Black Water: A Jane Yellowrock Collection

by Faith Hunter

  “Do not toy with the U’tlun’ta, my love,” Christabel chided. “Even if you tree her, she may bite.”

  “I’m not a liver eater,” I said, stung.

  Christabel shrugged, hands folded at her waist, her hair moving in the air current of the heating vent as she replied, “It is only a matter of time.”

  This woman knew what I was. And knew of the curse that clung to my kind, to eventually go insane and start eating people. I forced my breathing to remain steady, calmed my heart rate. I was too close to them to win any kind of fight with the werewolf/husband/protector, his part-mammoth dog, and his wife, the nonhuman whatever-she-was. And Christabel might have some answers to questions about my magic and heritage.

  Sarge extended an arm like a refined waiter and said, “After you, my ladies.”

  I followed Christabel to the kitchen, Sarge and PP on my heels. I tried real hard not to sweat or let my breathing speed at the thought of them behind me. I didn’t succeed. I heard Sarge pant once in delight or hunger or both.

  They indicated a chair, and since it had a decent wall behind it, I took it. “There are women in trouble. Mothers,” I repeated as I sat, to shove my urgency deeper into them, like a needle under a fingernail. Sarge sat at the table and toasted first his wife, then PP, sitting on the floor, her head at Sarge’s elbow, then me, and sipped his wine. “You’d only need to be leashed in front of cops,” I said.

  “After lunch,” Sarge said again.

  I barely contained a growl and picked up my fork. I stopped before I shoved it into the pasta. Neither of them had started eating. This was a test? Holding my fork in the air, I sniffed, searching for what was wrong. And then it hit me. They were waiting for grace. I wanted to stab Sarge with the fork, but I laid it on the table and lowered my head. But I didn’t close my eyes.

  Christabel closed hers and said, “May the all-knowing and all-seeing, the creator gods of the first Word, bless our repasts and our day. We give thanks for life and all that is green, for all water and all rain, for all fish in the seas, for all plants that grow. For sun and moon and earth and sky. We pray for peace between all beings.”

  Sarge said, “Father, bless this day, this food, this house, this wife, and this hunt. May the blood of my enemies stain my teeth this day.”

  He was going on the hunt. And he wanted to eat people. All righty, then, I thought.

  A beat too late, I realized they were waiting for me to pray aloud, round-robin-style. Which I hadn’t done since I left the children’s home. In fact, I hadn’t prayed in, well . . . a while. More guilt wormed beneath my skin and sucked out my spirit, like a leech, attached to my soul. “Ah, maaaan,” I sighed, knowing this was another test. I was gonna have to pray. Aloud. In front of people who didn’t believe anything I did.

  Thinking how I might contribute, aware that prayers revealed more about the pray-er than the deity prayed to. Looking back and forth between them, I dredged up the memory of a childhood course about the names of God, and mentally added to it, the way The People, the Cherokee, spoke when they talked to God.

  I said, “Um. To El Roy, the God Who Sees Me, I pray. See this food. I am grateful. See this house. Bless it and keep it safe. See this couple. Bless this union. And see the men I hunt. May they be found and given over to the mercies of”—I stumbled my way through—“Elohei-Mishpa, the God of Justice. May Jehovah Sabaoth, the Lord of Armies, give them into my hand in battle. El Roy, see the women the evil ones have stolen. El Rechem, God the Merciful, keep them safe.”

  “Jewish?” Sarge asked, open curiosity on his face as he stuffed a forkful of sausage into his mouth.

  “Christian.”

  “I don’t like Christians.”

  “Most of us aren’t likable. But then most people aren’t very likable either, and Christians are people.”

  “Huh. You hear that, Christable? This U’tlun’ta is a philosopher.”

  “Not a U’tlun’ta, and not a philosopher,” I said, following Sarge’s lead and taking a bite of the sausage, which burst into flavor so intense I thought my head might explode. “I was trained as a War Woman of The People.”

  “It is a worthy calling for a U’tlun’ta. These women the prisoner took,” Christabel, said, not waiting for me to deny it. “They are your family?”

  “Wouldn’t know them from Eve’s house cat,” I said.

  “Eve kept several house cats.” Christabel sipped her wine and ate a piece of pasta as I watched. Her teeth were not the blunt teeth of a primate or an herbivore, but the pointed teeth of a predator. “Her favorite was a tawny Abyssinian named Lilith.”

  “Uh-huh.” I shoved in a bite, chewed, swallowed, sipped, swallowed, shoved in another bite. It was delicious. It was decadent. It was also taking too long. I shoved in another bite, watching them.

  “If you do not have . . . relation to them . . .” Christabel stopped and started over. “If you do not have relationship with them, why do you wish to hunt for them and kill their enemies? Humans die often in this place. The digested meat and gnawed bones of many humans lie in the muck at the bottom of the bayous, channels, ditches, and lakes. This is a place of death.” She swirled pasta on her fork, stabbed a sausage, and inserted it into her mouth—which opened wider than it should have. I tamped down on the urge to shudder, but she smiled as if she saw it anyway.

  “The young of humans are important to the sane among us,” I said, which said a lot and nothing, so I added, “And the females are as well.”

  Christabel laughed, a sound more akin to hollow wood wind chimes than true laughter. “You speak lies, U’tlun’ta. I have watched human males rape and kill their young and their women for longer than you can imagine.”

  “Yeah?” I put down my fork. It landed with a small clink on the china plate. “My grandmother and I hunted down and killed the men who raped my mother. It was slow and painful and it took a long, long time.”

  Christabel laughed again, this time clapping her hands. Her hair floated around her like gossamer strands of silk, fine as spiderweb, fine as the fluffy down of baby birds. “I like this one,” she said to Sarge. “Hunt with her. And bring me the scalps of the ones you kill.”

  “Fine,” Sarge said. “I can do that,” as if it was Christabel’s decision that counted. As if, had she said, offhand, “Kill this woman,” he would have stood up and strangled me. “Lemme get my guns and change. We can meet at the dock and take my airboat. You’ll need to move that Hog. I don’t want anyone to think Christabel’s here with company.” While he was gone, I helped Christabel clear the table. She prattled the whole time about recipes. I made noises of agreement and didn’t tell her I don’t cook.

  ***

  It was on my way out that I got a closer look at the wall hanging, the one I’d thought was made of horsehair. It wasn’t horse. It was human hair. And Christabel had told her pet werewolf to bring her scalps. Something told me the command wasn’t metaphorical. Holy crap. One of the nonhuman beings I’d eaten dinner with was an artist with death. I closed the door, mounted Bitsa, and tightened the bungees that held my helmet in place on the back wheel fender. Looking at the sky, I muttered, “I’ll bargain most anything you want to not have to go back in there again. Just sayin’.”

  No one answered. I didn’t really expect him to.

  PP left the house, strapped into an overcoat-sized harness like a service dog, but this harness didn’t have pockets filled with the TV remote, phone, pencils, paper, and things a disabled person might need. This harness was strapped with weapons.

  PP was wearing several handguns and what looked like a Mossberg shotgun on her far side, a Sterlingworth twelve gauge on the side closest. And knives. Lots of them. Her pockets were full of gear. Nothing fancy, nothing Eli would bring along, just guns to hunt with. I liked.

  The harness was a good design. I heard no clanking when she trotted up, and PP carried her leash in
her mouth. When she reached my bike, she sat and looked at me, waiting, then turned and looked to the back of the house, at the black water, trying to tell me where I was supposed to be.

  I gunned Bitsa and followed PP around back, aware that if the bizarre couple wanted to kill me and hide the evidence, I was giving them ample opportunity. And my hair was really long. Christabel could probably do wonders with it.

  I wheeled Bitsa beneath the extended overhang of an outbuilding, in the shade and out of any possible rain, checked my weapons, holstered up, added a few extra mags of ammo and a bag of turkey jerky, and joined PP at the shoreline. Sarge’s plane was . . . moored, I guessed, at the dock, and on the other side of it, an airboat had been pulled up onshore. I hadn’t noticed the boat the last time we were here, but then, my attention had been on the thought of flying. Which I hated.

  PP’s head turned back to the house at the same instant that I smelled werewolf. I managed not to draw on my host, and also to pivot slowly instead of whirling, but it was a near thing. I had thought Sarge had meant he was going to change clothes to start this hunt, but he had taken me literally when I said he’d be leashed. A big gray wolf sat on the back deck staring at me with eyes the color of rainbow moonstone. Christabel’s hand was on his head, petting his ears as if he were a dog. Whatever magic had hidden his scent, it was gone now, with him in wolf form.

  Previously, I had seen Sarge in his wolf from only at a distance, in poor lighting. Seen closer, his coat was silver, each hair black-tipped, black legs and tail, a silver brow with a black stop and a black stripe that ran down his nose. He nudged Christabel, who knelt and strapped him into a harness like PP’s, but his was looser and had a strap up the tail, which would keep the harness in place while in dog form but allow him to change to human form while wearing it.

  Once he was harnessed, Sarge picked a leash up in his mouth and carried it to me. As he left her, Christabel caught my gaze and held it with hers. She grinned, her mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth. I nodded once. I understood. If I didn’t bring her family back unharmed, she’d find me, kill me, eat me, and take my scalp for her trophy wall. Though maybe not in that order.

  Sarge stopped at my feet and moved his eyes from me to the airboat. I untied the rope and put my back into getting the boat offshore, into the water. When the bow was still on sand, Sarge whuffed and I stood straight, arching my back to loosen the muscles. Sarge and PP leaped into the boat and I followed. There were seat-belt-like harnesses suitable for big dogs on the front bench seat, and seat belts for humans on the upper seat. The key was in the ignition. A storage trunk ran the width of the johnboat, just in front of the prop. There was plenty of gasoline in the tanks, and the steering mechanism was the same as another I’d driven, a stick that controlled the rudders. In moments, I had the canines belted in, and we were practically flying toward the last-known location of the escaped prisoner and his two hostages, the roar of the airboat deafening. There would be no sneaking up on anyone in an airboat.

  ***

  Sheriff Nadine LaFleur was onshore, with haphazardly parked cruisers, a crime scene van, and local law enforcement behind her. Lots of cops and deputies, male, female, all races, dressed in a mélange of uniform styles, street clothes, and business attire designating their branches of law enforcement. The gang’s all here, I thought. Media vans were in the distance with telephoto lenses, trying to see what was going on.

  I beached the boat near the small pier off Highway 56, known to the locals as Little Caillou Road, Nadine’s eyes checking out the canines. She ignored PP, as if she’d seen the dog before, but the wolf was a different matter. Nadine wasn’t happy to see him.

  As the noise of the airboat abated, law enforcement types spread out, all armed, most carrying shotguns in addition to their sidearms, two with sniper rifles. Every single one of them turned weapons in our direction.

  I did my best to look innocent, but the black leather jacket, vamp-killers strapped to my thighs, and bulges of more weapons beneath my clothes didn’t help. Sarge made a barking sound and grinned at the humans like a frisky pup. PP took her cues from him and sat up, barking, looking as pretty as a buffalo-dog can.

  “Don’t tease the humans, Fido,” I said. Sarge’s mouth snapped shut and the look he gave me was not playful. “What?” I murmured, for his ears only. “You want me to call you Sarge?” I could see all sorts of things flicker through the wolf’s eyes before he vocalized softly and ducked his head. I’d made my point. I smoothed my wind-tangled hair, keeping my hands visible, tucking the ends into my braid as Nadine approached. The stocky, dark-haired woman was frowning, the stink of hatred and fear in her wake. The cops didn’t like werewolves. Which was okay by me. I didn’t like them either.

  I studied the group as they advanced on the airboat. There were dogs and multijurisdictional vehicles and boats and gear. The LEOs were preparing to start a search and rescue, a SAR, for John-Roy and the kidnapped women, but they hadn’t left yet, which was good. Their passage would mess up the air currents and any scents the wind might carry. We were just in time. Ducky.

  “What is that?” Nadine jerked her chin at Sarge.

  “Sarge loaned me PP, and the wolf came by boat.” Which was not a lie. Go, me.

  “Sarge is always willing to loan his dog. That wasn’t my question. Where did you get the werewolf and why don’t I just shoot him where he sits?” One of the snipers raised his rifle and took a bead on Sarge.

  “Fido’s people-friendly, won’t bite, and has the best nose in the business. He knows what and who we’re looking for, and because he has a human intelligence coupled with the nose of a hunting predator, and because it isn’t the full moon, he’s our best bet for success. Between the two canines, we hope to find the bad guys, call you to come take them in, and rescue the women.” I looked at the snipers and said, “And if you have standard ammo, not silver, nothing short of an elephant gun will kill him. And then you’ll have a fast-healing, pissed-off werewolf on your hands.”

  “Stand down,” Nadine said to her men. To me she said, “Why? What do you get out of it? You think you’re responsible because you killed John-Roy Wayne’s werewolf sister, Victoria?” Nadine was brutally direct. I liked that in a woman.

  “Not me. But yeah. My team. A job for which I have yet to be paid,” I added. Nadine responded with a frown, so I finished in a soft voice meant just for her and not the men behind her. “This is a freebie. Now, you gonna let my friends here sniff the stolen car you got cordoned off over there and let us get on the water, or are you just gonna stand here wasting my time?”

  Nadine’s eyebrows shot up, she snorted, and she stepped away from the boat. “Let the trackers at the vehicle, y’all,” she called out. “Let’s see what the werewolf and PP can do.”

  I released the canines from their seat belt harnesses and snapped on the leashes, made of strong, durable, nylon flex, and jumped from the bow to the hard-packed ground. The cops opened a wedge of space, like a gantlet, for us to pass through. The huge critters at my sides, we walked through the cops to the car. It was sitting at an angle across the faded parking lines, all four doors open. Inside, it was a mess, paper food wrappers, a stuffed animal that looked as if it had spent a year in a city dump, clothes, pillows, and blankets. My sense of smell was much better than a human’s, and I leaned in with the canines, pulling the air over my tongue with a scree of sound. The car smelled of fast food, fear, blood, and semen.

  Fury lit in my gut, flashing through me like a wildfire. Sarge swiveled his head to me and growled at the stink and what it might mean. “Yeah,” I said softly to him. Since Crime Scene was finished with the vehicle, I crawled inside and followed my nose until I found the place where the stink came from. It was on the back of the front seat, and beside it was a smear of blood.

  “Fido, smell this. See if the blood belongs to the same man.” Sarge wriggled up beside me, far closer than I really wanted the werewolf,
and placed his nose near the blood. He gave two quick sniffs and backed away, a canine grin on his face. “She hurt him, didn’t she?”

  Sarge chuffed and growled, dipping his head in agreement. The women had been hurt too, though, and the stink of fear and pain was strong in the car.

  Louder, without turning my head, I said, “Somebody was beaten in the car. Fido can smell it.” Nadine cursed. I was aware that her men had gathered in a tight circle around us, but their comingled scent was less antagonistic than it had been.

  “Was everyone alive when they left the car?” I asked Sarge. He nodded once. “Two women?” He nodded. “How many men?” He dipped his head twice. I looked around, wondering how the other guy got here.

  “You got any more vehicles unaccounted for here?” I asked Nadine. “Because John-Roy Wayne probably already had male company when he took off.” Nadine cursed again and sent her men to check vehicle tags. I said softly, “You got the scent?” Sarge whuffed. “Let’s go, then. We’re gonna move real casual, back toward the boat, and soon as we get settled, we’re gonna blow outta here. We’re not gonna be slowed down by cops trying to keep up. We’re not waiting for them to get the SAR team ready and give out little radios and coordinate a plan. Understood?”

  Sarge tilted his head at me and licked his chops.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later my cell buzzed in my pocket. We were far enough away that I couldn’t see the shore, and there had been no pursuit, so I killed the motor, leaving the airboat gliding across the water. I popped the cell and ignored the files on John-Roy, sent to me by Nadine, because I recognized the number from earlier. I said, “Ricky Bo. Yes. No. Yes. And I will.”

  “What?” he asked, thoroughly confused, which was what I’d intended.