The Forever Drug (24 page)

As I got closer, I noticed a design on the front door of the cottage: a circle with lines inside it that formed an eight-pointed star, with a spiraled knot at the center of the star. It was vaguely reminiscent of the hermetic circles that Dass used in her spellcasting, but with Native overtones. Then I recognized the design: it was patterned after a dream catcher, a fad from the last century. Back in the days before the Awakening, people had hung dream catchers in their homes, believing that they prevented nightmares by somehow "catching" the bad dreams. It was totally bogus, of course. Magic had yet to arise in the world, and all the dream catchers caught was dust.

As I approached the house with Kloqoej on my shoulders, the breeze coming off the ocean shifted, carrying the smell of dog to me. As soon as it saw me, a male rottweiler that had been sunning itself on the beach leaped to its feet and charged. I'd been expecting him; I'd smelled his mark on several of the bushes beside the gravel driveway, and could tell from the tinge of anxiety in the spoor that he was a timid dog, all show. I met the rottweiler growl for growl, bristling and adopting a dominant stance, making sure Kloqoej remained high on my shoulders. As soon as the dog was close enough to catch the overtones of wolf in my scent, he skidded to a stop. With a soft whine he lowered his head to the ground in a gesture of submission.

The wind also carried the smell of a meta: a dwarf male. I spotted him at the side of the house, near a battered-looking pickup truck that was parked next to a messy-looking wood pile. He had a high forehead and a black beard that hung halfway down his chest, braided like a pony tail. I thought, at first glance, that his hair had been styled in dreadlocks, but then I realized the "dreads" were actually sleek black feathers that had been woven into his hair. He wore a red flannel shirt, jeans, and heavy work boots. His prominent cheekbones and dark brown eyes pegged him as Native.

The dwarf had been tucking chunks of firewood into the crook of his short but powerfully muscled arm. When he heard the rottweiler barking and saw me dominate it, he dropped the wood, a surprised expression on his face. Without a word he turned and entered the house. As I set Kloqoej down on the ground, I heard low voices inside: the dwarf's and a woman's. Since neither one seemed about to come out and greet me, I strode to the front door.

I knocked, and the voices fell silent. The smell of aromatic tobacco smoke wafted out through the open door. I glanced behind me at Kloqoej, but he just shrugged. The door began to swing open as I knocked a second time.

"Hello?" I called out. "Your nephew had a bit of trouble at the school yard, so I helped him get home. I just wanted to let you know he was all ri—"

The sight of the woman in the rocking chair stopped me cold. Even though I'd only caught a one-second glimpse of her on the trid, I recognized her at once as the passenger on the back of the rigger's motorcycle; she'd been riding with him last night, when the Confederation Bridge was destroyed. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise as I considered the impossibility of the coincidence: of all of the people in Murray Harbor, I had befriended her grandson. If I hadn't been in human form, my ears would have been flat against my scalp by now. I took a step into the dimly lit room to get a better look.

I wasn't the only one suffering from the shock of recognition. I know it sounds impossible, but I could see it in the old woman's eyes that she recognized me, too. She sat impassively in a rocking chair, smoking a clay pipe. Despite the fact that the day was warm, she wore a heavy blue wool coat. Its sleeves, hem, and wide collar were trimmed with red fabric that was finished with ornate white embroidery. The floor boards under her chair creaked as she rocked slowly back and forth. Her eyes stared at me, nearly lost in a face that was a sea of wrinkles.

The room was so full of clutter that I didn't see the dwarf, at first. The bookcase he was standing next to was as tall as he was, and had blocked my view of him as I came in through the door. But now I could see the miniature crossbow that was mounted on his forearm, and the silver point on the bolt it held. The tip was aimed directly at my chest. Just looking at it made the crease the elf's silver bullet had torn in my side begin to ache.

"Nikani-kjijitekewinu said you would come," the dwarf said. "She is a great
puoin
; she can see ten days into tomorrow."

I wondered if the old woman could also see into the astral plane—if she had spotted my true form. I trembled with the urge to shift into wolf form, to hurl myself at the dwarf's throat. I knew it would be suicidal, but sometimes your animal instincts just overwhelm you. I was glad this wasn't one of those times.

"Sorry," I told the dwarf. "You've got the wrong man. Whoever you were expecting, I'm not him." I began easing back out the door.

The old woman fixed me with a look. "You came for Jane," she said. "Now that you are here, you must stay."

I froze. I glanced at the woman and then at the dwarf. The silver-headed arrow was a good argument to stick around.

"You know her," I said at last. "Her scent is on the sweater Kloqoej is wearing."

The old woman rocked forward in her chair. "Jane did us a great wrong. She hurt our children."

"Someone hurt her, too."

"Yes," the old woman said. "They stole her
keskamzit
, her power. But you can help her to get it back. And then she can heal our children."

"Where is Jane?" I asked. I didn't smell her scent anywhere; I was certain she wasn't here in the cottage with us. But my hopes were rising that I'd see her soon. They were speaking of Jane in the present tense. That meant she was still alive.

The woman waved away my question with the hand that held her pipe. Then she returned its stem to her mouth and sucked on it. She sat smoking for a full minute, her eyes staring off into space. My frustration rose with each wordless puff of smoke. I stifled a growl in my throat and forced myself to wait for her answer. But instead she began to inhale deeper and deeper, almost hyperventilating on the tobacco smoke.

I shot a look at the dwarf. "What's she doing?"

"Her power rises in her as she smokes," he said. "Wait."

Something happened to the old woman then. The hand holding the pipe dropped into her lap, and her eyes rolled back in her head. She started to tremble and I could smell sweat breaking out on her body. Her body gave one final, violent convulsion and then she slumped back in her chair, as if she'd lost consciousness. The chair rocked gently back and forth, creaking softly.

"What's wrong with her?" I asked.

"Wait," was all the dwarf would say.

After a moment, the old woman opened her eyes. In that same instant, I could hear the sound of a helicopter, off in the distance.

"Soldiers are coming to arrest me, Pelig," she told the dwarf. She pointed the stem of her pipe at me. "Take him to the
teomul
. He will show this wolf how to free his
skite'kmuj
."

"But what about Jane?" I shouted impatiently. "Where is she?"

The dwarf—Pelig—stepped forward and prodded me with the crossbow bolt. Its silver tip poked into my skin, stinging like a slap of iodine as my skin began to blister from its pinprick.

"Let's go," he said grimly. "We haven't got much time."

17

We drove up island along the back roads in the pickup truck. The vehicle must have been as ancient as the old woman. With the back bumper held on by wire, I could see the pavement blurring past under my feet through a hole in the floor, and every time I hit the brakes I heard a loud, grinding noise.

The dwarf Pelig made me drive. He sat next to me on the broad bench seat, on a cushion that raised him high enough to look over the dashboard. The crossbow with its silver-headed bolt was still cocked and mounted on his arm, but he no longer pointed it at me. He had other ways of keeping me in line. When I tried to make a dash for it after we stopped at an intersection, I felt a tickle in the back of my skull, like the beginning of a headache. Suddenly, my arms and legs were acting on their own accord, following the dwarf's will instead of my own. I realized then that Pelig was a shaman—that he was using some sort of control spell on me. It was a nightmarish feeling, one that reminded me of the recurring dreams I used to have of being unable to shift, my body trapped permanently in human form. And it made me angry. Not only was the spell an invasion of my very being, it was
illegal
.

After that, I didn't even think about doing anything but driving the truck in whatever direction Pelig wanted.

And then there was the thing in the back of the truck. It smelled of bird, but with overtones that told me it was a para of some sort. It sat quietly inside a cage, a tarp completely covering it. The first time the truck hit a pothole, I heard a brief rustle of feathers— and then suddenly we were driving along in utter silence. All of the noises I'd heard a moment ago— the whine of tires on asphalt, the roar of the truck's engine, the rattle of its rusted body—disappeared. When I asked Pelig what was happening, I could feel my vocal chords vibrating but no sound came out. Nor could I hear him yelling at me—until the silence ended as abruptly as it had begun.

"—more friggin careful!" Pelig shouted.

I avoided the potholes after that. But it was hard to do. The massive trucks and harvesters that had been used back when the island was one big agribusiness had chewed up the roads, and in some places there were more potholes than pavement.

The second time I hit a pothole, the reaction from the thing in the back was even worse. A wave of fear swept over me. My heart was suddenly racing, and sweat poured down my sides. My insides turned to liquid and it was all I could do not to leave a mark inside the truck. The only thing that kept me going— that gave me the strength to keep the truck on the road—was the realization that Pelig was suffering, too. I could smell the sharp tang of his fear, and saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the grab-bar on the dashboard. The feathers that had been woven into his hair seemed to be standing straight up on end.

I almost leaped out of the truck at that point, but then the smell of his sweat changed as he brought his emotions under control. Slowly, my own fear began to ebb. And as it did, I realized that the dwarf was pointing the crossbow at my chest once more.

"Don't do that again," he gritted.

"Sorry," I said—and meant it. "What
is
that thing in the cage?"

"A gloaming owl," Pelig answered. "It broke its wing. I sheltered it until it was healed. I'm going to release it tonight."

We drove in silence—along the smoothest part of the road—for some time after that. Eventually, we heard the sound of helicopter rotors overhead.

Pelig craned his neck to look out the window as a helicopter passed over us. I leaned forward and glanced up through the bug-splattered windshield of the truck. It was an attack helicopter, its black belly emblazoned with the corporate star and the Magical Task Force initials. It was coming from Murray Harbor. I guess the old woman had been right about Lone Star coming to arrest her.

I caught Pelig's eye. "The old woman back at the cottage—was she involved in the bombing of the bridge? Is that why the task force arrested her?"

"She directed the magical energy," he said, pride glowing in his eyes. "She is a powerful shaman—the best we have."

"She's a criminal," I said. I didn't want to antagonize Pelig, but I thought somebody should impress upon him the seriousness of the situation. "She's going to spend the rest of her life in jail as a result of what she's done. She'll serve her sentence in the Halifax Citadel, where they send all magically active prisoners. They ..." I thought of Jane and fought down a momentary flash of guilt. "They won't treat her well. She's an old woman; she'll probably die there."

I tried to tell myself she deserved it. Thousands of people used Confederation Bridge every day; it was a miracle nobody had died. And even if a zero death toll had been their intention, the Natives were still guilty of disrupting the lives of thousands of people, thanks to their insurrection.

Pelig just stared out the window at the fields, most of which were overgrown with weeds. His jaw worked, as if he were trying to conquer a strong emotion. Then he turned and glared at me. "Even if Nikanikjijitekewinu dies in jail, it will be worth it," he said. "She believes in Abegweit."

"There isn't going to be an 'Abegweit,'" I told him. "Prince Edward Island is only a small part of the UCAS, but President Haeffner won't stand for its secession. The Magical Task Force is one of Lone Star's top divisions, with unlimited resources to throw around. They won't stop until every last one of the rebels is behind bars. No matter how good your shamans are, in any mana-on-mana contest our combat mages are going to come out on top."

Pelig gave me a sharp look. I noticed that the crossbow was again pointed at my chest. "You're with Lone Star, aren't you?" he asked in a low voice.

I swallowed. There was no use in lying; my careless comment had already given me away. I could smell his anger.

"I work for them sometimes, as a sort of auxiliary," I answered carefully, my eyes on the crossbow bolt's silver tip. "But only with the Halifax City precinct."

"You led the police to Nikani-kjijitekewinu," he said accusingly.

I tensed, trying to think of a bluff. "I—"