And he had kissed her.
She was still pissed about that. The mark had faded almost instantly, but the feelings it had inspired were taking more time to dissipate. Where he had bitten her, she felt tainted. Corrupt. She had spent a long time in the shower that night, scrubbing herself. Trying to rid her skin of his scent. But when she had closed her eyes and gone to sleep that night she could still smell ozone.
Ordinarily, work would have distracted her. But Myrna hadn't called her in for days. Her hours since the break-in had been sporadic. Which made sense—there were lots of reasons, liability reasons, Myrna wouldn't want her in the store. But it meant she couldn't vent off steam while selling books about knitting to trendy hipsters, or magazines to old hobbyists working from their garage. Catherine paced her room restlessly as the rest of her family stirred awake.
She kept thinking about the sky—how it had cracked open, and spilled out blinding white fire.
All of the gods of old had been sleeping for eons. Some even went so far as to claim that they were dead. Others said that the gods had simply given up, that they were waiting for the world to capsize on a tide of its own ruin so they could begin anew. Catherine's mother had always discouraged her from repeating such things, fearful of invoking some ancient blasphemy.
Shape-shifters would not call themselves superstitious, but they did believe in forces that escaped the detection of most humans. They believed in an earth goddess, their creator, and in the healing powers of certain stones. Nobody would call it magic—magic was for witches, and witches alone—but every living thing held a spark, an energy field, and stones had silent secrets of their own.
In their pantheon of gods and goddesses, there were many major and minor figures. The two main ones, Earth and Sky, claimed the most followers among the Otherkind. The Earth Goddess had created all the plants and animals. Shifters were created in Her image, and it was from Her that they received the ability to Change.
The Sky God, envious of all the attention and gifts Earth showered upon her creations, and the worship she received because of this, had, according to myth, created witches in His image. It had been done in retaliation; he and Earth were lovers once, but He was a vengeful and possessive God, with a heart as cold as ice, and She fell for the far gentler and less vainglorious Sea.
Spurned, Sky gave his witches dominion over air, fire, water, and earth. It was his way of thumbing his nose at the two lovers. He was just as cruel as his children. Just as capricious.
Catherine pulled on her zodiac bracelet and a rose quartz necklace she had received from her grandmother many years ago. The stones felt like ice against her feverish skin, weighing her down with their comforting heaviness, and focusing her thoughts. As the agitation drained out of her, the quartz seemed to throb with life—and not quite in sync with her own heartbeat, either.
Of all the elements, earth was the one that gave witches the most trouble. Even those skilled in it found that their powers would desert them mysteriously, at the most crucial of times. It was a shifter element—earthy, wild, stealthy and secretive. And while there was magic to be found in the soil, and in rocks, and in wood, the Earth Goddess had never held much stock in witches.
I wish I had something iron, she thought wearily. Iron alone was the one earthly element witches could never hope to master.
But they possessed nothing iron in their house. Catherine had checked her mother's jewelry box, disappointed but unsurprised. The Council had eyes everywhere, and possession of such an artifact without good reason would be taken as a threat. And yet this Council stooge goes about with silver ring, blade, and shackles. Who the fuck does he think he is?
Catherine got on the bus. She looked up with dread every time the bus came to a stop. The witch wasn't at any of them. Maybe he had decided that her help was useless. In which case, she was willing to sacrifice a little privacy at the cost of his company. But her hopes were in vain—he was there, waiting, leaning against the school's bus stop sign as he had last Friday.
As if he hadn't moved.
“There's something different about you,” the witch remarked as she got off glowering.
She clutched her necklace to her throat protectively, and he snorted. “Rose quartz—for protection? How…quaint.”
“You were staking out my house.”
“It's against me?”
She ignored him. Easier that way.
“Rose quartz,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Against a Triad witch.”
He continued chuckling to himself during the entire walk to her class.
“Shut the fuck up,” she said. “I don't have to take this from you.”
“Rose quartz will not protect you from me. It will not even protect you from the evil eye, if the desire for ill will is strong enough. But I will take your fear as a sign of respect.”
“I don't respect you.”
“But you fear me,” he said, leaning in to keep his voice from being heard. She could taste his breath on his tongue. See the pores in his flawless pale skin. It was all she could do to keep from spitting right in his face. The witch let his eyes fall to her lips.
“That's close enough.”
Too close.
She braced herself, but he did not try to kiss her again. With a sneer, he pulled away from her. As if satisfied that he had made his point. He didn't even touch her. He kept at polite distance, speaking to her only when necessary, and only used one glamor—and since it was on Mr. Hauberk, who she never really liked anyway, she couldn't get too worked up over that.
Her heart thudded against her necklace. Prey-heart, Predator said. Beating too fast.
The sky was broken, she thought. It cracked in two, and the world was bleeding out in streaks of lightning.
She was too busy watching him. She could sense his growing irritation; it radiated off of him, as if he were a cat twitching his tail around in agitation. She may not have been able to smell his emotions, the way she could with humans, but she recognized that rigid posture as a sign of stress. Something was bothering him. He was distracted. Withholding information.
Important information.
Sharon started speaking to him then, and he straightened imperceptibly.
Predator noted his hunching posture with interest. He's guarding.
Not all weaknesses were physical, although they could be revealed through physical cues.
When Catherine got home there was a jasper ring on the doorstep. She didn't have to ask where it came from. That sharp, metallic smell was as strong as if he were standing right beside her. She shook her head slowly, staring down at the orange and black stone. It radiated magic, and she was loathe to touch it with her bare skin. What was it? Some kind of spell?
Prey ran circles inside her head, too distracted to pay it much notice. Predator scoffed at the unimportance of such baubles. They were no help—and yet, their lack of interest was reassuring.
A quick online search defined the properties of jasper as “protective” and of “banishing destructive forces.” It had the same pleasant, comforting feel as the rose quartz necklace she had inherited from her grandmother, and was cool as water to the touch. The witch's intentions might have been tainted, but the ring itself was not. The magic was not strong, and radiated tranquility.
It isn't his, she realized, suddenly, not quite sure how she knew this. It belonged to someone else.
Cautiously, she lifted the ring to her nose and sniffed. She could smell the witch, and something else—human, possibly. The smell was faint. Possibly male. And yet—Catherine frowned—not.
Whose ring is this?
Chapter Nine
All she wanted to do was lie low until graduation, until she could go off into the world and live her life the way she had planned. Maybe purchase a small bookstore, or become a reclusive author with a small house in the woods where she could Change whenever she wanted. Witch-free.
It was starting to look as if that wasn't ever going to happen.
&nb
sp; The next Sterling Rep meeting was coming up fast. Catherine felt the hairs on her body prickle every time she thought about it. If the organization wasn't a front for Slayer activity, the witch would continue to plague her with his presence as he attempted to uncover their actual location. But if it was, then her life—and the lives of her pride—would be endangered.
Want 2 go on dbl-date w/ Finn & Mike?
She dug her fingers into her phone so hard that she felt the plastic yield. That was the absolute last thing she wanted. But she could only imagine what the witch would say if she refused.
With effort, she relaxed her grip. Today?
After skool.
“Fucking great,” Catherine snarled under her breath, tapping out a quick, fine.
Too bad if her response didn't meet the minimum level of required enthusiasm.
Catherine slammed the door and locked it quickly, tucking key and lanyard beneath the neckline of her blouse. The street was completely deserted. Vernal pools were scattered around the stretch of property distinguishing her family's from the adjacent ones, with the cloudy sky reflected in the mirrored surface. Some of the larger pools had attracted ducks, which turned to look at Catherine curiously, though keeping their distance. They could smell the predator on her.
She continued down the path. Soon she was approaching the next development. The road was empty, save for a blue pick-up truck. With the thinning paint and slashes of orange rust, part of her couldn't help noticing subconsciously that the truck seemed out of place in a relatively wealthy neighborhood. Eucalyptus trees framed the street in parallel lines. As she walked into their long shadows, she felt the temperature drop until the air itself seemed to freeze.
Catherine wasn't sure how she knew he was behind her, but she did. She turned around, inhaling sharply when her suspicions were met. A spark seemed to arc through his dark green eyes like a comet shooting through a starless sky. Then his expression flickered, becoming a neutral mask once more, his lips twisted into an expression of muted condescension. She responded in kind by a slight widening of the eyes and clenching of the jaw. He was wearing a parka and a novelty t-shirt. This one said, “No, it's not a wand. I'm just happy to see you.”
“Nice shirt,” she said flatly. “What happened to lying low?”
“Harry Potter,” the witch said innocently. “I understand it's quite popular among humans.”
“Not among shape-shifters,” Catherine said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He looked frustratingly perfect. Annoyingly perfect—untouched by the rain and the wind, without even so much as a single tousled lock of hair out of place. “Were you looking for me?”
“Don't flatter yourself. I live here.” She tore her eyes away. “What's your excuse?”
“I was waiting for you, shifter mine.” He stepped out of the street and onto the sidewalk, in the direction of the blue truck. “I knew you'd come.”
“It's a school day.” Her breath came out in a frosty plume. “Look, it's cold—”
“Is it?” he interjected, absently straightening his shirt. “I hadn't noticed.”
“It's cold,” she repeated, “And I am doing you a favor. Which, incidentally, you really don't deserve. Remember trying to kill me? Because I do.”
“So I can safely assume you aren't here for the benefit of my company.”
“I'm waiting for the bus. Oh, and by the way, my friend wants us to go on a date with her.”
She tried to adopt his cool condescension, making it sound like she would rather do anything else.
Instead of being annoyed, her efforts to gall him only served to heighten his amusement. The witch gave her another one of those irritating once-overs, but something gave him pause and she saw his mocking expression turn speculative before her eyes. “You're not wearing my ring.”
“No.”
“It really works,” he said. “Unlike that.”
She closed her hand around the quartz. “Why did you give it to me?”
His eyes were unreadable. “I thought you'd like to see what a real protective charm looked like.”
“It's convenient when a gift can double as a threat.”
“Just as wit can double as a shield?”
That robbed her of a response. The witch laughed—gods, how she hated him—but the chuckling was brief, as if his heart wasn't quite in it, and his expression sobered, becoming business-like.
He headed towards the run-down truck. “Come.”
“This is yours?” It smelled like cigarette smoke on the inside. She made a face.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“…Goddess in Heaven—you mean you stole it?”
He glanced at her sidelong. “Don't look so shocked. It isn't as if you're a stranger to petty crime.”
“This isn't 'petty crime.' This is grand theft auto. You can go to jail for this.” She reached for the door on the driver's side and he popped the lock. “I am not riding shotgun in a stolen car with you. Unlock the door. I'm driving.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Like you've ever driven a car, you goddamn Luddite.”
“I cast a glamor over the plates.” He hot-wired the engine. “It should last for a while.”
“You're a Councilman! You're supposed to follow the rules, not break them!”
“A common misconception.” The witch clicked his tongue. “I only break them when necessary.” He pushed open the passenger door. “Now get in the car, before I find it necessary to run you over.”
With a low growl, she grabbed the door by the handle and swung herself inside.
The moors were slick with ice, which merged into brownish sludge where mud and ice and rotting leaves had melted into a slushy stew. Flurries of snow whirled around, caught in the icy wind blowing off from the North Atlantic. Below the crust of frozen earth it was significantly warmer, however, and in a natural, underground stadium formed in the limestone foundation, a group was convened, listening to the distant roar of the wind caught in the tunnels above.
Numerous torches cast wavering trails of light, demarcating the placement of their sconces. There were no chairs, only stalagmites that had the points sheared off, creating flat surfaces that provided naturally forming benches in the cavern. At the front, below the silent, robed figures, the rock bed leveled off at a slight incline, where dripping water had eroded away at the surface over several millennia. A man walked towards the podium, keeping to the shadows. His familiar—an arctic wolf he called Desdemona—padded along silently beside him.
As he ascended the platform, she said, “Have you heard from Phineas yet?”
No. He has ceased communication.
Her snowy fur bristled. “Perhaps he was discovered and captured by that savage.”
Perhaps. Royce Riordan pursed his lips. And perhaps not.
“You believe he is unworthy of his seat on the Council?”
Royce shook his head thoughtfully. Phineas had yet to prove himself, and there was much of his late wife in the boy. She had been weak and prone to flights of fancy befitting a human, not a witch queen. He wondered sometimes if Phineas were also capable of such treachery.
On the other hand, he was quite good at hunting down insurgents. As a bounty hunter, his son had more than proved his worth. His hatred of shape-shifters was legendary, and the savages shivered in their beds at night for fear that Phineas would come for them, too. They did not do well in captivity. Facing such punishment, even the wildest of the beasts were kept in check. It was almost enough to negate some of the very disturbing rumors he had heard about his son.
I found the information I received troubling. There have been reports of inter-species breeding.
He glanced at Desdemona, his expression unreadable. But she could sense his emotions just as well as she could her own. “And this would pose a threat to your plans.”
This truce cannot work. Not in the face of such a threat. We have no time.
“Ah,” said Desdemona. “You
need a distraction, so you intend to throw them under the bus.”
The Glamors have assimilated far better than we thought—at a glance, they look completely human. Who will Slayers be first to attack, then, if push comes to shove?
“This concerns you.”
Yes. His voice was laced with a dark, dangerous emotion that caused a sharp surge in his aura. We cannot forget who the real enemies are. A wild animal will always be wild. If it is capable of acting tame some of the time, it becomes a volatile, unpredictable creature and all the more dangerous because of this deception. A predator capable of stalking its prey in plain sight.
Desdemona gave a slight incline of her head. “They have always been such savage creatures.”
His lips curved into a slight sneer. “Interesting sentiment, coming from you.”
A few of those assembled heard his voice that time since he had made the mistake of speaking aloud, and they turned in his direction accordingly. Royce glanced at them impassively, silently cursing his familiar—who tossed off an insult of her own.
“And your son, as well, perhaps?” she said, baring her sharp teeth. “That's what you fear, isn't it?”
Ignoring her, and his subsequent disgust, Royce took his place in the center of the podium and gazed out. The witches waiting to hear him speak gave him heart. He was their leader, their king; they had come all this way to hear him speak and gain succor from his wisdom.
“It's time to take action.” Though his voice was quiet, it carried well into the hush and was amplified by the high ceiling of the cave. “The Slayers are spreading very quickly—like a plague. And the only way to cleanse a population of a plague is to issue quarantines and raze everything that cannot be stabilized. Purification through fire.” He paused, as if expecting dissent.
None came. At least, not immediately.
“As you know, the vampires are mercenaries. They have been known to assist the Slayers in exchange for blood money”—this was met by bleak laughter—“but their strength and speed makes them formidable. The truce established them as a common enemy of the Council, and yet—it would be better to have them as allies than enemies. It would be more focal to our cause.”
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