by Kay Camden
Tar.
Anger broils in my head. I lose my foothold, slide a few inches before jamming boots into a wedge of trunk and limb. My .45 could blow holes in some brains right now and end this fast. I could drop right into the center of the gang, but unarmed? Against what, twenty guys? Possibly more in the surrounding trees?
Sloane slips out and they snag her again. More guys pile on. Brutish hands all over her arms and legs. I don’t care how skilled she is, this is death. Her body disappears under an onslaught of black tactical wear and muscles. My head’s about to explode from helpless rage. I can’t stay here and watch this. If it’s her death, it’s mine too. I unwedge my feet, calculate the best place to land.
A flurry of black bursts forth from the gang of bodies. All faces turn up toward me. Wings, feathers, talons, beak are silhouetted against the moon-flooded sky. I look down at the spot Sloane last was, see her rumpled shirt and shorts alone on the ground, shiny black feathers drifting to rest on top.
Voices shout orders. Scoped rifles raise toward the sky. And the trees around me explode into a cackling madness of wings and wind. Birds in the hundreds diving toward the men, creating chaos and a perfect diversion for escape. I’m not sure how they got here, if they were here the whole time, or if this dream has just turned bizarre, but good, I’ll take it. Whether Sloane’s disappeared into thin air or has shapeshifted into one of those dive-bombing crows, I’ll leave it to her to find me. I’m so out of my league.
I monkey through trees. Bullets split wood all around me. I duck behind a trunk, wishing I was on the ground to disarm the shithead and blow his face off. Risking a peek rewards me with a scorch across my shoulder. I tug the neck of my shirt down, find it’s just a graze. There’s a weaker limb beside me that branches far out, heavy on the end and right over the guy’s head. So I jump onto it, feel the wood splinter. I get a grip on the limb above and kick; it snaps and crashes down. Time to go.
When I no longer hear men trampling through the underbrush, I drop from the trees and race for our camp. I hop a log I don’t remember hopping before. I’ve lost my way. Stopping to find the moon gets me tackled. I didn’t even see him coming. The barrel of a pistol jams into my gut. I knock it away, seeing the flash that would’ve been my death. His sick weight piles on, but I’m contorting around him, his gun arm in my grip, twisted—snapped. He grunts, pissed. But I have that gun now. A pop to my ribs so brutal I taste blood. I press the barrel into flesh that isn’t mine and fire, his weight falling away. I get up and shoot him in the head. Survey the woods around me for more. Then run.
At our camp I snatch as much of our stuff as I can and sprint to the R5. Wheels spin under my impatient foot; my neck snaps as the tires find their grip. I struggle into my harness while I steer and shift, trying to get latched before I brain myself on the window or roof. Once I reach the pavement, it’s smoother driving but I slam the brakes anyway, unsure what the hell to do. Night insects float into my beam of headlights as I catch my breath and cough blood into my hand. It sure feels like I’m leaving Sloane back there. Like I’m all alone. I can’t—just can’t—
Shoving out of the car only makes it worse. The empty road stretches far in both directions. The world is huge and I’m nothing. She’s been abandoned and so have I.
I turn and glance down the road in the direction I came from. How ridiculous would it be to go back? If it’s a dream, I’ll do it. Even if I go back and die, I’ll wake up safe. If it’s real, though, it could be the last bad decision I make. I take my phone out and check the time: fifteen past four. I count sixty seconds and check again: now sixteen past. Okay, so not a dream, right? I get back in the car and hit the gas.
A dark thing swoops in front of me, the gibbous moon bright behind it. I lean forward and look up. A crow is circling, drifting down beside the car. Maybe I should slow down but the shock I’ve entered has hijacked my nervous system. We’re neck and neck in this drag race, bird versus car, but she’s drifting further down, nearing the ground, and oh shit, it’s not really a bird but Sloane as a bird, unskilled in flight, about to crash into the pavement.
Between one breath and the next I no longer see a crow but a deer springing beside me in long leaps. When she pulls ahead, I realize I’ve let my foot off the gas and I’m slowing down. The R5 shudders; I stomp the clutch before it dies and come to a stop. I look through the glass at the deer. She looks back.
I get out. She comes forward, takes a gentle bite of my shirt and yanks. I’m not prepared for the power in it, and I have to stumble to keep from falling forward. “You want clothes?”
That’s good news, I guess, that she knows how to shift back. I shed my shirt and drop it at her feet—hooves? She nudges my arm. I turn my back to her, too anxious to get her into my car in her human body to pretend I don’t know what a deer wants.
A tingle of magic plays down my back as I hear a thump on the ground behind me. A shuffle of fabric, then a tap on the shoulder. I spin around and find a human girl, messy hair, sheepish grin. That stunt was so damn sick I think I might have to get on my knees and worship her, like right now, broken ribs and bullet graze and all.
“Witch,” I say.
She gives me the finger. Wearing only my shirt. It’s so fucking hot.
Sloane opens the R5’s hatch and digs through her bag. On the other side of the car she gets dressed, tossing my shirt back to me over the roof. As I tug it on, I think I hear crows—no, I know I hear crows. I walk a few steps backward on the road. She comes to stand beside me.
They emerge from the darkness like a fast-moving fog, and for a moment I wonder if they’re after her. If she stole one of their bodies and they want it back, but too bad, it’s been turned into a deer then back into a girl so sorry, guys, you’re out of luck.
Sloane shows no fear though, so I take the cue from her and stand my ground. The flock swoops in, filling the sky with noise and wings.
“What do they want?”
She lays a hand on my arm that says, Shut up, I’m trying to figure that out.
Then she’s yanking me back to the car. We strap in and take off, and I’m looking at her because I need to know what’s going on. She goes for my pockets—shit, that bottle. I shift, pushing her away and find my phone myself. I check the time before I hand it to her. It’s incrementing normally. Real life. Not a nightmare. Not a freak-out.
Those guys are coming.
“Say the crows?”
Yes.
“They’re not mad you stole their body?”
She shoots a sharp look my way. No, because I didn’t.
In the rearview mirror, headlights blink over a hill behind us, so noticeable on this dark road she turns in her seat to watch them through the back window. I don’t like how quickly they seem to be gaining on us, or how they’ve been joined by two more vehicles behind them. I check my fuel level—all good. So I downshift and we both get whiplash. I flip off my lights and stay off the brakes until we’ve done enough curves to lose them. She points at an upcoming intersection on the nav. Once I’ve made the turn she finds my phone.
Go to your house.
“What—why?”
It’s time.
I look over at her. Yes, I’m ready for this to be over, but after all that shit back there, I’d like to rest up a bit, maybe get some food, heal the broken ribs, or at least have some time to load my guns.
Their army is back there. And they won’t expect us. How fast can you get us there?
*
Pretty damn fast, that’s how fast. By the time we roll up to the iron border fence on the north, I’m shaking from the adrenaline of the drive. She’s as cool as a coma.
“Would this be a bad time to mention my ribs are broken?”
She pokes me right there. After my vision returns, I’m surprised I’m not dead.
You’ll just have to deal. She gets out of the car and knocks
on the hatch.
Miss Sympathetic, huh? I wonder if part of her brain disappeared with the crow body, or deer body, or both. How can I even be sure this is the real Sloane? I get out and grab her arm, force her to look at me. The tightness in her face is so new I hardly recognize her. It’s morphing before my eyes though—falling, losing structure. And her breathing has changed to match the wet eyes and new frown. It hurts so bad I forget the broken ribs. “What happened?”
She places a hand over her chest and spells, Had to let it go. It’s all over me now.
“That shit you’ve been collecting?”
Her lip quivers. She nods, wiping her eyes.
“Okay, so now what?”
She shrugs. Now I’m like you.
Wait a sec. Like me? First of all no, she hasn’t put me back to my normal self yet like she promised. Second, she didn’t grow up like I did. Third, she doesn’t fucking know what it feels like to be me.
She goes for the hatch release, and I put my hand on the glass to keep it down. “You’re fixing me before we go in there.”
It doesn’t register on her face so I hand her my phone and repeat it.
I’ll never fix you.
“You promised. Swore a blood oath, actually.”
I lied. She hands back my phone like she’s done. The queen has spoken. I slam a hand against the hatch window so hard I brace for broken glass but it miraculously stays intact.
Next thing I know I’m on the ground supporting my broken ribs with both hands and she’s loading guns inside the open hatch. I kick her in the ankle. She leans, her signing hand in my face. I said I’d do it after finishing your family so back off.
And she actually looks like she might kick me in the ribs again, so I push away to gain some amount of space for defense. To think I ever thought she was crazy before this moment. To believe she was trash like the rest of her family. I was so wrong then; I had nothing to compare to. This is crazy. This is Bevan trash. This is why we hate them, why we fight them, why we have to destroy them.
All good for me. I pat my pockets and find the outline of the bottle. She’s made it so much easier.
I pick my ass up and load guns beside her. Strap on holsters, fill my pockets with ammo. She tosses me a pressure wrap; I take off my shirt and wrap my torso. The support against my ribs gives instant relief. I swallow some pain reliever and slap a bandage over my grazed shoulder. She applies a butterfly bandage to my temple and a bandage to my chin. She doesn’t kiss it, and I take fucking note of that.
Her amulet is the last thing. I kind of hate it right now, and all it stands for. Our allegiance—a formality, a joke. Our friendship—no, forget that. Our hardcore connection, whether love or infatuation or just shallow making out … maybe it was a game to her but it was something to me, and I’m not going to deny that. I have honor now. Maybe it’s a new thing, but it’s here. So I string the Bevan family amulet around my neck and tuck it in my shirt and ignore her lingering gaze and the open door it is. I’m just not in the mood right now.
We find the break in the fence and go in. I also take note she’s skipping the Bevan war paint, and hell yeah, I’m too stubborn to mention what a mistake that could be because that mistake is on her. The walk through the north woods is more silent than a walk with a deaf girl. She’s not just deaf now, she’s encased in ice. If I chiseled it away, I’d probably destroy her too, and that would be premature because I need her to disable my family first.
She pokes me in the .45 and points through the underwood. I catch reflective eyes and a set of ears. “Coyotes?”
Her face says, Yes, and don’t shoot them, dumbass.
Okay but can I shoot her? I’m about done with this shit.
As we advance, more coyotes gather, sneaking along with us like government surveillance. Above, bats have gone from random to all over, and it’s kind of nice to have so much activity so I don’t think about how I’m about to attack my own family with our sworn enemy. So I don’t imagine who I might kill. I must have a dope amount of adrenaline today because it’s filling me up again. I’m trying to breathe. Sloane’s presence used to help me with this, but today it’s making it worse. I power ahead, following her because I can’t see the path on my own.
We reach the edge of the woods. The lawn spans ahead like a waiting battleground. I look at her, some tiny piece of me begging for the camaraderie we used to have when facing a new house to take down. Being together made each one easier than the last. It never felt like some unsurmountable task. It never felt like walking into a battle with questionable outcome. We could only win together. Divided? Who the hell knows.
Now there’s a thick buzz building in my head, which is great. Probably a side effect from marching through the woods with broken ribs or a concussion. Did I get punched in the head recently? Probably.
I step onto trimmed grass in a growing pack of coyotes—so many of them I can’t believe they’ve all come off our land. Since I’ve lost sight of Sloane, I follow the pack, amazed they aren’t ripping me apart. Gunshots echo across the property. We pick up the pace, coyote trot turning to hard run, head low, tails like arrows behind them. For the briefest moment I wish I had Sloane’s power to shapeshift and blend with this unified pack. My family would never know it was me until the end.
Ahead, coyotes slow and circle. Sloane stands above them, aiming two-handed at the windows on the north side of the house, taking them out one by one. Bats swoop into the new openings so hard and fast it’s like the house is sucking them in. Sloane turns around then and cuts the coyote pack down the middle with a straight hand. They part—half with her, half with me. She looks at me, points at the front of the house then turns and marches up the rear steps to the back patio and rear entrance.
Dividing up shouldn’t be such a blow. It makes sense. We’ve always worked together, though, so it’s a change—a change that I don’t agree with.
I can’t get myself to move right away because three armed guards have leaked from the house, and I’m dying to be at Sloane’s side. They’re holding fire, knowing if they hurt Sloane those coyotes will attack, and they won’t be able to take them all out at once. Sloane shoots all three guys mechanically, non-lethal hits that take them down and out of the game without killing. Not right away, anyway. Not if they find first aid. She steps over their bodies and disappears into the house.
Coyotes nudge me. I turn to face the pack. One raises its muzzle to yip-yip-howl. It catches on across the group and gets my legs moving to the front of the house. We encounter a whole group of guards who hesitate just like the others, and I’m not so humane. I stare at the open front door. This is my last time entering this house as Rex the soldier. When I leave through this door, I’ll be Rex the king.
Chapter 29
Sloane
Inside a vacant kitchen I withdraw my last sleeping stone from my pocket and raise it high, beckoning the dark cloud of hate, the first one I ever encountered. It swirls down like it remembers me, like it’s been waiting. The darkness inside me pulses hot in my head, its echo traveling all the way to my toes.
I can’t use this sleeping spell. I’ve given myself over to the hate. I’m made of it now. It’s not a concentrated mass anymore; it’s uncoiled and spread through my whole body and being. And the black magic in me has latched on like a starved thing I can no longer deny. If I connect this stone, it won’t just knock out every resident Moore, it will take me down too.
Coyotes mill around me. One sidles close enough to brush against my leg. They’re not just here to help me their friend, they’ve been summoned by me the black witch. They’re working out of both loyalty and fear. I’ve been bred to draw two magics together, and they clash inside me just as I clash in the world. I’m a freak. I’m unstoppable. I’m being ripped in half.
I stumble to the kitchen sink and barf into the drain. My earth magic is still fighting to reclaim its space. The
black magic is winning. And I’m about to give in too.
A bat lands on my shirt and climbs to my neck, tangling its claws in my long braid. I’m helpless without the sleeping spell. We didn’t predict this problem and had no backup plan. Without Rex I don’t know who’s a Moore and who’s hired help. We shouldn’t have split up on this mission. I need him to identify which people I should bleed and cure and which need to be disarmed and left alone.
Coyotes push against me. They’ve found a small staircase leading up. I take it to the second floor and recognize the hall outside the room where I was held captive. The room Grandma Sloane lived in for decades. Bats stream along the ceiling, doing the work I’ve demanded. Find people. Bring them to their knees.
Men rush from the opposite end of the hall. Coyotes attack as bullets fly. I raise a hand to alter their direction away from my army. They burst light bulbs and pit walls. A pull of black magic will drag more hate from that cloud and add to the poison inside me, but I do it anyway, offering a thought to the men: Drop your weapons and go to your knees.
They do at once.
Now lead me to Rex’s mother.
They stand in unison. I follow them up a luxurious staircase to a room at the corner of the house. The door pops open at my command, and the men fearfully step back, as if this little trick is more shocking than straight-up mind control.