Cat Tales

by Faith Hunter

  Kit, Beast thought at me. Kit in danger.

  The weather had turned chilly and dry early. It was usually still hot and muggy in late September, but an unexpected cool spell had rolled in from the northwest, and though the trees were still dressed in summer green, autumn already had teeth. As I rode, the wind picked up and shoved into me like a warning hand, pushing me back, holding me away as I climbed the hill to Molly’s. And the cloud that had perched serenely on her hill from a distance swirled in angry grays as I got closer, bent over the bike, gunning the motor. Lightning flickered through the cloud, and it looked odd, like black light. No way was it natural. Something magical was going seriously wrong.

  The wind had torn down power lines, and they lay drooping in the fields and hanging on tree limbs. Higher up the road, they swirled like snakes on the wind, spitting sparks. Branches flew through the air. Rain pelted in irregular spits, as if the cloud couldn’t quite make up its mind to storm.

  When I was still a quarter mile from her house, I stopped the bike to call Seven Sassy Sisters’ for backup, but I had no signal bars. Uncertain, I looked into the sky. I had no business heading into witch problems. I should leave, I thought. But above me the air was heavy and dense with moisture. The cloud thickened and divided and coalesced back into one densely packed dark thunderhead; it sparked with that odd purple-black lightning as energy built inside. The cloud began to roil. It darkened and spread out fingers like claws, as if it drew in energy from the calmer air around it.

  Kit, Beast said. Kit now!

  But when I turned the key to ride the rest of the way, the bike motor was silent. Dead. And from the hilltop I heard a scream. Tinny and thin with the distance. But a scream. It was Molly.

  Kit! Beast screamed. Run!

  I dropped the bike and dug in my booted toes, racing uphill. Even in human form I’m faster than a human, thanks to the years I spent in Beast form, and with Beast flooding my system with adrenaline, I reached the yard in less than a minute. Just as the lightning stabbed at the ground. Purple-blue lighting, like nothing out of nature. And the wind swirled into a minitornado, a black funnel spa Kck thrked with blue lights like mutant fireflies caught in a maelstrom.

  I almost stopped. I did not want to do this. But Beast reached into me and forced me on, her scream rising into my throat.

  The mobile home rocked in the wind on its foundation. Lightning struck, a severe blue flash, throwing me down, sizzling through me. I somersaulted through the air. My heart shuddered with pain as if I’d taken a blade to the chest. I hit the dry ground. What breath I still had in my lungs huffed out. I groaned and rolled to my side, nauseated. Small blue flames licked at the grass. A half-frozen blast of rain hit beside me and put out the fire. Molly screamed again. Big Evan’s voice shouted. They were in trouble. Big trouble. I rolled to my knees and then to my feet and raced to the house.

  Blue sparkles and a gray mist flowed down from the cloud. I recognized magic, both icy and scorching, undirected, dangerous. Malevolent. Searching. Almost sentient. Growing more powerful as I raced.

  I was almost to the mobile home when the swirling tornado spiraled down, speeding, threatening. And touched down on the mobile home.

  The wind ripped at the roof. Tearing. Questing. And it peeled back a corner of the roof. Directly over Angie Baby’s room. Purplish lightning flickered down and struck the damaged home. The boom was deafening. Its flash was blinding. My hair rose, pulling itself from my braid. Sleet slashed at the earth like claws. The wind tried to lift me away, and I hunched low to the ground. The air was so full of magic that I couldn’t take a breath.

  Beast screamed. Flooded my body with strength. I leaped to the small porch and tore the door from its hinges. The wind gathered it up and yanked it away into the storm. Overhead the roof rolled back like an old-fashioned tin can. The ceiling went with it. I was inside. But so was the storm.

  The wind roared in, brutal and sadistic. Rapacious. Sucking out blankets, clothing, a doll with its arms flailing. Please, God, let it only be a doll. Not Angie Baby. A dark blue-black mist swirled in, filling the front room with power. Uncontrolled.

  Over the sound of the wind, I heard Molly and Big Evan chanting what sounded like a prayer. Angie screamed.

  Kit! Beast screamed in return.

  I dove into the mist.

  Magic poured over me. Fangs of power bit into me like angry snakes. Magical energy shot into my bloodstream like venom. And my body began to shift.

  I fought the pull of the change, holding on to my own shape. Screaming with frustration. “No! Not now!” My own magic thrummed through me, feeding on the witch magic. Black motes of darkness. Gray mist against the blue.

  Pain, pain, pain. Knives of power sliced into me, separating muscle from bone. Flaying skin away. Setting fire to nerves. Choosing the only shape I could take without planning, tools, and trappings to guide me.

  My Beast screamed.

  I screamed.

  Pelt erupted through skin. Joints slid and twisted. Claws pierced my fingertips. Killing teeth filled my mouth.

  I was Beast. I screamed anger against the storm. Clawed off Jane-clothes. Leaped across room. Wind plucked at me. Tore at me. I raced down hall. Into girl-kit’s room. Witch man was sitting with eyes closed, back to wall, singing to wind. Air-witch chant. Witch woman was standing against other wall. Smell of fear and desperation leaked from pores. Panic. Storm was awake. Angry. Not theirs to control.

  Wind snaked into room. Grew in strength, like fist with claws. Bashed out windows. Picked up human things and carried them away. Fear smell grew. Woman’s, man’s, kit’s.

  Kit was on bed. Afraid. Screaming. Fear like human knives cut inside her. Power was coming from her fear—feeding storm. I—Beast—understood fear.

  I leaped to bed, standing over kit. Screamed to wind. Kit safe. Safe with me. I am Beast!

  Woman opened eyes. Her fear smell swirled thick into room. Fear of Beast. Woman’s mouth moved in soundless cry. Woman was working magic with her hands. Rain poured in, heavy and hard.

  I sat on bed. Curled around kit. Holding her with paw so wind with claws would not steal her. I licked her face. Human tears salty. Human skin milky. Smooth. Soft. She made funny sound. Hiccup. Swallowed hard. Crying stopped. Witch kit reached up and took my ears in her hands. Pulled Beast face to her. Stared for long moment, eye to eye. And closed eyes. Not afraid. Not anymore.

  I curled legs and body around her. Protected her from rain and wind. Looked at woman. Not human. Powerful witch, like man. Like kit. I purred. Licked kit face.

  Witch woman walked to witch man. Took hands. Chanting steadied like calm heartbeat. Power in storm shifted and eased. Rain softened. Warmed. I purred. Panted.

  Man and woman worked magic like net, binding power in girl-kit. Felt it curl under belly and paws, around small kit-body. Time passed. Kit fell asleep.

  Storm fell apart. Thunderhead darkening the sky thinned and wisped. Clear sky showed through. Magic disappeared like mist. Floating away.

  Man fell over. Dead? No, breathing. Asleep. Empty of magic.

  I purred and rested head on kit-head. Keeping kit safe.

  Storm was gone. Sunlight fell through where roof had been. Woman witch studied me. Fear tainted air, but confused fear. Not run-from-predator fear. I purred. Licked kit face. Moved kit off my leg with paw. Licked face again. Slowly stood. Slowly, slowly, not to frighten woman.

  I looked at woman. She looked at me. At necklace on my neck. Jane’s necklace.

  “Jane?” she whispered. “Oh my god. Jane.”

  I hacked. Not God. Not Jane. Beast.

  I leaped from bed to land on wet, squishy cloth floor. Padded from room, rain puddles splashing. And out door. Kit safe.

  I woke beside my bike, naked and cold, my bones aching. A half-moon and several million stars dusted light to the earth, enough for me to see with my night vision intact. I knew better than to change in daylight, but I’d had no choice. Now it hurt. It hurt badly.

>   I’d learned that I could—in an emergency—shift into Beast in daylight, but I couldn’t change back to me in daylight. Or at least I’d never figured out the mechanism. And it wasn’t as if I had anyone to teach me. I was the only skinwalker I had ever heard of.

  Shivers gripped me and shook me hard. Teeth chattering, I opened the bike’s saddlebags and pulled out my one change of clothes. Dressed but barefoot, I started the bike and rode up the hill into Molly’s yard. The trailer was dark but for a candle guttering in a window. I killed the engine. Bare feet on cool earth, I waited. If Molly heard me, if she wanted to talk, she’d come out. If not, then I could ride on. But it would be a lot easier with my boots. Jacket. Helmet. Did she know what I had done? What I was? Crap. I didn’t want her to find out this way. I didn’t want her to find out at all.

  The front door opened. Molly stood on the front porch, her white nightgown fluttering in the hilltop breeze. I couldn’t have said why, but a trembling ran through me, part fear, part . . . something I couldn’t name. I kicked the stand down and walked across the lawn, watching Molly’s face in the light of the candle. She was smiling. And tears trickled slowly down her face.

  I stopped at the bottom of the three steps leading to the tiny porch. And couldn’t think of a solitary thing to say. My boots and jeans and torn clothes were folded in a neat stack by her feet. Yeah. She knew. Crap. She knew. I hunched my shoulders and tucked each hand under the opposite armpit. And waited for her judgment.

  “You—” She stopped and caught a breath. I gathered that she had been crying for a while. “Thank you. You saved my baby.” When I didn’t reply, she went on, voice rough through her tears. “We were losing her. She was out of control. Too powerful. Neither of us was ready to deal with that much power. And not so early.” I still didn’t speak, and Molly said, “Her power wasn’t due until her first menses. Not for years and years. We weren’t ready.” She heaved a breath, and it shuddered through her. “We almost lost her.”

  I nodded. And still couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  Suddenly Molly giggled. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

  I jerked. An answering laugh tittered in my throat. I stuck my hands in my jeans pockets, shoulders still hunched. “Cute. You’re okay with it? With me? Me being Beast?”

  “I have no idea what you are, except a big-cat. But you saved my baby, and for tha K, a, and fot you have my undying thanks, my undying friendship, and any help you may need for as long I can give it.”

  Molly had given me three things, and I knew that witches did important things in threes. The cold that had settled in my bones, the ache of the shift that the magic had forced through me, warmed a bit, began to ease. “Well, I’ll settle for my socks and boots. My feet are cold.”

  “I found them on the lawn,” she said, laughter still in the tone, “and let them air-dry. Would you like some tea? Power is out, but I have a kettle on the camp stove.”

  I didn’t have time for tea. I had to be on the road, had to get to the job. But that wasn’t what came out of my mouth. “I’d love a cup. And, Molly? I’m a skinwalker. And I never told anyone that before tonight. Not anyone.”

  “So we can share secrets, is that what you’re saying? You’re a skinwalker, whatever that is, and my baby is an early-blooming, powerful witch? Come on in. Let’s talk. And I’ll get you that charm.”

  I pulled on my socks and carried my boots into what was left of Molly’s house. We had tea. We shared secrets. Weirdly, Molly held my hand while we talked, as if protecting something fragile or sealing something precious. Even more weirdly, I let her. I think that, for the first time in my life, I had a real friend.

  Blood, Fangs, and Going Furry

  He didn’t remember much about that first full moon except the pain, the burning, scalding, skin-crawling pain when his pelt wanted to thrust through his skin, when his bones begged—demanded—to shift. When his eyes went green gold, and the night came alive in rich blues and greens and silvers, and the detail of the world was so intense that it was like nothing he had ever seen before. When the scents on the air became acute, almost brutal in their concentration.

  The sensory overload was like being tossed off a high bridge to land at the bottom of a rock-strewn crevasse and find himself broken, bloodied, but miraculously alive. Only to have a Mack truck run him down and crush out whatever life had been left. At the same time it was like having a live current rushing though his body, icy and burning, his brain on fire, his skin roasting, and no evidence of it except the funky green gold of his eyes.

  He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t make it go away, couldn’t shift into his cat to ease his pain. Kemnebi, the only other black were-leopard on the continent and arguably the highest alpha black were-leopard on the planet, had refused him aid, standing back and laughing at his torment. Even when Leo Pellissier, the Master of the City, had threatened to kill Kem if he didn’t help, he had refused, saying that Rick had brought it on himself. Which he had. Totally. He’d FUBARed it all the way, losing his humanity, the girl he had flipped over—Jane Yellowrock—and probably his job too.

  Gee DiMercy, Leo Pellissier’s Mercy Blade, had told him Jane could help. Which made no sense. Jane worked for the vamps as a security expert and rogue-vamp killer. Jane wasn’t a were. But something in Gee’s voice had been Nhenconvincing, and Rick had found himself on his bike, blasting down the roads and across the Mississippi, into the Big Easy, believing Jane could—and maybe would, even after he’d betrayed her—help him.

  Pain raging in him like a rabid cat clawing the inside of his skin, Rick had bent over the bike and roared away from the MOC’s Clan Home. Later, when he was on the edge of dreams, still-shot moments of that ride came to him: taking the bridge east, flying in at nearly a hundred miles per hour, threading the needle between two eighteen-wheelers, hearing his own voice screaming with rage. Taking a curve, one boot on the pavement, the sole actually smoking. Dodging a car as it ran a red light, his reflexes like lightning on meth.

  One thing stayed in the forefront of his mind—he had to get to Jane. She would know how to help. Help him to shift or help him to resist or maybe put a bullet through his brain if nothing better presented itself. He knew, because they’d had something once and because there had been no closure yet, and because Jane Yellowrock had saved his life.

  He ended up on her street. She was half a block down, standing beside her bike in the middle of the street, her helmet off, her hair streaming back in the heated breeze, as if she had heard him coming and was waiting for him. He downshifted the red Kow-bike and puttered to a stop. Put his feet down, bracing himself. His head and face were hidden by his helmet and face shield, and for a long moment, feeling anonymous yet knowing he wasn’t, knowing that she had to know who he was, he watched her.

  As the breeze that carried his scent reached her, her eyes did a feral shift and glowed golden. A lot like his tonight, except her eyes were always amber and his had been Frenchy black until this full moon. His first full moon with the taint of were-cat blood rushing through his veins, making him half crazy with the pain.

  Jane stalked toward him, her booted steps muffled beneath the sound of his bike, her body moving slowly, a liquid, feline heat in her walk. He keyed off the bike and slung his leg over it. Threw back the face mask and pulled off the helmet. Dropped it, knowing he’d scarred it, not caring. He took a breath.

  The night was alive with smells, so rich and intense that it was like being hit with a bat at full swing and like being stroked along his entire body all at once. His eyes closed in something akin to holy rapture. He smelled fish and coffee and hot grease and tar from the streets and water everywhere. The slow-moving bayous that wend through New Orleans, smelling of grasses and heated mud and rain-washed animal offal, nutria and deer and old blood. Lake Pontchartrain with the reek of old pollution and oil and the warmth of the sun on its waters. And the Mississippi River. He had never thought that water might smell of power, but it did, a heady mixture of mountain a
nd snow and rain and animal, of the scents of tugboats and fish and water treatment plants. Of every source of its water all along its course through the nation. And riding over it all he smelled the Gulf of Mexico, fresh and salty and . . . amazing. The odors twined with the pain racing under his skin, becoming one with it. And he could smell his pain, like old meat and rancid butter. He never knew that pain had a smell.

  Jane’s boots drew closer, the leather soles abrading on the asphalt. The wind shifted, capricious, and he smelled her before she reache Sre ll ofd him, and he knew instantly that she wasn’t human. How could he have missed that scent before? She was redolent of big-cat but not leopard, not Kenyan jungle nights and African tribal drums. She smelled of wild rushing streams and craggy passes clogged by snow; her scent sang of wildfire, of the cold taint of iron in the water trickling from cracks in the stone faces of mountains. Heat and blood pooled deep in his groin with an ache that wanted release. “I can’t ssshift. It hurtsss,” he said, his voice a growling hiss.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  His eyes still closed, he felt her hand lift. The warmth and texture of her energy were like spiky vines, thorny and sharp, as her palm came close to his face. Her skin was like silk as it slid across his cheek. Tears burned beneath his lids, hot as acid. He had betrayed her.

  “I can’t ssshift. Kemnebi ssshays—” The words growled to a stop. He couldn’t shift into his were-cat, but his vocal cords weren’t working right either. With the rise of the full moon, his body had leaped toward the change and slammed to a halt, like a motorcycle hitting a rock cliff wall at a hundred twenty. His sense of smell was acute, his eyes were funky, and his voice was gone. His teeth felt weird against his tongue. Pain rode him like he was a bitch in a prison cell—no way out. None.

  Her hand was hot, smelling of cat and clean sheets and the remembered smell of sex. He leaned his face into her palm, breathing deeply. She stroked his cheek, and her skin smelled better than anything he had ever smelled, better than Safia. And far, far better than the werewolves who had tortured him.