12 Days of Fiction 2018, Day Eight
Double Trouble
Crow watched as Nathaniel, in wolf form, in wolf form, tackled the wendigo and went down in a tangle of fur and skeletal limbs.
Damn. He tried not to let anguish grab him. This used to be much easier, back when he was young. All he had to worry about was the moronic white man who didn’t understand he was there to help, and of course the occasional chance that some kind of monster would kill him.
Albie… Albie had entered his life unexpectedly, the last survivor of her village. Crow had thought of taking her to an orphanage, but the Lakota shaman who had helped him that time told him to keep her.
And he had. Reluctantly, at first, since the last thing he needed was to care after a child in his line of work. But Albie had turned out, even as a kid, to be capable of taking care of herself. She learned fast, and never complained. And, ironically, it felt good to have someone who helped Crow treat his wounds after each encounter. That she was also much more competent with the fickle art of magic than he was had been a boon.
And of course, eventually Albie had become the young woman she was. Including the incident that had transformed into a werecoyote. Crow still blamed himself for it, but he never let it show. Or he thought he didn’t.
Only recently he had come to terms with the fact that he loved the girl. She was the daughter that he could never have and he never would. She was the one who might eventually take his position, if she wanted to, or dared to.
She was the one who was prone, at the mercy of one of the most dangerous and powerful monsters of the continent, with only an inexperienced, untrained werewolf and an old man to stop it.
Unexperienced? Yes. Untrained? Yes, too.
But the kid had disobeyed him and had come back. He was either brave, or a fool. Crow bet for brave, and he seldom made mistakes judging other people.
“Nathaniel! Don’t bite it! Don’t let it bite you! Claws only!”
Crow almost smiled when he thought that, had he been given a choice, he’d prefer a werecougar. You had teeth and claws. The claws of a wolf, even a supernatural one, wouldn’t be as effective as a mountain lion’s. But one had to make do with what one had.
In a swift movement, Crow threw his knife at the monster, crouched and swept his bullets. Then he ran towards Albie, paying attention at the brawl behind him. Nathaniel kept growling and bawling, while the wendigo roared its anger at its latest wound. Crow noticed the difference in the tone: the monster, no matter how strong, had received six of his bullets.
Six, no less. What would they need to finish it?
Crow pushed the thought aside for the moment as he reached Albie. She had assumed her metis form, half human and half coyote. Without moving her, Crow examined her body as fast as he could. She had four nasty gashes down her left side, where the beast’s claw had caught her. He frantically searched for bites, finding none.
He let out the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding, then searched his pouch. He found the smelling salts bottle, opened it and held it under her sensitive nose. Albie shook at once.
“Owrl,” she half-growled, half-groaned.
“Careful,” he said. “I think it broke at least one rib, and you’re bleeding.” He quickly applied one of their makeshift bandages to the wound.
She yelped.
“You know it stings. It’s all we can do for now.”
“The wendigo?” she gnarled. Crow had always found her grever voice in this form funny. It made him smile. Not now.
“Nathaniel is fighting it. It won’t be enough.”
They looked. Right then, the wolf was standing, defiant, before the wendigo. They could see scratches in its gaunt skin, wounds that bled a nauseating black ooze. The monster, enraged and in pain due to Crow’s charmed bullets, bellowed its fury. It lurched, and the wolf stepped aside. It didn’t escape Crow and Albie that Nathaniel moved slower, one hind leg almost limp, and that the beast had almost caught him.
“Get ready,” Crow said, standing and offering a hand.
Albie nodded, and grunting as she took it, she stood, grabbing her bandaged flank. In her metis form, she was even taller than Crow.
With years of experience, Crow reloaded his revolver and locked it.
Albie started chanting, gathering her magic.
