Kissed by Smoke by Shéa MacLeod

old
Native American guy came up to me. Said he knew my father, and he
was sorry. Usual stuff. I shook his hand and that’s when I saw the
tattoo on his inner forearm.”
    “So, he was letting you know he was there.
Watching over you, or whatever.” It made perfect sense. If there
really was some super-secret society of Sentinels out there. Say
that three times fast.
    “Yeah, that’s my guess.” Trevor nodded,
fatigue beginning to show around his eyes. His normally rich, latte
skin had a decidedly chalky cast to it. I was betting he was more
hurt than he let on. Men and their machismo.
    “Okay, we’re out of here. You get some
rest.” I leaned over and gave him a peck on the forehead. “I don’t
suppose the old guy is still alive?”
    “Sure. His name is Tommy Waheneka. He’s a
tribal shaman and he still lives on the Warm Springs
Reservation.”
    ***
    Tommy Waheneka lived beyond the last
outpost, and then some. Seriously, his cabin gave new meaning to
the word “rugged.” I was halfway to hearing duelling banjos in my
head by the time we finally arrived at his front door in a cloud of
dust and screeching chickens.
    Tommy looked about a thousand years old,
leathery face worn and creased by sun and time. His eyes, they were
ageless. Bright and new and filled with humor that mocked the
world. I liked him instantly.
    “Nice car.” He glanced at the Mustang and
went back to rocking gently on his front porch and whittling a
stick into what looked like some kind of animal.
    “Thanks. Tommy?”
    He didn’t say a word, just kept rocking.
    “Stupid me. Who else would you be out here
in the back-ass of nowhere? Can I see your arm?” When in doubt, be
blunt.
    Tommy’s fingers stilled. So did the rocking.
I thought for a moment he’d refuse. Instead he held his left arm
out and then slowly turned it over and pulled his jacket sleeve up
to expose the inside of his forearm. Tattooed on the coppery skin
was the same symbol Trevor wore around his neck: The symbol for the
Royal House of Atlantis.
    “Took you long enough.” His voice was
scratchy, but surprisingly strong for such an old guy.
    “You’re a Sentinel.”
    “Not exactly,” he said with maddening calm.
His fingers went back to whittling and he went back to rocking.
    “What do you mean, not exactly? Trevor Daly
told me the Sentinels bear the mark of the Royal House. He told me
you were a Sentinel.”
    He was quiet so long, I thought he wouldn’t
speak. “I knew your father.”
    I had expected it, but it still kind of
floored me. “How?”
    “He was a good man, Alexander Morgan.”
    It didn’t exactly answer my question, but I
had a feeling that pushing wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I kept my
mouth shut. Not a common occurrence for me, but I was trying.
    The rocking chair squeaked over the porch
boards, the knife scratched against the small bit of wood in
Tommy’s fingers. The old man was silent for what seemed like ages.
“You look a bit like him around the eyes. A little like his son,
too.”
    “Yeah?”
    “You’re stronger than him, though. Your
Father.”
    “I am?” I couldn’t imagine that.
    “How many do you carry inside you now?”
    My heart stopped. Then it pounded in my
throat so hard I couldn’t breathe. “What?” I glanced over at Inigo
who shrugged. Obviously he was as confused as I was.
    “Elements.” His voice was so calm. So quiet.
As though nothing could ruffle the man. “How many do you carry
inside you?”
    I swallowed hard. How on earth did he know?
“Three.”
    He nodded as if it all made perfect sense.
“Three more.”
    “What? Did you say three more?”
    He nodded placidly, still intent on carving
whatever it was in his hands. “There are six.”
    “Six? Are you fu … freaking kidding me?”
    His face remained placid, but I could almost
feel the laughter coming off him in waves.
    “What are the other three?”
    Tommy rocked gently as he whittled away.
“What do you think?”
    More riddles. Lovely. “Well,