“Sawyer’s a witch.” I had a sudden flash of him buzzing by on his broomstick, and I choked on a laugh. “Right.”
Jimmy cast me a disgusted glance. “He’s a medicine man. That you knew. You had to.”
“Yes.” I managed to control my mirth. Now wasn’t the time. I wasn’t sure there would ever be a time for laughter again.
“In Navajo tradition certain medicine men are yee naaldlooshii, those who walk about with it.”
“Walk about with what?”
“The skin of an animal.”
I considered his words, which had two meanings. Those who walked about in the skin of an animal—as in wearing one atop their own. Many Native American tribes had costumes made from animals, headdresses that were the actual heads of beasts.
The other option, and the one I believed we were talking about, was for human skin to transform into the skin of an animal.
“Shape-shifter.” I shrugged. “Obviously, after what we saw in Hardeyville, that doesn’t make him all that special.”
Jimmy’s smile was rueful. “As much as I hate to admit it, he is. Skinwalkers transform through magic. They wear a robe fashioned with the likeness of their spirit animal. They perform a ceremony beneath the moon and—” He spread his hands.
“They become the animals they want to be.”
“No.”
“But you just said—”
“I said animal. Singular. One per person and one only. Their totem or spirit animal.”
“But not Sawyer.”
“His power comes from within. The magic is in his blood, from his Nephilim mother. His skin is his robe.”
I thought of all the animals tattooed on Sawyer’s flesh. Jimmy was saying Sawyer could become every one of them. That actually explained quite a bit.
When I’d stayed here that summer, there’d been nights I came awake to the calls of animals that could not walk these hills. Usually, when I went to my window, nothing was there.
Usually.
I’d ended up doubting my sanity more often than not. At fifteen, that isn’t a good doubt to have.
Jimmy lowered his voice, as if he feared the wind could eavesdrop and carry his words to far-off, listening ears. “They say his mother was a Dreadful One and his father a medicine man who followed the Blessing Way and helped his people.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Dreadful Ones are monsters.” He spread his hands. “I’m not exactly sure what kind.”
And I doubt anyone had ever had the balls to ask Sawyer. I certainly didn’t.
“The Blessing Way is the basis of the Navajo religion. Chants and songs that keep life on an even keel.”
“So Sawyer’s father was a holy man?”
“Yes. Which no doubt made his corruption all the more fun for her. Medicine men who dabble in black magic are considered witches, brujas. They’re renegades, and they’re hunted down by the Navajo and executed.”
“Still?”
“There are always stories.”
“And him?” I jerked my head toward the house.
“He’s too powerful to kill. Many have tried, none have succeeded.”
“Is that why he lives way out here?” I asked.
Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe. He’s an outcast from his people. Always has been.”
“So Sawyer’s father was a medicine man, one of the good guys, yet he slept with a Nephilim?”
“He didn’t mean to. She took the shape of his wife. Night after night she seduced him until she became pregnant and then—” He glanced at the house again, then back. “She killed him.”
I winced. “Black widow much?”
“I can see why he is how he is. He probably can’t help himself. The Navajo are matriarchal. Inheritance passed through the mother’s side. They believe, and I’m inclined to agree, that the mother’s blood is stronger, but—”
“But what?” I asked when he remained silent.
“Yes,” said Sawyer. “But what?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Jimmy and I both spun toward the sound. I don’t know if I expected to see Sawyer or not. One part of me thought that maybe he could hear us from afar with his super-duper batlike hearing; or perhaps he was actually a bat, swooping down low and eavesdropping, then speaking in his human voice. Though I hadn’t observed a bat tattooed anywhere the eye could see, that didn’t mean he couldn’t have one engraved on his ass.
But there was nothing supernatural about his presence. Except that he stood right behind us, and neither one of us had seen or heard him approach.
“How do you do that?”
I reached out to shove him back. He was too close. Then I remembered how his skin had been so hot, scalding almost, downright unnerving to touch, and I didn’t want to touch him again.
I let my hand fall to my side, rubbing it surreptitiously on my jeans, my palm itching, stinging despite never going near him at all.
“Do what?” he asked mildly.
When I’d been here the last time, the first time, he’d often appeared where 1 didn’t expect him, scared the hell out of me every time. Then I’d put it down to his being silent as a stalking tiger.