Black Beast

by Nenia Campbell

  He said something about a power source, though. About stealing magic. He had also said that it was a Slayer's spell book, and talked at length about black magic. She still wasn't sure what, exactly, black magic was. Only that it was bad, and that all the people trying to get their hands on the book had been equally so.

  A knock sounded on her door. “Catherine?” It was her father. He must have just gotten home. Must have been later than she thought. He poked his head through the doorway. “Didn't you hear me calling?”

  She shot a panicked look at the Grimoire, which she had foolishly left on her desk.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the inevitable, “What is that—?”

  Nothing happened.

  She cracked open an eye, confused. Her father was still standing in her doorway, shifting foot to foot, an expectant look on his face.

  Couldn't he see it? Her eyes flicked to the book, and then back to his face. Maybe not.

  “Well? Don't look at me like I'm speaking Witchtongue. Are you coming or not?”

  “Sorry. Yeah. I just kind of spaced out there for a minute.”

  Now he looked suspicious. “What are you doing?”

  “Just talking to friends.”

  Catherine casually reached over to hit CTRL and TAB in unison. The screen flicked to her IM service, which she'd left running since the night before. There were a few angry flashing boxes she hadn't noticed. One of them, she could see, was from Sharon.

  “Tell your friends goodbye and come down to dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  She poised the cursor over the X buttons. The boxes vanished with a single click.

  If only the rest of life's problems were that simple.

  •◌•◌•◌•◌•

  Finn struggled, but the old tree held firm. The creature had been clever, manacling him to one of the ancient roots. With his arms bound over his head, he was left completely prone. He tilted his head back, trying to look over his arm. Where had she put the key? Gods, how he hated shape-shifters. Especially this one. His face darkened.

  The things he was going to do to her—

  But first, he had to get free. He could heat the cuffs, melt the metal off, but he'd be melting off his own skin in the process. A shape-shifter could heal from it. Slowly, painfully—but they would heal from it. A witch, however, would be condemned to the burn ward, like a common human.

  “Graymalkin,” he snarled. “Where are you, you mangy cur?”

  Two pointed ears appeared. Then, below that, the small, furry face. “What do you want?”

  “Find the key, and get me out of here. Now.”

  Every second of dalliance put more distance between them and the shifter bitch.

  Graymalkin eventually located the key in a clump of wet grass. She dropped it into his palm, taking care to avoid the mud. His fingers closed over it and he fumbled with the cuffs. Anger made his movements clumsy. Eventually there was a click as the locking mechanism released. He glanced at his familiar sidelong as he tore the cuffs from his wrists.

  “I suppose you think I deserve that.”

  It didn't matter what she did or didn't say, though. He could still read her mind.

  “Impudent furball,” he muttered.

  What should have been a routine assignment was quickly proving far more complicated than he could have anticipated. Not only had her animal been omitted from the records, she was also dabbling in black magic, and had an aura similar to a very weak witch.

  Or one of the human Talents.

  He shook his head. That wasn't the point. The point was that she was dealing in the one form of magic that was outright forbidden by the council. A magic that, until now, he had thought limited to Slayers, and those who sympathized with their cause. And if a shape-shifter was playing with their books, and associating with their members, he had to wonder if perhaps the vermin were in the process of negotiating some sort of alliance against the witches. Blood for blood.

  So he chased her. He rode the wind as he hunted her down, throwing spell after spell at the flickering shadow her form had become in the darkness of the storm. Air, water, and fire—they were all his to command, and he used each of them to pound her into submission, until the air was so thick with magic that he could scarcely breathe, and the woods began to take on the surreal, shimmering quality of a dream. Or a nightmare.

  Part of him knew he was out of control, that if he kept this up, he was going to kill the bitch. Part of him knew this, and part of him didn't care. She had injured his pride. So, too, would she be injured. And if he succumbed to the anger, and his desire for revenge, the other, more troubling desires faded into the backdrop of his murderous passions.

  But the girl was half-wild, and had the woods on her side. She eluded him, and eventually, she got away. Finn paused at the threshold of the woods, breathing hard. Lightning cracked open the sky, and its light gave him hard edges, making it seem as if he'd been ripped out from the pages of a storybook, and left to flutter, displaced, through the world of the humans.

  He considered meeting with Karen but the idea was distasteful to him. Failure still clung to him like a tenuous film. And when he thought of his fiancee's lithe, pearlescent body, his mind kept flickering back to the shifter's taut, muscular build, only half-hidden beneath her damp and tattered clothing. When her fingers touched his skin, his cock strained against his pants.

  Just the memory of it made him short of breath, half-drowned in the flood of ghostly sensation. He had never had a reaction that strong to anyone, male or female, witch or shifter. He recalled the black magic, and wondered if perhaps this wasn't the cause of a spell meant to rob him of his wits. That explained everything. And with conviction, came sweet relief.

  Graymalkin shook her head. “How is it possible to hate something so much, and still desire it?”

  Her question was meant to be rhetorical, he knew, but he answered her, regardless.

  “The gods have a sick and twisted sense of humor. It's why they were killed.”

  •◌•◌•◌•◌•

  Catherine slept fitfully that night.

  The dreams consumed her, making her relive nightmares that existed well outside her mind.

  Being hunted, being chased—all of that was a part of nature. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. And while frightening in its own way, Catherine accepted this as a normal mode of life. Or at least, the animal parts of her did. Even Predator accepted the fact that Prey sometimes got away, and that there were bigger Predators out there that could push you around, even make you into Prey. That might even kill and eat you. But being trapped….

  Every shape-shifter was born with the taste of freedom in her mouth. Cutting off that freedom and holding her captive was the ultimate cruelty. The Council claimed that the Keep was meant to hold all Others who broke the laws, but when it had been designed, it had been designed with shape-shifters clearly in mind. The vampire guards, the too-small cells, the silver bars—

  The iron infrastructure had been added only as an afterthought.

  When that witch had snapped those silver cuffs around her wrists, she had nearly lost it. Catherine had had brushes with silver in the past, yes, but this was the first time she had ever been exposed to so much and so close. It had sucked all her powers away, leaving her feeling powerless and exposed, caught in the middle of a vacuum. Her senses, the vibrant, pulsating energy that defined her, he'd taken it all away with a mere flick of the wrist.

  She woke up covered in a thin sheen of sweat, heart pounding.

  The first thing she did was check her wrists. They were unshackled, she was free, but she could still make out the ring of blisters from where the metal had burned her skin.

  She wasn't safe. Not as long as he was still out there. Waiting. Watching.

  Her mood was black as she walked out of the school cafeteria. There was a scowl on her face and a cup of coffee in her hand. She didn't like eating with the other humans. The smell of so many of them,
concentrated all in one place, made her feel like a lion at a watering hole full of gazelles. People scattered out of her way, dissolving into murmurs the moment her back turned.

  Humans had strict ideas about what was normal and what wasn't. She wasn't, and they went out of their way to make her aware that they knew—and they didn't like it. Her senses, so perfect for hunting, gave her a predatory dominance that humans often mistook for cockiness.

  “I haven't seen her so pissed since she punched that guy in the nose for copping a feel.”

  “I'd risk a trip to the ER if it meant I got to tap that ass.”

  Sometimes, they mistook it for sexual prowess, as well.

  She hadn't any sexual experience, but it wouldn't be any of their business even if she had.

  Sex was difficult for shape-shifters. Many used it, and abused it, as a means of establishing power—especially the shape-shifters with heavily ingrained pack instincts. A quick and brutal fuck from behind usually served as an effective reminder of where you stood in the pack hierarchy.

  It was rape, but many of them didn't see it that way. Not even the victims. The alphas brainwashed their packs so thoroughly, it almost never came up. And when it did, those who protested were often killed.

  As an example. As a warning.

  Intimacy was a terrifying concept to Catherine. It meant putting yourself in a position where you were the submissive, opening yourself up to the possibility of pain and hurt. Intimacy meant trust. It meant lying on your back with your belly exposed, and having faith that you wouldn't be killed.

  To her, it meant being Prey.

  She supposed it could be tolerable, or even pleasurable, if you found the right person, but so far that hadn't happened, yet. Not even close.

  The coffee scalded her throat like hot tar. She swallowed, and let her eyes sweep the room. She found the speaker and gave him a look so cutting she swore he was about to piss his pants.

  “Looks like you might be paying a visit to the ER after all, Jeff.”

  “Shut up, man.” The human Jeff looked frightened, chastened. No lasting change, that. He'd be back to normal in a few hours. Back to his misogynistic status quo. Humans. For all that they pretended to be civilized, they were no better than beasts at heart.

  Stupid humans, what a waste of her time.

  Chapter Five

  A foul smell wafted out of the biology classroom. It was the sour, pickled tang of death.

  Catherine immediately knew that today's lesson plan was going to involve her trying not to breathe through her nose. Those were always the winners. Like the urine analysis lab that had sent Predator into territorial overdrive. That had been one of the worst days ever.

  While running out of the classroom, on the pretense of being about to throw up, she'd bumped into a guy who was waiting in line for the test that would measure his white blood-cell count, and he'd upended most of his cup of urine over a girl named Bonnie Sung. She'd started cursing at Catherine, who, egged on by her hyperactive Predator, snidely told the other girl that urine was sterile, and that she probably got more germs from tonguing David Tran in the hallways between classes. This seemed to make Bonnie think that Catherine had done it on purpose.

  Calling her a “pisser” had also probably been in poor taste. Especially since the nickname had kind of stuck. Something that Bonnie “Pisser” Sung did not take kindly to; she did everything in her power to remind Catherine of this daily. Even though she was no longer dating David, she was still one of the most popular girls in the school. Catherine's already precarious social standing had taken a major hit from Bonnie's smear campaign, especially since most of what she said was true.

  The other early birds were milling around in various slouching postures. Most of them looked bored or anxious. Only one other student's face mirrored her discomfort.

  David Tran.

  He met her eyes—the briefest flash of ebony—and then glanced away.

  The Trans had been friends of her parents. David and Catherine had played together as children. Endless games of 'Slayers and Shifters.' Catherine always wanted to be the Slayer because it meant taking a stick (which was supposed to be a silver dagger) and pretending to stab him through the heart with it. Even as a child, she preferred being the hunter, not the hunted.

  There were only a few old shifter families left, and even fewer Glamors, so they tended to be cliquish. Catherine's family had emigrated from England about two hundred years ago. Although David's family was of Vietnamese ancestry they had moved from China, and their emigration had been far more recent.

  Until recently, China was one of the safer countries for shape-shifters to live in; animal spirits were considered auspicious, so if a shape-shifter was seen in animal form, it was a sign of good luck. And because meddling with the affairs of the gods was seen as tempting fate, the people of the republic did not ask questions.

  Westernization had changed that.

  Their families had been inseparable. They would go to Chinatown in San Francisco to see the Chinese New Year. And every summer, David and his family would split the cost of a beach house with Catherine's. Until they were about twelve-years-old, they even shared the same room. Some of her fondest memories were of those lazy August afternoons, running on the beach with David in her wake, exploring the caves etched into sandy faces of the dunes, gathering seashells.

  But the Trans stopped feeling comfortable around her when her fifteenth birthday rolled around and she still hadn't settled. All powers have a system of checks-and-balances, and shape-shifting was no exception. Shortly after puberty, shape-shifters lost the ability to Change into animals at will, settling into one particular animal, which was driven partly by experience, and partly by genetics. At least, you were supposed to. Catherine…well, hadn't.

  And she became persona non grata as far as the Trans were concerned.

  They blew her parents off. Politely, at first. The Trans were nothing if not polite. But then the excuses began piling up as they refused invitations and stopped taking the Pierces' calls. “Sorry, we're visiting relatives.” Or, “Sorry, David has too much homework.” After several weeks of this, the Trans turned nasty. “Sorry, we don't want David hanging out with that freak.”

  It had been such a cutting blow. As if she weren't sensitive enough about being different already. Now she couldn't even be 'normal' among her own kind.

  The 'freak' could barely curb her enthusiasm when she discovered she had double blocks of biology with David every Monday and Thursday. Intangible reminders just weren't enough.

  She finished off the coffee from the cafeteria, crumpling the Styrofoam cup in her fist. It had been three years. She should be used to this by now. Used to being different.

  Used to being a freak.

  But David's presence kept catching her off guard. First at the beginning of the year, and again, in the here and now. For several hours, Catherine had forgotten all about David. Familial grudges faded into the pale when one was busy running for one's life. Now the pain of that betrayal burned into her anew with the slow cruelty of silver.

  She dumped her bag on the ground and shut her eyes.

  “Catherine?”

  Chase's whiny, nasal voice was like a cheese grater on her eardrums. She didn't open her eyes. “What?”

  “Uh, I was just wondering if you had any news about the book?”

  When she opened her eyes, it was to glare at him. “Chase,” she said, keeping her voice deliberately slow, “it is one-fifty P.M. on a Monday. My shift doesn't start for another twenty-five hours.”

  “I just thought that, uh, maybe…you know…with e-mail.”

  “I don't do work when I'm off the clock.” Catherine angled her body away from him, so she wouldn't have to look at him. “Check back Tuesday. Until then, leave me the fuck alone.”

  Chase left, looking angry and humiliated. A few people whispered and snickered, speculating about the nature of his and Catherine's relationship, talking about how pathetic he was. The u
sual high school indignities. Catherine could care less about hurting the little dweeb's feelings. He was going to get her in trouble, she was sure of it, and trouble was one thing she had in spades.

  David was looking at her again. This time, she swore she caught him smirking. He quickly composed his face, but shape-shifters were adept at picking up on micro-expressions. Their continued survival depended on it.

  Catherine turned her glare on him, full-force. How dare he mock her pain. Did he think she enjoyed being branded as a freak, an untouchable? She injected a bit of Predator into her stare even though this was technically a violation of the First Rule. His smile disappeared. His ears turned pink under her sullen inspection. And though it meant conceding dominance, to a female, no less, he turned his head and looked away.