next to Samuel's Mercedes and a strange Ford Explorer. I'd been hoping Samuel would be home and awake, so I could use him as a sounding board—but the SUV put paid to that idea.