by Faith Hunter
“We don’t know where he’ll be. In a stall. Hanging from the rafters in a cage. I’ll kill Isleen. Whoever is closest will save Jason.”
“Okay.” Loriann licked her lips. “One last thing. I called Katie. A guy answered. I told him about you. About Isleen and Jason. He was pretty pissed.”
Hope shot through Rick. He could feel his own heart thud in his chest. His uncle Tom answered the phone at Katie’s Ladies. “And?”
“I told him to expect a text message with directions. And I programmed the message with directions on how to get here.” She pulled out a cell phone and snapped it open. “It’s in my phone, waiting. As soon as Isleen arrives, and I see that my brother is still alive, I’ll hit send. If I can. I don’t know—”
With a pop of displaced air, Isleen appeared. She held a small boy in the crook of her arm, his long legs dangling. The boy was asleep or unconscious but breathing. Isleen had fed again, and the front of her dress was soaked with blood. Rick had no idea how much of it was the boy’s.
Loriann made a helpless moan of fear and longing and horror, one hand outstretched to the child. With her other hand, she pressed a button on the phone and sent the text message. Rick closed his eyes for a moment, hiding his relief. Help was coming. If he could keep them all alive until it arrived.
He focused on the vampire. Her hair was up in curls and waves, with a little hat and a scrap of netting perched on top, like something a woman from the eighteen hundreds might have worn. When she set the boy down, he saw that the lace dress had a bustle in back. And she wore pointed lace shoes. Strings of pearls were around her neck, crusty with dried blood. She looked like a parody of a horror movie, dressed for a wedding, covered in blood. She patted Jason on the head. The kid had pinprick holes in his neck. She had fed from him. Recently. It was all Rick could do to lie there and watch as Isleen positioned Jason on the dirt of the barn, curling him into a fetal position and covering him with a blanket she must have brought with her.
Rick was stretched out on the black stone, spread-eagled, his hands and feet appearing to be manacled but really free. The sheet was bunched at his side near his right hand, and beneath it were two stakes. Beneath his back were the knife and two more stakes. Hidden in the dust at the base of the black stone to his left and to his right were the two short stakes, his last-ditch-if-all-else-fails weapons. But help was coming. Help had to come.
“Begin,” Isleen said to Loriann, standing above Jason like a threat from the grave. “If you do it right, your brother will live. If the man is not bound to me when you are done, the boy will die while you watch. Then you will die.”
“Yes, mistress.” Loriann sat by his side, above his shoulder so that his right arm would be unimpeded, her most delicate tattoo needle in her hand. On the stone near her was the pot of mixed blood. She had woven her spell into his flesh with the blood on the tips of the cat claws, leaving only parts of three to be filled in.
“Sit beside him on the stone there”—Loriann pointed with the needle—“in the crook of his left arm. I’ll speak the ritual words while I fill in the last globules of blood on the cat’s claws.” Loriann met his eyes, telling him that she was ready.
All they needed was to put Isleen at a disadvantage, cause her to focus on something else just long enough for him to react. If the help came after the vampire was dead, he’d have a ride home. If the help came before, well, he’d have a weapon to protect the kid.
To Isleen, Loriann said, “When I say, ‘For all time. For all time. For all time,’ you have to bite him on his wrist and drink from him. One sip. And then you say, ‘Blood to blood, flesh to flesh, soul to soul. I claim you as my own. For all time. For all time. For all time.’ And it’ll be done.”
“How long?” Isleen asked, her fingers trailing down his face, cupping his cheek. He smelled old blood and something sweet and parched, like dried lilies. The smell of the vamp herself.
“The last globules will take about half an hour. I have to chant the whole time. If you talk, if you move, if you cause me to lose my concentration, it will break the spell.”
“And the child will die.” Isleen flashed her fangs. “Never forget that. Begin. Now.”
Loriann closed her eyes and ducked her head as if to pray. Then she opened her eyes and placed the needle into the pot of blood. “Blood to blood, flesh to flesh, soul to soul. These two are one.” She pierced Rick’s flesh with the needle. “Blood to blood, flesh to flesh, soul to soul. These two are one. Blood to blood, flesh to flesh, soul to soul. These two are one.”
The needle pierced him again and again as Isleen stared into his eyes, hunger in hers. He knew that she was trying to roll him, to do what vampires did to get free blood-meals and to bind blood-slaves and blood-servants. He could feel her compulsion tickling at the edges of his mind. If needles and fine blades hadn’t been sticking into him, he might have succumbed. But the pain kept him alert. Ready. The minutes ticked by. His blood trickled around his bicep to pool on top of his dried blood on the black witch stone.
Loriann changed the chant when she started on the second globule. “Blood to blood, flesh to flesh, soul to soul. These two are one. Time and time and forever. Blood to blood, flesh to flesh, soul to soul. These two are one. Time and time and forever. Blood to blood, flesh to flesh, soul to soul. These two are one. Time and time and forever.”
Rick regulated his breathing, keeping himself lose and relaxed. Letting Isleen believe that she was succeeding in rolling him. He slid his expression into a goofy smile. Let drunken love fill his face.
Loriann started on the last drop of blood on the last claw. Again her chant changed. “One blood, one flesh, one soul. Time and time and forever. One blood, one flesh, one soul. Time and time and forever. One blood, one flesh, one soul. Time and time and forever.” The phrase was like a drum beating into his mind. His heart stuttered and found a new rhythm, meeting and following her words. “One blood, one flesh, one soul. Time and time and forever. One blood, one flesh, one soul. Time and time and forever. One blood, one flesh, one soul. Time and time and forever.”
And then she said the words Isleen had been waiting for. “For all time. For all time. For all time.” The tattoo was complete.
Isleen bit. The pain was instantaneous. An electric shock. Rick gripped the stake. And spun, pushing up and away. Fast. Faster than he had ever moved. He plunged the stake into Isleen’s back. The point slammed through skin and muscle and cartilage.
Isleen screamed and ripped her teeth from his wrist. Twisted her body in a snakelike move no human could have duplicated. The stake missed her heart. Claws slashed down his abdomen. Struck at his throat. He scuttled away, taking the blade in his right hand. But his left hand had been injured by her teeth cutting their way out. He couldn’t grip a stake. It rolled across the black stone.
Isleen attacked, moving so quickly that she was a blur. Her fangs slashed into his throat. Ripping. Tearing. Her claws pierced his chest. He threw back his head and screamed.
He missed what happened next. Missed it entirely. Loriann told him about it later, much later, in such vivid detail that it was almost as if he witnessed his rescue. His saviors.
Katie and Leo. The two master vampires blew the doors off the barn. And came inside. Katie staked Isleen. Leo cut off her head. Loriann cradled her brother. His uncle Tom lifted them both and carried them, curled up together, out of the barn. The last memory he had was a spray of his own blood. And the vamp-black eyes of the Master of the City, Leo Pellissier.
Rick woke up in his own bed, clean, sore, and sleepy, just after dawn. Sprawled in the chair at the foot of his bed was his mom, her eyes open, watching him. Tom sat in a kitchen chair beside her. When his uncle realized he had awakened, he said, “What do you want most? A rare steak or sex?”
Rick raised his head, surprised that there was no pain. No pain anywhere. He touched his throat, finding no scars, then smiled and stretched. “Neither. Breakfast would be good.” He looked at his mother. “Blueberry
pancakes?”
She blew out a breath so hard and deep it sounded like a miniexplosion. Uncle Tom grinned widely, a big toothy grin. “He’s still himself. The binding didn’t take.”
“Pancakes it is,” his mother whispered, blinking back tears. “But your father is going to have kittens at the idea of you with a tattoo.”
Rick sat up on the edge of the bed and looked down at the tattoos on his shoulders, studying the eyes of the mountain lion. They didn’t glow or sparkle like gold jewelry. They were just amber, the eyes of a mountain cat. “I can live with that,” he said. “I can live with most anything now.” He tilted his head to his uncle. “Thank you. I owe you. I owe you big-time.”
“Yeah, you do. We’ll talk.”
“After the pancakes,” Rick said. He looked at his mom. “With blueberry compote and whipped cream?”
She wiped a tear from her cheek and nodded. “Anything you want, son.” She bustled out of the room, followed by his uncle, leaving him alone.
Rick shoved the pillows back against the headboard and propped himself up on them, listening to the chatter between Uncle Tom and his mother. He looked down again, studying the cats on his shoulder. Unsure what he would feel, he raised his hand and touched the amber eyes of the bobcat and then of the mountain lion. They felt like flesh—warm, resilient—and he could feel the pressure of his fingers as he traced the eyes. Nothing new in the tactile sensation. Just fingers. Just skin.
But the cats were part of the binding ceremony, part of his future that Loriann had read, had seen, and maybe had changed. She had done something to him, to his future, when she made him choose an animal. He knew it. He had felt it, like some tremor in the possible paths that life would offer him. A new branch, darker, more shadowed.
Rick didn’t know what it meant to have the cats here on his body, beneath his skin, part of him. But he figured the future would come whether he wanted it to or not. He had no control over that. He never had. It was just that until now he had never known how little power and influence over life he really maintained.
With that unhappy thought, he got out of bed, feeling stronger than he expected. He pulled on jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt, hiding the tattoos, and looked at himself in the mirror over his bureau. He looked unchanged. But only on the surface. Beneath, wildcats had entered his life. And he would never be the same.
Kits
I wrapped the tools of my trade in padded cloth and secured them with Velcro. The bundle of stakes, knives, and my most important blade, a silver-plated main-gauche was small enough to fit into the saddlebags of the old Yamaha bike and still leave room for a change of clothes and for odds and ends. The Yamaha wasn’t my dream bike, but it would do for a while longer until I earned enough to buy the Harley I lusted after.
I tucked my money into the inside pocket of my jeans beside the red lipstick I favored. I French-braided my hip-length hair into a careless plait and tucked it into my leather jacket where it wouldn’t be in the way or get windblown too badly. The jacket was used, purchased at a consignment store, and it still reeked of the last owner, at least to my sensitive nose. I’d tried spraying it with deodorizers, but nothing worked. If I took down the vamp I was gunning for and earned the bounty, I had promised myself a brand new leather riding jacket. That and two real vamp-killers to replace the less-than-perfectly balanced main-gauche a local smith had modified with silver. Last I adjusted my gold nugget on its double chain for riding. The necklace was my only jewelry.
I looked over the small efficiency apartment I had rented, making sure I was leaving nothing important behind, and locked the door after me. I helmeted up, keyed on the Yamaha, and headed out of town. I had a gig hunting down a suspected young rogue-vamp that was terrorizing the inhabitants outside of Day Book, North Carolina. But first I was stopping off at a local restaurant to pick up a small tracking charm that would let me follow the whacked-out vamp through rough country, and to pay the balance of the cost to the earth witch who’d made it.
I parked the Yamaha in front of the herb shop and eatery, and entered. Seven Sassy Sisters’ Herb Shop and Café, owned and run by the Everhart sisters, had a booming business, both locally and on the Internet, selling herbal mixtures and teas in bulk and by the ounce. The shop itself served high-quality brewed teas, specialty coffees, daily brunch and lunch, and dinner on weekends. It was mostly vegetarian fare, whipped up by the eldest sister, water witch, professor, and three-star chef, Evangelina Everhart. Carmen Miranda Everhart Newton, an air witch, newly married and pregnant, ran the register and took care of ordering supplies. Witch twins Boadacia and Elizabeth and two wholly human sisters, Regan and Amelia, ran the herb store and were waitstaff. I was looking for Molly Meagan Everhart Trueblood. Names with moxie seemed to run in the family.
I took a booth at the big window overlooking the city and ordered my usual. I had just discovered eggs Benedict, and a double order would just about keep up with my caloric requirements until lunch. Regan tilted her red head and said, “Honey, if I ate like you, I’d be bigger than a house. Hey, we got us a new Himalayan oolong. It’s a semifermented Nepal tea; Evangelina says it combines the characteristics of a high-grown Darjeeling and a soulful oolong.” She rolled her eyes and tapped her order pad with her pencil. “But you know Evangelina. She can wax poetic about tea better than most anybody.”
I didn’t really know Evangelina; the eldest witch sister wasn’t exactly a warm and cuddly kinda gal, and since I lack a lot in the way of social skills, we hadn’t hit it off. Though Evangelina hadn’t yet come right out and said so, I could tell she had strong reservations about the friendship developing between Molly and motorcycle-mama me. I had stepped in between Mol and a group of ticked off witch haters at the Ingles grocery store and we had become casual friends—a little closer than acquaintances, but not bosom buddies. Well, not yet. Maybe someday. I could hope. I liked Molly.
I ate the delectable eggs Benedict and drank the totally fabulous tea, sipping my third cup with my eyes closed so I could enjoy all the delicate flavors—the flowery, fruity aroma; the clean, smooth taste on my tongue. I wasn’t a rich woman, but the quality of the tea was well worth the price, at four bucks per half an ounce of dry leaves. My appreciation of the tea went a long way to endearing me to Evangelina, who was watching me through the diner-style window between the kitchen and dining room. Her mouth wasn’t as pursed as it normally was, and her shoulders weren’t quite as unyielding.
Over that last cup of tea, I asked Regan for Molly—who I figured was in the stockroom or the office doing accounts—so I could pick up and pay for the tracking charm. Regan slid into the seat opposite me and cupped her chin in her hand. Serious gray eyes met mine across the table. “Molly didn’t come in to work today. And she didn’t call. And she’s not answering her phone. Evangelina’s mad, but worried, too, you know? Me and Amelia’s going out to her place after work. You want I should take the money to her and bring back your charm?”
My Beast sat up inside my mind, kneading me with sharp mental claws. I’m not prescient. Not a lick. But a chilled finger of disquiet slid up my spine with the words. Molly was supposed to be here today. She was expecting me. And though I didn’t know her well, I knew she was ethical from her toes to her eyeballs. I set the teacup onto the saucer with a dull clink. “I think I’ll ride out there and pick up the charm.” At Regan’s suddenly wary expression, I said, “I’ve known Molly for a while. Ever since she was cornered in the grocery store by the witch haters.”
Most of the distrustful expression slid from her face. “That was you?” Witches were notoriously cautious and guarded of their privacy. They had been persecuted for thousands of years until the mid-twentieth century, when vamps and witches came out of the closet. They were currently negotiating for equal civil rights in the U.S., but Congress and the courts were having a tough time integrating the expanded lifespan of vamps and the power potential of witches into a code of law. And in many places the human population had a long way to
go in accepting witches as anything other than the evil creatures portrayed in history, Scripture, and fiction.
“Yeah.” I shrugged slightly and sipped my tea.
Regan looked me over in my biker jacket, jeans, and worn-out butt-stomper boots, and glanced back at the kitchen. I understood and sighed. “Go ask Evangelina. Though she’ll probably tell you no way. Evangelina doesn’t like me much.”
Regan snorted though her tiny, pert nose. “My big sister doesn’t like anyone much. You been to Molly’s?”
I recited the address and said, “It’s a double-wide mobile home with pale green trim and about two acres of grass for Big Evan to mow. He was mowing it last Saturday when I took the deposit by. He was riding a big yellow mower. Big Evan is redheaded like Molly; bearded, not like Molly; and built like a mountain.” I thought a moment more and added, “And her kid is actually cute. You know. For a kid. Angie Baby has so many dolls, it’s hard to find her bed under them all.” Angie Baby was the nickname used by two-year-old Angelina’s parents, which gave me another bona fide.
“And on the wall of Angelina’s bedroom?”
I grinned. “Noah’s ark with unicorns, griffins, and pixies on the gangplank.” I couldn’t help the softness I knew was taking over my smile when I said, “She climbed up in my lap and introduced her doll to me. Like it was alive.” I shook my head and tucked my chin, looking at Regan under my brows. “I have never talked to a doll before.”
Regan chuckled. “Not even when you were a kid?”
I remembered the children’s home where I was raised from the time I was twelve, and the smile slid off my face. “No. Not even when I was a kid.”
