Crowned by Fire

by Nenia Campbell

  The silence that followed was tense. The witch glared at his half-sister, breathing heavily, before turning to look back at the slayers. One of them was coming up the front steps. “Back door,” the witch said, tearing his gaze away from Cassandra. “Quickly. Before they think of that next.”

  “What about my car?” Catherine demanded. The Slayer was almost at the door now.

  The witch shook his head. “Leave it. There's no time. They're probably going to disable it. At least that will buy us a few minutes' grace,” he said darkly.

  “I'll hold them off,” Cassandra said.

  They opened the sliding glass door leading into the backyard. It was much more spacious than the front, surrounded by a high fence. Catherine began to shift. “Grab my things,” she snapped, hoping he understood. Her mouth had already started to harden in to the nail-like beak of a hawk, mashing up her speech and rendering her all but unintelligible.

  She flapped her wings. One of the Slayers was at the front door, talking to Cassandra. Showing her their pictures, asking her questions. The other was snooping around the fence, testing the planks, looking for some way to get in. Then he looked up and saw Catherine.

  She saw his face crease with suspicion. A lone hawk, far from the nearest hunting grounds. A little too convenient; she guessed he wasn't about to take his chances.

  He wasn't.

  He yanked open the duffel at his feet and produced the wooden frame of a crossbow and a soft, leather pouch that jangled when he pulled it out. The pouch confused her at first until she saw him pull out a steel shaft. It had an aura that glittered a horrible, smoky black.

  Catherine had seen enough. She dove back down, the hawk's heart pounding madly in her chest. The bird wasn't afraid of the crossbow, particularly, but that was Catherine's fear, and hers alone.

  Magic attracts magic.

  He was going to shoot her with those arrows and if he did, they would not miss.

  What could she do? Where was the witch? She couldn't call for him—as helpful as it would have been, telepathy wasn't among her limited abilities—and the witch's life was in danger. With the hawk's sharp eyes, she searched for him. He was already several yards away. Running. She could tell, by the scent of ozone and smoke, that he had burned his way through the fences portioning off the respective houses. She swooped down and dug her talons into his shoulder—hard.

  There was a reason falconers made use of thick leather gauntlets. Her sharp talons cut right through his shirt to score the skin beneath. The witch glared at her; he was taking this as a personal affront. “What is it?”

  She screeched at him and flapped her wings.

  His face changed. “There's danger.” It wasn't a question.

  She screeched again.

  The witch cursed again. “Change back—now.”

  She did. He shoved her clothes and bag at her. Catherine dressed quickly, stumbling a little in her haste. There was no time for modesty; it was a human indulgence, one reserved for those who weren't on the run for their lives.

  “He has a crossbow with bolts enchanted with black magic,” she gasped.

  “We need to get inside a building,” said the witch. “Something with an iron frame. If one of those bolts is fired at us, we won't stand a chance. They never miss.”

  “But only a really big building would—”

  They both saw the shopping mall at the same time, at the bottom of the small hill. Cassandra's house was in a small, gated community. The hill was low, but steep; and slipped and slid down the plunging surface. Several cars honked angrily at them as they skittered across the main road, dodging traffic. They must have made quite the spectacle, but that couldn't be helped now.

  Catherine looked over her shoulder. The Slayer was still at the apex of the hill. He had caught up to them so quickly, he must have followed the witch's smoldering trail of destruction. She heard him shout something that was lost over the roar of traffic. It was probably something like, “You're not going to make it!” or “prepare to die!”

  Humans were cliché that way.

  They were in the parking lot. The sliding glass doors looked so far away. She could push herself farther, faster, and harder than any normal human, but she had limits. Her restless night at Cassandra's hadn't helped, and neither had the witch's intimidation.

  When she checked back again, he was taking aim with the crossbow. She saw him position the enchanted bolt in the sling of the crossbow. He'll aim for me first, she thought. The witch's blood can be sold on black markets to other Slayers as ichor—but I'm disposable.

  The doors whooshed open. They dove inside and the witch yanked her around the corner, away from the glass. The bolt smashed through the door, causing several customers nearby to scream in startled surprise. It started to curve towards them, attracted to magic in their bodies. Catherine squeezed her eyes shut, waiting. Bracing herself. At least death, if it came, would be quick.

  Over the pounding in her head, she heard a metallic clatter. She cracked open an eye. The smokiness had disappeared. The iron in the building's infrastructure had stopped the bolt: it was a plain, metal rod again. “We're safe,” she said, nearly breathless with relief. “We're alive.”

  There was a pause, and she realized his hands were on her hips, brushing over the top of her jeans. She inhaled sharply, and took a step backwards, colliding with his chest.

  “Are we?” he said, black emotion in his voice. “I don't think so.”

  Fear of death suddenly turned into a very different kind of fear. He pushed her away and she whirled around, but his face was as unreadable as a stone wall.

  “You—”

  The witch cut her off. “The mall's infrastructure has a sound barrier, and those arrows are weak. If he wants us now, he will have to shoot us point-black—which he won't. They are all cowards at heart.”

  Aren't we all? “What about your powers?”

  “As long as I stay away from the walls, they should be functional.” He took an experimental step back from the doors, glancing down at his hands. They glowed weakly, and then dimmed. He folded them behind his back, shaking his head. “Weakened, but functional.”

  Catherine frowned.

  “It's rather similar to your kind and silver,” he said. “You can be in close proximity to silver and still Change, as long as it isn't touching your skin, isn't that right?”

  The way he said “skin” was loaded with sexual undertones. She might have missed it, if not for the look in his eyes, or the way he bit down on his lower lip.

  She wished she had been able to see his face when he made that comment about being safe. “I don't know, I've never tried.” The chase had left her feeling edgy. She didn't like thinking about other potential weaknesses, especially silver. Her own natural abilities had barely been enough to save her—she had nearly been murdered by a human.

  “Silver doesn't work on shape-shifters through barriers. Not well. Not even clothing.”

  She stiffened. “I'll take your word for it,” she said coldly. “You're the expert.”

  The witch glanced around. “I think, since we're here, that it might be wise to change our appearances.” He paused. “Do you have money?”

  “Not much.”

  He handed her a hundred dollar bill. “Buy new clothes. Cut your hair. I'll meet you in the food court.” He peered at one of the map signs. “It's in the heart of the mall. That should be safe enough.” He looked again at the metal rod and added, “For now.”

  Karen's voice echoed in her head. She had said the same thing, practically. For all her power, she was dead. If she couldn't fight off the Slayers, how on earth could they?

  She pushed those thoughts from her head. She couldn't let herself lose control and give into her fears. That was what the Slayers wanted. They had managed to sneak up on Karen and catch her unaware—but they didn't have that advantage with her.

  Changing their appearances might help, too, but not if the Slayers had those arrows. Those bolts wouldn't
strike an ordinary human; they wouldn't be fooled by any of their disguises, either, no matter how ingenious. She had seen the auras. They were magic. And magic wasn't fooled.

  Catherine tried to protest, to tell the witch that it was too much—and to precious little effect—but he had already started walking away. She lost sight of him within seconds. She bit her lip and shoved the crumpled bill into her jeans pocket.

  This is a necessity. I owe him nothing.

  She had the sneaking suspicion the witch wouldn't see it that way.

  Chapter Five

  Catherine had always wanted to cut her hair short. She detested long hair—it was so much effort to maintain, and was always getting tangled or caught in things. Her mother had never let her, though. Most human girls had pretty long hair, and Mrs. Pierce had wanted her daughter to match the human females as closely as possible.

  “How much do you want off?” The mall stylist asked, holding up a section of her hair.

  Catherine stared at herself in the mirror. Mrs. Pierce was not here to give her say-so now. The thought made her sad, and impatient with herself for being sad; she had no time to spare over sentimentality. “All of it,” she said, before she could change her mind.

  The stylist's eyebrows shot up into his gelled bangs. “You sure?”

  “Do it.”

  It was relaxing, having her hair washed and shampooed, her scalp massaged. She settled back in the upholstered chair, as the knots of stress in her neck and spine slowly loosened. Humans, like animals, needed physical contact, and Catherine enjoyed being touched; the only problem was finding the right balance. This was just right.

  Her eyes closed, only for a moment. When she opened them again, it was because the stylist was shaking her awake; she had fallen asleep in the chair. He seemed amused but unsurprised. “Rough night?” he asked sympathetically.

  “The roughest,” she agreed, accepting the mirror he handed her to see the back of her head as he spun the chair around.

  Not bad. Her eyes flicked over her reflection in the glass in appraisal. Shoulder length hair had weighed her down. Now, with her hair in a boyish pixie cut she felt lighter, freer. Looking up, she flashed the stylist a bright smile and tipped him six bucks.

  Her smile lasted until she walked through the doors of Quick Cuts and remembered that she still had to buy new clothes. She suddenly felt helpless, and it was not a good feeling. There were so many stores to choose from, most of them expensive. She didn't want expensive, obviously—she wanted something that wouldn't make her stand out.

  If only she'd gone shopping with her mother more often…

  But thinking about her mother opened the door to other thoughts she wasn't ready to think about, thoughts that made her heart ache and her knees weak, so she slammed that mental door shut. There has to be something.

  She stopped a girl who looked like the archetype of normal and asked her what her favorite store was to shop it. “Ray-belle,” she said, as if it would be obvious. “Around the corner. Spelled like 'Rebel.' You can't miss it.”

  Her friends giggled derisively, but Catherine ignored them like the hyenas they were, flashing their leader a predatory smile that made them all stop short. “Thanks.”

  “N-no problem,” the girl said, before they all quickly walked away.

  The store the human female had been talking about was so small that it actually took several passes before she found it. That was heartening. She walked inside and saw clearance signs, the most elusive of all mall-dwelling creatures. Clearance was one language she knew how to speak.

  Catherine ended up buying two pairs of blue jeans, a white-t-shirt, three black t-shirts, and a dark gray coat she really liked. That left roughly half of the witch's money, so she decided to purchase a hat, and some cosmetics, as well. She had witnessed firsthand what a bit of lipstick and eye makeup could do to someone's appearance. The humans at her school changed their looks daily, like a leopard changing its spots.

  Her stomach growled noisily. I have the appetite of a leopard, too.

  Once she bought something to eat, probably all of the money would be gone. She hoped the witch wouldn't be irritated that she'd spent it all.

  He should have said something, then.

  She ended up going to a Hot Dog on a Stick and buying two corn dogs and a fresh lemonade. While they prepared her order, she stood aside to wait. The smell of cooking meat and hot grease made her dizzy with hunger. She hadn't had time to eat breakfast, not with the Slayers chasing them. Missing meals was hard on her body.

  Catherine leaned against one of the pillars. A group of males stood nearby, glancing at her. She knew what that look meant and wasn't interested, so she ignored them.

  A few seconds later, one of them approached. He was one of the better looking of the group, although not the one she would have chosen for herself. The artificial musk of his cologne preceded him and she quickly moved downwind. “Yes?”

  “I—” He lowered his eyes, and then looked quickly, pointedly, away from her breasts. He cleared his throat and made an attempt to meet her unrelenting gaze, coloring when she lifted one of her eyebrows. “Are you waiting for someone?”

  She folded her arms. “Yes.”

  “Oh,” he said, cheeks turning darker still, “okay. Never mind.”

  Catherine softened a little. Not all males are like the witch. “It's okay,” she said gently.

  She watched him wander back to his group, failure inscribed in the fallen set of his shoulders. One of them called her a bitch. She gave them the finger, because she knew it was expected of her, and then walked over to collect her food from the server.

  It smelled so good. She tore into the first corn dog before even sitting down, devouring it in two quick bites. Oh gods, it was so good. Better than sex, she imagined.

  She tossed out the empty hot dog wrapper and looked around the food court for the witch. His aura helped her locate him, but Catherine was sure that she could have spotted him anyway. He was sitting by himself, broodingly, attracting the glances of several young humans nearby—not that he'd notice, she thought scornfully. He was lost in thought, radiating a danger that was scarcely held in check.

  She slid into one of the seats across from him. He was wearing cargo pants now, a dark gray shirt and a coat. A messenger cap covered his distinctive red hair. He sipped his coffee, and she had a momentary flash of what that mouth had felt like on her body.

  “There you are,” was all he said, deceptively calm. His aura was crackling.

  Catherine leaned forward instead of back, as she wanted to. “Where's Graymalkin?”

  The question seemed to annoy him, but if it did he quickly regained his composure. He tapped his hat, looking her over slowly. “What did the human want?”

  She stiffened in spite of herself. “You were watching me?”

  “I told you, your aura glows. There is nothing like it. I would know it anywhere.” His face remained hard. “You didn't answer my question.”

  “The human wanted to ask me out,” she said pleasantly. “He was sweet.”

  His fingers tightened on the cup. Not obviously, but her sharp eyes noted the way the muscles contracted. “Is that what you like?” scoffed the witch. “Sweet?”

  She stirred her lemonade with the straw. “What I like is none of your business.”

  The witch rose stiffly. She tensed, hands closing into fists when he leaned over her threateningly, but all he did was whisper, “Is that what you think?”

  “You can't intimidate me that way, witch.”

  He held her gaze a moment longer, and she stayed very still, waiting, even as her blood buzzed in her veins. She thought for a moment that he was going to kiss her, and she wasn't sure whether or not she would permit it if he did. Then he stormed over to the food court. Catherine glanced around to see if anyone was watching, but of course, nobody was. Humans froze out conflict. Better not to get involved.

  As she finished off her meal, she wondered if she shouldn't have pus
hed him. On the other hand, he needed to learn his place. If anything, she could have been firmer. As a Council member, he knew better than to make a scene. Especially as a prince, which made him infinitely more recognizable. He wouldn't allow his passions sway him into breaking the First Rule. Why not? He's already tried to break the Second.

  And then an alarm began to sound.

  The witch?

  No—he was coming back from a smoothie place and looked as startled as she felt.

  Over the sound of the alarm, a calm, automated voice said, “Attention customers: proceed to the nearest exit in an orderly fashion.” There was a pause, and then, “Atención clientes: procede a la salida más cerca de una manera ordenada.”

  The witch's face was grim. He pulled her aside, and dragged her behind the counter of one of the vacated food kiosks.

  Pretty soon the mall was empty, turned over chairs and dropped food signifying the abrupt departure. Well…maybe not quite empty. Besides her and the witch were three other people, dressed all in black, destroying the CCTV cameras.

  One male, two females. Catherine had never seen their kind before, at least not in person, but she knew what they were—vampires.

  “Did you get them all?” the male demanded.

  “Yes, Brother,” the two females lisped in unison.

  “Now,” he murmured, “where did they go?”

  Catherine stood up. The witch cursed and tried to pull her back, but she dodged him easily. Vampires were predators. If they found her and the witch cowering like Prey, they would be treated like Prey—killed, and devoured on sight.

  At least this way, they had a fighting chance.

  “Well, well,” said the male. “So these are the children who have the Slayers in an uproar.” The two females tittered appreciatively. At their approval, he turned back to Catherine and the witch. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, with a mocking—and elaborate—bow. “My name is Alec.”

  The name meant nothing to Catherine. She was mesmerized by the easy grace of the vampires. These were the creatures of her very nightmares. They were the ultimate predators, the only creatures who could successfully hunt shape-shifters without the use of magic or weapons; when she gazed into their eyes, she was looking at her own death.