Shivers gripped me and shook me hard. Teeth chattering, I opened the bike’s saddlebags and pulled out my one change of clothes. Dressed but barefoot, I started the bike and rode up the hill into Molly’s yard. The trailer was dark but for a candle guttering in a window. I killed the engine. Bare feet on cool earth, I waited. If Molly heard me, if she wanted to talk, she’d come out. If not, then I could ride on. But it would be a lot easier with my boots. Jacket. Helmet. Did she know what I had done? What I was? Crap. I didn’t want her to find out this way. I didn’t want her to find out at all.
The front door opened. Molly stood on the front porch, her white nightgown fluttering in the hilltop breeze. I couldn’t have said why, but a trembling ran through me, part fear, part . . . something I couldn’t name. I kicked the stand down and walked across the lawn, watching Molly’s face in the light of the candle. She was smiling. And tears trickled slowly down her face.
I stopped at the bottom of the three steps leading to the tiny porch. And couldn’t think of a solitary thing to say. My boots and jeans and torn clothes were folded in a neat stack by her feet. Yeah. She knew. Crap. She knew. I hunched my shoulders and tucked each hand under the opposite armpit. And waited for her judgment.
“You—” She stopped and caught a breath. I gathered that she had been crying for a while. “Thank you. You saved my baby.” When I didn’t reply, she went on, voice rough through her tears. “We were losing her. She was out of control. Too powerful. Neither of us was ready to deal with that much power. And not so early.” I still didn’t speak, and Molly said, “Her power wasn’t due until her first menses. Not for years and years. We weren’t ready.” She heaved a breath, and it shuddered through her. “We almost lost her.”
I nodded. And still couldn’t think of a thing to say.
Suddenly Molly giggled. “What? Cat got your tongue?”
I jerked. An answering laugh tittered in my throat. I stuck my hands in my jeans pockets, shoulders still hunched. “Cute. You’re okay with it? With me? Me being Beast?”
“I have no idea what you are, except a big-cat. But you saved my baby, and for that you have my undying thanks, my undying friendship, and any help you may need for as long I can give it.”
Molly had given me three things, and I knew that witches did important things in threes. The cold that had settled in my bones, the ache of the shift that the magic had forced through me, warmed a bit, began to ease. “Well, I’ll settle for my socks and boots. My feet are cold.”
“I found them on the lawn,” she said, laughter still in the tone, “and I’ve let them air-dry, though they’re still pretty wet. Would you like some tea? Power is out, but I have a kettle on the camp stove.”
I didn’t have time for tea. I had to be on the road, had to get to the job. But that wasn’t what came out of my mouth. “I’d love a cup. And, Molly? I’m a skinwalker. And I never told anyone that before tonight. Not anyone.”
“So we can share secrets, is that what you’re saying? You’re a skinwalker, whatever that is, and my baby is an early-blooming, powerful witch? Come on in. Let’s talk. And I’ll get you that charm.”
I pulled on my socks and carried my boots into what was left of Molly’s house. We had tea. We shared secrets. Weirdly, Molly held my hand while we talked, as if protecting something fragile or sealing something precious. Even more weirdly, I let her. I think that, for the first time in my life, I had a real friend.
Haint(s)
Author’s note: This story takes place after the short story “Kits” and before the short story “Signatures of the Dead.” Molly Everhart Trueblood is the narrator.
“Nothing unusual here, Molly,” she said.
I watched Jane Yellowrock as she crawled across the floor of the old house on all fours. Most adults looked foolish or ungainly when crawling, but Jane was graceful, her arms lifting and moving forward with feline balance, her legs raising and lowering, toes pointed like a dancer, even in her Western boots. My friend moved silently in the hot, sweaty room, easily avoiding the bird and mouse droppings, the holes in the old linoleum, and the signs of recent reconstruction—the broken plaster walls, large holes in the floor, and the shattered remains of the toilet, tub, and kitchen sink in the corner. Her shoulder blades, visible beneath her thin T-shirt, lifted up high with each crawling step, her head lowered on the thin stem of her neck, moving catlike. I envied her the grace and the slenderness, but little else. Jane was more alone than anyone I had ever known.