by Faith Hunter
“Jane?” The voice came from far away, the words slow and deep. “Look up. See your soul home. See the walls and the roof of the place of your safety. See what is there.”
We tilted our head, trying to place the slow, deep voice that sounded like no one we knew. Her scent told us the voice was Aggie One Feather, her words calling us to a healing ceremony. Jane/Beast had been injured. Hurt by black magic. Aggie was our healer/shaman/teacher.
Jane/Beast blinked into dim light of old, red, fire coals. Seeing above us in the dome of the roof, red lines, like blood vessels, pulsing with silver and black and red motes of power and full of sick blood. Magic that hurt us was black magic. Blood magic. Like the magic of witches turned to darkness. Like blood magic stored in a stone. The blood diamond had such magic, magic that sent out red pulses and motes of power. But Jane/Beast had the blood diamond in a safe place, kept where we could not get to it easily and use it. In a place where temptation was not.
I/we yawned, killing teeth sharp and white. We thought of the spell, the wyrd, that had attacked us in the hallway. The wyrd that Joses—Joseph, yes, Joseph—had used against us. Remembered his body when he crawled up the elevator shaft. Was many floors. Even Beast could not leap so high, could not crawl so high on metal walls.
Jane remembered.
Joseph’s black eyes settled on me and his mouth opened, slowly, so slowly, to reveal a maw full of cracked and broken teeth, brown with age, and fangs like tusks in his upper and lower jaws. Even in the time bubble, Joses Bar-Judas had been able to see me, see us. Power rippled across him, sparking white and black, colder than an arctic snow, hotter than volcanic ash falling from a flaming sky. The power didn’t so much dance across his skin as sizzle. So unbelievably powerful.
In the bubble that let me/us stand outside of time, we saw him alter course, shifting trajectory fractionally, heading right for us. Eli was squeezing the trigger of the subgun. From inside the bubble I could see the silver-lead rounds leaving the muzzle of the weapon, spiraling and twisting, half an inch at a time, a puff of dust and air exploding out with each round.
Joses, a Son of Darkness, ducked to miss the rounds. So fast.
Around his neck was a gold chain, like a necklace, with red things dangling from it like rubies . . . but brighter. Rectangular. Plastic? Had I seen that at the time? I couldn’t remember, but I must have noticed it with some part of my mind.
I unsheathed a vamp-killer. Leaped forward, taking the time bubble with me, ducking beneath the rounds and the hot brass discharging from Eli’s gun. My right arm extended in front of me, blade point forward. Pushing off with my toes, I stretched into the lunge.
Joses opened his fingers, exposing his hand. On his wrist there was a flash of . . . gold. He wore a bracelet, half-hidden by the tatters of clothing, or maybe tatters of half-mummified flesh. The bracelet was made of hammered gold in the shape of overlapping, interlocking leaves, with a bizarre setting of gold claws and horns. Vaguely familiar looking. Clasped in the setting was a mineral crystal, clear and brilliant, in the unpolished, uncut shape that nature had created. Quartz? Diamond?
The crystal spit clear motes of power, like lightning bugs on meth, darting too fast to see, even in the slowed bubble of time. Beside the clear crystal were empty horns and claws, a hole, a setting where a similar stone had been ripped away.
Oh no . . . Noooo, we thought, pulling away from the memory.
Lying in the darkness of the soul home, we put things, myriad disconnected things, together. And we understood. Noooo, the Jane part of us thought.
The Beast part of us thought, On the wrist of great predator was magic. Predator used magic, blood magic, to escape trap and prison and cage.
He went to the dark side, the Jane part of us thought, pulling more into herself, like Darth Vader. We snorted with vicious laughter. Laughter that yanked us apart with a snapping pain, to think fully as two instead of one.
Do not understand. Blood is good, Beast thought. Blood is life. Blood is strength. Blood gives us strong mates and strong kits and fulfills hunger. Without blood, there is weakness. Do not understand that this is bad.
Jane thought, When the male puma concolor killed your kits, stole their blood and their life, what did we do?
We tracked, nose to ground like pack wolf. Found male big-cat. Killed him. Beast growled lowly, the sound echoing through soul home. Remembered taste of his blood and licked jaw. Snarled. Was good blood.
The blood magic in the blood diamond was stolen from witch kits, Jane thought. It is what fills the blood diamond with power. The bracelet that the vamp carried was also filled with blood magic, but . . . not of children. Of something else.
Of vampires, Beast thought. Tasted blood of vampires in magic that hurt us. Stretched claws into stone of soul home floor. Scritching, sharpening killing claws.
We looked up into the roof, to strange lines that moved, thinking together and separate, thinking as Jane and Beast joined, one but two, concurrent. Lines on the roof of the soul home moved.
Pulsing lines of veins and arteries, Jane thought, but looking clogged and bruised. Leaking? Like . . . being under attack from vampire blood. But Joseph didn’t bite me. And vampire blood can’t survive outside of vamps. Except . . . the priestess hinted that the blood of the Son of Darkness might last if it was in a relic of some sort, maybe mixed with magic.
This magic is vampire blood magic, Beast insisted. The taste was something old, from the beginning of their kind.
The blood of vampires powered the wyrd that was used against us, Jane thought, a spell of fire and light, and . . . fire and light kill vampires.
Just as our killing teeth killed puma concolor who killed our kits.
The bracelet or necklace, Jane thought. Or both. Oh crap. What if they were weapons of magic? Leo asked us to find what he called “les objets de puissance, les objets de magie.”
And Joseph Santana had one or maybe two when he got away, which means that Adrianna had them. She brought them to the sub-five prison to free her master or lover or whatever he was to her before he staked her through the brain. She died for her actions.
We merged closer in agreement and understanding. Together we focused Beast-vision and looked to the side of the fire that was set in the circle of stones. Saw the pile of twigs and branches, broken and dry, ends jagged and sharp. We stood to paws and stretched. Pulled muscles from toes/fingers, across paws, up legs and through shoulders. Bent and stretched, sending claws out to scrape on cave floor, forcing muscles of belly to pull and stretch. Stretch yielded and pulled into hips and spine and down lower legs. Chuffed. Cat stretch of whole body, restored after rest.
But not restored, Jane thought. We still need healing.
Looked at right paw. Was sick. Hairless and bruised. Licked it. Taste was of sickness, like rotten meat, crawling with maggots. This was not a thing that Beast could fix alone. Only Jane and Beast together could fix. Padded to pile of twigs and branches. Pile was much larger now. Many more branches. Grabbed branch in killing teeth, backed away, pulling, yanking, jerking, in manner of big-cats pulling fresh deer into brush to eat. Mouth flooded with saliva. Dropped branch. Want deer. Want to hunt.
Jane laughed. Soon, Beast. First we have to kill the predator that hurt Jane/Beast and killed so many humans. We have to heal from vampire blood magic.
Looked up into roof again. Drew in air over tongue and past roof of mouth, past scent sacs, with scree of sound. Thought, Taste/smell of vampire blood. Vampire blood marks walls and roof of soul home, like male big-cat marks territory to find female to mate.
Right.
Bent and put teeth to wood again. Pulled-yanked wood-plant-tasting branch to fire. Over fire, scattering coals. Lifted twigs in mouth and tossed dry, barbed things to coals, same way as tossing tiny kit to safety in back of cave. More. More. More wood. Tasteless. Without blood. To make fire hot and high. To cleanse vampire blood from soul home.
Flames brightened. Light and fire made whooshing sound.
Grew high and hot and fast. Crackling fire, remembered from time of hunger when yunega cut down trees in mountains, all trees, leaving the earth bare and broken and ruined, dry limbs in piles, tossed away. Wasted. And then lightning came and fire burned everything that was left. Then rain fell and flood came and earth wept and died and washed away. Yunega was evil, Beast thought. Killing earth.
That was in the early nineteen hundreds, Jane thought. Part of me remembers that. And yeah. They were evil. A lot of them still are.
I/we padded, pawpawpaw, along narrow pathway between rock walls, away from fire to opening in wall, to ledge in back of cave. Leaped onto ledge. Lay in safe place, muzzle on paws, belly to cool stone. Closed eyes. Behind us, fire crackled and stank of red cedar, dry from autumn heat and winter snow and summer sun. Smoke filled soul home but did not choke or smother, like fire that burned the earth.
Yawned hard. Licked jaw. Groomed killing claws and paws. Went to sleep.
* * *
When I woke, I was lying on the ground in the sweathouse, curled in a fetal position, my head cradled on my arms. My body stank of sweat and essential oils and the residue of smoke. My mouth felt like a troop of monkeys had partied in it.
I ached all over as though I’d been beaten, but I uncurled and pushed myself up to my butt, sitting spraddle-legged as the last of the dizziness from the medicinal drink eased away. “Hey,” I said.
Aggie sat across from me, her arms around her bent knees, her chin resting on them. Her eyes looked worried. I knew without looking that the ceremony hadn’t taken. I didn’t want to look at my body, so I kept my gaze on her.
“I tried all that I know,” she said softly. “I even tried a few things my grandfather used to combat what he called white-man plague—what I think was probably smallpox.” A trace of a smile crossed her mouth and was gone. “I took pictures of you and sent them to some medicine men and shamans and wisewomen I know. One of them accused me of ‘ridiculous use of technology for ancient tribal healing.’” She shook her head, and I could see the dried sweat salt at her temples. “I called medicine men of the Western Cherokee. I even sank so low as to call a medicine man of the Great Plains region, claims to be part Arapaho and part Cree and part bastard white man. He texted me back that it was a dangerous thing and for me to dig a hole in the ground, hit you over the head with a shovel, and bury you. And mark the ground with warning signs.”
“Thanks for not doing that one.” My voice sounded hoarse but better than I’d expected. Stronger. Aggie passed me a bottle of water and I opened it and drank it down, still without looking at my hand.
“No one knows what magic harmed you, but we all agreed, it was black magic. And we all agreed that only you could heal you. So I tried to get your animal form to come forth.”
I sat up straight at that one and forced up the courage to look at my hands. They looked . . . fine. And I realized what was wrong with Aggie. She had finally seen me shift into my Beast. Or maybe my half-Beast form—which might, in reality, be worse. “Ummm. Okay. What did you see? And did you use your phone to take video or pictures of that?”
“I saw a dark fog flow from you and cover you, shooting with bright silver lights and blue-gray sparks. I saw your skin sprout hair and your bones twist. The sounds weren’t exactly like the sound of breaking bones, but they were quite . . . disturbing. I saw you change, but into nothing that I knew, nothing that I could recognize. And no.” The skin of her face pulled down and her chin lifted in insult. “I would never disrespect utlvgi—one who comes to me for v-gatahv-i—by revealing anything about their private healing ceremonies. When I took photographs of you, it was only of your arms and hands, not your face.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, ducking my chin and looking away. “I guess . . . I knew that.” She crossed her arms, waiting. I vaguely remembered that utlvgi meant sick. But, “V-ga-ta-hv-i”—I sounded out the word—“means . . . ‘knowledge,’ not ‘healing.’”
“When black magic is the cause,” Aggie said, “only wisdom and self-knowledge can provide the healing.” She indicated my hands. “You have accomplished much, as you see. But it has not been enough. The red lines are still there, barely visible beneath the skin. I do not know what knowledge is needed to complete your healing, so I cannot guide you.”
“Ah.” I pushed myself to my knees and to my feet. My stomach growled and my limbs felt weak, like my knees would buckle and I’d fall over if a stiff wind hit me. Heck. I’d fall over if a slight breeze hit me. “Where’s Eli and Alex? I have a hazy memory of them being here.”
“They are visiting with my mother. She has decided that their mother was part Coushatta. She is tracing their lineage.”
I started laughing and stumbled, catching myself against the doorjamb like a weeklong drunk. “Uni lisi is a dangerous woman.”
“Yes,” Aggie agreed, sourly. She took my elbow to help me from the smokehouse and into the early afternoon sun. It didn’t hurt where she gripped, not like a bruise, but I was aware of the flesh, a distant ache. Yeah. Not totally healed. And not good. But better than dying, which I had a feeling I had been. I blinked into the brightness, the world sharp and distinct, yet with full-spectrum color—Beast-vision still with me, tied into my own.
Behind the sweathouse, out of sight of the road and lisi’s house, I showered in the cool well water and dressed in the clothes the guys had brought me—jeans and the fuzzy purple dragon T-shirt, which felt wonderful against my skin. After pulling my hair, which had come loose at some point of my partial change, into a knot, I slipped my feet into flip-flops and walked to the house. From it came wonderful smells of grease and pork and spices, like boudin balls and Cajun peppers and all good things to eat.
It was two p.m. by the time we finished with the appropriate and required visit (which meant the lunch that had been picked up from a Cajun fast-food joint by Eli) and said our good-byes. I fell asleep as soon as the SUV pulled out of the drive. The last thing I heard was Alex saying, “Are we gonna tell her she snores?”
CHAPTER 9
A Lot of Blood and Some Magical Mojo
The power nap did me good, and by the time we reached the French Quarter / Central Business District area, I was awake and pointing the way to the bank where all the magical goodies were kept. We were exhausted and it was probably selfish of me to make the stop, but I had to know if the half-remembered glimpse of a gold bracelet was reality or a dark dream. Grabbing an empty gobag, I entered the bank.
No one looked twice at the dragon shirt, even in the heat wave, but they did look at me, too tall, too lanky, and too recently on TV. Go, me. As I was led out of the lobby and into the long, narrow hallway where private storage was offered to the patrons, I heard whispering and muttering behind me. I gathered that the bank patrons, and probably some of the staff, identified me from the news and replays of the press conference. But nothing totally unexpected or negative happened, and no one tried to shoot me, which was always a plus, and something I thought of often lately.
Unfortunately, I did feel the instant attraction of magic as I entered the safe-deposit box room. My skin started to tingle and burn, and the red lines on my hand brightened, the closer I got to the safe-deposit box that held the most dangerous of the magical trinkets I had collected. I spread my fingers, seeing the red lines brighten, the flesh of the digits looking soft and delicate, like they were trying to swell. I tucked the hand into a jeans pocket and keyed open the three boxes I rented, before following the teller into one of the small, private viewing rooms.
As soon as she left, I held my hand over each box in turn, and even blindfolded I’d have known which box contained the blood diamond, as my injured hand practically sizzled with heat, and the red lines glowed brighter as I held it over the one box. With my left hand, I lifted the safe-deposit box lid that called to me, and the burning of my right hand increased tenfold. But now Beast pressed down on my brain, her claws extended, and pushed the pain away, kneading, just as she had done in the healing ceremony
. “Thanks,” I muttered aloud to her, not taking my eyes off the box.
Inside, in its black velvet jewelry bag, was the blood diamond.
With my good left hand, I opened the drawstring and eased the gem to the lip of the bag, holding the blood diamond in the velvet with the tips of my fingers, careful not to let it touch me. The stone, when not in use in a magical ceremony¸ usually looked like a pink diamond or a washed-out, pale ruby, the size of the end of my thumb. It was faceted all over in large, chunky planes, which I had figured out were its natural crystal shape. It was hanging on a heavy gold chain, the gem encased in a thick focal setting shaped like horns and claws—just like the setting on the gold bracelet I’d glimpsed worn by Joses Bar-Judas, aka Joseph Santana.
I stared into its depths as the gem sparkled and danced with lights, the internal lights of black-magic power. It was beautiful and ugly and probably the most powerful thing I would ever see, having been fed with the soul energy and life force of witch children sacrificed over centuries. It had belonged to the Damours, and I had no doubt that Santana would want it.
I also had no doubt that whatever Santana had done to me, I now was susceptible to the lure of the gem. My flesh wanted the diamond, wanted to cup it in my hands, to press it to my heart. My breath sped and my heart rate doubled. “Yeah. That totally sucks,” I said aloud.
I forced my fingers to open, let the gem fall to the bottom of the heavy velvet bag, and I drew the drawstring shut. I had a lead-lined pouch that I sometimes stuck silver crosses in so the light from vamp-glow wouldn’t advertise that I carried a weapon against them. I’d carry the gem in that, just in case the lure of it got too bad. I set the velvet bag on the table. From the box beside it, I pulled out the iron discs created from the spike of Calvary, and the pocket watches that contained more of the iron, and set them on the table. They felt different too, warm to the touch of my fingers. Well, ducky. Black-magic stuff seems to recognize me now. Glowering at the discs, I debated taking everything in the boxes, but if we lost the battle with the Son of Darkness and he killed us all, then Santana would own everything. As a witch and a vamp himself, one of the oldest undead on the planet, he would likely be able to use it all, just as the Damours had done. I put the biggest slab of iron discs and the black velvet bag holding the blood diamond into the empty gobag, closed up the boxes, and got the teller to help me return them to the long slots. Tired, scared, and unhappy with the direction of my thoughts, I left the bank and strode into the afternoon sun.
