Black Beast

by Nenia Campbell

  “There's no price sticker,” she said. “I'll have to check with my boss. She does prices.” Catherine set the book aside. Under the desk. “You still want the rest?”

  He was still staring at her hand, the one the book had been in only moments before. She waved it to get his attention. His eyes had a glazed, unfocused look.

  “Paperbacks are fifty cents apiece.” She gestured at the pile. “Three-fifty is your total. If you still want them.” Her tone dared him to tell her he didn't.

  Chase looked lost as he parted with his money. He seemed to be trying to figure out how the crumpled bills had gotten out of his wallet and into his hand. Her unease deepened as she placed them the appropriate sections of the register. “You'll, uh, call me, right?”

  Catherine handed him his change, which he shoved into his pocket without counting.

  “When she prices the book, you'll call me?”

  Silently, Catherine weighed the pros and cons of telling him to fuck off. “Do you have a number where you can be reached?” she asked at last.

  Chase gave it to her. She wrote it down on the back of a bookmark while he watched.

  He scooped up the romances and walked out of the Friends of the Library store without looking back. One of the books fell from his arms as he opened the door.

  Catherine started to call out, hesitated, and ended up doing nothing. The book bounced once and landed in the middle of the floor, like a marker. A remainder of something bad.

  •◌•◌•◌•◌•

  Karen disappeared shortly after they had sex and did not come back. She didn't bother making an excuse for herself and it would never have occurred to him to ask.

  Finn got up and stretched lazily.

  He was very tall, slender, lightly muscled. His father had enlisted him in military service, so he had training with physical combat. Magic rendered weapons training redundant, but he had experience with the sword. Fencing had been one of his hobbies in college.

  Finn ran his fingers through his hair, glancing around the room. Sunlight was pouring in through the blinds, catching the motes of dust that hung suspended in the air like magic particles. As he stepped into the light, his fiery locks morphed into a sparking blaze.

  His shirt was draped over one of the throw pillows, which had fallen to the floor in the tussle. He picked it up, shoving his arms through the sleeves. The hair on his chest was a darker red, almost auburn, at odds with the milky paleness of his skin.

  Finn had never particularly liked the way he looked. He knew he was attractive, in the same way others know that they are intelligent or brave, but it was not the rugged, masculine beauty that appealed to so many women. His fey good looks had caused many members of the Otherkind to underestimate him in the past.

  It was often the last mistake that they ever made.

  The information Karen had revealed to him about the shape-shifter bitch was disturbing. If she was in the habit of breaking the rules, it was possible that the omission from the file wasn't an accident, after all.

  He shoved his arms through the sleeves. It wouldn't be the first time a shape-shifter went behind a witch's back.

  Finn did up the buttons on his shirt, then refastened his belt. The belt was tooled leather and heavy with charms. He had cast a glamor over it so it would not catch the notice of humans. They wouldn't hear the jangling noises that came from it as he moved, either.

  Graymalkin was waiting for him in the stairwell, eying him with rampant disapproval. She could smell the traces of sex and spent magic on him and didn't like it.

  He ignored her judgmental look. “Are you able to track a shape-shifter?” he asked, adjusting the leather bands that covered the scars around his wrists.

  “Of course.” She sounded miffed.

  “Then do it. Find it. Find her,” he corrected himself.

  Her face shuttered. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  •◌•◌•◌•◌•

  The end of the workday couldn't come fast enough.

  Catherine hung up her lanyard in the closet. Together, she and Sharon—who had reappeared miraculously the moment Chase left the store—locked up and delivered the FoL store key to the librarian on duty at the front desk. She could feel Sharon's eyes on her as they left the adobe-colored building.

  “It's kinda cold out,” she said, after a pause. “You sure you wanna walk all the way back? I'll give you a ride.”

  Catherine looked back at the bushes. The branches were so heavy with leaves that she couldn't see through to the wall on the other side. That eerie feeling of being watched hadn't dissipated in the slightest, either.

  Is someone there? Watching me?

  Anger filled her at the thought, backed by fear and an ancient weariness that seeped all the way to the very bottom of her bones. Part of her wanted to investigate, but she was wary. Afraid. The shades hadn't helped.

  She thought of the long walk home, under the hundreds of invisible eyes peering out at her from where they were concealed by the foliage, and shuddered.

  “A ride sounds great,” she said quickly.

  Sharon arched a pierced eyebrow, and slipped a cigarette out of her jacket pocket. “Are you okay?” she asked, as she lit up, cupping her hand around the flame to keep it from blowing out. “You're acting weird.”

  Catherine shot her a look loaded with irony as she stepped downwind of the cigarette smoke. The pungent chemicals stung her nose and made her eyes water.

  “Weirder than normal,” Sharon said, taking a heavy drag and then stubbing it out under her boot.

  “I'm just cold.”

  “Yeah? Lucky for you I'm not parked far.”

  Sharon tugged open the door of her piss-colored Pontiac and a blast of smells sucker-punched Catherine in the face. She took a step back, fighting the impulse to cover her nose, which she knew was unspeakably rude.

  The inside of the car was a mess. Crumpled fast food bags, empty soda bottles, moldy napkins, old homework, flavored hookah pens, all strewn about in a big compost heap. “What the fuck?” Catherine managed.

  “Just throw everything over the seat,” Sharon said, grabbing fistfuls of paper. “It's all junk. I've been meaning to get this car cleaned out since forever.”

  “Smells like it,” she said weakly.

  “Fuck you,” Sharon shot back cheerfully.

  Catherine threw some old homework over the seat, trying not to breathe through her nose. Gods, this sucks. Her eyes tracked a spider's path over a crumpled can of Red Bull. Can this day get any worse?

  And then she smelled it—silver.

  She sucked in a breath of tainted air and immediately regretted it. Silver was the only thing apart from time itself that was sure to kill her. Even touching it caused agonizing pain. And she could smell it. Close enough to hurt. Close enough to burn.

  No, she thought, whirling around against the car. The impulse to keep something solid at her back was strong. So strong that she nearly collided with a very surprised-looking old lady who was on her way to her own car.

  Catherine looked at her, trying to compose her breathing. The woman's large brown eyes were made even large by her reading glasses, magnifying her shock.

  The old lady crossed herself, mumbling a quick prayer. She darted a backwards glance over her shoulder as she hurried away, heels clacking on the cement, bracelets jingling. Silver bracelets. I wonder what she saw.

  “Thanks for helping,” Sharon said sarcastically.

  “It's your shit,” Catherine said, swiping a hand across her sweaty forehead. “But you're welcome.”

  I wonder what's wrong with me.

  Gray clouds were rolling in, promising the storm from that morning's forecast. Masses of cumulonimbus clouds followed the invisible line of the distant Sierras in a nebulous staircase. In the places where the pale light shone through, the hills glowed the dusty gold of desert sand dunes. Sharon's expression was grim as drizzle began to pelt the windscreen.

  “My hair is going to b
e ruined.” Sharon spent an hour each day flat-ironing it. Something she shouldn't have been doing, considering how damaged it was by the dye.

  Catherine stared out the window at the rain, to the hills beyond them. “So? Put it in a ponytail.”

  Here in the city's outskirts, the flora and fauna weren't pushed back quite as easily as they were closer to its heart. Beyond the serene, rolling hills was dense wilderness: iron rivers fringed by dense curtains of cattails, thick beds of clover and soap-plants, and the towering native white oaks, with wasp-made oak apples festooning the branches like Christmas baubles.

  At the base of the nearest hill, circled by the dense copses of oak trees, was a gully spangled with mustard seed flowers, purple lupines, and clusters of wild California poppies. Overhead, a red-tailed hawk circled lazily, searching the yellow-green grass for field mice.

  Prey did not like the hawk, and made no secret of it. But Catherine's other beasts saw freedom in the shadows of that hawk's wings, and their wistfulness caused a powerful longing to swell within her breast, as sharp and as cutting as the blade of a knife.

  This was her element, the wild and unrestrained beauty of the hills. The physical desire for it—it scorched like a pent-up flame, seeking release. She wanted to fly.

  No, she needed to fly. Needed it the way Sharon needed her cigarettes. Needed it the way other people needed sex, or food, or company.

  “Look at that sky,” Sharon said, following Catherine's gaze. She didn't notice the hawk. To her, it was just part of the scenery. “Shit. It looks like thunder.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Those are anvil clouds. They don't fuck around.”

  Perhaps not. But the bleak sky intensified the color of the flowers. An artist couldn't have put the lightning to better effect. Catherine rubbed at her arms. Her human skin had begun to itch uncomfortably and felt several sizes too small. Her beasts swam close to the surface now, lapping at freedom; they would not be denied.

  Shape-shifters had to Change periodically, or else they went crazy, especially in times of stress. It displaced some of the cognitive load and sped up regeneration.

  Catherine needed to Change. Needed it so badly she could taste it coating the back of her throat like a film. “Sharon?” Desire rendered her thick-tongued, clumsy.

  Sharon was bobbing her head in time to the radio, but one nod was deeper than the rest, so Catherine knew she heard her.

  “Do you think you could, um, stop the car?”

  Abruptly, the music switched off. The car swerved a little when Sharon took her hand off the wheel and she grabbed it again, quickly, shooting a concerned look Catherine's way. “You're not going to be sick, are you?”

  “No. Well, maybe.”

  “Fuck.” Sharon slowed down a little, but didn't stop, causing a red pick-up truck that had been tailgating them for the last couple miles to honk angrily.

  Without looking to see who it was, Sharon flipped the driver the bird as the car went careening past on the shoulder of the road. “You want to stop here?”

  On one side of the street was an ancient gas station. It was sandwiched between a dry cleaning business that didn't look like it had seen any actual business for decades and a Mexican restaurant. On the other side of the street was an auto repair shop and a deserted tattoo parlor. “Yes,” Catherine said, closing her eyes briefly.

  “Why?”

  “I want a soda.” She eyed the gas station. “A Coke.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now? What kind of friend do you take me for? You think I'm gonna let your ass off here? It's almost dark. Barton ain't Oakland, but you don't want to be wandering around in this neighborhood at night.”

  “I think I'm dehydrated.”

  Sharon said, “Maybe it's affecting your brain.” She glanced at the shops lining the streets, adding doubtfully, “It doesn't even look like they're open.”

  “So? I can catch the bus home. The transit center is just across the road from here.”

  One of the large red buses happened to be going by at that very moment.

  Sensing weakness, Catherine added, “I was gonna be walking home, anyway. Don't worry about me. I have a cell phone. If anyone tries to pull a dick move, I'll mace them where the sun don't shine.”

  Sharon shook her head, but she popped the lock. “Whatever, you crazy bitch. It's your funeral.”

  “Just keep the teachers from pissing on my grave.”

  Sharon locked the door behind her and tossed off a careless wave that she was quick to return. Then she waited until the yellow Pontiac disappeared around the bend of the road before doubling back to the hills.

  There was a fence, but it was easy enough to scale. No barbed wire, either. The grass was dewy and covered in crystalline beads of rain. It made soft shushing sounds as she walked through the ankle-length blades, plastering the legs of her jeans to her skin.

  She felt better already.

  Rocks crunched under her shoes as the grasses yielded to hard granite rock beds and tightly packed dirt that was only just beginning to soften from the rain.

  The hill sloped steeply and Catherine was forced to throw out her arms for balance as she descended. She let out a whoop as she slid and skidded down the hillside. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, like a bird in flight. She felt—oh, there were no words for how she felt. The smells. The sights. The sounds. It was like stepping into a completely different world.

  Gradually, the slope began to level out, forming a plateau that overlooked the gully below. Eclectic periods of rain and drought had provided the perfect recipe for soil erosion. She could see clumps of earth still clinging to the tree roots where they stabbed through the hillside, coated with yellow lichen and green moss.

  A breeze stirred her hair, blowing tangled, sweaty strands of it back into her face. She hiked up her chin a notch, tossing back her head.

  The horizon was magnificent: tawny hills, with purple snow-salted mountains looming up behind them, all before a misty gray backdrop that swam like the sea.

  Catherine shimmied out of her clothes, took a deep breath, and then she stepped forward—and jumped.

  •◌•◌•◌•◌•

  She was in free fall for several seconds. Wingless, weightless, she plummeted towards the dark ribbon of the waiting river below. And then she exploded into feathers. Her wings unfurled, like banners in the wind, and she rose from her spiraling dive with a triumphant screech.

  The little savage had no regard for the Rules. Technically she was in violation of the First, Changing in plain sight where any human could happen upon her.

  Stripping like a whore, he thought. Like a—a—

  Words were not sufficient vessels for his disgust.

  Shape-shifters were not supposed to abuse their powers except in clear-cut cases of self-defense, and this one here was doing it for entertainment.

  The picture in the file was several years out of date. The girl in the photo had looked fourteen. This one was at least sixteen—and probably closer to eighteen, if the fullness of her figure were any indication.

  Photos were supposed to be updated yearly, to keep records current. And her animal should have been notated. Shape-shifters inevitably settled into one animal, usually around puberty, and that animal should have been listed. Both her parents' were.

  Her brother's was not, but he was too young. Not yet a teenager. There was time. This girl, on the other hand, should have settled by now. And if she Changed like this regularly, someone should have noticed her animal and put it in the records, along with a court summons.

  But they hadn't, and none of the infractions mentioned in the file had any sound basis. Certainly not enough to warrant conviction. There was only one obvious conclusion. Someone had chosen to omit them in blatant defiance of the Council.

  Finn bit his lip and realized he could taste his own blood. He spat, tainting the grass nearby.

  If he wanted, he could haul her in before the Council the moment she t
ouched back upon solid earth. He held considerable sway among the members. If he were able to convince them that she was the menace Karen claimed she was, they wouldn't even bother to hear her plead her case. They would slap her in silver handcuffs and send her to the prison in Antarctica, the Keep.

  But they would wonder. As he, too, wondered.

  Why did he harbor so much hatred for vermin?

  He watched the hawk circling overhead, oblivious to his thoughts, and he realized that he knew. Yes, he knew exactly what the cause of this irrationally intense hatred was. He desired her kind—and had, since he had first laid eyes on one of the slinky cat shifters his father had dealt with when he was still a young man. He wanted to fuck them, and it went against everything he had ever been taught, or was, and so he loathed them instead.