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  “Gi yv ha,” she said, and held open the door.

  Come in. . . . She had said, Come in. And I understood her words.

  CHAPTER 8

  A warrior woman

  I sat at her table and she smiled down at me as she handed me a partially frozen Coke, the old-fashioned bottle crusted with ice, ice crystals gathered in the top. The woman was spare and muscular, but older than my first thought. Maybe mid-fifties, maybe older, but not a strand of gray traced through her black hair. Her eyes were full of life, laughter and, oddly, compassion. I took the Coke and drank, and when she offered a plate of cookies still warm from the oven, my shivers dissipated along with my sense of trepidation. How can you stay worried when someone gives you warm chocolate chip cookies? Beast’s hyperalert state was still with me, however, hunched deep within, silent and watchful.

  “My name is Aggie One Feather.” She paused. “Egini Agayvlge i, in the speech of The People.”

  “I’m Jane Yellowrock. Jane”—I took a breath—“Dalonige’i.”

  Aggie sat across from me, holding her own Coke. “You know some of the speech.” Her voice was soft, melodious, the gentle voice of dreams and nightmares both.

  “I don’t remember much of the old words,” I said, my voice and English grating by comparison. I lowered my volume and tried to find the melody and rhythm of the old speech. “When I hear it, maybe it will come back to me.”

  “How may I help you?” she asked, the question similar to the traditional words of the shaman.

  Shamans were tribal helpers, there to assist, free of charge, any who asked, whether for healing ceremonies, counsel, or more practical help. I remembered this. I remembered. I looked at my icy hands on the frozen Coke. I had no idea what I was going to say until the words fell from my mouth. “Are there old tales about a creature called a liver-eater?”

  “Yes. Several. Why do you ask?”

  Shock slithered through me, snakelike. “Because I was hired by a representative of the vamp council to hunt down whatever is killing and eating tourists and cops. I followed it. And according to a very good source, what I saw last night was a liver-eater.” Beast coughed with amusement in the deeps of my mind at the idea of being “a very good source.”

  Aggie stiffened. The skin around her eyes tightened, the fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepening. “Why do you think this?”

  Because I smelled it? Because I followed it here in cat form? Rather than reply, I said, “The thing I saw looks like a vampire, smells like something rotten, and hunts in the woods and swamp behind your house. I followed it here.” Ah, crap. Yep. That came out of my mouth.

  Aggie sat back. “Ahhh,” she breathed, sounding relieved. “I read about the rogue vampire in the newspaper.” She tilted her head, watching me. I tried to interpret her body language and expressions, but they were too swift, too ephemeral. “Why would it come here?”

  “It was interested in your sweathouse. It circled it several times.”

  “You saw this creature?”

  I paused, remembering the scene in the alley, the form bent over the girl’s body. “Yes.”

  Aggie watched me as myriad thoughts, speculations, and conclusions raced behind her eyes. I had a bad feeling that I shouldn’t have come here. “What clan are you?” she asked.

  The question was unexpected, but the answer was there, instantly, for the first time in more years than I could accurately remember. Surprised, I said, “My father was ani gilogi, Panther Clan.” I caught a fleeting image: a mountain lion pelt and a man’s face. My father . . . An image of shadows on upright logs followed it. I couldn’t tell what the shadows meant, but I knew it was something bad. I said, “My mother was ani sahoni, Blue Holly Clan.”

  My shivers worsened and I let go of the frozen bottle, clenching my cold fingers. Other images, senseless fragments of memories, stabbed me. A shadowed cave wall, a vision of snow, a memory of freezing cold. A fire in the center of a wooden longhouse. Drums, softly beating, a four-beat rhythm, the first beat strong. And the smell of sage, sweetgrass, and something harsh like tobacco burning. Beast gathered herself, but not to leap. To watch. To stalk. She had said my past was hidden in the depths of my mind. Now it seemed as if the past was pushing to the surface, like a spring from far underground. Would I finally remember the years I had forgotten? Was I going to remember who and what I was? Breathless, I asked, “You?”

  “My mother is ani waya, Wolf Clan, Eastern Cherokee, and my father was Wild Potato Clan, ani godigewi, Western Cherokee.”

  Which could be a problem, my unreliable memory told me. Long ago, before the white man gathered us up and sent us into the snow along the trail west, there had been bad feeling between some families of Wolf Clan and Panther Clan. Remembrance of insult and blood feud was often generations long among the Cherokee. Had the conflict been resolved? Clans passed through the matriarchal line, so perhaps the bad blood had been worked through. My memories shouted that there was a problem, but it was all fractured and shattered.

  “My great-grandfather was Panther Clan,” she added, as if acknowledging something important. And perhaps it was significant. Tribal relationships were valued by the elders. I remembered that, in the mishmash of my past.

  The sound of drums still echoed in the back of my mind, insistent, and the reverberations brought fear. I would dream about this. And it wouldn’t be good.

  “What are your parents’ names?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember. I was found in the woods near the Old Nation. I was hoping . . .” Impossible hope burbled up with memories, the need of all orphans, to discover their blood kin.

  “You hoped I could tell you?” she guessed. “Send you to your clan, your people?” I nodded. “I will help if I can. If you are of The People,” she said gently. “But from your eyes, I see that you are not full-blooded Cherokee. What are you?” Aggie asked.

  I stood so quickly her eyes didn’t follow. She tensed. Half rose. I forced myself to stop, hands high on the jambs in the doorway of her kitchen as if hung, suspended over a fire, from deer antlers thrust through the flesh of my back. Where did that image come from?

  Aggie flattened her hands on the table, her palms hugging the surface. She relaxed one joint at a time, slowly. I turned to the kitchen, hands out as if balancing, and remembered to breathe. Beast restrained herself, gathered tight, close to the surface. Claws flexed. Ready.

  “Forgive me,” Aggie said, controlled, subdued, motionless as the air before winter snows. “I didn’t wish, didn’t intend, to cause you pain.”

  “Why did you ask me what I am?” The words were half growled, and I saw her flinch, the reaction minuscule. Everybody was asking me that these days.

  Aggie shrugged, a slight lifting of narrow shoulders. “Your eyes proclaim you are part white. And I see something in you, a shadow of something . . . old.” She pointed to my stomach, between my ribs. “There. Like two souls in one flesh. They do not battle, but live in uneasy harmony.” When I said nothing, when the moment stretched into discomfort even for a shaman, she blew out a breath and took a cookie, ate it. Visibly gathered herself and her thoughts. “To answer your first question, the liver-eater is a skinwalker.”

  Breath caught in my throat, hot and burning. I don’t know what she saw on my face, but she paused again and waited as if she thought I might speak. I looked Cherokee. Had spoken a Cherokee word. In the years in the children’s home, I had read Cherokee tribal history, mostly through the old writings of James Mooney, hoping that I would find something that correlated with my splintered past, but nothing I read had sounded like what I was. I found my breath, shook my head, and gestured for her to continue.

  “It is also called skinchanger. There are several tribal stories about liver-eater. In one, she is female. In her human form, she is usually a grandmother and so is respected and trusted for many years. But when she is aged, and the greed for youth and power overtake her, she seeks to replace what she has lost and temptation leads her i
nto the practice of evil. She changes her skin for another human’s. This is the blackest of magic.

  “Our stories tell us that when she gives over to evil, the skinwalker has one long fingernail that she can insert into a child and remove the liver.” When I still said nothing, Aggie went on. “Another skinwalker is Callanu Ayiliski, the Raven, Moker. He likes to steal hearts.” Her eyes studied me, missing nothing.

  “The liver-eater is usually referred to as a skinwalker who has gone mad. Skinwalkers can be a nasty bunch,” she said. “However, in distant times, before the white man came, with his lusts to always have more, before the Spaniards in metal helmets came to enslave us, skinwalkers were the protectors of The People, keeping our ancestors safe from evil and evil magic. Only when they became old, and after the white man came, did many turn from protection to darker tasks and black magic.” Her voice fell silent.

  Aggie watched me, her body loose, tranquil, her eyes seeing more than I wanted her to. “Some call liver-eater Spear Finger. U’tlun’ta.” She pronounced it like hut luna, which was a different pronunciation from the word in my distant memory, but it was a word I remembered from the legends in Mooney’s books. Aggie smiled. “I see that you know of Spear Finger.”

  I nodded. “Is there any chance the liver-eater is a vampire instead of a skinwalker?”

  “No. Vampires are foreign. They came with the Spaniards, the first white men.”

  I nodded slowly, though it didn’t make much sense. Deep in the house, I heard the soft turning of fan blades, the sound of the motor driving it a steady hum. The refrigerator ticked, popped, and an automatic ice maker dumped ice cubes with a clatter. I moved back to the table and sat in the chair. “The words between an elder or shaman, and a seeker in pain, are protected, aren’t they?” I asked. “Like discussions between a psychologist and patient?”

  Aggie inclined her head. “Somewhat. If you tell me you are going to kill someone, I will put the needs of The People, and even the white man, before yours. But if you come for counsel, I will help as I may, and retain your confidence.” She tilted her head, like a bird studying the ground from a tree, amusement playing at her lips. “You aren’t going to kill anyone, are you?”

  “Yes. I am.” She twitched, a faint movement of shoulder blades, and her amusement slid away. “I’m going to kill the thing I followed here. It’s an old rogue vampire, a male. I’m sure of it. But my source . . . my source says it’s a liver-eater, not a vampire.”

  After a moment, Aggie said, “Skinwalkers, before they turned to evil, were of The People. They lived among us from the earliest times as protectors, as warriors, sharing our history.” Aggie shrugged. “When the white man came, much was lost, much changed. I have heard it said: The skinwalkers shared the blood of The People. The liver-eaters stole it.”

  Beast’s focus sharpened. Blood. And the strange scents caught in the bit of fabric that carried the rogue’s saliva and the blood of his victims, and the stink of rot. Beast went still, as if she understood, but if she did, she didn’t explain it to me. I needed to get back to the house and take another sniff of the bloody cloth.

  But suddenly Aggie was talkative, her placid eyes intent, her mouth turned up in a smile. “My favorite story of the crone liver-eater is about Chickelili,” she said, “whose name means Truth Teller. Chickelili is a little snowbird, and the only one who tells the truth about the crone. Since Chickelili is little, nondescript, and has a small voice, her words are drowned out by the jays and crows, until a little boy listens and warns the parents that the killer of children is near. The message of the story is that the small voice is sometimes more important than loud ones.”

  I stared at her, not knowing what her words might mean, but knowing that an elder seldom spoke unless there was great truth in the story, truth that was pertinent to the current situation. Little voices? I flashed on Katie’s ladies sitting at the dinner table.

  “This creature you saw near the sweathouse. Does it have a long fingernail?”

  I thought back to the vision of it in the alley, the prostitute’s body cradled in his arms. Then the brief glimpse as it lunged up the wall. “No. I didn’t see one.”

  “Could you see its energies?” she asked.

  “Gray light, black motes. I smelled them on the wind,” I said, and felt instantly foolish.

  Aggie nodded. “Yes. I see that. You are a tracker of evil. A warrior woman, like the great ones of the far past.” I felt a blush start at the praise, and shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden chair. “I will set wards and burn smudge sticks at dusk,” she said, “to cleanse the taint of any evil that may be nearby. And my mother and I will watch in the night.”

  “Your mother?” I asked, surprised.

  “My mother is only seventy-four, and is still vibrant. My grandmother passed last year.”

  Things clicked in my mind. “Her bones are buried in the back? Near the sweathouse.”

  The same things clicked in Aggie’s mind and the animation drained from her face, showing me a clearer picture of her age. “You think this creature, this rogue vampire you hunt, is after the bones of my ancestors,” she said, her voice so low it was like grass in the wind. “Or after one of us to have power over the bones of my family and the magic in them.”

  It made sense, and unknown knowledge fell into place in my mind; it made a lot more sense than anything Beast was thinking. “Having the bones of an elder who shares a bloodline buried nearby helps boost a shaman’s power, yes?” I said. Aggie nodded once, a jerky motion, full of fear. More gently, I said, “If the thing I’m chasing is a vampire, and if he turned one of you, could he call upon the ancestors, the macheiaellow, to give him strength?”

  Aggie whispered, “Perhaps. It depends on what he knows. What magic he has.”

  “He’s old,” I said. “Very, very old. Several hundred years, I’d guess. How many generations of ancestors are buried out back?”

  Aggie dropped her eyes to her hands; she laced her fingers on the tabletop. “My grandmother, her mother and father, and my great-great-grandmother, who slipped away from the Removal—the Trail of Tears—and settled here.” If I reacted to the mention of the Trail of Tears, Aggie didn’t see it, her eyes downcast. “The bones of my sister, who died when a child. My uncle and his wife, who was a white woman but who joined us when she married. My grandmother’s brother, much older than she. Seven of the blood of The People, and one who joined us.”

  “That’s a lot of powerful bones in one place,” I said.

  “I’ll let the dogs loose tonight, to guard the yard,” Aggie said.

  “Aggie,” I said gently. “It killed two of your dogs already.”

  She closed her eyes, as if to block out the truth. But when she opened them again, they burned with fury. Low and fierce, she said, “I’ll kill it.” Her hands clenched on the table, small and dark and fragile, but with a terrible underlying strength of purpose. “If it comes here, I’ll kill it.” She took a breath that seemed to ache as she drew it in. “Do you have a cell phone number?”

  I pulled a card out of my T-shirt pocket and placed it on the table between us. Aggie took it up and rubbed it gently, as if feeling the texture of the paper, but I knew she was feeling my energies stored in it. “You have decided to keep your true nature from me?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry.” I bowed my head deeply as I had seen my father do so long ago. My father! The memory of his face rose in my mind, nose sharp and cutting. I blinked back tears at the new/old memory. As formally as I could, I said, “I give thanks for your help. I’ll provide protection as I’m able. For now, may I know who owns the property behind the house and into the woods and swamp?”

  “The property borders on the Jean Lafitte National Historical Park, so the government owns most of it. I’m not sure who owns the rest, though there is privately held land dotted all around here, like my family’s land.”

  Park land. Crap. That meant the rogue vamp had acres and acres to roam, and no one to stop him.
Except for me. And this stern, delicate shaman. “Thank you for your time,” I said.

  “I offer my counsel and the use of the sweathouse. If you go into battle ill prepared, you fight to lose. I sense it has been some time since you went to water. Purification and smudging will help you, center you, let you find what you seek.”

  Some time. Yeah, you could say that. The weight of decades pressed onto me, heavy and fraught with pain. “I may take you up on that,” I said.

  Aggie pursed her lips. “You’re lying to me. You have no intention of taking me up on anything. Why not?” She cocked her head, little bird fashion. “Is it the same reason why you won’t tell me about yourself?”

  I backed to the door, my eyes on hers, my most disarming smile firmly in place. This woman was way too smart for me to hang around any longer. “Thank you, Grandmother, for your help and counsel.”

  She made a sound I hadn’t heard in years, but which was instantly familiar. Sort of a snort, a pshaw, and a single syllable of negation. It was very much a sound tied to The People, as “alors” is tied to the French, and “cool” is tied to generations of Americans. “Dalonige’i,” she said, and I stopped at the sound of my name. “It isn’t a traditional name. It means more than yellow rock, you know.” When I lifted my brows in question, she said, “It also means gold—one reason why the Nation was stolen from the Cherokee, why The People were set on the Trail of Tears, so the white man could dig dalonige’i from the earth of the Appalachian Mountains.”

  This time I didn’t react to the words, but I knew she still saw more than I wanted anyone to see. “My thanks,” I said again. And I backed out her front door onto her stoop, into the heat and bright sun.

  I kick-started my bike and took off for home. As I rode, I considered what I had learned, not about myself—that was for later reflection—but about the thing I chased. Beast was wrong. It wasn’t a liver-eater—I had seen it and it had no long fingernail. It was a vamp. A seriously whacked-out, flesh-eating, rotten-smelling vamp to be sure, but a vamp. A vamp gone way bad. An old, mad, rotting rogue.