by Faith Hunter
Mama rubbed harder and the pins and needles worsened. I hoped that was a good thing. “Did you’un make the vines grow here?” she whispered to me. “Did you’un make the tree attack Larry?”
I chuckled sourly. “No. It did that on its own.”
“Devil tree,” she muttered.
“Could be,” I muttered back, “but it saved me.”
I looked up as Occam walked to the other side of the small area, toward where Daddy and the Adens the other two mamas stood. His hand dropped from his weapon and his posture relaxed, letting me know that the human was fully in charge, getting ready to confront my daddy, who knew he was a wereleopard. A wereleopard who’d just had his hands all over me. Church courting etiquette placed that kind of touching as a claiming, as proof of an intimate relationship. Oh … dear. I didn’t know what Daddy or Occam was about to say or do, and they were too far away for me to hear.
An ambulance showed up on scene, and while Mama continued chafing my hands and arms, a paramedic cleaned up my head wound and argued with me about seeing a doctor for my concussion symptoms and finally muttered something about compartment syndrome and stupid cops. I didn’t tell her my reasons for not going to the hospital, and, with Occam having cut away my leaves, she had no point of reference for why I refused an MRI or CT scan. For the most part, I looked human. I’d have to think about that when my brain was working right again.
For now, I listened in on the chatter about which agencies should be called to investigate my kidnapping and charge Larry Aden. Since I was relatively unharmed, I hadn’t been missing for long, and the kidnapper hadn’t crossed state lines, the lead agency was up for grabs. Someone called the FBI, but for reasons not discussed with me, they declined to make an appearance.
As the discussions went on, the anger of the older members of the crowd began to diminish and the evidence gathering of the investigation into the kidnapping of a federal agent began. The cops took my story and, at Occam’s suggestion, questioned Sam. After that, things de-escalated rapidly. Fortunately, because the church had installed motion sensor cameras to protect themselves from outside attack and influence, one camera had caught Larry’s arrival and my removal from the trunk. Also fortunately, the camera had shut off after thirty seconds and hadn’t captured the growing of the vines and thorns and leaves. I had to wonder if that had been Sam’s action, if he had been watching the cameras when Larry drove up and that was why he got to me so fast. Sam didn’t volunteer the information and no one in my hearing asked for it. But once Sam brought out the video, everyone was more willing to talk, and seeing the footage went a long way to convince the cops that Larry was working alone and even further to convince the churchmen that Larry had been doing something criminal. Two of the churchmen told me they were sorry. Others backed away. Their attitudes were improbably respectful, unexpected for churchmen.
I realized that for most of the churchmen, I was no longer viewed as a runaway churchwoman. I was recognized by most as a federal law enforcement officer. Technically, I was no longer “fair game.” That understanding caused a curious heat to pulse through me, part shock, part something unknown.
JoJo, back at HQ, sent the footage of the attack in the PsyLED parking lot to the unit’s cell phones, adding to the evidence that Larry had been working alone, which meant that the zip-stripped men were released and none of them had to be brought in for official questioning. When things had settled, Sam came by and whispered to Mama and me that, based on the evidence, Brother Aden was planning to call for formal banishment of his son. Mama’s head dropped lower, and I realized that she hadn’t met my eyes, not once. Was Mama afraid of me? I couldn’t figure out how to ask that and Sam moved away.
As the discussions between law enforcement and the churchmen took place, and the tensions continued to decrease, my headache subsided to bearable. I drank the water Mama brought and when I could hold the bottle by myself, she announced that my hands were now fine. My fingers were indeed pink and much less painful, and Mama patted them before leaving me to wander around, listening and taking in the gossip. I knew that, later, she and the other mamas would have a long gossipfest and compare notes on the happenings of today.
In the back of the crowd, I spotted Esther, my sister, the one I thought might be a plant-person, like me. She was staring at the odd clusters of leaves and thorns in the parking area, clusters that hadn’t been there an hour ago. Her hand slid up to her hairline as she stole through the gathering. It was the same gesture I made when I was feeling to see if my leaves had grown. Without speaking to me, she slipped away.
With the approval of the churchmen who had gathered to watch the proceedings, Larry was strapped to a gurney, hauled off in the ambulance to the hospital, and then to jail, in custody of the sheriff. He was still unconscious, but would be charged with kidnapping and violent assault on a federal officer, both potential federal crimes, and a host of other, lesser charges.
I was in a daze still, but I gave select members of the church the stink-eye as the ambulance rolled out of sight. My expression promised retribution the minute anyone looked at me or Mud. A couple of the Jackson cadre looked back with hatred and a promise of their own to get even, and I committed the names and faces to memory. As for Larry, I’d tasted his blood like a vampire. It was on my clothing. In my hair. If he came to my farm again, he would nourish Soulwood just fine, and something in my demeanor must have communicated my intent and willingness to do violence, because all the churchmen stepped back.
Yes, I thought at them. I am an officer of the law. But I’m more than that. And you best remember.
Communicating threats and promises through body language and expressions cost me in terms of the headache, and when tears gathered in my eyes, it was apparent that I needed contact with Soulwood sooner rather than later. I sat back and asked to go home.
My coworkers divvied up vehicles so that Occam could drive Mud and me home in Rick’s car, which seated more than two, while T. Laine and Rick took the other cars. I was pretty useless and didn’t argue. And didn’t remember how I got to my house, into my jammies, and on a blanket in the backyard, my hands in contact with the ground. But I guessed it was thanks to my baby sister and my cat-man.
• • •
I woke in midafternoon, pain free, to a scent that had to come straight out of heaven. It turned out to be venison stew from my freezer, and commercial, boxed, dried pasta heated in the microwave. There wasn’t a better smell in the world. I trudged inside to the long kitchen table and took my place, letting Mud serve me. We sat silent and I closed my eyes, the peace of Soulwood flowing up through the floorboards, through my bare feet, and into my bones. Through the soles of my feet, I felt Occam in cat form patrolling the church side of my property lines, keeping us safe while I slept. I called him to join us for dinner, knowing we’d be through before he got there.
Mud, seeing my eyes closed, took my hand and offered thanks in a traditional church prayer. “We thank thee for mercies great and small and for this food. And for Mama, who come—came—to help me cook it.”
I smiled slowly and said, “Amen.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Occam was at the door. Any upset he might have experienced from my kidnapping and rescue was gone. He’d shifted and run and killed and eaten a turkey. He had lain on Soulwood and let the land soothe his soul. In human form, silent and tranquil, he ate microwaved leftovers from a good stoneware plate, squeezed my fingers, and took off in Rick’s vehicle, leaving us alone, all without a word spoken.
Mud and I spent the rest of the afternoon upstairs in her room in the eaves, in front of the air conditioner, putting together outfits she would wear to school soon and adding to the list of clothing, supplies, and other purchases she would need in order to become Cedar Bluff Middle School’s newest green tree Giant. Even with the AC, it was hot, sweaty work, and I remembered sleeping on the second-story landing in the summers, my cot close to the top of the stairs so I could hear Leah—John’s first wife�
��if she called out as her illness took her slowly away from us. And then, later, so I could have privacy from John. The fans that turned continuously on both floors did little to move around the cooler air between floors, and had Mud not come from the church, she might not have been able to bear it. Churchwomen were sturdy stock and Mud seemed not to notice the trickles of sweat and the clothes that stuck to us.
As we worked, we talked about Larry, the kidnapping, his arrest, and Mud’s questions about what Larry had planned to do to me. It seemed to help us cope with the trauma of the day. When we had it all out in the open, we fell silent, working together. It was serene and quiet, a peaceful discourse.
When the clothes were put away, I took another nap, what the townies called a power nap, and I called a cat nap, for a lot of reasons. When I woke, I discovered that I had missed a visit with Occam.
Mud said, “Mr. LaFleur and Occam brung—brought—your truck back.” She added, “They was in a hurry and Occam said I wasn’t to wake you since you was asleep. Should I have waked you up anyway?”
Disappointment scurried through me on little mouse feet, but I shoved it away. “No. It’s all right. He knows his time limits. But the proper verb forms are, They were in a hurry and Occam said I wasn’t to wake you since you were asleep.”
Mud repeated me. “Townie English is hard. Can we look at the house plans?”
Carrying a tape measure, we walked through the entire upper floor, looking at the huge storage space at the top of the stairs that might become the bathroom, discussing where the fixtures would go if bathroom plumbing could be worked out. The upstairs was composed of multiple large spaces. There were two big bedrooms with low vaulted ceilings and dormers facing the front and the back of the house. On either end of the house, on the far sides of the bedrooms, were large, unfinished spaces, kept closed year-round, each with a dormer, both hotter than the armpits of hell. Currently, the unfinished space on the east side of the house held old furniture and antique chests full of John’s family’s belongings; the space on the west side was used for the solar batteries. It was a big house. It had been built for multiple wives and lots of children. With a little elbow grease, wallboard, paint, and added dormers, the rooms could become additional bedrooms. We were dreaming about spending a lot of my as-yet-unearned money, which made my belly ache just thinking about it. The unaccustomed stress of entering the modern world of debt was offset by the happiness of Mud possibly living with me.
Still dreaming, we stripped her bed and put on fresh sheets. Mud was stuffing a pillow into a pillowcase, her back to me, when she said, “Soooo … Mama met Occam.”
I dropped onto her bed, rumpling the smooth summer bedspread. “What?”
“She likes him, even though he’s a werecat.” Mud shot me a playful look. “She done invited him to church on Sunday. She quoted scripture to him and he quoted some back. Didju’un know he was the son of a preacher?”
“Yes,” I said softly. I’d heard Occam’s story, or as much as he would tell. My family knew that Occam was a werecat, and Mama had seen Occam rubbing my arms, the claiming-type touching on the church grounds. My brain waffled back and forth in near panic. I wasn’t a churchwoman anymore to be courted and claimed and treated like property by a man. But I wanted Occam. Mama would have kittens. That thought made everything inside me come to a screeching, flustered halt and I smiled. Mama would have kittens.
“Mama … liiikes him.” Mud drew out the word.
That snapped me back to the conversation and Mud’s laughing, knowing eyes. “Oh dear.”
“Uh-huh. She likes him a lot. He knows the Bible. He called her ma’am and called Daddy sir. He was polite. And he kept Sam outta jail. Mama’ll be matchmaking soon.”
“Oh dear,” I repeated.
“Him being a werecat ain’t no problem, not when Mama’s got love in her eyes.”
I suddenly understood JoJo’s actions the one time I’d seen her banging her head on her desk. “Ummm …” I started and floundered. I broke out into a sweat that had nothing to do with the temperature.
“And you like him too. I seen the way you look at him.”
“I have seen, or I saw,” I corrected, trying to figure out how to deflect this conversation.
“Right. Seen you looking at him like you like him. You gonna marry him?” Mud dropped onto her newly made bed and crossed her legs. She was wearing cotton pants and her hair was down, but her manner was all churchwoman in a matchmaking, gossiping mood. “I think the mamas would like it if you was married, even if it’s to a townie, but I ain’t sure about you being married to a cat-man.”
“Oh dear.” It sounded like a terrified moan. “Mud—”
“Have you’uns had sex yet?”
“Oh …” I flushed from my toes to the top of my red hair, though Mud wouldn’t be able to see it, beneath my woody coloration. “No. Mud—”
“When you’uns have sex, will you have kittens? Or plant-babies? Seeds with cat faces and fur?”
I blinked. “You’re teasing me.”
Mud burst out laughing. “You shoulda seen your face.” But then she went on, “That’s okay. You ain’t got to tell me. Mr. LaFleur said you’uns—you—shouldn’t come in to work tonight ‘lessen you feel like it. You going in to work?”
I was happy to have a break in the bombardment of questions about my romantic life and I could hear the restrained excitement in her voice. Mud liked it when she could camp out in PsyLED HQ while I did database research and paperwork, a temporary situation until I settled on child-care arrangements. “Maybe. Let’s see how I feel after a shower and getting dressed. Maybe we could do some of your shopping on the way in.”
Mud smiled, her face lighting up. “I’ll clean up the lunch dishes. You shower.” She was trying to sound blasé about the trip into town, but I knew that my sister had developed a love of shopping for store-bought clothes.
“Deal.”
Before I could get to my feet Mud leaned across the mattress and threw her arms around me. “Thank you,” she said, hugging me tight.
I patted her shoulders uncertainly. There was no blazing insight to her emotional state when we touched. But I was no longer accustomed to spontaneous displays of church-style affection, so I was still uncomfortable. “For what?” I asked.
“Thank you for not getting killed today. For not getting punished by Larry. For lettin’ me live here. For letting me have a room all to myself. Mine. My space. Not shared with three or five true sibs and half sibs and—” She stopped. “And for making sure I get to learn. Get to go to school. Get to choose for myself who I’m gonna be. Get to not be burned at the stake if I grow leaves. For keeping me safe,” she finished.
Tears prickled under my lids and I hugged her tightly back. Voice thick, I managed, “Sister mine, it is totally, completely, full-to-the-top, my pleasure.” Gently I eased back so we could see each other, both of us teary eyed. “And you need a shower too. And use some of that deodorant I made us. As a woman grown, your body’s starting to change and you need to change hygiene habits.”
Mud’s nose wrinkled up. “You’rn one to talk. Take a whiff of yourself.”
In my best PsyLED accent, I said, “Duly noted.”
• • •
I was dressed and we were ready to head to Walmart and Kohl’s when I felt a vehicle turn onto my road and begin the climb up the mountain. At the same time, my phone dinged with a text from Margot Racer, special agent with the FBI. Mud read it aloud to me as she passed me the cell. “‘You home? Am in the neighborhood. On my way up your little mountain.’” Mud looked skeptical. “Is that a lie? About being in the neighborhood?”
“Most likely.” I took the cell and texted back. Come on up.
“Is this about the cops and the dustup at the church this morning and you getting hurt?”
“Dustup. Yeah. And probably. The kidnapping of a federal law enforcement officer and raid on the church compound probably hit the news. And maybe she’s heard about the
witch circles and did some digging. Maybe she’s responding to the report that KPD and the sheriff’s department didn’t share info with us about paranormal reports. Either way, this is official business, not tea and cookies.”
Mud crossed her arms over her chest and her face took on a mulish expression, mouth firm, eyes narrowed. “I ain’t going upstairs and twiddle my thumbs.”
“Is this one of those lifestyle things we’re working through?” I asked. “Like, how our living arrangements will work when I go into the field? Because if you think a social services worker will be okay with you being present during discussions about official police business, then let me tell you, you’re wrong.”
“I’m staying some nights at PsyLED HQ. That’s full of police business.”
“You’ll be there while I’m doing paperwork, not in the middle of a debrief or with me in the field or at a crime scene—and only until I get child care worked out.”
“I don’t need no dagnab babysitter.”
“We will talk later. Now scoot. Take your tablet upstairs and practice.”
“This ain’t fair.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“That’s what I said. Not fair.” Mud snatched up her tablet and stomped up the stairs.
“Ha-ha,” I muttered, grinding my teeth. I put my gobags together and started a half pot of coffee. Mud was twelve, a grown-up woman ready for marriage according to some in the church, but just entering her teenage years. God help me.
• • •
Margot walked up the steps to my porch. She was tall, lean, with broad shoulders and her hair buzzed short enough to see her scalp, a perfect do for the weather. I shoved my own red locks away from my sweaty face and dreamed of central air-conditioning. It had to be in the high nineties in the shade and nearly that inside the house, even with the window unit going full blast. Normal for late July.
I opened the door and studied her, even as Margot studied me back. She was wearing her badge and weapon in plain view. She might have implied that this was a friendly little chat, but she was on the job. That hurt my feelings, but I shoved it down inside and stepped back from the door. “Welcome to my home. Hospitality and safety while you’re here.” It was a God’s Cloud of Glory greeting and promise. “Come on in.”