of leather and steel and herbs and gunpowder. And oddly of jungle cat and the ocean. He pulled out a liter of spring water and reached around the fire to the equipment left by my Cherokee Elder. His hand paused, as if startled, as it passed over the war drum. But he took the mortar and pestle from the center of the pile. Removed a zipped plastic bag from his near-empty gobag and poured some dried herbs into the stone mortar. The intense scent of sassafras filled my nose and I dreamed a dream within a dream, of my mother, sitting on a low stool before the fire, pouring tea for me to drink. Nodatsi aditasdi. Mama’s spicewood tea. This time my mouth did produce a little moisture.
My brother ground the spices and poured them into the bowl I had placed in the fire. The stone was hot and the herbs made little popping sounds as he added water, a little at a time. As he worked, his yellow eyes lifted to me several times. “You came to sweat with no water. Was that intentional?” He added another log. Sparks and smoke rose on the air.
I gave the Tsalagi grunt again. My braid slid over my shoulder. It was gritty and crusted with sweat salt. A messy braid with several duplicated twists and hanging strands. The braid of a Cherokee was an indication of spiritual status and mystical strength. The hair was re-braided only by someone completely trusted. Ayatas’s braid was perfect, a complicated weaving of maybe a half dozen strands. It was neat and economical and beautiful. Angie had braided mine hours ago, and from a style standpoint it was awful. But it was braided with love and that counted for more than style.
I couldn’t decide if I cared.
Ayatas stirred his tea with a long splinter of wood from the fire, adding a smoky, ashy flavor. “Adawehi has folded his wings over you, e-igido.”
Adawehi. Cherokee for angel. My voice sounded as rough as broken stone when I said, “His name is Hayyel. He’s totally untrustworthy. Treacherous. Devious. He claims to be the hand of God, and while he did help us fight a demon, I’d never let him braid my hair.”
Ayatas looked at my messy braid before returning to the preparation of the tea. I got the feeling that time had passed when he lifted the bowl with both hands and poured the tea into two wood cups. He replaced the bowl in the hot ashes and lifted the cups in his hands. This was an odd dream.
“Ugalogv, my sister. Drink.”
Ugalogv. Tea. I took the cup and waited until he lifted his cup to his lips before I sipped. Then drained the cup and wished for more. There was still water in the one-liter bottle. But Ayatas handed me a fresh bottle instead. I wrapped my lips around it and crushed it with one knobby hand as I drank it down.
He was right. I hadn’t brought water. Hadn’t thought about replacing the water bottles I had used during my last sweat. I set the empty aside and accepted the salt tablet Ayatas offered. The door to outside opened. Icy air swept into the room. The fire blazed up high. Faster than I could follow, my brother was holding a semiautomatic, centered on the doorway.
Edmund stood there, outlined by darkness. He looked at my brother, took in the weapon, ignored it, and transferred his gaze to me. “Thema was watching the security cameras. She saw a spotted big-cat race onto the property and shift into a naked man. He disappeared. I came to see that you are safe. Are you well, my mistress, my Dark Queen?”
“I’m just ducky,” I said, my voice sounding more human and less croaky. “Update. Why was Thema watching the screens?” Old vamps were seldom tech-savvy.
“She is capable. Alex is sleeping, exuding the stench of poison energy drinks. Eli is healing. Lincoln Shaddock is working with the witches to secure the grounds, yet this one”—he pointed at Aya—“got through the defenses.”
“How?”
“He reads as skinwalker. Like you. They are adjusting the hedge of thorns for were-creatures, and the white werewolf is feeling unwelcome. The wolf is most insistent upon being with you.” Ed stepped aside and Brute pushed through, into the sweathouse. The smell of wet wolf was strong on the air.
Ayatas turned the gun on my werewolf. Brute snorted with amusement. Edmund said, “Brute ate the Son of Darkness. I doubt you could kill him with