Chastened, Exit merely grunted before kneeling next to us. We huddled around Jonny’s arm as if he was a lab experiment gone awry, but then Gran lifted one hand to the runes and began to frown in concentration.
“Is it blood magic?” I asked. I had to know. I’d never really seen this kind of thing up close, so there was an exotic sensation to the whole process.
“It is. Carlie, know this about blood magic: there are only three things that it cannot withstand.” She waved her hand slowly over his arm as a trickle of finely attuned sunlight began to waft down like ethereal grains of sand. As they hit the runes, his skin sizzled lightly, but he didn’t flinch. “Sunlight, moonlight . . . and magic.” With a final pass, her spell erased the remaining evidence of his keeper’s sorcery.
Jonny gave a startled laugh, tears of joy in his eyes. “I hadn’t realized how poisonous the mark was. I feel—free.”
“And you are,” she assured him. “But we must tend to our mystery, now, or Exit may faint from the stress of it all. Carlie, will you examine the armoire and see to it that there are no lurking spells waiting to do us harm?”
“Got it, Gran.” I began to reach out with my power, letting it flow over and around the tall cabinet. If there was any magic within, it was so minor as to be almost undetectable. “It’s clean. Exit, you do the honors. We’ll stand with you.”
He reached out cautiously, grasped the wooden knob, and tugged. With a creaking pop, one door wobbled open, the hinges protesting after years of disuse. Then he pulled firmly at the opposite door, swinging both open to allow the modest light from the dirty chapel windows inside the dusty space.
It was empty, save a leather tube hanging on a nail. “What?” was all he could manage before reaching for the container. The tube was at least two feet long and a full foot in diameter, like the storage for a rather large map. The strap was worn and stretched, and a round cap of similar leather closed off the open end.
“Carefully. We don’t know what it is,” I said into the silence. I could hear all of us breathing.
“I know what it isn’t. It’s not my wife,” Exit said, naked disgust in his voice. “If this is some kind of magical joke, I’d prefer not to take part. I want Reina, not some warlock’s idea of a cruel joke.”
“I’ll open it.” I volunteered without thinking, taking the tube and setting it on the floor. The weight was shocking, and when I put it down there was a satisfying thump of solidity I hadn’t expected. It had to weigh twenty pounds.
“Slowly, dear.” Gran’s admonition was unnecessary, but welcome. None of us were breathing at that second, it seemed.
“Will do, Gran.” My witchmark was largely silent and free of that irritating buzz that precedes something gross trying to curse me or turn me into Carlie Salad. I brushed layers of dirt and dust from the lid and saw it was the kind that simply slips on, like a glorified packing tube. I twisted gently, and after a bit of elbow grease, the seal created by disuse let go with a small crack. The lid popped off in my hand to reveal—
“Fur?” I must have looked really confused, because Gran made the same face I had on—completely perplexed.
“Fur?” Exit added.
“Black fur, to be specific.” I touched it gently. It was soft, but firm. I’d felt a bear skin once in a museum, and it was similar, but I knew there was no way you could cram a bear’s coat into the tube I held.
“Well, it isn’t your wife, Exit. Shall we take it out?” I asked the group.
A general murmur of assent led me to lay the tube down and begin pulling the hide out with the utmost delicacy. I didn’t know what it was, but it seemed old.
In less than a minute, I’d shimmied the rolled fur out to reveal an animal that was clearly not native to the Adirondacks. Its coat was black, fading to near skin toned hairs of such fineness that they tickled when I passed an admiring swipe of one hand over the odd patch that was exposed in the outermost roll. “Let’s see what we have, here.” I motioned that Exit should take one side, and we began unrolling the coat slowly to reveal something I’d never seen before. “Stop right there. This is a magical animal. It isn’t natural.”
Gran made tutting noises as she looked at the foot of pelt that had been exposed. The feet were covered in soft, downy black fur, fading to near tan on the legs. There was something odd about the shape, too. “Keep going, Carlie.” There was a hesitant dread in her tone that told me she knew something, but when I looked up she merely nodded, bland and noncommittal.
In a moment, I knew why Gran was fearful. When we uncoiled the last part of the fur, it was clear.
It was a shapeshifter, killed mid-change, and then skinned. A bullet hole from a large caliber weapon marred the perfection of the skin; it was a glaring divot in the hide just above the heart. A kill shot, delivered from the front. She’d been a small woman, most likely a jaguar or big cat. There were subtle spots along her spine, and the murderer had even preserved her ears. Her face was covered in short, tawny hair, and she had a streak of jet black along the crown of her head.
“What is this?” Exit asked, stricken.
Jonny gaped at the skin, in stupefied awe that he had been forced to guard something as macabre as this.
“It’s a shapeshifter. A woman who could change into an animal. Many people don’t even know they have the ability, or if they do, they hide it. For obvious reasons.” I pointed to the woman’s remains, now reduced to this grotesque parody of a trophy. “Apparently, someone hunted her and did this.”
“Her family must be missing her.” Jonny’s words were choked with shame. He didn’t have a family, but I could hear his longing.
“You’re not guilty of anything,” Gran said, absolving him of any crime. He too was a victim. She turned back to the offensively beautiful thing spread before us. “I wonder if we can find out who she was.”
Exit’s booming sob nearly took me off my feet. “Reina! No! This can’t be—” His knees hit the floor as he scooped the pelt up to stare at it with eyes filled by hot tears. “Dear God, no. Please, no.” He slumped to sit, then bent his head over the pelt, shoulders quaking with a sadness so terrible it scared me. I’ve seen men cry, but there was a quality to his sobs that made me think he was coming apart before our eyes.
Gran knelt next to me. We closed in, touching Exit and murmuring to him in wordless sounds that have been used to comfort the stricken since the beginning of time.
“How do you know, friend?” I asked. His head was bowed to touch the fur, like he was praying. In a way, he was.
He extended one finger to point at the silken swath of the creature’s neck. There, in black relief on the tan hair, was the shape of a heart. Reina’s birthmark had been lovely, I thought, and then my hand dropped to Exit’s neck, vibrating with sadness and rage in alternating waves like a seismic event of unending loss.
Horrid as the sight of Reina’s flayed hide was, I took a longer look while we waited for Exit to regain a thread of control. There was no hurry, and something began to bother me even more than the simple presence of this beautiful woman who had been killed like the prize in a gruesome safari.
How was she killed in the middle of a change? I wondered. I’ve seen shifters switch forms while in a dead sprint; the act is almost instantaneous, wholly magical, and impossible to predict. It seemed the killer had known she was about to shift and had gotten lucky, but I discarded that. Luck doesn’t work that way. That left some specific kind of spell, and the options were precious few. A warlock might be able to trigger a shifter to change by magical means, but to stop the process long enough so that someone could hunt them? Unheard of. That kind of power could only come from one source: blood magic.
For nearly an hour, Exit sat, his head leaned forward to touch what had once been a young, vibrant woman. He was so still, I had to watch for the gentle rise and fall of his back as he took infrequent breaths. When he looked around, his eyes were dry and hot. There was a set to his jaw that boded ill for whoever was responsible for t
his affront to the memory of his bride.
“Can you stand?” I asked. He merely nodded, a signal for us all to rise like a jury.
Exit’s jaw muscles worked as he found the means to speak. “Can you protect her if she is buried?”
“We can.” I looked directly into his eyes. The rage was a distant storm warning, and it scared me. I was glad to be on his side.
“Then she comes with me.” He gathered the beautiful horror into his arms with the care of a man carrying dynamite, and we moved as one out into the fading light of the day. It was cold, and getting colder.
“You’re coming with us, Jonny. Gather anything you need. You’ll never return here,” Gran announced.
He looked stricken, then nervous, and finally, he looked free. She would know what to do to give him his life back, and he trusted her. That was a small favor in the bleakness of the hour, and we spent the slow drive home in silence made of anger and despair.
Chapter Thirteen: Puzzle Piece
Gran arranged for Jonny to spend a few days in one of the Limberlost rental cabins; as it was off-season, there were plenty available. She hunkered down with Exit to discuss the burial of Reina’s remains, and I lingered with Gus for several hours while tossing fitfully in my bed. Thoughts streaked through my mind like meteors as I turned the day’s events over, looking for reasons, clues, or angles.
I found none until morning.
I was putting my hair in a ponytail to go cook at the diner. Gus was perched on the sink, watching me with that bemused expression cats get when humans do something they find completely unnecessary, like working or not taking naps. It was winter, which meant that my leg shaving routine became somewhat optional. I scratched at a particularly fuzzy spot on my calf, wondering if I could go another day before the little black hairs became my shamespiration and I gave in. I shot a furtive look at my razor, which sat dry and unused on the edge of shower, then turned away while fighting the urge to stick out my tongue. I wouldn’t allow my cat and a plastic razor to both judge me in the same room. I had limits.
There were distant clicks in my mind, like dominoes being put together on a tabletop. Ideas, distant but strong, began to fall into a puzzle. There were missing parts, but in my mind’s eye I could see the shape. Even while I tugged at the mystery of Exit, his assailant, and the tragedy of Reina, my mind had never been far from Wulfric. I thought of him moment to moment, like a flickering film behind my eyes, and my chest ached at the thought of him roaming the mountains, alone and ravaged by bestial urges.
He belonged here. With me. I know a few things to be completely, unshakably true. Our love was one of those ideas, something that resonated deep within me at an instinctive level. I pulled a sweatshirt over my head and began to brush my teeth in slow circles, casting thoughts of magic and half-turned shapeshifters about in my mind like a rock tumbler. Gus flicked an ear at me, then cocked his head in a question. Brrrt? he asked, as clearly as if he’d spoken the Queen’s English. I tapped my toothbrush on the side of the sink, deep in thought.
“I’m not sure. I think I might know how to bring Wulfric home, but it means doing something more dangerous than I’ve ever imagined.”
Gus began to purr, then he granted me a series of headbutts while I wiped the sink with a free hand.
“Love you too, you big goober. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
His bronze and green eyes regarded me for a long beat, before he turned to begin cleaning his paw. Whatever danger I was going to face, Gus dismissed it as beneath his worry. That gave me the first rush of hope in the heart of a winter filled with mystery and pain, and in fifteen minutes I was out the door and on my way to the diner.
I put myself on cruise control until the end of shift, when I came out of my fog while standing in the walk-in cooler, looking at the neat rows of produce, dairy, and meats. Out of chaos, there was order, and there were many different parts involved. I let my fingertips roam over cases of apples huddled together in their waxy enclosures. From that box of fruit, we would make pie. Something different. Something good. There was a rogue bin of cabbage for a new soup I’d had a mind to try; its leaves were pale and crisp, peeping through the gaps in the flimsy wooden crate. The recipe said that the cabbage would more or less smell like dirty socks right up until the end, then it would adopt an earthy, home-like aroma that people raved about. I thought about making delicious soup from something unpleasant, and realized that most of my magic was designed to do the exact same thing. Out of pain, joy. From the ordinary, something wondrous.
I exhaled, my breath pluming into the harsh light of the cooler. The fan whisked it away to leave me standing in thought as I considered the tools before me. My magic was the same, and like my recipes, always evolving. I let my head drop and rolled my shoulders to release the pressure that had been building all day, and I knew what must be done. I stepped out of the cooler, picked up the smallest, sharpest paring knife I could find, and quietly slid out the back door.
It was time to begin calling Wulfric home.
Chapter Fourteen: Call of the Wild
There’s a rock on the trail looping around Halfway that serves as the unofficial border between town and wilderness. It’s the size of a haystack, all jagged angles and hulking weight, with wild lichens and mosses that come and go with the seasons like a family of tourists. I went there because I know it, and it isn’t so far from my home that I would freeze to death trudging through the snow. The winter urges caution. Whether we obey or not is entirely up to us, but for me, I listen to the unspoken rules without hesitation. I have some minor goals in life, and one of them is to never be on the news as local idiot found frozen to death. Now that I think about it, I’d prefer to remain off newscasts for the remainder of my life. Just like a Tuesday, nothing good can come from being on the local news.
I had my charms, some mild fear, and a small sliver of copper that I needed for what I was going to attempt. In essence, I was making a phone call, but my choice of instruments was nothing like anyone else might use. I stepped up onto the rock and swept a small area clear, exposing the dank gray rock underneath. It was frigid and unyielding, leeching the sense of happiness that Halfway imbued me with merely by being in my own town. The austere rock helped sharpen my senses to a level of focus that made what I was attempting at least plausible, if not bearable.
I coiled the fine copper and let a small spell of heat drift down from my charms. The wire wriggled in spastic jerks, and before I could think or doubt myself, I scored the palm of my hand with the paring knife. Crimson droplets pattered forth as the shock of the cut ran up my arm.
So much for the old myth that sharp knives don’t hurt as much.
I was hissing inward as the fevered burn spread throughout my hand and then settled into a sharp throb that rang throughout my body. I saw the brilliant blood strike copper and sizzle away in a mist of deep carmine; just like the knife edge, my spell had struck home.
Come to me, Wulfric. Show yourself, and be not afraid. My words were taken from thought, woven to the mist of my own lifeblood, and scattered wide to permeate the breeze that rushed uphill from the broad, snow-covered meadow in which I stood. You are safe here, and so am I. Come to me.
He appeared like a specter, just inside the nearest tree line, and less than thirty yards away. My breath caught at the sight of his tall form, and I fought to keep a choking sob from escaping my lips. I missed him so much it was a physical hurt that flared into something nearly toxic.
His nose lifted on the wind in a perfect imitation of a wolf. He was all predator now, and calling him here was only the first step in a series of risks that I chose to take no matter what may come. He looked at me, pale face and large eyes that sparked from within. Their unearthly glow chilled me even more than the winter could, but I raised my wounded hand to him, waving him forward.
“You can come to me. You’re safe and have my word bond that I’ll not use magic to harm you in any way. I know you’re hurting, love, and I’m h
ere to tell you that I’m going to take it all way. The hunger. The fear. All of it. You have to trust me,” I finished, watching as his angular body jerked in temptation at the scent of my hot blood. War erupted behind his eyes as the shards of Wulfric battled with the thirst. After a painful moment of twitching, he lifted his eyes to me once again. They were scarlet now; two jewels of menace swimming in a face comprised of angles and lust. This was not Wulfric, but a small kernel of him was there, and I hoped he might listen. I sent the first of many prayers among the stars. Let me help him. Whatever I must give. Let me pay the price for his soul.
“You smell like meat.” His voice was a subterranean growl.
“Yes. But it doesn’t have to be like this. Will you answer my call again?”
“Why?” His eyes flared with interest as fresh blood hit the stone under my feet. He looked more feral than any creature I’d ever seen, both beautifully fearsome and wild.
“Because I love you more than my own blood.” I held my hand up to show him, then realized it was a form of taunt and lowered it as tears began to flood my eyes. “I have a plan, but I need help. I need you to be patient and think of home. Of me. I need you to answer me once more, but this time you’ll need to come a little further. Do you think you can do that?”
The wind swept past as snow began falling in uneven sheets. I could feel the flakes hitting my hand in exquisite dots of pain. It didn’t matter. My eyes were on him.
He began to fade back into the snow, but not before offering me words that cut more than the knife. “I may, if I am hungry. Protect yourself, little witch.” And with that, he was gone.
Halfway Hunted - Halfway Witchy Page 9
