He turned to face me. His black hair was still in a tumble, and he could have used a shave, but grooming had nothing to do with the charisma that surrounded him like a cocoon. I didn’t know if the role had enhanced the man, or if the man had grown into the role, but Alcide had come far from the charming, friendly guy I’d met two winters ago.

“We don’t have a shaman anymore,” he said with no preamble. “We haven’t had one for four years. It’s hard to find a Were who’s willing to take the position, and you have to have the talent for it to even consider it anyway.”

“Okay,” I said, waiting to see where he was going.

“You’re the closest we’ve got.”

If there’d been drums in the background, they would’ve started an ominous roll. “I’m not a shaman,” I said. “In fact, I don’t know what a shaman is. And you don’t have me.”

“That’s a term we use for a medicine man or woman,” Alcide said. “One with a gift for interpreting and applying magic. It sounded better to us than ‘witch.’ And this way, we know who we’re talking about. If we had a pack shaman, that shaman would drink the stuff in this glass and be able to help us determine the truth of what happened to Basim, and the degree of guilt of everyone involved. Then the pack would decide on proportionate justice.”

“What is it?” I asked, pointing at the liquid.

“It’s what was left over in the last shaman’s stash.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a drug,” he said. “But before you walk out, let me tell you that the last shaman took it several times without any lasting ill effect.”

“Lasting.”

“Well, he had stomach cramps the next day. But he was able to go back to work the day after that.”

“Of course, he was a Were, and he’d be able to eat things I can’t eat anyway. What does it do to you? Or rather, what would it do to me?”

“It gives you a different perception of reality. That’s what the guy told me. And since I clearly wasn’t shaman material, that’s all he told me.”

“Why would I take an unknown drug?” I asked, genuinely curious.