by Cutter, Leah
Peter stared off into the distance. Sally reached out and squeezed his hand. Then he turned and looked back at Lukas. “It won’t happen again,” he said softly. “I’ll work to make sure it doesn’t.”
“It can’t,” Lukas pointed out. “The clans split as a result. There’s no longer a single temple or court where you could wipe us all out.”
“Even the ravens?” Sally asked.
“Of course. There’s an American branch and a northern one—Iceland, I think.”
“Really?” Peter asked, surprised.
“Yeah. Why weren’t you told?” Lukas asked.
“There’s a bunch of things we weren’t told,” Peter said bitterly. “Many things were held back from the American branch by the current batch of elders. Your court’s in Germany?”
“Yeah. And the second one’s in Russia,” Lukas said.
“There’s so much to learn,” Peter grumbled.
Lukas shrugged. “You should probably talk to Rudi. I missed out on most of those lessons.” He paused, then said shyly, “Or maybe both of us could learn. Together.”
“Deal,” Peter said. “But in the meanwhile—what do we do about the shadows?”
“Be vigilant,” Lukas said. “The shadows will try to confuse you. They’ll also drain you, exhaust you. Peter—you’re more susceptible, because of your raven soul. Sally, if he ever seems like he isn’t himself, you’ll have to snap him out of it. Bring him back to you.”
What else had Oma said about fighting the shadows?
“If you find you’re arguing for no reason, it might be the shadows. Or if you suddenly start acting irrational. You won’t be able to smell them, Peter; you’re not a scent hound. But maybe if you see them sometime, your raven soul can help you detect them.”
“When will the battle start?” Sally asked, taking Peter’s hand. “And what should we do to prepare?”
“I don’t know,” Lukas said, grimacing. “I have to go to Germany, tomorrow. I have to let the court know the curse has been broken. See my family.”
Lukas paused. It still hadn’t sunk in, that he’d be seeing Da and the others soon. He made himself continue. “You aren’t the only ones who are essential to the battle with the shadows. There are others. I have to find them. Bring them together. Then we can fight, and have a chance of winning.”
That was the other thing Lukas’ dreams had always made clear: They might not win.
“We’re getting married next week,” Peter said. “And we were planning on going to Mexico for our honeymoon.”
“I’ll delay the war until you come back,” Lukas said with a grin. “Congrats, you two.”
“Thanks,” Peter said. “When we come back, uhm, eventually, we’ll be moving to Wyoming. To Ravens’ Hall.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Lukas assured him. He’d never had to organize something like this—he wasn’t sure anyone had. Rudi probably had some sort of technology to keep everyone in touch. And he had no idea when the final battle would be—in a month, or a year, or even ten years.
“Hey,” Sally said, reaching out and squeezing Lukas’ knee. “It’ll be okay. We’ll be here when you need us.”
“Thank you,” Lukas said. It was all he could ask for, their help defeating the shadows and saving the world.
But when? And how?
Lukas wished he knew. He stood up to go, not sure what else they could do now. He’d warned them, and he’d guard them as best he could. Sally and Peter stood up as well. For some reason, Lukas was absurdly happy that he was taller than Peter. Not by much, but enough.
“So you’ve never had a beer, have you?” Peter asked as he followed Lukas to the door.
“I am only seventeen,” Lukas pointed out.
“Not in dog years,” Peter said with a cheeky grin.
Lukas stood with his mouth open for a moment, unsure what to say. Had Peter just said that? Was he teasing him?
Before Peter’s face could fall all the way and he could apologize or something, Lukas finally replied. “Bug off.”
Peter laughed. “Stay safe, man,” he said, giving Lukas a final handshake, with a one-armed half hug.
Sally gave him a quick hug as well. “Take care.”
“You too,” Lukas said. “Both of you. Congratulations. And take care of each other. Watch out for each other. Guard yourselves against the shadows. I’ll be in touch.”
Walking down the hall, Lukas couldn’t help his grin. The shadows might be devious and powerful, and he might not know exactly how to fight them, but he had found three of the six he needed to defeat them.
It was surely just a matter of time before he found the others.
Interlude II
The Tiger’s Shadow
India, 1947
Betty could never admit to Mother or Father how much she missed the English rain. Not just the way it patted softly against the roof of the gazebo in the garden, but the smell of it, green and fresh. Even when it was cold, and the sun had been hiding behind gray clouds for weeks, the rain still carried the scent of rich soil and new leaves slowly unfurling.
Calcutta never smelled that way. Instead, it smelled of hot bodies that never bathed, of the cow dung and dirt that made up the streets, of pasty dye used to dot the natives’ foreheads and drizzled across women’s palms in beautiful patterns.
Yes, it was exciting to live in such an exotic, foreign city, with the mad colors and the noise of the market, the women in their elegant saris, the men looking formal in their white tunics, long trousers, and funny hats.
Her friends back in England complained bitterly that since the London Victory celebrations heralding the end of the Second World War, there was nothing to do, and begged her for anecdotes of her travel.
However, Betty had no tales to tell them, not recently. The British were leaving, letting India rule herself. There was much unrest. Mother and Father didn’t let her travel anymore, telling her that she was too young at only sixteen, and that it was too dangerous, even with an armed escort of soldiers.
Betty suspected they might be right, at least for now. Layered underneath the smell of rich spices and extreme poverty rolled a thick scent of fear.
Not the delicious, sizzling fear of prey, or the heady scent of a combatant certain to lose a challenge. No, a cloying scent that clogged the back of Betty’s throat and made the air, already humid and moist, even stickier.
Betty wasn’t sure why there was so much fear in the air. The natives were probably capable of ruling themselves. Even the council of the tiger clan had agreed to split, with two groups leading, one all Indian, and one all British. They were going to separate for a decade or more; Betty was sad she wouldn’t be able to visit her cousins again for so long.
As independence day approached, Betty had seen her cousins walk taller, as if they were trying out their new freedom. Of course, they told her she wouldn’t understand—that was their most common response to any of her questions. Her cousins still covered their heads like all the women did here and said the proper, polite things.
However, a restlessness boiled just underneath the placid surface.
Betty was on edge as well. Her skin seemed to shrink and mold onto her bones, as if there wasn’t enough room for her inside her own body. Sparking electricity bubbled in her blood, as if even her usual limp brown hair was about to stand on end.
To Betty, it was similar to the transformation, like the time just before her tiger soul emerged.
Aunt Tanita had described the change like slipping into a stream of silk.
Betty had never felt that way. It was always a fight to let her tiger soul completely out, another to reign it in. She scoffed at the old recitations even as she carefully memorized and wrote out each one. Find the balance. Be one.
Her tiger soul meant power and control.
No one would ever be able to accuse Betty of being wild, the worst insult she and her cousins could hurl at one another—out of control, not tame, a mere beast; no longer human or ti
ger, but a creature that none could reason with.
Though in her secret heart of hearts, Betty wished she could let go and be as wild as her soul sometimes felt.
# # #
The summer heat pressed down on Fort Williams, making it too hot to sleep. Betty walked along the second floor veranda facing the formal gardens, breathing in the sweet night jasmine, the musky clematis, and the heady wild roses.
She never saw stars in London like she did here in Calcutta. Then again, except for during The Blitz, London had always had her own light.
Betty shivered in the hot, humid night, pulling her knitted shawl closer over her white cotton nightgown. She couldn’t imagine living through such an attack. It made her want to growl just thinking about being closed in at night, every night, for weeks.
Even without the light, Betty, like the rest of the tiger clan, saw well in the dark, easily avoiding the pots near the railing filled with Mother’s hopeless English Ivy, as well as the chairs that had been pulled from the nearby gallery.
Then she saw the shadow, a patch of night darker than the rest. Betty looked behind her, as well as above, but she didn’t see a light source, nothing bright enough to cause such a dark spot.
The troubling cloud slid to the side as Betty approached, leaving a thin, black trail behind.
Betty reached out and tried to grasp the slight remains of the dark, but it was like catching at smoke: It left nothing behind but her slightly chilled fingers.
It was magic, though, something powerful.
Betty hesitated. Should she go get Mother? She knew much more about spells and charms than Betty did.
Then Betty’s tiger soul rose. They could face anything together. She didn’t need Mother, or Father, or her cousins.
She would prove that she was capable of handling this on her own, despite only being sixteen.
Claws emerged from the tips of Betty’s fingernails. Her jaw grew heavy, stronger, and her mouth filled with razor sharp teeth.
The darkness before Betty intensified, spreading like oil across clear water. Fear spiked through her chest, but she shook her head, growling.
If her cousins could battle for independence against their own people, Betty, and her family, then she could be brave as well.
But she didn’t have to be stupid.
Instead of wading into the blackening cloud, like her tiger soul urged, Betty reached out with one clawed hand and carved a bit of the shadow off, a long squiggling line, separating it from the rest, as easily as a knife cutting through silk.
For a brief moment the two remained separate, the cloud and its little tendril, then the shadow collected itself back together, and no trace of the tear remained.
Yet, something had happened.
Betty sensed the shadow’s rising excitement, much like her own these days at the mere mention of leaving the fort, or of coming visitors.
The shadow pulled in on itself, slowly, leaking out of the world until nothing remained except Betty, the too-hot night air, and a lingering sense of promise.
# # #
“Let’s go to the market,” Betty proposed to her cousins Abhya and Shalini, visiting from the north. They weren’t much older than Betty, but their mother had let them travel by themselves, coming by train with a male cousin.
The cousins had the same mother, but different fathers, as was traditional in the tiger clan. Abhya had dark skin—almost as dark as the little African boy the missionaries had brought back with them. Shalini was pale as milky tea. They shared the same deep brown eyes, thick black hair, and moon-shaped faces as their mother.
The three of them sat together in the morning room, leaning against pillows and drinking tea. The day was humid and still, no wind to carry away the hot stink of fear that had invaded the fort that week. Betty was desperate for something, anything, to distract her from the tingling anticipation and anxiousness that buzzed across her skin.
“Is it safe?” Abhya asked.
Betty always found it funny that though Abhya meant fearless, her darker cousin was constantly concerned about potential risks.
“We’ll take one of Father’s soldiers,” Betty assured her.
She didn’t bother to tell them that Mother had deemed it safe; her cousins didn’t think much of Betty’s mother. Not many in tiger clan did. She’d not only married Father, but they’d raised Betty in the human fashion, with nannies and tutors, instead of sending her to the shishu greeha to be raised with the other tiger clan girls her age, sisters for life regardless of actual blood ties. Betty had still traveled to the commune every summer, so she’d at least met her sisters, but she’d never bonded with them—she was always an outsider, even to her own clan.
Betty suspected that the reason her parents sent her was so that they could have time by themselves, something they greatly desired. Her parents always looked at each other with such tenderness, as if Betty wasn’t even there.
Shalini finally said, “Only if we go by car.”
“Of course,” Betty said.
She didn’t tell them that the only car they could get was one of the Royal Force’s Jeeps. It was a horrid beige color, like dried mud. The wide wheels took every bump hard, jostling Betty’s bones, and the straw-stuffed seats didn’t make the trip any smoother.
However, her cousins seemed happy to be riding in it, even if they couldn’t drive fast enough to raise a decent wind.
Freddie, Betty’s favorite guard, drove them to the edge of the market, then informed them he would stay with the car.
Abhya looked worried at that, but Betty told her again, “It’s fine.”
Though the stench of fear still rolled at their feet, at least the market had enough other smells to mask it: the salty odor of fresh fish, lemons and oranges from the countryside, dusty tea from the plantations, and the spices—spicy ground peppers, sweet coriander, musty cumin, and comforting cinnamon and nutmeg.
Betty didn’t need to buy anything—the cooks did all the proper shopping for the fort. All she wanted to find was another memento for her friends back in England.
Abhya and Shalini trailed behind Betty as they strolled through the crowded corridors of ramshackle stalls, whispering to each other and barely nodding when she held up a bracelet or oddly carved statue for their commentary.
“What are you two gossiping about?” Betty asked, exasperated.
“Nothing,” Abhya said.
Betty smelled the fear, could practically see it rising like a dirty tide, flowing from their feet up to their waists. She looked around, but she didn’t see any threat. Indian merchants stared at her as they always had, her fair coloring marking her as foreign in this land of dark natives.
“It’s nothing you would understand,” Shalini said dismissively. “Have you finished your shopping?”
“Why wouldn’t I understand?” Betty asked sharply, tired of these digs.
Shalini took Abhya’s hand into the crook of her own elbow, patting it. She whispered something to Abhya and took a step forward.
Betty didn’t give, didn’t move back. Instead, she stared at them in the most rude way possible.
Finally, Shalini looked over Betty’s shoulder and pointed with her chin to a merchant standing there. “We should go.”
Betty turned and stared at the man. His black hair shot was through with gray, while wide brown eyes and thin, disapproving lips filled the rest of his narrow face. He wore the usual local costume: cotton tunic over baggy trousers, with a vest on top, all in shades of gray and tan. He glared fully at them, his hands at his sides, clenching and unclenching.
There was nothing unusual about him, though. Many of the natives were upset with the British for one thing or another. Betty was used to it. She turned to tell her cousins that when she realized he wasn’t even looking at her.
He glared at Abhya and Shalini, instead. In fact, so were many of the other merchants.
The scent in the market had changed as well. Anger began to overlay the constant scent of fear.
“Why are they mad at you?” Betty asked. She would have denied feeling a bit put out that the natives, for once, weren’t paying attention to her.
“They think we’re Muslim,” Abhya said softly.
Betty shook her head, then turned and started walking back the way they’d come. Of course, her cousins worshipped Traya, goddess of the tigers, same as all the tiger clan. They just pretended to follow the local religion, just as Betty and her parents regularly went to Church of England services.
Fit in was one of the recitations Betty resented the most strongly, but still obeyed.
“Why would that matter?” Betty asked as she stopped, picking up a small leather purse and waving it at the wizened old woman sitting behind the counter, sucking on her three remaining teeth.
“Five rupee,” she croaked out, holding up a wrinkled, frail hand, all fingers extended.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Shalini said.
“Of course I wouldn’t,” Betty muttered. Then she turned her attention back to the old trader. “Half a rupee,” she said. “Look at how small this is! It will barely hold even that small a coin. Bah!”
The old woman heaved a tremendous sigh. “Feel how soft,” she said. “Each stitch, prayed over,” she added, folding her hands over her chest and bobbing her head. “Blessed,” she said. “Three rupees.”
Betty held the purse up, opening it and looking inside. “Any luck will fall out,” she complained. “The stitches are too wide. Uneven. One rupee.”
“One and one half, with blessings on my dear boy’s head,” the old woman said, dropping her hand to a picture of some Indian god blowing a flute, blue and smiling, with many arms.
Betty sniffed but gave in. She handed the purse to her cousins without looking back while she dug out her coins.
When Betty turned back to Abhya and Shalini, they both scowled at her.
More of the merchants were standing, drawing near, looking angry as well, but at least their anger wasn’t directed at her for once.
“I am not your servant,” Abhya hissed, drawing near. “I am not here to fetch and carry for you,” she added as she pushed the purse back into Betty’s hands.
