Panther (Prime Prowlers Book 1)

by Kelsey Vance

  That was before I understood—before I knew about my mother's magic, or my own.

  My magic is physical, attuned to the push and pull of natural forces. There's spiritual magic, too, like Nali's—she can summon spirits and speak to souls. The most advanced and powerful of her class can even pull souls from bodies, or put them back in. At least, that's the legend.

  The mental class of sorcerers has special gifts of intelligence, innovation, or strategy. Some can manipulate memories, give pain or pleasure, communicate telepathically, or predict flashes of the future. Those talents are rare and prized.

  My mother was an emotion-class sorceress, highly gifted, and she used her powers on nearly everyone in her life, so subtly that most of them never knew it. When I was eight, my father was in a car wreck while on a business trip and ended up in the hospital in a coma for two weeks. When he returned to consciousness, he realized that he didn't love my mother at all. There wasn't a hint or vestige of that affection left. She tried to get to him, to weave the spell again; but he knew what she had done, and he refused to see her, or me.

  No one believed his story, that she had compelled him to love her. Family friends whispered that he must have left us because he had an affair. At the time, all I knew was that my father, who once loved me, no longer wanted to see my face. I couldn't even feel sadness, and the affection I had once felt for him was simply gone. I didn't know why.

  My mother took those feelings away, as she did most of my emotions for the first sixteen years of my life. I couldn't be angry, sad, happy, or excited. Sometimes, by the end of the school day, I would start to experience flickers of emotion, but then I would see my mother again and I would slip back into peaceful nothingness. She wanted a calm child, she said. A pleasant child. No drama. And so I sat in my bathroom at home and I sliced into my skin, just to feel something. Anything.

  I shake the memories away, descending the gloomy staircase to the first floor. It's several degrees cooler down here, and I wander the halls in search of a couch to curl up on. The study sofa isn't very long or comfortable, so I bypass that room and continue to a narrow sunroom at the back of the house, a screened-in space that should have plenty of airflow—but when I walk in, the air is oddly stale.

  Through the screens, I can see the glittering wall, glowing faintly purple in the dark. The singing of crickets passes through the barrier, but it's a softer sound than it would be without that interference.

  I lay both hands and my forehead against the screen. There's barely a whiff of air over my skin.

  "Can't sleep?"

  The voice startles me and I whirl, hands clenched.

  "Chill out, girl," says the voice, a lazy male drawl.

  Ryden. Of course it is, because I seem fated to run into him at every turn. I groan inwardly.

  He's lying in the shadows on one of the couches, and he waves toward another couch. "Make yourself comfortable."

  "I was about to go back to my room."

  "It's cooler down here."

  I hesitate.

  "You don't want to stay because I'm here, yeah?" He rises, sighing. "I'll go elsewhere. You're welcome to have this room."

  "What's your deal?" I snap.

  He stares. "My deal?"

  "Yes. Your deal. Your damage. I'm not buying the whole blend of gallant yesteryear gentleman with 90's football jock. It's too weird. So who's the real Ryden?"

  His brows crease with confusion. "You think I'm putting on some kind of act?"

  "Obviously." But the incredulity in his eyes is so raw and unassumed that I begin to doubt myself. "You know what—never mind."

  He's still frowning at me, and I stifle the urge to smack him across his honest face. The impulse horrifies me, because when did I get like this? Wanting to hit a guy simply because he's being nice?

  I spin back to the window.

  Deceitful people tend to suspect others of lying. I'm sure I read that in a book once. The truth of the phrase, and the accompanying twinge of guilt, latch onto me, lingering after Ryden's shuffling steps have faded.

  I scrape a fingernail down the screen, wishing I had told him to stay.

  And then a dark shadow flits across the lawn.

  At first I think I imagined it, but then another black shape squeezes through the barrier, like toothpaste being pressed from a tube, growing larger as it oozes out. It pops free and dashes across the lawn, following the other shadow. I can't see what it is exactly, but there are long, sweeping horns, and oddly jointed legs that move jerkily, spasmodically.

  Sucking in a breath, I back away from the window.

  More shapes are coming through now, one after another, limbs shuddering, bodies lurching, tongues lashing.

  "Demons," I whisper. Then louder, "Demons! Ryden!" I call.

  He's beside me so quickly that he must have been in the next room. "What?"

  "Look." I point at the creatures.

  He curses, then hollers for Oakland at the top of his lungs as we both sprint for the front entry. Winchester stands before the door, stiff-legged, barking. Ryden hauls him into a closet and closes the door. "In case they break in," he says to me. "I don't want him hurt."

  Within seconds, Oakland and Daera and Nali come thundering down the steps, silhouetted against the light flooding from the second floor hallway.

  "Something's coming," says Ryden. "Time to fight."

  "Fight how?" says Oakland warily.

  "The best way we know." Ryden sprints to the front door and peers out the window beside it. Something black and slimy splats itself against the glass, wet and writhing. "See what I mean? We don't have a choice."

  "Demons," breathes Nali. She's dead white, trembling. Usually, in a fight like this, she'd call on a few militant spirits to help her out. They'd siphon a little of her energy, swirl around her, keep her safe. But now, with our magic suppressed, she and I will both have to switch to our backup training—a smorgasbord of martial arts styles, most of which I barely remember because it's been at least a year since I practiced any of it.

  Oakland dashes into a nearby room and comes back with a gun. Ryden rolls his eyes. "That's not what I meant. One gun isn't going to cut it, man."

  "It'll have to do," Oakland grits through his teeth, glaring at his younger brother.

  Two bodies crash simultaneously against the front window, and a long crack splits the glass, radiating crooked slits.

  "Give the gun to one of the girls," says Ryden. "And we'll take the beasts on in our stronger form. Come on, Oak. We don't have a choice here."

  "Let's try to fend them off with this first," insists Oakland. I sympathize with his desire to maintain the family secret. Among those with class magic, secrecy is the top priority. I suppose it's the same for low-level users like shifters.

  Another thud of monstrous bodies, and the glass breaks, dark smoky forelegs clawing over the jagged shards as the first demon scrambles into the room. It has a spider's face, with wicked mandibles and a dozen eyes, but its paws and body look like a gigantic dog's. It hisses, clacking its mouthparts, and leaps for Ryden. Oakland shoots it through the face, and it crumples, issuing jets of foul sulfurous steam as it slowly dissolves into nothing.

  A second demon slithers through the window gash, long tentacles whipping over the men's heads. One of the tentacles snakes up the stairs, hooks Nali's ankle, and drags her down. She shrieks, fumbling at her waist—but the tiny knife she always carries must be upstairs in her room. I don't have a weapon either, but I seize an urn from beside the staircase and smash it onto the throbbing tentacle, crushing it. It withdraws, but dozens more are waving through the room—it's like a forest of swaying snakes. Oakland's gun fires again, and the creature jerks, squealing. It snatches his weapon the next second and smashes it against the floor. The gun goes off, a deafening bang, and I scream in spite of myself.

  I leap off the steps and race through the first floor into the kitchen, straight to the knife block. Butcher knife and bread knife in hand, I sprint back into
the hall, ready to rejoin the fight—but a hulking demon blocks my way. It's an unholy blend of bear and warthog, all spines and tusks, shaggy fur and bulging shoulders. It must have ripped through the screens in the sunroom. It snorts and snarls, pawing the hardwood into splinters.

  Shaking, gritting my teeth, I raise the knives. The demon roars and charges, slamming me into the wall with its shoulder. Yelling with pain, I sink the butcher knife into its muscle and stab it in the eye with the other knife. It roars again, twisting, trying to impale me with its tusks. The bristles on its snout rip through my shirt into my side.

  And then a shadow with glowing eyes leaps out of the darkness, claws outstretched, a hellish scream echoing off the walls. The panther lands on the demon's back, digging in, and latches onto the beast's thick neck with gleaming fangs.

  I yank the knives out of the creature and stab over and over, punctuating each strike with a yell. The panther jumps forward again, landing on the demon's head this time, its snarling face only a foot or two from mine. With another scream, it claws at the demon's face and eyes, then curves around to bite the skin under its throat. The demon sags, then collapses, oozing horrible-smelling goo and gases.

  Trembling, I stumble away from the wall, holding my shredded side. The bread knife snapped in half, but I still have the butcher knife in my right hand. I angle it toward the panther, backing away slowly.

  -5-

  Animal

  The panther leaps off the demon's carcass and paces toward me, yellow-green eyes shining, its dark head lowered. Its tail flicks back and forth, a sinuous shadow in the gloomy hallway. If it decides to attack me, I'll be dead in seconds. Its enormous shoulders reach my waist level, and those jaws look like they could crunch through my ribs.

  The immense cat pauses right in front of me—but a shriek from the front entry summons us both. The panther bounds away, and I follow.

  The shriek came from Daera—she's pinned under a goat-footed demon that's snapping at her face with crocodile jaws. Nali is beating the creature with a lamp, her fear forgotten. "Get—off—her!" she bellows, and with a mighty lunge she thrusts the lamp into the creature's mouth, down its throat. "Choke on that, you demon bastard!"

  Oakland is nowhere to be seen, but there's a tawny-coated cat locked in combat with another demon. Daera staggers to her feet. "Well, the cat is literally out of the bag now," she says, and transforms into a golden-furred panther with thick black markings around the eyes. With a chirping whine to me and Nali, she dives into the fight.

  "Damn shifters," pants Nali, sliding back to back with me.

  "Why doesn't the barrier affect their transformation?" I say, slicing at an oncoming demon.

  "Carnal magic is different. It's innate, ingrained on a cellular level. Not energy-based like ours."

  "Unfair."

  "Completely." She stamps at a weaselly, slithery demon, trying to crush it under her bare foot.

  "Just stab it, Nali," I say—but my distraction bites me in the ass as two thick tentacles lash around me, wrapping tight. I'm tugged toward a sphincter-like mouth, over which sits a pair of disturbingly human-looking eyes. The demon purrs, a rumble of satisfaction through its tentacles, and presses me tight against its slithering body. From its mouth writhes a glistening tongue that pushes at my lips and smears slime across my cheeks. I twist away. I am totally having a Princess Leia/Jabba the Hutt moment with this thing, and if it weren't so disgusting, I'd be tempted to laugh.

  I wrench my shoulders, wiggling my knife arm till I can jab the blade against one of the pulsing arms that entrap me. The creature twitches, and I rake its flesh with the knife until it groans and retracts its coils. A quick stab to each eye, and it crumples. I stumble back, gagging at the smell.

  The house falls eerily silent.

  In the shadowy entry, we stare at each other—three panthers and two women, panting over the jumble of shredded clothing and dissolving demon bodies oozing sulfurous bile.

  The golden panther, Daera, sits up primly and begins licking her paws clean. The black Ryden-cat paces, eyes on me, growling low in his throat. Oakland pads into the next room and comes back in human form, a fringed throw wrapped around his waist.

  "I'm so sorry you had to see that," he says. "You must be shocked, terrified. I'm sorry. We didn't have a choice."

  Daera's panther squalls, chuffs, and bounds up the steps without a backward glance. She's obviously above explaining herself to us, and is planning to leave the distasteful chore to her brother.

  Ryden doesn't revert either. He keeps prowling back and forth, back and forth, pausing to peer out the broken window and down the back hallway. Each time he passes me, his nostrils twitch and he turns his head slightly in my direction.

  Nali sits on the lowest step, her arms propped on her knees, hands limp. The shock on her face isn't entirely fake, I'm sure. She and I have never encountered anything like those demons. Then again, we've only been acquiring magical artifacts for the Patronage for a couple of years, and we always get the easy jobs. Maybe the older, more experienced teams run into this type of thing regularly.

  "You can't tell anyone that we're shifters," says Oakland, desperation straining his tone. "It's imperative. Do you understand?"

  "Yeah, yeah, sure," says Nali.

  "If you don't keep our secret, we'll have to—" Oakland winces and nods to the dark panther. Ryden's black coat gleams in the light from the stairs as he approaches Nali and growls, a clear warning.

  Then he turns and walks up to me, his huge paws barely making a sound. His lips curl back, exposing sleek fangs as he half-snarls, half-screams a forceful threat. I shrink back against the console table, fingers white-knuckled around my knife. If it weren't for the magic-dampening effect of the stupid barrier, I'd show this bastard cat who's got the real power here.

  The panther's face relaxes, sobering again, and he moves closer, bumping my bleeding side with his muzzle. His rough pink tongue scrapes lightly over the cuts.

  "Gross!" Nali says, cringing. "Push it away, Cilla!"

  The panther looks up at me, backing off a step. But instead of pushing him away, I reach out slowly, toward his head, and I lay my hand on the glossy black fur. I don't know why I do it. But when I glance up, Nali and Oakland are both staring at me, clearly disturbed by the interchange.

  "Ryden!" snaps Oak. "Revert, please. Not here. Upstairs."

  With a parting snarl at his brother, Ryden leaps up the steps and disappears. Oakland follows, turning back to say. "Excuse us for a moment while we get some clothes and blankets. I think we should all sleep in the great room for the rest of the night. If anything comes while we're changing—"

  "—we'll scream like maniacs," Nali finishes. "Or we'll let them kill us before this gets any weirder."

  Less than five minutes after he went upstairs, Ryden is back, wearing only a pair of shorts low-slung on his hips. He carries a first aid kit. "Come on, Cilla," he says without looking at me, and he heads down the hall.

  "Don't," hisses Nali. I shrug and follow Ryden.

  He leads me into a bathroom near the study. The light comes on automatically when we enter.

  "Hop up here." He pats the counter.

  "Why?"

  "I'm going to bandage you."

  "I can do it myself."

  He cocks his head. "Is this a feminist thing? Cause I figure it's human decency to help a guest who's wounded, but maybe that's just me."

  Sure, I'm a feminist—but I'm not the type to bite a guy's head off for holding the door or picking up the check, and I don't want him to think that of me. So I relent, hoisting myself onto the counter, knees apart and feet dangling. Gingerly I peel up the torn remnants of my shirt to expose my side. The cuts from the demon's bristles aren't deep, but there are a lot of them, and they sting like hell.

  Ryden douses cotton swabs in alcohol. The sharp smell of it is actually a relief after the reek of the dead demons.

  "Are you ready?" He moves between my knees and looks into my e
yes. "This is going to hurt."

  I clench my teeth. "Bring it on."

  I thought I was ready, but the flash of pain is so sudden that I cry out. Ryden wipes and dabs quickly. "Sorry! Has to be done. Who knows what kind of infectious crap those things carry." My flesh quivers at the pain, and I bite my wrist, whimpering.

  "You're taking this better than I thought you would," he says, pausing.

  "Fine, I'm a wimp." I drop my bitten wrist and clutch the edge of the counter.

  He chuckles. "Not the alcohol. The whole shifter thing."

  I sigh. How can I explain this without giving myself away? "I've seen a lot of strange things in my life. This tops them all, but—I'm coping with it. Trying to, anyway."

  "So you're jumpy when there's no danger, and brave when there is. Interesting." He moves a little closer, tilting his head to inspect the scratches along my side. His smooth, golden-brown skin, those firm pecs and rippling abs, the curves of his shoulders and biceps—it's all right there, so touchable, so close. And his face—that exquisitely masculine jawline, lightly stubbled with black hair, and the sweeping cheekbones, and those color-shifting eyes, half-hidden under his black lashes. My fingers twitch with the urge to touch him, and somewhere deep in my body, a heated craving begins.

  The swab touches my side again, and I hiss with pain.

  "Almost done," he says. "Want me to distract you?"

  "Sure."

  I'm expecting more shifter talk, or a joke—but he leans in and kisses me. I start to recoil, but the electric tingles running over my lips and through my body divert me, and then I'm lost. His lips are warm and full, lightly wet, and he pulls back a millimeter or two, hovering, before pressing in again. I forget where I am, what I'm doing—there's only the heat of his body, and the pressure of his mouth, and the soft slide of his tongue.

  And then he breaks away. "There. Done."

  He tosses the cotton in the trash and rifles through the first aid kit. I turn my head away from him and catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror—my cheeks flushed, lips reddened, eyes bright. I look eighteen again, in a good way, and I hide a smile as Ryden comes back, holding up a tube of antibiotic ointment. "Some of this next," he says.