Mercy Thompson 06 - River Marked

liked them burnt on the outside—I liked mine just shy of hot.
    I watched my hot dog warm and tried to pretend I could believe that. “Maybe. Maybe there is something like a weird doppelganger who appears to other people or a backward foreganger—a death’s-head who appears after a man dies instead of three days before.”
    Adam tilted his head at me, then shook it. “If you really thought it was some native critter, you’d be calling Charles.”
    Adam was right. If Charles thought I was really in trouble, he’d help however he could. He might be scary, but he was family. Sort of.
    Adam gave me a shrewd look. “You just don’t like the idea that your father visited you, and you don’t know why.”
    And why Joe Old Coyote hadn’t shown up sooner.
    Damn it, I chided myself. I knew better than that. A ghost wasn’t a person; it was just the leftovers. That ghost might be the ghost of my father, but he wasn’t my father.
    He’d died before I was born. But I hadn’t suffered. I’d been raised by Bryan and Evelyn, my foster parents, and they had loved me. When they died, Bran and the rest of his pack had stepped in—and then my mother. I’d never been unloved, never mistreated. I was an adult—so why did the sight of a ghost who looked like my father make me feel so raw?
    “Okay,” I said. “Yep. You’re right. If he could visit anytime, why didn’t he? Why now when I don’t need him?” I’d rather have believed it wasn’t my father.
    He put his arm around me. “Maybe it was some sort of vision quest without the fasting part.”
    I shook my head. “Nope, I already did my vision quest.”
    He pulled back, so he could see my face. “Really?”
    “Uhm,” I answered. “The summer Charles taught me to fix cars. One day he just took me out into the forest. We fasted for three days, then he told me not to shift into a coyote and sent me off into the mountains.”
    “What did you see?” Adam asked. “Or is that supposed to be a secret?”
    I snorted. “Sacred, not secret, I think.” Though the only person I’d ever told what I saw had been Charles. “But mine was pretty weird. I asked Charles if I did it wrong, and he just gave me that look—” I tried to freeze my face into an emotionless but somehow terrifying mask—and Adam grinned.
    “What did he say when you showed him that expression?” he asked.
    Only an idiot would make fun of Charles to his face. Adam knew me so well.
    “He asked me if I’d eaten something that made me sick,” I said. “Though he turned his head, so I couldn’t see his expression. I think he might have smiled.”
    Adam laughed. “So back to your vision.”
    “Right,” I said. “So my vision was a little ... Charles told me that there was no right or wrong way to have a vision. It just was. Then he told me about some guy who had a vision and found out he could talk to spirits. Elk Spirit came to him and told him he had to serve Elk Spirit and to do that he had to dress only in yellow. Or maybe that was blue. So this guy, he did that for a few years until Bear Spirit came and told him he’d been talking to Elk Spirit and decided that it should be Bear Spirit he listens to. So Bear Spirit told him to paint his face red and walk backward. When Charles’s grandfather, the medicine man, met this man, he had been walking backward for years and years. Charles’s grandfather heard the man’s story, and told him, ‘Just because you listen to spirits does not mean you must obey them.’” I’d almost forgotten that Charles had shared that story with me. It was a sign, I suspect, of how upset I’d been that I hadn’t had the kind of vision quest I had expected—one with eagles and deer who guide me to enlightenment.
    “What happened?” Adam asked.
    “Your hot dog is on fire,” I told him.
    He pulled the black thing out of the fire, tapped it on the ground, and it broke into pieces. He got another hot dog and stuck it on the campfire fork, while I ate mine.
    “Mercy, what happened to the guy who was walking around backward?”
    “He washed his face and started walking forward. After about five steps, he tripped and broke his leg.”
    “You are making that up,” said Adam, pulling his hot dog in for inspection. It wasn’t black, so he stuck it back in the fire.
    I lifted my hand. “Scout’s honor, that’s the story Charles told me. You ask him if you can’t tell if I’m lying or not.” That was sort of a put-down among werewolves. Only a