“Hell with that,” he said, his bravado returning. Then it faded as he considered the caltrops again. What looked like a lot of defense confined in a bucket was somewhat sparse when spread out on the ground. “Are you sure that’s the whole buttload?”
“Yep. Look. Let’s say they get through — I don’t think they will, but let’s pretend. You stand sideways and protect your throat and guts, okay? You also protect your femoral artery that way. Just try to push or roll them into the caltrops.”
“And shoot ’em.”
“Right. And I’ll try to stab ’em.” I had Moralltach with me, but I hadn’t told Frank about its magical properties. It occurred to me that perhaps I should. “Frank, whatever you do, don’t cut yourself with my sword, okay? Even by accident.”
“Is it poisoned too?”
“Something like that. It’s enchanted with some Druidic hoodoo. You won’t walk away.”
“So if you hit ’em with that, they’re dead?”
“Right. Not instantly, though. Takes a few seconds to work.”
“Huh. What happens if the skinwalkers push us onto the caltrops?”
“Then we are most likely not going to live much longer, because they will tear us apart if we’re on the ground. However, if you find yourself with the luxury of time, you can try this.” I pulled from my pocket one last unopened box from my drugstore raids: a single disposable dose of physostigmine salicylate. It was the only one I’d found. “That contains a syringe with the antidote for tropane alkaloids. Stab yourself with it and press the plunger.” Frank grunted, shoved it into his front pocket, and then thought better of it and moved it to his back pocket.
“Shouldn’t ever have a needle next to your johnson,” he explained.
We watched the shadows lengthen as the sun sank below the sandstone of Tyende Mesa. It was beautiful and quiet and hid an evil against which I had no magical defenses.
Frank looked down at his shoes and scuffed the ground a bit. “I’m gonna say some stuff. Prayers. Get myself in balance, hózh
, in case this don’t work out the way we want. So, you know. Don’t mind me.”
“Good idea,” I said. I could probably do with some prayer myself. But praying to Brighid or any of the Tuatha Dé Danann would probably be unwise at this point, since I was supposed to be dead to them. Praying to the Morrigan would probably do me no good. I noticed that she hadn’t shown up to help out when that one skinwalker snacked on my neck. True, I hadn’t died, thanks to Coyote, but she had warned me before about much lesser threats than that one. It suggested that I’d failed somehow to be specific enough in the wording of our deal. She had already made clear that she preferred to honor the letter of agreements rather than the spirit of them. If I called to her now, she might think I wanted her to pay a social visit, and that sounded about as blissful as cuddling with a porcupine.
I could certainly use some balance in my life. There had been little enough of that since I’d decided to fight Aenghus Óg — though even the smidgen of balance I’d achieved as a fugitive was a joke: If my inner peace was a calm sea, then my constant paranoia was the wind that chopped the surface. My two centuries with Tahirah were probably the closest thing to peace I’ve ever had.
Once the sun set, I cast night vision on Frank and myself. He stood as I had suggested, protecting his vitals. He held his gun in his right hand. I centered myself and placed myself en garde with Moralltach.
“Here, kitty kitty,” I said softly. “Come on, evil kitties.”
They attacked a few minutes later. We heard them snarl, and that was all the warning we got before a couple of blurs rushed at us, so fast that we didn’t have time to say anything obvious to each other like “Here they come” or “Weapons hot!” It was more of a single Doppler-shifted cat screech; we heard them from a distance and they seemed to nearly catch up with the sound and bawl right in front of us with that unholy, shorn-steel sound. Suddenly they were visible, scrabbling and braking on the dirt not ten yards away and trying to backpedal as they hit the caltrops and the maddened charge died within them. Frank raised his gun and fired six times, but they saw his arm move and they actually dodged, their bodies blurring and sustaining those feline rrreoowr sounds you hear in catfights. They came to a halt outside the range of the caltrops, two panting bobcats with problems in their paws. They rolled onto their backs and began to shake and twitch all over. At first I thought they were trying to dislodge the caltrops in their paws, but then I saw the bobcat pelts slough away and two naked men remained on top of them, steaming in the cool night air, as if they’d been born that way. They had caltrops stuck in their palms and on the soles of their feet, but these they calmly plucked out and tossed away, ignoring the blood and making no further sounds of pain. They stood, picked up their bobcat skins, and regarded us with orange glowing eyes. It was my first really good look at them, and I was surprised at their slight stature. They were extremely lean, with the physique of long-distance runners, so bereft of fat on their frames that their muscles looked a bit too well defined — I thought I could see individual fibers, and there were definitely prominent veins standing out against the skin. They probably weighed a hundred pounds, if that. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen more burning hatred in a pair of eyes, not even those of demons. One of them spat out something in Navajo.
“Frank. What did he say, Frank?”
“He said, ‘You and the white man will die tonight.’ ”
The two skinwalkers turned and jogged back the way they came, carrying their bobcat skins rolled up underneath their arms. They showed no ill effects whatsoever from the caltrops.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “They should be staggering around and having trouble breathing at this point. They each had four or five caltrops in them, enough poison to kill them twice. They should be dying, not trotting away for a bottle of Gatorade or whatever it is they’re doing.”
“I told ya it probably wouldn’t work, but you wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Well, now what?”
“Well, now we’re fucked, white man.”
Chapter 29
From the unnatural quiet, a thin, muffled voice rose in query. “Sensei?” It was Granuaile in the hogan. “You still alive out there?”
“Yes!” I called, my voice echoing back to me off the butte in front of me. “For the moment, anyway,” I added in softer tones.
Frank snorted and said, “You got that right.” He pulled some bullets from his jacket pocket and began to grimly reload his six-shooter. “Don’t know why I’m reloading. It ain’t like I’m gonna hit anything.”
“Is it safe to come out?” Granuaile called.
“No! Stay in there until sunrise unless I say it’s safe. We’re not finished. Round two coming up.”
The metallic click and whir of Frank’s gun served to order my thoughts. I had clearly underestimated the powers of those First World spirits. Physical healing, like what they did after getting shot and speared, is a very different process from breaking down invasive poisons, and I hadn’t thought they would be able to do it. Their magic was so alien to me, and I had to admit I was outclassed by it. Those First World spirits were able to turn very wee men into killing machines … which made me wonder.
“Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“Why did they take off? I’m asking because I figure you must have better insights into First World psychology than me. I mean, after they casually plucked my brilliant plan to destroy them out of their hands and feet, why didn’t they dance past the remaining caltrops and take us out?”