phosphorus mixing with potassium chlorate, sulphur, and burned hair.
I sat on the cold ground, babied the flame as the kindling began to burn. Spotted a six-pack of bottled water and downed two in succession as the flames caught the dry wood. I sat at the fire and Eli entered, took a place across from me, his movements silent. He smelled like snow and a little like protein bars. He squatted so we were on a level and I could feel his eyes on me.
“Janie, what’s up?”
I thought a moment and went with the truth. “The sweathouse has been complete for, what? Weeks? And I already got blood on it.”
“You’re talented.”
My half-form laugh sounded like a kitten growl. “Yeah. I’m good at blood. And death. And killing people.”
“Janie.” He sounded pitying. Which I hated. “You sitting here for a while? I’m going to check on the two fangheads and get some grub.”
“Grub.” I shook my head, smiling. “You mean a pile of greens and a chunk of steamed fish. Yeah. I’m going to sit here for a bit.” I met his eyes in the firelight. “Have you slept at all?”
“Enough.” He stood and put his hand on the top of my head for a moment in what felt like a benediction or blessing. He left me to my thoughts and closed the door on the dawn air. I felt, more than heard, him moving away.
I fed the fire. Added an oak log. Opened the herbs in the packages, put a stick of dried rosemary to the edge of the flame, and watched as it flared and smoked and scented the air. Thought about Hayyel and the dream. Vision. Whatever. Time passed. I began to sweat. My pelt darkened and lay flat to my skin. I hadn’t known I could sweat in this form. It made me itch. I drank water. Scratched. Added herbs to the flame.
One packet of dried herbs was a white sage smudge stick and I held the tip to the fire, where it blazed up, faded to red hot, then to a smoking black ash. I stood and lifted the smoking smudge stick to the north, east, south, and west, the smoke rising and filling the small building. A peculiar sense of contentment began to fill me, as amorphous as the smudge smoke. I fed the fire and relit the smudge. I carried the smudge stick to the four corners of the room. Held the smoke high and watched it climb to the rafters. I prayed. Sat back down.
After a time, the door opened. The heat that had built up whooshed away. I didn’t react in fear or surprise at the sudden interruption. I just sat there, smelling Eli and a woman on the air. He was close by, had brought her to me, which meant she was safe.
The woman stood in the open doorway, lit behind by snow and daybreak before she stepped inside and closed the door. She took off a coat and hung it on a hook by the door. Topped it off with a knitted hat that was crusted with snow. Unlaced snow boots and toed them off. She turned to me and put her hands on her hips, surveying me in the light of the fire. She didn’t run screaming at my half-form or rap my knuckles, so I looked her over too.
She was mid- to late sixties, stout, with broad shoulders and a belly. Her arms beneath a pullover shirt and a loose sweater were strong, brawny. Her hips and thighs beneath jeans were muscular. She had jowls and a saggy neck. A complicated steel-gray braid hung over one shoulder to her waist. Her appearance was not the whole of her at all. She was stern, stable, well rooted in herself, a steel blade of a woman. “Aggie said you were a skinwalker but not a liver-eater. A shape-shifter but not a were. You look like a monster.”
“I am a monster.”
She snorted. “No doubt. You stink. Go jump in the creek. I checked and there’s a deep pool just downstream of a log that fell across it. When you get back, strip and put on a tunic. I’ll be smudging your sweathouse.”
I thought about arguing, about telling her I had already smudged the building, but she likely had her own measures. I stood and moved to the door. She stepped aside. I went out into the cold and the door closed behind me as I looked around in the dull dawn light.