by Jaime Rush
Zoe had been right about the scorpions-in-her-hair feeling. Petra scrubbed her fingers over her scalp as she headed toward the restroom.
“How much longer?” she asked when she returned to the bike.
He glanced at his watch. “We’ve been on the road for two hours.”
“Augh. One more hour. And we don’t even know what they’re driving now.”
He’d been watching the road that passed by the station. Not much traffic, but every vehicle could contain Yurek and Baal.
“Let’s go,” he said, and off they went again.
Two hours would have been bad enough, but after three, she felt as though she’d walked the damned road. The sun glared down at them, frying her eyes but at least warming her some.
Her physical discomfort was nothing compared to the tension inside. Were they ahead of Yurek and Baal or behind them? Would they stop Yurek before he went back and tattled to the C? Their lives hung on the edge of that one question.
What if the C sent back more Callorians to even the odds? Could they take her and Cheveyo back to Surfacia and SCANE them? They’d find out about the others, the baby.
She mentally screamed, trying to stop her runaway train thoughts. Problem number eight with riding a motorcycle: she couldn’t read or otherwise distract herself. Problem seven was how vulnerable she felt out in the open. Yurek had sent them off the road with a nudge. Memories of the way he rammed his car into the RV came to mind. The Tank wasn’t about to be pushed. This bike . . . no chance it would stay stable.
They made a left and headed toward their final destination, a narrow, barely asphalt road squeezed in between two mountain ranges. She was tired of seeing rocks, sand, and scrub, and nothing else. Ten minutes down the road she regretted that thought. There was something else, all right: several trucks blocking the road. To the right of the road the land dropped off steeply. To the left, two trucks were parked in the one portion that was flat, backed up to a mound of red rocks and sand. Three men were using some kind of a tractor to fill in where the road had caved away. All three workers looked up, their faces tightening in irritation.
Cheveyo surveyed the situation but couldn’t see a way for the bike to get through to the other side. He cut the engine and removed his helmet as the bike drifted up to the one man within talking range. “What’s going on here? We have to get past you, and fast.”
“What the hell is going on out there?” The burly man jerked his head behind him.
Her heart froze. “Two other people came by here, too?” she asked.
“About ten minutes ago, saying it was urgent they get past. The one guy didn’t look so hot, though what help he thought he was going to get thatta way is beyond me. The driver . . .” He shook his head. “Scary looking guy. We moved the trucks, big pain in the ass, and let ’em pass. You’ll have to wait. We should have the hole filled in about thirty minutes.”
Cheveyo met her gaze. They had no time to spare. “I’m afraid that’s not going to do. Those two were fugitives. They’re meeting others out here, and if we don’t intercept them, they’re gone.”
The man looked skeptical. “Unless you got a badge, I’m not moving the tractor.”
Cheveyo’s voice was low, almost a growl. “It would be in your best interest to cooperate.”
The man’s scowl melted into a mix of puzzlement and wariness. He took a step back. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, his voice soft and weak. He turned so fast he stumbled, then quickly walked over to the other men.
She looked at Cheveyo. His eyes were dark, as dark as the energy he was putting off. She shivered. “Did you do that influence thing on him?”
“No, that only works on you because of our connection. I used the cat energy thing. All he sensed was imminent danger.”
An idling engine shifted into gear, and the tractor moved back. The man they’d spoken with jerked his arm toward the narrow space. They rode through it, and Cheveyo waved his thanks. She glanced back and saw the man staring at him for a moment and then pulling out something that looked like a phone.
“I think he might be calling the police,” she said.
“Then we’d better eradicate Yurek and Baal before they come.”
The man soon became lost in a cloud of dust. She squeezed her arms around Cheveyo. He was a spooky badass, but he was her spooky badass.
He tore down the dusty road. She looked around the side of him, seeing no sign of any vehicle up ahead. They’d gotten a good head start.
Sunlight glinted off glass in the near distance, about a half mile off the road. No chance of surprising Yurek and Baal; they would hear the bike’s engine. A truck was parked next to a rise in the ground. It was the truck Yurek had obviously stolen, empty now, and they tore past it. The ground was covered in gray rocks and scrub brush. The bike climbed over and around them, but it slowed them down.
“Do we know what a finestra looks like?” she asked.
“I never saw one.”
“Can it suck us in?”
“Don’t know. But as Pope said, even if we survived the trip, we’d be captured on the other side. We’ll feel it, I’m sure, so we stay clear of it.”
In the same second that she saw Yurek, painfully walking toward a mound of rocks, Baal in dog-beast form leapt toward them. Cheveyo gunned the engine, and Baal sailed just behind her. She felt the brush of its fur against her jacket, smelled its musk. It tumbled to the ground but quickly gained its footing.
“We need to get on foot fast,” Cheveyo said as he slowed to a stop.
She got off a second before him, and he laid the bike down so a rock kept it slightly upright. She already had her knife out as Baal came at them again, covering Cheveyo until he had time to get his out.
He lunged at Baal.
Petra glanced to the right, seeing Yurek far in the distance. “I’ll go after Yurek,” she said. “He won’t be much of a threat right now.”
She ran, fighting to keep her footing in the soft sand, and in a few minutes caught up to him. He struggled toward what she now saw was a shimmer in the air, different from the waves of heat. It vibrated through her being. His eyes darkened, and she saw an echo of black jaguar as he tried to change to cat, to Cheveyo’s cat. But he couldn’t hold onto it. Sink the knife into his heart, that’s all she had to do to stop this. It would be mostly over, except for Baal.
Yurek picked up his pace, though he winced at every movement. She was breathless, the cold air searing her lungs as she gasped. She shed the jacket as she ran, wanting more mobility. The knife was gripped in her hand, damp from perspiration. Her leg muscles ached.
He was almost at the shimmer now. He was gasping, too, glancing back.
He was too close. Have to stop him. Any way I can.
She ran full out and threw herself at him, knife out. He fell into the shimmer. She sailed through it, landing hard on the rock-stubbled ground beyond it and coming to her feet, ready for anything. He was gone. The shimmer was gone, too.
Too late. No! Can’t be.
Her chest ached, but Petra pulled herself up and made her way back to Cheveyo. She picked up her jacket on the way, relieved to find him in one piece. He was cat, sparring with his enemy. Magnificence and strength, black fur liquid indigo in the sunlight. She could clearly see the jaguar markings beneath the black. He spared her a glance, and Baal took advantage of that, slamming into Cheveyo and knocking him to the ground. Instead of pouncing, though, it fled, bounding over the rocks, favoring one leg.
“He’s gone,” she said on a whimper. “Yurek’s gone. I couldn’t stop him.”
Cheveyo tore after Baal, all deadly grace. They’d get one, at least. She followed as fast as she could. As she reached the slight rise in the terrain, she saw Cheveyo studying the landscape. His tail flicked in agitation. All around, rock and mounds, and no sign of Baal.
“He could be anywhere,” she said, catching her breath as she approached. She searched, as he did. His nose twitched, obviously trying to pick up the
scent. The breeze blew her hair across her face. It was probably too windy.
Cheveyo morphed back to man then, his dark eyes still raking the area even as they slowly returned to their blue-gray shade.
She braided her hair, more to keep it under control than out of nervous habit. “Why did Baal run away? Did you injure him?”
“No, I think he’s still feeling the wound you gave him. His instinct, his drive, is to attack, to eliminate the enemy. I don’t know why he’d run away.” He ran his hand back through his waves, still searching.
“Maybe he’s afraid of us.”
“I doubt it. I don’t like it when Glouks don’t act like they’re supposed to. At the festival, he was setting us up instead of trying to eliminate us. He’s up to something now, too, probably at Yurek’s bequest. But I don’t sense him anywhere near. If he’s run off, he’s not coming back. Show me where the finestra is.”
“Was. I can’t see it now that Yurek is gone.” She led him back to where she remembered seeing the shimmer. “It was here, like a door, only taller and wider.”
“Maybe it’s triggered by Yurek’s DNA, and we don’t have enough Callorian in us to trigger it.”
She rubbed her arms and then put on the jacket. “I’d be afraid to go to the other side.”
“It doesn’t sound like a place I’d want to live. We’d better get out of here, in case that yahoo back there did call the cops.” He checked his phone. “No signal. Still, he may get a better signal than I do. A stolen truck, two missing men, and us—not something I want to explain.”
They walked back to the bike, and Cheveyo pulled out the map. Then he surveyed the terrain. “I think we can go across that way to hook up with another road. It looks somewhat smooth. Hopefully it continues that way.”
“Will we come back here in twenty-four hours?”
“Yurek knows we found this place, and he’ll figure we know about the healing period. If he’s the one coming back, he won’t return here.”
“Which means he’ll probably come in at the other finestra.”
“Which is where our furry buddy may be off to. I’ll bet Yurek wants him to stay alive to guard the other finestra when he comes back in. It’s a guess, but that may be why he didn’t engage us. I’ll stop when we get near the next town and call Pope.”
They put on their helmets, got on the bike, and headed slowly across the crumbly terrain. She held onto him as the bike lurched and sometimes sank into the softer areas of dirt. It took a while, with the sun beating down on them. Thankfully, the air stayed in the sixties. They approached a more densely treed area, and she said, “Can we stop for a few minutes? I need to drink.”
She’d been feeling a different kind of tension as she held onto his waist, mostly seeing his hair drifting in the breeze and his broad back. He’d stored his jacket, leaving the muscles of his back more visible beneath the black shirt.
Cheveyo cut the engine once they reached the shade, and she stretched and gulped down half a bottle of water in one swig. When she turned to face him, their gazes caught and jumped up her heartbeat. His eyes darkened, but not in that I’m going to eat you up way. More like an I’m going to eat you way that was far scarier. To her heart, anyway.
She opened her mouth, and for a second no words came out. His gaze went to her lips, and he instinctively licked his own.
Finally words came out of her mouth: “You . . . feel it again?”
He nodded.
“The irrational, inappropriate . . .”
“Lust,” he finished, stalking closer, as deliberate as a cat eyeing its prey.
She was walking toward him, too, not even aware of it until this moment.
“Inappropriate,” he echoed. “Extremely ill advised.”
“Mm-hm,” she agreed, but couldn’t tear her gaze from his. Her eyes felt heavy, as though she’d been drugged. “So we should . . .”
“Definitely.” And he yanked her against his chest, his fingers threading into her hair, tilting her face to properly plunder her mouth.
She plundered back, her fingers curling against his chest. He pushed the jacket off her and it fell to the ground. She grabbed at the bottom hem of his shirt and pulled it up. He lifted his arms, widening his chest, flexing his muscles, and before it even cleared his head, she had buried her face against his chest. The dark, coarse hairs pressed against her mouth, and she breathed in the musky cat smell of him. She kissed across the expanse of hair and over to one nipple, gently tugging it between her teeth. He groaned, his fingers unraveling her braid. She kissed across to the other nipple, the scarred one, and ran her tongue down his scar.
A louder groan. She leaned forward and kissed him. He tilted his head back, surrendering. Surrender, just for now. She kissed the side of his neck below his ear, nibbling at his earlobe, and then over his collarbone and the hollow at the base of his throat. Then she picked up where she’d left off, circling his scarred nipple with the tip of her tongue.
When she reached the bottom of the scar, he pulled off her sweater. He unsnapped her bra with a flick of the fingers and pushed it back over her shoulders. Her knees buckled when he put his mouth on her neck, and then lower, and oh, how she hungered for him deep in her soul. She moved against him, and his tongue lathed her breasts. She felt the scrape of his teeth against her skin, then her nipple, and gasped.
He dropped to his knees, his hands on her behind, burrowing his face against her stomach. Then he unbuttoned her jeans and unzipped them, nuzzling the top edge of her pubic hair with his mouth. She let out a breathy sigh. So did he. His fingers started to pull at the top edge of her panties.
She dug her fingers through his soft hair. “Cheveyo . . .”
And then the brush of fur against her skin. She opened her eyes and saw him as jaguar. Pissed off jaguar, by the angry flicks of his tail and the fierce look in his eyes. She leaned back against the tree trunk, and he growled, showing gleaming white fangs, both upper and lower. He turned his back on her, taking slow, deliberate steps away.
She knew he was trying to intimidate her, push her away so he could control himself. But she couldn’t be afraid of the jaguar anymore. She took a step closer, and he whirled, his growl even louder this time.
She knelt down to his level, her face only inches from his. Her voice was high and off-pitch when she sang the Tom Jones song, “What’s up, pussy cat? Oh oh oh . . .”
She reached out to the cat’s face. He flinched, making her flinch in return. No, it’s Cheveyo. Don’t let him scare you. She lifted her hands again and stroked his face. He let out a low, warning growl.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” she whispered, looking into his black eyes. “I know you’re trying to control your humanity by becoming cat, but I’m not letting you scare me away.” She kept stroking the cat’s face as she spoke, and then she leaned forward and kissed his cheek, feeling whiskers against her lips.
“Hell.”
In a blink she was kissing his face, skin, the faint scratchy stubble.
He surged to his feet, driving his fingers into his hair. “I liked you better when you were afraid. It was safer for both of us.”
“You liked scaring me away?”
“No, I didn’t like it. But it’s better than getting distracted when an enemy is out there somewhere.” He flung out his hand.
He was breathless, and it took her a second to catch her own breath as he shoved her bra and sweater at her. He kept his gaze on their surroundings as he spun in circles, even looking up at the trees. She pulled on her sweater and zipped up her jeans, stuffing her bra into the bags of the bike along with her water bottle.
Cheveyo started the bike then, and she held on tight as they moved toward what passed as a road. He paused once they were about to get onto a real road again and turned to her. “That crazy reaction we have, it’s going to get us killed. When I’m in that space, I’m totally lost in you.”
Lost in her. She inhaled those words. “Yeah, it’s the same for me.” Her voice
had gone soft at that. “It’s just some weird chemical reaction, us, the adrenaline.”
“No, I just realized what it is, at least for me. It’s watching you become strong. Even though I’m scared to death you’ll get hurt, watching you fight, and fight well, it’s a damned turn on. I don’t know if that makes me a sick son of a bitch or—”
“Or human, maybe,” she said, squeezing his chin. “Because that’s what triggers it for me, too. Watching you, the way your muscles move, the fierceness of your face—”
“Even when I’m cat?”
“Yeah, even then.” She touched his face as she had when he was cat. “You’re a beautiful cat.”
He sighed. “You’re killing me, Petra.”
Then he turned and continued on the road. She remembered that he didn’t like when people used the words “death” and “kill” casually. A tremor rippled through her. So what did he mean by that?
Baal watched the humans through the binoculars, their hands sliding over each other’s bodies. The woman was half naked, and the hunter’s mouth was on her breasts, his hands on her ass. Baal could feel their hunger. Not a sustenance hunger. Not an animalistic hunger.
Human hunger mixed with emotions he couldn’t identify.
Something was happening to him. As soon as he’d come upon them in this state, he had morphed into man without even thinking about it. The more he ate the flesh and drank the blood of humans, the more human he felt. And the longer he could stay in this form. He watched them hungrily touching and putting their mouths on each other. They didn’t mate to procreate. They did it for pleasure. His body stirred, too, his penis becoming stiff and hot and uncomfortable. His humanness was mixing with his animal, melding, twisting inside him.
He was a direct descendant of one of the subjects of the experiments that combined Glouk and human DNA. He had only tapped into his humanity to perform tasks he was hired for. To be used but never appreciated or treated as an equal. Here, in the promised land, he could indulge his animal but still walk around as human without anyone knowing just how different he was.
Humans came in all shapes and sizes and degrees of beauty and ugliness. Yes, he was ugly in human terms, but no one gave him a second glance. He liked being human, and mostly, he liked being acceptable. He looked in wonder at the way his erection was pressing against the front of his pants. Sex for pleasure.
