The Parting Glass (Caitlin Ross Book 4) (2 page)

I dipped a chip in salsa and nibbled it, buying time.

“Did you send him to me?”

One thing I appreciated about Sage: she never beat around the bush. “Of course I did. He came to me with some wild story about a dark being stalking him; what else was I supposed to do?”

“You could have helped him yourself.”

“Helped him what? Honey, babysitting an Indian with the D.T.s just isn’t my line.”

“Native American,” I corrected without thinking.

“I can say Indian all I want, just like I can say the N-word that upsets people so much. You white people have too many hang-ups.”

I didn’t want to mince terms with Sage; I knew I had no chance against her. “So babysitting John is supposed to be my job? Just how do you figure that?”

Sage toyed with a chip with a daintiness that put the lie to any stereotypes about her imposing figure. As always, the scarlet polish on her nails reminded me of fresh arterial blood.

“Oh, Baby, everyone knows you’re a sucker for hard luck cases. Stonefeather should be right up your alley.”

I grimaced. What she said was true, but I also knew Sage had taken on her own share of hard luck cases. “You just don’t like him.”

“I don’t like anyone who can’t control his impulses. Girls, smoke, drink—that man is always in some kind of trouble he wouldn’t be in if only he could stand up and say no once in a while.”

“So you pass him off to me. Great.”

Our food arrived then, and I tore into my chicken mole, wishing I could tear into Sage for putting me in the untenable position of being responsible for a man I scarcely knew. But as the thick cinnamon-scented sauce assuaged my first pangs of hunger, and with it my temper, I realized I couldn’t blame her. She was right. Try as I might to keep a low profile, I had a reputation in the magical community for taking in strays. Cats, dogs, teenagers whose Ouija boards had scared them senseless; it didn’t matter. When someone had a need, I had to respond.

“I don’t think it was D.T.s,” I said at last. “He hasn’t stopped drinking. At least, he reeked of stale booze when I saw him.”

“Then maybe the booze is making him paranoid. It can do that, you know.”

“What did he say to you?”

She shrugged. “Probably what he said to you.”

“Probably,” I agreed, “But at the time I had stuff going on, and I wasn’t in the listening mode.”

“Sugar! You not in the listening mode? Wait until that story gets around!” 

“I’d prefer it didn’t, if it’s all the same to you.” I sipped my margarita. “So?”

Sage placed a morsel of burrito between her tiny white teeth and chewed it with slow relish, rapture plain on her dark face.

“Mmm-mmm. Sometimes I wish my mama were Mexican; then I wouldn’t have to go out for food like this. Well, he came in all sweat and panic, and told me he needed some heavy magical protection. I asked why, and he said he had something on his tail. That’s all, really.”

“What kind of something?”

“Well, that’s where his story got garbled. Sometimes it sounded like he’d stirred up some Otherworldly being better left alone. Sometimes it sounded like a human allied with the powers of darkness. Or maybe a kind of dark being in human shape. Anyway, it seemed like John’s been walking where he ought not to have walked.”

I took a thoughtful sip of my margarita.

“Doesn’t sound like him. Drunk or not, he’s too smart to go places better left alone. A neophyte, yes. But a full-fledged Lakota medicine man?” I shook my head. “Not in the cards.”

“And you’d know about cards,” Sage agreed. “That’s why I decided it was nothing but paranoia and sent him over to you. I thought you could help him dry out and talk him around. Maybe use your special gifts to convince him he had nothing real to worry about.”

“Well, I won’t get the chance. I had a client coming and he disappeared again before I finished.”

Sage snorted through her nose. “Took off to find another bottle of comfort, if you ask me. He’ll be back.”

I pondered what Sage had told me on my short walk home, chicken mole and caramel flan warring in my stomach. Did I want John Stonefeather to show up again? Immaterial; I had promised to help him and would be bound by the promise whether or not he did. But what could I do if he didn’t come back?

Well, Sage had mentioned my special gifts. And I had one gift it didn’t take much effort to employ. I could consult the cards about John. He didn’t even have to be present.

With this thought in mind, I turned off Pearl at Ninth Street, wondering what kind of question would give me the best insight into John Stonefeather’s situation. Tarot cards are touchy; the seeker needs to be precise to avoid any ambiguity in the response. I couldn’t, for example, ask if what John feared was real. To the cards and the Powers that ruled them, “real” could mean anything. I couldn’t ask straight out what I should do, because I had no idea of the nature of the problem: simply drink or something more.

I turned up my street, still going over the possibilities. Two of the streetlights near Beljoxa’s Eye were out, but this didn’t worry me. I had grown up in Detroit, murder capital of America, and lived in New York City; the dangers Boulder had to offer hardly had the power to make me turn a hair. Anyway, I could take care of myself.

Or so I thought until I saw a large shadow unfold itself from the porch of my shop and start towards me, just as I unlatched the gate to my white picket fence and started up the walk.

Despite my earlier musings, I did not at first assume that this shadow had anything to do with the dark being John feared. For one thing, Sage had half convinced me the so-called dark being was no more than a figment of Stonefeather’s alcohol-soaked imagination. For another…well, when a woman alone meets a dark shadow on a dark street, the supernatural is not the first thing that comes to mind.

I reached in my pocket for my keys and clutched them with the sharp points poking out between my fingers, as my Mundane self-defense teacher had recommended. In my head I ran through the possibilities. Street person looking for a handout, someone in trouble looking for an emergency reading…rapist. The first two posed no danger. The last…well, I’d fight. If I had to I’d whack him with a spell before things went too far. I didn’t like to call on magic to solve Mundane problems, but I would.

The shadow came nearer. At second glance it didn’t seem so big, but it still appeared big enough to make my stomach heave. Whoever—or whatever—it was stood at least six inches taller than my five foot eight and boasted a width in the shoulder area a linebacker would envy. If I had to fight, I had my work cut out for me.

“Caitlin Ross?” the shadow inquired in a soft baritone with the trace of an unidentifiable accent.

The fact that it knew my name did not comfort me. Sure, it could indicate someone who knew of me. A potential client come for a late reading, for example. It could also mean a serial killer who had been stalking me for months and had chosen this moment to strike. Or it could mean a supernatural enemy. I didn’t have many, but everyone in my line of work has one or two. I backed up toward the nearest light source, the neighbor’s porch light, making sure I had my back to the dim yellow glow. If my adversary came any closer, I’d be able to see it better than it could see me.

“Who’s asking?”

The shadow did not answer, but continued to advance. I slammed the gate and made for the neighbor’s front walk. The shadow vaulted my fence with easy, feline grace and came after me, still with a slow steady stride that should have reassured me but somehow did not. I banged on the neighbor’s door: no response. They were out, not unusual for a Friday night in summer in Boulder. The shadow kept coming; it stood in the walk now, cornering me on the porch. I considered screaming, and decided against it. I lived in an area full of college students prone to giving wild parties. If I screamed, chance was no one would think it unusual. They’d just shut the windows and return to whatever T.V. program had their undivided attention for the evening.

At that point, the shadowy being stepped into the light, and I could see it was human—or at least wore a human shape. At any other time I would have licked my lips, and not out of fear. Facing me was a male about six foot four, built like the hero from the cover of a Romance novel. A shaggy mane of dark hair framed a striking face with wide, high cheekbones, a broad brow, and a thin nose that seemed to have been broken at least once. The beauty of that face owed nothing to artifice. It was untamed, like that of an animal in its natural habitat.

A short, neat beard covered his cheeks and chin. It enhanced his resemblance to a wild creature, as did the watchful glint in his eyes, which were the exact color of the sky at twilight. His clothes—a flannel shirt, jeans and work boots—should have made him look like a lumberjack. Instead, they gave him the air of someone who spent a lot of time in the forest, communing with the little people.

My knees began to wobble.

He came forward until he stood at the base of the porch steps. No more than a foot remained between us. “Are you Caitlin Ross? If you are, I was told you could help me.”

“Help you?” My voice came out hoarse with both fright and, curse it, longing. I found myself wondering what it would feel like to have his big, strong arms wrapped around me. It had been too long since I’d experienced that sensation. “Help you what?”

“I’m looking for someone. A man named Stonefeather,” he said.

All at once my conversation with John and what Sage had told me in the restaurant came flooding back into my consciousness. He might be pretty to look at, but my first impulse on seeing this stranger had been fear. 

So I did the only thing I could do. I raised my fist, still clenching my keys, and drove it straight towards his gorgeous, twilight blue eyes.

Chapter Two

M
y fist flew through the space where the stranger’s head had been a mere moment before; I hadn’t thought such a large man could move so fast. I stumbled forward, carried by the momentum of my swing, and fell down the steps. At the same time, I felt his huge hand close on my wrist. He bent my arm behind my back and I fell to my knees under the pressure; a shock of pain ran through my left hand as it scraped the pavement. His hand closed tighter, forcing my fist open, and I heard my keys clatter to the pathway.

“Nae, we’ll have nane o’ that!” he drawled in what I now recognized as a Scots burr.

He gave another shove, pushing me farther into the cement walk. I tried to heave myself up despite the agony in my arm. Much more stress would break it. My efforts came to nothing. He was too strong for me.

“Now we’ll be having a word about Stonefeather.”

I didn’t answer him. Instead, I mustered some energy, threw it at him, and felt his shock as a powerful surge of electricity jolted through his body. He released me and leapt back with a muffled oath of pain and surprise; he hadn’t been expecting true magic. I scuttled away from him on hands and knees, my right arm still burning. Then I jumped to my feet and ran down the street to my own front gate. I heard him coming after me and threw a shield in his path, blocking him.

“Ye feisty wee bitch!” he swore. “I just need tae ask ye a few questions!”

“I don’t know where Stonefeather is,” I cried without looking around. I fumbled at the gate, trying to find the latch.  All at once, it gave and I tore up my front walk and plunged up the stairs to my door. Now my hand grasped the knob; safety lay only seconds away. “I don’t know where he lives and I don’t know where he hangs out.”

I rattled the doorknob: locked. I had left my keys back there with my opponent. Warily, I turned around. My shield, not designed to hold for long, had dissolved and the stranger stood at the foot of my walk, just outside the gate. A devilish grin stretched his wide mouth into a parody of a human feature.

“Ye’ll be wanting these, I think?” He shook the keys, making them jingle.

I cursed. “Throw the keys here. But if you move you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

“Hell’s Bells, woman. If ye’d let me explain….”

“You couldn’t have any explanations that would interest me. Now throw the keys over here.”

He looked at me for a long minute, blue eyes blazing with some unidentifiable emotion. Then he tossed the keys in my direction. They landed at my feet. I bent to retrieve them, praying the stranger would be gone when I looked back up. No such luck. He was still standing there, his face still twisted into that inscrutable expression.

I didn’t like to turn my back on him to open the door, but I had no choice. I fitted the key in the lock and turned the knob. Before retreating to the safety of my own house, I risked a glance back over my shoulder. Our eyes met a final time.

“Ye’ll be seeing me again,” he said.

“Not if I can help it,” I snapped, slamming the door. For a moment I leaned against it, straining to hear any signs of the stranger’s approach. But none came, and after a minute I heard the thump of his heavy boots moving away down the street.

Shaking, I walked through the ground floor without seeing a thing, checking to be sure each window was locked and shielded. Finally, I stumbled upstairs to bed, all thoughts of doing a reading about John Stonefeather driven from my mind. After my encounter with the stranger, I thought I knew a great deal more about the problem than I had before.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I woke up late the next morning, aching in every muscle and feeling as if I’d come off the worse in a fight with a troll, which for all I knew I had. Several ibuprofen and a hot shower later, I decided I needed a treat, hung the “Back at Noon” sign on the front door of the shop, and headed off to Lucile’s café, a Creole place a few blocks away, for a breakfast of beignets and Café au Lait.

Lucile’s, as usual, was swamped. I gave my name to the hostess and waited twenty minutes for a seat at a two-top crammed into a corner of the front porch. As luck would have it, a glorious sun shone from the sky and a seat at a porch table was a delight.

I placed my order and immersed myself in the Boulder
Daily Camera
. The news did not particularly interest me, but I had found that when dining out alone, reading kept me from being disturbed. Nevertheless, I was only halfway through my second beignet when I became aware of the hostess hovering at my elbow. I looked up.

“Another single just came in,” she said, sounding rather breathless. “He says he can’t wait twenty minutes for a table; would you mind terribly sharing with him?”

I shrugged by way of reply. Seating strangers together was nothing out of the ordinary at a busy restaurant like Lucile’s. Besides, I had my newspaper. No, I didn’t mind.

My feelings underwent an abrupt change, however, when I recognized my new dining companion as the stranger I had clashed with the night before.

“Fate works in mysterious ways,” he said, pulling out his chair.

I slapped my newspaper down on the table and made to rise, leaving my breakfast unfinished. His big hand closed on my wrist, forestalling my departure.

“Nae, sit down and finish your food. I promise I won’t eat you.” He grinned, showing an alarming expanse of large white teeth.

I had wondered if he were all human or something wearing the shape of a human. But his hand on my wrist was warm—shape-shifters never can get body temperature quite right—and, despite the unearthly grin, his face was tanned and healthy-looking, not sallow, like a half-human or demon. The sunlight hadn’t set him on fire, so he wasn’t a vampire. No. I was looking at a human male, if a large and uncommonly attractive one.

My knees gave out and I sat down hard in my wicker chair.

“That’s better,” he said, and picked up his menu. I sat in silence and poked at my own food while he ordered coffee and Eggs Ponchartrain, poached eggs with pan-fried trout, from our waitress, who ogled him without scruple while she took his order.

“Now then,” he said, the business of food taken care of. “We have a few wee things to discuss, you and I.”

“Yeah. Like, who are you? And what do you want with John Stonefeather? And how dare you frighten the shit out of me, showing up at my place last night?”

He looked puzzled.

“Frighten…?”

I couldn’t believe he didn’t get it. “Yeah, frighten. When a large, strange man approaches a woman alone in the dark of night it’s a frightening experience. For the woman.”

“Och, that.” To my amazement, he blushed. It made him look absurdly young. “I didn’t think of that at all. Sometimes I forget how big I am, ken. So that’s why you fought me.”

“Not entirely. But it makes a good starting place.”

I waited while the waitress poured his coffee and he took a sip. Then he said,

“But you could take care of yourself, couldn’t you.” He looked me up and down as if he half-expected me to turn into a cockroach and scuttle away under the table. “I’ve never met a witch before. Not a real one. Plenty of religious Witches, ken; they’re a dime a dozen. But not someone who could do what you did.”

“Well there aren’t many of us around.” No way was I going to tell him about Sage or any of the other “real” witches I knew. “But enough about me. Who are you and what do you want with John Stonefeather?”

“Not easily distracted, are you?” He chuckled.

“Not as a rule, no. A witch needs good concentration. So tell me.” I dipped a beignet in my coffee and munched it. I felt better now that we were meeting in the sunlight and I seemed to have some kind of upper hand.

“It’s a long story and I’d prefer not to discuss it in public,” he said at last. “Perhaps when we’re through I can come over to your place.”

“Not a chance.” In point of fact, I thought the protections I had on Beljoxa’s Eye were up to anything he could throw at me, which I assumed was not much. He’d been surprised by my powers, after all. “First of all, I like it much better in public. Second, I have a client coming in about half an hour. And last, you haven’t given me any reason to trust you.”

“What would you accept?”

“What have you got?” I countered.

Sighing, he reached inside his shirt, pulled out an object dangling from a thong and passed it across the table to me. I took it without thinking. It held warmth from contact with his skin.

It was a piece of bone carved in the shape of a mountain lion—or two mountain lions, with their rear quarters meeting in the middle and a head at each end. The lions’ mouths were open, and looking through one I could see the bone was hollow and stuffed with some kind of bark—cedar, I thought. In the center of the bone shaft a humanoid face had been carved, mouth open in a grimace or scream. The whole thing wasn’t more than four inches long and not much bigger around than my thumb. I knew what it was at once. A shaman’s Soul Catcher. Northwestern. Tlingit, maybe.

I stared for a long time at the bit of carved bone in my hand. A Soul Catcher. I’d seen good imitations of them in some New Age shops—I didn’t sell them—but something told me this was the real thing: a tool for retrieving pieces of a hurt person’s soul, scattered through injuries or dreams or even witchcraft, and restoring them where they belonged. It felt warm from contact with the stranger’s body and the carving was worn, as if he caressed it often. He’d had it some time, then. Or someone had; I supposed it could be stolen. But nothing about it rang any alarm bells in my mind. No. This was a real shaman’s real tool, and that meant the man sitting across from me might conceivably have legitimate business with John Stonefeather.

Of course, I had no idea what his business might be. I’d known some shamans to go bad. Even some who didn’t reveled in conflict with others who shared similar powers. The stranger might have it in for Stonefeather for some reason I couldn’t fathom. But again, I felt no negative vibrations from the object, nothing to alert my preternatural senses to the possibility of danger. All in all, it was a thing of beauty, both in form and spirit. And when at last I raised my eyes and my Sight to the man sitting opposite me, I saw him to be the same. Beautiful in form, yes; I had seen it even when I feared him. In the daylight he appeared even more so, a big, healthy lion of a man with a mane of dark hair curling about his face, one stray lock falling into a blue eye in a way that gave him the aspect of a mischievous boy. The beard covering his cheeks and chin was neatly trimmed; he took some care about his appearance. His skin had the slight reddish tint of a fair person who spent a great deal of time out of doors, and the flush crawled down his neck, making a triangle on his chest where his flannel shirt was open. A few stray chest hairs, dark, like the hair on his head, curled up to meet his collar.

He noticed me staring at him and grinned.

“Well?” he asked with something very like a smirk. “Do I pass the test?”

I had no intention of telling him about the weakness in my knees. Instead, I turned my attention to the part of him behind the gorgeous exterior. His presence felt just as big as his strong body looked. Exceptionally virile, yet soft as well. Touching it sent a wave of reassurance through me, like hugging a giant teddy bear. I clenched my fist on the Soul Catcher, reminding myself his totem was not Bear, but Lion. Like all cats, lions might seem cuddly, but one does well to remember they come equipped with claws and very sharp teeth.