Bestiary

Marcus “Owl’s Drifting Feather” Hakimi, Silent Strider Philodox and Alpha of the Crossroads Pack

The spirit we’re going to see won’t need long to teach you the Gift, but you have to understand something. A lot of times you’d learn this from an owl spirit. This one is owl-shaped, but he’s a dream spirit instead. But he likes us and he’s gotten along well with us so it’s an honor for him to summon you.

Pay attention, though, because this is very important. He’ll teach you the Gift of prophetic dreams but he won’t know why. He doesn’t see the world like we do. He won’t know that he sent you the summoning dreams. He only knows the now and the yet to be, not the was.

That’s why we figured out where those Lunes are going to be and drew up the map. With this Dreams-of-the-Hori­ zon, you need to have the chiminage right away because he’ll forget if you have to go get it. Fortunately, he pretty much wants the same thing every time.

I’m not saying let me do all of the talking. I’m saying that if you do have to speak up, keep it to the present and future tense. If you talk about things that have happened, or even the possibility that something happened before that meeting, you’ll confuse him. Don’t embarrass us.

When the intruder arrives in my domain, I know it immediately. I’m not sure how long since the last one, but I always know when I have guests. I gaze into the swirling mists of my private realm, images of objects and people appearing for but moments before dissipating to show something else.

The intruder is easy to spot. She’s the only thing solid here, carefully balancing on wriggling ribbons of mist and coherent dreams. She won’t see me until I wish it, so I watch her for a few moments. Anyone capable of finding my hidey-hole is someone worth worrying about.

She is short but muscular with short, dark hair and calloused hands. She is worried about a friend, and I can hear her silently gathering her thoughts to explain her situ­ ation, rearranging her memories to best share her story. She doesn’t know it but wisps and flickers of those memories flit about her head like gnats, visible only to me. Her life has been one of great excitement but also great violence.

I draw myself up from shadow to become visible to her, and she flinches. I never know what they see when they see me. It’s always something different but provokes the same reaction.

She speaks but her words scatter my mists and send waves of agony and unease through me. It is very much like what the humans experience when they overindulge in drink. At least, when they drink enough to forget it the next day.

“I’m sorry,” she quickly says as I reform. “I introduced myself out of habit, I should know better.”

“That you should,” I reply, aware it was an accident but not much caring.

I briefly wonder how my voice sounded to her. Who does she see in my shape? Just out of her line of sight images and shapes from her life, things she hasn’t thought about in years, flicker and dance through the mist.

“I need your help. I know that you collect peoples’ forgotten memories. I need you to help me find one.”

“I don’t casually part with my treasures.” “You’ll sell them,” she growls, low and ominous. “Well, yes, I was getting to that part of the conversation.” That provokes a flash of frustration in her eyes. I do not enjoy fighting but I do get a certain thrill when one of the werewolves gets mad and briefly forgets just how much they need to not discorporate me. It’s a rotten habit.

“And you’ll buy them as well.” She forces herself to calm down.

Now I am intrigued but also worried about where this is going. “Go on,” I say after a moment’s thought.

“Some time in the last few days, a pack of — “ She looked like she had just bit into a rotten fruit. “A pack of Wyrm-wolves came to barter. They stole memories from a friend of mine.”

Hiding is suddenly very attractive to me. “I can’t tell you anything about them,” I said. “Cli­ ent-spirit privilege and such. Good day.”

I slowly back into the shadow when she yells. “My friend’s name is — “ is all she gets out before everything blurs and swirls with agony. I strain to solidify, cursing in a language long dead to human ears.

“I don’t need claws to hurt you, spirit. I know your bans and weaknesses.” Her eyes flicker like drawn steel in moonlight. “I don’t need to know about the Spirals. But I need the memories they took. I’m sure they’re here.” She gestures to the mist around her, waving a hand through it and scattering an image of a child’s toy.

From glimpses of the memories I see hovering around her, I know who she is talking about. And she is right: I can definitely help her.

“What do you have to trade?” I ask as my form finally stabilizes.

“What do you want?” I cluck my tongue in the manner of the humans. “Bad form. You knew you would need something. You did not forget.”

“For my first time dealing with you, I wanted to let you set the price.”

She tells the truth, and I have to admit that such a notion appeals to my ego.

“Fine. Bring me something of your friend’s. Something she’ll miss. But she can’t know you’ve taken it. She has to think she misplaced it. I’ll know if she thinks it’s lost.”

Delicious indecision flickers over the werewolf’s face as she considers possibilities.

“If you really want to know what your friend saw, what really happened...” I trail off. I call up a piece of the memory she is after and a terrified, sobbing shriek of panic and disbelief echoes through my realm. The werewolf’s face grows pale.

“Okay, fine!” she yells, eyes watering. “I’ll bring it back soon. And you’d better have that memory for me.”

“Oh, I’ll remember,” I reply. “Don’t forget your way back,” I add as she runs to the portal that led her here.