The Borderkind by Christopher Golden

the last to arrive.”
    Frost looked up from the gathering. Several dark wooden tables had been pushed together to make one long enough to rival the conference room at Bascombe & Cox. Blue Jay was beside him, dressed almost identically to Oliver, though his jeans were blue and he still wore feathers in his hair. Kitsune was next to him, her hood back, her fur cloak gleaming luxuriously in the fading afternoon light. Her raven-black hair framed her face severely, and when she glanced at him he expected a smile but found only a grimness of purpose.
    It was the time for plans to be laid and companionship to be abandoned. Oliver felt strangely cold and isolated. This gathering had so very little to do with him now that he wondered if he ought to have been there at all. But there was food to be had—barbecued beef and poultry and boiled potatoes and vegetables, from what he could see—and he knew that he would need at least advice from this assemblage before they parted ways.
    “Please, Oliver, come in. Sit down,” said Coyote, standing up from the darkest corner of the table. He wore his thief’s grin, as Oliver’s father would have called it. Oliver would not have disagreed.
    There were others there, of course. Coyote had gathered a group that seemed just as odd as Oliver’s traveling companions. More so, in fact, given that one of them was an enormous frog-thing that sat on the ground instead of a chair, legs up beside it as though it might leap at any moment. Its bulbous eyes were a putrid yellow, its skin a pale greenish-brown, ridged, mottled, and slick.
    “Oliver?” Frost said sharply.
    The frog-thing muttered something in a guttural language he could not understand.
    “Excuse me?” Oliver said.
    Coyote leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Tlatecuhtli says it’s not polite to stare.”
    “Ah, yeah. Right. I’m sorry about that,” he said sheepishly, going over to take the empty seat beside Blue Jay. “Just takes some getting used to. All of this.”
    The frog spoke again, its voice vaguely disgusting, like a series of belches. Oliver looked to Coyote for help.
    “He forgives you,” Coyote said. “You’re an outsider. You don’t know any better.”
    Oliver smiled at the frog, whose name he could not even begin to pronounce. Cuhtli-something. “Thank you.”
    All of the Borderkind at the table were staring at him. Oliver wondered what would happen were he to remind them that it was not polite. He glanced at Kitsune, then at Frost.
    The winter man raised his chin and shifted in his chair. His sharp, icy fingers scratched the table as he moved. This alone was enough to draw all of the attention in the room. Oliver was grateful. It was also clear that all of those gathered were willing to defer to Frost.
    Mist steamed from his eyes. The afternoon light played a myriad of colors off of the angles of his frigid features. Frost gestured toward Coyote.
    “Oliver, you already know Coyote.”
    “Yes. Thank you for the clothes.”
    Coyote touched two fingers to his forehead, almost as though he were tipping a hat, though he wasn’t wearing one.
    “You have just met Tlatecuhtli. He hails from Yucatazca, where he is still worshipped by some of the descendants of the original Aztec people.”
    The frog-thing let out a long, low noise and blinked once at Oliver.
    The introductions continued. At the far end of the table, opposite Frost, was a monstrous, savage-looking creature from whom Oliver would have run screaming once upon a time. But his time in the world of the legendary had taught him not to judge so quickly.
    The thing—called Chorti—was covered in shaggy gray-and-black hair. Though it was seated, Oliver figured it must have been nine feet tall at least, and it was twice as broad across as the table. Its hands were crossed over its chest as though it might be sleeping, and the long claws that jutted from its fingers were made of metal. Oliver had to look twice to confirm that.
    Chorti smiled a