She continued her ruthless assault. “The entire bookstore was practically destroyed. Broken glass, toppled shelves. Guess somebody wanted that book more than you.”
“You should have sold it to me before! Then this never would have happened!”
Disappointment? Or thinly-veiled threat?
She was secretly glad he was being so pettish. It gave her permission to lash back at him.
“There's no point in raising your voice. The price you were asking wasn't fair. I could have gotten fired if I'd sold it to you for what you were asking. Do you realize that?”
Sourly, he said, “I told you I was willing to pay more—”
“That doesn't do either of us much good,” she said, “now that the book's gone.”
Chase slammed down the phone without another word.
And Catherine was no closer to knowing whether Chase was guilty than before. If he was guilty, he would be suspicious now, too, making things twice as difficult. She let the phone fall back into the cradle, and raked her hair out of her face. She might have expected as much.
Seconds after she set the phone down, it began ringing again. She picked up. Warily. “Yes?”
“Catherine? Oh my God, I just got Myrna's message. She sounded frantic.” It was Sharon. Catherine let out her breath as the other girl said, “What's going on? You working right now?”
“Yes, I am, but I'm supposed to keep the line open. Can you call me on my cell phone?”
Her cell phone immediately began ringing.
“Thanks,” Catherine said shortly, in lieu of hello. “Where are you? Are you coming in today?”
“All Myrna told me was that she had something important to tell me—hello, redundant much?—and that I was supposed to get there after school if I could, which I can't. I totally forgot: Mike asked me out for coffee and I didn't want to say that I had to go work at the library because how lame is that? He's so mature, already graduated too, and I'm so embarrassed about this dumb job.” Sharon drew in a gasping breath. “Why? She didn't say anything, did she?”
“Your absence was noted, if that's what you're asking.”
Catherine went on to describe what she'd seen, and how everything had been searched through and destroyed but nothing—not even the money in the cash register—had been taken.
“Yeah, that doesn't sound like any dumb-ass gang I've ever heard of,” Sharon scoffed.
But she, like Myrna, like the cops, didn't have any idea who would do such a thing.
“Does that mean the store is closed?” she asked, almost as an afterthought.
“No. We're still open for business.”
Things had actually been slightly busier than usual, mostly because people wanted a glimpse of the damage for themselves. Catherine had never understood this human fascination with disaster. Most creatures run when they sense danger. People grab a six-pack and a folding chair.
“Do you think she'll fire me? For um, you know, not being there?”
“You're not coming in…at all.”
“No, 'cause I'm still out with Mike. I just wanted to call and, like, check in.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
Sharon changed the subject. “Do they have any leads? They must know who did it. I mean, there's gotta be, like, security cameras or something, right?”
“The cameras don't work. Security never got around to hooking them up.”
“Dang.” Another silence. “Do you think whoever did it was creeping on us in those bushes?”
A red VW pulled up in front of the bookstore. “I gotta go,” said Catherine. “She's back.”
As she hung up the phone, she distinctly heard Sharon say, “Cover for me!”
The door opened. Myrna tossed her counterfeit Coach bag into the closet. “I hope that wasn't a personal call, Catherine. I told you I needed the line open.”
Catherine held up her cell. “It was Sharon. She wanted me to tell you that she couldn't come into work today. She had a, um, doctor's appointment. But she's sorry about what happened.”
In addition to the take-out bag from lunch—ugh, wherever she'd been, they weren't using pure beef—Myrna was carrying some green fliers. Catherine eyed them but did not comment just in case it would lead to further grunt work. But Myrna was too quick and Catherine found the fliers being shoved into her hands, leaving her with little choice but to accept them.
“Make sure you hand these out to all your little friends.”
Little friends? Catherine stared at them as if they were covered in flesh-eating bacteria.
“What are they?”
“They're for a new youth club.”
They were printed in Comic Sans, and covered in low-res clip-art.
“Sterling Rep—for kids who want to play a more active role in the community!”
Catherine scanned it, quickly losing interest. Clean wholesome activities. Bake sales. Ice cream socials. Bunko nights. This club didn't miss a beat. It would be a smash hit…circa 1950.
“Their chairman wants to reserve one of the library conference rooms for a meeting. I met him at the Taco Barn and he told me all about it. Sterling Rep is a wonderful outreach program for adolescents. In fact, they're forming branches at each of the schools.”
That did sound familiar. Hadn't her brother mentioned a club like that?
All the more reason not to go.
“You might know him actually,” Myrna said, “I believe he said he was a teacher at your school.”
Catherine felt the color drain from her face. Gods only knew what he might have said about her.
She set the fliers aside, carelessly. “What was his name?”
“Mr. Bordello. Emilio Bordello. Strange name, wonderful man. Very friendly, charming…”
Her eyes began to lose focus, and Catherine could smell her desire as it took root. Ugh. Luckily, Myrna caught herself, and sighed, “Perhaps you should join, Catherine. I already told him that he could count on our FoL support. Get it?”
“Nice of you.”
How many of these fund-raisers was she going to have to attend? Because it would be her. Sharon would undoubtedly find something urgent to do at the last minute.
How many of these fund-raisers was she going to have to attend? Because it would be her. Sharon would undoubtedly find something urgent to do at the last minute.
“He seemed very eager to meet you, especially when he found out you were a student.”
I bet he had.
“I told him he could depend on you.”
“When's the first meeting?”
“Tomorrow. Isn't it wonderful how they've managed to start so soon, without a hitch?”
No, it wasn't. Wednesday night was the night she had planned for Operation Locust.
•◌•◌•◌•◌•
Much like human nobles and their penchant for fox hunts, in days of old the noble witch families had hunted down shape-shifters for sport. It was not as brutal as it seemed. Shape-shifters used to outnumber witches by about ten to one; it was a means of keeping their population under control, while also giving witches the chance to practice their dueling magic on live targets.
Targets who could think and act as humans did—within reason.
Of course, that had all changed after the War, and the treaty. A treaty that the shape-shifters continually chose to disregard. As much as they chafed under the new rules, they had to admit that things were better, now that their skins could no longer be used for target practice.
Finn often wondered what that must be like, hunting like that—he bet it was exhilarating.
It had been exhilarating.
When he had been chasing her through the woods, he had been acting as his ancestors before him had, over two hundred years ago. Never before had he experienced its like. Hunting her—it had been better than pleasure, better than sex. He had never felt more alive.
It hadn't been too difficult to track her down again, to find out where she lived. Now that he knew where she worked
and went to school, he needed only follow her. The trickiest part was to mask himself from her senses, and by weaving a cloak of wind around himself with a powerful spell of air, he could keep his scent perpetually upwind and out of her reach.
Once or twice, she paused, tilting her head like a fox or a cat. Listening. Watching. Nobody who saw that gesture would ever mistake her for a human. Not if they knew what to look for. She walked like a hunter, leading with her hips, arms held loosely at her sides ready to slash into her prey. When she walked, her footsteps made almost no sound.
She had the mannerisms of a predator yes, but whatever it was she was mimicking, it was definitely not a hawk. That puzzled him. Shape-shifters took on the habits of their beast once they settled. Partially from habit, and partially from instinct. Making the bridge between animal and human was crucial for them if they had any hope of maintaining their sanity.
Newly settled, perhaps? But no, she was too old. She would have settled years ago. Five years at least. Time enough to know the ways of the bird he had seen her Change into on the cliff face.
A scrap of legend floated to him, unbidden. That of the bête noire, the black beast.
Finn frowned as he silently stalked her through the trees. The wind wrapped around him ruffled the leaves of the trees nearby, even though there was no breeze. I wonder….
But he was far too old, too insouciant, to care for such childish fairy tales.
From then on, he watched. And waited.
It's almost time.
•◌•◌•◌•◌•
Biology was Catherine's last class, so she had all day to stew in her dread.
David, as it turned out, was right. She was risking too much for far too little. The Council wouldn't see her stunt—and it was a stunt, she reluctantly admitted—with the crickets as precautionary. No, they would see it as a recklessness punishable by relocation or worse.
She sat down stiffly at her desk. The classroom was filled with a cloying chemical smell, strong and a little sweet. Probably chloroform. The thought of what was to come made her feel ill.
Several girls pleaded tearfully with Mr. Hauberk to be excused from the assignment. He assured them that this was not a true vivisection in the sense that the crickets would be killed—by him—just before they got down to the dissection, appearing not to realize how little consolation this provided. “I figured this would make it more tolerable for the weak stomachs in the class,” he said magnanimously, and inside her mind, Predator snorted. How comforting.
Catherine took another deep breath, avoiding using her nose. The lab stations were already set up. Each pair of students had a wax-filled petri dish, scissors, a clear bottle with a faded handwritten label marked “saline solution”, and a wicked-looking pair of forceps.
David shot her a thin smile. “You ready?”
Wordlessly, she shook her head.
“I will come around shortly and put the chloroform in the jars.”
Mr. Hauberk explained that chloroform was a potent substance and far too dangerous for children to handle.
“In the wrong dosage, it can be lethal,” he explained. “Now, wearing your gloves, you will then place your crickets into the petri dish. Remove the wings first. They will only be in your way. After you remove the wings, place one pin through the head and another through the thorax to keep the insect's body in place. You do not want it to slip as you are making incisions.”
He demonstrated, inserting the pins just-so. She flinched, in spite of herself.
“Cut through the abdomen, vertically, from top to bottom. You should be able to see the heart.”
She turned to ask David if he was going to do it, or if the honor was going to be hers. Cloaking her terror in bravado, the way she always did. Before she could ask, though, he gripped the scissors in his hand with a surprising resoluteness.
Catherine relaxed a hair. If David was going to do the cutting then she could take notes. She just would not look up under any circumstances and then she would be fine. But—oh, she'd have to make the drawings and label the parts. And the smell…it was making her dizzy.
So dizzy…I feel…like I might just…float away.
Mr. Hauberk came by their station and put the chloroform in their cricket's jar. Slowly, the cricket stopped moving, settling into a deep, poisoned sleep. David methodically pulled on his gloves and goggles, gently scooping out the cricket. The small, bark-like body looked very fragile in his large hands as he positioned it carefully on the wax.
Was it dead, or merely sleeping? Soon, it would cease to matter.
The momentary ease she felt immediately disappeared as she glimpsed the limp, brown body.
Do sleeping crickets dream?
Her stomach clenched like a vise. Maybe it was the fumes. Her head was throbbing quite painfully. Several other students looked peaky as well.
“Use the saline solution to ensure that the heart doesn't dry out. Saline can also be used to remove any of the eggs that have leaked into the body cavities of the females.”
“Are you writing this down?” asked David.
She jumped guilty. Tore her eyes away from Mr. Hauberk. Watching the demo wasn't helping.
Do not look up from this notebook, she told herself. Do not look up from this—
Catherine blinked. She stared at her pencil. Had it always been that size? Surely pencils were not ordinarily the size of felled saplings…were they?
Don't be stupid. Of course not.
But then why—?
The chloroform. It was causing her to hallucinate.
With the detached serenity that only comes in dreams, Catherine flex her arm, intending to reach out for the pencil. To touch it, and ascertain if it was really, truly real.
Nothing happened.
Her arm wouldn't move.
It was stuck—both arms were—pinned uselessly to her sides.
“David,” she tried to say, “I don't feel good.”
And my head, my head, there's something wrong, it feels as if there's something in there—
A mechanical noise came out of her mouth. Dry, and toneless, like the ticking of a pocket watch.
What?
Something silvery gleamed in her periphery. The forceps. They, too, looked a lot bigger. And the giant forceps were descending from the sky, slowly, but undeniably in her direction.
And she couldn't help but notice that they were very, very sharp.
“David!” Her voice sounded raw with panic in her aching head. Perhaps they didn't leave her mouth at all, instead bouncing around like a spiked rubber ball. “What are you doing? Stop it!”
He looked down at her with an expression equal parts pity and disgust.
“Goddess, forgive me,” he whispered, bowing his head slightly in prayer.
That was when the pieces clicked together, with a sound like the ones from her very own mouth.
In her panic, Catherine had Changed into a cricket—
And David was about to dissect her.
Chapter Eleven
Catherine shot up with a gasp, a phantom scream ringing shrilly in her ears. Her—that was her scream.
It took her a moment to understand what had happened, and where she was.
I'm—I'm in my room.
I'm human.
I'm alive.
When she started to sit up, the biology textbook slid off her chest and landed on the floor with a heavy thud that made her jump. I must have fallen asleep studying. The sheets were wrapped around her legs, pinning them, cold and damp with chilled sweat.
That explains why I couldn't move. Why I couldn't—
Her mouth went hot with bile. There was a sudden rush of movement in her throat and she stumbled out of bed, running to the bathroom, where she promptly, messily, emptied her stomach of all its contents.
Her eyes were watering. The vomit left her throat feeling dry and raw and pinched. Slowly, she shook her head, trying to clear it. The dream had been too acute. Too real.
This
is what I get for being a good girl and studying before bedtime. Horrible dreams, science projects gone wrong, and puke.
It wasn't fair.
She flushed the toilet, wiped the seat, and, with effort, climbed back to her feet. The floor seemed to tilt and waver beneath her and her reflection, when she looked in the mirror, was horrifying. Almost a nightmare in and of itself.
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