by N. D. Jones
The adze paused in the upstairs hallway, dark-brown eyes scanning. Rows of angled pictures cluttered the walls like a mural done by a fool with too much sentimentality. Children’s faces smiled back at her, mismatched shapes, hues, and forms making for the most unlikely of family portraits. There was a toddler in a wheelchair, a teenager guided by a large, brown German Shepherd, a kid of indeterminate age sitting under a tree with the lame do-gooder next to him. The boy’s eyes stared vaguely at the camera, his wilted and misaligned jaw giving way to drool.
The man in the picture didn’t seem to mind, though. His arm was wrapped reassuringly around the drooling retard’s bony shoulders, the glare from the sun shining off the kid’s bald head, reminding the adze why such beings were left in the woods to die. During her day, a time when adzes roamed unencumbered and were numerous in number, the weaklings prominently displayed on the Wall of Shame, would’ve been shunned, starved, or fed to ravenous giant rats.
Running an index finger over the center photograph, the adze leaned in closer, recognizing the front of the house in the amateurish picture. And a sign she hadn’t noticed when she’d entered the home. But one that made her now smile. Children’s House of Hope. The adze wanted to cackle, to shed her human form and graze her tongue over canine teeth.
Instead, she heightened her senses and renewed the hunt. There were five doors on this level, all closed, no light peeking out from under them—except for one, the wooden door at the end of the hallway, her destination, her café au blood.
Reaching out with trembling, pale hands, long, ebony hair falling over forehead and into brown eyes, the adze turned the bronze-colored knob. The door gave way with a somber creak, and the delectable smell of witch blood filled her anxious nostrils, triggering the most ancient of responses.
The man and—presumably his wife—sitting vigil, turned confused eyes her way when the adze entered the candle-lit room. A twin-canopied bed with pink and white ruffles and lace took up most of the bedroom. A white dresser and chest with hand-drawn flowers flowed like wild vines, merging with the pallid wall.
The neutered dog of a man abruptly stood, placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder, bidding her to stay put, to allow him to handle the naked intruder. Again, the adze wanted to laugh. The man was impotent, a pathetic non-obstacle. But, oh, how good it felt to know her belly would soon be filled, no matter the sick stench wafting from the child sleeping in the bed, her human guardians too ignorant to understand that their deathbed ward was a witch.
During her long life, the adze had tasted the blood of witches whose bodies were in varying states of illness, varying states of drug addiction, and varying states of good health. And while those—like the Baltimore girl tonight—whose body was free of impurities, the sweetness of the rich, thick brew as fine as any Napa Valley wine, was every adze’s dream, in the end, however, food was food. The sick and dying girl in the bed, surrounded by glittering white candles, wouldn’t make the Wine of the Year list, but, by the gods, she would do.
“What are you doing in here?” the man asked. “I thought you were going to get dressed and wait for me to return.” He began to walk toward the adze and then stopped, his face registering the first horrid embers of fear.
And well he should, for the scent of blood, the pang of hunger, the whisper of animal instinct had the adze in its grip, transforming her. Human skin and limp hair began to slide away, her true self roaring forth. Moon night wings and glorious fangs shimmered in the cloud of deception.
A woman’s scream, followed by a ragged hiss from the man, was an elegant symphony that transcended time. And the adze smiled her bat face as wicked as her soul. Her ravenous hunger exploded, the divine smell of fear fueling her craving.
“She’s just a c–child, you m–monster, her parents—”
Swipe. Scream. Thud.
The drab, white wall had more appeal now. The shape of an imperfect red rose decorated it, not quite matching the flowers on the dresser and chest, the severed head at the adze’s feet an openmouthed soccer ball, still spinning but coming to its last blood-spurting rotation.
A woman’s disbelieving bellow of sorrow rang out. The symphony reached its crescendo, then another flower. This one blossomed on the opposite wall, a matching pair. How quaint.
The adze moved to the canopied bed and listened to the labored breathing of its occupant. Fair hair matted to sweaty head; eyes closed in somatic innocence.
Dinner is served. She lunged in for her overdue feast. This time, however, there would be no wallflowers. No, this blood, this sacred elixir of life was too good to waste.
And when the adze fed, she drank every drop, leaving nothing behind but a rotting corpse with hair the color of depleted sunshine.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Assefa and Mike entered the hospital lobby, followed by Makena and Sanura. Assefa’s suit felt uncomfortable, body wound tight from the interruption, the sexual release denied him. His Mngwa crouched close to the surface, teeth bared, ready to spring forth and take down its prey. But there was no prey to be had in the surprisingly quiet Friday night emergency room that would appease his cat’s appetite. Sex or an adze kill was all his Mngwa knew, all he wanted, denied both for too long. He craved either, but right now, after the attack on Sanura’s niece, he would settle for the blood of the heinous creature. Yet that particular desire would have to wait—for the both of us. Assefa strove to settle his cat spirit, telling him to be patient, that their time would come. Soon, very soon.
He looked around. In spite of bustling nurses, doctors, and general hospital staff moving about like cogs in a well-oiled but overworked machine, the populated, family-friendly emergency room lacked the typical weekend disgruntled chatter that normally accompanied too-long waits. Assefa easily made out the hum of machines, a constant backdrop to the somber mood, a reminder that too many lives depended on the artificial, cold hands of the gods.
Yet, it was the smell of the hospital, more so than the cry of a bored toddler, or the siren of an ambulance, or even the clatter of high heels that caught Assefa by the throat. The stench of death and dying, mixed with disinfectant, assaulted his heightened sense of smell. Unfortunately, he detected everything the weak antiseptic wash and sprays intended to cover—blood, urine, feces, vomit.
He smelled it all, including the diminished scent of Sanura’s arousal. But considering where they were and what had happened to Gen, it was a subtle reminder of the arctic water that had doused their sexual flame. Assefa suppressed his cat even more, sending the Mngwa to the underbrush for a nap. Toxic fumes and sexual urges notwithstanding, he had a job to do.
He flashed his badge to the security guard on duty, his tone harder than intended. “I’m Special Agent Berber, and this is Detective McKutchen. We’re here to see Miss Genji Zhou-Garvey. She was brought in a couple of hours ago.”
“Yeah, I’ve been expecting you.” The guard rose to his feet, thin frame stretching on the way up, cracking muscles as he went. “Umm, sign here and take a visitor’s badge. Are the women with you? If they are, they need to show identification and sign in, too.”
The guard’s sluggish eyes traveled from Assefa and to Sanura. The green in them sparkled when they dropped to Sanura’s breasts. The breasts Assefa could still taste in his mouth, feel in his hands.
Anger flared. His Mngwa stirred.
The guard continued to stare, too foolish to know the danger he was in. Right now, hell, Assefa struggled to ignore his pent-up frustration. Letting his cat out and using the guard as a chew toy would probably not go over well with all the full-humans in the waiting room.
A slow growl started, but before Assefa did something he would regret, Mike slammed his fist on the reception desk. “Unless you want my size-seven foot up your scrawny ass, I suggest you keep your stargazing to the sky.”
Caught, the security guard cleared his throat, looked away, and down at the sign-in sheet.
“Look, rent-a-cop, just tell us where we can find the girl’s
family, so we can be on our way, and you can get back to watching your soap operas or eye groping women through a peephole in the bathroom, or whatever the hell you do here all night to pass the time.”
The guard stammered out, “S–she’s in room 201.” He pointed to his right. “The elevators are that way.”
“That’s all you had to say in the first place, asshole.” Mike frowned, and then snatched the badges from the guard’s hand.
The women took the lead, following the blue lines, engaged in their own conversation. Assefa could hear the worry in their hushed tones, Gen being a loved member of their extended family.
“Thanks, Mike,” Assefa said, glancing back at the security guard.
He’d almost lost it back there. That never happened anymore. Not since I was a pubescent teen. But he’d wanted to go for the guy’s jugular, claw his eyes out for daring to look at his woman. And that wasn’t like him either. Damn it, is this what happens after a bonding? Do I have no control over my baser instincts now? Ra, he prayed that wasn’t the case. He wasn’t an animal. He was in control. Always in control.
“No problem, I hate guys like that. They give all cops a bad name. Besides, I didn’t think you wanted to play caveman in front of the women just yet. Sanura can go overboard with that feminist shit sometimes. I wanted to spare you.”
Assefa slowed so Mike wouldn’t have to do double-time to keep up with him.
“The Williams women are used to my crap and won’t give it a second thought, but from you, kid, they’d probably expect the ideal gentleman.” He snorted. “Yeah, we dwarves aren’t exactly known for our”—he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his suit jacket— “manners.”
Assefa couldn’t agree more. But there was a gentlemanly quality in the way Mike protected Sanura and Makena, filling the void, as best he could, left by the death of Samuel Williams.
“Out of curiosity, what would you have done if I hadn’t stepped in with the perv at the desk?”
His Mngwa fast asleep and no longer on the prowl, he stopped, looked down at Mike, gave a smile he knew showed gleaming white with slightly elongated eye teeth, and said without emotion, “I was going to break every bone in his hand when he handed me our visitor passes.”
“Damn,” Mike said, sounding too pleased with Assefa’s response.
He knew it would’ve been an overreaction, but were-cats were a possessive species, mating for life, protecting their territory with claws and fangs. Their very life, if need be.
Leaving the bestial side of him behind, Assefa followed Mike and the women onto the elevator. The quartet took the brief ride to the second floor and got off.
They walked down a hallway before rounding a corner, Assefa noting the room numbers as they went. They turned another corner and nearly ran into a woman with dreadlocked hair spiraling over one shoulder. She was a few inches shorter than Sanura, but heavier by ten or fifteen pounds, her weight falling nicely to her wide, full hips and thick thighs, filling out tight jeans. Freckles decorated her cinnamon-sugared face as did gray streak lines, accented by puffy eyes.
He sniffed the air. Her distraught appearance contradicted the aura signature of the powerful witch he detected. It was a natural emission, one he guessed she probably didn’t realize she was sending and could be easily managed if she was focused and in control. Right now, however, the witch was neither, which would explain why she wore no scent disguise amulet. But she didn’t smell of gardenias like Sanura. No, her aura carried the salt of the sea and something else. Her true scent. Yet, he wasn’t her familiar. The fragrance was shielded from him, as it should be.
But that barrier didn’t stop his prowling senses. Her midnight-blue eyes not only revealed her biracial heritage but her witch lineage, as well. It was the richness of the near-black color of her irises that reminded him of the Blue Nile, confirming the woman as a water witch.
“Oh, watch it there, Cynthia, you almost mowed us down,” Mike said, grabbing the young woman.
“Cyn, are you all right?” inquired Sanura, gently removing Mike’s chubby hands from her friend’s arm and replacing them with her own.
Trembling, the woman finally looked up. “I…I think so. I’m glad you’re here.”
She then turned to Makena, who was like a second mother to her and walked into the type of embrace and security only such a woman could give.
Assefa knew Cynthia Garvey’s story, one of many conversations he and Sanura had had over the past couple of weeks, an attempt, on their part, to get to know each other better.
Cynthia and Sanura had known each other since elementary school. Makena and Sam had taken a personal interest in the girl and her future when her mother died in a fatal car crash, leaving her alone at the vulnerable age of sixteen. No family to claim or provide for her, the Williams opened their home to Cynthia, affording her the same opportunities and love as their own child.
“It’s okay, Cynthia, we’re here now,” Makena soothed. “We’ll get through this together. Just tell us about Gen.”
Regaining her composure, Cynthia took the handkerchief Assefa offered and dabbed at her eyes. She looked at him, pretty face giving him a grateful, knowing smile. “You must be Assefa. Sanura told me a lot of nice things about you. I hope you’re as good as she says because this adze must be captured before any more of our children are hurt or killed.”
What started out as a compliment to the man had ended as a plea to the special agent.
“Where’s Eric?” Mike asked, sweeping the hallway with his shrewd dwarf eyes.
“He’s with Gen. He wants to make sure he’s there when she wakes up. He refuses to leave her alone, even though she’s sedated.”
Makena and Sanura each grabbed one of Cynthia’s hands, placing the woman between them, giving her the support she obviously needed.
As they did downstairs, Assefa and Mike followed the women, Cynthia leading them down the hall, then stopping in front of room 201.
Sanura walked up and peered through the small window in the door. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s as well as can be expected.” Cynthia wiped at her eyes again with the loaned handkerchief. “She lost a lot of blood from the bite, but the doctor was able to stop the bleeding and repair the damage done to the artery.”
Assefa could tell she was a strong woman, the urge to cry obvious, but she shoved it down, biting her lower lip instead of crying outright the way he knew she wanted to. The way she clearly already had. But she had it together now, at least enough not to break down in the middle of a hospital hallway, with nurses, doctors, and strangers as witnesses.
“If the bite had been three inches deeper, or if Gen hadn’t fought as hard as she did, she wouldn’t be here.” She shuddered at her own words. “Just another Baltimore homicide statistic in the Charm City, right? Why we haven’t moved already, I’ll never know.”
Sanura hugged Cynthia, pushing her long locks off her shoulder. “I don’t know how this could’ve happened. I gave Gen a scent disguise charm when I brought Betsy to school. It was her first day and I promised to stay with her until she got settled. You remember.”
Cynthia nodded, still clinging to her best friend.
And Assefa sensed magic coming from Sanura. Nothing he could see, but something was happening between them. Just like that first day in Elizabeth Ferrell’s hospital room.
“In fact, while your secretary was enrolling Betsy, I used that time to check in on a couple of the students who were absent the last time I visited. I made sure they were all protected. This shouldn’t have happened.”
The women parted; Cynthia visibly stronger.
The magic he’d sensed from Sanura had done that. Not that Assefa exactly knew what that had been. But the woman was clearly feeling better, the redness and swelling around her eyes already beginning to fade. And Sanura had done that…with a magical hug?
“She didn’t have the charm on her when she returned from the mall. I don’t know what happened to it, but Eric made her
put it on before she left the house. He’s so careful to make sure we both wear the bracelets, ever since this adze started killing again. Maybe she lost it, or let a friend borrow it. You know how careless teens can be. Hell, I was so frazzled I didn’t even put mine on before I climbed in the ambulance with Gen.”
“It doesn’t matter,” stated Mike. “What concerns me is the attack itself.”
“Mike’s right,” Assefa agreed. “The attack was bold. It goes against everything we know about how this adze hunts. There’re one of two reasons for the sudden change. One,” he lifted his index finger as a visual, “the adze is becoming desperate, or—”
“We’re dealing with a different adze altogether,” interjected Mike.
“Right, either scenario is bad. There’s nothing worse than a desperate, hungry predator. Except for multiple desperate predators,” Assefa said.
“If we don’t catch this son of a bitch soon,” said Mike, “it will drain whoever it can catch, witch or human.”
“No, adzes only have a taste for witch blood,” Makena objected.
“Mike’s right, Makena,” Assefa said. “Adzes may prefer your blood because of the benefits they get from it, but a predator is a predator. Their goal is to survive, and they will do whatever it takes to achieve that end. A lion may prefer to hunt a deer or antelope, but when a lion is hungry and near starvation, it will attack an elephant or hippo and take its chances.”
“This may be what we have here, Mom,” Sanura added. “There are many of our kind in the Maryland, DC, and Virginia areas, but between the two of us, we know all of them.”
Sanura turned to Assefa. “Our network is very strong, and we stay in constant contact. Unless someone is off the grid or entered one of the regions without contacting the local chapter, we know everyone. And one of our cardinal rules is to wear a scent disguise amulet at all times.”
“So, by ‘chapter’ you mean coven?” Assefa asked.
