by Faith Hunter
Soul rested her hands on his shoulders. “See if this helps.” The skin below her palms stopped aching. Instantly. From there it spread down his body, soothing and cool. Somehow the sensation made him think of the color green, green water, green grass in a green meadow. In two minutes he was mostly pain free.
Raising his head, he looked up at Soul. “You’re not a witch. Not a were. You measure on the psy-meter as a human, but you’re not. What kind of creature are you?”
“Creature.” Soul tsked. “Such rude, personal questions. Surely your mother taught you better. Let’s find the person who stole your music and wanted to drug you.”
Rick cursed but managed to roll to his feet. All he wanted to do was curl up and sleep, but making the grade at Spook School would be an effort of perseverance, and the three days of the month when he was moon-called were the days the PTBs would watch him most closely. The world lurched and he nearly fell, but Brute came and sat at his side.
After a moment, Rick rested his hand on Brute’s head. He had never touched the wolf before, and the long hair was coarse, but the shorter hair near the wolf’s skin was softer, and warm. Far warmer than human skin. The heat felt good on Rick’s chilled skin. Brute didn’t react, didn’t look up at him, or snap, or move away. Pea raced up the wolf’s back then up Rick’s arm to his shoulder. She nuzzled his cheek and crooned softly. Rick chuckled, his voice hoarse, and adjusted the player’s strap.
“Brute. Follow . . .” He stopped. Soul had said something about his mama and manners. “Brute, would you please follow the scent you discovered outside?”
The werewolf huffed softly and went to the door, taking his warmth with him, leaving Rick’s hand cold. He followed the wolf slowly, feeling the moon call’s ache in his bones. But if he wanted to be a PsyLED agent, he had to make it through this full moon sane and functioning. And the next moon. And the next after that.
He paused at the threshold and took a slow breath, fear skittering up his spine on chitinous legs, sweat trickling in its wake. Stepping into the moonlight took an effort of will. But he followed the wolf back to the scent-marked grass in the moonlight. This time, Brute took a single sniff and started walking, nose to the ground, glancing back only once to make certain Rick was there. Soul close behind them, they moved across the compound, past the farmhouse kitchen. Toward the business offices, the library, and the communication building.
One of the security guards stepped from the shadows and looked them over. It was Ernest, and Soul paused, asking the guard to follow them. They wound through the compound, Brute’s nose to the earth, and they reached the administration building. At the foot of the stairs, the werewolf paused, burying his nose in the grass again, breathing in and out with no rhythm, fast, short, long. Soul and Ernest stood silently behind them. Rick could hear the crackling of the guard’s radio.
Finally Brute blew out and turned his head to Rick. The wolf’s head was down, his shoulders high, ruff high, ears flat. Whatever he was smelling, it wasn’t good. Brute started up the steps to the admin building, setting his paws carefully, slowly, his nose moving back and forth over each step. When he reached the narrow porch, that low-pitched, rumbling growl started, and Rick automatically reached for his weapon. He was unarmed and his hands closed on empty air. Brute snarled, showing fangs. Behind him, he heard the soft whisper of leather on steel as Earnest drew his sidearm and positioned to the left. Soul moved quickly to Rick’s right, her feet silent on the wood.
Brute stared at Rick, his eyes almost glowing, trying to communicate . . . something.
“Are you still tracking the same scent from my quarters?” Rick asked.
Brute nodded once, then shook his head.
“Yes and no?”
Brute nodded, showing a gleam of teeth in the night.
Rick asked, “Have you smelled this scent before?”
Brute nodded, his eyes so intense that Rick felt, for a moment, like prey. He had no idea what to ask next. Brute huffed, put out a paw, and traced a jagged shape.
Rick asked, “The full moon?”
Brute shook his head.
Rick said, “It’s just a circle.”
Brute huffed, his head jutting forward.
“A witch circle,” Rick said. “The witch circle at the crime scene. You found the coven leader. Here.”
Brute nodded once, slowly.
“She’s been here all along?”
Brute nodded and turned back to the door, his eyes, nose, and ears focused on the wood.
“Someone I’ve never had contact with.”
Soul said, “Call backup, Ernest. Now.”
The guard didn’t bother to reply, but murmured into his mike, “Backup to admin. Silent, armed approach.” To Soul, he said, “I’m carrying only standard ammo.”
Soul pulled up her skirt to reveal a thigh holster. She handed Rick a Smith and Wesson .22, still warm from contact with her body.
Holding a weapon, Rick instantly felt better. He released the magazine and checked the ammo. “Silver shot,” he said. He slammed the magazine back into place, pulled back on the slide, injecting a round into the chamber. Rick stepped into the shadows beside the door and slowly turned the knob. It wasn’t locked.
He pointed to the wolf and held up one finger, then to himself and held up two fingers, then to Ernest with three fingers. The guard nodded, pointed left. Rick nodded and pointed right. He turned off his music and opened the door. Brute flowed in like a white cloud, hunched down, silent. Rick followed to the right, and felt, as much as heard, Ernest and Soul move left.
Inside the entry was dark, lit only by the green glow of computer battery backups. Brute didn’t need more light; neither did he. They moved through the entry, around the counter, to the doorway in back. It opened to a hallway, offices on either side. Music flowed through the air, the mellow sounds of wood flutes, familiar and calming. His music, stolen from his quarters, the music that Chief Smythe had been so interested in.
The frame around one doorway was bright, and Brute padded down the hallway, nose down, to that door. Rick followed, and the music grew louder. He expected the office to be Chief Administrator Liz Smythe’s. Instead, it was Mariella Russo’s office, her name in gold leaf on the wood. Mariella Russo, who was on call the night he went to the crime scene.
He stood back and let Ernest take his place. The man reached out and took the knob in hand, turning it slowly. The door didn’t creak as it swung open. Light flooded into the dark hall along with his music, amplified, and a stench like rotten cabbage, rotten eggs, and burned matches. Rick covered his nose. Brute padded inside two paces and halted.
The office furniture had been pushed back, exposing the wood floor, painted with a witch’s circle and pentagram. In the circle was a dark cloud and a body, human, Caucasian, female. Blond. Rick felt the shock of recognition. Polly. He didn’t have to wonder if she was dead. Her abdominal cavity had been ripped open, and the cloud was feeding on her. A demon. Mariella Russo was sitting at her desk, staring into the witch circle, her cupped hands in front of her, holding something that glowed yellow green.
Soul leaped for the desk, her body leaving the floor in one smooth, sleek movement. Agile. Inhuman. Both Ernest and Rick lifted their weapons in two-hand stances. Fired. Two taps. Ernest’s slammed Russo midcenter of her body mass. Rick’s shot hit her forehead.
A half second later, the concussion of the shots still echoing, Soul was standing behind the desk, holding Mariella’s hands in hers. She eased the thing, whatever it was, from the dead administrator’s hands. “Call for a containment vessel,” she ordered. But Ernest was already doing so, his voice soft and in control.
Brute woofed and growled and ended on a faint whine, his eyes on Soul. Yeah, Rick thought, remembering her speed, like a time jump of movement. She wasn’t human. No way, no how. Not with that leap. He walked to the circle and stood beside Brute,
one hand on the wolf’s head, scratching gently at the base of the upright ears.
The demon raised up out of Polly’s naked body and hissed at them, showing a mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth. Ernest turned up the volume of the music and the demon closed its eyes, settling back to the corpse, as mellow as Rick felt when the music protected him from the moon call. He thought back to the spell at the crime scene. They had called up a moon demon. Soul lifted her eyes to Rick. “Please go back to your quarters.”
Rick ejected the magazine of Soul’s .22 and put the safety on before setting the gun on the desktop. He and his unit backed out just as four men rushed into the room, one carrying a cylindrical canister with a rounded top.
• • •
The next morning, Rick and his triumvirate were called to the chief administrator’s office. Since he hadn’t started with the other trainees, Rick hadn’t met the CA, Dr. Smythe, but now, the chief was sitting at her desk, her face grave, her salt-and-pepper hair in a short bob, her face set in the no-nonsense expression of a drill instructor. Soul was standing against the window, her arms crossed, her shoulders hunched, her stance protective and uncertain, maybe just a bit defiant.
The former cop, the wolf, and the grindylow stood inside the office, Rick’s eyes drawn to the pile of things on the CA’s desk. It was his nine mil and holster, his backup ankle weapon, stakes, three silvered vamp-killers, his money, ID, credit cards, and the little black velvet jewelry box he’d purchased on his last leave.
He hadn’t seen his stuff since that last leave, two weeks ago.
His next leave was days away.
It was two weeks until graduation.
They were booting him out.
Rick’s heart dropped. Brute looked up at him and whined. Nudged his hip with his damp nose. Rick put his hand to the wolf’s ears and scratched.
“It has been brought to my attention,” the CA said, “that you were part of the reason—”
“The only reason,” Soul interrupted.
The CA nodded serenely. “The only reason why Mariella Russo’s crimes were discovered. We now believe the three students who supposedly signed quit forms in the last few weeks did not terminate their schooling, but may have been fed to her demon.” The CA leaned back in her chair and templed her fingers at her chin. “We have launched a full investigation. We also understand that you witnessed”—she looked at Soul over her fingers—“something that is classified, and must remain so.”
Did she mean the sight of Soul flowing/leaping/gliding over the desk to catch the thing in Mariella’s hands before she dropped it? Or the containment cylinder? Or—
“But that isn’t why I called you here,” the CA said. “We have a problem in New Orleans. You are from there, yes?”
Rick straightened. This didn’t sound like a “you’re fired” speech. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And you are familiar with Leo Pellissier, the Master of the City.”
“I am.” He was related to Leo’s heir too, but he didn’t offer that, not now, not ever.
“We would like you to travel there and deal with the situation.” Rick’s breath exploded out of him, and he sucked in another. He hadn’t been aware that he’d been holding his breath. Smythe looked at Soul and her lips lifted into a faint smile. “Just so you know, Soul is against this. She feels you need more time here. Which is why, if you accept, she will be going with you.”
Soul’s mouth opened for a moment, then closed. “You could have told me,” she said.
The CA chuckled. “If you agree to the assignment, Soul will accompany you into the field and provide both a temporary partnership and the last weeks of your training. You may return for graduation, of course. Soul, please explain the assignment to your in-field trainee. If he accepts, collect the necessary gear from the Quonset hut, and credit cards for your expenses from financial.” Smythe stood and held out a wood box. “I am assuming you will accept. Your temporary badge.”
Rick took the box and shook Smythe’s hand. He wasn’t being booted. He was being given an assignment. Before graduation. “Thank you, ma’am.” The CA placed his gear in a paper bag, and had him sign for his personal belongings. Holding the bag and badge, Rick left the admin building with his unit and Soul. They stopped in the sunlight and Soul studied him, shading her eyes.
“They didn’t kick my ass out.” A smile pulled at his face. He wasn’t sure how long since he’d grinned that widely. Probably since he’d lost his humanity. “I have a present for you,” he said. Rick reached in the paper bag and held out the velvet box. “It was supposed to be a thank-you gift, for after graduation. But you should take it now. Sorry it isn’t wrapped.”
Soul raised her eyes to his and started to speak, but stopped and took the box instead. She opened it. Inside was a golden apple on a thin gold chain. “A golden delicious apple for the . . . creature.” He laughed as sparks flew from her eyes when he brought up the fact that she wasn’t human. “Tell me about the operation.”
Cajun with Fangs
Author’s note: This story takes place after Raven Cursed, but before the start of Death’s Rival.
Bitsa’s atypical roar and black smoke from her exhaust flowed down the bayou in a noxious, rough-sounding echo as I crossed the rickety, picturesque bridge into town. The bike’s shudder had me worried. The Harley had undergone an engine and full system rehab as well as a touch-up paint job recently in Charlotte, North Carolina, and she should be running like a top. But the misfire was getting worse, and I knew I’d never make it over the Atchafalaya River Basin and into New Orleans before nightfall without a mishap. The idea of a breakdown after dark on the stretch of I-10 in southwestern Louisiana’s mostly bayou/swamp/wetland or acres of farmland was not appealing. I hadn’t seen a nice hotel in miles, and the mom-and-pop joints I had seen in the last five miles looked like bedbug-infested roach motels.
The little town I’d pulled into was called Bayou Oiseau, on the banks of the bayou of the same name. The weatherworn sign back on 10 had advertised TASSIN BROS AUTO FIX, OPEN SIX DAYS A WEEK, EXCEPT IN GATOR-HUNTING AND FISHING SEASON, which sounded better than nothing. There was no telling if the Tassin brothers could work on a Harley or not, and I had no idea if it was gator-hunting or fishing season; but I had a few tools with me, and the shade of a nice live oak, an ice-cold Coke, and a chocolate bar would hit the spot, either way. I could always call someone from New Orleans for a lift, but I was miles out, and owing a favor of that magnitude was not something I really wanted. I had a few hundred in cash on me, enough to grease the oil-stained palms of most motor mechanics—under the table, of course—for a bit of advice, supplies, and maybe some actual help. Though that last part was unlikely.
The town itself was quaint in an unlikely way. Bayou Oiseau, which I thought meant “bird bayou,” looked like the love child spawned by the producer of a spaghetti Western and a mad Frenchwoman. At the crossroads of Broad Street and Oiseau Avenue (neither name appropriate for the narrow main street and its ugly, single-lane cousin), the architectural focal points were a mishmash of styles. As I thought that, Bitsa died. I spent a moment trying to kick-start her to no avail and finally sat, as the single traffic signal turned from red to green, balancing the bike and taking in the town in greater detail.
At my left, to the south, there was a huge brick Catholic church, the bell tower revealing a tarnished, patinated bell mostly hidden with decades of spiderwebs and home to dozens of pigeons. The large churchyard was enclosed by a brick wall with ornate bronze crosses set into the brick every two feet. On top of the wall were iron spikes, also shaped like sharp, pointed crosses. To the east of the church, across the road, was a bank made of beige brick and concrete, with the date 1824 on the lintel and green verdigris bars shaped like crosses on the windows and door. To my right was a strip mall that had seen better days, made of brick and glass, featuring a nail salon, hair salon, tanning salon, consignmen
t shop, secondhand bookstore, bakery, Chinese fast-food joint, Mexican fast-food joint, and a Cajun butcher advertising andouille sausage, boudin, pork, chicken, locally caught fish, and a lunch special for $4.99. It smelled heavenly. Every single window and door in the strip mall was adorned with a decal cross. The Chinese place also had a picture of nunchuks and a pair of bloody stakes crossed beneath.
“Well,” I muttered. “Wouldja look at this.”
Inside, my Beast purred with delight and peered out at the world through my eyes. My Beast was the soul of a mountain lion, one I’d pulled inside me in a case of accidental black magic when I was about five years old. She had an opinion about most everything, and ever since she came into contact with a fighting angel and demon, she’s been . . . different. More quiet. Less snarky. And though I’d never admit it to her, I missed her.
Directly ahead of me, catercornered from the church, was a saloon like something out of the French Quarter—two stories, white-painted wood with fancy black wrought iron on the balconies, narrow windows with working shutters, aged wood, double front doors carved to look like massive, weather-stained orchids. From it, I could smell beer and liquor and sex and blood—common enough in any bar, but even more common in vamp bars. The name of the place was LeCompte Spirits and Pleasure, the words spelled out in bloodred letters on a white sign hanging from the second-floor balcony. Whoever had painted it had deliberately let the red paint drip so it looked like blood, a not-so-subtle promise of vampire ownership and clientele.
I pushed Bitsa to the side of the road against the sidewalk and paid the parking meter two quarters. There were cars parked here and there up and down the main intersection, and movement inside the strip mall’s windows. Two hours before sunset, the town’s pace was lazy and relaxed, and the place smelled great. Mostly the Cajun place smelled great; the blood, liquor, and herbal vamp smell, not so much.