Widdershins by Charles de de Lint Page B

the stage, grinning ac each other.
    “This is a great venue,” Con said.
    Lizzie nodded. “Yeah, we always seem to get exceptional audiences when we play here. It must be something in the water.”
    “Or in the beer,” Siobhan said, “because, lord, can they put it away. You boys have fun now,” she added as she walked away.
    It was Andy and Con’s turn to work the merchandise table, so Lizzie followed Siobhan through the door behind the stage. They took the back stairs up to their room where Siobhan fell across her bed, arms outspread, and let out a long happy sigh. Lizzie got her jacket from where she’d left it draped over a chair. Siobhan turned her head to look at her.
    “Where are you going?”
    “Nowhere,” Lizzie said. “I just need to get some fresh air and clear my head.”
    “Yeah, it’s weird playing in a smoky bar again, isn’t it?”
    Many of the cities they played in had by-laws against smoking in restaurants and bars, but that kind of legislation hadn’t yet made it to out-of-the-way places like Sweetwater yet.
    Lizzie nodded. “My lungs feel like they did when I used to smoke. You want to come?”
    “I’m good. You go ahead.”
     
    It was peaceful outside the hotel. She could still hear the sound of the crowd and the house music playing in the bar, but the noise was muted and distant. Crossing the road, she stood at the top of the stairs leading down to the water and looked off across the river. There were a few lights on the far bank, but not many, and none higher up in the hills above the river.
    A crunch on the gravel behind her made her turn around. She was surprised to find herself face-to-face with Grey, her rescuer from last night.
    “Why did you call me?” he asked. “Who gave you my name?”
    No hello, how are you? Lizzie thought. But manners didn’t seem to be a priority for him.
    “I wasn’t calling you,” she said. “I just dedicated some tunes to you as a way of saying thank you for your help last night.”
    “You used my name.”
    “That’s usually what you do when you make a dedication.”
    But it was as though he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. Or maybe he just didn’t care.
    “Who gave it to you?” he repeated.
    “He said his name was Walker.”
    Grey nodded. “Of course. That old interfering fool. Even after the little freaks have butchered his daughter, he still wants us to live in peace with them.”
    Lizzie’s moment of feeling good vanished. Just like that, she was back in the weird nightmare world she’d stumbled into last night.
    “He didn’t say anything like that,” she said. “He was just . . . sad. Wouldn’t you be?”
    “I’m always sad.”
    He didn’t look it, Lizzie thought. He looked angry. Maybe he had the two confused.
    He turned away and looked out across the water, just as she’d been doing before he’d approached. After a few moments, he took a tobacco pouch from his pocket and rolled a cigarette with quick, practiced ease. When he had it lit, he offered it to her.
    Lizzie started to decline, but then she thought about how tobacco was a part of many Native American traditions, used in everything from calling up spirits to signifying peace between strangers. And seeing how he was a Native spirit, maybe this meant more to him than the automatic politeness of offering a smoke. Since he’d already established that he wasn’t exactly a shining example of politeness, this might be his way of making peace.
    She accepted the cigarette and had a puff. After returning it to him, she had to cough into her hand. There was a reason she’d given them up.
    “Thanks,” she said, her voice scratchy.
    He nodded and took another drag on the cigarette himself.
    “So how do you know Walker?” he asked.
    “I don’t, not really. Before I left the crossroads, I buried the remains of his daughter under that elm where we fought those weird little men—”
    “The bogans.”
    “The bogans, right.” She shivered, thinking of the