“Need a lighter, quick!” I said. “Or matches!” This was one of those times I wished Druids could do neato things with fire. Maybe I should try to figure out how to make friends with a phosphorous elemental.

Ben and Frank patted themselves down helplessly and looked around. Granuaile didn’t have anything, I knew. “How’d you guys get the lanterns lit without matches?” I asked.

The driver’s seat disappeared with a shriek of metal, and a skinwalker in human form dropped down onto the roof. I saw a flash of orange eyes and ducked as he took a swing at me through the window.

“Here!” Someone pressed a lighter into my hand. It was Sophie. I didn’t have time to thank her. I bobbed back up and socked my left hand through the window, not caring if I hit him or not. He dodged back easily and began to turn, considering an exit out the passenger side, because the confined space wasn’t to his advantage. And then I lit the nearest stake and watched the flames travel along my improvised grill, even as the second skinwalker landed next to the first.

They burned and screamed and climbed on top of each other in an attempt to escape, which only made it worse. They eventually exited through the roof and forgot, in their haste, that the roof of the hogan was still warded. The Blessing Way burned them again and they tumbled off the hogan, howling.

Frank grinned at me as their cries of pain faded; they were clearly retreating.

“Think that got ’em,” he said.

“For the night, anyway,” I agreed. “They’ll be back tomorrow night. We didn’t do any permanent damage to them, but now they have this hole in your ward, and they’ll probably just sit back and make new ones until they can get to us.”

Ben Keonie offered me the fire extinguisher. “Ready for this?”

I looked at the fire and the smoke billowing out of the windows. “Yeah, good idea,” I said.

Chapter 25

Dawn brought us a scene of chaos. The site looked like the aftermath of a natural disaster, except that we all knew there was nothing natural about the destruction. Sharp knives of wood lay strewn about like Van Helsing’s personal weapons depot, and vehicles had been forcibly disassembled into their component parts. All that was missing was a gloomy heavy metal band to film a music video in the ruin, wind blowing dramatically through their spectacular manes of product-laden hair as they humped their guitars and lovingly fondled their favorite minor chords.

When Sophie, Ben, Frank, and the crew saw what was left of their trucks, they began to chirp “Fuck” in various registers like a small flock of birds—perhaps a new species of finch. The calls were varied and delivered with gusto. Granuaile joined in the morning chorus when she saw the skeleton of her ride nestled in the magically reinforced roof of the hogan.

“Fuckity f**k f**k!” she sang.

Sophie was especially dismayed to see that all the surveying stakes for the plant site down in the flat had been pulled up and destroyed. “We’re going to have to start all over,” she moaned. “And it’ll probably just get torn up again. This project is doomed. Fuck.”

Cell phones came out and voices began asking friends for a ride into town. I wondered if anyone was going to call Coyote—Mr. Benally—and let him know that the skinwalkers had trashed the site. I wondered if Coyote would make an appearance today at all.

Trucks began showing up to collect us after about a half hour. Granuaile and I climbed into the bed of a Ford half ton along with Sophie Betsuie. Frank got to ride shotgun, and he directed the driver—a friend of his—to drop us all off at the Blue Coffee Pot for breakfast. The place was hopping again, because the coal mine was shut down for the second time. It was good to have visual confirmation of my success; Colorado should be in a good mood when I settled down to have another chat.

Once we were seated near a window with cups of strong coffee in front of us, I asked Frank if he could tell me anything more about skinwalkers and how they operated—anything at all that might help me understand them better. I carefully did not imply that this knowledge might help me to defeat them somehow, because Sophie had never been told I was anything but a geologist. But, surprisingly, Frank tilted his head at Sophie and said, “She can actually tell you more’n I can. She’s got some privileged information regarding those two.”

“You know them?” I said.

“Maybe,” Sophie admitted. Her fingers danced nervously around the edges of her coffee mug and she eyed Frank, asking him if it was truly okay to share this information with me. He gave her a nod to go ahead.

“It’s speculation, not hard fact,” she stressed.

“Understood,” I said.

“I only know this because of my clan,” she began. “And all the workers, including Ben, are from my clan, if that helps you understand why we’re on board with Frank here. There was a murder about ten years ago, and it was a big deal. Divorced woman killed in her home. So, uh … wait. I need a pen.”

She fished a retractable gel pen out of her jacket pocket and then grabbed a napkin out of the dispenser lying on the table. Before she could continue, the waitress arrived to take our order, and we paused to do that. It was a bit depressing for me, because I had nothing to order for Oberon; I asked for an extra side of bacon anyway in his honor.

When the waitress departed, Sophie began to write on her napkin. “All right,” she said, “I don’t want to say the names of the dead or attract the attention of those who may still be living”—and here Frank nodded sagely at her caution—“so I’m going to just show you these names and explain from there. You don’t read them aloud or anything, okay?”

Granuaile and I murmured our agreement. Sophie flipped around the napkin and pointed with her pen to the name at the top, which read Millie Peshlakai.

“This person was the murder victim, distantly related to me and the rest of the crew. She was only about forty, and the cause of death was clearly violent. Nicest lady. Nobody could figure out why she’d ever be a target. And these two here,” she paused, pointing to the names Robert and Ray Peshlakai, “were her sons. Twins in their late teens. They disappeared. Haven’t been seen since the day their mother was found. Most people figured they were kidnapped by their father, and they thought he’d done the murder too. He’s a bad sort, lives up in Utah. But once they tracked him down and interrogated him, it was obvious he had nothing to do with it. Ironclad alibi and everything. So the murder’s been unsolved all this time, and we still don’t know what happened to the boys.”

“So you think …?” I said.

“Anybody can start followin’ the Witchery Way whenever they want. But there’s only one way to become one of those things we’ve been dealin’ with,” Frank rasped. “Only one way to make your soul so black you attract a spirit from First World and gain powers nobody oughtta have.”

Sophie circled the two boys’ names and then drew an arrow to their mother’s name. “You have to kill a family member,” she said. “You become pure evil.”

Chapter 26

“Hold on a second,” I said. “If they’re so evil, how come they haven’t been going around killing people?”

“ ’Cause they haven’t had to go around anywhere to do that,” Frank explained. “Plenty of people climb Tyende Mesa for the hell of it. You know how those climbers are. They see a rock that looks cool, an’ their life won’t be complete until they manage to stand on top of it. They bring their pitons an’ rope an’ shit an’ walk around town smiling at everybody ’cause there’s a decent chance they’ll fall down an’ go splat. Well, for the last ten years, some o’ them people never came back. They don’t go splat, they simply disappear, gear and all.”

“The skinwalkers are burying them?”

“The bones, maybe. After all the meat’s off ’em.”

“They’re cannibals?” Granuaile said.

“Aw, I don’t know for sure,” Frank said. “But cannibalism is part of the Witchery Way that they follow. Besides that, I don’t know what else they’d be eatin’. Ain’t like the shepherds ’round here been missin’ sheep. Nobody’s missin’ their veggies or their breakfast cereals. So what are they eatin’ up there? It ain’t delivery pizza.”

“People have been vanishing on the mesa and nobody notices?”

“O’ course somebody notices. Funny thing is, that only attracts more of ’em, because they think the rock’s a challenge. And then o’ course you get their relatives comin’ out to search for ’em, and they disappear too.”

“Why doesn’t the tribe close off the mesa?” Granuaile asked. “They wouldn’t have to give any specific reason. Just say it’s too dangerous.”

Frank shrugged. “Guess they like the revenue that climbers bring in. Hotel taxes, dining, souvenirs, all that. They go up there at their own risk. And most o’ the council don’t believe in skinwalkers anyway. After last night I think they’ll start believin’ though.”

Sophie chuckled. “I swear we have leaders like everyone else: Some of them are genuinely bright, but some of them aren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the shed.”

“The sharpest tools … oh!” I said. “That’s it, that will work! Frank, I know how to slow them down.”

“What? How?”

“Caltrops. They won’t be expecting them after having clear ground for days now. They’ll run right into them, and they’re barefoot. We’ve already seen that they’re suckers for booby traps.”

“Psssh. They ain’t runnin’ at us anymore. Their tactics have changed.”

“They will if we lay out some bait.”

“Like what? Prime rib?”

“Like me. I’ll surround myself with caltrops and ring the dinner bell, and they’ll come running.”

“That ain’t gonna stop ’em. They’ll fight through the pain to get to you and then deal with the injuries after you’re all tore up. The First World spirit will guarantee that.”

“They won’t be able to fight through it if the caltrops are poisoned.”

Three jaws dropped and three pairs of eyes stared at me, and the waitress appeared with our food. No one said anything until she’d brought back some syrup for Granuaile and refilled our coffee.

“Poisoned?” Frank said. “You gonna dip ’em in bleach or something?”

“Or something, if you get me to a drugstore. I can whip up something pretty good.”

“A geologist who can mix poisons?” Sophie said.

“He’s a Renaissance man,” Granuaile explained as she poured syrup on her pancakes, and I shot her an amused glance. Yes, I was a Renaissance man. And a man of the Enlightenment, a Victorian man, a Postmodern man …

Frank squinted at me doubtfully and wagged his head back and forth slowly. “I don’t think that’s gonna work,” he said.

“Why not?”

He sighed and took a stab at his omelet. “I don’t care what kind o’ poison you got, they ain’t gonna step on one and keel over dead. They’re gonna keep going based on momentum if nothing else. And skinwalkers have a hell of a lot o’ momentum. They’re gonna get a shot at you, and one shot’s probably all they’re gonna need. Poison might get to them eventually, but not before they get to you.”

“Maybe. I’m betting that anything traveling that fast is going to fall down and go boom as soon as it runs into an obstacle. They’ll not only get one in their feet, you see, they’ll fall down and get punctured multiple times. Once they’re down with that much poison in them, they won’t be getting up. But even if they don’t fall down, Frank, they’re going to be stepping mighty ginger right away; they’ll slow down to manageable speeds, enough for us to get a shot at them.”

Frank wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know. I can still see ’em dodging around ’em or something like that. What about trying a net?”

“They’ll see it coming and dodge. Or they’ll tear through it. Come on, they were chucking trucks around last night. Caltrops are easy to make and tough to avoid. We could finish this up tonight.”

Sophie was chewing on a piece of toast and nearly choked. Frank pounded her on the back to help her out. She took a drink to clear her throat and then she said to me, “You just got done reminding us that they were throwing trucks around, and now you think you can finish them tonight with caltrops?”

“The poisoned caltrops only slow them down so we can pop ’em with a gun. Or my sword.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” she said, “so thanks for bringing it up. Why do you have a sword?”

“In case of the zombie apocalypse. You never run out of ammo with a sword.”

Granuaile snorted in amusement, and Sophie flicked her eyes at her in annoyance before returning to me. “Look, I don’t know what you are, but you’re more than a geologist, if you are one at all. I’ve met lots of geologists on different projects like this, and they’re all tiny sunburned men with fetishes for geodes. They wear floppy hats and carry baggies for soil samples around with them. You don’t look or behave like a geologist, and Frank doesn’t treat you as one. Neither does Mr. Benally. And geologists don’t make rocks disappear like you did the other night. They keep them and build little shrines to them. So stop patronizing me and tell me what you really are.”