C.E. Murphy - Raven Calls

This ones for my Mom, Rosie Murphy,

because its the rest of the story

Sunday, March 19, 9:53 a.m.

The werewolf bite on my forearm itched.

Itching was wrong. It wasnt old enough to itch. It should hurt like the dickens, because Id obtained it maybe six hours earlier. Instead it itched like it was a two-week-old injury, well on the way to healing.

Only I was quite sure it wasnt healing. For one thing, I kept peeking at it, and it was still a big nasty slashy bite that oozed blood when the bandages were loosened. For another thing, my stock in trade was healing. Fourteen months, two weeks and three days agobut who was counting?I had been stabbed through the chest. A smart-ass coyotekinda my spirit guidehad given me a choice between dying or becoming a shaman. Even for someone with no use for the esoteric, like Id been, it hadnt been much of a choice. So now, nearly fifteen months on, a bite on my forearm was something I really should be able to deal with.

And it wasnt that I hadnt tried healing it, because I had. Magic slid off like oil and water, or possibly more like oil and gashed flesh, if oil slid off gashed flesh, which I assumed it did but didnt want to actually find out. Either way, the magic wasnt working. Normally that would be a bad sign, but my talent had taken both a beating and a boosting in the past twenty-four hours, and wasnt behaving. It reacted explosively when I tried using it, and I didnt want to explode my arm. So I was getting on a plane with absolutely no notice and flying to Ireland, because Id had a vision of the woman who had turned werewolves from slavering beasties 100% of the time into part-time monsters, and in my vision, shed been in Ireland. I figured if anybody could keep me human, it had to be the woman whod bound the wolves to the moons cycle.

Thats what I was telling myself, anyway, because it was slightly better than a full-on panic attack in the middle of the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. A day earlier I hadnt believed werewolves existed. Now I was petrified that come the next full moonwhich was tonight, the second of threeI would get all hairy and toothy. It was a dire possibility even without adding international air travel to the mix, which, who was I kidding, was possibly the worst idea Id ever had. Turning into a werewolf was potentially bad enough. Doing it mid-flight presumably meant a plane full of handy victims, although I might get lucky and have an air marshal on board so it would just be me who got dead.

My life was a mess, if I considered that lucky. But I had this rash idea that because Id be missing moonrise all the way around the globe, the magic shouldnt trigger. And I could always lock myself in the bathroom if I thought I was about to get bestial. Locking myself in the bathroom wasnt that bad an idea anyway. I was afraid of flying, and bathrooms didnt have windows. That automatically made them less scary than the body of the plane. Either way, it wasnt just the werewolf cure that had me wandering the duty-free shops at SeaTac. The other vision Id had, the one of a sneering warrior woman, had made my healing magic respond as if a gauntlet had been thrown down. It felt like fishhooks in my belly, hauling me east. I was going to Ireland whether I liked it or not.

My personal opinion leaned heavily toward or not. There were places Id rather be and things Id rather be doing. Specifically, those things were Captain Michael Morrison of the Seattle Police Department, who up to about three hours earlier had been my boss. Id quit, hed kissed me and the more I thought about him, the more I wanted to tear out of the airport, jump in a cab and race back into his arms. The fishhooks pulling at my gut, though, werent about to let that happen. Their horrible prickle and tug had become familiar enough over the past year that I knew it meant something serious coming down the line, as if finding a cure for a werewolfs bite wasnt serious enough. Whatever awaited me in Ireland, I was not especially looking forward to it. So I was trying to distract myself by shopping, which wasnt my favorite pastime in the best of circumstances. Still, Id wandered the international terminal twice already. The shops hadnt changed displays since my first pass, but the second time through I laid eyes on something I neither needed at all, nor was I sure I could live without.

A not-helpful part of my brain whispered that I had a credit card. I mean, I was American. I didnt think Id be allowed to keep my citizenship if I didnt have at least one rectangle of plastic money. But it was reserved for emergencies, like buying a plane ticket to Ireland on no notice.

An ankle-length white leather coat did not in any way qualify as an emergency.

I stood there staring at it through the shop window. The shoulders were subtly padded, just enough to give the mannequin a really square silhouette. It had a Chinese-style high collar and leather-covered white buttons offset from the center straight down the length of the entire coat. It nipped in at the waist tightly enough to look pinned, but nobody would pin leather of that quality. There had to be a discreet belt on the back. Its skirts fell in wide loose folds, and looked like they would flare with wonderful drama.

No normal person would wear a coat like that. A movie star might. A tall movie star. A tall, leggy movie star with really good sunglasses and enough confidence to shift the earth with her smile alone.

I stepped back from the window. Light caught just so, letting me see my reflection.

Nobody could argue that, at a smidge under six feet in height, I wasnt tall and leggy. I had cool sunglasses, although I wasnt wearing them. And that coat might instill enough confidence in the wearer that she could do anything.

Five minutes later I was eighteen hundred dollars poorer, but so pleased with myself I slept the whole flight to Ireland without once worrying about the plane falling out of the sky.

Monday, March 20, 6:28 a.m.

I wasnt a werewolf when I woke up. Fuzzy logic said Id left the States on Sunday morning, flown all day and arrived in Ireland early Monday morning, thus having skipped the night of the full moon entirely and saving myself from shifting into a monster of yore. That was very fuzzy logic, but then, the whole not being a werewolf thing supported it. Besides, who was I to say an ancient curse wouldnt work that way, when magic by its very definition defied the laws of physics. I left the plane grateful to not be furry and, aware of the advantages of having been born in Ireland, slipped through customs on the European Union passport holders side.

The insistent ball of magic within me wanted me to head west, but Irish roads were legendarily convoluted. I needed a car, a map and a cup of coffee before I struck off into the sunset. Never mind that sunrise was in about half an hour, so I had many hours to wait before I could strike off into its sister darkness.

For a woman whod slept the entire ten-hour flight across a continent and an ocean, I was certainly running on at the brain. I stopped just outside the arrivals area and scrubbed both hands over my face hard, trying to waken some degree of native intelligence.

Hey, doll, said a familiar voice. Can I give you a lift?

I left my hands where they were, covering my face, for a good long minute while I tried to understand how that voicethe voice of my best friend, a seventy-four-year-old Seattle cab drivercould possibly be addressing me in the Dublin International Airport. Last Id known, Gary Muldoon had been in California for the St. Patricks Day weekend, partying with old Army buddies in a yearly event he refused to give details on. Since it was now the twentieth of March and the weekend in question had just ended, my information was pretty up-to-date. It was therefore impossible in every way for Gary to be here. It had to be somebody else. Satisfied with my reasoning, I lowered my fingers enough to peer over them.