Changer's Daughter (11 page)

“What did Frank feed them?”

“Cat food. Apparently, they earned their keep mousing around the grounds out at his ranch.”

“I don’t suppose he could talk with them for us?”

“We could try.” Chris shrugs. “But they do have a point. Lovern insists on his perks. Why shouldn’t they?”

“True.”

They work for a few minutes, silent but for fingers on keyboards or the rustling of paper. Then Bill sighs.

“Here’s another message from Rebecca Trapper asking if their request for disguise amulets has been approved. I guess I’d better nag Lovern again.”

“Ask him about findings, would you?”

“Righto.”

The intercom buzzes, then emits Arthur’s irritable voice:

“Bill, come down to my office. My computer has frozen up.”

“On my way.”

Heading out the door, Bill turns and grins at Chris.

“I bet Eddie’s sure glad that he’s not here.”

“Yeah. Bet he’s really enjoying his vacation.”

“Yeah.”

The buzzer sounds again. Bill dashes out the door. Chris reflects for a moment, wondering what it must be like to be immortal, rich, and even magical. Probably solves most problems you don’t create for yourself, he decides, and you have a long time to work out even those problems.

Then he turns back to his work.

Those are faces in the rocks, Shahrazad is certain of that now. Not so much faces as
Eyes
. And not very friendly Eyes either—muddy grey undershot with a green light. She hunkers down in the long grass, wishing her father was with her, almost scared enough to wish that Hip and Hop weren’t down in the vale below.

Almost. Although for a coyote only six months or so old Shahrazad has seen some tough times—starting with the murder of her mother and littermates when she was just a few weeks of age and progressing to her being kidnapped and held hostage when she was only slightly older–Shahrazad possesses a coyote’s resilience in full. When the Eyes do nothing but stare at her, she decides that maybe staring is all that they
can
do. With that resolution her courage returns.

Raising herself from the grass, the young coyote circles to where she can take a scent on the wind. The Eyes move, their gaze following her. There is a glint of something the color of bone—fangs? She cannot tell for certain. Then the wind shifts and a scent, hot and rank, is momentarily carried to her.

There is something vaguely reptilian about the scent, something, too, of spoiled meat, poison, and musk. Instinctively, her hackles rise. This is something to fear, something to avoid, but she has learned this too late. The Eyes are emerging from their shadows and the whiteness beneath them
is
fangs: fangs set in flat, reptilian heads on long, snaky necks.

Shahrazad wheels to flee. Tail no longer in line with her body, but firmly clamped to her backside, she runs. There is a noise behind her, many feet crushing grass and small plants. When the wind shifts, the scent of the Eyes is mixed with that of broken sage.

The sun behind both her and her pursuers sends shadows to loom over her. These obliterate her own running shadow, an omen of doom.

Then comes a screeching cry, shrill, meant to paralyze the hearer. Had her running legs not possessed a mind of their own, Shahrazad might have frozen in place and fallen to her pursuer, but her legs are smarter than her brain. They have realized that the sound comes not from behind her, but from in front of her, in front and a little to the right.

Her legs adjust her course away from this new threat even as her strange not-quite-coyote soul takes hope. Hasn’t she seen her father take the form of both owl and eagle? Certainly this is he, come to her rescue. Had she not been so terrified, she might have experienced a moment’s pity for her pursuers, for the Changer is the most wonderful, most terrible, most terrifying creature in Shahrazad’s universe.

She gallops on, down into the vale where she can see the antlers of Great Trimmer of the Tall Greens visible over the tall grass. Singer to the Moon is hurrying to intercept her, loping with the blinding speed Shahrazad had come to expect from these lepus kin.

A few breaths ago, Shahrazad would have been embarrassingly glad to see the jackalopes. Now, confident that her father has come to her aid, she moves toward them more as familiar points in the sea of grass rather than as allies. From behind her the screeching has sounded again, the cry of an eagle attacking, but louder than any eagle she has ever seen.

Changer.

He will rescue her, and when he has done so he will punish the jackalopes for not keeping her in better care.

(Conveniently, she forgets that she had deliberately left her chaperons behind).

She remembers hearing of her sire’s wrath when the Changer had learned she had been stolen from Arthur’s house. The memories are mixed in with images of a cruel woman, a fire-headed man, a Head that spoke though without a body, her father weakened and lacking an eye.

These are uncomfortable thoughts, and she pushes them away. The tromping of pursuing feet through the grass has stopped. The rank smell of the Eyes is fading. Neither Hip nor Hop show any undue fear, though both sit up on their haunches in what Shahrazad has learned is their guarded stance: ears high, antlers slightly forward.

When she has passed Hip and drawn abreast of Hop, Shahrazad slows, trotting in a circle to check what is behind her. There is no sign of the Eyes, but what she does see is so amazing that her tired legs give out beneath her and she plops down to check if her nose will confirm what her eyes have seen.

Eagle. Big eagle, just as her ears had led her to expect but...

Shahrazad whines slightly, vocalizing her puzzlement. Mixed in with the scent of the eagle is that of a cat. A big cat, like the pumas she and the Changer have occasionally crossed paths with in the wild. A big
female
puma. This, then, is not her father. The Changer takes many shapes, but all of them are male.

The creature with the eagle-puma scent flaps her wings in the direction whence the Eyes had come. Her posture is arrogant, as if daring the Eyes to return, but knowing that they will not have the courage. After holding this pose long enough that Shahrazad’s racing heartbeat slows, the eagle-puma turns her attention to the trio watching from the rear.

Now Shahrazad gets a better look at her savior and, no longer assured that it is her father, she feels a new rush of fear. In the wild, one predator often steals prey from another, either after—or before—the kill. Perhaps the eagle-puma has chased away the Eyes for that purpose. Might not the jackalopes (mere herbivores that they are) be standing not in watchfulness, but paralyzed by the screeching cry as she herself had nearly been?

Shahrazad begins to back away, hoping the eagle-puma will be content with the two jackalopes, only to be halted by a soft, unmistakable titter of laughter from Hip and Hop. Shame mingles with residual fear, freezing her as terror alone could not. She sneaks a glance away from the eagle-puma toward her chaperons.

The jackalopes have relaxed their vigilance. Their ears are relaxed, their antlers no longer ready to impale. Hop is sitting, thumping behind one ear with a big foot, as casual as if they are all gathered before Frank MacDonald’s fireplace listening to the chatter of the human form.

Terror departs, leaving only embarrassment and hot indignation. It is smart to flee from something bigger than oneself, especially when that something smells like two of the greatest hunters on land or in air. Coyotes know when to run, know when to fight.

Shahrazad considers shaking the jackalopes’ laughter from her ears and trotting off in a fit of pique. Curiosity keeps her in place, curiosity and a sense of gratitude toward the eagle-puma that had saved her—not to eat her—but for no other reason than that she wanted to do so.

Pretending not to hear the jackalopes’ laughter, Shahrazad takes a few hesitant steps toward the eagle-puma; then, when she does not warn her off, Shahrazad brings herself within the creature’s range.

The eagle-puma is neatly divided, golden brown eagle to the fore, golden brown puma to the rear. The only crossover between the sections is that the eagle head possesses small, alert ears, slightly rounded at the tips like those of a puma.

As Shahrazad approaches, the eagle-puma turns her head to keep the young coyote in sight, her scent and mien watchful but not threatening. When the coyote has had opportunity to make a full inspection, the eagle-puma flutters her wings and paces majestically away.She does not fly, but her stride is long. In a few moments, she is lost to sight within the sun-dappled boulders.

Shahrazad cocks her head, then barks a sharp note—a coyote friend-to-friend sound—after the vanished creature. Then she follows the jackalopes away from where the Eyes may still watch from the shadows of the rocks. Her fear is forgotten, replaced by something that mingles attraction and awe.

In the near distance, a large black raven launches into the air, riding air warmed by autumn sunlight, bright eyes watching from afar.

“Witchy lady, I’ve got the coolest idea.”

Tommy Thunderburst ambles into his manager’s office. The newest, greatest sensation in the rock/pop world smells slightly of wine and weed, but his usual loose-limbed gait is unimpaired and his long golden brown hair is clean.

Lil Prima assesses his condition without conscious thought. She has been Tommy’s companion for a long time now. Her role is a bit less than keeper, as she will not stop him when he begins to slide, yet a bit more than casual observer, as it is in her best interest to make the eventual crash as interesting as possible.

Now, as she tucks a lock of artificially blond hair behind one ear, the woman who claims responsibility for the fall of Adam notes that Tommy has gotten on top of the despair that had seized him when he had learned how Sven Trout and his cohorts had perverted one of his songs. No doubt the fact that Tommy has been actively preparing for his first concert tour of this incarnation has helped.

In between auditioning backup musicians and planning the choreography and costumes, Tommy has been immersed in new composition, churning out songs whose themes gradually shifted from despair and disillusionment to a resolution to face and—if necessary—obliterate those who oppose him.

Lil freely admits to herself that she has encouraged him in this course of action, even to the point of authorizing the recording of a new album although Tommy’s debut album is still strong on the charts.

“What’s your cool idea?” she asks in a voice that suggests, even without effort on her part, that the idea doubtless involves something intensely sexual.

Tommy shakes his lion’s mane slightly. Centuries of hearing that voice have not immunized him to Lil’s charm, but he has other, greater passions. In the grip of one of these—as he is now—he simply charges on.

“The new album. We’ll call it
Pan
. That means ‘all’ in some language...”

“Greek,” Lil says dryly. “Your natal tongue.”

“Cool. I knew it was from somewhere. Anyhow, Pan means ‘all’ in Greek, but it means something you cook with in English, right?”

“So I’ve heard,” says Lil, who has not cooked a meal for herself since the invention of servants, takeout, and microwaves.

“Right. Something that gets real hot.” Tommy grins. He’s getting ready to reveal his big surprise. “And it’s also one of the old gods—the Great God Pan.”

“I believe I met him,” Lil answers. She had indeed met the athanor who then had been called Pan and had drained even his legendary goatish lust.

“Right. He’s dead now.”

“Shot by an enraged husband,” Lil recalls.

“But there are others who look pretty much like he did—the fauns and satyrs.”

“Lots of them are his descendants. He was prepotent, which is more than any of them can say, and he’d fuck anything that moved and a quite a few things that usually didn’t.”

“I want them,” Tommy says.

“Slow down, lover. Who do you want?”

“I want the fauns and satyrs—at least some of them—to be in my stage show for the concert. It’s a great idea. They’ve got music in their souls—they won’t need much training—and no one will have seen anything like them.”