by Faith Hunter
Footsteps were approaching the car. One pair, booted. Skidding downhill over the rock and dirt. In the far distance, maybe near the road, I heard a voice talking, the words lost in the buzzing aftermath of being hit in the face. The breeze shifted, blowing into the car. I smelled gun oil and cheap aftershave. Over it all, I smelled the scent of a blood-servant. But not Rosanne’s. Another vamp. Not quite a stranger, yet not entirely familiar. But exactly like the blue-eyed man I had left bound on Rosanne’s floor.
I fumbled with the seat belt, but the car was at an angle and I was bound by the flex and gravity, leaning into the car’s console. I pushed against it, and when I took a breath, something stabbed me in the chest; I was pretty sure I’d busted a rib. I tasted blood, salty. I’d bitten through my tongue.
Beast flooded my system with strength, claws sinking into my mind, more here than she had been in weeks. The pain in my side faded beneath her claws. My night vision sharpened into silvery blues and crisp greens, the night a thousand shades of black. My heart, beating erratically, smoothed out, fast and strong. I fumbled under my jacket and managed to pull my nine-mil. Focused on the night sky through the broken window. Stars. Millions and billions of them.
The footsteps stopped. To see inside the car, my attacker would have to lean over and in. I steadied my aim at the window opening.
Shuffling of booted feet. He leaned in. I started to squeeze the trigger. He slipped and nearly fell. I didn’t fire, didn’t move. He reappeared in the corner of the open space. Anglo. Light-colored hair. Big-assed gun. Though humans don’t have good night vision, he seemed to see me and adjusted his aim at the same time I fired. Three shots.
He ducked and fired twice, our reports overlaying one another. The muzzle flash blinded me, but I fired again, through the door. He rose into my window, moving freaky fast, and fired two more shots. A punching pain hit me, like a hard strike delivered by a black belt with something to prove. Burning and icy. Chest shot. He’d hit me.
I fired back, emptying my gun before I harnessed my fear. Stupid. Crap! Dumb, dumb, dumb. But I smelled blood, his as well as mine. Blinded by the flashes, deaf from the concussive explosions, I felt along my boot for my backup. My chest stabbed with pain and I couldn’t reach the holster.
Frantic, I pulled a throwing knife. But he didn’t reappear to shoot me again. Long moments later, I saw headlights start to move, bouncing off the red-rock walls as two cars drove away. I dropped my head back. Pain flooded through me, a tsunami of agony. I was tired. So tired. But I had to stay awake. Had to get out of here. I pushed at the seat belt, trying to remember how they worked.
Something wet and warm pooled in my palm holding the hilt of the knife. Blood. I was bleeding out. I needed to shift. Fast. I struggled to get the mountain lion tooth out of my pocket, but my fingers didn’t seem to work. I tried to drop into a meditative trance, but the earth spun when I closed my eyes, a sickening lurch. My gorge rose, tasting of blood, and I gagged. The night sky twirled and tightened down, becoming a pinpoint of velvet black sprinkled with white light. I could hear my heartbeat. Thump-thump, thump-thump, fastfastfast. Too fast. I tried again to find the calm in the center of myself, but there was nothing there, no center, no peace. Just the sound of my speeding heart and wet, raspy breath. I was worse off than I thought. Maybe a lot worse.
I didn’t have the time to shift into my beast to save my life. Beast? I called in my mind. She didn’t answer. No snarky comment. No insult. Nothing. Beast?
Feet padded in the dark, barely heard. Coming closer. I laughed, the sound little more than a wet, raspy moan. I closed my eyes. Beast pressed her claws into my mind again, the pain sharp and demanding. Forcing me down. I dropped. Deeper. Into the darkness inside my own past, where ancient, tenuous memories swirled in a world of shadow-gray and uncertainty. I heard a distant drum, smelled herbed wood smoke. The night wind coming through the broken window chilled my skin, smelling foreign and hot and dry. Beast forced me deeper, memories firmed, memories that, at all other times, were forgotten, both mine and Beast’s.
In the memories, I saw a deer with fawn and knew I would not hunt her just now, but only after the fawn was grown. I saw an old woman bending over a fire, her silver hair in braids, her wrinkled face catching light and shadow like the cliffs and valleys of a river gorge. Her eyes were yellow like mine. I saw a kit straying toward the cliff edge and padded over, taking it in my mouth, his entire head in my killing teeth, held gently. I tasted/smelled/felt the kit struggling, heard his mewling cries. Breathed in his scent. Mine.
My heart rate began to slow. To stutter. The blood pooling in my hand felt chilled. I had held cold blood before. Had placed my hands in it, in the cavity of my father’s chest. And then wiped my fingers across my face in a promise of vengeance. A vengeance I had never taken. The old promise, never fulfilled, scourged me, hatred unfulfilled. A wrong never avenged, never forgiven, I thought. But the concepts of vengeance and forgiveness melted away.
As I had been taught so long ago, I took up the snake that rests in the depths of all beasts. Beast. Beast’s snake, remembered, even without actually touching the fetish tooth in my pocket. Beast’s snake was a part of me. I fell within. Like water trickling down a cliff face. Like fog slowly obscuring the world. Grayness enveloped me, sparkling and cold. The world fell away. I was in the gray place of the change.
My breathing stopped. My heart faltered. My bones . . . slid. Skin rippled. Fur, tawny and gray, brown and tipped with black, sprouted. Pain, like a knife, slid between muscle and bone.
* * *
She fell away. My nostrils widened, drawing deep. The scent of blood. Jane’s and the predator who had stalked her. Night came alive—wonderful, new scents, heavy on dry, hot air, thick and dancing. Blood. Salt. Humans. Sweat. Strange car. Blood. Faint trace of vampire. I panted. Listened for sounds. In the floor of car, Bruiser’s voice still called, full of fear. But there were no cars, no music, no voices talking over one another. I pushed away the seat belt and pawed from the boots and clothes. Gathered limbs beneath and pushed, balancing on plastic between seats and placing front paws on door/window/opening. Ugly man-made light was far away. Nothing here was thief-of-vision. The world was clear, sharp. She never saw like this. Scented like this. Attackers were gone. I yawned and stretched front legs and chest, pulling against legs, spine, belly.
Gathered Jane’s clothes and dropped them over the car door onto the dirt. Boots. The gun she had killed, emptying its noisy heart out. Dropped everything and turned back for cell phone. Bruiser was shouting for Jane on cell. Sounded angry-afraid. I looked at it on the floor. Sniffed at it, pulling in air over tongue and roof of mouth with soft scree of sound. Cell phone carried Jane-scent, and Bruiser could track her with cell phone. Could track Jane-scent on cell from far away. I did not understand how he did this, but Bruiser was good tracker of Jane.
I thought. Bruiser could find Beast! I stared at cell. Did not know what to do. I looked inside, to Jane, asleep in corner of mind-den. I swatted her, without claws. But she did not move. I looked back outside mind-den, at cell. I bent into floor of car and picked up cell phone in killing teeth. Foot slipped off plastic. Teeth bit down. Cell phone shattered into many parts, broken. Bruiser’s voice went silent. I pawed cell and sniffed. Jane had told me about machines, like guns and Bitsa and cars, that were alive but not alive and that did not bleed blood. I did not understand stupid human things. Cell phone had no blood, yet it was dead. I killed it, like foolish yearling puma with first litter, killing kit with teeth. Stupid Beast. I batted bloodless cell parts into backseat. Did not know what to do. Did not know if Bruiser could track Jane now, but did not think that Jane wanted Bruiser to find Jane-clothes and Jane gone.
Looked out at night, sniffing strange new air. New scents made Bruiser-worry go away. Cell was dead. I could not make it alive again. I chuffed. Growled. Scented. Listening to world. I was safe here until Bruiser sent help. Then big-cat would be prey to white man’s guns. Again. Bruiser did not k
now Beast. Would kill Beast. This hunt was not a good hunt. Beast needed Jane, but Jane still slept. I thought, Could hide Jane!
I took boots into killing teeth and leaped up, over, and down, lithe and lissome—her words for me. Liked those words. Landed on dirt. Hunger tore into belly. Shifting used much food, gave much hunger. But there was no meat here without hunting, and no hunting until Jane was safe
I carried Jane’s boots across the ditch and into the dark. Went back to car, to Jane’s bag and top-half clothes. Went back again for her bottom-half clothes. Snuffled her pants. They were full of Jane’s blood, and spattered with her attacker’s blood. Jane had shot him. Jane is good hunter, even without claws and killing teeth. Found hunter’s blood on ground and bent over it, opened mouth, pulled back lips, sucking in air over tongue and scent sacks in roof of mouth. Tasting and smelling with scree of sound. Learning. Scent was human and vampire and something hard and metallic and ugly. Did not know this smell.
I bumped Jane’s pants with nose. Smelled tooth of puma concolor in small trap called pocket inside of pants. Smelled cross and smelled magics of amulet. Jane thought amulet was important. It was safe in pocket-trap of Jane-clothes. Beast wore one suit of skin and fur. Humans wore skin and clothes—many clothes instead of fur. Would have been smarter to grow fur, but humans were never smart. Walking backward, dragged Jane’s pants along Beast’s paw-print trail. Hid paw trail. Hid her clothes. Jane was safe now from predator who might hunt her.
Hopped on top of boulder. Studied world. Smelled for mountain lions. Jane said mountain lions had been seen here. Two males, smart males who hunted as a pair. But I smelled no big-cat. Only goat smell. Not far away. Wanted to eat goat. Listened for Jane in mind. Jane still slept. I chuffed and snarled, claiming goats. And padded into night.
* * *
I ate. Long canines tore into throat of goat. Large goat still kicked, still dying. But I was hungry. I bit into meat. Drank down pumping blood. Ripped into goat and filled stomach. Hot blood. Good hunt. Over fences. Scared away large dog, as big as Beast. Took stringy old male, not baby goat, so that Jane would not be angry. Carried old goat back over fence into night. Ate. Afterward, licked blood from whiskers and face. Rolled over, belly to sky, paws in air. Happy. Beast is good hunter.
Overhead, a loud bird flapped wings in night, shining lights onto earth. Not an owl. Owls are good hunters. This bird was stupid hunter, noisy, frightening prey. But big. Beast liked big. Bird ducked and rose and circled, its heart an engine like Jane’s bike, Bitsa. Alive but not alive. I remembered helicopter Jane had ridden in. Did not like helicopter, riding in belly of loud helobird. Liked Learjet, smelling of leather and vampire.
Beast, sleepy and full of old goat, lay on back and watched helobird. Helobird was like angel Hayyel, and not like. Hayyel was bright and fast and flew like helobird, but without humans in his belly. Hayyel had offered Beast freedom. Had offered Beast new life. Beast had refused. Did not want to leave Jane. Overhead, big helobird flew away.
Drew in night air. Cool. Clean. Delicate nostril membranes fluttered. Many new smells, some with value, some without. Unimportant: smell of flowers, spiky plants, hot earth, small creatures cowering in rocks, small snakes and big snakes. Rattlers. Dangerous hunters, stupid hunters. Would strike even at Beast, who was too big for them to eat.
Foul smells were distant: gasoline, rubber, hot road, oil on road. Men were not many here. Ridge of land, not far away, looked out over empty-of-man world. On ridge, Beast could see/smell/hear farfarfar. Beast would walk to ridge, take in new world. Maybe look for brothers who hunt together. Beast needed new mate. Strong mate would be good. Strong, smart mate would be better. Even better still, to have two of them.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Man Who Killed Me
I woke with my head on my boots, my body veiled by my hair. A spider perched only inches away, a big black hairy thing thrown into monster-sized silhouette by a dark gray dawn. It skittered way, shrinking to palm sized, as I pushed to my hands and knees and then to my feet. I threw back my hair and studied the situation. The car I’d been driving when forced off the road, then crashed, then been shot in, was canted at an angle, the engine silent. I could smell the road nearby, an overlay of exhaust placing it to my right.
Overhead, a hawk flew, black against the dark sky. It called, greeting the day with a piercing cry. I was muzzy-headed. And shivering. And hungry. Confused. Yeah. Confused. But I knew that it was too early for most species of hawk to hunt. Something had disturbed it.
My clothes were in a pile at my feet, which was weird, because I’d been in the car, and no way had I made it here before shifting into big-cat. I’d been too close to death. Beast had forced a shift when I couldn’t, but I didn’t remember anything after that, which wasn’t normal. Even in the worst of shifts, when I was on the brink of death and only a shift into another form brought healing, I always, eventually, found myself inside Beast’s body, along for the ride, just as Beast was along for the ride when I was in human shape.
I always remembered at least something of my time in fur. I didn’t remember anything this time. Yet I was alive. I bent and found my panties and bra and pulled them on, making a face at the dried blood. I pulled on the ruined pants and stuck my fingers through the hole in the shirt. Two fingers. One hole. Yeah. It had been a big-assed gun. I found the new scar under my left arm and between my ribs, which corresponded to the hole in the shirt, and tried to figure what had been hit to make me bleed out so fast. And then I found the other scar on the right side, a little lower. The bullet had blown straight through me at an angle, probably taking out a kidney, maybe the bottom tip of my lung, and the top of my liver on the right. Bowel for sure. But kidney and liver were the likely kill spots; both organs had juicy blood supplies. I had an indentation on the right side big enough to put two knuckles in, so a big chunk of tissue had been taken out. I’d have to shift several times to smooth that out, and like the other, older kill shot on my upper chest, it might never go away completely. The old scar seemed to be permanent, I figured, because I had only shifted the one time, before I wandered out of the woods to be found by humans, and I had stayed in human form for years. These days, I shift often enough that most of the lethal wounds disappear. Most. Eventually. Even the scars on my neck from several near beheadings. Vamp hunting is dangerous business. My stomach cramped with hunger. I needed to eat. Soon.
Headlights lit up the road in the distance and I hurriedly finished dressing, shoving the empty gun into my waistband, holstering the others, and pulling the boots on over my bare feet. My socks were nowhere to be found. My black jacket hid some of the dried blood, clothing damage, and weapons, but not enough to allow me to safely hitch a ride once the sun was high. No one would stop for a bloody, armed, Amazon-sized woman on the side of the road, so I had to get moving before the sun rose.
I checked the ground as I made my way back to the car. No boot prints led away. No blood splatters marked the ground. No indication I had come this way. Just the rare sliding mark.
I stopped and bent, studying the ground up close as the sun peeked over a butte. Red light spread out over the earth, a rosy crystal clarity of illumination that revealed a paw print to the side of the slide mark. I blinked. Beast had come this way, and something had then covered her tracks. I looked back at the rock I had waked up near, and back to the car. And down at my filthy pants, long streaks of dust marking them. “Son of a gun,” I murmured. “Smart girl.” It almost seemed like she was getting smarter, more intelligent, more able to cope with the human world, though she would have hated that thought. Beast didn’t answer.
I moved on to the car and gathered up my weapons and gear, trying to see what had happened. I’d wounded the man who killed me. His blood trail was easy to follow. I bent and sniffed, smelling the vamp who had fed the blood-servant, and something metallic underneath the vamp-scent. Odd. They had followed me, shot me, one had been shot, and they left. The blood trail got heavier the closer to the ro
ad it got. I wondered if the man had made it to a hospital or died on the way. It was getting time to ditch the nine-mil. There were too many shootings tied to it, and if a surgeon or a coroner found a silver bullet, one of the rare, expensive hand-loaded rounds made especially for killing vamps, it would come back to haunt me. I opened the tote and pulled the top off a blood collection tube. Scooped up some dirt and dried blood. Resealed the tube. I didn’t know if anyone could test a dirt/blood mixture, but if they could, it would be nice to know whatever the lab tests could tell me.
I slung the tote over my shoulder and trudged to the road, thinking about the phone in the Lear. I really shoulda brought a second cell.
* * *
At the airport, I stepped off the running board of the big-wheeled truck and handed the cell phone back to the old man who had given me a ride. I’d given him a fifty and fed him breakfast, watching him laugh as I ate enough food to feed a platoon of soldiers. Men seemed to like to watch me eat, which was weird, but if it kept them happy and out of my business I was content. It took a lot of calories to shift, and four fast-food paper bags and more than a dozen wrappers littered the floor of the truck cab. He waved and gunned the cranky motor even before the door closed. He was color-blind and hadn’t noticed the blood; I’d been lucky. Not so much with the pilot—the pilot I was halfway convinced had told someone where I’d be today.
Dan—which I hadn’t remembered from his name tag—studied me as he walked over, not missing the dirt, dried blood, or my general state of mess. “You’re late.”
I lifted a shoulder as if to say, Sue me, but I said nothing.
“This way,” he said. “Stay close so no one sees the blood.” Personable, talkative fellow. He should be on radio. I buttoned my jacket and held the tote over my bloody shirt. The flyboy avoided the metal detectors, leading me through the back of the terminal where only VIPs and flight personnel go, to the Learjet. I stopped at the base of the stairs as the pilot climbed up.
