Raven Cursed: A Jane Yellowrock Novel

by Faith Hunter

  “Wait,” the ranger said. “I see the wolf tracks. There’re everywhere, but older. Settled into the soil.” A moment later he said, “Looks like the wolves did the killing and the cat came to investigate. If it’s a bobcat, it’s got the biggest damn feet I ever saw.”

  Trying to maintain an innocuous expression, I lied. “Could be. I heard snarling and hissing and, in the distance once, a woman screaming bloody murder.” Those were sounds a bobcat makes, especially a female in heat with males fighting over her. Lynx screams sound different to Beast, but no human would know the difference.

  “Unless you have some reason to consider putting out traps, forget the cat for now,” the female sheriff said, taking charge of her men. “When CSI gets there, have them make pictures of the cat prints and include it in the report.

  “Grizzard,” she said, her voice tight. “How do we kill these things?”

  “Silvershot.”

  She cursed succinctly. “I can’t afford silvershot. My budget’s screwed already.”

  I lifted a finger. Grizzard jutted his chin at me, giving me permission to speak. “I can call a . . . friend or two. See if they’ll donate the silver rounds.” I meant Leo Pellissier and Lincoln Shaddock. They were loaded. Let them help out the local law, make a few friends in high places. But I also knew not to hide that from the cops. “Vamps,” I said.

  Scoggins cussed like a sailor for ten seconds, then went silent. Grizzard and I could hear her breathing over the line, harsh sounds like an angry bulldog. “Grizzard? What do you think?”

  “Better the suckheads than my men going furry every full moon,” he said instantly.

  “Fine,” she spat. “But tell them not to expect political favors.”

  “I think they’ll be happy if your men don’t shoot them with their own gifts,” I said wryly, skirting close to snide and sarcastic. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I know what they’ll do. Can I go now?” I asked Grizzard, not that he had forced me to stay, but I had covered my tracks, found out what the cops were up to, and now had other places to be.

  “Yeah. Sure.” I went into the hallway and Grizzard called out to me. I paused in the doorway and swiveled to face him.

  “Yellowrock, anything you can do for us will be appreciated.” The words sounded like they were pulled out of him with red-hot pincers. I waggled my fingers to show I’d heard, and took off down the hall, texting requests to Bruiser for phone calls and to the twins for meetings. Sometimes it was easier to go through the human (or mostly so) blood-servants to get to vamps, especially when asking for big-ticket items that didn’t relate perfectly to the mission at hand.

  Thanks to the miracle of modern tech, I had my day planned in minutes and was left with three hours to kill, which meant I could take a nap or a break. I opted for the one with food. Seven Sassy Sisters’ Herb Shop and Café had a booming business, locally and Internet, selling herbal mixtures, teas in bulk and by the ounce. The café served brewed teas, specialty coffees, breakfast and lunch daily, and brunch and dinner on weekends. Homemade soup and breads were available, both to go and to eat in. The menu leaned heavily toward vegetarian fare, whipped up by the eldest sister, water witch, professor, and three-star chef, Evangelina Everhart, a drill sergeant of a woman who terrified me on some ancient, primal level.

  In New Orleans, Evangelina had been thrust upon me by Molly over the summer, as my houseguest, during the talks between witches and vamps about reparations for the deaths of witch children and to open communication lines between species. The visit hadn’t ended well, and Evil Evie and I still had some things to discuss, a conversation I figured would be unpleasant. She had put what looked like a love spell on George Dumas, Leo’s prime blood-servant, in what I assumed had been intended to provide an edge in a game of political maneuvering between vamps and witches, a game where the vamps had all the advantages. I got in the way, and it spilled over on to me, which caused Bruiser and me to end up half-naked in the shower together. I didn’t appreciate being spelled, even if it was by accident. And love spells are illegal by witch-law. No matter how I looked at it, Evangelina had been a bad guest. If she hadn’t been Mol’s sister, I’d have sent her packing with a few bruises to show for her time.

  There were two reasons I hadn’t dealt with the problem since then: deference to Molly, and the knowledge that Evil Evie was the leader of the sisters’ coven. Covens were like team sports, and the leader demanded obedience. She also had the right to draw on the power of the coven’s members for group workings. I didn’t know enough about witches to stick my big nose in. Yet. I wanted to handle it with tact, which wasn’t my strong suit, so I was thinking it through. For weeks now. Ignoring any possibility that fear of Evangelina or fear that Molly would get ticked was keeping me away. No. Not me.

  I stood in the doorway to the café when I arrived, sniffing out the place. The café was decorated in mountain country chic, with scuffed hardwood floors, bundles of herbs hanging against the back brick wall, a dozen tables and several tall-backed booths, seats upholstered with burgundy faux-leather and the tables covered with burgundy and navy blue check cloths. Today there were ten patrons at various stages of breakfast, not as many as usual. The kitchen was visible through a serving window, proving that Evangelina wasn’t in today, which relieved me immensely, restoring and sharpening my appetite. Not that much ever

  dulled it. I strode in.

  Carmen Miranda Everhart Newton, an air witch, newly widowed and with a baby in one of those portable car-seat thingies resting on the counter by the register, squealed, rushed around the counter, and threw herself at me, hugging me. She smelled of milk and talcum powder and other people’s cash. And baby. I couldn’t help my smile. Beast purred deep down inside. Kitssss, she thought at me. We had saved Carmen’s life and, by extension, the baby’s life, before it was born. Of all the sisters except Molly, she liked me best. I patted her back, feeling like a giant next to the tiny woman.

  The wholly human sisters, Regan and Amelia, and two other witch sisters, twins Boadacia and Elizabeth, ran the herb store, which wasn’t open yet, worked at the café as waitstaff, and doubled as cooks when Evangelina was off. The witch twins were the babies of the family, fearless, gorgeous, and always getting into trouble trying spells they shouldn’t have. Dual screams announced Cia and Liz just before they tackled me. All four of us staggered back against the door, laughing. Which left me in the middle of a giggling, chattering pack of females. It made me feel all mushy inside. The hugging felt weird. I wasn’t a hugger. I patted shoulders knowing I should be doing something else. Something more. I met Molly’s eyes over her sisters’ heads, and was surprised to see tears. Molly was happy I was here. The mushy feeling spread through me, unaccustomed, unfamiliar, alien. And wonderful.

  The witches smelled of bread and cooked meat and herbs. Despite the Mickie D’s, my belly rumbled. The girls laughed at the sound and pulled me to the family’s corner booth near the kitchen. I usually avoided booths from an ingrained security standpoint, but I didn’t say no. The Everharts were the closest thing I had to a family, the group of sisters having practically adopted me when I brought Carmen out of a vamp’s lair alive and well. They had hair in various shades of red, eyes of blue or green, and names with character, strength, and something like poetry.

  Feeling warm and content, I allowed myself to be pushed into the booth next to Molly and took Little Evan on my lap where he stood, squealing. His sneakered feet bounced on my thighs and he tried to climb onto the table, his little denim-covered bottom up in the air.

  “He’s into everything,” Molly said over the ruckus. “Ten times worse than Angelina ever was.” At my inquiring look, she said, “Angie’s in school.”

  “Which feels so strange,” one sister said as they all tried to cram into the booth with us, all talking at once, and over each other until I couldn’t follow who was saying what, not while trying to hold on to Little Evan.

  “Angie Baby’s so grown up.”

  “The
next generation of Everharts is going to be huge.”

  “Cia’s boyfriend wants six kids.”

  “I’m trying to talk him down.”

  “We’ll take better care of this batch.”

  “No deaths with ours. Never again.”

  “No runaways, no losses, no disappearances.”

  “Good health and happiness. From now on,” Molly said. It sounded like a blessing, and when the others repeated the phrase in unison, “Good health and happiness!” I knew it was—­a blessing for family, in the ancient way of blessings, words spoken with purpose and power.

  “Amen to that,” one sister said. The ones with mugs clinked them together.

  “Janie, you want the usual?”

  I craned around looking for the speaker and said, “Yes, please,” in my best Christian schoolgirl’s manners, figuring I’d never be heard. But a rasher of black-pepper maple bacon, cut thick, fried crisp, and a half loaf of seven grain bread appeared on the table as if by witches’ conjure. A pot of fresh tea followed. One sister took Little Evan, and I started eating, knowing I wore a goofy smile, as much because of my feelings as for the food. Everhart sisters’ hips crushed against mine; the chatter was almost deafening. Six eggs scrambled hard and a stack of pancakes with blueberry syrup found places between the arms and hands and mugs, the two sisters on duty keeping food and drinks flowing to customers seated around the café, too.

  “Anyone figure out what Angie’s dreams mean yet?” Cia asked, pouring tea into my cup and topping off the four other mugs.

  “Deer could be some sort of anthropological, Celtic, mass-memory.”

  “Dead deer in a big pile. Blood and bones. No horned ones. Not a Celtic thing.”

  “A warning?”

  I couldn’t help with dream interpretation. If I dreamed of dead deer, Beast would be eating them. I grinned wider and dug in as one sister upended a canister of whipped cream, squirting a mountain on top of the pancakes and another poured on blueberry syrup. The New Orleans French Quarter had nothing on the Sassy Sisters’ menu. The chatter grew as customers departed and the sisters settled in for a visit. The baby’s car seat landed in the middle of the table, the baby asleep, and cute in a drooling-snoring-bald-toothless way. And my heart expanded until it might explode. Yeah. If I’d grown up with a family, this was what I would have wanted it to be like: noisy and loving and demonstrative.

  And then, right in the middle of the meal, the chatter, the girlish exuberance, something changed. I felt it, like a heated breeze across my skin, a warm, rosy intensity from the doorway. Crap. Fork in hand, I half rose and craned to the entrance.

  Evangelina stood there, outlined by morning sunlight. She was wearing jeans and boots, a tee with a long purple scarf, a stylish cotton jacket. And a murderous expression. Beast rose and hit my bloodstream with her energy. I leaped over the table. Landed. No weapon but the fork.

  Evangelina’s face instantly morphed into a beautiful smile. I stopped, blinked. Had I seen that—­that whatever it was? She advanced, arms out to me. She looked happy to see me, which was a stunner. Evangelina had seldom been happy to see me. She also looked pretty, slender, as if she had lost twenty pounds, and, more important, she looked twenty years younger. Kill, Beast hissed. Danger. I tensed, confused by Beast’s reaction, not sure why I was standing there holding a fork. Evangelina pulled me into a hug. Her rosy glow covered me, damping my worry.

  It’s okay. This is good. Feeling foolish, I lowered my fork and hugged her back. Hugging felt fine. Good. Normal. She released me and pulled me to the table, my left hand in hers. I went with her. Retook my place as the sisters reorganized for me, and started eating, my left hand still over my head, lifted back over the booth seat behind me, clasped in hers. The pancakes were so good. I stuffed several mouthfuls in at once. Sweet. Fruity. Fabulous. Oh. My. God. Flavor flooded my mouth and exploded inside me.

  Evangelina let go of my hand.

  Beast’s claws tore through me. The rosy glow ripped away, slashed with a claw-strike. I gasped, heart racing, and started to sit up. Beast held me still, pulling the fork to my mouth. The food in my mouth was suddenly just . . . food. I chewed and swallowed. Again. Eating. Eyes on my plates. Not looking up. Not letting Evangelina notice that the spell she was using was no longer working on me.

  Crap. Spelling people without their knowledge was against witch-law, but the dang witch had spelled me again, using the same freaking rosy glow spell she had used before, the time I had nearly ended up having wild, crazy, hot, out-of-control sex with Bruiser in my shower. This time, instead of sex, I felt hunger, flavor, and the intense joy of family. I looked around, chewing. The girls were all watching Evil Evie, over my shoulder, behind the booth, laughing, hanging on her every word. Evangelina was telling about the cookie baking class she was planning. Spelling us.

  Little Evan, who had been passed from sister to sister during my meal, crawled across the table to me. No one stopped him. They were all too entranced by Evangelina, who was listing the cookies she wanted to teach the locals how to bake: sugar, lemon-lavender, snickerdoodle. Evan Jr. pushed my dishes out of the way and crawled into my lap. Moving with the clumsy, belly-and-diaper-in-the-way motor skills of a child, he stood on my thighs and stared into my eyes, forcing me to sit upright. I had never noticed that his were bluer than a Carolina sky after rain. I had never noticed his hair was more fiery than either of his parents’. I had, in fact, never noticed Little Evan except as a funny little kid. And if it was possible for a toddler to be worried, he was.

  “Aun’ Jane,” he whispered, putting his cheek against mine. Though Little Evan had been talking for months, I had heard him say less than ten words. And he had never said my name before. Never. “Aun’ Jane!” He grabbed my braid and yanked, insistent. The last of the rosy glow dissipated from my mind. “Aun’ Jane! He’p!” I put my arms around the kid and he wound his around my neck holding on for dear life. Choking me. He wasn’t spelled. And he knew I wasn’t spelled. And he knew his mother and aunts were. “Heee-yup! Pwease.”

  This was bad. Evangelina had ensorcelled her sisters. She was putting out some kind of whacky energy that spelled nearly everyone she met. She was spelling herself. Beast’s claws pushed into me, painful. I tightened my arms around Little Evan and whispered in his ear, “I know. It’s okay. I’ll fix it.” Somehow. He nodded fiercely; his cheek was wet against mine. Little Evan was crying. Oh crap. I hugged him hard and passed him to Molly. She took him absently, never looking at him. Little Evan looked over his shoulder at me, straining against Mol’s hold. Beast settled her claws into my psyche, painful, sharp. I saw a vision of a doe, tall grass between us. And the feeling of sudden, violent movement. The taste of hot blood. Yeah. Gotcha, I thought. Ambush.

  Slowly, I lifted my knee and put my right foot onto the burgundy seat. Beast poured strength and hot speed into me. I pulled in a breath, swiveled around, rising, grabbing the high back of the booth seat. Time slowed, heavy as wet sand. Evangelina stopped midsentence, eyes wide, and still I kept rising, bending over her. Fastfastfast. She started, shocked, one hand lifting, slowly. I leaned in, gripped her scarf, twisting, pulling her to me. The heat from her spell slid over my hands and away. Her face lifted, her hair falling back. And everything I thought I knew about witches, and this witch in particular, went up in smoke. There were pinprick spots on her neck.

  “Who bit you?” I demanded.

  Her lips parted. And I smelled another scent on her, like the bottom note on a cheap perfume, overloaded by the fresher ones, dying fast. I bent over her, twisting my other hand into her red hair. It felt like silk, like something from a dream. Beast growled deep inside me and I heard it spill from my mouth. “Who? Bit? You?” I demanded, not expecting her to answer.

  “Lincoln Shaddock,” she whispered.

  “Blood-whore,” I whispered back.

  Evangelina’s hands came together and up, separating as they passed through my arms. Slammed outward. Ripping her scarf over her head and
her hair from my grip. Suddenly she was on the other side of the booth. I turned, following her, still holding the purple scarf and strands of silky hair. She hunched her shoulders, her hands like claws, her nails blunt and painted pink. “I am none of your business!” she shouted. “Leave me alone!” Her hands formed a bowl and pink sparkling energy flashed from them. It washed over me, a heated wave of scented light, smelling like funeral flowers and old blood. Trying to spell me. Trying to make me accept and forget.

  When I spoke, it was an octave lower and full of threat. “Stop. Now,” I growled.

  The light washed past, feeling oily and flat-sharp, faceted. I could have sworn I heard it hit the brick behind me and shatter. Realizing her spell hadn’t worked, Evangelina shouted, “What the hell are you?” She raised her hands high, screamed with rage, and stormed out the door.

  The silence in the café was acute. Every person was staring at me. I was frozen in place, standing in the booth seat, Beast so close to the surface, I could feel her breath pant in my lungs. I felt a tug on my jeans. Harder. “Aun’ Jane. Aun’ Jane.” I looked down to see Little Evan holding on to a belt loop, his pudgy fingers yanking. I let him pull me to the seat. My arms went around him when he crawled into my lap. I was gasping, panting, desperate for air. The pinkish glow was fading, evaporating like the odor of strong perfume when the wearer is gone.

  Liz muttered, “Big sis is her usual charming self.” The others laughed.

  Pulling on Beast-sight, letting my heart rate slow and steady, I studied the witch sisters. Their eyes weren’t blank, but they also weren’t reacting with sufficient shock at seeing me pull Evil Evie’s hair, and their coven leader and elder sister storm off. Clinging to the sisters was the faintest tinge of shell-pink, the spell still active. And if I managed to figure out how to stop the spell—­like punching Evangelina in the mouth—­would that make things better or worse? Would it break the spell or make it unstable, dangerous? Disrupted spells sometimes caused a magical backlash that would physically or psychically harm the witches.