Free Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) by Chantal Noordeloos Page A

thoughts, making them muddled and unfocused, and there was something strange about the smell of the smoke. She tasted it on the roof of her mouth, a sickly-sweet flavor. In the smoke, Tokala’s true shape surrounded his human form like a shadow. It was larger and thinner, but the build was similar . . . she could still recognize him.
    “They like young creatures,” Tokala confirmed, “especially their brains.” He paused for an uncomfortably long time then added, “The Quavar are the enemy of my people.”
    Shadows danced with menacing movements around the Shaman. More eyes peered at her from the Outlander’s face. Purple grey skin.
    “ Shape changer ,” voices without bodies whispered in the dark. “ Outlander .”
    “How do I stop him?” Her words came out garbled. Her tongue was thick, like a rough slab of meat in her dry mouth. Multicolored spots swam in front of her vision, pulsating into different bright shapes. The faceless voices whispered louder.
    “ We have something to show you .”
    Tokala spoke, but she no longer heard his words. The voices led her gaze back to the fire. The face of a man flickered in the red and yellow flames, somewhere deep in the heart of the heat. A familiar face, tanned and rough, but comely. A prominent nose, crooked from the many times it had been broken. The wind played with his dirty blond hair, tousling it gently. Grey eyes, the color of a stormy sky, looked at her through the flames. The face held an intense expression, one she remembered so well, but she found it difficult to read. She had seen this expression before that fateful day, seven years ago, and in her dreams many nights after that.
    It was her father’s face.
    “Papa?” She felt sixteen again, young and fragile, a different creature from the woman she was today. Her father’s image smiled at her sadly. No, it wasn’t a smile, it was something else . . . a grimace?
    The vision changed. Now he stood on the edge of a cliff, a shaking figure in his old clothing, his gun raised with doubtful accuracy at a point beyond Coyote. Near him stood a large man with an elegant, elongated face covered in scars. A long, silver-grey moustache hung from his top lip; light stubble lined his chin. He too carried a weapon, which he aimed at Will Webb.
    Coyote wanted to go to her father, to throw herself between him and the grey-haired man—the Outlander—who threatened him, but two large, warm hands rested on her shoulders, pinning her to the spot. She didn’t have to turn around to know whom the hands belonged to—James Westwood.
    This isn’t happening, she thought. This is only a memory. I have been here before . But she couldn’t fight the fear that overwhelmed her, and she didn’t have any control over her emotions. In her vision, Coyote relived the worst moment of her life.
    “Have you told her the truth about her mother?” Westwood shouted over her head.
    Coyote struggled, but Westwood was too strong. His hands anchored her in place. She cried out to her father. She wanted to save him, or for him to save her.
    Her father looked from Westwood to the grey-haired man near him, contempt and fear mingling on his face. The stranger’s gun was a curious copper contraption with a thick barrel, unlike anything Coyote had ever seen. At least not back then, not when she was still sixteen.
    “I told her that her mother was killed by an Outlander,” her father shouted. His legs looked ready to buckle. He swayed slightly then caught himself. His hand trembled, but his aim at Westwood was steady enough. “You know all about Outlanders, don’t you, Westwood?” Her father’s brows were pulled tightly to the bridge of his nose, and the corners of his mouth twisted in an asymmetrical sneer. Bits of spittle left his lips as he spoke. Hatred. “It was one of your damn Outlanders that killed my wife.”
    “Liar,” shouted Westwood. She felt his hot breath graze her ear and cheek; it even tickled the back of her