Blood in Her Veins (Nineteen Stories From the World of Jane Yellowrock) (9 page)

Isleen screamed and ripped her teeth from his wrist. Twisted her body in a snakelike move no human could have duplicated. The stake missed her heart. Claws slashed down his abdomen. Struck at his throat. He scuttled away, taking the blade in his right hand. But his left hand had been injured by her teeth cutting their way out. He couldn't grip a stake. It rolled across the black stone.

Isleen attacked, moving so quickly that she was a blur. Her fangs slashed into his throat. Ripping. Tearing. Her claws pierced his chest. He threw back his head and screamed.

He missed what happened next. Missed it entirely. Loriann told him about it later, much later, in such vivid detail that it was almost as if he witnessed his rescue. His saviors.

Katie and Leo. The two master vampires blew the doors off the barn. And came inside. Katie staked Isleen. Leo cut off her head. Loriann cradled
her brother. His uncle Tom lifted them both and carried them, curled up together, out of the barn. The last memory he had was a spray of his own blood. And the vamp-black eyes of the Master of the City, Leo Pellissier.

•   •   •

Rick woke up in his own bed, clean, sore, and sleepy, just after dawn. Sprawled in the chair at the foot of his bed was his mom, her eyes open, watching him. Tom sat in a kitchen chair beside her. When his uncle realized he had awakened, he said, “What do you want most? A rare steak or sex?”

Rick raised his head, surprised that there was no pain. No pain anywhere. He touched his throat, finding no scars, then smiled and stretched. “Neither. Breakfast would be good.” He looked at his mother. “Blueberry pancakes?”

She blew out a breath so hard and deep it sounded like a mini-explosion. Uncle Tom grinned widely, a big toothy grin. “He's still himself. The binding didn't take.”

“Pancakes it is,” his mother whispered, blinking back tears. “But your father is going to have kittens at the idea of you with a tattoo.”

Rick sat up on the edge of the bed and looked down at the tattoos on his shoulders, studying the eyes of the mountain lion. They didn't glow or sparkle like gold jewelry. They were just amber, the eyes of a mountain cat. “I can live with that,” he said. “I can live with most anything now.” He tilted his head to his uncle. “Thank you. I owe you. I owe you big-time.”

“Yeah, you do. We'll talk.”

“After the pancakes,” Rick said. He looked at his mom. “With blueberry compote and whipped cream?”

She wiped a tear from her cheek and nodded. “Anything you want, son.” She bustled out of the room, followed by his uncle, leaving him alone.

Rick shoved the pillows back against the headboard and propped himself up on them, listening to the chatter between Uncle Tom and his mother. He looked down again, studying the cats on his shoulder. Unsure what he would feel, he raised his hand and touched the amber eyes of the bobcat and then of the mountain lion. They felt like flesh—warm, resilient—and he could feel the pressure of his fingers as he traced the eyes. Nothing new in the tactile sensation. Just fingers. Just skin.

But the cats were part of the binding ceremony, part of his future that
Loriann had read, had seen, and maybe had changed. She had done something to him, to his future, when she'd made him choose an animal. He knew it. He had felt it, like some tremor in the possible paths that life would offer him. A new branch, darker, more shadowed.

Rick didn't know what it meant to have the cats on his body, beneath his skin, part of him. But he figured the future would come whether he wanted it to or not. He had no control over that. He never had. It was just that, until now, he had never known how little power and influence over life he really maintained.

With that unhappy thought, he got out of bed, feeling stronger than he'd expected. He pulled on jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt, hiding the tattoos, and looked at himself in the mirror over his bureau. He looked unchanged. But only on the surface. Beneath, wildcats had entered his life. And he would never be the same.

Kits

I wrapped the tools of my trade in padded cloth and secured them with Velcro. The bundle of stakes, knives, and my most important blade, a silver-plated main-gauche, was small enough to fit into the saddlebag of the old Yamaha bike and still leave room for a change of clothes and for odds and ends. The Yamaha wasn't my dream bike, but it would do for a while longer until I earned enough to buy the Harley I lusted after.

I tucked my money into the inside pocket of my jeans beside the red lipstick I favored. I French-braided my hip-length hair into a careless plait and tucked it into my leather jacket where it wouldn't be in the way or get windblown too badly. The jacket was used, purchased at a consignment store, and it still reeked of the last owner, at least to my sensitive nose. I'd tried spraying it with deodorizers, but nothing worked. If I took down the vamp I was gunning for and earned the bounty, I had promised myself a brand-new leather riding jacket. That and two real vamp-killers to replace the less than perfectly balanced main-gauche a local smith had modified with silver. Last, I adjusted my gold nugget on its double chain for riding. The necklace was my only jewelry.

I looked over the small efficiency apartment I had rented, making sure I was leaving nothing important behind, and locked the door after me. I helmeted up, keyed on the Yamaha, and headed out of town. I had a gig hunting down a suspected young rogue vamp that was terrorizing the inhabitants outside of Day Book, North Carolina. But first I was stopping off at a local restaurant to pick up a small tracking charm that would let me follow the whacked-out vamp through rough country, and to pay the balance of the cost to the earth witch who'd made it.

I parked the Yamaha in front of the herb shop and eatery, and entered. Seven Sassy Sisters' Herb Shop and Café, owned and run by the Everhart
sisters, had a booming business, both locally and on the Internet, selling herbal mixtures and teas in bulk and by the ounce. The shop itself served high-quality brewed teas, specialty coffees, daily brunch and lunch, and dinner on weekends. It was mostly vegetarian fare, whipped up by the eldest sister, water witch, professor, and three-star chef, Evangelina Everhart. Carmen Miranda Everhart Newton, an air witch, newly married and pregnant, ran the register and took care of ordering supplies. Witch twins Boadacia and Elizabeth and two wholly human sisters, Regan and Amelia, ran the herb store and were waitstaff. I was looking for Molly Meagan Everhart Trueblood. Names with moxie seemed to run in the family.

I took a booth at the big window overlooking the city and ordered my usual. I had just discovered eggs Benedict, and a double order would just about keep up with my caloric requirements until lunch. Regan tilted her red head and said, “Honey, if I ate like you, I'd be bigger than a house. Hey, we got us a new Himalayan oolong. It's a semifermented Nepal tea; Evangelina says it combines the characteristics of a high-grown Darjeeling and a soulful oolong.” She rolled her eyes and tapped her order pad with her pencil. “But you know Evangelina. She can wax poetic about tea better than most anybody.”

I didn't really know Evangelina; the eldest witch sister wasn't exactly a warm and cuddly kinda gal, and since I lack a lot in the way of social skills, we hadn't hit it off. Though Evangelina hadn't yet come right out and said so, I could tell she had strong reservations about the friendship developing between Molly and motorcycle-mama me. I had stepped in between Mol and a group of ticked-off witch haters at the Ingles grocery store and we had become casual friends—a little closer than acquaintances, but not bosom buddies. Well, not yet. Maybe someday. I could hope. I liked Molly.

I ate the delectable eggs Benedict and drank the totally fabulous tea, sipping my third cup with my eyes closed so I could enjoy all the delicate flavors—the flowery, fruity aroma; the clean, smooth taste on my tongue. I wasn't a rich woman, but the quality of the tea was well worth the price, at four bucks per half an ounce of dry leaves. My appreciation of the tea went a long way to endearing me to Evangelina, who was watching me through the diner-style window between the kitchen and dining room.
Her mouth wasn't as pursed as it normally was, and her shoulders weren't quite as unyielding.

Over that last cup of tea, I asked Regan for Molly—who I figured was in the stockroom or the office doing accounts—so I could pick up and pay for the tracking charm. Regan slid into the seat opposite me and cupped her chin in her hand. Serious gray eyes met mine across the table. “Molly didn't come in to work today. And she didn't call. And she's not answering her phone. Evangelina's mad, but worried too, you know? Me and Amelia's going out to her place after work. You want I should take the money to her and bring back your charm?”

My Beast sat up inside my mind, kneading me with sharp mental claws. I'm not prescient. Not a lick. But a chilled finger of disquiet slid up my spine with the words. Molly was supposed to be here today. She was expecting me. And though I didn't know her well, I knew she was ethical from her toes to her eyeballs. I set the teacup on the saucer with a dull
clink
. “I think I'll ride out there and pick up the charm.” At Regan's suddenly wary expression, I said, “I've known Molly for a while. Ever since she was cornered in the grocery store by the witch haters.”

Most of the distrustful expression slid from her face. “That was you?” Witches were notoriously cautious and guarded of their privacy. They had been persecuted for thousands of years until the mid-twentieth century, when vamps and witches came out of the closet. They were currently negotiating for equal civil rights in the U.S., but Congress and the courts were having a tough time integrating the expanded life span of vamps and the power potential of witches into a code of law. And in many places the human population had a long way to go in accepting witches as anything other than the evil creatures portrayed in history, Scripture, and fiction.

“Yeah.” I shrugged slightly and sipped my tea.

Regan looked me over in my biker jacket, jeans, and worn-out butt-stomper boots, and glanced back at the kitchen. I understood and sighed. “Go ask Evangelina. Though she'll probably tell you no way. Evangelina doesn't like me much.”

Regan snorted though her tiny, pert nose. “My big sister doesn't like anyone much. You been to Molly's?”

I recited the address and said, “It's a double-wide mobile home with
pale green trim and about two acres of grass for Big Evan to mow. He was mowing it last Saturday when I took the deposit by. He was riding a big yellow mower. Big Evan is redheaded like Molly; bearded, not like Molly; and built like a mountain.” I thought a moment more and added, “And her kid is actually cute. You know. For a kid. Angie Baby has so many dolls, it's hard to find her bed under them all.” Angie Baby was the nickname used by two-year-old Angelina's parents, which gave me another bona fide.

“And on the wall of Angelina's bedroom?”

I grinned. “Noah's ark with unicorns, griffins, and pixies on the gangplank.” I couldn't help the softness I knew was taking over my smile when I said, “She climbed up in my lap and introduced her doll to me. Like it was alive.” I shook my head and tucked my chin, looking at Regan under my brows. “I have never talked to a doll before.”

Regan chuckled. “Not even when you were a kid?”

I remembered the children's home where I was raised from the time I was twelve, and the smile slid off my face. “No. Not even when I was a kid.” Regan studied my face and the change of emotion there. After a moment she nodded. “Okay, so if you're such big friends, why ask me if you can go?”

That cold finger of unease brushed my spine again. “You think something doesn't feel right about Molly not coming in to work today and not calling.” I shrugged slightly, lifting one shoulder. “I'm not a friend yet, but I like her. And I feel pretty worried too.”

Regan stood, smoothing her waitress' apron down her jeans-clad legs. “Tell her to call us, okay?” Her face took on a mock-angry look. “And not to do this to us again.”

I tossed a twenty onto the table. “I'll be appropriately irritated for you.” Beast's claws gripped my mind in a steady pull, keeping me alert as I took the tunnel out of town, making good time to Molly's. But Beast's feeling of worry grew on me hard and fast, helped along by the odd dark gray cloud that seemed to hang over the crest of a hill in the general direction where I was headed. I had a feeling that the cloud wasn't natural. And that it was perched above Mol's house.

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 with 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 mini-tornado, a black funnel sparked 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.