Raven Cursed: A Jane Yellowrock Novel

by Faith Hunter

  Pulled door closed. Room for bathing and cleaning body was dusty too. Big house-den for one witch woman. Waste of den space. Last room at end of small hallway was different. Smelled scent from this side of door. Blood. I sniffed, learning scent. Male. Blood many years old. I pressed lever with paw and door opened. Room had wood floor, couch, table, TV. Smelled of cigar smoke. And old newspapers. And dead human.

  Stepped carefully, slowly, inside. Blood was on floor, smell oldoldold. Chemicals had been used on it. Clorox, Jane thought. Detergents. I padded to back of couch and found rug there, against wall. Rolled up. Sniffed at end. Dead human was inside. Jane cursed, fear in her heart.

  Beast is not afraid. Beast is not prey, I reminded her. I turned and left room, pulling door shut with paw until it snicked closed, hiding dead man in rug. Checked other doors. All closed. Padded up to third story. Door at top had round handle, not lever. Will not be able to go here.

  Ran down stairs. Saw door at bottom, not able to see going up. Low light came from around edges. Opened door to see stairs leading down. I stopped. Tasting, testing. Air sparkled like taste of lemon. Taste of onion. Bad taste, like sting of bee. Remembered bee landed on food. Ate it. Hurt for long time. Could smell nothing here but bee smell. Nose curled. Hacked. Sneezed. Bad taste/smell. Heard soft groan. Sound of breathing, snoring, came up stairs, with light from room at bottom. But stairs were dark. Unlit.

  Good thing we aren’t in a bikini, Jane thought, or this would be seriously dangerous.

  Did not understand Jane’s laughter or Jane’s fear. Stepped over threshold. Checked door handle, to see if I could get out. Good lever handle on both sides. Started down stairs. On wall at end of narrow stairs I saw a picture in frame. Jane slowed to study it. I let her be alpha. Jane thoughts flooded my mind.

  I drew on my human sight. The painting was a depiction of a witch circle with a pentagram in the center; there were adults standing at the points of the pentagram. The female participants were dressed in belled skirts, big sleeves, and corsets that came to a point below the navel. The males wore knee pants, lace and satin, big-buckled shoes, and white wigs piled up high. And all had fangs. Lying in the center of the pentagram were two human-looking children, naked and bound. One of the wigged and goateed men held an athame over them. On his chest he wore a gaudy, heavy, gold chain set with a thick casing holding the pink diamond—­the blood-diamond—­the casing shaped of horns and claws. It looked barbaric, brutal, and powerful, an artifact from a distant time and place.

  I knew this painting. It was a depiction of a black magic art ceremony intended to bring vampire scions out of the devoveo, the state of insanity they entered into when they were turned, and which they endured for ten years or so, until they found themselves again amidst the bloodlust of vamp-hungers. I nudged Beast down the stairs, slowly. As we moved, more paintings appeared on the white-painted basement wall ahead, all hung at the same level.

  I had stolen these paintings from the vamps who had killed witch children. There were fifteen, a batch of seven from one century, the fifteenth century, I thought, and seven from the sixteenth century—­or maybe it was sixteenth and seventeenth century. The only thing that mattered was that this was art from two time periods that had been used to chronicle experiments of black magic—­blood magic. I had given them to Evangelina to destroy or store. Not to use.

  Beast padded into the basement room. Whoever was breathing and snoring, wasn’t in here. There was no furniture, no washing machine or dryer, nothing except walls and ceiling, which were painted white, and the floor, which was painted black . . . and the white witch circle in the center of the room. The paintings on the walls were equidistant apart, and were arranged according to century. Though the fashions changed, the people in the paintings did not. They were the vampire witches, the Damours, Renee and her brothers—­and husbands. She had married her siblings. I’d helped kill them.

  In the earlier paintings, the female vamps wore high-waisted, slender dresses showing a lot of cleavage, delicate shoes, and lots of natural-colored hair. The adult Damours were depicted through the ages, and sometimes their whacked-out teenaged children. In some paintings, the teens lay in the center of the witch circles and pentagrams, vamped out and clearly raving; in others, they were outside the circles. And there were always the sacrifices. In several paintings, the sacrificial witch children were dead, their throats cut, lives forfeited in the pentagram’s center. In others, they were being drunk from as they died.

  The experiments had changed in each depiction. In some, the circles and pentagrams were made by cutting into the earth, as if with a spade. In others, the circles were made with other things: powder or flour, feathers, flowers, broken stones, pebbles, shaped stones, bricks. The sacrificial athames in the older depictions were steel. The most recent ones were silver. One painting showed the long-chained teens ripping out the throats of the sacrifices and drinking them down. In another, the husbands and their two children were inside the circle, savaging a second man. Two younger, fangless children were being sacrificed by Renee Damour, the mother, a silver knife held high.

  The fourteenth painting was different from the previous ones. In it, a vamp raced downhill, white dress flying back with her speed, eyes blazing, holding a flaming cross. Sabina Delgado y Aguilar, the vampire priestess, coming to the rescue, vamped out, her face in a rictus scream of pain, her arms on fire, flames licking toward her body. The vamps in the circle were running away, faces full of terror.

  The fifteenth and last painting came from the 1970s, just before the advent of digital cameras. Vamps hadn’t had the use of silvered mirrors or silver-based film, so, until recently, if they wanted to see themselves, they had to pay for art. I had killed the Damours, the original owners of the blood-diamond amulet, to keep them from killing Angelina and Little Evan. I had done what seemed wise in giving the paintings to the strongest, most ethical witch I knew, the children’s aunt. And she had stolen the diamond and reunited it with the paintings. But Evangelina was not a vamp with vamp children, and she was no longer ethical. What was she doing with all this? Nothing made sense. The snoring grew softer as I stood there. Monotonous. It seemed to emanate from the back wall, from a thin, dark line, a narrow crack.

  Beast took the last step to the black floor and stopped, paws together, neck outstretched, facing the white-painted witch circle in the center of the big room. The outline of the circle on the floor was covered in salt, sealing it, indicating that, when Evangelina left, she left a working in progress. As we stared, Beast took another step, and I felt a quiver pass through us, electric and painful. The ward over the circle flared, bright and sharp, red as blood. Stinging.

  Beast hissed. The shock settled low in our belly, deep in our joints. And tugged. The room went brighter, whiter, as our pupils dilated. Beast took another step forward and stumbled.

  Crap. Beast? Black lightning and scarlet motes flashed through the ward, much like the hedge of thorns, a protection ward Molly had once made for me, and similar to one Evangelina had made for Leo, back when she was still part of the witch/vamp negotiations. But Leo’s had been built like a cone which had stopped just short of the ceiling, and it hadn’t worked perfectly. This one was bowl shaped, a far stronger ward.

  Beast took another step. Something dark flowed up from the center of the circle, like smoke, but cohesive. Like a shadow, but three dimensional. It threw itself at the ward. The lightning coalesced at the impact point, blacker than night, flickering with purple and blue lights. Scarlet motes swarmed out and around the ward, as if looking for escape. The shadow fell back, expanded horizontally for a moment before reshaping. It looked vaguely like a person, one with extra-broad shoulders. Something about its form also looked angry and, maybe, hungry. The ward returned to its bloodred color and the lightning resumed its flickering.

  Beast’s breath sped up, panting. Hunger lanced through her stomach and bowels. She took another step toward the thing inside.

  I realized that she had
been spelled by whatever working was taking place in the circle. Beast! I shouted into her mind. Another step brought us within feet of the circle. Beast! When she didn’t react, and took another step, I reached out mentally and put my hands and feet into her paws. Balance was different. I’d never been in control of Beast and I/we stumbled. I sat us down, her body listing drunkenly. The floor had a chill to it on Beast’s backside, like bare stone. But at least we weren’t moving forward anymore.

  I could still feel the call drawing Beast closer, and knew I had to get us back from the working, but I didn’t know how. Extending her claws, I pressed them against the floor lightly, as I studied the thing inside. It seemed to study me, though if it had eyes I couldn’t make them out and I had a feeling that I shouldn’t look for them. The thing was amorphous, or maybe multimorphous; I could see through it as it moved around the periphery of the circle, like a dog might walk around a cage, not touching the ward. It had a tail. Or a leash. As if part of it was being spindled out and anchored to the floor in the center of the circle.

  On the floor, where the trail of darkness ended was something shiny and gelatinous. It had to be blood, though I couldn’t smell anything over the tingly magic. I didn’t know much about witch magic, and I knew nothing about blood magic—­what many called black magic—­but I was pretty sure, based on the blood and the way Beast was acting, that this was a summoning spell.

  And that meant the thing in the middle might be a demon.

  Crapcrapcrapcrap!

  The snoring changed pitch, breaking into my awareness. It had been so regular I had forgotten it. And perhaps the thing-in-the-circle had forgotten it too, because at the change, it whirled and raced to the far side of the ward. It grew horizontal again, and I realized it was spreading wings, diaphanous as mist. It snapped its wings closed and raised its head. I could see a shadow beak, like a hawk’s, open with a cry.

  Maybe the thing-in-the-circle had begun to affect me as well, because I could suddenly breathe easier. I pressed down with a front paw, pushing against the floor. My body moved back, sliding. I pulled that paw to me, using the other paw to apply pressure to the floor. Slowly I pushed Beast’s body away from the thing-in-the-circle and back toward the steps.

  Jane? Beast thought at me, sounding disoriented.

  It’s okay. I got us out. Can you walk?

  Beast yawned and shook her head before flowing into a stretch, the kind cats do after a nap. Can walk. But not close to lightning.

  The wall on the other side of the room isn’t solid. There’s something on the other side. Can you get us there?

  Beast stood, her balance only a little affected. I released control of her body and pulled back, away from the centers of her brain used for motor control. Being in charge of her body—­that had felt seriously freaky. Beast walked around the room, her right side sliding along the walls as if she were scent-marking them. Beast pressed a paw against the back wall. It opened with a creak; the section of the wall was a hidden door. Scent spilled out, as if it had been spelled to remain inside, but opening the door broke the ward, releasing it. The thing-in-the-circle thrashed; the sizzle of electricity as it bounded around its cage was like the sound of searing meat. I drew farther into Beast’s mind and let her take over.

  Wolf den, I thought to Jane. I growled. Dropped head, showing teeth. Room was dark, dim light spilling in from behind. Wolves did not attack. I looked back, to see caged thing hitting ward, black lightning sparking. Looked again into room filled with wolf smell. I was smart hunter; would not enter place of darkness. Saw white place on wall, switch for light, and raised up. Lifted switch with paw pad. Light filled room, faster than sunrise. Room was full of big cages, stacked along wall. Like cages in place for doctor of dog.

  Only if the dogs are big as ponies, Jane thought.

  Only two cages were full. Werewolves. I hacked with laughter. Werewolves in cages. Good. Catch wolves. Cage them. Kill them. I gathered for leap.

  No, Jane thought. No killing. Well, not yet.

  I hissed. Want to kill wolves. Wolves were in human form. Big hairy male, the one Jane called Fire Truck, and smaller male—­Weasel. Sleeping.

  Naked again. What is it about Evangelina and nudity.

  Smell blood. Wolf blood. Padded close, to see cuts on wolves’ bodies, gaping open, not healed. I stretched out neck, nose to cage, opened mouth. Sniffed/tasted. Smell of poison.

  Not poison. Something else. I sniffed again. The cuts won’t heal because she used silver to make them. And the wolves didn’t fight back when she did. They let her. Oh crap. She slipped them a Mickey. Evangelina was the woman with the umbrella at the Cajun restaurant. She tracked them and took them down somehow and brought them here.

  Smell vampire blood too. Smell Lincoln Shaddock.

  Jane was silent, unable to speak, thinking too fast for Beast to follow.

  Spell in witch circle is to summon two-natured, moon-called, I thought. Tried to summon us when we got close. But we are Beast. Better than Jane or big-cat alone. Better than wolves, better than Lincoln vampire. Tilted head. Thought for a moment, thought like Jane. Thinking like Jane hurt. Lincoln Shaddock was dead and undead, two-natured but not two-natured. We are two-natured, but not two-natured. Shook head as if flea nipped at ear. Magic was confusing.

  She’s had Shaddock in her bed and basement, wolves in cages, a body in a rug. Jane made blowing sound again, frustrated. You’re right. Perhaps a summoning affected him. Vamps are dead and undead. With the whole being-alive-at-night thing, maybe they’re moon-called too. Weres are two-natured and full-moon-called. Why summon either?

  Jane went quiet. Unless she expected Leo to be here. Rick said it was scuttlebutt, and maybe she had heard the rumors. Maybe getting Leo here, where she would be at the center of her power and he was cut off from his clans, was her intention all along.

  Thoughts for daytime. We spend too long in Evangelina den, wolf den. Must go. I turned, walked to door and pawed switch off. Wolf den with cages went dark. I walked into room with witch circle, leaving door open. No lever handle to pull it shut. Felt pull of spell on floor. Jane put hand on my mind, held off summoning.

  Thing-in-the-circle stared at us. I could sense its . . .

  Bewilderment, Jane thought. It can’t understand why we aren’t being drawn inside with it.

  I moved around wall, back to stairs, and up. Summoning spell weakened. Was gone when we reached top of stairs. I pushed Jane away. Beast is alpha. Closed door behind us. Went to window. Evangelina was still in circle, body covered in blood. She was lying on side. Sleeping. I opened door and slipped through. Raced off of porch and leaped across brush, to land, silent, on rock and pebble path. Looked over shoulder to see Evangelina, bloody, asleep. Another leap took us deep into shadows under low tree. We turned again to look at witch, sleeping, covered in blood. Hacked softly. Stupid kit mistake.

  Let’s shift, call Adelaide’s driver service, and get back to the hotel. I have a lot of research to do. On demons.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Want to Play?

  Back at the hotel, I picked up my cell and made a few calls, the first to Evan—­and he actually answered even though he had to see my number on the readout. I described the scene at Evil Evie’s and he said, “I need to think about this. You will not interfere, do you understand? Break the spell at the wrong point and you could kill Molly.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” I hung up, ticked off, though I knew he could handle the demon situation better than I could any day.

  I left a message for the sheriff that the wolves were currently caged and no danger to the public. I deliberately didn’t leave any details, and figured that would irritate him—­I enjoyed baiting cops. I punched END with a little grin, turned on the gas logs and the laptop, curled on the bed, and went Internet hopping.

  There were a gazillion sites about demons on the Internet, most stupid, but maybe a half gazillion that could offer something to me. I refined my search, adding in beak, wings, moon-ca
lled, werewolves, and started a list on a pad. There were demons of all kinds: Christian, pagan, Jewish, tribal, ancient, fictional, mythical, modern, European, American tribal Indian, Eastern, Middle Eastern, Asian. I began a list, trying to ignore the weird feeling that a predator was standing across the room with its eyes on my neck. Just nerves, but still. Demons were scary.

  When I had a page full of demon names, I closed the laptop and leaned back on the bed, pillows piled behind me. This wasn’t working. There were too many possibilities. The gas fireplace cast both heat and flickering shadows, warming the room enough for me, even wearing only boy-shorts and a thin tank top. I should be desperate for sleep, but I was too wired to close my eyes, and the sunlight that poured around the edges of the blackout blinds assured me I should be up and around, not exhausted and depleted. All I could see was the demon in the circle as I/we walked away from it.

  I wasn’t used to sitting on my hands, doing nothing, but charging in to Evil Evie’s basement and attacking the thing in the circle would likely cause more harm than good, and maybe release a demon to wreak havoc on Earth. I could call the cops, but that would just endanger humans. I could call Leo. And if he came and killed Evangelina, any hope of future parley between vamps and witches was ended for this generation because the witches would hold all vamps accountable for the death. It would be the next generation before younger witches would be willing to try again. In all honesty, that didn’t bother me. But if Leo interfered, and the spell went kaboom, it might hurt Mol. Or, I could go to the café and tell the sisters but that was going to be a problem no matter how I might phrase it. “Hi, girls. Your crazy-as-a-bat sister—­the one screwing a vamp—­has kidnapped two werewolves, stored them in cages in the basement, drained their blood, and summoned a demon. Oh, and she’s sleeping outside buck naked, covered in spelled blood, and has a dead man rolled up in a carpet in her house.” Yeah. Like that was gonna work. Not.