Blood of the Earth

by Faith Hunter

  My eyes went wide and my brother shrugged, visible from the corners of my eyes, his face flushing. “Yeah. I’ve seen a film or two. When I went to university.” I glanced at him and his flush went deeper red, as if he knew what I was thinking. For a moment there was an overlay of him when he was younger, towheaded, tanned, his blue eyes laughing, the eldest of Mama’s children, a mischievous boy full of himself and certain of his position and importance in the family, the church, and his society.

  A call burbled on my cell phone, and I answered. “Hey, Rick. The cats are in place. So are we.”

  “I’m pulling up the road,” he said.

  I turned off the cell and said, “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The wide entry door was Xed over with crime-scene tape, sealing it for the police. Sam made a grunting sound that was remarkably like the one Daddy made when he was conflicted or surprised, or sometimes even amused.

  Sam’s face, however, went sober, a dour expression, carrying worry and a sense of responsibility beneath the bleakness. Visibly, he shook off the worry. “Take your gun,” he said. “Keep it pointed at the ground, finger off the trigger.” He flashed me a grin that had couple of pounds of childhood teasing behind it. “Don’t shoot your toes off.”

  “I can handle it,” I grouched, opening the door to slide off the seat. “I can take care of myself.” I stood on the ground, the .30-30 held in a loose grip at my side, and softly closed the truck door. I left my six-shooter under the seat. Side by side, we went to the cave entrance and Sam used the butt of his gun to tear the crime tape away. It trailed on the ground like holiday streamers. With a key, Sam opened the door. Inside the lights were off and he disappeared into the blackness. When the lights came on, Sam leaned out the door and said, “Call your pets.”

  A one-hundred-plus-pound black wereleopard landed silently in front of him and growled. Sam squeaked an undignified geep and was suddenly standing a few yards inside the building. I laughed at the effect Paka had on my tough brother. When Occam landed beside me, he hacked and chuffed, big-cat laughter. Rick pulled up next to my truck and hopped out. When he saw our weapons, he drew his own. Silent, together, we five went into the cave and shut the door.

  The place was a shambles. The sheriff’s deputies had opened every storage box, dropped dozens from tall pallets, the supplies inside scattered everywhere, broken, busted, strewn as if kicked around. I had a mental image of men laughing as they destroyed our winter supplies. The food supplies and seeds had suffered the most, with gallon jars of tomatoes broken and left to rot on the floor. I said something under my breath that might have been considered a curse word by the churchmen, but I didn’t care.

  Bags of winter feed of corn for the chickens and livestock had been opened and mixed in with the tomatoes. It was a mess and was starting to go bad. I made a mental note to tell Mama, so she and the other women could get in and clean. The church’s pigs and chickens would be well fed and happy tonight. Rick tapped Occam’s head. The wereleopard looked up, his eyes golden and beautiful. “You know how the kidnappers and their victims smelled, how Mira smelled. And you know how Jackson smelled. Take a sniff around.”

  Thinking about Dawson and his need for vampire blood, I added, “And you know how vampires smell. See if any vampires were here too.”

  Occam cocked his head as if considering what I was saying, and then he and Paka met, nose to nose, as if the senses of touch and smell were some kind of untamed, natural communication. They vectored off in different directions.

  I jabbed my brother’s arm. “Can you take photos with your cell phone?”

  Sam pulled out his fancy cell phone, almost a tablet. “Yep. My generation ain’t gonna be held back from knowing what’s what in the world. Amos is going to MIT to learn computer stuff next fall. Rufus is going to MIT to learn chemistry, aerodynamics, and get a good grounding in making electricity off the grid. I don’t have their brains, but I’m taking classes for my masters over the Internet in the business side of agriculture and animal husbandry.”

  At my startled expression, he said wryly, “The Campbells are sending their young’uns to school, one in constitutional law, the other to learn history, with an emphasis in medieval and postcivilization warfare. Other families are learning mining and smelting and the womenfolk have added the making of stoneware and ceramics to the soap making and weaving and sewing.” He tilted his head to me as if conceding a point. “Two of the Nicholson’s female little’uns might be some kinda prodigy in math. They’re getting special tutoring, so it ain’t gonna be schooling just for the men. When the end comes, we’ll not only be able to survive, we’ll be able to prosper. And if He doesn’t come soon, then we’ll be better suited to whatever kind of future comes our way.” Sam had dropped the church accent while he was talking about school.

  I said, “Daddy . . . Daddy plans for you to be in charge of the church, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah, little sister. Gog and Magog.” He face was harsh and lined, my brother looking older than a man still in his twenties should.

  “Take a couple hundred photos,” I said, ignoring everything of a warlike nature that might have been included in his statements. “Then call the Nicholson women and tell them about this mess. They need to get the families together to clean up.”

  Sam laughed softly, his tone mocking. “What about the cops’ crime scene?”

  “The cops can kiss my skinny pale backside about any ruined crime scene. They can see the church in court about reparations too.”

  Rick glanced my way and put his cell away. “Already reported via text to the VIPs.”

  I followed Sam to the back of the cave, where I heard claws clicking on stone. Paka and Occam were in a dim corner, waiting for us.

  My brother led to the way to a shelving unit against the back wall. The base was difficult to see in the weak cave light, but Sam kicked the shelf in three places, maybe unseating brakes, and pulled. The unit moved, revealing a door in the back wall. Using the keys he had brought, he unlocked it to reveal an unlit room. A dank scent flooded out and Occam sneezed. Paka stood at his shoulder, her ears pricked forward, sniffing, snarling. “I smell it too,” Rick said.

  Sam turned on the lights. Inside was an area with a poured concrete floor, smooth and slick except for four iron rings set deep in the middle. The cats were sniffing the room from the doorway, ears back flat to their heads.

  There was something on the far side of the concrete pad, metal, like an erector set, or one of those robots that can change shape into a car or a plane, but this one was all in pieces, looking as if it had been tossed off the concrete and into a jumble of rods and metal mesh. It was a metal bed frame. A metal yard chair was next to it. A metal table. Everything twisted and destroyed. Including the handcuffs at each of the four bedposts. They had been twisted, deformed, and ripped, much like what Occam had done with the handcuffs on me in FBI headquarters, but with a lot more torque and violence.

  Rick stepped into the room, using a psy-meter, taking measurements of paranormal activity in each part of the room, quartering it, taking notes on a little spiral notebook with a pen. The cats stood with the rest of us at the door, sniffing.

  “Is this where vampire prisoners were kept?” I asked. Occam blew out a breath, his nostrils spreading and relaxing, his gaze too bright. He dropped his head and raised it. “Are those bloodstains in the concrete?” Occam repeated the nod. “Do you smell Jackie here? Others like him?” Occam nodded.

  Rick said, “Recently?” Occam shook his head. “Do you smell Mira? Was she held here before she went to the Stubbins farm?” Occam nodded and shook his head, uncertain. “Too much blood smell to tell for certain?” Rick asked. Occam nodded, but padded to the far side of the cave. He sat and put a paw out, tapping the concrete. “Maybe Mira was there?” Rick asked. “K-nine should check it out?” Occam’s head dropped once in agreement. “I’m done,” Rick said.
“Check the room and then shift.”

  Sam, who had been silent for the whole time, said, “I got a tracker dog. Chrystal. A springer spaniel. She can sniff out a bird at a hundred paces. She ain’t a police dog, but I’m willing to get her in here and see if she can pick up the girl’s scent over the rest of this stink. That might save you some time and get started sooner.” He glanced at the werecats and adjusted the position of his shotgun in what might be considered a menacing gesture. “’Course, your cats’ll have to leave my dog alone or I’ll have ta shoot ’em.”

  Occam and Paka both looked away, bored, before padding silently into the room to search, quartering the space as Rick had, noses to the ground. Sam, taking their body language as agreement, went to the cave entrance and made some calls, I supposed to get someone to bring Chrys to the cave. Minutes later, the cats raced back into the storage area and disappeared, to reappear, now in human form, dressed in light cotton clothing insufficient for the unchanging cold of the cave, with flip-flops on their feet. Voices low, they filled Rick and Sam and me in on the details they had learned.

  It wasn’t what I had expected.

  They smelled the dog they had first smelled at the Clayton home. And there were others that scented of whatever creature the dog was. Dawson? Brother Ephraim? For sure, Jackson and the others like him who had been on the Stubbins farm. They had marked territory. And maybe someone had kept Mira in the cave, though only for a very short time.

  On a shelf, Paka found another copy of the CIA’s list, the HST’s paranormal list, and more papers, written and published by Human Speakers of Stupidity. They were full of hatred couched in protection of the humans, and looked exactly like the kind of evil that said anyone not lily white or completely human should be enslaved. How had the dogs of Jackie’s cadre associated with the people who would have killed them on sight?

  I thought about Dawson Sr., killed by silver shot. Had the HST figured out he was wasn’t human and killed him? Had Jackie given them the old man? When I said that to Rick, he shook his head. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “Can the cats track Jackie and his friends?” I asked.

  “No,” Rick said. “Big-cats aren’t trackers. We don’t have the noses for anything but short-term scents. I called for the canine units earlier, but we’re not getting them until the Stubbins farm is done.”

  “Hate dogs,” Paka said, her voice rough and coarse, as if still in cat form.

  I turned on her. “Well, you either need to get over that hate and start respecting a good tracker dog, or put your nose to the ground and start sniffing, Paka, because Mira Clayton is almost out of time.”

  Paka hissed. Occam’s eyebrows went up in surprise and a slow smile spread across his face. “You look like some sweet lil’ ol’ thang,” he said his Texan twang suddenly strong, “but you got some spunk, don’tchu, Nell, sugar?”

  “Nell, sugar?” Sam said, menace in his tone.

  “Occam can call me anything he wants,” I said, eyeing the Texan cat. “I gave him permission, and I don’t need yours.”

  Sam slanted his eyes at me but said to Occam, “She always did have a mouth on her.”

  “Did you pick up anything else?” Rick asked the cats.

  Occam’s face softened. “The blood of that bastard Jackson Jr. The blood of several captive vampires, at least three, as many as six, some who died here. And dogs everywhere. I think”—he paused, the fingers of his left hand counting against the thumb—“maybe four dogs?”

  Sam look confused.

  Paka said, “I smell the one who attacked your home and then”—her hand made a waffling motion—“then disappeared.” She was talking about Brother Ephraim.

  Brother Ephraim had just been proved to be nonhuman. The thought made my mouth go dry.

  “He drank vampire blood here,” she said. “Several dogs drank blood here. This place is a cage.”

  Rick looked back at the reinforced entrance. “Made when the fortifications were made?”

  “That was when I was eight, I think,” I said.

  Sam nodded. “When Jackson Jr. first got cancer. He was about twelve. Maybe fourteen. Dogs?” he questioned.

  “This place has been used as a prison for supernats for a long time,” Occam said, glancing at Sam, “years off and on, according to my nose. And your preacher isn’t human. He’s a shifter of some kind.”

  Sam’s eyes cleared. “That’s what you meant by smelling dogs. And . . . that actually makes a lot of sense. There’ve been tracks . . .” His voice trailed away. He looked back toward the entrance, thinking. “Big tracks. And the security dogs have been more squirrelly than usual.”

  Occam chuckled. “Squirrelly. That’s the word. Paka. You think it’s similar to a wolf?” She cocked her head and squinted her eyes. “No. Dog of some sort. But not weredog. Pea would have noticed when the bad man went missing. And the musky scent is richer and more tart.”

  Occam’s nose wrinkled. “Okay. I get that too. Dog it is.”

  “We need to seal this back room off as a paranormal crime scene,” Rick said. “Looks like you’ll be getting a chance to practice all your Spook School techniques.”

  Occam’s eyes lit up in completely human excitement. I said, “I’ll be in my truck.”

  * * *

  While Rick and the others sealed off the back room, I sat in the truck cab, studying the photos of the destruction and property damage in the storage room. The photos made the mess look even worse than it had seemed.

  Sam came by once as I worked, telling me, “Chrystal got a hit on the girl your people call Girl Three. She was on church land. But Rick says he’ll do what he can to protect us. You trust him?”

  I almost said, As much as I trust any man, but I kept it in, offering a nod and a shrug at the same to time to indicate my ambivalence. “Mostly.”

  My brother looked out over the compound, his face giving little away. “Sunset devotionals are likely to be dangerous. Just so you know. We’ll be taking a vote on ousting Jackie and taking the land back from his daddy’s estate. Our lawyer found some irregularities in the paperwork that gave the compound to Jackie.” He smiled grimly. “We aren’t ready for Gog and Magog, but it’s upon us. Or maybe I’m not ready. I was planning on marrying and starting a family first. Seems like the good Lord has other plans.”

  “Don’t he always,” I muttered. Sam snorted and moved away again.

  By happenstance I discovered that my tablet could go online through my cell phone, which was simply amazing. I spent more time searching the Internet and PsyLED intranet for any mention of creatures that smelled like dogs, and in mythology, there were a lot of possibilities. The church taught that all mythological creatures were evil, possibly left over from the mating of angels and humans, and according to my research, the church might have been right about the evil part in many circumstances. A lot of creatures were indeed monsters—cannibals, child stealers, hellhounds, black dogs—dozens of varieties of dog-wolf-shifter types.

  I was deeply engrossed in reading about some Germanic shifters when a tap on the cab window startled me. Occam stood on the other side, a half smile lighting his face when our eyes met. I rolled down the window.

  “Nell, sugar, I got a question.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your brother’s dog found a single drop of Mira Clayton’s blood spatter in the cave. Rick says you can track creatures on your land. If I offered you the blood, do you think you could track her, through your land? Like maybe through the tree you, uhhh . . .” He floundered for a word, any word, and stumbled to a stop. He blinked once, slow, like a cat in the midst of ignoring his human, and said, “Rick suggested that you knew where things were on the land of your farm. He suggested that you could track on the land. Maybe any land.”

  “On my land, yes . . .” I stopped as possibilities flitted through me. When I’d been at the private school,
in the wood near it, I hadn’t been able to merge with the woods farther away, but my wood was close to the church land, and . . . and the tree here on the compound had stuck roots inside of me, had healed me.

  Or I had made it happen.

  My magic might be able to do things I had never thought about before. It might also make me into a tree or a rosebush or cabbage if I kept playing around with it. There’s always a price to pay with magic.

  At the thought, a strange emotion flitted through me, like bats on the wing. Was Soulwood sentient? Was the tree that had healed me sentient? Sentient because I willed it to be so when I was a child? Or was I the one who caused it to heal me, and sentience came to it after it tasted my blood? Or was it just a tree and I was imagining its independent actions?

  I put a hand over my scarred middle and thought about the dark thing that chased its tail around in the earth of my land, confined there. If I reached to my land, now that I had merged with the bloody-rooted oak, would I accidentally unite the trees here with the trees of Soulwood? And if I did, would I upset the balance of the walls of my land and set the thing that used to be Brother Ephraim free? If it got free, what would it do? How much of it was still sentient? Worse, what might it become while kept captive?

  Fluttery bat-wing thoughts, dark and chittering. They made my palms sweat and I rubbed them on my skirt. I had lots of things to think about, as soon I had a day free. “I honestly don’t think so. The world’s too big. But I can try.”

  Occam held out a paper bag, which I opened. There was a bright pink scarf inside. The scent of the missing Mira wafted out at me. Flowers. She smelled like flowers.

  “I should try at the tree . . .” The bat thoughts spiraled and twirled and my stomach did a matching pirouette. “I can’t promise anything, Occam.”

  He shrugged and got in my truck. We made good time back to the chapel and behind it. I stopped at the oak tree, which looked bigger and stronger and . . . maybe meaner than it had before. If I squatted down on the ground at its roots, would it try to stick them inside of me again, to trap me here? Before I could change my mind, I got out and knelt on the ground beside an exposed, gnarled root, one with a suspiciously fresh-looking cut on its upper side. At the thought, an odd new sensation trembled in my belly, not a bat-wing-fear flutter, but something green and warm, stretching like a vine in the sunlight on an early spring day. Before I could chicken out, I opened the paper sack and pulled out the scarf, holding it in one hand and placing the other firmly on the root.