A pickpocket tried to steal from Crowley. He stopped the attempt without causing a scene. It was a bad time to be a thief and a worse time to be a child. He decided to let someone else deal with handling the young boy with the grabby hands. The things they’d been bothered by the day before were far more worrisome. Besides which, Crowley kept most of his money hidden where it would never be found. A moment later he changed his mind, and contemplated going after the kid and teaching him a lesson, but it was too late. The would-be thief was long gone.
He watched the other Skinwalker from a distance, and noted the man who walked with him. They were both powerful, as was expected of any Skinwalker, but the one with him, the smiling man, he was a different sort of powerful. He carried himself with confidence and he smiled at almost everything. Not a pleasant smile but a baring of teeth, a warning that the man was deadly beyond most people’s reckoning. Where they walked, people scattered away from them, perhaps without even being aware of it.
The Skinwalker was aware, of course. That was why he was following them. They were dangerous and they could well be dangerous enough to cause him harm. He would find out soon enough.
The wind blew and whispered its secrets and he listened as he had learned to long ago. The stories of the wind were all about the Indians coming toward the town. There had been a great deal of blood spilled and the Apache in the area wanted to settle the matter. They did not wish to talk any longer. There is a point where anyone can lose hope of a simple resolution and that time had come and passed.
All around him people moved and milled and sought desperately for what would make their lives complete. An urchin moved toward him, furtive and worried. He bumped into a man in front of the Skinwalker and plucked a few coins from his victim’s pocket. A moment later he was bumping into a young woman and apologizing even as he lifted a small item from her bag. And then he bumped into the Skinwalker, mumbled an apology and continued on with a small silver nugget the Skinwalker had been carrying for the last three days.
The silver meant nothing to him. He had taken it from a dead man he found on his way to the town. The corpse had been torn open by what at first glance appeared to be wolves, but the Skinwalker knew better. He could smell shapechangers and found the notion amusing.
The fact that the boy took it merely meant that he had managed to catch the old sorcerer’s attention. That was enough.
A whispered word as he crouched and grabbed at the soil. The arid earth crumbled in his hand and he spat into it, rubbed it between his fingers and his palm until it became a doughy mass. He stood just long enough to throw that simple lump at the thief, striking him on the back of his neck. The boy reached reflexively for what hit him and the old man smiled and continued on his way. Only a few seconds later the screams started as the boy fell to the ground, swelling and choking and trying to breathe. It was not the first time he’d spread a sickness and it would not be the last. This was a minor one and would only kill a few, but it would leave them all afraid.
Somewhere behind him a woman screamed as the boy’s flesh rotted away and spilled his bodily fluids into the street. Up ahead, far enough along that they did not seem to notice, the other Skinwalker and the strange creature walked on.
Crowley noticed Slate cock his head to the left. “What is it?” he asked.
“That damn song again,” Slate replied. “Every time I hear it something goes wrong.”
“You are hearing a summoning spell. Whatever this thing we’re looking for is, it summons energies and what I can only call demons, even if they don’t feel like the ones I’m used to.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I’ve been testing your limits, Mister Slate. Seeing what it is you might be capable of, but I have my own abilities.”
“You’ve never much discussed what they are.”
Crowley cast a sideways look in Slate’s direction. “We don’t much talk about what happens if I decide you are a threat. We both know the answer already, yes?”
“Of course.” Slate nodded, but his voice remained soft and dry. “I might be a threat and you might need to eliminate that threat. We’ve already seen a little of what something like me can do. If I don’t maintain control, I understand what you’ll have to do and I condone it.”
“Do you?”
Slate looked at him and his mouth trembled for a moment. “I’ve no desire to become the sort of monster I was raised around.”
“You were raised around monsters?”
“I was raised an albino and a mulatto in an area where many considered that a sign of the Devil, sir. Had my family not had a certain level of influence I’d have been killed. As it was, I remained locked inside my house most times to avoid a beating. There are all sorts of monsters, Mister Crowley. Not all of them cast spells or have fangs.”
Crowley nodded. “Agreed. Very well, Mister Slate. A few facts for you. I can see the dead. I can communicate with them. Mostly I choose not to.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the dead are not of interest to me. They are dead, and often they make demands when they know they can be heard. I am not interested in their demands and I have no desire to be plagued by them any more than I have been in the past.” Crowley’s face grew troubled for a moment.
“Are the dead around here?”
“Some. Not as many. Not too many have died here yet, though I imagine that’s to change soon.”
“Are there any dead around us now?”
“Oh, yes.” He looked past Slate’s shoulder at the faint ghostly image of Molly Finnegan and nodded slowly. She looked at him, implored him, would have begged if there was enough of her left, but there was not. Something had stolen most of her away in Carson’s Point, not too long ago, and left just enough to ensure he was haunted by her. He had not yet resolved to destroying that remnant or sending it on to whatever lay beyond this realm. If he didn’t think about it, he could tell himself she wasn’t suffering. Sometimes, most times, really, he didn’t much like himself. He promised himself that he would release her soon. Very soon. Just not yet.
“What else do you see that you do not speak of, Mister Crowley?”
“I see a lot. I hear just as much. I heard the spell that was cast. I’m still trying to understand it. I know that it came from behind us, but so do you.”
Slate nodded in agreement. “I do indeed. I’ve been trying to decide how to handle it.”
“Well, perhaps you should confront your enemy and be done with it.”
“Is he my enemy?” Slate’s voice carried an uncertain note.
Crowley stopped walking and stared hard at him. “I should imagine he is. He’s killed several people with his actions, and a few moments ago he killed a young boy who was seeking enough to stay alive in this hellhole.”
“Did he?” Slate shook his head. “How do you know that?”
“Because currently the dead boy is standing over his rotten remains and screaming his rage into the skies. You cannot hear the dead, Mister Slate, but I can and I do.”
Slate closed his eyes and nodded. “Then I suspect he is, indeed, my enemy.”
Crowley heard the sound of gunfire and screaming from the far side of the small town, same as they had the day before. The screams were not pain or suffering. They were war cries. “Well, things are likely to get confusing right about now.” Crowley spat the words, but again his smile crept out.
“I suspect you are right, Mister Crowley. And should I confront my enemy or wait?”