Wild Sign (Alpha & Omega #6)(22)

“Who carved them into trees?” asked Charles intently.

Ford shrugged. “None of my people.”

Charles frowned at him. “That was very near a lie.”

Ford’s eyebrows raised. “I am not fae, Marroksson. I am not bound by their rules.”

“You know what that bowl is,” murmured Charles.

Ford laughed. “Yes. And I know if I take it under false circumstances, I will not hold it long.” He looked down and considered his words. “The petroglyphs, I do not know. They have been there for as long as my people have been telling stories. My mother would say they were made by the Before People, but I do not in truth know who they were. Nor does my mother.”

“And the trees?” asked Charles.

“The trees, obviously, are much newer than the petroglyphs,” agreed Ford. “Some of those were carved by the recent inhabitants of Wild Sign.” He held up a hand to ask for patience. “But there are older signs, carved into the forest giants long ago, perhaps as much as two hundred years.” He paused. “There was a village in that location for a brief time, though, again, my people have no other stories about them, as we do not go there.”

Tag handed the napkin to Charles, who studied it.

“That is not the only sign you will find in the rocks up there,” Ford said. “And the trees . . . I think people who want to escape civilization should know better than to carve all over the trees, don’t you? But this sign is the one my mother taught me to watch for. And her mother before her.”

“What is it that sleeps there?” Charles asked, though Anna had already asked that—and gotten the odd glyph for her trouble. Charles’s question was more carefully worded.

Ford shook his head. “We may not speak of it.” He smiled widely, and for a moment his face looked vaguely inhuman, though Anna could not point out what made her think so. “And since we have not spoken of it for generations, I do not, in truth”—he tapped a finger lightly on the rim of the bowl—“know what sleeps there.”

“Do you know about the music?” asked Anna impulsively.

He looked at her for a moment, as if she’d said something very interesting. Then he raised his hands, held together so the thumbs touched, fingers curved as if he cupped something roundish. Then he brought them up to his mouth and blew lightly, as if he was pretending to hold some sort of wind instrument, an ocarina maybe, she thought. The oldest of them were shaped to be played the way Ford was using his hands. Or, she thought, given the rune that he was imitating, something like the ancient aulos, which was a pair of double-reeded pipes played together, one in the right hand and the other in the left. Versions of the aulos had been found all over the ancient world, though not, Anna thought, in the Americas.

Ford smiled at her intent look, then he indicated the napkin Charles still held. “It is the sign, is it not? An instrument being played?” He wiggled his fingers suggestively. “Or so I have always thought.”



* * *



*

ANNA WAITED UNTIL they were out of sight of the old gas station before saying, “They didn’t have a cash register.”

“Probably because they mostly don’t use cash,” said Tag mildly.

Anna gave a snort of amusement. Served her right for beating around the bush. “Okay, so what was he? And were the woman and child the same? They weren’t fae, right? I kept thinking they might be like Mercy—descendants of the old gods. But there is a . . .” Her voice trailed away as they passed a homemade sign that read Bigfoot Country Souvenirs—10 miles above the familiar hulking shape popularized by a film clip of a faked Sasquatch sighting.

“No,” she said, glancing at Charles before she had to look at the road again. “No. You did not let me talk to Sasquatch without telling me what he was. I could have asked to see his real form.” She paused. “I could have gotten a photo on my phone and sent it to my brother for bragging rights.” Charles laughed, but Tag drew a quick, appalled breath.

“You don’t want to get on his bad side,” Tag told her. “Really.”

“How would you know that?” Anna asked, because there was a hint of a story in his voice.

“I slept with Ford’s sister once, a long time ago, and he would have ripped me to pieces except she threatened to kill him for hurting me. It was a glorious fight, though, before she intervened.” He paused and smiled softly, distracted from his point.

“You slept with”—Anna changed the ending of her sentence midway through—“Ford’s sister.”

Tag’s smile softened even further. “Breeze. She thought I was one of them, I thought she was who she said she was. We were both surprised.” He sounded amused.

If Tag hunched a little, he would bear a certain resemblance to the hulking Sasquatch on the sign.

Tag laughed, and like his voice, it was unexpectedly high-pitched. It was the kind of laugh that invited listeners to laugh along, even though the joke was on him. He shook his head, and his eyes were a little soft as he continued, “But that’s not why he helped us today. I think he was impressed that the Marrok’s son came with me.”

“And because of the bowl,” Charles said. “How did you happen to bring that?”

“Your father, after informing me I was going to be your backup on a dangerous mission along the Klamath River, where he knew I’d had plenty of adventures—and he emphasized the ‘plenty of adventures.’” Here Tag’s voice grew indignant. “How did he know about that, I ask you? I never told . . .”