by Faith Hunter
“You bringing your Soul in?” I countered. “How about your crazy wolf and the grindy who’d kill us in a heartbeat if we tried to have sex?”
Something flashed between us, something icy and flaming, velvety and thorny, like fear and need, anger and joy, all commingled together. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to break that cold/hot wall between us, but before I could lift my hand, Rick turned to the front of the house, his paper clothing crinkling. The door was still hanging open to the night. “We have company,” he said, his voice displaying none of the emotion I smelled on the air. Vehicle lights sliced through the dark, a van and a car. Crime Scene techs were here, and they’d be ticked that we had entered.
“Good,” I said, on the knot of anger rising in my throat. “Things were getting sticky in here.”
“I like them hot and sweaty better,” Rick said. But he’d turned and was at the door, stripping off his paper and nitrile. Not quite sure what had happened, I followed, picking up a few things I thought we might need on the way. I left my crime scene clothing in a pile with his, remembering a time when I’d had to separate our clothes, which had been tossed onto the floor, so we could dress. I’d lost so much by my own stupidity. My life sucked.
• • •
I waited in the SUV for him and when he got in, Brute again rocking the SUV’s suspension, Rick slammed the door and looked at the stuff in my lap. “You took evidence from a crime scene?”
“Yeah. Arrest me.”
“While the idea of you shackled and bound is appealing, no.” I gave him a hesitant smile and he said, “What do you have?”
“Amulets. At least one witch was a moon witch.” I showed him a moonstone paperweight. “One an earth witch, if you go by the garden. And one was an air witch.” I held up the dried leaves I’d stolen from a bowl on a lamp stand. “There are bowls of dried leaves and twigs and pine needles everywhere, but nothing is scented, like for potpourri. And I can feel the magic on them.” I crunched the leaves slightly and smelled only oak and pine rising from them. “The bowls of windblown leaves are probably set equidistant on the points of a pentacle.”
“Not bad.” Rick started the engine, pulling slowly into the night along the narrow drive, the oak trees sheltering us from the moon until we pulled onto the secondary road. Rick tensed.
“Full-moon problems?” I asked, keeping my tone calm.
“Yeah. Mind if I play my music?” Without waiting for my reply, he hit PLAY on the SUV’s sound system and flute music skirled out. It was a spell, created by my once friend Big Evan to control Rick’s need to turn furry for the three days of the full moon. His tattoos, magic woven into his skin, prevented his turning, and he had nearly gone insane with the pain until Evan had found this treatment.
I looked out the window, knowing I had been cut off. Yet knowing that Rick was as aware of me as I was of him. Knowing that Bruiser and Soul and our past together stood between us, as real as if they fought, swords drawn and blades clashing.
Under my T-shirt was another theft, an old photo of an American Indian woman wearing a homespun dress, soft-looking boots, and a feather woven into her braided hair. Not Cherokee. Maybe Choctaw. She had been staring at me as if begging me to steal her photo. And for reasons I didn’t understand, I had.
CHAPTER 13
Make Ceremony with Me
Sitting on the edge of the bed in Esmee’s house, I took out the old black-and-white photo and studied it. The woman was young, midtwenties, standing with shoulders back, wearing a Western cowboy hat, a gun belt around her hips, Annie Oakley style. Her dress was short for the era, stopping midcalf, revealing the boots that looked like deer hide, embroidered with porcupine quills and beads. The picture frame was wood, carved with tiny grooves that looked exactly like bird footprints, down to the talons at the end of the toes, the wood stained with some greenish-bluish tint that had penetrated the pattern carved into the wood, making the bird feet stand out sharply. The term came to me from high school art history class: counter-relief, or intaglio. Weird to remember that. I had sucked at art.
Misha had been in that class. She had taken to art like a bird to the air, freed by all the media, all the things she could shape and change and bring to beauty. All the things she could control. Unlike the rest of her life, which was out of her control. Like me, Misha had gone to regular counseling. I had gone for the experts to keep tabs on me and try to poke holes in the curtain of memory loss. I wondered why Misha had gone. I had no idea. I also had no idea why I had taken the photo. It had nothing to do with beauty or art. It had everything to do with the woman in the print calling out to me.
I sighed and set the picture facedown on the bed, reaching for the phone. It hadn’t rung, and I held it, waiting. Leo wanted to chat and my bound Beast knew it. It was childish, but I let it chime twice before I punched SEND. “Hi, Leo.” Beast started to purr and rolled over on her side. I could feel the power of her breath rumbling through me.
“What have you done to my heir’s house?” he spat.
I could tell his three-inch fangs had dropped down and he was talking through and around them. “Good to speak with you too,” I said, not because it was true, but to yank his chain. “Hope you are well and chipper and all that. How’s business?” Leo was raised in a more proper time, and when he forgot or ignored the niceties it gave me an opening for insult and snark. He didn’t give me many.
“What. Have. You. Done. With my heir’s house?”
“Ahhh.” I relaxed onto the bed, understanding. I had modified the house I was using in New Orleans and I hadn’t exactly asked permission. Part of the modifications were to take over Leo’s secret lair and make it into a combo safe room and weapons room. “I take it you paid me a visit?”
“There is silver everywhere.”
“Guns too. And ammo. And things that go bang.”
“Silver in my lair,” he grated.
“Yeah. Sorry ’bout that,” I lied, and made sure he could hear that I wasn’t sorry at all.
Leo growled low in his throat; Beast rolled, pulling her paws beneath her, ready to pounce or flee. “My house, Leo,” I said, “for the duration of my stay in New Orleans, as per my contract. No one said I couldn’t redecorate.”
The silence was too long, that potent silence the really old vamps can do, because they don’t breathe or have a heartbeat. “We have much to discuss, my Enforcer.”
“Yeah. I guess we do. I’ll see you when I get back to New Orleans. Meantime, stay out of my house.” I hit END and smiled slightly. Bet that ticked off the MOC.
Beast yawned deep inside and rolled back over. I frowned at her. Beast? You didn’t go nuts at the sound of Leo’s voice. What gives?
Beast is not chaser of squirrels.
It took a moment to realize that she was responding to my go nuts phrasing.
Fast chase, small bite, crunch and gone, she thought. And Beast is still hungry.
But you didn’t get . . . I let the thought trail off. For the first time since Beast was accidently bound to Leo, she wasn’t all Pet me, mate me, rub my tummy with Leo. In fact, she’d been calm. She had gotten good at batting away the magics used against her.
Fierce joy shuddered through me like an earthquake. The urge to shift slammed through like an aftershock. I hadn’t shifted in so long, afraid of what Beast would do, afraid of losing myself to her binding to the Master of the City. I needed to shift. I needed the healing and the strength that shifting could offer, the renewal. I had denied my nature longer than at any time since I rediscovered my shifting ability when I was eighteen. And I had shoved that need so far down, so deep, that it exploded upward now, as if under pressure, desperate.
I stood, gathered my go-bag, and made my way out of the house, out into the last hours of the night. There were no stones here, not the kind I needed. And then I remembered the pink marble mounting block and made my way to it. It was well hidden beneath the overgrowth of shrubs and the low branches of the tree overhead, and when I climbed deep into the br
ush, I was hidden from the house. On my knees, I stripped, dropping my clothes in a heap, and strapped the go-bag around my neck with my gold nugget necklace and the mountain lion tooth I had wired to the gold chain. Naked, chill bumps rising on my skin, I bent to the stone and rubbed the nugget over the marble, depositing a small scrape of gold, a homing beacon if I got lost in this unfamiliar place.
I sat on the cold marble, the stone burning its frozen way into my skin, and grabbed the tooth like the talisman it was. I’d been afraid to shift for months. Now, suddenly, all I wanted was to shift and run and hunt and kill something. I blew out a breath and closed my eyes. And thought of the snake that rests at the center of every cell of every animal. The snake that is the RNA of creation. I sought the snake of form that was my Beast. The mountain lion. The Puma concolor.
• • •
I dropped front paws down to ground, back paws still on stone, and stretched hard, feeling new muscles and weight. Jane had lifted metal things and grunted like dog, sweated like horse; she had made me bigger big-cat. I looked over muscular shoulders at body and twitched long, thick tail. I was strong. I was big! Jane was good.
I looked at house and saw human-shaped form on back porch. Watching Beast. It was Bruiser. Bruiser had watched Jane shift into Beast. Bruiser knew all of Jane’s secrets now. I chuffed my displeasure and caught his scent on night air. Bruiser had changed. His scent was no longer Leo’s scent. Bruiser smelled of power and youth and many things that were good. But Bruiser was no longer bound to Leo as he had been. Bruiser was not blood-servant now. Bruiser was other. And full of power.
And now Beast was bound to Leo. I chuffed with amusement. We had changed places.
I turned and leaped into the limbs of tree with winter leaves. Walked along limb. Leaped to top of brick fence and over, into dark. I lifted snout into wind and smelled big water, river, name twisting like snake. It was too far to walk, but close to ride. Beast needed truck heading to sunset. I trotted along road, watching for truck, feeling new weight and power and mass in body and limbs. Jane did good. Jane did very good.
Trucks were few and I walked long before I saw/heard truck in distance, growling like Leo, eyes bright like twin stars, going toward river. I jumped into tree and crouched. Thinking. Beast will have to land lightly, or new mass will rock truck, like throwing prey to its knees. I crouched, and when truck was beneath I leaped forward, in direction of truck and landed lightly, scrabbling with paw and claws on truck top until balance was found. Then I settled, snout to the air, smelling, mouth open, lips stretched back to show killing teeth to world. Beast is big! Beware of Beast!
• • •
Truck stopped before reaching river, roaring heart gone silent. I landed in shadows at tail of truck. But truck had no tail. Not even boar tail or bison tail. No tail at all. Truck had no blood and had bones of metal. Was alive and not alive. Still did not understand. I wandered off into night, following wind that called to me of fish and water and river birds asleep on banks.
World fell away before and below. River with snaky name was down cliffs, farfarfar. Much farther across river was land—city of Vidalia—and man lights, to steal vision. But here night was greens and silvers and grays; water was rich and powerful, rising with mist on chilled air. I liked twisty big water. Scented water birds on air and alligator and fish and human smells of gas and oil and stinky breath of trucks and boats. One long boat floated below, calling lonesome into dark. Boat was barge. Remembered barge from hunger times. Sick and dying humans on board as it floated by. I snorted at remembered stink of putrid flesh.
Opened mouth to cleanse away stink memory, pulling in river air over roof of mouth with soft screee of sound. Flehmen behavior, Jane called scenting. Upstream, smelled human town of Natchez. Below, smelled/saw/tasted water. Had not rushed down cliff in many moon times, and this cliff had no rock to secure landing. But did have trees and roots and places to land/leap.
I spotted a limb far down cliff face and gathered body close, paws together beneath belly. Leaped. Extending front legs and front claws. Landed and pushed again, jumping to small root, too small for Beast mass, landed and pushed again, hearing old root crack and break. Body flying like bird, fastfastfast, downdowndown, hit log buried in up-and-down mud with front paws and shoved, twisting body, whirling tail for balance. Go-bag slid and bumped neck. Body went to side and small ledge of sand. Hit and pushed, hit and pushed, down and down and side and side, bag and nugget bouncing. Swiveled body, changed direction, landed, pushed. Heard falling stones and mud and man waste of plastic bottles and cups falling, slower than Beast.
I slammed into small tree, its roots clinging for life into mud and dirt. Roots held and Beast stopped. Fast. Hit hard on chest and belly. Chuffed with delight. Water was close, whispering like low growl of big-cat and vampires and like thump of many running prey through ground.
Vibrations, Jane thought at me, waking up from sleep of shift into Beast. The vibrations of the water grinding on the earth, like a snake grinds on the ground to— Hey. How’d we get . . . ? No way. You did not jump. Crap. You are insane.
I chuffed with laughter. Was good leap. Ground is close.
No! Ground is, like, thirty feet below us.
Not far. I leaped and bounded from small limb, letting it bend with our greater weight and mass. Landed on mud at bottom. Jane said words in mind, words that she did not like. I chuffed again. Jane was frightened of short jump. Jane was silly like kit. I looked up cliff to sky, hidden by rising earth. Jane went silent in shock, as if shot by man gun. I chuffed again with laughter.
I hungered after shift and trotted upstream. Found sleeping place of water birds, all silent, white feathers bright under pregnant moon. I leaped and caught birds in claws of each front paw. Feathers flew into the dark. Birds made no sound of fear or death, but all other birds screamed and flew into night. Both birds in claws died. I ate, crunching bones and swallowing feathers and webbed feet and spitting out long bones and curved beak. Egrets were much good taste but not enough meat for new Beast shape and size. Wanted deer. Looked across snaky river to see deer on far side, safe from Beast. Snorted. Sneaky deer, to live on other side of river.
I smelled herbed smoke on wind. Stopped, snout high, sniffing. I remembered this scent.
Herbed wood smoke, Jane whispered. Dried sweetgrass and sage. A tribal Indian scent.
I sniffed into wind and trotted from bloody sleeping-place of birds. In distance, I saw flickering light. Fire. I slowed and curved from water toward fire. Scents grew stronger. Fire was burning plants used in Jane-ceremonies. I dropped to belly and crept closer, paws pulling-pushing me to light. When fire was close, the I/we of Beast slowed, stopping beneath leaves of winter plant, hidden.
Sitting across fire was tribal Indian woman, like Jane, but also different. Jane had strong nose and chin and golden skin. Woman across fire had knobbed nose and chin and darker skin, like metal coin humans used, left long in sun.
Old copper, Jane whispered to mind, seeing skin. Sniffing odor of fire she thought, Rosemary, sage, sweetgrass, and marijuana. Weird.
Old Indian woman smiled across fire, looking at Beast hidden in shadows. She had gray hair worn in a single braid over shoulder, and she wore a dress made from grain sacks, maybe blue with yellow flowers. Hard to tell in Beast night vision. On her feet were boots made from the skin of deer decorated with dyed porcupine quills. This is the woman from the photograph, Jane whispered to me, but old. Really old. I dropped head to paws, jaw heavy, ears curled forward. Nostrils wide and fluttering, I scented.
“Come, skinwalker,” the old woman said softly. “Sister of my people. Conqueror of my people. Come make ceremony with me.”
I brought paws beneath me, tight, ready for killing attack or running away, shoulders high.
Listen, Jane said to me. Listen to her!
“Come,” the old woman repeated. “Sit with me.” Smoke billowed before the wind. “Nuwhtohiyada gotlvdi,” she whispered. They were old words, Make peac
e with me, in Cherokee dialect. The words the white man spoke to the Cherokee before he stole the Cherokee land and forced the tribe west. Beast remembered, remembered the lie. Humans lied. Humans always lied.
But this is an Indian woman, Jane thought. Not the white man, not the speaker of lies.
“You will come to the church on the cliff at dawn,” the old woman said. “It is an old church, white painted. A tiny chapel with a very tall narrow steeple. It smells of humans and witches and much time. Its roof is stone, like overlapping leaves in the sun, dark gray in the moon. And it is no more.” She gave me an address on Jefferson Street. “You will come in human form. And you will know what you wish to know.”
The old woman leaned forward and tossed branches on the fire. The scent of burning rosemary filled the air, intense, hurting my nostrils. I backed away on slow paws, leaving tracks in sand from river. Smoke from the fire billowed up and burned my eyes, and I backed faster. When the smoke cleared, the flames were gone. I pawed forward. The old woman was gone too. I crawled to the fire, smelling an ancient flame wet from many rains, cold for many more than five days.
She was never here, Jane murmured. But . . . I’ve seen that church. I’ve seen it in a . . . a photo somewhere. Back at Esmee’s. And if I remember right, it burned down in the sixties. We need to get back up the cliff.
I tilted neck up. And up. Long climb. Better if Jane walks than Beast. I thought of Jane snake. And entered place of change.
No!
But it was too late. Beast was gone. Jane remained.
• • •
“You sneaky dang cat!” I dressed in the lightweight clothes in the go-bag: thin pants, flip-flops, long-sleeved tee, and a cheap hoodie. Somehow I’d forgotten to fold in panties, so I went without. Dressed, I looked up the cliff, which was a lot smaller here than where Beast had made her descent, and spotted a narrow path, something suited to a mountain goat, but it would have to do. Luckily, someone human used the path often enough to have left handholds of knotted ropes tied to roots and trees, and deep depressions where feet might go. I lost my flip-flops on the way up and arrived barefoot, sweating in the icy air and chilled to the bone, muscles quivering with fatigue and hunger, which was the body’s way of asking, What are you doing, idiot?
