Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1)(29)

“Ma’ii.” I let that one word drip with disapproval.

“I had a young lover once,” he goes on, ignoring me. “A girl in a jingle dress from Many Farms. She reminded me more of a flopping fish than a woman, but she was admirably enthusiastic.”

I rub my head. I am not up for stories of Coyote’s sexual conquests.

“No, no, boys your own age wouldn’t be your taste. Your taste . . . I know your taste. Big strapping muscular warriors. Immortals. Yes, that would be more to your liking.” He puts heat into that last word. His sly eyes watch me for a reaction. I keep my gaze steady and my mouth set in a neutral line.

“Naayéé’ Neizghání,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. “The Monsterslayer! What a specimen! Truly something made of scorching sun and rare beauty. To have him as your lover, yes, that would make even your handsome friend suffer in the comparison.”

“Neizghání and I were not lovers.”

“Never? In all those years, not even once? A kiss? A stray touch? A cold night on the hunt, under a shared blanket? Oh, Magdalena. It is awful to lie to me, but even worse to lie to yourself.”

“I know what you’re trying to do.”

“And you. So damaged, so alone, after that unpleasantness that killed your grandmother and left you, well, quite . . . eaten up, wouldn’t you say?”

“Stop it, Ma’ii.” My voice is low and quiet, but I can’t quite hide the tremor.

“It’s only natural that you would fall in love with your savior, and then for him to become your mentor. For him to find something worthy in you where others would only find a pitiful broken little girl.” He leans forward, eyes fixed on mine. “If you truly weren’t lovers, then the lust must have driven you mad. How many nights did you lie in bed, shyly touching yourself while thinking of him? Confused by the wetness under your fingers, the tightening of your—”

“Enough!” The threat in my voice is palpable. He can only push me so far before I lose my control, and he’s close. So close.

He stares for a moment, weighing my anger, before he leans back. “Really, Magdalena,” he says, flicking imaginary lint off his velvet vest and continuing conversationally, “did you expect anything lasting to come from your time together? Love? A marriage, perhaps? Monsterslayer babies?”

My cheeks flush hot under his merciless scrutiny. I know he’s just digging for my weak spot, hoping to see me crack. It’s a coyote’s nature to be vicious, and I try not to take it personally. But he makes it very hard not to want to smash his mouth in with my fist.

I make myself exhale, relax. Remind myself that it doesn’t matter. Coyote can dig all he wants. The only thing between Neizghání and me now is nothing at all.

But my patience with Ma’ii’s casual cruelty has run out.

“What do you want, Ma’ii?” I say, my voice impassive. “What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?”

He rears up, affronted. To ask four times forces an answer from the trickster.

“So rude! Was that necessary? We have things to say to each other.”

“Not about Neizghání, we don’t.”

He scowls at me.

I wait.

He tries to stay silent, but his jaw works in protest as my words compel, until he breaks. “A retrieval,” he barks, clearly furious. “I need you to get something for me. You do retrieve things, don’t you?” he spits. “Dead girls? Severed heads?”

Cold fingers down my spine. “How do you know—?”

“I know everything. I am Coyote,” he says. “So you will do this thing for me? Yes?”

“You haven’t told me what it is.”

“Perhaps it is a mistake to ask you. You won’t understand. You are mortal.” He tsks like it’s such a shame. “No wonder Neizghání left—”

“What is it?” I snap, irritated by his posturing. And tired and irritated by this whole day. Lukachukai, Longarm, the dead in Crownpoint, the constant talk about Neizghání. Something in me breaks and I shout, “What is it, what is it, what—!”

“Magdalena!” Coyote bursts out of the chair.

I shudder at the blast of fury that pours from his body. For a moment, the pretense of the Western gentleman falters and I glimpse his true form under the facade. Shaggy gray-and-brown muzzle, dull yellow eyes, a mouthful of teeth meant for tearing carrion. He fills the room, frightening and unnatural, and I am back at that fire, a child of fifteen facing a Bik’e’áyéeii for the first time.

But just as quickly, he gathers himself back in, shrinking to man-size and steadying the illusion. With excruciating dignity he places himself back in my chair.

With one booted foot he pushes a bag across the floor to me. It’s shaped like an old-fashioned five-sided carpet bag, brass clutch and all, but the hide is made from something dark and smoky that seems to shift in the gathering darkness of the room. I hadn’t noticed the bag before, and it’s possible it wasn’t there at all until this moment. I turn on the lamp at my side and open the bag.

“What are these?”

I pull out five feathered rings, each about a foot wide. They aren’t heavy, or particularly light either, but perfect in my hand. They’re covered in downy feathers, like each ring has been rolled in baby bird feathers and then dipped in dye—black, blue, yellow, white. The last one is a dense swirl of all the colored feathers flecked through with flakes of glittering mica. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Beautiful and sacred and definitely powerful.