Ezekiel saw but he did not wish to see.
His eyes widened in the dark, sucking in the glowing beast. It was powerful, magnificent, beautiful—it was dead and unreal and cold. Half of him was drawn to its light; the other half repelled. Desperation rushed through his blood. Run! came the cry, but his feet would not obey. The earth held him fast. He imagined he could feel it turn beneath him.
A voice carried through the air, through the wind, through his heart and soul. It was her voice, and it was the voice of a dead man, and it was a voice of something both more and less than what had once been. Faith gave power, and forgotten gods and spirits fell away, grew weak. Ezekiel’s mouth opened to taste the night air. Copper. Water. New-turned earth. Did he know that language? He must have. It was as clear to him as the language of beasts.
The savage thing that was a coyote in one hand and a bird both raven and eagle in the other stared into the eyes made of fog and clouds. Ezekiel stood rigid, his head rising to meet the strange thing that was but was not a deer. He called himself Macha. He called himself Pemtemweha. This name the Aquila knew—he had heard stories of the great white beast that protected his own. Ezekiel’s fur rose along his spine to an impossible height. Fear filled him.
“She called you,” he accused with shock. “She used mudjimushkeeki.” The fear turned to anger almost as quickly as he had realized this. The black-brushed hybrid bared his teeth at the not-deer. “I did what I was taught, Pemtemweha!” He honored the herd, he did not abused the deer—how had she managed to call their god down on him?
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