Curse on the Land

by Faith Hunter

  I eased back into the cab and shut and locked the door. And though I didn’t want to, I punched up Soul’s cell number. Rick was in trouble, and this werecat stuff was out of my sphere of knowledge. Rick leaped off the porch and landed on the ground, on all fours, crouched in the shadows cast by the security light. Rick. Fur covered. Naked, otherwise. Things I did not need to see. The cell rang.

  Rick set his belly to the ground. Elbows and hips high. Began crawling toward me. Fast. So fast. Ring two. Rick leaped to the hood of the truck.

  The Chevy rocked with the weight. His paws made little curved dents in the hood. His paws, clawed, trying to grip the metal. His shadow cut across the hood in stark lines. Soul’s line rang a third time. Rick leaned in to the windshield and snarled at me, showing leopard teeth.

  My breath stopped in my throat. Rick was half cat, half human. Partially furred. His face was cat jawed with human-shaped forehead and eyes, irises glowing greenish gold. Ears pointed, high on his head. Fanged. Nose wrinkled as he scented me. His tats glowed like heated gold.

  He snarled again, eyes on me. Licked his jaw.

  I was . . . prey. Dinner. Oh . . . God.

  A flash of green swept across the hood of the truck. Pea. Landing between Rick and the windshield. Between Rick and me. She growled, spit, and launched herself at Rick. Steel flashing.

  I screamed, “Pea! No!”

  Rick and Pea rolled off the hood, into the shadows beside the cab. Screaming and yowling. Blood splattered across the windshield. Three drops splatted onto the land of Soulwood.

  The earth woke up, alive and hungry. I could feel it without even standing on it. Bloodlust. The land was hungry. Waiting.

  Rick screamed, a cat scream. Piercing, shocking, this close. I flinched away from the door. Rebounded off the seat. Blood splashed and sprayed, landing in wide arcs that I could feel even though I wasn’t touching the ground. Soulwood sucked it up, waiting for me to feed it. Hunger gripped my rooty belly.

  A black leopard landed in Rick’s place, Paka, paws touching down lightly before she leaped off and into the fray. The cats rolled into the yard, into the brightness of the security light. The roof over my head dented. Popped back in place, dented again.

  There was a werecat on top of the cab. Occam.

  This was . . . not good. I stifled a hysterical giggle, pulling my sidearm from its case. I removed the magazine full of standard rounds and slammed the new magazine home. Silver hollow points. The gestures calmed me. My breath came easier. Steadied my need to feed the land.

  Soul’s voice said, “Where are you? Are you in danger?”

  I had dropped the cell. I fished it from the crevice of the seat. My fingers weren’t shaking. The barrel of the gun was rock steady. The need for blood eased away a bit more. And when I spoke, my voice didn’t carry the hysterical laughter of only moments before. “I’m in my truck at the house. Danger looks possible. Rick and Pea and Paka are in a catfight to end all catfights.”

  “So I hear.” Soul sounded calm and wry. “I heard you prepare your weapon. Silver ammo?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Hollow points. But I really don’t want to kill them.” Not that I needed hollow points. All I needed was to take the lovely, lovely blood and feed them to the earth. I was in no danger. But my friends were.

  “Try to avoid brains and hearts and they might survive. But save yourself first,” Soul said.

  From the roof, a paw appeared at the top of the windshield. Another. A long, catty chest and belly. Occam was walking down to the hood. Just like one of my mouser cats might. Before he might show me far too much of his catty parts, he leaped to the hood, denting it deeper than Rick had.

  When all four paws were on the flat surface, the werecat turned and looked at me, then back at the fray. He lay belly down on the still-warm hood. I had a feeling that Occam was guarding me. Maybe so he could eat me later. My laughter escaped in a judder of lips. Occam turned to me and snorted before looking back at the battle.

  The fight was bad, bloody. Rick was covered in bites.

  I asked, “Why are they biting him?”

  “They hope to force a shift on Rick.”

  “Oh. Well, I’d say he’s half cat now.” And he was. He had a cat jaw. Were-fangs. Clawed paws. Human hips, knobby legs bent the cat way, human shoulders, and cat elbows, his joints not fitting together in any useful way. There was nothing human left in his eyes at all. And far too much werecat blood all over my land. I swallowed, just thinking about all that heated, powerful blood sinking in. But only a moment had passed, and I finished with, “Maybe more than half cat.”

  Even over the fight, I heard Soul draw a breath. “I’ll be there in a few moments.”

  Two minutes later, Soul was walking down the driveway, her gauzy clothing waving in the breeze of her passage. Rick had a tail. And there was a lot more blood on the soil and grass. A lot . . . of blood. I was moderately in control, but I was afraid that if I stepped onto the land, connected with it, I’d kill my friends by accident.

  Soul walked up to the fighting cats, who were now on the far edge of the grassed lawn, near the graves of my dogs. She waded into the fracas, yanked Paka up by the scruff of her neck. And threw the spitting-mad cat into the woods on the far side of the road. Paka rolled in the brush and slid into the ditch before reappearing, all teeth and flying black cat hair.

  Pea did an impossible high jump and landed in a tree, twenty feet above Paka. Then she dropped onto the werecat and their fight continued.

  Rick . . . Rick had a tail. And a long, sleek body. His cat eyes were green with hints of gold. He was lying on the earth, panting. Tongue hanging out the side of his mouth like a hound. Steam gusted with each breath. He was healed. He had shifted. Rick was a huge black leopard. Occam stood and dropped to the ground, approaching Rick slowly, head down, tail high, a posture of neither aggression nor of submission. More like . . . curiosity.

  Rick snarled, stood, and showed teeth. Occam stopped, standing still as a stuffed cat. Soul said something to them, the words lost over the distance. She swatted Rick’s ears. He growled at her and she made a fist. Faster than I could follow, Soul socked Rick in the jaw.

  He flew up from the earth, landed, rolled into the ditch, and came up growling, snarling. Soul was on him and she said something else, her voice less than a murmur. She swatted his ear tips again. Rick showed his teeth, but he lay down on the ground in front of her, belly low in what looked like some odd form of submission. Occam was lying on the ground near him. Both cats facing at an angle from me. Occam belly-crawled to Rick and washed his face with his tongue. Rick didn’t look happy at the contact, but he allowed it.

  The biting and fighting had forced a shift on Rick. I hoped he didn’t have to be bitten by a human before he could change back to human form. I chuckled quietly, the sound shaky.

  My desire for blood had eased as the residue from the fight sank into the ground. I put away the cell and gathered up my gear in my left hand and arm, keeping the Glock in my right. Silently I slid cross the seat and opened the passenger door. Keeping the truck between the tableau and me as much as possible, I slipped through the shadows to the stairs and up. And inside. The mouser cats bounded back to the porch and raced in at my feet. I locked the door and set my gear on the desk. And remembered to breathe.

  I stood so I couldn’t be seen from outside and stared through the window, my breath fogging a little circle. All three werecats and Pea were now on the lawn, rolling in play. Batting, swiping, grooming one another. Soul stood to the side, still talking to them, her body language stern. Behind me, the mousers were yowling for kibble. My need to kill my friends had subsided to manageable.

  Moving through the shadowed house, I left the window and brought in wood from the back porch. With icy-numb fingers, I built a fire in the cold Waterford Stanley. Topped off the water in the water heater with the hand pump. Got leftover soup ou
t of the fridge and set the pot on the stove, foil-wrapped roasted pumpkin nearby. Found my winter flannel jammies. Closed the door to the second story to keep any stove heat downstairs. And heard the knock on the front door. I padded back down and met Soul with the business end of my shotgun.

  The petite woman lifted her eyebrows at it, as if she found the gun and me comical. With ill grace, I stood aside and she entered, rubbing her arms as if at the cold weather, but I had seen her in her true form, and I doubted a dragon made of light felt the cold like I did. Shotgun hanging in my arms, I shut and relocked the door. Set the gun on the table where I kept it, within easy reach. Not that I needed it much these days, with the church less interested in me or my land, but old habits died hard.

  Soul, who had never been into my home, turned on the lights, walking through the house to the kitchen as if she lived there, and started a pot of coffee. I frowned at her. Hard. But she ignored me. I guessed anyone who had just broken up a fight between two wereleopards and a grindylow could ignore my scowl pretty easily. As she worked she said, “We have a great deal to discuss.” She lifted the lid on the soup pot and sniffed appreciatively, then pulled the cut loaf of bread from the bread bag and hunted a bread knife. I had Wüsthof knives, which she admired before she started slicing the loaf. And I decided that nothing I did was going to send her packing. I had company for supper.

  * * *

  Dinner was actually pleasant, though Soul stopped eating several times, got up, went to one door or the other, and listened to things I couldn’t hear. She seemed alternately satisfied and concerned, but not enough of either to go back outside. As the cookstove warmed the house, I turned on the overhead fans to distribute the heat. And finally Soul turned to me, her eyes piercing. They looked black in some light, crystal in others. I figured they could look any way she wanted them to.

  “I’ve read your reports. Thorough. Detailed. Succinct.”

  “Uh-hunh.” How’s that for succinct? I thought.

  Soul trilled a laugh. “You remind me of Jane when she is in a snit.”

  “I’m no skinwalker.”

  “She told you what she is. Interesting. What are you?”

  “You read the reports on me at Spook School. You know what I know.”

  “No. This land sings with magic. It claims you are much more.”

  I shrugged, not lowering my eyes or looking away. Not altering my expression. Remembering my body’s reaction to the were-blood on my land and the way that I had had to compel myself not to take it. Forcing my breath to stay slow and easy, I asked in return, “What are you? No. Never mind. You’re an arcenciel. Light dragon.”

  Soul tipped her head in acknowledgment. Got up and poured us each a cup of coffee. It looked as if we were going to drink the whole pot. Thank goodness she had made decaf. I didn’t think I could make it through another night on little to no sleep. I accepted my cup and added cream and sugar.

  “You didn’t answer what you are,” Soul said.

  “Don’t know what I am.”

  “The researchers at PsyLED suggest that you know more of what you are than you have said.” I didn’t reply and after several sips of the coffee, my eyes on her, Soul went on. “The land says you’re ancient. The land speaks of old times and primeval ways.”

  “I’m twenty-three. Not so antiquated. Aunts and sister-wives were present when I was born. I tested not witchy when I was eleven or twelve.”

  “So you have said. Yet the land—”

  A scream rent the charged air. I didn’t see Soul stand, but she was suddenly simply flowing to the front door. She unlocked and opened it and called, “I told you to go play. Hunt.” Her voice deepened, and she added, “Go!” I felt the land respond at the command in her tone and knew that the cats had turned and raced off. Even with my bare feet off the floor, I could follow their progress. Soul shut the door and came back.

  “You wanted to talk. I assume it isn’t about species,” I said, sounding grumpy. “I’m tired and need to go to bed.”

  “I found something in your research. You need to look at it again.”

  “I found something and you want me to find it again? I’m not in school with some info to put together for a training exercise.” My grouchy tone was growing, not at all subservient, like a good probie should sound. “You know what it is, so tell me.”

  “I know what it might be. Look at the World War Two information. Especially the photographs. The names.” She stood and set down her mug. “The cats are quiet now. I’ll check on them as I leave.” And she walked back to the door and out. And disappeared in a flash of light. I locked up again and put the dishes in the sink to soak, took the fastest shower ever, and climbed into the cold sheets, my oven-warmed cast-iron frying pan at my feet, wrapped in towels. The cats piled on the bed with me, Jezzie climbing under the sheets to cuddle with me. I was asleep instantly.

  * * *

  I woke when my cell beeped at five a.m. and crawled out of bed feeling rested and wide-awake, despite the scant hours I had been allowed. The house was still cold, so I made a hot fire in the stove, took a hot shower, added more water to the water heater—a never-ending process, as letting the boiler go empty meant melting the seams, an expensive repair—and dressed for the day in layers. I was wearing navy pants today, with a navy tee and button-up shirt, and a black jacket and shoes. It was the first time I’d worn the new outfit, and I had to figure out how to position my shoulder harness over the shirts and under my suit jacket to make it fit right.

  Outside, it had sleeted, and the ground was treacherous, so I texted JoJo that I’d be late to the eight-a.m.-sharp meeting, and went back inside. I opened my laptop and pulled up the witches’ names, Kurt’s timeline, and a summary on the research on World War Two, all from Kurt’s computer.

  I found something. A Kurt Daluege had been executed in the postwar trials.

  A frisson of certainty heated its way through me. Below the ground, Soulwood reacted to my interest with a clatter of tree limbs in the wind. I poured a cup of coffee and returned to my open files.

  The original Kurt Daluege had been an SS officer of some kind, tangentially associated with paranormal research. And had been hung in the trials as a war criminal. His wife and children had survived, and some of the children immigrated to various countries. I did an ancestry search of Kurt Daluege and quickly discovered that Kurt was named after his grandfather. Who had been in Hitler’s Schutzstaffel, or Protective Squadron in WWII. My heart rate sped and the roots in my belly went tight.

  One of the local witches was Irene Rosencrantz, who traced her Jewish lineage to a witch who died near the end of the war. There was a Rosencrantz listed among the witches who’d died of suicide rather than give their weapon to the SS officers and Hitler’s war machine. Now we had two Rosencrantz witches and a Daluege in Knoxville. Impossible coincidence. Three coincidences in a row stopped being flukes. It became enemy action, according to Ian Fleming in a James Bond film. I had to agree.

  According to a police report, at two a.m. Irene Rosencrantz’s car had gone off the Gay Street Bridge into the Tennessee River. Which was ridiculous. I had driven that bridge, and there were thick concrete curbs about two feet high on either side of the lanes and a walkway with an iron handrail beyond both curbs for walkers. The bridge area allotted to cars was narrow, and it would be difficult if not impossible to get up enough speed to go over the impediments and into the water. But her car had done just that. According to news reports, divers were in the water and had found the car.

  I studied the police reports. I wasn’t a traffic accident investigator—there were people specially trained for that—but the photos looked staged. There was a lack of tire skid marks. No damage to the curbs beyond . . . a single skid mark on the top of the curb.

  This wasn’t an accident. Something else had happened. I kept reading and discovered that the investigative officer had called in his s
upervisor. So I wasn’t the only one who thought things looked off.

  There had to be a connection between Germany in World War Two, with its slime molds, and this accident. With Kurt being the grandson of a Nazi. Witches from all over the world in Knoxville, Tennessee, including some that sounded Germanic. A witch working here that made no sense. Attacking slime molds here. People drowning and killing each other at a pond here. Enemy action.

  I sat back to find a cat had settled in behind me. I picked up Torquil and placed him on my lap, where he started purring. An accident in the twenty-first century that traced back to World War II?

  I marked the list of witch names and the accident report to come back to. Had both of the Rosencrantz and the Daluege grandparents or great-grands lived in Germany? Had they worked opposite sides of a war that was mostly about ethnic cleansing?

  On a hunch, I began a search on odd growths in Germany during the war. And I struck pay dirt. At the end of the war, outside of Kassel, Germany, an entire small town had been overtaken with four forms of distinctive, disgusting, and dangerous fungi.

  Bleeding tooth fungus, which was repulsive, looking like rotten, bleeding teeth and gums. The fungus was capable of absorbing cesium-137 from the environment, a radioactive isotope that could be toxic at sufficient levels.

  Doll’s eye fungus, which looked like dolls’ eyeballs on the end of scarlet stalks. This fungus was deadly.

  False morels, also deadly.

  And . . . black slime mold.

  There were photographs of the slime covering buildings, budding in rainbow hues of ugly, spore-forming, fruiting bodies, looking like fantastically shaped flowers. Soooo . . . I stroked Torquil, and the former mouser cat rolled over and exposed his belly for me to rub, batting my hand when I was too slow. There was a connection between Knoxville’s slime, the pond, the deer, the dancing infinity loop, Germany in World War Two, and the accident on the bridge at South Gay Street. Even I knew that sounded bizarre. My whole body on alert, I went back to my research.