Tides of Spring: A Dark Shapeshifter Urban Fantasy (Echoes of the Past Book 3)

by H B Lyne

  'We were on the right track. I think we could try again, just not anywhere in the human world.' He cast her a wry smile and she let out a nervous laugh.

  'What happened after I... left?' Stalker asked.

  'The Knight laughed and disappeared. I ran to the fire exit and saw which way you were heading. The room was pretty badly torn up, big sections of the floor were smashed, and the door, obviously. So I collected your things and started a fire.' He dropped his eyes to the table. 'I'm sorry.'

  Stalker felt a strange surge of anger and gratitude at the same time. Her place of work had burned down, she would be out of a job. Ron, who she thought of fondly, had had his business destroyed. But the shifter population would be concealed. There weren't many plausible explanations for a little dojo in St. Mark's being ripped apart like that.

  Eyes returned from the living room and sat down next to Stalker, drawing his hands together on the table.

  'So, what happened? Where did you end up? Claws says they tracked you very easily to Fenwick. Seems you left a few bent lamp posts in your wake.'

  'Oh shit,' Stalker whispered, closing her eyes. 'I lost consciousness, I had no idea. I woke up near the woods. I was going to come straight back, but I saw the Witches and followed them. Eyes, they're doing something very wrong. They're taking bodies from the crematorium and moving them to the factory I told you about.'

  'What?' Wind Talker snapped. 'That's... that's just... no.' He stood up suddenly, his chair scraping back across the floor and he strode from the room and stomped up the stairs.

  'Okay,' Eyes said slowly. 'I wonder if Last-Breath-Echoes can help us puzzle this out. If they can resurrect their own from the dead, maybe they can raise others. Maybe they're raising an undead army.'

  Stalker nodded solemnly. She hadn't wanted to face that possibility.

  'If they are, then they're very quiet soldiers. I didn't hear or smell a crowd of people, dead or alive. Although I didn't go inside, I couldn't risk getting caught.'

  'Quite right,' he said, nodding firmly. He reached out and took her hand. 'Are you okay?'

  'A bit shaken and confused, but yeah.'

  Wind Talker came clomping back down the stairs and returned to the kitchen with an open notebook in his hands. He flicked through the pages, searching for something. He paused and ran his finger over the crinkled paper. He passed the book to Eyes and dropped back into his chair. Stalker watched the whole exchange with a bemused smile.

  'There are stories of shifters who've messed about with the dead,' Wind Talker explained, as Eyes scanned the tiny scrawling writing in the book. 'Flames mentioned them in his notes. That book escaped the theft, it was in my bag at the time. It's strictly against the code of the Furies to meddle with death. We don't know much about them, sure, but things have been figured out over the centuries. They're not allowed to disrupt the dead because it interferes with their transition to the underworld, which would piss off Hades.'

  Stalker knew she needed to talk to Rhys about this if they were ever going to understand any of it fully. As his name and face flickered through her thoughts, she noticed Eyes glance at her with an expression of curiosity and confusion. She shoved Rhys out of her mind and cleared her throat.

  'So they could be going against the other Furies, then?' she asked.

  'Could be,' Wind Talker replied. 'Or the Furies could be changing their beliefs.'

  Stalker yawned and rubbed her eyes. Academia had never been her strength.

  'Go get some rest,' Eyes ordered. 'You can catch up with the others in the morning.'

  Stalker left the table and wandered into the living room to curl up on her pile of cushions. She dreamed of Nyx, the goddess of the night, giving birth to the Furies under a cloak of darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  'They're doing what?' Last-Breath-Echoes narrowed her eyes, her voice uncharacteristically high and tight.

  'They're taking bodies from the crematorium,' Stalker repeated.

  'What are they giving the families instead of the ashes then?' Echoes asked shrewdly.

  'We have no idea,' Eyes replied. They were all sitting in the tiny living room of 32 Grove Street, still fairly early in the morning. Last-Breath-Echoes fiddled with the rings on her slender fingers and stared at each of the Lightning Lords in turn.

  'We were hoping you would have some way of tracking a body through the crematorium and seeing what happens to it,' Weaver said softly. 'I've heard of such things happening before, with magic.'

  'Yes, it can be done. I've never done it though. I can try.' Echoes sighed. Her eyes returned to their usual wideness. 'I have a body in the morgue now. I can recommend Fenwick to the family.'

  'Can you think of any reason why they might be stealing human bodies?' Stalker urged.

  'It's just not the done thing. I know some of us study death very carefully, and get closer to it than others, but we don't disrespect the dead. Shifters, despite our nature, find it hard to change traditions. We managed to adapt to the human custom of cremation from burial, because in Caerton we're influenced a lot by the Norse burial rituals, as well as the Greek and Egyptian ones. But the Furies aren't, so I would imagine it was a lot harder for them. I assumed that the Witches were just using the crematorium in Fenwick to get their own home for their traditional burial. But it sounds as if they have a more controlling interest in the business of disposing of the dead.'

  'Maybe they see themselves as rescuing those destined for cremation and burying them according to Greek tradition?' Weaver said, hope in her eyes.

  'I wouldn't expect them to care about the human dead,' Wind Talker said, shaking his head. 'They want to rule humanity, not hide from them. They see humans as cattle.'

  'I know.' Weaver sighed.

  'I'd better get to work,' Echoes said, standing up. She swept from the room, catching her thumbnail on the door frame on her way out, Stalker noticed, adding another little mark alongside the others from her previous visits. Stalker wondered whether she left a tally everywhere she went.

  'Thank you,' Eyes said as he saw their guest out. He returned to the others, his expression business-like. 'I want patrols along the border all day. Double up as much as possible. The Witches may come looking for trouble after Stalker's incident last night.'

  Stalker's phone started ringing and everyone looked at her.

  'I don't recognise the number,' she said, looking at her phone. 'Hello?'

  'Is this Ms Yates?' a cool voice enquired.

  'Speaking.'

  'This is PC Hutchins from St. Mark's Police Station. Are you aware of an incident at your place of work last night?'

  Stalker swallowed hard and looked up at the others, her eyes wide. They had clearly heard and returned her gaze with mixed expressions of apprehension.

  'No,' Stalker lied. 'What sort of incident?'

  'A fire. We'd like you to come in and answer a few questions. We understand you were the last person to leave the premises.'

  'Of course. Now?'

  'Yes please,' the constable replied. His voice firm.

  'I'll be right there.'

  'Thank you.'

  Stalker hung up the phone and stared at Eyes.

  'I'll come with you,' he said without hesitation. He grabbed his jacket from the hall and she followed him out, not daring to look at the others. Wind Talker caught hold of her arm as she passed him.

  'I hope they can't pin it on you. I really do. I'm sorry.'

  She shook her head.

  'It's okay. You did what you had to do to protect our secret.'

  She followed Eyes to his car and climbed in. He drove carefully, keeping to the speed limit and observing every traffic signal, clearly on his best driving behaviour. Stalker tried to smile but found the muscles in her cheeks frozen. 'What do I say?' she asked quietly.

  'Stay as close to the truth as possible. I'll make sure you don't answer anything incriminating.' Eyes didn't look at her the whole drive to the little police station near the telecoms tower.


  They parked in the small car park at the back of the big old house that now served the community as an outpost of Caerton's constabulary. 'Ready?' Eyes asked, finally looking at her.

  'Yeah. I'm glad you're with me.'

  'No worries, it's what I'm here for.'

  They climbed out of his four-wheel drive and he led her into the station. Her palms were sweating and she felt a cold, wet sensation in her throat that usually signalled her to reach for a bucket.

  The hallway they entered was painted a vile green, which matched the extremely dated linoleum floor. The décor did nothing to settle Stalker's churning stomach. Eyes strode over to a desk, behind which sat a dopey eyed and portly police officer.

  'Can I help you?' the mild-mannered man asked.

  'I'm Martin Davison. I have Ms Yates here, to see PC Hutchins.' Eyes was putting on his best barrister persona.

  The officer behind the desk nodded and got up from his seat. He ambled into the room beyond. Stalker clucked her tongue impatiently. His lack of urgency clashed with her wriggling desire to get this interview over with as quickly as possible. Eyes placed a steady hand on her shoulder and she felt a wave of calm flow through her. She took a deep breath.

  'Ms Yates?' The cool voice from the phone rang out across the reception.

  'That's me,' Stalker said, looking straight at the tall, young police officer. He had neat, blond hair and a soft face. He approached, a file in his hand, and looked warily at Eyes. 'This is my friend, Martin Davison.'

  'I'm a barrister,' Eyes said, extending his hand. PC Hutchins shook it firmly. 'I'm just here to support my friend. I'm sure we don't have an issue. Do we?'

  'Not at all. Shall we go in here?' He held out a hand towards an interview room and Eyes led the way inside. Stalker's insides squirmed as she took a seat next to Eyes. The police officer sat opposite them and opened the file on the table in front of him. He clicked a ballpoint pen and wrote the date at the top of a blank sheet of paper. 'Your employer, Ron Hammell, informed us that you were the last person to leave the premises last night. Is that correct?'

  'Yes,' Stalker said. She discreetly wiped her hands on her jeans under the table.

  'Is that a normal occurrence?'

  'Not really, no. I stayed after my last class to practice some moves, so I offered to lock up.' She glanced at Eyes, who was totally impassive, his eyes fixed on the police officer.

  'Isn't it difficult to practice martial arts on one's own?' The officer raised a glossy eyebrow.

  'I practice Banshay,' she replied coolly. 'Sword art. It's a sort of solo dance. I can show you a clip if you like?' She started to get her phone out, but he raised a hand to stop her.

  'That won't be necessary. Do your swords require a license?'

  'We are not here to discuss Ariana's personal possessions,' Eyes interjected.

  Hutchins narrowed his eyes slightly, but nodded his head. Stalker bristled. She had been happy to answer the question, as her swords were perfectly legal. But she knew Eyes was just trying to protect her, so she let it go.

  'So, Mr Hammell left you alone on the premises at approximately ten past eight. Is that correct?'

  'Yes, I think so. My last class finished at eight.'

  'And what time did you remain there until?' He scribbled down her answers in the file as he asked the next question.

  'I'm not sure. I didn't check the time. I didn't stay long, though.' She tried to keep her voice cool and steady, but her hands clenched the sides of her plastic chair.

  'And how did you leave?'

  'Through the door,' she replied, a slight hint of sarcasm in her voice. The officer raised his eyes from the file. 'I locked up and went home.'

  'I see. Did you see anything of concern before or as you left?'

  'No, everything seemed totally normal.'

  'The initial report suggests that the fire started in the studio that you were teaching in.'

  'Oh really?' Stalker said casually. 'I don't know how it could have happened.'

  'We'll know more once the full report comes through. Are you sure you didn't see anyone suspicious in the vicinity of the dojo?' The word “dojo” flopped awkwardly out of his mouth, as if he had never used it before. Stalker tried to stifle a smile.

  'No, no one,' she replied.

  'I see. Well, I think that's everything for now. We'll contact you if we have any further questions.' Hutchins stood up and closed the file. Eyes got to his feet and Stalker glanced at each of them, surprised that the interview was really over so quickly. She rose from her chair and followed Eyes silently out of the station. Once they were buckled into the car she was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief.

  'That wasn't so bad,' she said softly.

  'It was just information gathering, I don't think he really suspected you of anything. That might change if the report indicates arson though. We should be prepared for that.'

  'Okay,' Stalker replied solemnly.

  They arrived back at the house to find Wind Talker and Claws out patrolling. Weaver greeted them as they entered.

  'How did it go?'

  'Fine. For now.' Stalker dropped onto the sofa and laid her head back on the soft cushion. She closed her eyes and felt the others leave the room. It had been a thoroughly exhausting twenty-four hours and she slipped easily into a shallow sleep.

  'Weaver,' Claws snapped, his voice raised. 'Calm down.'

  Stalker was yanked from a dreamless sleep; she leapt from the sofa and ran to the doorway. Weaver stood in the kitchen door next to Stalker, her hands on her hips and her nostrils flaring. Stalker felt the intruder before she saw her. Her head swivelled towards the front door, where Claws stood next to the Witch, his hand gripping her shoulder tightly. She had long blond hair, just like Weaver's. Her eyes danced and she wore an arrogant sneer on her red lips. Eyes stood halfway down the hall, his hands raised as if to keep Weaver and the Witch apart.

  'What is she doing here?' Weaver snarled.

  'She was waiting on the border for me as I was patrolling,' Claws replied, still holding her tightly.

  'Oh nice,' the Witch hissed, rolling her blue eyes. 'Talking about me as if I weren't here. I've come to take you home, Teri.'

  Weaver's sister, Stalker realised.

  'This is my home,' Weaver said, her voice dangerous.

  Her sister glanced around the shabby hall in disdain.

  'Don't be ridiculous. Come back with me where you belong.'

  'You don't understand,' Weaver said with a sigh. Her hands dropped from her hips and her face softened. 'The Witches have poisoned you, Maria. I was lucky to change here and be taken in by these shifters. This is why I begged you to move into Caerton. I didn't want them to get to you.'

  'Do you have any idea who our family were?' The Witch scowled. 'The power and prestige we are entitled to is just incredible. The Witches haven't poisoned me. They've shown me who I really am.'

  'You do know that they abducted Weaver a few months ago?' Stalker said, glaring at the Witch.

  'I know they brought her home and that you kidnapped her back to induct her deeper into your cult.' The Witch spat the last word with such venom that Stalker was momentarily stunned. How could this Witch stand there in their hallway accusing them of being the cult?

  'They didn't bring me home! They snatched me in the street, they attacked me and then herded me into Fenwick!' Weaver shrieked. She took a threatening step down the hall and Stalker thrust an arm out to stop her going any closer. Weaver snarled at Stalker, but backed down with a calming breath. Her sister shot a filthy look at the pair of them down the hall.

  'You're the one who came stomping onto our territory last night,' she said, looking pointedly at Stalker. 'What was that all about?'

  'I think you'd better leave,' Eyes said, his voice low and threatening. He took a step towards the Witch and she threw her head back and laughed. 'Claws, escort her back to the border.'

  Claws opened the door, without taking his hand off her shoulder.r />
  'We want you back with us, Teri. We should talk alone some time.'

  'That's never going to happen,' Eyes said menacingly. Stalker fixed her gaze on Weaver. Her bottom lip trembled slightly, but she remained resolutely silent. Claws steered the Witch out into the street and Eyes walked swiftly to the door to close it.

  'Are you okay?' Stalker asked. She took hold of Weaver's shoulders and tried to catch her lowered gaze. Weaver's body gave a shudder and she burst into tears. Stalker pulled her into a hug and just held her for several minutes. Slowly, Stalker loosened her grip on her pack sister.

  'I'm okay, really, I'll be fine,' Weaver said, her voice husky and distant.

  'So that was your sister?' Eyes said softly, following the women into the living room.

  'The one and only.'

  'What did she mean about your family?'

  'Our grandparents were in the inner circle of the heir to the throne of Caerton. I knew nothing about what I was before I changed. Our parents raised us away from all of that. There was some big dispute in the family, I think. When the Witches took me I picked up some of what they believed. They really wanted me back within the fold because of my family.'

  Stalker felt a long held breath escape her lips with a slight whistle.

  'I expect they're treating her like royalty, no wonder she's been convinced by them, and it's understandable she'd want you there too.' Eyes patted Weaver gently on the shoulder. Weaver snorted in reply.

  'Don't be fooled. She was here on behalf of them, not for herself.' There was such bitterness in Weaver's voice that it startled Stalker.

  'Well, she's gone now.' Stalker tried to reassure Weaver.

  'Yes, for now,' Weaver replied. She stood and moved towards the door. She paused and lowered her head. 'But we'll have to kill her.' Weaver swept out of the room, leaving Stalker and Eyes gawking in her wake.

  That evening, Stalker met Rhys from work. He greeted her warmly and they walked hand in hand to his house through the narrow residential streets in the heart of the city. Stalker felt awkward and uncomfortable. A nagging sensation of being followed tugged at her, and she kept checking over her shoulder.

  'Is something wrong?' he asked as they approached his front door.