by Lexi George
Verbena pushed back her plate with a little moan of satisfaction. “That was fine, miss, mighty fine.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“Liked” was an understatement. Verbena had downed an astonishing amount of food for one so slender and ethereal looking. Did she have a hollow leg?
“Been living on apples and blackberries the past week,” Verbena said, as though guessing her thoughts. “Whadda you call them little brown cakes again?”
“Salmon croquettes.” Cassie wiped her mouth with her napkin and set her fork down. The food on her plate was largely untouched. “You’ve never had them?”
Verbena shook her head. “Fancy fish out of a can? No, ma’am.”
Cassie smiled at this description of her simple supper. “Canned salmon is hardly fancy.”
“Reckon that depends,” Verbena said, considering this. “Skinners grow what they eat, and trap and shoot the rest. Charlie didn’t hold with store-bought food, ’cepting for dry goods—meal, sugar, salt, and flour. Them kinda things. Wouldn’t a’ wasted good vittles on me, anyway. On account of me being a dud, you know.”
“They were wrong about that, now weren’t they?” Cassie kept her tone light, but the picture Verbena painted of her life made her angry. The Skinners should be whipped like rented mules. “I’m glad you enjoyed your supper. It’s not much fun cooking for one.”
Verbena gave her a curious look. “You ain’t never been married, miss?”
Cassie paused in the act of raising her glass. “No.”
“A fine beautiful lady like you? How come?” Verbena reddened when she saw Cassie’s expression. “’Scuse me. None o’ my business.”
Cassie unbent at the girl’s obvious chagrin. Taking a sip of tea, she considered Verbena. “How old are you, child?”
Verbena bolted upright in her chair. “Ain’t a child. Be twenty years old in a few months.”
“Twenty.” Cassie bit her lip to keep from smiling. “Practically a relic.”
She’d been twenty when she and Duncan had met and fallen in love, a lifetime ago. Several lifetimes ago. In the various incarnations she’d adopted to disguise the fact that she didn’t age, she’d been Cassie, Sibley, Chloe, Emma, and Maura, coming full circle to Cassie again.
“My mama was fifteen when she married Old Charlie,” Verbena said. “And you can’t be much older ’n me.” She appraised Cassie. “What are you, twenty-three? Twenty-four?”
“A few years older than that.” Almost two centuries older. Lord, this child made her feel ancient. Rising, Cassie gathered the dishes. “Would you care for dessert? There are cookies in the pantry, and ice cream in the freezer.”
Verbena stretched and yawned. Her blond hair was damp from her shower, and she looked very young in Cassie’s borrowed nightclothes.
“Naw,” she said. “I eat another bite, I’ll pop.”
“You’re worn out,” Cassie said. “Go to bed. I’ll clean up the kitchen.”
“And leave you to do the washing up when you done stood on yo’ feet, and cooked and fed me?” Verbena jumped to her feet. “I don’t think so. My mama would climb outta her grave and kick me to death if’n I was to be so sorry.”
Cassie chuckled. “Guess you’d better help, then.”
Between the two of them, the kitchen was soon spick-and-span. The odor of fried fish lingered, but a simple air cleansing spell performed by Cassie—to Verbena’s delight and wonder—soon remedied that.
Simple I can still manage, Cassie thought, with a wry smile.
There were two bedrooms and a bath upstairs. Cassie showed Verbena to the room farthest from the stairs, made sure she had everything she needed, and went back downstairs to make a phone call. Lordy, she dreaded this.
Hurrying to the landline in the hall—cell phones were useless in Hannah; the crater interfered with reception—she dialed Zeb’s number from memory. To her dismay, she got a recording: Number no longer in service. She stood there in the hall, receiver in hand, and thought hard. After a moment’s reflection, she dialed another number. This time, to her relief, she got an answer.
“Yo,” a gruff voice said at the other end of the line.
“Toby? Cassie. Listen, I need your help. Can you get a message to Zeb Randall through the kith wire?”
“Werewolves ain’t kith.”
“I know, but I can’t call him. Zeb’s phone is out of order.”
“Ain’t out of order. Zeb yanked the damn thing out of the wall. Paranoid. Thought the Lyalls were listening in. Won’t let anyone else in the pack have a phone, either. Zeb’s gone plumb loco.”
Cassie gripped the receiver. “Oh, dear. I had no idea.”
“Don’t see how you could, seeing as how you stay cooped up on the river. You need to get out more, baby doll.”
Cassie grinned into the phone. She and Toby went way back. They’d first met in France during World War I, when Cassie had been a volunteer with the Red Cross—wrapping bandages and emptying bed pans, mostly, because she wasn’t a trained nurse. Toby, fighting alongside other Alabamians in the 167th Regiment, had been wounded at the Battle of Croix Rouge. He’d been brought to a field hospital, and that’s where they’d met.
Gazing into Toby’s mismatched eyes—one was purple, the other a glowing topaz—Cassie had known at once that he was like her.
“You’re from Behr County,” she’d said, without thinking.
Toby had regarded her with familiar kith wariness. Trust no norm, their code cautioned, and with good reason. If the norms knew of their existence, they’d be hounded and persecuted. Their safety, their very lives, depended on secrecy.
“What of it?” he’d said. “Lot of Bama boys here.”
“I’m from Behr County, too,” Cassie had said, raising her voice for the benefit of anyone listening. “Thought you might have news from home.”
Glancing around the ward to make sure no one was watching, she’d drawn a shining symbol in the air with the end of her finger. The swirling design glowed bright for a moment, then faded.
“You can trust me,” she’d whispered. “I’m like you.”
Toby leaned closer and inhaled, then sat back, his expression satisfied. “You’re kith, all right.” He’d tapped the end of his nose. “This old snoot can smell power, and you know the mark. Who are your folks?”
“Don’t have any,” Cassie had said, her mind shying away from the image of the graves beneath the tree.
“That right?” Toby had drawled. “Me, neither. Reckon that means we’ll have to look out for one another.”
They’d been friends ever since.
“Tell you what,” Toby said into the phone, recalling Cassie’s thoughts to the present. “Deliver the message myself. Whadda I tell him?”
What, indeed?
“Tell him . . .” Cassie took a deep breath and exhaled. “Tell him his nephew Mac has met with an accident.”
There was silence on the line, and then, “What kind of accident?”
“It’s bad, Toby. Mac is dead. Zeb needs to come to my place.”
“You in trouble? Need me to ride out?”
Tears filled Cassie’s eyes at the concern in the shifter’s voice. “Thanks.” To her annoyance, her voice shook, and she cleared her throat. “I’ll be okay. Get word to Zeb for me, okay? And try to keep this quiet. This needs to be between me and the alpha.”
“You got it.”
The phone went dead and Cassie wandered out onto the porch, too restless to sleep. It was dark as the devil’s armpit, but lights twinkled in the trees across the river, and the sound of hammering and the rasp of handsaws continued. At least they didn’t use power tools, but what kind of construction workers stayed on the job into the wee hours?
The kind that were being paid exorbitant wages, Cassie thought darkly. No telling what Duncan was paying them.
Taking a seat in her favorite rocker, Cassie ignored the sounds across the river, determined to soak in the night air. Silvery streaks of moonlight g
linted on the dark water that rolled past, slow and quiet, and sloshed against the banks. The river’s lazy demeanor was deceptive. Downstream, Cassie knew, the Devil River grew dangerous and unpredictable.
Like Duncan, she thought, remembering that Verbena had compared him to a river. Clearly, he expected me to remain faithful to his memory, Cassie thought. He’s got a nerve. Dollars to doughnuts he’s been with other women since we parted ways.
Not women, exactly, she amended mentally. According to Duncan, the Dalvahni were bound by a code of conduct, and one of their rules required them to undergo frequent “sessions” at some place Duncan had called the House of Pleasure. Thralls, Cassie had learned upon asking, were concubines. Supernaturally gorgeous concubines, who subsisted on regular and vigorous intercourse with the Dalvahni.
“They are succubi who require emotion as sustenance,” Duncan had explained. “According to the Directive, an unemotional warrior is an efficient warrior. Through sexual congress, there is an . . . er . . . exchange. We empty ourselves of emotion, and the thralls receive necessary sustenance. The relationship is mutually beneficial, as you can see.”
“Clear as day,” Cassie had said, incensed. “You Dalvahni boys got yourselves a bunch of sex slaves. Shame on you.”
“Not slaves.” Duncan looked affronted. “Thralls are willing—nay, delighted to accommodate us, for without emotion, they die. They are happy with their lot, I assure you.”
“Accommodate—what a lovely way to put it,” Cassie said in a dangerous tone. “Are they allowed to leave?”
“They do not wish to leave. The House of Pleasure is their home.”
“So, no.” Cassie pressed her lips together. “They’re sex slaves. You can dress a pig up in Sunday clothes all day long, but it’s still a pig.”
“What, pray, have swine to do with it?”
“You’re a clever fellow. You figure it out.”
That had ended the discussion, but Cassie had no doubt the thralls were a service Duncan had continued to employ. A dirty job, but then, someone had to do it. It was his duty, after all.
“So, while he’s off in some intergalactic whorehouse having himself a good old time, I’m supposed to batten down the hatches?” Cassie thrust the question into the darkness. “I don’t think so. How medieval.”
But that was Duncan, medieval down to his leather hauberk. She’d been right to be blunt with him. Anything less than the truth would’ve bounced off his thick skull.
You weren’t entirely truthful, a small voice reproved. You didn’t tell him why you broke it off with Zeb. You were attracted to the Randall alpha. You liked him. You liked him a lot. You had every intention of bedding him . . . until Duncan showed up.
“Duncan, Duncan, Duncan,” Cassie cried. “Forget about Duncan. I’ve got other things to worry about. Like the dead werewolf that’s Saran-wrapped in the back of my truck. Oh, yeah, and my talent’s on the blink.”
I noticed. The inner voice was smug. If memory serves, your talent became unreliable around the same time you-know-who showed up.
“The trouble with my talent has nothing to do with Duncan. I’m going through a bad patch. That’s all.”
If you say so. What are you going to do about Verbena? A gift like hers is beyond price. People will kill for it, and not just the Skinners. That child is in a world of hurt.
“I’m going to do my best to talk her into staying here,” Cassie said. “She can’t sleep in a tent with Duncan, for goodness’ sake.”
Certainly not. It would never do to have a pretty girl like Verbena camping in the woods with Duncan.
“Oh, shut up.”
Admit it. You’re jealous.
“Am not.”
You’ve always been good at denial, sweetie. Take what happened to Jimbo and Maggie, and little Rose. You blame Duncan, but that one’s on you. The children were your responsibility. Jamie was your brother.
Cassie jumped up so hard the rocking chair bammed against the wall.
“I said shut up,” she yelled, startling the frogs into silence.
I’ve had my say, the voice replied, unruffled. But be warned. I’m here and fully loaded with twinges of remorse. It’s high time you grew up and stopped being such a crybaby. Oh, yeah—and apologize to Duncan.
“Apologize to—I wouldn’t hold your breath, if I were you.”
Helloo. Superego here. I AM you. Apologize, and don’t be disingenuous. Squeams hate that.
“Squeams?”
Try not to be dense. I’m the voice of your conscience, of course. What, did you think I was your fairy godmother? Please.
Oh, God, it was official. She was losing it. Abandoning the porch, Cassie fled to her room.
Chapter Six
Duncan reached blindly through the red mist obscuring his vision. Cassandra had sought solace and carnal pleasure in the arms of another while he had lived in a constant, churning state of agony, worry, heartache, and terror that he would never find her again.
She’d been with several others, in fact, according to her own account.
He wanted to tear the world from its frame and bury himself in the smoking ruins.
He materialized in the middle of Main Street, heard a loud blare, like a trumpet sounding, and felt a stunning blow. Sailing through the air, he landed hard on his back on an unyielding surface and stared up at the darkening sky.
There was a metallic thunk, and a human male exclaimed in agitation, “I didn’t see him, I swear. He come out of nowhere.”
A crowd gathered around Duncan, and a man with a stout, florid face bent over him. “Don’t move, buddy. Your legs are busted to hell and back. We’ll get an ambulance.”
Through a haze of pain, Duncan accessed the Dalvahni Provider. Ambulance, the colorless voice of the directory intoned, a vehicle specially designed by humans to transport sick or injured persons to an institution of healing.
“No need,” Duncan said.
Ignoring the horrified gasps from the onlookers, he sat up and straightened his twisted limbs. His broken bones healed in an instant.
“See?” He got to his feet. “I am perfectly fine.”
Turning his back on the stunned humans, he strode to the sidewalk.
“Nice,” a silky voice drawled. “Does Captain Hemorrhoid know you’re dicking with the norms?”
Evan Beck, Conall’s miscreant brother by marriage, leaned against a lamp post, surveying him from beneath drooping lids. The demonoid’s purple eyes gleamed with mischief and sharp intelligence.
“Not now, Beck.” Duncan gave him a cold look. “I am in no mood to spar with you.” Honesty compelled him to add, “Or anyone else, for that matter. Strewth, I am in an evil mood, unfit for man or beast.”
Dearly would he love to vent his spleen on some rampaging demon. Alas, things had been woefully quiet in Hannah of late. ’Twas a sorry state of affairs, Duncan reflected gloomily, when one could not count on the djegrali for distraction.
“Wuz up, man?” Evan’s gaze was mocking. “I mean, besides being runned over by a car.”
In truth, the blow from the car had been nothing compared to the kick in the teeth Cassandra had dealt him. She had been with another. The knowledge was a heavy stone weighing him down, a constant, buzzing drone in his head.
“Do not trouble yourself about me,” Duncan managed to say. “’Twas the merest trifle. The Dalvahni are nothing if not resilient.”
Evan looked unconvinced. “If you say so, but that shit’s gotta hurt, and it makes the norms nervous.” He jerked his thumb at the street where a group of humans stood frozen, gawking at Duncan. “Look at the poor sonsabitches. They don’t know whether to shit or go blind.”
Duncan had made frequent sojourns to Earth in search of Cassandra. As a result, he was more conversant with the local jargon than his brothers. Even so, this odd statement gave him pause.
He blinked at Evan. “Though I feel certain you have a point, I cannot for the life of me fathom what it might be.”
&
nbsp; “Lemme spell it out for you, slowpoke.” Evan straightened and sauntered over. “You did magic in front of a bunch of norms. Unless I’m mistaken, there are rules against that sort of thing.”
“The Directive Against Conspicuousness.” Duncan was stricken with remorse. “You are right. Alas, I have transgressed.”
“Easy, Dunky. Don’t go emo on me. I’ll handle it.”
“My name is not Dunky. My name is—”
“He’s healed, praise Jesus,” Evan said, cutting off Duncan’s protest. Lifting his hands to the heavens, he gave the spectators a radiant smile. “It’s a miracle. Now, move along. Show’s over.”
One by one, the humans dispersed.
“See?” Evan brushed his hands together. “Easy peasy.”
“You have my thanks,” Duncan said. “I could have altered their memories, but mass adjustments are sometimes tricky.”
“Humans are slippery,” Evan agreed. “Always the chance you’ll miss one, no matter how careful you are.”
“Exactly so.” Duncan eyed him uncertainly. “You have the gift of memory modification?”
“Nah, I’m messing with you. What happened, you got a broken fluzzit in your whatsperator?”
“I do not understand.”
Evan made an impatient gesture. “You beamed yourself into oncoming traffic, my man. Shit-for-brains thing to do. Figured your teleportation device must be busted.”
Duncan’s face grew hot. “The Dalvahni ability to move from place to place is innate, not based on a mechanical device. Something. . . er . . . distracted me.” He gave the demonoid a jerky nod. “I thank you for your assistance, and I bid you good day.”