by Ashley Meira
She bowed and gave us a knowing smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you both. I am Catherine, shaman of the Winter pack.”
We said our greetings and she gestured for us to follow her out the door.
“I hear good things about you, Miss Wallace,” she said as we trailed behind her. “Your father speaks quite highly of you. However, I must apologize, Mister Campbell; I know very little about you.”
Catherine’s words were spoken in a calm, rhythmic cadence. Her words seemed to give the impression that she’d marinated over each and every one of them with great care. She spoke with a neutrality that came from years of practice and a wisdom that came with many more years of experience. I could tell this was a woman who wasted no words, and that anything she had to say was worth listening to – and very carefully examined.
The way she exuded confidence from every pore reminded me of Lady Cassandra, which made me even more wary of her. Conversely, she also possessed that same aura of calm the Lady had that made me feel at ease. It was confusing, but I understood it. It was partly a deception; Lady Cassandra would say the “stillest waters were the deepest, which made it that much easier to drown an unsuspecting traveler.” I may have paraphrased that a bit – she always changed it, but the meaning held. I also noted Catherine had a constant small smile on her face, just like Tamlin, though hers made it seem like she knew a secret no one else in the room did.
“It’s quite all right, ma’am,” said Alex, equally mollified by her demeanor.
I shivered as we walked, hoping our destination had a fireplace. “To be honest, if everything you’ve heard about me is from Sullivan, you know as much about me as you do Alex.”
“Hardly,” she said. “Despite what you may think, your father follows the tales of your exploits quite diligently.”
“Oh…” I fell silent, unable to fully process her words. My– Sullivan actually gave a damn? Maybe he just wanted to know if I was besmirching his good name.
Probably.
…Maybe.
“My son,” she continued, “mentioned the young man who escaped today was a good friend–”
“Is,” Alex corrected.
“Of course.” She bowed, knowing smile still in place, though Tamlin’s had long since vanished in favor of shooting us nervous looks. “You’re a medium, yes? You tried to communicate with Alice and failed.”
Alex nodded, and the conversation died there.
We entered the cabin next to Alistair’s and Catherine led us downstairs to the basement. It was a medium sized, square room with a round stone hearth in the center of it. Catherine waved her hand and a fire blazed to life in the hearth, filling the room with shades of red and orange. I wonder if I looked as cool as her when I did that. As we made it to the bottom of the stairs, I noticed there was a large shelf and table against the far wall, much like the one I had in my own basement. From what I could see, the shelf had as many, if not more, ingredients as mine did, though her organizational skills were admittedly much better.
“Mediums are very respectful of the dead,” said Catherine.
Alex crossed his arms. “As they should be.”
I was about to hint that he should pull the stick out of his ass just a teeny bit – y’know, since we were alone with two werewolves and one of them happened to be a mage. Then, I remembered how shitty I felt whenever Alex called me out on being a brat with my father, and I suddenly couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Alistair said you would give us proof,” I told her. “How? And how do we know that you won’t just use your magic to deceive us?”
“I can only show you the truth, child, I cannot force you to believe. However, I won’t actually be showing you,” she said. “The victims will. I’m going to summon them.”
“You can’t force a spirit to appear,” Alex said. He stepped forward, and I hurried to hold him back.
“Calm yourself, Mister Campbell, that is what I meant about being considerate of the dead.” Alex opened his mouth to reply, but she quickly cut him off. “There are many methods of communicating with the dead. The tribal magicks of both the Garou and Protean, the polite and unobtrusive communion of the mediums, and the more powerful provocations of the mages – the necromancers, to be specific.”
“And your magicks have a peaceful way to call upon the dead?” Alex asked.
She turned to the flames, her profile bathed in shadow. “Though our methods differ, we call to the dead as mediums do: by reaching through the veil and requesting an audience. However, there are ways to pull information from a spirit without speech or brutality.”
“How?” I asked, placing a hand on Alex’s arm as he bristled.
“Instead of asking a spirit to tell us what happened – since they are usually too shell-shocked to be coherent – we ask them to show us. It can be very painful, even traumatic for the caster, but it is kinder than forcing a verbal account. It is a useful way to learn things that a spirit could not accurately describe. After all, our eyes process things we aren’t even aware of. The caster places themselves in the body of the spirit during their last moments, feeling what they felt, seeing what they saw. As I said, the experience can be hard on the caster, so it is only used as a last resort. The results, however, are almost always very helpful.”
That sounded terrifying. Living through being skinned alive just to see what happened? No wonder they used it as a last resort. The very thought made me shudder.
“Though difficult to master,” Catherine continued, “this is not a talent exclusive to my people. Are there not many mediums in the Order?”
“There are a few,” said Alex. “Mediums are secular, and with the persecution by necromancers, they’ve closed their ranks even more.”
It was the truth. In fact, when Alex told me he was a medium, I’d been quite surprised. All species and supernaturally gifted individuals tended to keep close ranks. If not because they like each other, then because they understand each other better than an outsider could. But even those groups had their outsiders. The Garou had rogue wolves, spirits had specters, the fae had…everyone, and mages and vampires had infernalists. Mages, cliquey bitches that we are, had two other groups of pariahs: thaumaturges and necromancers.
Even if you discounted the rumors of less than legal practices involving corpses, necromancers were still pompous assholes. They resented the fact that mediums were born with the inherent ability to commune with the dead, whereas they had to learn the art through grueling study. For some reason, those who decided to specialize heavily in necromancy ended up being the most perverse motherfuckers in the world (this would be the part where we did include those aforementioned rumors). Plus, they were usually rich and bored, which meant they partook in things even Satan would frown at just to entertain themselves. For example, binding the dead to turn them into your personal slaves or aggressively denouncing mediums for having an ability they resent not having naturally. The richer and crueler of them even hired mercenaries to hunt down mediums in hopes of exterminating the “competition.”
Ah, the paranormal world, so unified, so loving.
Catherine raised a tawny brow. “Surely the mediums in the Order congregate and share their talents?”
“Of course they do.” Alex frowned. “They’re very skilled. We all are.”
“And yet they seem to know little more than you do. Or perhaps they merely keep their gifts to themselves. A shame, such things should be shared among peers.” Catherine gave the floor a solemn expression, but I couldn’t help feel she was – at least in part – getting back at him for his snippiness. “Even without a medium’s inherent lack of magical powers, you could learn so much more if you were willing.”
Alex swallowed thickly, as if he were physically gulping down his pride. “The only thing I want to learn right now is the truth about what happened.”
“Of course.” Catherine nodded and glided over to the shelf in the back. “Miss Wallace–”
“Morgan is fine.”
I shook my head.
“I see.” She looked through the potions lined up in front of her. “If you did, we could all do this the same way. You’ll have to use a potion instead.” She came back to me, a philter of cloudy white liquid in her hand. Wisps of smoke floated out when she uncorked it. “Drink this.”
The philter was pleasantly warm when she slipped it into my hands. Alex took my wrist and asked, “What is this?”
“In short, the potion will allow her to experience contact with a spirit the way a medium would.”
I sniffed the potion. Despite how warm it was, the liquid smelled like cold air with a hint of something sweet. I sent my magic through the glass, trying to trace the individual ingredients. It wouldn’t be as accurate as simply tasting the concoction, but that would ruin the point of scanning it first. The Garou had been friendly so far – besides the whole snafu where my head got slammed against a brick wall – but there was still a tug of paranoia as I scanned the potion. I had nowhere near enough experience with their magic to make a logical assessment, so the least I could do was search for any poisonous or otherwise dangerous ingredients.
“I could drink it first,” Catherine offered with an amused smile. “If it’ll make you feel better.”
Alex plucked the philter from my hand and gave it back to her. “Do it.”
Without hesitating, she took a swig. She held the vial up to the light, making sure we could see the missing liquid, and swallowed loudly to enunciate her point before handing the potion back to me. In the far corner, Tamlin’s shoulders shook as he pressed his lips together. Absolutely. Precious. I wanted five of him.
I held the vial up. “Bottoms up.”
The liquid was creamy in texture, with hints of vanilla and ginger. It went down smoothly, though the lack of outward effect on my person made me nervous. Big explosions or dramatic vomiting of blood I could handle, but a whole lot of nothing now usually meant some deep shit was going to go down later. Alex was right, I did hate the unknown. But that's what made me such a good investigator, so it balanced out.
“Are you joining us, Tamlin?” asked Alex. He placed an arm around my shoulder as his eyes darted between me and the blonde boy. The affection made me feel better and I, opportunist that I am, buried my face into the crook of his neck.
“Nah.” Tamlin headed for the shelf. “I’m just here for the comedown. Those memories can be really rough to recover from. My mom’s pretty tough–” he winked at Catherine, who shook her head fondly, and handed her whatever he picked up “–but better safe than sorry. No idea how you two will handle it, though.”
I gave him an unimpressed look. “That’s reassuring.”
Catherine walked back to the hearth. “In the spirit–”
“Pun fully intended,” said Tamlin with a coy grin. Oh, I really like you.
“–of full disclosure,” she continued, “I will draw on the memories of several departed to show the killings were committed by the same people.”
“Are that many of them still in Limbo?” I asked.
“The Shadowlands,” said Alex. “Limbo is where reapers send souls before they pass on to Heaven or Hell.”
“Or choose to remain in the Shadowlands of Umbra,” said Catherine. “Limbo is merely the first step. Some spirits resist passing on due to trauma, others due to rage, and others still out of sheer stubbornness.” She moved to the other side of the hearth. “It is sad but true. Please stand on separate sides of the hearth, equidistant to one another, but keep holding hands.”
Reluctantly, I stepped away from Alex’s familiar scent and stood across from Catherine, the large fire obscuring everything but the ends of her shawl. Alex was still holding my hand, which was comforting – if I was going to be skinned alive, I wanted him with me. Catherine closed her eyes. I copied her, vibrant orange piercing through my eyelids. She began chanting in an ancient language, probably her people’s tongue. I could hear the fire spark and sizzle, and I knew she must have tossed the ingredients Tamlin handed her into the flames.
My heart began pounding against my chest. I squeezed Alex’s hand tighter, sliding a finger to his pulse point. His pulse didn’t feel abnormally fast, just a few beats above average. That happened when I used my magic, so I assumed it would be the same for Alex. He wasn’t worried, then. And if he wasn’t worried, I didn’t need to be.
I hoped.
12
I was at home here.
I walked among the trees like a fish swam through water, the leaves comforting underneath my bare feet. Shoes were okay, but they were confining – bindings made for the delicate feet of Man. It was better to be free. My shirt came off next, and as I stared down at the chiseled, bronzed muscles of a body that was certainly not my own, I realized that Catherine’s ritual had worked. I wasn’t sure whose body I was in, but I knew what was going to happen to him.
Was Alex here? Were we all in the same body? Could they hear my thoughts? Those wonderings faded as I/the man continued walking. There were still leaves on the trees, their brothers’ bodies covering the forest floor until there was nary a speck of dirt left to see. The setting sun kissed the horizon and bathed the reds, oranges, and yellows of the forest in a radiant golden light. A crimson leaf drifted down in front of my eyes, and I held a large, tan palm out to catch it. I turned it over in my hand a few times before letting it join its siblings.
I began to run, the forest rushing by me in a blur of browns and yellows. The blood rushed through my veins and my heart pounded in my chest. Running was apparently exhilarating when my lungs weren’t threatening to explode. The fresh forest air was all I needed. My muscles stretched in the most delicious way, my jaw pulled down and back, and my bones realigned, the adrenaline making the entire experience feel amazing.
I was on all fours now and the most regal roar ripped from my mouth. I was a lion. I was king. Another magnificent roar rang out as I raced among the trees. My mane billowed in the wind, and I couldn’t think of anything better than this.
A scent caught my attention. The musk of humanity tinged with that special hint of the supernatural that hunters possessed. Were a group of them out for some fun? It didn’t matter, I suppose. Running into hunters had never been a problem before. The Order was a friend. An ally.
The five of them came into view soon enough; two women and three men. None of them were familiar to the shifter whose memory I was in, but I recognized Tom. He wasn’t as gaunt as he had been when we met, and his face was clean-shaven, but there was no mistaking him. A sense of unease filled me, and I made a sharp right, deciding to have my fun in the deeper, warded parts of the woods.
One of the women waved and stepped toward me, causing me to pause. The other four looked and smelled as nervous as she did. Sweat plastered her short brown hair to her face and her heart was beating so loudly I could hear it as if she was pressed right against me. But still she waved. Perhaps she was in trouble? That thought was what made me approach her slowly, stopping a few feet away.
Then, one of the others threw something. I leapt back, but the objects seemed to follow me. They slapped against my ankles, binding my paws together. The twigs on the ground didn’t even register as I writhed over them, thrashing against my bonds. These weren’t pure iron, nor were they orichalcum, yet I couldn’t break free. Magic numbed my extremities, but the pain, as whatever infernal bindings they used cut into my flesh, was very real.
“Holy shit, he was right,” Tom whispered, taking a tentative step towards me. “It actually worked.”
“All right,” the brown haired girl said. “That means the knife he gave us will work, too. Hand it over and I’ll make the kill. One clean cut.”
A man with dark, slicked back hair stepped forward, his beady eyes boring into mine. He was holding a dagger, and it didn’t take a mage to know it was overflowing with dark magic. That was the kind of shit we personally escorted back home so the family heads
could deliver it to the Council, where they would seal it under the best protection possible.
It didn’t look like an ancient artifact. No, it looked sleek, brand new. The dagger had no hilt and was pure black, with a red stripe along the edge of the blade, which looked like it had been sharpened to the point of impossibility. There was a visible aura of black smoke around it, almost obscuring the weapon entirely. The smoke didn’t appear to bother the rest of them, and I wondered if I was the only one able to see it, if my magic showed me things hidden to the eyes of others.
“Dude,” Tom said, “give it to her.”
“Wait,” the man said. “I read somewhere that it’s better to get the skin off while the animal is still alive.”
“Ken, that’s sick,” said the other woman. She had brown hair, too, in a long ponytail that brushed against her rear end. “That’s just…sick. What the fuck is wrong with you? And how the hell are you going to stop him from thrashing around while you’re doing it? Those ropes keep him bound, not paralyzed.”
I increased my struggles as she spoke, roaring wildly in the hopes that a few of my pride were around to hear me. The binds around my ankles were cutting through with such intensity it felt like they would soon hit bone. I wouldn’t have thought it possible with my supernatural fortitude, but it was clear these were very dangerous objects. I could feel the magic around them. They felt the same as the waves emanating from the dagger, which meant they were probably made by the same person. My legs felt heavier the more I struggled. Was that another effect of the binds? I roared once more and doubled my thrashing. These binds would break eventually. I had to stay strong. I had to keep fighting.
