“I thought werewolves couldn’t have cats as pets,” said someone else.
Sherwood moved past Adam, who was answering questions for his rapt audience, and spoke to the receptionist himself.
“We found the cat like this,” he told her. “He’s in rough shape.”
Adam had his back to her, so she hadn’t gotten the full effect of the smile. She was still suspicious.
“It looks like it’s been tortured,” she said.
He nodded. “That’s what we thought. And starved.”
The cat made a sad noise and Sherwood blew gently on its face to reassure it. The cat tried to purr.
The receptionist stared into his eyes for a few seconds—which was pretty good. Sherwood wasn’t an Alpha, but he was dominant. There weren’t many people who could meet his eyes at all.
She nodded and looked away, using the excuse of taking his information down. She finished her paperwork and assured Sherwood that someone would be out to get them as soon as there was a room free.
“Would you do that again?” The woman who’d recognized Adam waved a cell phone at Sherwood.
Sherwood lifted an eyebrow because he had no idea what she was asking. But the kitten mewed again, this time more quietly. He wished he thought it was because the cat was less scared, but he was afraid the softer volume meant it was getting weaker. He raised the kitten to his face and, when it raised its battered, one-eyed face to his, he kissed its nose on impulse.
“That’s even better,” said the woman, and he’d realized she’d taken a photo. “Do you mind if we use that on social media?”
He shrugged.
It didn’t take long to get called back to an examination room. Sherwood wasn’t sure if that was because the cat was so obviously in distress or if it was to keep the waiting room from becoming a social media circus. The cat was whisked away for x-rays and blood tests, then returned to Sherwood’s care looking even more limp than it had before.
“We can try,” the vet said after explaining all the damage they’d found. “But it’s likely to be painful for him and expensive for you. He’ll have to stay here a while and that eye needs surgery—though not until he’s stronger. Even with everything we can do—I put his chances of survival low. It might be easier and more humane to let him go now.”
The news wasn’t anything that Sherwood hadn’t expected. What he had not expected was the coyote who casually walked in through the half-open door that led into the depths of the clinic, toenails clicking on the hard floor. Sherwood thought for one incredulous second that it was Mercy—but no one else, not even Adam, reacted to it at all.
That’s not a coyote, said Sherwood’s wolf.
The coyote smiled at Sherwood as though he’d heard the wolf speak.
“Would you leave me alone with the cat for a minute?” Sherwood asked, his eyes on the coyote that apparently only he could see.
“Of course,” said the doctor. “Just knock on this door when you know what you want to do.”
He slipped back through the door the coyote who was not Mercy had entered through and closed it.
“I’ll be in the waiting room,” Adam said. His face bore a touch of puzzlement.
Sherwood understood. Werewolves were not afraid of death—or of suffering either. Whether or not to put the kitten to sleep was not a decision a werewolf should need privacy for. But Adam didn’t push.
As soon as they were alone, Coyote unfolded into a human form—appearing to be a wiry Native American man about a foot shorter than Sherwood. His smile was charming—and much less reassuring than the one Adam had used in the waiting room.
“You won’t remember our last meeting,” Coyote said coyly.
Sherwood just watched him.
“And,” Coyote drew out that word, “if you could remember it, you wouldn’t be happy with me.”
“Why does this cat bear your mark?” Sherwood asked, tired of the trickster’s games already.
Coyote hopped onto the empty exam table, landing in a crouch. He stayed there and leaned forward to run a light finger over the cat cradled in Sherwood’s arms.
“They call that color tuxedo,” Coyote said. “When all four feet are white it’s supposed to be a good luck sign.”
“I found it in a black witch’s lab,” Sherwood said dryly. “How lucky could it be?”
“Possibly good luck for you,” said Coyote. “You shouldn’t have wandered around in a witch’s house when you were trying to hide yourself. Without that exposure, your safeguards might have held out another month or two. But you aren’t going to keep the Singer out of your head with that mishmash you’ve cooked up now. He’ll have you consumed in a few days.”
The Singer, said the wolf. I remember the Singer.
Sherwood didn’t say anything. He was pretty sure that Coyote was right.
He is, agreed the wolf.
And Sherwood was also pretty sure that asking questions about “the Singer” would be engaging with…not an enemy…but a trickster god. That never went well for the questioner. Coyote would tell Sherwood what Coyote wanted to tell Sherwood. Questions weren’t going to make it go any faster.
“But,” said Coyote when Sherwood didn’t say anything. “But. But you were harmed watching over Mercy. But you were harmed originally hunting down the Singer because I told you about him. But it doesn’t suit me that the Singer moves on to the next phase of godhood.”
He caught Sherwood’s expression and grinned sharply. “Oh, he wouldn’t be all powerful. There are gods and there are gods—” he gestured to himself “—and then there is Apistotoke.”
He frowned at Sherwood. “Gitche Manatu. Wakan Tonka?”
He made a sound of mock-frustration. “You used to know things. I forgot you are stupid now and need a translation. The Creator. God-All-Mighty. Allah.”
“Got it,” said Sherwood as Coyote took a breath as if he were going to run through even more names for God.
“Good.” Coyote nodded his head. “So, not God or god, but even such a weak new thing as the Singer could become is enough to throw off the balance of the earth and cause—well, not chaos, I like chaos—but damage. Eternal damage. Damage to eternity. Something bad anyway.”
Coyote peered up at Sherwood, one hand in front of him on the silver exam table, the other resting on a bent knee. After a moment Coyote leaned back and sighed. “I liked you better when you understood what I was telling you.”
The kitten made a sound and Sherwood comforted it. It snuggled against him.
“I had…have—” Coyote paused, considering, then said, “—will have had a use for the kitten. But more importantly, for this conversation at least, I think you should have a use for him, too.”
Familiar, suggest the wolf. If we have a familiar who has been touched by the divine, I can use it to keep us safe. Actively keep us safe.
“Exactly,” said Coyote.
“Witches use familiars,” Sherwood said.
Coyote gave him an encouraging nod.
“I am not a witch.” He bit out the last word as if it tasted foul on his tongue.
Coyote sat down properly and swung his feet a couple of times. “That’s true enough. Or rather it isn’t, and it is. There’s no proper word for exactly what you are anymore. But you were witchborn—”
Sherwood felt his lips twist in a soundless snarl and fought to control his expression.
Coyote waved a dismissive hand. “Witchcraft can be useful—but I am not here to dictate your morality or lack thereof. I am here to tell you that I will have made use of that cat. That means that making it your familiar will give you—” he paused and peered at Sherwood.