“You never answered me before. You believe the Black Hills are cursed?
“Maybe not all of them. But Inyan Kara . . .” His eyes got a faraway expression. “Yeah. I believe it.”
“Why?”
“There’ve been plenty of hikers gone up and never come back down. Weird storms blowin’ in from nowhere. Lightning blazing from a clear sky. Torrential rains and such. Probably been a dozen broken bones in the last year alone—legs, ankles, arms. Inyan Kara’s got a bad reputation, and the landowners are real touchy ’bout who they let walk through. Gotta ask permission, maybe even sign somethin’. Lawsuits, you know.”
The scourge of America. Lawsuits. And lawyers. The latter almost made demons look good.
Almost.
“Sounds to me like the place is in a bad-weather pattern, with a lot of dangerous slopes and stupid hikers. You don’t really think the mountain can bring up a storm, do you?”
I didn’t. But only because I knew what could.
“Guess not.” The man smiled again. If he was going to continue with the chew, he should really stop. “But it’s a good story, ain’t it?”
“It is.”
“Still goin’ to see Inyan Kara?”
“I am. According to you, the mountain oughta love me.”
“One more thing.” He sobered. “Folks say they’ve seen . . .”
An old man? A young one? A ghost? A wraith? A spirit?
“A coyote.”
I wasn’t sure what to say.
“It’s big,” he continued. “Some think it’s part wolf. It’s also black. No one ’round here’s ever seen a black coyote, though I hear tell they exist. Some claim it’s a medicine man who can change shape.”
I laughed, but the sound was forced. Because I thought it was a medicine man who could change shape, too.
But changing into a coyote was disturbing. To the Navajo it’s an insult to call anyone a coyote. In their folklore the animal is a disreputable character, one that does nasty things and cannot be trusted. They call the coyote mah-ih, one who roams. Which might explain how a Navajo shaman wound up in Lakota land.
“If you come across it,” he urged, “be careful. Thing’s been known to attack. Some thought the animal was rabid and went after it, but they never found a trace when they carried a gun. Smart bugger. People been seein’ it for more years than a coyote could live. Myself, I think there’s a pack of them up there.”
Well, at least I knew who—I mean what—to search for.
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
“You do that.” The clerk tossed the key onto the counter then retreated through a door to the rear where a television blared, “Wheel. Of. Fortune!”
Another night, another motel room, I thought as I made use of the key. This one was little different from any other. Drab. Dank. Dark. The only color came from the god-awful painting of a pheasant that hung over the bed.
I suddenly realized how tired of it all I was. Or maybe I was just tired and being alone was making me depressed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stayed in a motel alone. Maybe I hadn’t.
I considered calling Megan, but that would only make me more miserable. I’d wind up missing her, missing the kids, the bar, my apartment, everything I’d left behind and hoped to return to.
I was starting to suspect that I might never be able to stay more than a day or two in one place for the rest of my life. However long that might turn out to be.
The thought of sleeping with hidden draugar remains stuck in unknown places had me climbing into the water-stained tub despite my exhaustion. Who knew where more globs of blood and ash might lurk?
When I was done, I returned to the bedroom, which was far too quiet. In the mirror my face was drawn and pale—for me. For anyone else, the shade would be deep tan. My eyes appeared bluer than usual, probably because of the haunted expression that now lived there.
The jeweled collar that circled my neck mocked me. So pretty and bright, a complete contrast with the ugly darkness it controlled. I wanted that darkness gone, along with the damn collar, but I didn’t know if that were possible. I had a sneaking suspicion the darkness was a part of me now.
The turquoise that lay between my breasts seemed to pulse to the beat of my heart, calling me, mesmerizing me, and slowly I lifted my hand and touched it. In the glass just behind me, something moved, something low to the ground and dark.
My fingers clenched on the turquoise as I spun around. “Sawyer?”
Nothing was there.
My head hung, the disappointment far too deep. What would I have done if Sawyer had been in the room—as a beast or as a man?
I rubbed the greenish blue rock with my thumb, and it warmed—from my hand or from the magic? The stone was a conduit, or at least it had been when Sawyer was alive. Now it was simply a stone.
Turning back, I froze.
Sawyer stood in the mirror.
CHAPTER 18
I closed my eyes then opened them again. He was still there.
He wasn’t a reflection; he wasn’t in the room. I checked.