Two Ravens and One Crow (Novella)

for at least a week but perhaps two. You won’t need to bring anything, not even a weapon. Shift to your bird form and let us be gone.«
    »Wait, wait. I’m going to need more of an explanation than that. Can’t my apprentice come, or my hound?«
    »No. Definitely not. Our business does not concern them.«
    ›That’s fine with me. I’ll happily stay behind,‹ Oberon said.
    I glanced uncertainly at Granuaile, and she shrugged.
    »You say we’ll be gone two weeks?«
    »At the most. But we must begin immediately. Make haste.«
    Arguing with the Morrigan would be unwise. Spending at least a week with her—maybe two—would not be any wiser.
    I’m doomed, aren’t I?
    ›Yep. It was good to be your hound.‹
    »You’re not doomed,« the Morrigan said, and I belatedly remembered that she could read my mind now—or at least hear thoughts that I projected. »But you will be if you don’t hurry up.«
    I turned to Granuaile. »Take a few days off if you wish. You’ve earned it. But continue to practice your languages and work out every day.«
    »Okay, sensei. Maybe Oberon and I will head up to Durango.« Our place in Many Farms was just over a hundred miles southwest of there. She fingered her hair, dyed a brown so dark it might as well be black. »I can get this mess fixed up. It’s time.«
    Her roots were beginning to show again, which meant mine were too. Our ridiculous fake identities had served us well in this remote location; we kept to ourselves and no one really gave a damn about us. Aside from the embarrassment of our assumed names—the trickster, Coyote, had fixed it so we had to call ourselves Sterling Silver and Betty Baker in public—we liked living and training in Many Farms. Taken all around, Coyote had done us a solid, and he in turn was mighty pleased about the way his renewable-energy projects were coming along, thanks to my help. Six years had done him and the tribe a world of good; the coal mine was shut down forever now that Coyote’s ventures were creating lots of jobs.
    »All right. You know the drill, right? If I don’t come back—«
    »I’m supposed to call Hal Hauk, I know,« Granuaile said. »He’s got your will. But you won’t make me do that.«
    »I sure hope not. See you later.« I ducked into the trailer to undress before I shifted, and the Morrigan squawked impatiently.
    ›Hey, Atticus, bring back some wildebeest flanks, will you?‹
    Where do you think I’m going? I said as I threw my shirt into the hamper.
    ›I don’t know. I’ve just always wanted to say that. It makes me sound like a boss when I can casually order up some wildebeest. Or it sounds like something Dr. Seuss might say: We’re going to have a feast. A feast! On some wonderfully succulent wildebeest. ‹
    If you wanted to go hunting for wildebeest, you should have said so. Listen, watch Granuaile for me, will you?
    ›I always do.‹
    Divested of my clothes, I triggered the charm on my necklace that bound my form to a great horned owl and hopped over to the door.
    Thanks, buddy. I’ll have to owe you that snack. Though I’m sure Granuaile will completely spoil you while I’m gone .
    ›She always does.‹
    I hopped down from the trailer doorway and hooted a good-bye to Granuaile. The Morrigan flapped her wings noisily and launched herself to the southeast.
    Come, Siodhachan , her voice said in my mind. I shuddered and took wing after her. I didn’t like having her in my head, though at the moment I had to admit it was convenient. Unlike the Morrigan, I couldn’t speak like a human while in bird form.
    ›So what’s the emergency?‹ I asked her. We were flying toward Canyon de Chelly, where we could find a tree bound to Tír na nÓg and shift out of the state.
    You need to repair your tattoo , the Morrigan replied.
    ›You mean the back of my hand? That’s been messed up for six years.‹ Ever since I’d been chewed on by a giant locust—courtesy of Coyote’s attempt to save the world—my ability to heal myself had been damaged. Colorado (the elemental, not the state) had taken care of what few needs I’d had since then, because I’d known all along that at some point the Morrigan would have to be the one who doctored my tats. The problem with that was that, unlike most doctors, the Morrigan didn’t agree with the credo of »First, do no harm.« The rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann thought I was dead—at least, I hoped they did—so I was stuck with the Morrigan as my ink slinger.
    You have