by Faith Hunter
I didn’t particularly want to, but I triggered the Sight as I spoke, glancing upward. Amaury’s hideaway was the center of a damned vortex, magic twisting in myriad shades toward the bordello and blackening as it reached it. That was how amalgamated magic tended to work, at least in my world. Either it was born of good intention and all those blended colors went to white, or it was bad news and it all turned black.
“Amaury’s a cesspool,” I said to the sky. “Oil spill. Whatever you want to call it, his aura is bubbling with evil, and I can’t read it, Jane. I have no idea if he was telling the truth. Do you know how long it’s been since I couldn’t read an aura?”
“Most of forever,” Jane guessed, which was actually completely wrong, but also hardly worth correcting. “He smells like blood and sex and lies to me,” she said, “just like any vamp. I figure they’re all lying, all the time.”
“He wasn’t wrong,” Lazarus rumbled. “You, me, d’big cat lady, we all from somewhere else, and somebody brought us t’rough. Maybe it’s dis voodooine. We find her, we get answers, whether Mister Amaury like it or no.”
I said, “I like the way you think,” and heard Jane make a sound that said she didn’t like anything about Lazarus, but that he probably had a point. I didn’t know why I got a free pass from her and Laz didn’t, except for maybe our weird physical similarities overrode her suspicions. I generally trusted the person I saw in the mirror, after all, and although Jane and I weren’t quite that carbon-copied, it was pretty close.
“What if she did bring a demon through?” Jane asked.
“You’re kind of a worst-case-scenario girl, aren’t you?” I tested my legs and found them worthy to stand on, but Laz kept an arm around my waist an extra minute anyway. I didn’t really have any complaints. “I’m not a demon. Are you?” Jane shook her head and we both looked at Laz, whose white teeth flashed brightly as he shook his head.
Jane’s scowl deepened and I wished I had something to throw at her. “Yes, of course, Jane, he’d lie to us if he was a demon. But I would lie to you if I was a demon, and you’d lie to us if you were one, so we might as well just take each other at our words and move on. If the voodooine did bring a demon through and it’s not one of us, well then by gosh we’ve got three adepts to take it down with. And I’ve fought demons before.”
“You fought demons?” Jane said incredulously. “And I thought my life was weird.”
“You turn into a giant panther. Your life is weird. That aside, do either of you know where we’re going?” I wished I had my classic Mustang, Petite. I would feel a lot safer going anywhere with her sturdy steel body and 190 mph engine around me. But I’d left her on the outskirts of the city, its peculiarities—its wrongness—strong enough from out there that I hadn’t wanted to risk her custom purple paint job, nevermind the decade-plus of work I’d put into her.
“Yeah,” Jane said, and jerked her thumb to the indistinct south. “The bayou. But we’re gonna need a vehicle, unless you two can adopt four fast legs.”
“Actually, I can.” We both glanced at Laz, who shrugged apologetically.
“D’hare, oui, I can do dat. D’snake, him too. Young man, old man—”
“Beggar man,” I said under my breath, “thief.”
Laz gave me a sharp, curious look, then flashed that grin again. “Oui, dem too, but de fox, maybe de coyote, dey d’fastest I can do, and dey smaller dan d’cat.”
“Really? My mass stays the same when I change. I’d think you’d make a pretty, er, massive, coyote. You’d keep up with a—”
A resounding crunch interrupted me. Laz and I turned to see Jane reaching through the smashed-in window of a 1987 AMC Eagle station wagon. She flipped the sun visor down, keys fell into her palm, and she jangled them at us. “We’ll drive.”
I gawked, then threw my hands in the air. Stealing cars, what the hell, it wasn’t my world anyway. If there was a Joanne Walker up in Seattle to get blamed for it, I would feel very bad, but if this world had a Joanne Walker, it seemed to me like she should be the one down in the Big Easy, fighting this world’s fight. For a moment I wondered if, if there had been a Jo here, what had happened to her, and then decided I really didn’t want to know and said, “I’ll drive,” instead of pursuing the thought.
I never let anybody else drive if I could help it, even if I didn’t know the territory. I’d been the best driver in my class at the police academy, and it was a point of pride. I figured I’d have to argue it, but to my astonishment, Jane handed the keys over, got in the front passenger’s seat. Laz got in behind me, and Jane played navigator all the way out of the city limits toward the rich green swamps of the bayou.
Any other time in my life and I’d have reveled in just the drive. The roads weren’t good, but I’d cut my teeth on narrow, twisting Appalachian trails, so not good was a familiar variable. And the rest of it was amazing, the rich green scent of rot from old trees and stagnant water accompanying the endless buzz of mosquitoes, loud enough to be heard over the Eagle’s engine when we paused a time or two to decide which way to go. There were alligators and snapping turtles and birds I didn’t know the names of out there, and I dearly wanted to stop the car and roll around in it all. On the other hand, I also dearly wanted to know how we’d gotten to this world, and rolling around in slimy, duckweed-coated water would not get us any answers.
After a while Jane’s directions started getting a little fuzzy, and I pulled over to trigger the Sight and see what it could tell us. At home I would guess nothing: magic was hard to track. But here, with Amaury dragging power out of every adept in the region, there was a constant pull, active magic being used, and that I could see.
We were just about on top of a power drain. Gorgeous rich red and gold magic spiraled into the sky, drawn inexorably toward New Orleans. I exhaled, relieved, and opened my door. “We’re here. We’ve just got to get out and root around a little. Everybody be careful, though. If this woman can call up demons, we don’t want to piss her off.”
Jane and Lazarus climbed out of the car, and as we slammed the doors shut, the station wagon exploded.
I had shields, mental constructs that I’d finally—after being bitten by one of Hollywood’s favorite monsters—learned to keep in place always, all the time, quote the raven forevermore. They kept me from being roasted alive.
They did not keep me from being knocked ass over teakettle halfway across the bayou. Cars, despite what movies told us, did not explode at the drop of a hat. When one did, the resulting concussive fireball was not something our heroes should idly or easily get up and walk away from. I hit water with a cannonball splash any twelve-year-old boy would be proud of, and came up flailing and coughing thick green muck.
Lazarus was a shadow in flame, unmoved by the inferno around him. I couldn’t seen Jane at all, not even her aura: the magic-born fire’s colors blocked everything else from my sight. I stood up—the water turned out to be only hip-deep—and was envisioning my shields extending to cramp the fire, to take away its air and put it out, when it winked out all on its own.
All right, not quite on its own. Lazarus came clear as the flame faded away, magic flexing around him. Dirt brown, primarily, and gold that glittered and shone and faded, like it was sucking up the fire and dispersing it into the air. I stood there in the water, mesmerized by the flow and flex of power. The whole act was performed in such a concentrated, braided way that it made me think of covens. I’d seen a dozen witches working together braid threads like that, but never an individual. The man had been big guns wherever he came from, that much I was sure of.
And speaking of big guns, he tugged the burnt ruin of his shirt off, exposing some of the most flawless pectorals I’d ever laid eyes on. Bits of cloth smoldered against his skin. He brushed them away without concern and I gave myself a shake. Standing around gawking at beautiful men would not deal with the problem of whatever had exploded our car, and I still didn’t know where Jane was. I waded out of the water, realizing the Eagle h
ad only exploded about five seconds ago. My ears were only just beginning to ring, a slightly delayed reaction to the eruption. I got back to Laz’s side and shouted, “Are you okay? How’d you do that? Where’s Jane?” without being able to hear myself, then remembered I was a healer. I’d even dealt with hearing problems in the past, and it wasn’t hard to clear the bells away.
Laz bellowed, “Fine, I fine. Dat was eart’ magic, cherie. Fire eat de air, but soil snuff it out,” back at me, then looked startled when I put my hand on his cheek and shot a bolt of healing power through him to clear his ears too. He dropped his jaw a couple times after, and said, “Jane,” in a more normal voice, and shook his head.
I took a breath to start being worried with, and had it stolen by the scream of an infuriated big cat.
Beast hates fire. Fears fire. Jane is quick, but not quick enough. Take control, force shift, leap. Away from fire, away from burning-magic smell. Dark stink. Strong stink. Easy to track. Not-witch woman smells big over the fire: wet, not scared. Hollow-man smells of earth magic, not fear. Safe from fire. Good.
Beast hunts.
My stomach dropped through my shoes. I was halfway over the burnt-out Eagle, trusting my shields to protect me from its lingering heat, when Laz collared me and hauled me backward. “Don’ be a fool, witchy-woman. You go after d’cat, den we all separate an’ whoever out dere, dey pick us off easy. You and me, we find our enemy, den we find de cat.”
My nostrils filled with the scent of sulfur as he spoke. I glanced at my hands: coated in yellow dust, as if the car had been hit with a colored dust-bomb, not a fireball. That seemed slightly important, but less so than glaring futilely at Laz. I nodded. I’d shouted it at every horror movie I’d ever seen: don’t split the party. “Arright. Okay. But what the hell hit us?”
Sulfur’s stench faded, replaced by the cleaner smell of salt. I hadn’t even known salt had a scent, much less one I could recognize, but it permeated the air, sparkling like fairy dust. Then as if remembering it had come from the sea, it sucked water up from the swamp and attacked Laz and me.
I snapped shields around both of us, creating a bubble of air that I figured would last maybe three minutes. This was going to have to be a very short, decisive fight, or we’d suffocate. Teeth bared, I pushed back with my shields.
Water being what it was—malleable, permeable, probably other things that ended with -able too—it rolled around the shield. I had the distinct feeling it was examining my magic, or at least the shields. I hadn’t doubted there was a real live person somewhere in the swamp directing it, but that solidified my certainty. Our voodooine was nearby, controlling the water as it studied my shields. The magic covered my shield, wrapping around it until the rest of the outside world was only a wavering mass.
Then it began to squeeze.
I had never thought of myself as claustrophobic, not until I’d gone crawling through narrow tunnels deep under Seattle. Since then I’d had a dislike of small enclosed places.
All of a sudden the safety of my own shielding felt like a small enclosed place. The water was dark, much darker than it should be, like the whole damned swamp had come up on us. Even the generally shimmery blue-silver of my shields didn’t have much effect against that dark. I squeaked an I’m-being-brave little laugh and knelt down, focusing on the ground as I tried to breathe.
Creepy-crawlies crept up my spine and settled at my neck. My skin turned to goosebumps as water started dripping on my nape. It shouldn’t be possible. It wasn’t possible. My shields were stronger than that. They should hold against pretty much anything as long as I believed they could.
The drip turned to a deluge. I whispered, “Laz?”
“Eart’, fire, air,” he said, sounding strained, “dey ain’t notin’ dat stand against water, cherie.”
I looked up to see his black skin sallow and his eyes wide and white with fear. He stood rigid above my coiled-up ball, the two of us making an example of what the numeral 10 would look like if terrified out of its wits. I gave a high-pitched giggle and struggled to my feet so we were at least a petrified 11, standing back to back. “The air’s going to run out.”
“Den maybe we better do sometin’ dramatic.”
I was halfway through saying, “Right, good plan, got any ideas?” when the goddamned fool blew up the earth we were standing on.
I didn’t see how he did it. Dirt and mud simply exploded under my feet, rupturing a hole big enough that the Eagle fell halfway in. So did we. The water, though, fell apart: our enemy hadn’t expected that. Fair enough, because neither had I. I balled up a fist to hit Lazarus with, but he grabbed it and hauled me out of the pit he’d created. “Where your sword, witchy woman?”
“I’m not a witch, I’m—” I had the terrible urge finish that sentence with “your wife,” which was a quote I suspected would make Jane laugh and which I thought Laz wouldn’t get at all. Instead of finishing, I drew the sword for the second time that day, its four-foot blade afire with shamanic power.
Then, to my complete horror, I swung around and slashed Lazarus across the chest.
Blood rose up bright and frightening. My heart seized up, panic and confusion wrenching my breath away. Wrenching everything away: I had no control as I lunged again, piercing his left pectoral. I just missed shoving it through his heart only because he skipped backward with more alacrity than a man his size should possess. I swung again and this time he parried with his arm, for Christ’s sake, laying flesh open almost to the bone, and bellowed, “What de hell you doing, woman!”
“I don’t know!” The sword felt weirdly light in my hand, as if someone else held it and I was little more than a voodoo doll dancing to somebody’s whim.
A voodoo doll.
“Oh, bloody fucking hell . . .”
I shook pelt, loose skin slinging water and fire away. Snorted with anger. Huffed. Do not like magics. Smells bad. Feels bad on nose.
Padded though the hot, wet place, panting in the heat. Scenting strange witchy-woman nearby, smelling salt in air, seeing-feeling water in air as it moved up from bayou. It moved as if it was alive, shaped like human hand, black as night. Killing water, water to drown in, powered by magic. Formed like fist of witch. It smelled salty like sea, and stinky-with-dead-things like bayou. And it wrapped around blue magics Jo and Laz hid behind. Squeezing. Witches were stuck inside to drown. I could not help. I padded off to side, following witch-scent on wind, following magic scent on air.
Saw witchy woman, voodooine woman in trees. I crouched low, belly to ground, watching. Witch woman was in open place in trees, had fire in center of clearing. Behind it was small house, planks and windows, no paint, tall roof, porch in front and back, dock behind, on bayou. Her hand was out and closed, making fist. Squeezing, just as water magics were squeezing Jo and Laz.
I prodded Jane, inside of mind, but she was still asleep after fire and danger, after fast-fast-fast shift. I did not know what to do with dangerous witch. I could leap and kill witchy woman. I could go back to Jo and jump through water and Jo-magic and save Jo. Maybe. Maybe could drown. Looked at fire in fire pit. Maybe could burn.
I crept closer, paws beneath belly, padpadpad through brush, not crackling leaves. Not—
Terrible noise sounded. Blast of air and water. Mud and dirt. Threw Beast high. Explosion from behind. It whirled Beast in air, over and over. But Beast twisted in air and faced where Jo and Laz were. Landed in brush. Water-fist was gone. Laz was pulling Jo from hole in ground. Did not understand magic. Smelled bad.
I crouched low and crept under spiky plant to look at witchy woman. She picked up something from ground. Held it front of her. Kit? Sniffed air. Smelled of kit. Young kit. Milk on skin. But thing in witchy woman’s hands was not kit. Strange.
Looked back at Jo, seen through trees. Jo had sharp claw out. And hit Laz. Jo and Laz were fighting. I did not understand. Looked back to witchy woman. Witchy woman was holding not-kit’s arms out, moving them.
Doll, Jane thought. Cra
p. She’s using a voodoo doll.
Doll like Angie-baby plays with? I thought to her.
Yeah. But this one can kill. You have to stop her.
I gathered paws close. Watching witchy woman. Dangerous witchy woman. Black magic woman. Jane laughed and sang song in mind. I ignored her. And I leaped. Jane went silent in midair. I landed close to witchy woman, silent in brush. Studied woman with not-kit-doll.
Gathered limbs tight. And leaped again. Just as Jo screamed. Landed on witchy woman in mid-leap. Pushed her from fire, lifted her with paws and claws. Growling. Took her down to ground far from fire. She took breath to scream, and Beast dropped her. Landed on her. Breath left her in hard whoosh. I lowered head and took her throat in killing teeth. Her eyes were wide and she smelled good, like fear and blood and prey. And kit. Hunger cramped belly.
Stop! Jane shouted into mind. Beast had already stopped killing strike. Held witchy woman with teeth. World fell silent. Woman smelled of kit with milk. I snuffled in scent, lips pulled back. Woman had kit to feed from teats. But witchy woman was prey and predator both. And dangerous. I did not know what to do. Jane did not know what to do. Jane did not understand witchy power, not even witch power of friend Molly. I held witchy woman still.
Saw her eyes begin to leak. Saw not-kit-doll off to side. Felt witchy woman’s hands start to move under paws. Growled and shook her. Killing teeth broke skin. Blood tasted good. Beast was hungry. Tried to tell her so with eyes. Move and you will feed me.
I heard humans coming close. I waited. “Jane?” Jo said. “Are you . . . Um. Are you okay?”
