Blood of the Earth

by Faith Hunter

  Tandy plucked my washing cloth from my hands and wrung it out before he elbowed me aside and continued washing the dishes. Occam nudged me away from the kitchen, with a soft, “’Scuse me, ma’am. We got work to finish here.”

  I stood at my kitchen table watching two men—men—washing my dishes. There was something practically obscene in the vision. Obscene and wonderful.

  “Well,” I said. “How about that.”

  Tandy turned around and winked at me and then went back to washing. Tandy’s clothes hung on him as if he was wearing a big brother’s hand-me-downs. Occam’s jeans and tee fitted to his form as if he’d been poured into them. Both men were barefooted, like me, and the sight was strange. John had never gone without shoes or slippers. Neither had Daddy.

  Feeling odder than I had since I was twelve and first came to live here, I walked into the living room and curled up in John’s old recliner, watching as the witch and the human woman found a deck of cards in one of their backpacks and started a fast-paced game of cards. And I noted that the devil himself didn’t rise up out of the cards and set the place on fire.

  SIX

  Things got more bizarre when I felt a vehicle on the road, driving up the hills, and I knew, without a doubt, that Paka and Rick were inside. My awareness of the cat was far stronger than it should have been, as far away as they were.

  My heart raced; my breath came too fast. I shouldn’t know this, except that I had claimed her.

  “Nell?” Tandy called, his voice filled with the same alarm I was experiencing. Barefoot, I left the room for the front porch, the chill in the air biting through my bare soles. Orion hung in the Southern sky, revealed above the tree line as the lawn slid down the arch of the hill. I pulled my cardigan closer and waited.

  Behind me, in the house, Tandy watched me through the window, outlined by lantern light. The empath looked twitchy the few times I looked back, feeling the emotions I was feeling, but not knowing why. It had to be confusing for him. But with people in my house and others on the way, I was out of my element. I waited, seeing the vehicle’s lights flicker through the trees, hearing the strain on the engine, climbing the rutted road.

  I was still alone on the porch when a van turned in, its headlights picking me out where I stood in the cold, my feet on the smooth boards of the porch as the engine was turned off and as Rick and Paka got out, the doors closing quietly. I wrapped my arms around me as they approached in the total dark, sensing Paka’s sexual satisfaction in her body language, and Rick’s dissatisfaction in the stony look on his face. He was most unhappy and swatted Paka’s hand away when she clung to him. They stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You think giving us catnip is funny?” he asked, his tone far too mild for the roiling emotions I was picking up from them.

  “I had me a fine giggle at the time,” I said. “Now, not so much.” I had a feeling that a were-creature who was born in her animal form treated mating a mite differently from the way a human did, making my actions more dangerous than I had expected. “You all scratched up?”

  Rick blew out a breath and rubbed a hand over his face, which was bristly with whiskers. Something peeked over his shoulder at me, furry face inquisitive. Pea. She ducked her head back down, and I realized she was playing hide-and-seek, clinging to his shirt back. “If I said I was still bleeding,” he said, “would you be happy?”

  “Not really. Not anymore,” I said. “I see the attraction of Paka—believe me, I do. Her magic makes my cats tame, and my land practically dances in anticipation every time she’s near.” I didn’t add, but you don’t want to be tied to her, though it must have been in my tone, because Paka slanted her cat eyes at me. Rick sighed a curse, a plain old American curse.

  I said, “You know, that word always seems to lack in imagination, as if you ain’t got the learning to communicate what you really mean.” Rick nearly laughed, surprise bubbling up in him before dying away. “You can come in,” I said. “Hospitality to you both.” I went in and sat in John’s recliner, pulling my feet up under my body to warm my toes.

  Once inside, Paka raced to T. Laine and JoJo, gathering them up in a group hug, as if she had missed them for days. Carefully bypassing Tandy, she also hugged Occam, who patted the seat next to him, the way a human would tell a child where to settle. The neon green creature leaped from Rick’s shoulder, where it had been play-hiding, across the furniture, to join her on the sofa. My two house cats—no, three, as the one from outside raced in through the open door—were a big ol’ pile of cat, on top of the humans. The human forms. I wasn’t sure how to refer to them all. The cats were growling, spitting, and purring, and finding laps and nooks and crannies between bodies to curl up in. I’d been trying to catch the feral cat for weeks so I could get her shots and neutering. But it looked like she had decided that werecats on the premises was a good reason to make an appearance.

  I figured I’d have to name the new mouser; she was making herself at home and becoming domesticated fast, rolling her scent all over Occam, batting at him, scratching him to show affection. He batted back, gently, murmuring in his Texan accent, “Hey there, sugar. Ain’t you a purdy lil’ thang.” With her black head and aggressive personality, I decided she would be Torquil, Thor’s helmet, not Sugar.

  Rick, on the other hand, who was supposed to be a werecat too, was standing at John’s desk—no, at my desk—ignoring us all, his back to the room as he paged through papers he had brought in. He was the lone cat, maybe? Like a lone wolf, but a leopard version? Rick ignored the chatter as if he didn’t really care what the others did, arranging printed papers and a laptop on the desk.

  Several long, narrow, parallel trails of blood dotted his starched shirt as he moved, reopening the wounds in his back, wounds scratched there by Paka, in what had to have been wild and bloody sex. I shook my head. I had been mean to give them catnip. I should be ashamed. But I wasn’t.

  I turned my attention back to Occam, who was now watching the card game. These people were bewildering and fascinating. While I was thinking, Rick placed two six-packs of beer on the center table, passing bottles around. I’d been so focused on other things that I hadn’t even noticed he’d brought them in. Beer. In my house. My eyes went wide, and I covered my mouth.

  John would come back and haunt me. He’d had a fit when Leah traded for the muscadine wine the first time, saying, “We will not consort with the devil in my house, woman.” But he’d settled when Leah had starting quoting Scripture about the health benefits of wine, and ended up muttering about drunkards, eternal judgment, and uppity women. He had even learned to enjoy a glass from time to time. He’d have done anything for Leah. And later for me.

  John had been honest and kind, and that was a far better compliment than I could offer about most humans. And he had been hospitable in his way. I could almost hear his voice saying, “Hospitality means more than opening the door. It means accepting the person you welcomed, warts and all.” If Leah Ingram had offered hospitality to strangers, then she would have let them drink beer in her house. And she wouldn’t give them catnip. At that thought, shame gushed back.

  The three others, Tandy, JoJo, and T. Laine, were playing a loud and energetic game of cards, which included lots of cursing, insults, name-calling, and flipping each other off when a point was scored. It looked like fun, but I didn’t know how to play or how to ask if I could learn. They clinked bottles and drank, sticking the rest in my refrigerator. The beer made them more unruly and noisy. I frowned mightily at them, but they ignored me, and I didn’t know how to take that.

  I was studying the people and the cats so intently that I missed what Rick said until he repeated it. “Your work at the market was helpful. Here’s the contract you asked for, signed by the head of HR, for the position of consultant.” He tossed a sheaf of papers into my lap, sealed with a fancy clip. “You said you wanted to know what we’re investigating. Sign everywhere it’s
highlighted in yellow, and I’ll read you in. You can skip the drug testing for the moment.”

  I neatened the sheets of paper and scanned the first page. The paperwork was for hiring me to be a temporary consultant with the Psychometry Law Enforcement Division of Homeland Security. Beer and cards and now this. John was probably rolling over in his grave with horror.

  But I wasn’t rolling over in horror. Excitement leaped up in me like a flame through gasoline, a hot, bright poof of exhilaration and anticipation that washed away the momentary guilt. I wasn’t sure what was happening in my life, but I wanted it, whatever it was.

  Feeling flighty and capricious, more things no good woman should ever be, I scanned and signed everything and folded a copy of the three he had tossed at me. I’d read my copy more thoroughly later. Not reading something the government had thrown at me meant John would be double rolling. I smiled at the thought and tossed the two copies back at Rick. “I signed. Read me in.” When he looked at me, inquisitive and surprised, I said, “That’s what you said. You’d read me in. So do it.”

  Rick cleared his throat and the rowdy room fell silent as he addressed his crew. Team. Whatever they were. “You were all assigned to Knoxville for temporary duty when you graduated last week, assigned to take on the investigation into the Human Speakers of Truth for the purpose of tracking them online and researching their financial activities. This was a job in line with your lack of experience, an on-the-job training exercise, predominately paperwork, social media, and Internet, Deepnet, and Darknet searches, to be overseen by the local FBI agent and me, to prepare you each for inclusion into existing PsyLED units elsewhere. As of this afternoon all that changed. Look around, people. This is the first official meeting of the newest PsyLED Paranormal Investigative Unit.”

  Occam whooped, sounding like something from a rodeo.

  T. Laine said, “Us four? All probies?”

  Over her questions, Tandy said, “We’re Unit Eighteen. Or is it nineteen?”

  “Eighteen. But we can discuss unit designations later,” Rick said, relaxing and letting that rare, charming smile out. “For now, we have official orders.” He read from a short paper he pulled from a file. “‘A team of recently graduated special agents will be assigned to the new Knoxville/Asheville/Chattanooga region, under newly promoted senior special agent, Rick LaFleur.’” There were catcalls—literally—and hoots of delight.

  “Why here?” Occam asked, his words laconic but his tone laced with something darker, suspicious. “Why us? Because we’re mostly paranormals, so they stick us together in a backwater?”

  “No,” Rick said. “Secret City is my best guess. They want us here to protect it, and they think a human/para unit is the best way to do that.”

  A line appeared between Occam’s brows as he processed what that might mean. He didn’t argue. Secret City was the name of the underground testing and R&D part of the US government.

  “Unfortunately,” Rick said, “our first investigation just went from looking around and asking questions about the homegrown terrorist group, the Human Speakers of Truth, getting our feet wet, and writing reports, to a higher priority.” A sensation like electricity flashed through the people in the room and through me. Outside, the woods rustled in anticipation. To me, Rick said, “We were initially only intended to see if the Human Speakers of Truth had moved into the region, an easy, strictly information-gathering and investigative assignment as part of the FBI’s investigation into the organization. As of this morning, there was a confirmed kidnapping of a human teenaged girl in Knoxville.”

  I stood and went to John’s desk, pulled the small news sheet, and handed it to Rick. He made a face. “Yes. Fortunately, for the girl’s sake, it’s being downplayed by the mainstream media, and it hasn’t hit social media yet. In fact, the latest info is that this photo and the security camera it came from were part of an early Halloween prank.” He handed it back to me and booted up his laptop.

  “HST raised funds through kidnapping in the past,” Occam said, sitting forward.

  “Correct. But we’re not jumping to conclusions. We don’t yet have independent confirmation that HST is in the area. No confirmation of HST involvement. And the methodology of the kidnappings didn’t precisely fit the previous pattern,” Rick said.

  “But PsyLED and FBI took down three of the top people in HST,” JoJo said, “so maybe someone else is in charge, putting their own ideas into play.”

  Occam said, “I get all that. But why are we involved? We work crimes and cold cases with paranormal connections.”

  “Correct again,” Rick said. He whirled the laptop and we watched as fuzzy black-and-white footage moved across the screen. Four girls were standing in a clump, all wearing identical short skirts and showing a lot of bare leg. A grayish van pulled up. Three men jumped out. They grabbed one girl, threw a sheet over her, and pulled her into the van. The van roared off, leaving behind a puff of dark exhaust and a group of screaming teenagers. There must have been three more people standing nearby, as the group increased in number. Cell phone cameras went to work. A moment later, a police car pulled up.

  Rick played the sequence again, and the others detailed physical characteristics of the kidnappers. One large and clumsy. One small and jumpy. One halfway between the two. All wearing toboggans, the kind that cover the whole face.

  Rick said, “Two hours ago, the FBI received a ransom demand on the girl. One million dollars for her safe return, with an offshore account for the transfer of funds. They let her talk to her mother. She was alive, terrified, but unhurt at the time. The call was on a cell phone, but by the time the agents triangulated it and got a team there, the only thing left was a cheap burner crushed in pieces on the roadway. No cameras in the area. No prints but the girl’s on the cell. We’ll know more when they get more.

  “There is one paranormal connection. It’s tenuous, but was enough to read us in. When the ransom call came for the girl, it was for one million, to be deposited into an account in the Turks. The family said they could get the money, and then called a blood-servant of Ming Glass, the Master of the City.”

  There was a soft sound of interest from JoJo.

  Rick nodded. “It took the feds by surprise. Apparently the family thought a century-old relationship couldn’t be part of their current crisis, so it wasn’t initially disclosed to the feds, but they have a link and a prior attachment to Ming Glass or one of her scions, back a few generations.”

  “You’re right, though,” T. Laine said, pointing at the laptop. “That is definitely not the MO of HST.”

  “MO?” I asked.

  “Modus operandi,” Rick said. “Latin for ‘method of operation.’ The kidnapping took place on school grounds in front of witnesses in a nonfamily, stereotypical kidnapping.”

  Modus operandi, I repeated to myself. I was gonna have to learn Latin? I needed to watch more crime shows and fewer comedies. And was there such a thing as stereotypical kidnapping? As if reading my mind, Tandy opened a saved file on his laptop with information from a .gov site on kidnappings. And stereotypical kidnapping was a proper term claimed by the National Incidence Studies of Missing, Abducted, Runaway, and Thrownaway Children.

  I had so much to learn.

  “Until we know more,” Rick said, shutting down the replay, “we’ve been assigned to assist as needed, with the FBI, local law enforcement, and the Tennessee state police. We’ll be going back over their reports and the actual crime scene looking for anything paranormal that might have been missed. What we have so far is sketchy. A sixteen-year-old, taken after cheerleading practice at Farrington High, Caucasian, from a well-to-do, politically connected family.

  “The definition of the security footage is too low to make much out, except that it matches the white panel van with a dented back bumper and no license plate described by the witnesses.”

  “No info on who set up the account use
d for the ransom demand?” T. Laine asked. “Nothing that ties to HST?”

  “Not yet.” Rick went on. “All we have is current information on the church from our civilian operative, which indicates no outsiders on the compound. We have no new intel on where HST has gone to ground, and we’ve not been assigned the case, but because of the tenuous paranormal connection, we have been asked to assist in a joint task force, primarily as backup and as a training exercise for us. Our participation will be mostly observational. For now.”

  I counted up the people he might be referring to as a civilian operative and came up with me. My mouth turned down harder, and I caught Tandy looking at me, reading my emotions. I wasn’t sure how to handle having someone around who could read me so well, but so far I didn’t like it much. I felt a childish impulse to stick my tongue out at him, and when he laughed unexpectedly, I figured he had gotten the message. He looked away, his expression lightened.

  “The victim is considered to be in peril of injury or death, though thanks to the ransom demand, the element of abduction for sex trafficking has now been taken off the table. Because of our lack of experience, the FBI will consider us warm bodies, but we have databases and paranormal experience they don’t have. As we are integrated into the team, I expect you all to take orders and follow their leads unless you find something concrete—and I mean rock solid—to offer. Otherwise, come to me first. Pick up coffee and donuts, be agreeable, listen, and learn.”

  Rick’s black eyes settled on me. “We aren’t leaving anything to chance. While it isn’t likely that God’s Cloud is harboring HST, if it’s determined that the girl is inside, we may need help getting onto the compound to find her.”

  Such an action would bring down the wrath of the church onto me. I took a slow, unsteady breath, and placed my feet on the wood floor, reaching out to the woods for steadiness and calm.

  “It isn’t likely, Nell,” Rick said, “but kidnapping is an HST moneymaker. If all of this is connected, and if they are at the compound—lots of ifs—we’ll need you.”