Circle of the Moon

by Faith Hunter

My cell dinged. It was Yummy, the screen presenting a photo of the vamp, her head on a sunrise background. I reckoned it to be a vamp joke. I showed the cell to FireWind, who nodded that I should take it, and said, “Speaker.”

  I frowned at him. “No. It might be personal.”

  “No?”

  I had a feeling that few people said no to Mr. Flames and Hot Air. “Ingram. How can I help you, Yummy?”

  “You could come feed me, but I have a feeling your blood won’t do me much good. I need human juice to heal, not plant juice.”

  “Heal?”

  “We’ve been attacked. Again.”

  “Okay if I put you on speaker?”

  “With who?”

  “HQ. The team plus the special agent in charge of the eastern seaboard, Ayatas FireWind.”

  “Him, I’d drink from.”

  “Going live,” I said, so she wouldn’t say anything over the speakers about my new boss.

  “Hey there, FireWind,” Yummy said. “I’ve seen your photos and read your sheet. You interested in a little slap and tickle, you let me know. Your blood should be tasty.”

  I wasn’t sure, but judging from the team’s muffled, horrified, and frozen reactions, and FireWind’s amused smile, slap and tickle was probably about sex. “Thank you for the . . . proposition,” he said, sounding almost vampire-formal and exceptionally polite. “You are injured?”

  “Yes. Not as bad as the last time, but bad enough. Hurts like silver,” she added, using a term I figured was a vampire colloquialism. “Nice strong bloooood would help,” she nearly purred, her Louisiana accent far stronger than usual, “and the werecat is not interested in my . . . slap and tickle.”

  I frowned at the cell. “Yummy, are you blood-drunk?”

  “Dreadfully, honey chile. It took the combined offerings of Ming of Glass, the Master of the City of Asheville, and three humans to bring me back. I was nearly cut in half,” she said, sounding far too giggly for the bald statements. “And I’m still hungry.”

  “Cut in half,” I said, appalled. “What happened?”

  FireWind muted my cell and said softly, “Clementine, cease recording. Jones, pull up the security history at Ming’s. And don’t tell me you can’t. I know about Alex Younger’s security system.” JoJo froze, looking down at her fingers on her keyboard. Her head was bent, her dark-skinned face looking stressed in the screen lights. She reached up and yanked on her earrings as if thinking, and then punched several keys, clacking fast.

  I was left wondering what Alex Younger’s security system was all about.

  FireWind said, “Clementine, record.”

  On the screen overhead, we watched as vampires burst from Ming’s house, pursued by six humans. The humans were carrying stakes and, in what looked like a well-choreographed act, they tackled their own vamps and staked them. The vamps had been spell-called. Stopped by their own humans. Then Cai and Yummy practically flew from the house and down the driveway, out of sight. They were both carrying swords. Ming of Glass and Lincoln Shaddock raced behind them, also armed with swords, and all four vanished, that faster-than-the-eye-can-follow speed of the vampire. There was no audio, just the video, the silence oddly unnerving.

  On my cell, Yummy said, “Magic called our Mithrans. The local coven had messengered over some protective amulets as an indication of goodwill, but there weren’t enough of them.” Her voice lowered as if to keep others from hearing. “We have important guests.” Her volume returned to normal, “So when the magic began, some of us were wearing amulets but not all of us. Our humans took down the ones who tried to go over. And those of us with amulets raced into the darkness where Mithrans were attacking.”

  On the screen, fighting figures danced back into the camera range, pushed back by the attackers, black in the darkness except for the flash of steel. Long, moving shadows striped the pale driveway. I counted ten figures, which made it four against six.

  Humans with handguns, ten of them, rushed out of the trees, around the fighters, and attacked the humans and the vampires on the ground near the front door. There was no sound. But there was a hail of weapon fire. Ming’s humans tried to get away. Fell. Blood ran across the pale drive. In the background, two of the attacking vampires were down. Then Yummy fell. Cai, Ming’s human primo, was a whirling dervish, taking out three Mithrans. The last one raced away as Cai dropped to the ground. Badly injured.

  The attacking humans grabbed up two of Ming’s staked vampires and two injured humans and sped into the dark, dragging the victims. No one followed. Humans and vampires flooded out of the house to feed and heal and apply pressure to wounds and, in one case, do chest compressions.

  “Cai is grievously wounded and close to death. He might be brought over before dawn,” Yummy said. Her voice changed as if she was no longer speaking into a cell, the words sounding vicious and accusatory. “I hope his sacrifice was worth it to you.”

  I had a feeling that Yummy was talking to someone else. Maybe Ming, since she was blood-drunk enough to say too much. Overhead, we watched the fight from a different angle.

  Her voice returned to the phone. “Two other humans are dead. Others are in healing. Two Mithrans were taken by the invaders. Two humans as well.” Her words slurred slightly.

  FireWind caught my eye and held up his tablet. On it was written the words, Ask her what she wants.

  I nodded, realizing that Yummy had to want something. “Why did you call?” I asked.

  Yummy laughed and then hissed as if her laughter hurt. “Cai’s plan. He had it aaaall ready.”

  She fell silent, blood-drunk. I feared Yummy had fallen asleep. Unit Eighteen was tired enough to doze off too. Ayatas FireWind looked fresh as a daisy, but T. Laine looked scared, her face drawn with tension. Occam was stretched out in his chair, his long legs in front and crossed at the ankles, his hands laced across his stomach, his head resting back. He was watching me with cat-like intensity—though not in a predatory way. More of a sleepy cat way. I had seen that exact expression on my mousers’ faces. Tandy was sitting with his chin in hand, his eyes heavy lidded. JoJo was staring at the screens overhead, loaded with security cameras, some inside Ming’s clan home, which was a gross violation of official PsyLED protocols. FireWind’s comment about Alex Younger, together with the video on the screens, came clear. Alex was Jane Yellowrock’s IT, security, and electronic network partner, and had been Leo Pellissier’s security guy. I realized that Alex must have hacked into—or created a backdoor into—the security systems of his own loyal vampires. And JoJo knew all about it. JoJo knew Alex’s work. Had she burrowed in? Hacked in? Or had she gotten access during the time Occam and I were inside Ming’s house, after the previous attack? I had seen no footage from that attack, so I guessed so.

  The silence had stretched too long. “Yummy?” I asked. “What do you want?”

  “Sex, blood, and rock and roll.”

  I smiled because even a church girl knew that phrase. “No. I mean what do you want with me? Which means no sex, no blood, and no Beatles music.”

  “Party pooper. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m getting to it. Cai’s plan was his sacrifice. He had captured one of their humans from the previous attack and Ming rolled him. We knew what they wanted, which was some of us, though our talkative little rabbit didn’t say why. We let them attack, and take our people. All of whom were wearing trackers. And still are. We know where they are, within twenty yards or so. We’re going after our people and we’re going to kill the invading Mithrans. And we wanted you to know there might be human casualties.”

  FireWind’s eyes snapped to me. The others sat up straight, except for Occam, whose mouth lifted on one side in a half smile.

  “You might need to have ambulances nearby. Traffic control. At dusk tomorrow. I’ll text the address.” The call ended.

  “The vampires at the demon circle weren’t wearing trackers,” T. Laine
said. “They weren’t Ming’s. So who were they?”

  The HQ security alarm went off. We all jumped. Tiny red flashing lights and a roar of sound, steady though soft, filled the entire floor. Overhead, a view of the parking lot replaced the view of Ming’s clan home. Everything happened so fast it seemed to overlap.

  The outer door blew open, banged back. Swung on one hinge, hanging. Smoke blew inward. On the camera screens, Jason Ethier stalked toward the building, stopped in the center of the parking lot, arms raised, a sorcerer in a hoodie and jeans.

  Occam leaped across the table and down the hall.

  FireWind pointed at Rick. “Into your cage!” Rick snarled but complied.

  FireWind shouted, “Weapons!”

  T. Laine cursed foully and rushed to her cubicle, even as FireWind said, “Kent! Every null tool at your disposal. Now! The rest of you, assault weapons. Into position here and there”—he pointed—“at the inner turn of the hallway.”

  “We have exactly one assault rifle in the weapons locker,” Occam said, striding back up the hallway.

  “Say what?” FireWind looked nonplussed.

  Occam growled, “One. I’m certified.” He held up the weapon, the matte black gun looking efficient and deadly. “Silver-lead ammo loaded. You’re giving him access to the premises?”

  “Yes,” FireWind said. “He’s here. We need to contain him. Take him alive. Find a way to get to Godfrey.”

  I raced to the sleeping room and tapped once on the door, hard. “Mud. Open.” I hadn’t wanted my sister here. I had known it was a bad idea. But my family, and the danger posed by the churchmen, had left me no choice. They never did.

  The latches clicked. Mud stuck her face into the crack, her eyes wide, excited. “What is it? I heard the alarms.”

  “The blood witch,” I said grimly. “Lock the door. Put mattresses over the doorway and shove the desk up against it. Fast!” I rushed to my cubby and grabbed my weapon out of the upper drawer. Behind me I heard the door snap closed and the sounds of Mud obeying. I sprinted back to FireWind, readying my weapon for fire, already latching down on any stray bloodlust that might think to rise.

  T. Laine called out, “He’s using the tattoo magic to track Rick.” From Rick’s cage, a scream echoed. Cat scream of rage. The cage rocked and thumped and rattled as Rick threw himself at the walls. Shifting fast. Forced into his cat.

  “He called Rick at every cat circle. At the stockyard. Why didn’t he wait for Rick to arrive?” I asked. No one answered. Maybe Jason had been practicing. Maybe he was just trying to locate Rick. Maybe he had been gathering power for this moment. Or maybe he had multiple ends in mind.

  Ahead of me JoJo said, “The null room is secured. Loriann can’t get out or be freed from outside without the security code.”

  On the screens overhead, Jason Ethier entered the stairwell.

  Margot said, “I’m with Rick. Last ditch if he gets by you all. I got a little something the FBI has been wanting to try.” That sounded ominous, but there was no time to ask questions.

  “We’ll let Ethier open the door at the top of the stairs. Let him get here”—FireWind pointed—“and Kent will hit him with everything she has.”

  “If that doesn’t stop him?” Occam asked.

  FireWind flashed us the first real smile I’d seen, one full of joy. “Then I will.” His expression held something like the exultation of battle. Delight, fierce and brutal. FireWind wanted to fight the black-witch. He was an idiot. Jason had a lot of power. A lot. Unless we were very lucky, he would soon have even more, thanks to the thing below the ground.

  A boom sounded. The building shook. The hallway door rammed open. Jason, reed thin, dressed in black, his black hair flying, stepped into the hallway. He was outlined by the door for a half second. FireWind shouted, “Kent! Now!”

  T. Laine threw . . . something. A black, sparkling net of magic shot out. Visible even to human eyes. Filling the hallway. Obscuring the witch at the end. We heard a thump and my heart stuck in the top of my throat. Is it going to be that easy?

  Jason laughed.

  T. Laine cursed.

  Jason strode out of the fog. He shouted, “Fulmen!” and threw something at our witch.

  T. Laine collapsed, her body jolting as if she was having a seizure. FireWind dropped beside Lainie, his body twitching like hers. A sensation of sleet slammed into me. My fingers clenched on my weapon, but I couldn’t fire. My fingers were frozen. The team simply dropped to the floor, the others shaking and twitching, though not as bad as T. Laine and FireWind, who were struggling even to breathe. Slowly, I fell.

  I realized that those of us at the back of the hallway had absorbed less of the magic. I could think, I could breathe, but I was lying, immobilized. My body had fallen in an odd position, twisted. I could see Jason’s passage. He smelled like fire as he passed by me, the fire of a burning house, of burning garbage, burning filth. He was wearing three bracelets on his bare lower left arm, wide silver cuffs or bracers set with blackened stones. They glowed.

  He reached Rick’s office and raised his cuffed wrist. Margot threw something at him. It hit Jason. He staggered back. Screamed a wordless challenge. He drew a gun from a pocket and fired, multiple shots, fast, frenzied, ripping all sound from the air.

  Margot did not return fire. Jason took a step into the office. Moving fast, he bent and opened Rick’s cage. Leaned in and shoved his arm at the wereleopard. Rick was farther away from the source of the spell, not so deeply affected. He tried to pull away. Jason cut his arm on the leopard’s teeth. On purpose. He then raked the wound against Rick’s bloodied side. Infecting himself with the were-taint.

  I struggled to grip my weapon. It felt like frozen steel in my bloodless hands. But I got my fingers around the butt. Lifted the muzzle from the floor. The weapon was shaking like a leaf in a winter wind.

  Loriann threw herself down the short hallway. Leaped at her brother. Trying to stop him. In midair she shouted, “Quiesco!”

  Jason whirled at the sound, weapon up. Firing.

  Loriann fell.

  Jason screamed. Reached for her.

  “Run,” Loriann said, her lips moving in the single word, the sound buried beneath the weapon-fire deafness.

  Jason stepped back, eyes wide.

  Two grindylows flew down the hallway. They attacked Jason. Which made no sense. Except Jason had infected himself, given himself the were-taint, which was a killing offense for grindys.

  Jason flinched. Raised his cuffs at the grindys. He shouted a wyrd. “Admordeo!”

  The grindys hit . . . something. It sliced into them, spilling their blood. Jason reached out a finger and wiped up the grindy blood, then smeared it across the black stones on his cuffs.

  My body weighed a ton. But . . . I tightened my hands on the grip. Steadied my weapon. Squeezed the trigger. The ten-millimeter bucked slightly and my hands dropped to the floor.

  Power exploded into the hallway. Jason disappeared.

  Like magic.

  Loriann fell back against the wall. Blood pulsed through her clothes. She dropped next to me, and even over the deafness caused by the gunfire, I half heard her say, “Transport spell. He did it. He really did it. Oh shit. He shot me.”

  And I had shot Jason. As my body returned to my control, I felt his blood on the floor.

  FireWind sucked in a breath and said the words again, words that might have been cursing, or maybe angry prayer. He shoved to his feet and stumbled down the hallway, glancing at Loriann, stepping over the injured grindylows. Disappearing into Rick’s office. I wondered fleetingly how FireWind and I were able to breathe on our own.

  I struggled up. Couldn’t find a way to make my hands holster my weapon. I didn’t have that much finesse yet, so I carried it with me to T. Laine, where I placed it on the floor. Lainie was still not breathing. She was turning blue. I ro
lled her to her side and slapped her on the back. With each slap, a sensation of icicle electricity rocketed through my hand, up my arm, and down my spine. It hurt.

  On the third slap, T. Laine sucked in a breath that was part scream, part moan, and all pain. I made it to Occam and slapped him too. Then Tandy, and last I slapped JoJo, who cursed long and foul as she caught her first breath. Then I remembered the training I got at Spook School, to help someone breathe—to make a fist and rub their sternum, in the upper center of their chest. Too late now. I picked up my weapon, holstered it, and fumbled my way to Rick’s office.

  I passed T. Laine, who had scrambled on all fours to kneel beside Loriann, opening a first-aid kit. She pressed a wad of gauze against the wound on the other witch’s chest. JoJo was calling for backup and medic for “multiple victims with GSWs.” GSWs. Gunshot wounds. Occam and Tandy were clearing the floor, weapons out, ready to fire, to make sure Jason was really gone, and not hiding.

  I picked up a wad of bloody gauze from Loriann’s side and put it in a pocket. If I needed it, if I needed to feed her to the land . . . I stopped that thought and went to the opening to Rick’s office.

  Rick was out of his cage and shifting back to human. He was naked, his lower half cat, his upper half human, and he was whispering, “Nononononono, sweet Mary, Mother of God, nonononono,” in a steady lament. I didn’t think were-creatures shifted halfway. It looked painful and anatomically impossible, but it was perhaps due to the wound in his human-shaped shoulder. It looked like a half-healed gunshot. The werecat would heal.

  Margot was frozen in place. Hunched in the small space behind Rick’s desk and his cage. She had a GSW too. FireWind was bent over her and looked fierce. An expression I couldn’t have described except for intense, inscrutable, and detached—vibrantly emotionless. He was sniffing Margot’s arm wound, the action dog-like. He eased back and pressed a handkerchief to the bloody place, which looked like a long graze. Margot looked . . . horrified.

  FireWind murmured, “It make not take. There may not have been enough.” Margot sobbed once, the sound arid and petrified. Rick continued his dirge.