*

    WHEN THEY FINALLY made it back to the hotel, they showered and went to bed. Charles slept for a couple of hours but woke with the sun in his eyes. He was still tired, but he’d have to wait for nightfall to get more rest.

Anna was deeply asleep. She’d curled away from him at some point, though she had a foot pressed against his calf to make sure she knew where he was. He took a moment, while she couldn’t see him, to watch her, to convince himself that she was safe.

She was going to wake up if he got out of bed. He stayed for a few minutes more before acknowledging that he wasn’t going to be able to lie still—and so would wake her up anyway.

He slid out of bed and dressed. Anna rolled over and half opened her eyes.

“Shh,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

She looked at him with wolf-blue eyes for a full second. Then she rolled over to his side of the bed, grabbed his pillow, and went back to sleep.

He made sure the door was locked behind him. He stopped by the room next to them and pressed a hand against the window. He felt nothing. His wards around the grimoires were still holding.

Driven by restless thoughts, he took the path down to the river and was somehow unsurprised to see Anna’s rock occupied by a compact man who had his back to Charles. The man was, however, wearing buckskins and had his black hair braided and hanging down to brush the rock he sat upon—so Charles had a fair idea of who he was.

“Coyote,” he said. “Better late than never.”

“Do you think so?” said Coyote, turning to look up into Charles’s face. He had been chewing on a stick, and he tossed it into the river without looking. “I think I came in exactly when I wanted.”

“Too late to help?” Charles said. He hadn’t quite kept the growl out of his voice.

Coyote laughed heartily and slapped his leg. “You sure are a happy camper, aren’t you?” He took in Charles’s expression and laughed some more. “You get it, right? We’re in Happy Camp, but you aren’t a happy camper. I have been waiting all day to say that.”

“Why,” Charles asked, “are you here now?”

Coyote held up a finger. “Wait a moment.” He looked expectantly up the trail.

And Anna came hurrying down the path, sleep-tossed and bleary-eyed. “Where were you—” Her eyes fell on Coyote and she quit talking. She stopped a little to the side of Charles, giving him room if he needed to defend them.

She is smart, said Brother Wolf.

“She is,” agreed Coyote.

Charles wasn’t sure how he felt knowing Coyote could hear Brother Wolf.

“Well,” said Coyote impatiently, “are you going to introduce us?”

Then, without waiting, he said, “I’m Coyote. You’re Anna.”

“You are he,” she agreed. “And I certainly am.”

“I could come,” Coyote said, “because you put right what was wrong here. And because I didn’t want to have to deal with the Singer. That is two ‘becauses.’ I will answer two questions. One for you.” He looked at Anna. “And one for you. You were here first. Ask your question.”

To his surprise, Charles did have something he wanted to know.

“Mercy is a walker,” Charles said.

“Ah, excellent question,” said Coyote, even though it hadn’t been a question at all. “Yes. We have children so they can go out and do our will. They walk in the world, messengers and . . . What’s that word? Ah, yes, henchmen. And henchwomen, of course. My walkers tend to be disobedient and more effective than other walkers.” He preened, then raised his eyebrows at Charles, inviting him to speak again.

Charles decided they might get further if he waited for Coyote to tell them what Coyote wanted to tell them.

“You talk like words cost money,” Coyote observed sourly when Charles didn’t speak. “Wolf is like that, too.”

“What happens to your children if one of you die?” asked Anna suddenly.

Coyote gave her a surprisingly sweet smile. “That’s the right question, even if it’s the one Charles is supposed to ask. My death would not kill my children.” He looked coy. “I’ve tried that. But the Singer had not yet Become. He wasn’t quite like me. He required Zander—or some other living man—to even get women pregnant. When he died, the life force in those children he fathered on mortal women died, too.”

“All of them?” Charles asked.

Coyote gave him a narrow look. “You are pushing the extent of your one question with all of your questions.”

Anna started to speak and Coyote waved a finger. “Uh-uh. Not yet. You have a different question you want to ask.” He looked at Charles and sighed. For the first time, Coyote looked truly serious. “I want you to know this, so it can still be part of your question. None of the children the witches bear will survive. Your Dr. Connors miscarried about an hour ago.”

Charles nodded slowly. He could not be sorry. He should not be sorry.

“Walkers reflect some of the aspects of their parentage,” Coyote said. “Wolf’s children are fierce—and not too bright, for instance.” He gave Charles a smile that showed his teeth. When Charles did not react, Coyote heaved a sigh. “You really are not any fun at all, are you? Fine. Zander reflected the Singer’s aspects—I cannot find it in me to feel bad that there will be no more of his walkers in our world.”

Anna nodded.

“You have a question?” Coyote asked.

“I’ve seen too many horror films,” she said. “Is the Singer dead?”

“Absolutely,” Coyote said. “And now that I have answered your question, I have a task for you.”

He leaned over until he could reach his back pocket and pulled out a silver necklace with a single moonstone in a very plain setting. “She said—and I quote—‘Tell them that I didn’t have the power to make the other one very strong, but you are welcome to try it. This one my great-grandmother made. I have no daughter to pass it on to. I would very much like Sissy Connors to have it. Her father worried about her so.’”

Charles took it gingerly. “From Carrie Green.”

“Yes,” Coyote said.

“I’ll see that she gets it,” Charles promised. He knew that Anna would want to check on Dr. Connors before they left for home anyway. This would be a good excuse.

“Why didn’t it protect Carrie?” Anna asked. “It’s protection from evil, right?”

Coyote gave her an exasperated huff. “Two questions. Two. We might as well sit down and have an entire conversation. Ah well, I don’t like rules very much anyway. The necklace is protection from black witches who want to steal your magic. That’s all.”

Anna nodded at him. “You spoke to her? To Carrie Green?” There was a wobble in her voice.

Charles put his hand on her shoulder.

Coyote nodded and gave Anna that sweet smile again. “They are all safe now.” He tipped his head up toward the sun, closing his eyes. “We’re done now. You go away. I think I will sit on this rock and digest my breakfast. Maybe dream a bit, who knows?”

Charles knew stories of Coyote. “Isn’t that dangerous?” he said.

Coyote smiled at Charles this time, his eyes laughing. “You do have a sense of humor. I knew it.” He turned his back on them both, wrapping his arms around his knees as he stared out over the river.

As they headed back to the hotel, Charles heard Coyote singing “We Will Rock You.” He decided he wasn’t going to think too hard about what that might mean.

* * *

*

THAT NIGHT, THE coyote easily hopped over the stone wall that encased the garden. He trotted over to the raised pool, looked at his reflection backlit by the moon for a moment, and drank. When he had drunk his fill, he hopped on the ledge—no longer a coyote, but Coyote in his human guise.

He hadn’t lied to Charles and Anna, but he had concealed this thing from them. All of the Singer’s children had not died. This one last child had survived.

“Heya,” he told the listening garden. “I am Coyote. I think we should talk.”

* * *

*

    LEAH LEFT TAG sleeping in the guest bedroom. He would recover, though it would be a week or more before he was up and moving with anything like his old strength. She was distantly glad of it. The pack was safer with Tag in it.

For lack of other tasks, she wandered into her bedroom and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. She walked over and stared.

She’d showered and put on makeup. Like Tag, she had weight she needed to regain—though nowhere near the same amount. Outside of the gauntness and a hollowness in her eyes that might only be her imagination, she didn’t look any different than she ever had.

But now she remembered. The moment the Singer died, she had remembered everything. And yet that woman in the mirror was more of a stranger than she had ever been. She reached up and put her fingertips against her jawbone, just to make sure that it was really her.