People of the Raven (North America's Forgotten Past) by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear

braced his feet and clenched his fists at his sides, as though expecting a fight. “I dragged her here just moments ago.”
    The newcomer had seen perhaps three tens and five summers, but he had a wrinkled face and silver-streaked black hair. His moon-washed expression tightened in fear as Coyote walked toward him.
    “You dragged her out here by yourself?”
    “No one must know what I do.” The accent of the Cougar People made him almost unintelligible.
    The idea of gazing into Dzoo’s eyes again sent a tingle through Coyote. It was like looking into an endless black abyss—only to have the abyss look back. She stirred something deep in his soul, something that had brought him here, to this place—the end of a long and arduous journey.
    She lay on her side on a black-and-red painted hide. A tangle of long hair obscured most of her face.
    But it did look like her.
    He tried to keep his voice from trembling. Cold shakes were running through his hands and fingers. “This is Dzoo?”
    “Would I cheat you after what you promised to do to my family if I failed?”
    Coyote willed control into his muscles. His need was a soul hunger that nibbled and sucked at his bones and nerves. “What did you give her to make her soul fly?”
    “A small sip of nightshade, Coyote—just enough to make her sleep.”
    “Nightshade! You gave Dzoo poison?”
    The man reached out pleadingly. “How else could I bring her to you? I had no choice! Her Powers are very great!”
    Coyote thrust his hand into his belt pouch, pulled out the bag, and threw it at the old man. As the old man caught the small bladder sack, the delicate tinkle of glassy stone could be heard. “With those precious objects, Broken Sun, you could buy an entire village.” For all the good they will do you in the end, old man.
    Broken Sun turned the small bag to the moonlight and stared at the tiny red coyote paw prints painted on the leather. He offered it back. “Take it. I don’t wish it.”
    “That was our bargain. And you do wish it, my friend.” Coyote paused, and carefully pronounced the following words: “Betrayal is a costly business. Costly in every way. Remember that your own people might thank you for saving them, but the Raven People will kill you for what you have just done. You may need those fetishes to buy your life.”
    Coyote knelt, and the large spear point pendant he wore on a necklace swung forward. As long as a man’s hand, and almost as wide, it had been carefully chipped from translucent brown chert with two deep channel flakes driven out of each side like flutes.
    He tucked it back before reaching out to stroke her hair with a shaking hand, then quickly wrapped her in the blanket, slipped his arms beneath her body, and lifted. She felt as light as a sparrow’s feather.
    Dear gods, I’m holding her.
    His arms started to tremble, and he could feel the first ecstatic prickling at the root of his hardening penis.
    Broken Sun’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve kept my part of the bargain. Do not forget what you promised. My village is safe, yes? The sickness will leave us, and no warriors will come here.”
    Coyote clutched the slender body against his chest, and a fiery wave flooded through his pelvis and along his veins. In a soft voice, he answered, “It will be just as I promised.”
    Broken Sun scurried away like a rabbit freed from a snare, tripping, falling, running again.
    Coyote waited—listening to the darkness, feeling the need throbbing through each fiber of his soul—until he knew he was alone with her.
    Then he tenderly kissed her silken cheek and carried her away into the forest.

Nine
    “ P itch?” A voice pierced the Dream like a sharpened stick. In it, Pitch had been conversing with Rides-the-Wind on a windblown shore. Strong white waves had battered the rocks below them while dark Power slipped and dove, flitting about them like a falcon on the stiff wind. In the Dream, the old man had been tossing a soul, like a glowing orb,