Mercy Thompson 06 - River Marked

blandly. “I do.”
    Yep. That was the one that came to mind. And he didn’t even blush when he said it. Maybe Gordon would miss the double entendre. But he grinned cheerfully at Adam.
    “Do you know,” I said casually, “that the Blackfeet tell Old Man stories and not Coyote stories? The Lakota’s trickster is Iktomi—the spider—though he tends to land more on the side of evil than simple chaos.”
    The old man smiled slyly. “That’s because Coyote goes in many guises. And”—he shook a hand at me—“chaos is never simple unless you are Coyote.”
    “So what did the story have to do with me?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.
    “The chief’s daughter, who was, for a while, Coyote’s wife, had a daughter—and she could walk as coyote or human, as could her sons.”
    “So I am descended from Coyote—and that red-tailed hawk we saw at Horsethief Lake”—I somehow didn’t doubt that Gordon knew about it—“is descended from Hawk.”
    “Ayah,” he said. “A walker ”—he gave a studied emphasis on the only term I knew for what I was; “avatar” sounded like something that should be running around an Internet multiplayer game or covered with blue paint and CGI’d into a movie—“is descended from one of these matings of mortal to immortal. But it has been a long time since they walked so freely among us, and for many years now the only way one is born is for both parents to be descended from such a coupling.”
    “Which is why Calvin was so certain I couldn’t be a walker,” I said. “My mother, as far as I know, is Western European—mostly German and Irish in descent.”
    “Ayah,” agreed Gordon. “I do not doubt it. Which is why I ask you, do you know who your father was?”
    I heard what he wanted me to. I didn’t know why he’d decided to play games with me, but I was done. My father had nothing to do with whatever it was that had attacked poor Benny and his sister. Gordon Seeker, whatever he was, was nothing to me.
    “He was a rodeo cowboy,” I said. If I’d been in coyote form, I’d have had my ears pinned back. “He rode bulls and was moderately good at it. My mother was riding her friend’s horse and trying to win enough money to survive. He gave her a place to stay for a while. He was killed in a car wreck before my mother even knew she was pregnant with me.”
    Adam watched from the grill. His eyes rested on the old man with cool yellow dispassion. I sucked in a breath and tried not to get mad—or let this stranger hurt me with a story older than I was. Emotions seemed to pass easier through the mating ties than words or thoughts. I was learning to control myself a little more now that Adam could feel them, too.
    “Yes,” said Gordon gently. “I am sure that you are right, of course. Joe Old Coyote died thirty-three years ago on a stretch of highway in eastern Montana.” He looked up. “Ah, here they are.”
    I got the keycard out of the truck. “I’ll let them in,” I said, and escaped at a jog.
    What the old man implied was wrong. If I was tempted for a moment to believe—to believe that my father might still be alive because Coyote died all the time only to be reborn the next morning—then I had only to remember that I had seen his ghost dance for me. My father was dead. I stretched out and turned my jog into a flat-out run, letting the speed clear my head.
    I opened the gate for Jim, who did indeed have Fred and Hank Owens sitting next to him.
    “Hop in the back,” suggested Jim, once the truck was on the campground side of the gate. “I’ll give you a ride on down.”
    I hadn’t ridden in the back of a pickup since I was a kid, and it was still fun. I jumped out before he stopped, just to see if I still could. I landed on my feet but let the momentum roll me backward and carry me back onto my feet again. It was a matter of timing. My foster father had taught me how to do that after he caught me trying to imitate him.
    “Teaching her how to do it right, so she doesn’t break her fool neck,” he’d growled, while my foster mother, Evelyn, fussed, “is likely to be less fatal than forbidding her to do it, because that doesn’t work at all.”
    He had been awesome.
    So what if an old Indian thought my father was Coyote? My father had really been Bryan, the man who’d raised me. He’d been there for me when I needed him, until Evelyn died and he hadn’t been able to survive the loss. After that, I’d had Bran.
    If Bran and