"Yeah, he sure screwed things up." Ryden laughs bitterly. "If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have had time to hang out with you and come on to you and make a total idiot of myself. No, I can see it all now—you pretended to be shy, playing hard to get, working me over, getting me to trust you and make love to you and tell you things—aw, shit—"
He pulls over sharply, throws the car into park, and bolts out the door, racing into the forest, shedding his clothes at the treeline. There's a shimmer, and the whip of a long black tail, and he's gone.
The car dings incessantly while I stare at the spot where the gravel shoulder and the black road pinch together and disappear in the distance. The trees are piled high on either side of the road, mounds of leafy crowns so deep and lush that I want to leap out of the car and run after Ryden, burying myself in the endless forest.
Finally I reach over, close the driver's side door, and take the key from the ignition. Then I grab my bag and climb out of the car, onto grass that smells of exhaust and bitter black asphalt and earth. Down the slope I scramble, to the mouth of the forest where it's cool, and dark, and welcoming. I could get lost in there.
Pulling the Madstone out of my bra again, I turn it over in my fingers. What can it do? Is it really glutted with evil magic, as Daera said? I press it to my lips and close my eyes, as we often do to test the power of magical items; but I don't feel anything special, just the smooth surface of the stone.
I loop the chain over my head and tuck the stone under my shirt. As it falls between my breasts, against my skin, it gives a faint pulse, like a heartbeat.
I hold my breath, waiting.
Nothing. No glow, no shockwave of power.
But it definitely did something.
Slowly I walk toward the woods, until the branches loom above my head and the undergrowth tickles my ankles. I'm still in the thin shorts and tank top I wore to bed—not really the best garb for hiking.
"This is a bad idea," I say aloud, dropping the keys into my bag and hitching it higher on my shoulder.
And I plunge into the forest.
-11-
Bad Liar
It's quiet here, except for the occasional distant rush of a passing car along the interstate far behind me, and a ripple of birdsong from the foliage overhead. I walk as straight as I can into the trees, drinking in the fresh scents. The very air glimmers green and alive; it's like looking through a green glass bottle and seeing the world colored and warped on its other side. A prickling sensation runs over my arms, raising goosebumps. There's magic here, I can feel it. But was it already in the woods, or am I bringing it with me?
My low heels, the ones I wore on the day we came to the house, crush the ferns and brambles and fallen leaves as I move ahead. The ground slopes gradually, down, down, until it gives way suddenly and I nearly tumble over the brink into a smooth-flowing stream.
On the opposite side of the stream, crouched in the dark mud, is the black panther. His haunches are high, his head low, as his pink tongue laps the water. He watches me with yellow-green eyes.
And then he lifts his head and growls. Springs away, catching a tree trunk with his claws and climbing up, paw by paw, until he leaps onto a high branch and looks down, snarling at me. The message is clear—leave me alone.
But I don't. I take off my shoes and I sit down on a jutting rock, trailing my toes through the cool water.
"Want to see what I can do?" I ask.
There are two different ways to access my power—passive inception and active inception. Passive inception requires me to be calm and centered, and when I can manage it, I have more precise control over the effects of my magic. Active inception is tied to emotion and flows from feelings like rage, fear, and desire. It's easier to tap into, but harder to control.
Right now, in spite of everything, I feel eerily calm. I can sense the pull of gravity on every particle around me, every bit of dirt, the roots of the grass, the wind-loosened leaves floating down from the canopy above us. I can feel its tug on my body, on the tree in which the panther lies, draped languidly along a thick branch. And I can feel the suction of gravity on the water, pulling it ever toward the lowest point.
I smile, and I release the water in the stream from the power of gravity. It's simple, like clipping the threads of a seam to separate two sections of cloth.
The stream floats upward, out of its bed, a billion sparkling drops. I can't move it all, because more is constantly flowing in from wherever the stream begins—but the water level is noticeably lower now, and the air between me and the panther is a scintillating mesh of liquid beads.
The panther's head lifts, and his ears flick forward.
I hold the water up until I start to feel the familiar ache in my core, like a muscle that's been exercised too long. Then I yield to gravity, and the water crashes back into place, spattering me with drops.
"So yeah. I can play with gravity a bit. And watch." I stand, hands outstretched and upturned, collecting kinetic energy from the forest, from the wind, from the living things all around me—and when I've gathered enough, I thrust it outward, a focused, invisible pulse that shoots through the undergrowth, flattening bushes and saplings in a foot-wide swath.
"I can't do too many of those pulses at once, though." I sit back down, sinking my feet into the water again. Frowning, I touch the lump of the Madstone between my breasts. I didn't feel any boost to my powers. The stone still isn't active. At some point, we'll need to find a library, somewhere I can do research without leaving a digital footprint that the Patronage can trace.
"Come on, Ry," I say. "We need to keep going."
He settles his muzzle on his paw and lowers his eyelids. His long black tail hangs off the branch, swishing and curling.
I collect another helping of energy and fling it at him, shoving him off the branch. He yowls, tumbling, barely managing to get his paws under him before he hits the ground. Crouching low in the undergrowth, he screams at me, an unearthly sound like a human woman shrieking.
I catch my breath. "Cut that out! Someone will hear you!"
He creeps toward me, still hunched low, placing each paw carefully, silently. His shoulders ripple and his head ducks, gold-green eyes blazing. I hold my ground, although every instinct I have screams at me to run, run, run from the deadly predator stalking me.
"Ryden," I say warningly. "Stop it."
He crouches still lower, tail straight and taut—and then he leaps, long body stretching, paws splayed—
He knocks me to the ground, but it's not a full-on pounce—more of a tackle and roll. I end up on my stomach in the leaves, pressed down by two massive paws.
Smacking my hand against the ground, I create a knot of gravity a few feet behind him and suck him to it. He flies off me, yelping and snarling.
"Bad kitty," I say, rising and brushing myself off. "Enough playtime, okay? Time to revert."
When I release him, Ryden transforms immediately. For a second we stare at each other, me, dirt-stained, water-speckled, with a leaf or two clinging to my hair—him, stark naked and gorgeous. When he turns and strides back through the trees in the direction of the interstate, it's all I can do not to sneak up behind him and smack that beautiful behind of his. As I follow, I imagine gravity-binding him to the ground, splayed out and helpless, while I tempt and tease him into wanting me again.
But it's only a fantasy, because when he quietly dresses and gets back in the car without speaking to me, I remember why he ran into the woods in the first place. He trusted me, cared for me on some level, and I lied to him, again and again, right to his face.
When he starts the car, I hesitate outside the passenger door. I need to give him the chance to leave me if he wants to. Why should he come along, anyway? I only needed him for a quick escape, to get me down the mountain. I can go on alone if I have to, and he can go back to his home, to his job, and never think of me again.
My eyes travel from his stony profile to my own reflection in the car window—my br
own hair wild from the tumble in the forest, my eyes larger and darker than usual, thanks to the shadows of weariness around them. My mouth, full lips with a twist that's always there, whether I'm smiling or not. I've been told it's sexy, but right now, I just look crooked and jaded.
I step back, shoulders heavy.
Ryden rolls down the window. "Get in, witch."
I yank open the door and slide in, buckling my seatbelt. "For the record, I'm not a witch."
"If the shoe fits, babe."
He pulls onto the road again, and we drive in silence for a few minutes. Truth is welling up in my chest, insistent, irresistible, and finally I speak.
"I need to tell you something, about me. About my mother."
"So talk."
"I told you she was abusive, but I didn't say how. She's an emotion-class wielder, and she basically repressed my emotions for most of my childhood. So I could barely feel anything—happiness, sadness, anger, excitement, worry—nothing. Just hints of those feelings. She didn't want a kid, you know, not a real one, with big feelings and crazy energy and all that. She wanted a docile little puppet." I harden my voice so it doesn't break. "I don't know if you can imagine what that's like—to not feel any strong emotions, ever."
I'm twisting the strap of my bag tighter and tighter as I speak. "I start cutting so I could feel something. And then, one day, my dad picked me up after school and took me away. Kidnapped me, basically. After a couple days, my mother's magic wore off, and then I was a mess. So many emotions, all at once. It was hell."
Ryden doesn't speak, but a muscle along his jaw pulses.
"I know you think I'm a bitch, and a liar, and a thief. I don't deny it. I'm all that, and more. I'm more deeply screwed up than you could imagine. Which is why I don't always send the right signals, or make the right social moves. Or think carefully enough about other people's feelings."
He's still silent, still angry—but his arms and fingers have relaxed a little.
We pass the rest of the day without talking, driving aimlessly west, always west, till we hit Interstate 40. We roll through little towns like Wilton Springs and big ones like Knoxville, and then through Nashville and Memphis and Little Rock.
It was nearly dawn in the Blue Ridge Mountains when we left, and it's been almost twelve hours since then. We stopped for gas and food a few times, but I didn't feel much like eating.
"I'm tired," Ryden says at last. "And the cat needs to stretch."
He's been driving for hours, and anytime I offered to take over, he ignored me.
"Fine," I say. "Let's find a motel."
-12-
Shots
Ryden turns off I-40, into a little town called Morrilton, Arizona. It has a community college, a Walmart, and an America's Best Value Inn, which is cheaper than the Super 8 and the Days Inn nearby. We stop at the Walmart for a few necessities—some basic clothing, backpacks, toiletries—and the Ryden stays in the car while I check us in.
When I come back, all he says is, "Which floor?"
"First. Faster access to the car if we need to get away. Is that all right?"
"Two rooms?"
I flinch. "One, because we have to be careful with the money. But there are two beds."
He doesn't speak as he steers the car into the parking spot outside our room. Inside, the room smells musty, like old leaks that never fully dried. There's a deeper layer of sourness, with an overlay of sharp cleaning fluid smell. Ryden sniffs.
"Is your sense of smell stronger than a human's?" I ask.
"Yes," he answers. "But not by much in this form." The motel room door closes behind us, and he strips in seconds and shifts, turning transparent, stretching, and coalescing into panther shape. I withdraw a step as he prowls past me, growling deep in his throat. He paces the room, leaping lightly onto the beds and sniffing the sheets.
At last he settles on one of the beds, his lithe form relaxed, flanks moving with his breath, massive front paws hanging over the edge of the mattress. He watches me with round yellow-green eyes as I set out our meager supplies.
The panther's face is so solemn, so wise-looking. Maybe it's the clusters of long, pale whiskers on either side of his muzzle. Yet he's dangerous too. When he yawns, I can't help watching those sharp white fangs, that long pink tongue. Ryden's jaws snap shut again, and he blinks.
Suddenly I'm irritated. "Are you going to stay like that all night?"
His lips twitch back over the fangs as he snarls faintly.
"So you're taking this form because you're still mad at me. Very mature."
He growls again, a continuous grating rumble in his throat, showing me his fangs and shaking his head. The end of his tail writhes, a soft black smudge on the sheets.
"Hush," I tell him. "These walls are thin. Someone will hear you."
He huffs and licks his lips, a deeper snarl ripping from his throat.
"Well, eff you too." I fake a confidence I don't feel as I stride past the enormous predator to the bathroom. I click the lock loudly. As if he couldn't break through the flimsy door if he wanted to.
Mechanically, I shower, change into a fresh bra and panties, and slip on the long jersey nightshirt I bought. I tuck the Madstone safely inside my bra again. It's a little uncomfortable, but I want it on my person at all times.
As I brush my teeth, I look at myself in the flecked mirror. I'm not the flushed, pretty girl who kissed Ryden in the downstairs bathroom of his parents' house. This is a haunted woman, cheeks pale and sunken, eyes bright but shadowed underneath.
With trembling fingers, I grip the sink. It's all starting to collide in my brain, my feelings for Ryden and the reality of what I did today.
I lost everything.
My career, my security, my support system, my future, and Nali, my only real friend. And I lost Ryden, the man I was beginning to—
The tears come fast, before I can stop them. I bury my face in a towel, trying to smother the sobs shaking my body. I don't want Ryden to hear. He'll think my tears are a ploy to gain his sympathy. They're not. They're agony and pain and confusion because I'm so lost. What have I done? Why didn't I turn in the Madstone and leave with the Patronage and let that be it?
Maybe some part of me thought that Ryden would forgive me if I kept the Madstone out of the Patronage's hands. Obviously that didn't happen.
I scream, silently, over and over, face pressed into the thin motel towel. And then I wash my face and I settle my expression before leaving the bathroom.
The black panther is still lying across the bed, his muzzle between his paws. He lifts his head as I walk by. "Did you want to check your email tonight?" I ask. "You could use the motel 'business center.' Probably just an ugly room with an old desktop PC, but still."
He only stares at me. I feel the tears rising again, for no reason at all. "Fine," I say. "Good night."
Tearing back the covers of the other double bed, I slide my bare legs into the sheets. It's all I can do to turn my back on the magnificent predator on the nearby bed, but it's either that or face down those unearthly eyes, so I turn away, trying not to think about him slicing me up with his claws during the night. He could do it. He could kill me easily and take the Madstone.
But he won't.
Will he?
The way he looked at me, before it all went down—I thought maybe I'd found someone who actually cared for me. And then I ruined it. I shot a hole through his heart. Broke the delicate thing we were building together.
I have only myself to blame.
I'm crying again, and I roll over onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow. Hush, you crybaby! I shriek at myself. But I can't stop. The tears keep spilling out.
The edge of my mattress dips, and a massive, warm body settles at my back. My heartbeat and my breath catch in unison, and I turn over, a mess of tear-damp hair and wet eyes. The panther doesn't look at me, merely gazes with cool feline disinterest at the stylized landscape on the wall above the headboard. Its fur gleams golden-black in the
glow of the bedside reading lamp.
He doesn't forgive me, but he can't help comforting me, thanks to that big, beautiful, compassionate heart of his.
I shift in the bed until my back is against the panther's warm side, and I close my eyes.
But it's a restless sleep, and I'm awake again in a couple hours. The panther appears to be dozing. I must have kicked the sheets off in my sleep, because Ryden's tail keeps gliding over my ankle and calf. I watch it, mesmerized by its motion, repetitive, yet never the same pattern twice.
Then I glance up and meet his eyes. They're wide open, hungry, and furious. His whole body rumbles as he rises, planting a heavy paw on my chest. His muzzle descends until his bared teeth are inches from my face. I feel the power rolling off him and I tense, wondering if I should use my own magic to push him away.
"Ryden," I whisper.
He shivers, and suddenly he's human again, naked, his hands planted on either side of my shoulders, his body hovering over mine. The raw beauty of his face steals my breath, and my hands unclench as other parts of me turn weak and wet with desire.
"You make me angry, you know that?" he whispers fiercely. "Really angry."
Wordless, I nod.
His eyes flicker down to my mouth, his arm muscles straining with the effort of keeping his body parallel to mine and not letting a single inch of him touch me. But he doesn't move away.
"I don't forgive you," he says. "I think I might hate you."
"I know."
And then his knees press between my legs, nudging them apart, and he lowers himself until all of him is burning against me. I gasp, because the ripple of those hard muscles and that smooth skin against my body is almost too much stimulation to bear. There's guilt mixed with the pleasure, and a hint of pain as he captures my mouth with bruising force. I try to move, try to curl my fingers behind his neck, but he grabs my wrists and forces them down against the bed. He keeps kissing me, desperately, angrily. One of his hands snags my underwear and tugs it down in one swift motion. He hesitates for a second, jaw working, his eyes blazing into mine, asking permission. I give it with a single nod. He rips the material and tosses the scrap away, and then he is mine.
The Panther and the Thief Page 10