“Good,” he said flatly.
Minerva kept staring at Catherine. It was disconcerting; Catherine wasn't used to such extended eye-contact, and while she didn't want to look away, the implicit challenge of her gaze was making her extremely uncomfortable.
As Catherine moved to take her place at the table, one claw-like hand gripped her arm. She's spry for an old lady, she thought with surprise.
“I know what you are.”
“You do?” Impossible. She was from the human side of the family.
“No good will come of it,” Minerva assured her, chilling the slithery stuff inside Catherine's body. “None.” She glanced around the room. In that prophetic croak, she continued, “You will be ruined, you foolish girl. You can't continue along this path and expect to escape unscathed. You should be more like my—” pause “—granddaughter.”
Catherine glanced at Cassandra. “I should go into palmistry?”
That earned her a hesitant smile from the seer that disappeared quickly with her grandmother's next words. “Try parochial school.”
What the fuck? “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Catherine snapped.
“You jade.” Minerva delivered this judgment with the wave of a ringed finger. “You harlot. You slut.”
All the anger she had felt towards the witch redirected itself towards this woman. “I really have no idea what you're talking about,” she said. “You had better explain.”
“You heard me,” said the smug old crone. “I saw that man leaving out your balcony window. My balcony window. Thought I wouldn't notice, eh? My eyes aren't as bad as everyone thinks they are. I see everything that goes on in this house. Everything.”
“There was no man on my balcony!”
“Of course there was,” said Minerva. “He left shortly after the other one did.”
“Other one?” This was starting to get creepy.
“The ginger,” the woman said, so loudly that Catherine jumped.
The witch had been on her balcony? Doing what?
“He's the spitting image of that woman. She was a lot like you. A coquette. I told my son, 'She's married. Don't you go about getting into that jade's business. She's none of your affair.' But he did. He did and look at him now. A ruined man. God's punished him for his sins. And now Cassandra's paying the price for it. A freak and a queer, prancing around in women's clothes. Well, those visions of his were sent straight from the devil.”
“Grandma!” Cassandra had gone pale. So it was true then, she was transgender.
Catherine had had quite enough of this bullshit. She could smell the salt of the tears that the other girl was trying not to cry, and that made her even more furious.
“Look, you old bat—” Minerva whooped in outrage “—you have a lot of fucking nerve talking like that about your own granddaughter. And you know absolutely nothing about me. Because if you did, if you knew what I am, what I could do to you, you wouldn't talk to me like that.”
She shifted over partway, enough to meld her facial features into an animal-human hybrid. The sharp teeth in her mouth mangled her words, turning them into a lisping growl. “Maybe you should keep your nose out of other people's business and start minding your own. Because if you shove it into mine again, I'm going to break it. Or maybe I'll just tear it right off.”
There was a tense silence. Minerva quivered in her wheelchair and shot a glance at Mr. Tyler. “Well? Are you going to let that—that monster talk to me like that, your own mother, in your own house?”
“Shut up, Mother, and while you're at it, apologize to your granddaughter.”
“Don't you talk to me like that! She's one of them! And she's brought more with her!” Minerva shook her head furiously, as though shaking off the Otherkind. “I can't believe you let her stay, in my own room, no less! No telling what kind of diseases she's carrying. You'll have to have everything in that room cleaned.”
“I swear to God, Mother.”
“Ask her about the man on the balcony!” cried Minerva. “Go on, ask her!”
“I have no idea what she's talking about,” said Catherine, “she's crazy.”
Only after the words left her mouth did it occur to her that they might take offense hearing their family matriarch called “crazy.” Luckily, neither of them seemed to notice.
“That's it.” Mr. Tyler got up from his chair and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. “Time for bed, Mother. You're very tired.” He pushed her towards the door. “You know how that new medication from Dr. Kincaid affects you.”
“I saw him!” the old woman said. “There was a redhead, too. A ginger. They're the worst of the lot. Worse than monsters. Worse than faggots, too. Tools of the devil, they are, with hair the color of hellfire. They bear the Lord's curse.”
“Lord have mercy,” Mr. Tyler muttered under his breath. “Come on, Mother. Enough with the brimstone. You're leaving—now.”
Catherine could hear the woman's squawking and muttering all the way from the stairs. “How do you deal with that crusty old bitch?” Catherine asked. “She's awful.”
Cassandra toyed with her fork, avoiding Catherine's eyes. “She wasn't always like that. It's the dementia.” She bit her lip. “It's turned her into an entirely different person. She was raised baptist, never used to give it much thought. Now it shapes her life.”
And what an awful life she led, making everyone miserable in the name of the God she claimed to worship. People like that were pure poison, hurting everyone around them. The witch was like that, too, with his sanctimonious upholding of Council law.
But Cassandra looked like she was one barbed word away from crying, so Catherine said nothing.
Mr. Tyler reentered the room with a dark look on his face. He was quite attractive, for an older man. Tall, with a muscular frame that was slowly going to fat. Dark eyes, dark wavy hair. Something about him called to mind a Byronic hero from a nineteenth-century Gothic novel.
Catherine could easily imagine what he must have been like as a young man, falling in love with the witch's mother for the first time. He seemed like the serious type, staunchly grounded in reality. She must have completely blindsided him, that witch, changing everything he thought he knew about the world.
But how had she chosen him? At random? Or had she been looking for a specific type to toy with? One who would be too taken by her to resist her demands?
Catherine's heart hardened further against the witch.
Like mother, like son.
“Is he coming down to dinner?” Mr. Tyler demanded.
“He comes and goes as he pleases,” said Cassandra.
Which wasn't really an answer, but in a way it was answer enough.
Mr. Tyler turned his dark eyes on Catherine. “And you? Are you a witch, too?”
“No.” Catherine didn't elaborate, letting him interpret that how he liked. If he didn't know about shape-shifters, she wasn't going to be the one to enlighten him.
“Good.” He turned back to his daughter. “Make sure he stays out of my sight.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Your friend is welcome to stay tonight but we need that room soon. It is your grandmother's, and I think she's already had enough excitement.”
“I'll be leaving soon. Nobody's waiting for me. It doesn't matter where I go.”
That made Mr. Tyler look at her. And Catherine realized that he was a father before anything else; for the first time, she saw something almost akin to sympathy—and a horrible knowing. Mr. Tyler feared for Cassandra, feared that she would live out the cursed promise of the name that her mother had given her in a cruel attempt at irony.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “He will only bring trouble, that one. You should leave him now, while you still have the chance.” His dark eyes fixated on Cassandra's unmoving form, a tightness that rendered his face as weathered as a cliff face. “It was too late, when I got mine.”
“I don't like witches,” said Catherine.
“Liking has nothing to do with it,” Mr.
Tyler exploded, slamming his fist against the table. “They want—and then they take and they take, and when there's nothing else left, when we get too old or when they tire of our frailty, they return to their own kind. We're less than animals to them.”
That wasn't quite true. Witches hated shape-shifters far more than they hated humans. The disgust there was older, and far more entrenched.
“I'm sorry,” said Catherine.
Mr. Tyler said nothing. His face could have been carved from stone for all the emotion that was outwardly visible, but she could smell his distress.
Then a servant from the kitchen brought the dinner, so quickly that Catherine imagined that they had been listening discreetly at the double doors, waiting for the fighting to stop. She picked up her fork, and ate, and tried not to think about the witch.
Chapter Four
Finn sat on the bed cross-legged, eating the meal that the Tylers' chef had prepared, following up on his threat to take his meal in isolation. He imagined Cassandra was relieved by his absence. The shape-shifter, as well.
Graymalkin hunched down beside him, gnawing on a piece of steak that he had torn off for her. He could sense her annoyance at him, but neither of them spoke. That was the beauty of the telepathic connection between them; it rendered most discussions redundant, and, therefore, unnecessary.
That was unwise, she thought at him.
Finn rubbed at where the shape-shifter had held the knife to his throat, and his cock throbbed. He had developed an unfortunate habit of pairing up with women who wouldn't have thought twice about killing him.
The difference is, the shape-shifter will do it herself.
Graymalkin was astute as always. He could still feel the shifter's body against his. Her firm, hard body, with its many hidden curves. The heat that came off her skin.
No, she would not be afraid of getting her hands dirty. She would kill him herself.
His familiar was tired of being ignored. “You should not have made her that proposition.”
So she'd heard everything, then. “Would you rather she live on the streets?”
“That wouldn't happen,” Graymalkin said. “She's hardly a helpless waif.”
No. And that was part of the problem, wasn't it? She didn't easily cede to control.
His control, specifically.
“And,” his familiar continued, “she could easily find others to help her—others who don't have ulterior motives for doing so,” she added pointedly. “She is kind.”
Kind? Finn barked out a laugh. “Don't let her blind you. She might eat you, too.”
But then he remembered her fierce loyalty to her family, especially that little brother. She had defended her mate, and her friends, as well. When she had discovered Graymalkin on her gutter, she had taken the kitten in without a second thought. And thinking of that, he realized he had made a mistake, because his familiar was remembering that incident, as well, and it seemed to have driven a wedge between them.
At some point, the scales had tipped. Now his familiar was defending the savage as if it was her she served, instead of him. Even Cassandra had taken an immediate liking to the little beast. His mouth tightened. She was popular with human men, as well.
“One or the other would suffice, but both in tandem almost guarantee that she'll survive without your assistance, Phineas—and she could always live in the wild.”
Shape-shifters often lived out as beasts, turning human only when necessary, avoiding human contact entirely. Finn often forgot this; when he dealt with shape-shifters, it was with the law-breakers, who hunted humans the way wolves picked off sheep.
Catherine was very good at pretending to be human. The fact that he had failed to think of her in terms of her abilities was proof of that, and a dangerous mistake.
“You know what she is.” He rubbed at his temples. Suddenly, he felt very tired. “She can't be allowed to roam wild where any human could happen upon her. If found, she would be killed. She would need to be relocated somewhere far removed. And given her socialization, I don't think she would take well to such imposed isolation.”
It would be like forcing a house cat to live in the taiga.
“And what do you think would happen if it became known you two were lovers?”
Lovers. The word made his belly clench and his cock hard at the images it conjured.
“I would be discreet.” His eyes turned cold. “As I have in the past.”
“Would Catherine? She doesn't reciprocate your feelings. I think she made that quite clear. What you consider clemency, she would see as imprisonment and rape. In trying to escape you, she may well compromise you both.”
He heard a commotion downstairs, growing louder. Graymalkin's ears flattened as she turned her head towards the closed door. The humans were fighting. Quite loudly, if the sound could carry through the thick, oak wood.
The old crone's sharp, embittered voice crescendoed as some member of the Tyler family led her up the stairs. A door slammed, heavy footsteps receded back down to the first floor. He was quiet, waiting, but all he could hear was the faint clatter of dishes.
“You're wrong,” Finn said softly. “She does want me. At least a little.”
Graymalkin hissed at him. “You're making a mistake.”
“Are you afraid that I'll hurt her?” Finn asked. “Rape her, as you said?”
“Your thoughts have been very dark these last few days. I warned you. Being around her is corrupting you. Even your aura is changing; it's turning black at the edges.”
Her gold eyes flashed in his direction.
“If you intend to carry out that plan to use her to breed, you will hurt her.”
“It was not a plan.” He felt himself growing angry, without quite knowing why. “But it is something to consider. She is not an ordinary shape-shifter, as you've pointed out. If we fuck and she happens to get pregnant, all bets would be off. There is no literature about a cross-hybrid of that nature because as far as I know, one has never existed.”
“Maybe there's a reason for that,” Graymalkin said. “Look what she's done to you.”
“If she falls into the wrong hands, she might very well be used as a broodmare.”
Graymalkin watched him without speaking, but the barbs in her thoughts flattened, filling with concern and speculation. “She thinks that is your plan for her.”
He remembered the odd, possessive feeling that swirled through him when he ran his hand over her flat belly. How it had chilled him, because it was injected with the same darkness of his dreams. If she has your child in her womb, that seductive voice had whispered, she will be tied to you forever; her kind mate for life.
“It isn't.”
“Are you sure?”
(“She runs because she hasn't found the right one to bring her to heel.”)
“ No contraceptive is one-hundred percent effectual.”
(“Think of the power.”)
“Except for abstinence.”
(“Are you the one?”)
“Stay away from her, Phineas. Whatever you're planning, I suggest you stop it now.”
“She is mine.” The explosiveness of his voice startled him, and caused Graymalkin's fur to rise in alarm. “I may not understand why she affects me this way, or how—though I do intend to find out,” he added, “but she is as much mine as the breath in my lungs, or the blood in my veins, and just as necessary.”
He stacked the dishes and slid off the bed, placing them neatly before the door. He glanced over his shoulder at his cowering familiar.
“Be assured; I will kill anyone who gets in my way of her.”
A van was parked in front of Cassandra's house. Stalling. Waiting. The name of a prominent repair company was painted on the side, along with the telephone number, although when Catherine had tried calling the number on Cassandra's house phone, the number was disconnected.
Peering through the kitchen window, she could see two men sitting in the front. They were dressed like repairmen. Catheri
ne and Cassandra had been watching them since they had first pulled up to the curb and that had been over two hours ago. They hadn't moved since.
“I don't understand,” Catherine said. “Why are they going through all this trouble?”
Even as she spoke, she heard the witch's footsteps as he came down the stairs. His presence was so sudden that there was no telling how long he'd been watching them.
Watching her.
“I can think of two reasons.” There were dark bruises beneath his eyes, suggesting a restless night, and something was wrong with his aura; it was no longer pure white. “They know we have a Slayer's spell book, and they know that I am on the Council.
“So far, they've never been able to take a member of the Council alive,” the witch murmured. “And we are very powerful—they could make quite a fortune.” He turned towards Catherine, his expression veiled. “You're lucky that they don't know about your little anomaly.”
“No thanks to you,” she said shortly, turning away. She could feel his eyes on her still, as if burning their way through her clothes. She locked her muscles and did not shiver.
Cassandra made coffee. It was Ethiopian, hot and strong and thick. Too strong—when Cassandra offered Catherine a cup, she shook her head and took a step back, downwind.
“No thanks.”
“I'll have one,” said the witch.
Catherine took the opportunity to go upstairs and retrieve the messenger bag, patting it to make sure that the Grimoire was still inside. Its heavy weight was reassuring. So was being out of the witch's presence. When he was around, she couldn't breathe properly; it felt as though she were trying to inhale through a wet gag.
Reluctantly, she went back downstairs.
The door of the van opened. One of the men stepped out and Catherine heard, rather than saw, the witch stiffen. The man was dressed in black with a pendant that flashed savagely in the sun. He was carrying a duffel. Catherine could only guess what was inside. Some horrible black magic-based weapon, probably, or maybe implements of torture crafted from iron and silver.
In the corner of her eye, she saw Cassandra put her hand on the witch's arm to get his attention. A second later, she cried out—and the witch jerked back from her as if she had been zapped by ten thousand volts of electricity.
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