Harvest: Dark Urban Fantasy (Shifter Chronicles Book 3)

by Melle Amade

  “Maybe one of them is looking to take over Muiderkring West by himself,” Roman mutters. “Having the Heir, the Ridder, and the lord all at one time would be extremely convenient. He can cry treason and then take over all of Muiderkring West.”

  “Do they know you two are here?” Hercules asks.

  I shrug. “I’m not sure they would care. We are dead to the Order. All they cared about was my father. Once they got him, El Oso left immediately.”

  Jacqueline stares quietly into the fire. Her eyes glow orange is the firelight as she raises them to me. “What do you want to do?”

  I’m a bit taken aback. My gaze flies to Roman, but he’s looking at me also. This is my tribe. This is my clan.

  “I want to get my friends out of there. And,” I add taking a deep breath. “I would like to ask for your help. The last thing in the world I want to do is make the same mistake we did last time and underestimate the enemy.”

  Jacqueline and Hercules exchange a look. There’s a lot spoken in the silence between them. But when Jacqueline’s eyes shift to Cory’s shed where her equipment stands. I know what she’s thinking.

  “Cory always fought for freedom and independence and the right to be exactly who she was,” Jacqueline says. “She also believed in family, community and helping others. I have been against you since you first came here, because you intruded in our lives. But you have also helped my mother. She found something in herself she didn’t even know she needed. She had great power, but until you came along she had no reason to use it. I was given great power, but until you came along I only used it to express my anger.” Jacqueline bows her head and holds her hands out in front of her. “We will help you.”

  “But we must maintain our secrecy,” Hercules says. “Lydia and your lord are out of the woods, but at this fragile time, they cannot move and we think the guardians are weak. If somehow they find us, they may be able to make it in and destroy us.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  This time it’s Hercules who shakes his head as he looks at me. “I don’t think you do understand,” he says quietly. “With all due respect Shae. The Pomos cannot just get up and move. We cannot leave the land. This place is our home. We are the caretakers here. So, if anyone were to find us and force us out, like you have been forced to leave Topanga, then this place on the earth will die, and the death would spread.”

  Roman and I sit silently staring at them. “You are the First People,” Roman finally says in awe.

  Hercules nods. “Yes.”

  And suddenly the stories of my father come flooding back. How the Aborigines were First People and sang the songs that kept the world healthy and moving. “You sing the magic to keep the world in existence,” I murmur.

  Jacqueline nods.

  “We can’t use your help,” Roman says. “You must be kept safe.”

  “Roman, we can’t do this alone,” I argue. “We just can’t. We are not stronger than Patch and Polaris. They will kill us. They will kill our friends.”

  “Whatever we lose,” Roman says, “will never be as tragic as losing the First People. Without them we have nothing. We can’t bring the Quails into our fight.”

  I can’t unravel the knots of everything he says, but it aligns with what my father has told me. Stories I thought were mythical or allegorical. But, they are literal. If what Hercules said is true and the earth is a living being, who needs these people as caretakers, I can’t engage them. My gaze absorbs the group of people gathered around the fire.

  There are so few of them.

  “Let people take care of themselves,” I murmur.

  “What?” Roman says.

  “When I wanted to free my dad, my mom said that of all of us he was the best able to get out of that situation. So far, the Order only has Callum, Zan and Cooper. Maybe there is a way to help them but not put more people at risk. The truth is, there’s no one better to get out of a situation like this than two coyotes and a Ravensgaard.”

  “Three coyotes,” Evie says.

  She stands in the shadows behind Jacqueline. I expect Hercules to tell her to go back to the cabin and go to sleep, but he doesn’t. Instead he raises a finger towards her and bows his head slightly. “We can give you a coyote,” he says.

  “And an earthquake,” Jacqueline adds.

  “There is a song for you.” Lydia’s voice is hoarse as it flows to us from the porch.

  “Mother!” Jacqueline cries, running to her and putting her arm under her shoulders. “You shouldn’t be standing.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Lydia says. “All I needed was a drink.”

  “Lord Van Arend? Aiden?” I stand up.

  “They are fine. Sleeping,” Lydia says. “Your friend’s father was in trouble a lot longer than I was, and will need to rest. As does his son. They will be safe here. You have made me stronger. None can enter the village without my consent.”

  “At least sit down, mother,” Jacqueline says. But Lydia shakes off her arm and makes her way to the fire. She stops in front of Roman and me.

  “While I was dreaming, the ancestors gave me a song for you.”

  27

  “I don’t know what the song is or what it means, but it is yours if you will have it.”

  Roman and I look warily at each other. Lydia is like some sort of ancient goddess-walk-the-earth. She may not think of herself, in this way, but it seems she could move mountains just with the power of her mind. I’m scared because I want something from her song and I want it so bad, but I don’t even dare talk about it. I don’t even dare mention it and I don’t even know if it will happen. But right this minute it doesn’t seem to matter, because I trust her. And whatever message she has for me, is the one I need to hear.

  “Yes,” I say. “I want to hear it.”

  “Come.” Her smile is deep and warm like the Earth swallowing me whole and keeping me safe. We rise to follow her, but she holds up a hand separating us from the Pomos with a slight movement of her index finger.

  Lydia leads us all the way to the river. The full moon is glowing on the water, glancing off small ripples caused by a fish jumping. I try to calm my nerves with a slow, deep breath, but I still feel the thrum of tension moving through the muscles of my neck and stinging against my collar.

  “How bad can it be?” Roman whispers nervously.

  I raise my eyebrows at him. We watched her rain the river down on the forest and nearly die.

  Lydia moves to a large tree stump and sits erect and peaceful, as if this is a place she comes and sits often. “My mother used to take me to this spot when I was a little girl,” she says. Her voice is deep and resonates inside of me. “She told me to watch the water and listen to the tiny ripples that make the music of the spheres. People don’t listen enough today. They don’t hear the truth going on all around them every second.”

  She smiles down at us where we are sitting at her feet as if we just came out here in the middle of the night to have a chat. “Can you believe people wear earplugs? They miss the symphony of the world because they are listening to music, watching YouTube videos and binging on Netflix.”

  “Yeah, but have you seen the dancing cats?” Roman says with a smile.

  To my surprise, Lydia laughs. “There’s a time and place for everything. Right now, is the time to listen. And I think you’re ready to hear.”

  She pulls out the smudge stick and a shell.

  “My mother gave me this abalone shell,” she says. “She held it before me, my grandmother held it before her, and my great-grandmother before her. So, when you hear the song, know it’s my grandmother and my great-grandmother and my great-great-grandmother. All of the ancestors are speaking to you in a song only you will hear.”

  “Me and him, right?” I ask, looking over at Roman.

  Lydia lifts her eyes to the side. I can’t stop the smile that spills onto my face. She totally just eye-rolled me. “May I have some fire, please?” she asks, holding out the abalone shell.

>   It takes me a second to realize what she means. But then I press my finger against the smudge stick at the bottom of the shell and feel my hand heat up. The sage starts to smoke.

  Roman’s eyes are staring wide.

  Lydia’s fingers jerk through the air lightly as if dancing to a delicate rhythm, but it’s clear she wants us to stand. Roman and I dutifully fall into line like good soldiers and stand there as she moves the smoking bundle from top to bottom and bottom to top. The eagle feather fans the smoke over us. I remember Hercules words, she is cleansing the air around us of evil spirits, or in the words of Roman, bad juju.

  After the stick finishes smoking, all four of her fingers raise lightly in the air and give a couple of subtle waves down. We find ourselves sitting like kindergartners, crisscross-applesauce right at the feet of the Pomo medicine woman.

  I don’t know what we’re supposed to do, but suddenly the air fills with a low humming. It rises and falls in a beautiful pitch, rhythmically moving over me. Lydia’s mouth isn’t open very much, her eyes are closed, her hands are held forward with palms up, one pointed at me and one at Roman. A song of the deep recesses of the wild comes from her. It flows continually and fluidly in deep, resonant tones. There’s no obvious breath. It’s as if spirits stream intensely through her and into the world.

  I’m engrossed in the song. It seems multiple voices come at the same time from the one person. There is a deep, heavy undertone and a higher melody scaling over the top.

  Roman’s hand folds over mine and I glance over. Something happens to him, and I’m completely startled because his eyes go wide and then close. He holds his hands up, as if something is connecting through their palms. Tilting forward he absorbs the song.

  Suddenly three bursts of sound, like pops, come out of her mouth and tap me in the chest. It’s like a finger thumping on me trying to get my attention.

  “Ow.”

  I look around to see what is hitting me, but nothing is there. Lydia sits peacefully, her handsome face staring straight ahead. The sound lifts me and carries me along.

  And then it comes again.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  The invisible finger jabs at my chest.

  “What?” I speak softly. Nobody’s listening but me.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  I inhale sharply, because there’s something in front of me. Something I can’t see. But I can feel it tapping me right in the center of my chest. My eyes strain into the darkness, but nothing is visible.

  But I know something is there.

  “Listen.”

  The word washes over me in Lydia’s music.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “Open.”

  A simple command hidden in the melody. It moves in my cells, swimming in my blood. My neck stings as the collar heats up. I rub my palms against it, straining my neck away. But there’s no escape.

  The burning singes at my skin. I gasp in cool air, but it does nothing to relieve the blistering heat coming from the collar. My fingers are scorched as they slip into the fiery space between the collar and my neck, desperately trying to get the scorching metal away from me. Usually there is no space between the collar and my neck but now, as I frantically yank at the metal, it bends, malleable and hot, twisting around my hands.

  I wrench it hard and the metal splits, breaking open and separating. I rip it apart and then off my neck, hurling it into the river.

  My body lurches forward as my neck cools down and I can breathe.

  I can finally breathe.

  All the blood inside me, all the burning dove and icy raven blood writhes and pushes at me, trying to get out. My eyes fly open and I press my hands to my neck.

  I am free!

  But Roman is not.

  His collar is tight and cold, encircling his neck. I stretch forward, flames on my hands, holding them against his neck. His head jerks towards me, eyes bulging as his skin starts to burn beneath the metal, heating up beneath my fingers. He starts to pull back.

  “No!” I cry.

  Slipping my scorching fingers between his collar and his neck, I hold onto him. His gaze flies to my neck and he sees my collar is gone. With a sharp intake of breath, he holds steady under the onslaught of fire coming from my hands. His teeth clench and sweat beads on his forehead. I rip his collar apart with both hands, opening it wide, and flinging it away from him.

  The song coming from Lydia softens and fades away into the chill night air. Roman doesn’t wait one second. He jumps straight into the air so high I can barely believe he’s doing it. His body shrinks and a smile bursts through my heart and onto my face. The bright green frog with the bulging orange eyes sails down from the air. With one giant leap Roman lands in the cool pale water of the river.

  My heart is swollen full of magic and gratitude.

  “Thank you,” I say to Lydia. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Her smile is faint but her heart is all encompassing.

  I push off the ground and up into the air. Feathers sprout as my body retracts and stretches and I beat my wings against the night. I am dove, white and pale as the moon as I sail through the black sky.

  28

  Black winds caress my wings. I want to crawl into the sky and never, ever leave. I fly in a circle and scream in pleasure in my heart.

  I am free.

  “Thank you, Ancestors!”

  My heart cries, because I do not understand anything of the world we live in and I am constantly inundated with its magic moving around me, through me, and in me. It elevates me and raises me and gives me more than I ever imagined I could have.

  And here I am again, a living miracle.

  Not only have I seen the most incredible things I could ever imagine, but I have heard the voices of the ancestors. I have heard those who have gone before, singing for me and to me and empowering me. Enriching me and telling me I can live the life they always wanted. I can carry their message and carry their stories.

  My voice rings my joy into the sky.

  From where I fly I can see that the river rushing along through the mountains and I can see the lights of the village far below. I can peer down the mountain; it’s a long stretch but I take my time and follow the car headlights that move occasionally through the valley, and I see Spotswood Ranch. There are no glaring lights, no fires, but the lights are on inside the house. I see the Berzerken’s white Escalade still in the driveway, but there is no sign of my mother or the others.

  Perhaps they are safe.

  But what do we do? I fly a bit to clear my head, to enjoy the clouds, to gratefully receive everything I thought had been taken from me. I fly to feel pleasure in this moment without being tied down to the misery and pain of others.

  I have to help them in some way.

  I’m above the ridge behind Spotswood Ranch when I see it, a small fire in the darkness. It’s far away from the Pomo village, but high up on the mountains where no one would be looking for a campfire. Not unless you were a bird shifter.

  The quails do not fly, and although the coyotes have been looking, they have not been looking long enough or hard enough. They’ve been focused on the fairs. Because they have been safe for one hundred years, so who would think they would suddenly be hunted.

  I start to head towards the campfire, but I realize I’m a dove. Easily spotted against the dark sky. In the past, I only ever shifted from human to dove or human to raven, but it must be possible to shift from dove to raven. It must be. Evie shifted from a quail to a coyote. I reach for the icy rage of the protective raven and its never hard to find. It pours into me, chilling me and transforming me from the peaceful white dove into the black as night bird.

  I shriek into the gloom, circling once before silently heading up the mountain, towards the light. My aim is high enough so I’ll be able to figure out what it is before they can see me, but not so high that I can’t make out their numbers. I know what I’m looking for even as I get closer. Few in numbers, but armed to the te
eth. Their meteoritic iron blades glinting in the firelight. This is a camp of Hunters.

  The one advantage we have over the Hunters is, they are not shifters. They are human. As long as I stay high they do not have the senses to see me or smell me or hear me. But I will be able to do all of that and more with them.

  It looks like they’ve come along the back of Blackbart trail, which stretches from Redwood Valley all the way along the ridge overlooking Potter Valley. The road itself never actually descends to Potter Valley, except possibly on a dirt track. But having seen the way Cooper drives, I’m sure people get their vehicles straight down into the valley from Blackbart Trail, if they really want to. The camp is minimalist, ready to quickly move. Just a fire, some food and some bedrolls. In fact, they don’t have trucks up here, they are using ATVs, looks like about six of them. But there are more Hunters than that, about twelve. My heart clenches, because if they can get into the Pomo village, these Hunters would slaughter them.

  But the Berzerken….

  The Berzerken have at least a dozen men at Spotswood Ranch, which would make much more of a fair fight.

  Perhaps, I can encourage the Hunters to attack the Berzerken.

  I make the decision quickly. All I have to do is get in and out before they can stop me. Deliver the message and retreat. Disappear into the night.

  It’s an incredibly risky decision, so I take action before I can stop myself. Before I’m too frightened. I stop beating my wings and allow my black body to float down on the edges of the firelight. I don’t want to make a caw and get everyone’s attention, but I rustle some leaves to draw the gaze of one of the Hunters. The Hunter with the short white cropped hair and the black hunting vest. The one I saw at the rodeo grounds, who spoke to Roman and who no doubt was on the outskirts of the Pomo village trying to get in. He sits in the shadows, leaning forward as he polishes his knife in the firelight.

  I stand there as a raven. Sizing him up in the same way he is sizing me up. He’s off to the side of the group, with them, but alone. He strikes me as a loner and someone who wants the kill all for himself. Backing up I move farther into the trees, walking slowly on the forest floor, knowing he will follow me. Even if he thinks it’s a trap, it’s too good of a trap to pass up.