Witches Wild

by Yasmine Galenorn

  I caught my breath, then blew my nose. “I’ve needed to do that since I first felt her on the wind, returning. I knew in my heart this wouldn’t be good. That it would be better for everyone that she stay out in the ocean depths. I wish she would have forgotten about us. About me.”

  “But the Aunties seem to feel she needs to be here,” Sandy said, resting her hand on my arm. “So we accept their decree, and we ask Arianrhod for protection. Because we need all the help we can get.” She accepted the water that Max brought for both of us. “Thank you. We have to be clearheaded when we go after Dracula. The question is, do we draw some blood in advance? If our blood will burn him, shouldn’t we siphon off a few vials that we could use as a weapon?”

  “I’ll bathe my stake in my blood. Then I’ll drive it into his heart and see if that eats him.” A fire was burning in my belly now, warming me after what felt like a long, cold winter. “I’m not sure what ramifications that will bring, but we have no choice. I don’t like being hunted.” I stood. “I’m going to call Jordan and ask him to swing by. He’s looking into a way that we can contain Fata, should we need to.”

  I straightened my back, realizing that I couldn’t think about her as the person I once believed her to be. I could love her to pieces, I could love the memories and hate the memories, but I had to be clearheaded and face the fact that she was a powerful entity who could destroy the island if she got angry enough. And I was the High Priestess whose job it was to watch over Bedlam. I couldn’t let my emotions endanger us.

  Sandy seemed to pick up on my mood. “I’ll do it. You call him so often I’m sure he’ll be happy to be interrupted by somebody else. Meanwhile, guys, gather the equipment you think we’ll need to go hunting the big D.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Jordan was once again driving off after he had drawn off a pint of blood from both Sandy and me, leaving us with the warning, “You do not want to let anybody else get hold of this, but then you know that.”

  Blood was life. Blood was power and control. Sandy and I were both extremely aware that somebody with access to our blood could do some serious damage if they were experienced enough as a magician or witch.

  We sat at the kitchen table, using a funnel to siphon the blood into small vials. They were glass, easily breakable, and as we fit the stoppers into the tops, it suddenly occurred to me that we had to have a way to carry them. I didn’t want them jostling around together in a fanny pack, where they could jar against each other and possibly smash.

  “We need a way to transport these where they aren’t going to get broken or be hard to find. It would be ideal to have a belt that we could hook them onto, but I haven’t got anything like that.”

  Sandy laughed. “I hope not. I certainly hope you don’t make a habit of carrying around blood vials wherever you go. I’m coming up with a blank. Max, Aegis, either of you have any suggestions?”

  Aegis was staring at the blood that he was pouring into the vials. “I’m just doing my best not to take a taste. You have no clue how good your blood smells to me. Both of you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know that witches’ blood is an aphrodisiac for you, but dude, that sounds creepy when you say it.”

  Max laughed. “Creepy is as creepy does. As long as he doesn’t put the fang to your throat. Say, why not wrap a piece of packing foam around the center of each vial? Then even if you put them into a container together, they won’t be rattling around. And it should break just as easily if you throw it.”

  “That’s actually not a bad idea. Kelson,” I called, “can you find us some packing foam or bubble wrap?”

  Max’s idea worked like a charm, and we loaded the vials into four separate belt pouches and strapped them on. Then Sandy and Max armed themselves with makeshift stakes and we headed to my CR-V. Sandy had suggested her van, but my CR-V took steep grades better than her retro hippie-mobile. We were as ready as we’d ever be, so I eased out of the driveway and we headed toward Beachcomber Spit.

  BEACHCOMBER SPIT WAS another shoreline park, accessible by a narrow road with a steep grade. To get there we had to drive up Sidewinder Road to an outcropping that overlooked the eastern side of the island. A turnoff led into a small parking lot, where a one-lane road offered access down to the shore. There were hiking trails down the cliff as well, but I wanted a faster escape route, and that came with wheels. The rain was splattering down, steady and constant. The wind had calmed, but I could still smell a storm on the horizon.

  “So exactly where are the entrances to these catacombs?” I asked.

  “Henry told me that there are two entrances on Beachcomber Spit, one beyond a large pile of rocks against the cliffside. He said you couldn’t miss them. The other is underwater a little ways down the shoreline.”

  “I wonder how come we never hear about them, if there are entrances around the island,” Sandy said.

  “I asked Henry that too. He told me that while there are several entrances, and he knows where they are, they aren’t all that easy to see unless you’re actually looking for them. They camouflage well. Once we get beyond the pile of rocks, we’ll have to do a little bit of searching. Henry apparently went looking for them, and he said that the one we’re headed toward is covered up by a tangle of tall sea grass and other shoreline shrubs. I hope somebody brought flashlights, because it’s not going to be easy in the dark.”

  “I always carry a couple of them in my emergency kit in the car. But I thought you and Max brought whatever supplies you thought we would need?”

  “We did,” Max said. “I brought some rope, and we did bring flashlights, Aegis. I also brought some chalk in case we get in there and aren’t sure where we’re going. We can mark large white arrows on the wall.”

  “Have you been reading Hardy Boys mysteries?” Sandy asked.

  “Believe it or not, I was part of the Raven Scouts when I was a kid,” Max shot back. “I held badges in tracking and scouting, and in hunting.”

  “What the hell are the Raven Scouts?” I had never heard of them. Then again, I hadn’t heard of many groups, given my belief that any group that would have me probably wasn’t a group I wanted to join. The coven not included, of course.

  “The Raven Scouts are a multi-Otherkin organization for young shifters of all types. Think of a supernatural Boy Scouts–type of group, minus the homophobia. Members learn all sorts of survival skills, as well as socialization skills. Trust me, young weretigers need to be socialized with other shifter types. We can be a handful when we’re little, given big cats are solitary by nature. I was always getting in spats when I was a little kid, and I don’t know how many times I had to take interspecies communications remedial courses.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. There were so many different issues that surrounded members of the Pretcom, and I was mostly familiar with those of witches. It kind of tickled me when I heard things like what Max had just told us, because to me, it pointed out the similarities between races and species, rather than the differences. Every child needed to be socialized. Young witches needed to be taught not to misuse their magic, apparently Weres needed to be taught how to interact without striking out at others, and I was sure that the Fae had their own forms of childhood misbehavior.

  As I pulled into the parking lot at Beachcomber Spit, I hoped that we wouldn’t find anybody else there, and for once my hopes were answered. I paused at the top of the road, trying to ascertain whether there was anybody coming up it, before easing the CR-V onto the graded lane. It wound down and around, big enough for one car with a very narrow shoulder, and a guardrail that had seen better days. Maybe I should bring that up in the next town council meeting, I thought. We should check all the guardrails around the island and make certain that they were strong enough to stop a car that might careen over the edge.

  In the distance, the faint sheen of silver waves crashed onto the shore, spurred on by the breezes coming in off the strait. We were one night away from the new moon, and combined with the c
loud cover, it was dark as pitch. My headlights were the only guiding force we had at this point, and I flipped them to brights so that I could see better as we crept our way down the road. Finally, after bending to the left to follow the edge of the cliff, the road opened into a small parking lot next to the sandy shore.

  Rocks and pebbles littered the shore, as with almost every Washington beach. The mud flats were exposed, and one huge driftwood log sat to our right, chained into the cliff. The tides along Bedlam Island were strong, and like a number of Washington shorelines, giant logs—tall timber that had washed into the ocean—often rolled in with the tides. Driftwood logs could be dangerous, since the waves would toss them around like matchsticks and they could kill beachcombers when the storms grew violent.

  I parked in the spot furthest up the shore, hoping the tide wasn’t coming in yet. I hadn’t consulted any of the tide charts so I wasn’t sure. I slipped into my jacket, which was hanging over the back of my seat, and then, motioning to the others, stepped out of the car and looked around.

  Without the headlights, the only light we had was from the silver glint of the waves. I hesitated to turn on my flashlight in case anybody might be around—namely, Dracula—but I realized that we could easily break an ankle as we searched for the opening.

  “I suppose we better get a move on,” I said, finding myself reluctant now that we were here.

  “I take it you want to do this as much as I do,” Sandy said.

  “Yeah, but it’s better to be proactive rather than have him show up on my doorstep. All right, I’m going to turn on my flashlight so everybody take a deep breath and be ready in case we’re being watched.” One hand on the hilt of my dagger, I lifted my flashlight with the other hand and flicked it on, training it against the cliffside as I swept the beam from side to side.

  The pile of rocks that Henry had told Aegis about was right where he said it would be. A large jumble of boulders and stones rested near the foot of the cliff, concentrated in one area. I wasn’t sure if it had been an old quarry, or if someone had just taken it into their mind to gather all the massive stones into one area. Whatever the case, at least we had our direction pegged.

  Aegis took the flashlight from me and moved to the front.

  “I’m going first,” he said. By his tone, I knew it was futile to argue. Max took up the rear, to keep watch behind us. Sandy and I walked side by side, sandwiched between them.

  We crept up the shore, toward the base of the cliff. The overlook must have been a good sixty to eighty feet above us, if not more. The slope leading up was so steep it would have been difficult to climb. It was obvious that several landslides had occurred over the years, a common occurrence when the slopes and hillsides around Western Washington were stripped of their vegetation so that unthinking people could enjoy the view. Erosion was exacerbated by the heavy rains that we had, leading to a number of houses toppling over the edge. At least with Beachcomber Spit, there weren’t any houses to come crashing down should the hillside decide to give way.

  The pile of rocks sprawled about twenty feet wide and five feet deep, looking for all the world like what I referred to as “nature art.” As far as I could tell in the beam of the flashlight, it wasn’t meant to resemble anything, and it certainly didn’t spawn any emotion in myself except curiosity. Perhaps that was what it was meant to do, I thought. Artists tended to focus on inspiring questions and curiosity. Then again, maybe somebody just wanted the fun of making a big old pile of rocks.

  As we cautiously skirted our way over the rocks, careful not to twist any ankles or go faceplanting on the smooth, weatherworn surfaces, I tried to scan again the base of the cliff, looking for an entrance. But Henry had been correct. Massive stands of beach grass, some waist high or taller, covered the expanse between us and the rock surface. And beach grass had a nasty habit of slashing into the skin, the gashes stinging like paper cuts. I was glad I had worn jeans and a turtleneck and a jacket. Sandy was in her yoga pants and a sweatshirt, thinner material but still able to stave off the worst of the razor-sharp blades.

  Aegis suddenly stopped. “I hear something coming from that direction,” he said, pointing to the left, beyond a waist-high patch of grass. “It sounds like wind whistling through a tunnel.”

  As we headed in the direction he pointed out, the blades whipped back and forth with the rising wind.

  “I wonder if Fata is having a nightmare,” I said. “We get a lot of storms on the island, but I have a feeling that most of them this week have been due to her.”

  “You’re probably right,” Sandy said. “Hopefully, Auntie Tautau will be able to help her.”

  “I have no clue, but I have to admit, I’m hoping Auntie Tautau will help her find her way back to the ocean before long.” I stopped as Aegis motioned for us to be quiet.

  We broke through the thicket of grass, into the shadow of the cliff where everything was so dark it was hard to see even with the flashlight. But then Aegis shone it a few feet to the left, and there, behind a large outcropping, we could see a dark shadow against the base of the precipice. It looked like the opening into a cave. We had found the entrance to the catacombs.

  Chapter 16

  AEGIS WAS RIGHT. The currents of air flowing into the cavern created a soft symphony, almost sounding like voices on the wind. We crept forward, my stomach knotting as we went. I had had my share of nerve-wracking adventures, creeping into caverns to look for vampires, but it had been a long time since then, and the edge I had during my hunting days had faded into a soft blur. But I was stronger than I was a year ago, and I had more stamina. Even so, delving deep into the catacombs that ran beneath Bedlam didn’t promise the excitement that I valued.

  “Follow me,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Be cautious. Max, keep an ear open for anybody who might take a mind to swing in behind us. It will be difficult to tell if there are secret passages inside, and we might miss some of the side tunnels. I don’t want anyone looping around behind us to catch us unawares.”

  “Do you really think we’re going to find Dracula here?” I asked, both hoping and yet fearing that he might say yes.

  “This is the sort of place he would hang out. Dracula is an old-school vampire.”

  “So is he truly Vlad the Impaler?” Max asked from behind.

  “No,” Aegis said. “Although Vlad actually idolized him. Dracula was around long before Vlad. That said, Dracula is his ancestor. I know the two met and that Dracula refused to turn Vlad into one of the Fallen. They had a blowup about it, and Dracula left. The two looked so much alike, rumors started that Vlad was actually Dracula. When he was captured, they cut off his head and impaled him through the heart, thinking to destroy the vampire. His body was buried in a tomb that still remains hidden, once his body was returned to his family. His head was burned. So while Dracula is a relative of Vlad’s, he existed long before the Impaler took his name and his throne.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “When our hunt swept through Romania and Transylvania, people there seemed to think they were one and the same. I suppose old rumors die hard, and sometimes they become legends. And those legends become truth. At least as far as the general public is concerned.” I thought for a moment. “Is there anything we should know about Dracula that Essie didn’t tell us?”

  “I’ve never met the man, but I do know that he’s ruthless and cunning. He has several weaknesses, however. He likes fame, and he likes his legendary status. If he could handle modern living, he would probably be up and still running through the world. I doubt, though, that he would choose to have woken if the Arcānus Nocturni hadn’t brought him around. In fact, I wonder if he wasn’t trying to die.”

  “What do you mean?” Sandy asked. “Vampires can’t die, not like we can. If he wanted to die, why didn’t he walk into the sun?”

  Aegis turned to stare at her for a moment, his expression thoughtful in the glow of the flashlight beam. After a few seconds, he gave her
a small shrug.

  “Do you realize how terrifying it is for a vampire to even think about walking into the sun? Those who do are usually desperate. For one thing, the fire burns with a searing pain that is almost beyond imagining. And Dracula, as old and as tired as he probably is, isn’t desperate. He doesn’t regret his nature, he isn’t ashamed of who he is. The killing, the blood drinking, it’s part of his very essence. No, I think he preferred to sink into a sleep from which he would never wake up. He didn’t expect the Arcānus Nocturni to wake him up.”

  “So he’s ruthless, has an allergy to witches’ blood, and a ego to match his legend. He’s also weaker than normal, one factor in our favor.” I tried to think of anything else, but other questions eluded me.

  Aegis turned back to the passage, his finger to his lips.

  We followed him silently as he led us deeper into the tunnel. The walls were rough and sharp, formed by pickax and hammer rather than nature. Here and there, we saw wooden beams and cross-pieces shoring up the passage. I tried to look for side passages, but it was so dark that we could barely see the floor in front of us. Sandy had another flashlight and as we went along, looked for anything Aegis might have missed.

  The smells in the passage were dank, filled with mildew and dust, and the scent of decaying seaweed. I wrinkled my nose, but tried not to sneeze. I found myself thinking how vampires had used these passages early on, to come and go into Bedlam as they chose. And now, the Vampire Queen of the Pacific Northwest was living out in the open and everyone accepted her.

  It truly was a changing world, and these would not be the last of the changes. My kind—witches—could live upward of six or seven hundred years, or more. Most of us only had one or two children in our lifetimes, and many, none at all. We were still rare in the world of humans and other Pretcom, but I wondered if that would change as well.