And then I remembered one of the Tsalagi words for the double helix of genetic material. The snake. I-na-du. The snake in the heart of each creature. And I had to wonder whose DNA Beast had just broken. Or healed.

* * *

I came to in the sweat house, the coals burned low, into deep red heat, the rocks discharging the same heat outward. The first thing I noticed was that I was pain free. Salt-caked. Stinking. I rolled my body over and took a good long look at my hand. Human. Mine. I checked out my feet and knees and thighs, and peeked down through the neck opening of the sweat-soaked gown. Human. Thank God.

My BFF was gone. Aggie was sitting against the far wall, her back ramrod straight and pressed firmly to the wood, as far from me as she could get and still be inside the sweat house with me. I cleared my throat, which felt like two pieces of chamois buffing together. I was seriously dehydrated, and when I spoke, my voice was coarse and gritty. “So. Now you know my deepest darkest secrets.”

“I doubt that.” She sounded wry, not terrified.

“Well, all the ones that are fit to be aired in public.”

She made a sound that was part snort, part a sound like pshaw, and all Cherokee.

I remembered my grandmother making that sound and I smiled, or what passed for a smile made by lips dried in mummified wrinkles. With all the formality at my disposal and with my heart in my throat, I said, “Thank you, Aggie One Feather—Egini Agayvlge i—of the ani waya, Wolf Clan of the Eastern Cherokee, Elder of the Tsalagi.”

“You are welcome in my sweat house and in my home, Dalonige i digadoli, of the ani gilogi, Panther Clan, through your father and grandmother, but also of the ani sahoni, Blue Holly Clan, through your mother, who must also be honored.” She gave me a slow, low bow, as ceremonial and ancient in its formality as anything I remembered from my toddler years among the Tsalagi. The kind of bow offered to an honored guest who might come to trade or bring news from a distant clan. As formal and measured as a bow offered to one who brought news of war.

Pushing up to a full sitting position, I managed a much less graceful bow in return, but did succeed in dropping my head lower than hers had gone. As was proper to an Elder and to a shaman of The People.

She gave me a wisp of a smile in return. “Let’s get you showered and inside the house. You need to eat and sleep and drink a great deal of water.”

* * *

Before we left, I ate enough at Aggie’s table to feed three people and drank so much water there, and on the way home, that running trips to the bathroom woke me several times, which was the only thing that kept me from sleeping away the rest of the day. Not even the squeals of running children, giggles, and Alex’s teenaged irritation at the noise and interruptions had any effect. On some level, I must have heard it all, but I slept through everything, and woke at sunset, the last rays of scarlet light brightening the street outside my window. My hand was normal, my Beast was purring contentedly inside me, and I was pain free, if stiff as a board. I couldn’t ask much more of living than that.

However, I shuffled to the bathroom and caught sight of myself in the mirror over the sink. I decided that the myth of zombies was really true, as the black-eyed, sallow-skinned, dull-haired, uncoordinated thing in the mirror didn’t lie.

In the shower, I turned the water to scald and slid to the floor, letting the hot water beat down on me, washing away the last of the salty scum I had missed in Aggie’s outdoor shower, the new stink of sleep sweat, and some of the muzzy-headedness. When there was no more hot water, I crawled from the shower, dried off, combed my wet hair, dried and braided it, and dressed, remembering the clothes that had been piled at Aggie’s sweat house fire. Pretty sure they had contributed to the stink of burning herbs and roots and other scents. Being Enforcer was hard on a girl’s wardrobe. Good thing I wasn’t a fashion horse, a woman who loved clothes and shopping and all that stuff. My lifestyle would have left me in permanent misery.

I dressed in a loose oversized gray tee and black leggings, and pulled on socks, because my feet were unaccountably cold, before leaving the bedroom for the kitchen and whatever animal protein I smelled cooking there. I passed Molly, who said, “We need to talk and scan you for external magics as soon you can be coherent. Which, at the moment, looks like never, but I’m withholding judgment.”

With a grunt, I lifted a hand in her direction as I slid into a kitchen chair. Eli was lining up a plate full of beef shish kebabs, with pineapple and onion and three kinds of peppers, heavy on the beef, which was cooked rare and bloody and perfect. I sat and breathed out, “If you weren’t already adopted, I’d adopt you right now, just for this.”

“That’s what all the old women say. The young ones want to bump bones.”

“Uncle Eli, what’s bump bones?” Angie Baby asked from the living room.

“Crap,” he whispered.

That woke me up. I stuffed a huge gobbet of beef into my mouth to keep my laughter hidden from my godchild. Eli swatted me with his dishrag, smacking my head without even aiming. “These are shish kebabs, Angie.” He indicated a platter on the edge of the table as she walked up. “And when you remove them from the stick, and they bounce, that’s bumping bones.”

I nearly choked trying to swallow the beef half-chewed and not laugh at the same time.

“Uncle Eli,” Molly said from the living room, censure and glee in her tone.

“Sorry,” he said. “Best I could do on short notice. I’ll do better next time.”