Skinwalker jy-1

by Faith Hunter

  The night came alive—everything new, intense. My ears were bombarded by sounds from everywhere. The mouse on the ground. Unaware of danger. The movement of tree leaves a hundred yards away. Chicks cheeping. Bird nest. Food. The house settling.

  Eyes meant for the night took in everything, seeing as clearly as if the sun still shone. Light and shadow stung my vision, bright, acute. Ugly human light. I gathered myself, spread my wings, and leaped from the boulder, out over the garden. Beating the air with a five-foot wingspan, the wings of an animal that had never lived on this continent. It had been long since I flew, but the memory was stored in the snake of the bird. I wobbled, stretched into flight, caught a rising thermal, let it carry me up with less effort than beating wings alone.

  I looked down, reaching into the night, finding the gold nugget on the boulder, its place in the world. Identifying it amid the grid of streets in my owl memory. My human consciousness merged with the owl’s, dispersed into the cells of the Bubo bubo.

  Hunger ripped my belly. Below, a form moved, silent in the night, four paws padding, gray striped with white. I folded my wings tight, and dove. Talons reaching, I slammed into the prey. My forward-curving talons gripped, held. My beak tore into the back of its neck, through the vertebrae. I took down the feral cat. Sitting in the shadows, I ate, ripping bloody flesh with talons and beak until my belly was full. It was always like this after the change. Hunger. There was little left of the cat when I was done. Feet, bones, skull.

  The memory of myself, buried under my skin, began to stir. I like cats. . . . My human self grieved. Then memory moved. A map. Ahhh. The hunt. For one of them. I drew in the night, sounds of shouting and gunfire in the distance, foul human smells and sounds and filth of their world. Motors and engines. Cat blood. I leaped into the air. Thermals were confusing in the city, rising and falling over buildings, stirred by unexpected drafts from the river. The river.

  I banked and found it, sparkling and whitecapped in a rising breeze. Rain soon. The knowledge of weather was part of a raptor’s native genetic snake. I rose on the leftover heat of day, soaring high. Below me, I found the highway, a ribbon laced with moving lights crossing the river. I followed it, away from the city, along the map stored beneath my skin and in the human part of me. To the place where vampires lay their true-dead and find their healing.

  CHAPTER 18

  We still search for absolution

  From a thousand feet up, the moon silvering the night, stars shining like a million lights, the ecstasy of flight filled me. My heart beat powerfully. My wings spread wide, soaring. Air currents ruffled my flight feathers as I cruised, my belly full, joy singing in my veins.

  My attention was caught by a large rat emerging from a swampy place far below. Good eating if I was hungry—good for feeding chicks. Near the wet ground, I spotted a small, whitewashed building at the end of a crushed-shell street. Curious, I half folded my wings and dropped six hundred feet. Spread them again, to circle.

  Distant memories stirred. I was searching for this place. The building had no cross, but its walls were tall, its roof was vaulted, and a spiked steeple speared the sky. Katie. Vampires. Remembering, I dropped lower.

  Narrow, arched windows were pointed at the apex—chapel windows of stained glass. But unlit. Dark. Vampire dark. The white building was made of ancient cement mixed with shells, and it glowed with the light of the moon though no lights lit the windows or the grounds.

  The earth all around the chapel-that-was-not was studded with white marble crypts, family-sized mausoleums, shining in the moonlight. They studded the ground, little houses for the true-dead or the living undead. I circled down, seeing car lights drawing in from every direction. Yet here, in this ancient building, no lights burned.

  I inspected it all with eyes built for the night and with hearing that missed nothing. As I dropped lower, soaring on the breeze, candlelight bloomed inside the nonchapel and brightened, shining, flickering through the arched windows, throwing muted hues of color onto the white shell walkway. The stained-glass windows were all in shades of blood—ruby, wine, burgundy, the pink of watered blood—bloody light spilling onto the ground.

  A vampire stepped from the doorway, smoothing her dress. She was old. Her skin was the white of the full moon, her face grooved. She was dressed all in white, the toes of her shoes, her long dress, the nunlike wimple on her head, hiding her hair; her hands were pocketed beneath an apron like a vampire mother superior. A distant car purred. She stopped moving, the stillness of stone, a carved statue, fit for a graveyard. The sight of her brought me to myself.

  She squared her shoulders and raised her chin as if she were going into battle, and I saw that she had black brows and a beaked nose. Mediterranean ethnicity, perhaps Greek. Not beautiful, but imposing and serene, as if she had made peace with herself and her world.

  The car crunched down the shell-gravel lane. The smell of vampire rose on the air. I canted my flight feathers and dropped lower, silent on the wind, wings making no sound at all as I chose a tree to land. Tall. Dead. Branches white and stripped of bark. Close to the land where the vampires went to earth. Close enough for my owl ears to hear them speak. I stretched my wings full, spread my flight feathers, and raised my breast. Reached out with legs and talons. Back-winged to break my forward movement. Gripped the barkless branch. I was down. I shrugged my raptor shoulders and fluttered my flight feathers as balance and gravity took over. I settled on the deadwood, my wings folding tight against me.

  The woman vampire turned as I landed, seeing me in the tree. I called, owl sound, lonely in the night. Not an owl of this place, but she wouldn’t know the difference. After a moment, she turned away to the first limousine, watching as it rocked near and its tires ground to a halt.

  Vampires slid from the long car, seven of them, all moving fast, at full vamp speed, all well fed, the smell of fresh blood on them. All wore black, somber suits and tailored gowns in summer wool or silk, shimmering in the night. They were dressed as if for a funeral or a party.

  More cars moved up the drive as the first circled and headed out, lights passing, like birds in flight. Like a dance. Dozens of cars approached, some depositing one occupant, some many, until there were nearly a hundred vamps gathered under the young moon. Lastly came a hearse, white, gleaming pearlescent in the night. It bumped to a stop in the midst of the vampires.

  Two males jumped out and raced to the rear of the hearse. They were human, ungraceful, slow moving, and one carried a roll of fat around his middle. No vampire ever managed extra weight, most living at near starvation, gaunt as a winter hunt. The vampires moved subtly closer, tightening a circle around the hearse. The humans’ fear grew as they unloaded a white coffin. Near panic leached from their pores and tainted the night wind.

  “You sure you can bury her without . . . ? Never mind,” one said.

  One of the vampires laughed, the sound sly and cruel, enjoying the terror that increased tenfold on its echo. The two humans rushed back and slammed the hearse doors. The locks clicked, though mechanical locks and glass windows gave them no protection at all. The mocking vampire laughed again. I saw him lick his lips, heard the smack of dead flesh.

  The hearse roared and spat loose shell like gunshots as it pulled away. It fishtailed at the entry to the graveyard, tires shrieking as they caught on the pavement. The hearse roared all the way down the road. When it was gone, the old vampire, the one in the nun’s wimple who had lit candles in the nonchapel, moved to the coffin and placed her hand atop it.

  “Gather,” she said, soft and compelling. I leaned from my branch, coercion pulling on my flesh and bones, urging me to come. It was a kind of vamp calling, full of enticement. “Gather and give the gift of blood,” she said, “that our sister might be healed.” Her words rose above the crowd, dancing on the air, full of beauty. Age made her voice potent, mellow. Her words chimed and rang inside my head, commanding and demanding. My talons danced on the old wood. Dark sparks of energy and magic soared
through me. I spread my wings to fly to her.

  “I challenge the right to blood ceremony,” a man said.

  Startled, I snapped my wings tight to my side.

  The crowd shifted and sighed, as if expectation was satisfied. Those closest stepped away from the new speaker until he stood apart, opening a path from him to the pale coffin. He seemed amused at the way his kindred moved. The vamp was slender and willowy, even by vamp standards. Dark, delicate, but not effete, he walked through the space in the gathering the way a fencer might, feet placed with care and with a thought to balance. When he stood in front of the old woman he said, “Rafael Torrez, heir of Clan Mearkanis. Challenger.”

  “Sabina Delgado y Aguilera,” the old vamp said, and I started. I had seen that name today. “Priestess of the sacred ground. You may speak to the challenge.”

  A dandy, he flicked at his cuff, a bit of lace gleaming silken in the night. “There is no requirement for any to offer blood. The injured was either foolish or weak. She offered her neck to an attacker. Prey should be allowed to die. Thus has always been our way.”

  There was a rustling in the crowd, murmurs of agreement. “I champion the fallen,” a voice said. Leo moved through the crowd, equally graceful—who among them wasn’t?—but with the grace of the bullfighter, strong and determined. I fluttered my long feathers in the still air, shaking off the last of the compulsion to gather.

  “Leonard Eugène Zacharie Pellissier,” he said. I figured they all knew who was who, so the speaking was formulaic, like a legal process, with proper names and titles required. “Blood-master of the city, blood-master of Clan Pellissier, these seven hundred years.” Seven-hundred-year-old vamps were rare, to the best of my knowledge, and the priestess had to be older. A lot older. I hadn’t seen her lineage in the hall of records.

  He stopped in front of the priestess, Sabina. “The old ways are dead and gone. When the humans found us, revealed us, proved the ancient myths were true and blood hunters were among them, the old ways changed. The old ways died.

  “We may no longer build blood-families as we did in the past, not and survive in the human world. And we are not so numerous today that we can allow the oldest among us to die true-death. As the world has moved on, so must the Mithrans evolve to survive.”

  “Pretty words. But my clan has suffered the death of our leader. As eldest, my blood is precious to my line,” Rafael said, “and needful to cement my rule. Why should I give of my own blood to save a scion belonging to my enemy? Why should I help you?” The air crackled with animosity, and I half expected Rafael to bare fangs or draw a sword and attack.

  “We must stand together to defeat the rogue,” Leo said. “We may be enemies, Rafael, but the enemy of my enemy is my friend. We stand together against the humans who would destroy us. That part of the ancient ways must remain unchanged.” Softly he added, “I would give my blood for you, if you were attacked by the rogue.” The crowd breathed out, surprised.

  “And because if we do not help,” Sabina said, “it is possible Katherine Louisa Dupre, who is not yet true-dead, may heal on her own, and rise as a rogue herself. And may then infect others of us, as the old tales say.” The congregation of vamps shifted position in what could have been a slow, complicated dance. Indecision was evident in their collective stance.

  “That a rogue might infect another Mithran is a tale of old women and fools,” Rafael scoffed. “It was myth before I was turned.” He looked at a woman in a black silk evening dress, and she looked away. I cocked my head and gave a soft, twittering coo of surprise. Dominique, I remembered.

  Sabina said, “I was myth before you were turned, Rafael. I have seen myth made reality. Now, in this time when light is thrown upon our dark and tainted past, an old rogue haunts the streets of our city, maddened in his sin.” Her words slid away on a softly released breath.

  “Taint,” one of the gathered said.

  “Sin,” said another.

  I wasn’t sure what the words meant to them, but the tone was sorrowful, like the call of lonely birds in the night. I twittered again, and the priestess looked over at the tree where I sat. I stilled my voice and gripped the limb with my talons to still my movement.

  Sabina turned back to the vamps and said, “As with other races who, at different times and places, sought to steal from God, our sin has cost us much. We must not allow it to destroy us before redemption comes.” Again the crowd murmured. Steal from God? I thought. How does a vamp steal from God? “Rafael Torrez,” Sabina said, “does your clan withdraw its challenge? Will you share blood with the dead?”

  “Clan Mearkanis withdraws our challenge,” he said, with ill grace. “But we will not soon again accept the call to gather.”

  “Are there other challengers?” When no one spoke up, the priestess said, “Acceptance is given. Open the casket.”

  The vamps moved in, closing slowly around the white coffin in a tight circle, obscuring my view, even from the height of the dead tree. The coffin hinges toned faintly, slowly. I heard a blade pulled from a sheath, saw a glint of steel in Sabina’s hand, and smelled vamp blood, pungent and tart upon the downstroke. She said, “As eldest and priestess, I offer first blood to our fallen sister,” and held her arm over the casket, blood flowing fast, dripping inside with a soft patter. The smell of vamp blood intensified. After a long moment, she held a cloth to her arm. A woman beside her tied a strip around the bandage to hold it in place. Taking up the blade again, she wiped it on a second cloth and looked at the gathering, waiting.

  Leo rolled his sleeve to his elbow, his forearm out. “As blood-master to our fallen sister, I offer second blood.” He accepted the slice of Sabina’s blade. He stood over the coffin, letting his blood flow like an offering, but there was a challenge in his stance, and his eyes were on Rafael. Long minutes passed as he clenched and unclenched his fist, encouraging the blood flow. A human would have passed out cold. Only when the blood stopped flowing on its own did he accept a clean cloth from the priestess and step away.

  “To show mercy, Clan Mearkanis offers blood to the fallen.” Rafael took the blade from Sabina and sliced his own flesh. From the vamps’ reactions, I gathered that the gesture was rude, but Sabina said nothing, letting him have his way. He returned the bloody blade and held his arm over the open coffin, his blood flowing. His blood ran nearly as long as Leo’s had, and when his wound finally clotted over, he was reeling.

  It looked to me like a vamp version of a pissing contest. Men will be boys.

  A female offered Rafael a shoulder to support him. Beside him, a woman stepped up. She was elegant, but thin, almost emaciated. “As acting head of Clan Arceneau, I offer blood.” She accepted the downstroke, drawing in a breath at the pain. She let her blood fall, only half the time Leo had bled, yet she was wavering on her feet. To my bird eyes, Dominique looked odd. Not quite certain how, but just . . . not quite normal, even for a vamp. She moved with less grace, perhaps. I watched as she was led to a bench on the grounds. And then I got it. She had already been bled tonight, probably by a vamp, one to whom she owed blood debt.

  Blood-master of Clan St. Martin bled next, offering only a token splatter. His eyes swept the assembled as if daring them to comment on his paltry gift. Bad blood between St. Martin and Pellissier. Birds can’t grin, but I felt the urge. After that, the heads of the other clans offered blood, some playing the vamp version of “keep up with the Joneses” by nearly draining themselves, others offering a more modest amount. I worked to recall the clan names and the order of importance, though such memory wasn’t easy for my current brain.

  Pellissier, Mearkanis, Arceneau, Rousseau, Desmarais, Laurent, St. Martin, Bouvier, some enemies, some not. The “saint” part of St. Martin was still a surprise, but then, what I knew about nonrogue vamps had just been trebled again. Maybe quadrupled.

  After the clan heads declared themselves and bled, the lesser members approached the coffin, still according to clan as best I could tell, but the drama was over and
the rest of the bloodletting was without theatrics. I figured Katie was likely swimming in blood. Ick. I looked at the moon and judged that the bloodletting took over two hours before Sabina called a halt by saying words I didn’t understand, in French, or Latin, or Mandarin for all I knew.

  The vampires closed around the open casket, standing shoulder to shoulder. And they started to hum, a fluctuating harmony that sounded like a funeral dirge without words. After several bars, the priestess sang out and the congregation fell silent. “lîlî lamâ švaqtanî.”

  Startled, I tilted forward, neck out, and nearly tottered from the limb. I fluttered my wings and danced back, my talons scraping on the loose bark. “Elî elî lamâ švaqtanî,” she intoned again. The entire crowd sang back in minor-key harmony, “Elî elî lamâ švaqtanî. Elî elî lamâ švaqtanî.” I stared, feeling cold in my bones, placing the words in my memory. The phrase was among the last words I would have expected to hear from a bunch of vampires. And they didn’t go up in flames. Needing warmth, I fluffed and fluttered my feathers, twittering in fear.

  I had heard the words at every Easter passion play from the time I was twelve to the time I left the children’s home. I was pretty sure the phrase was among the last words uttered by Jesus on the cross, Aramaic for “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

  The vampires fell silent.

  I stayed in my tree as the vamps interred Katie, shoving her coffin into an empty slot in a Clan Pellissier mausoleum. The harsh sound of metal on stone was grinding, and the thunk of the coffin settling in its niche echoed across the grounds. As the door to the crypt was closed, its iron grating sealed and locked, they seemed to take a collective breath, as if to free themselves from the vestiges of a trance. The formalities were clearly over.