“As far as I know, Native Americans are no more psychic than anyone else,” I told her. “My father, though, he was . . .” Was what? Coyote? “A bull rider in rodeos, but in his spare time he hunted”—vampires—“demons. He was something of a shaman, and some of that followed his children.” “You don’t have visions?” “No.” I turned into a coyote and saw ghosts.
