by Faith Hunter
I patrolled the house, checking the windows and doors, putting sponges where rainwater was blowing through, and watching for dark rings on the upstairs ceiling that might mean water damage. I pressed my hand to the shelving unit that hid the weapons room and Ed’s bed beneath the stairs and thought about checking on him. But he had made no demands to be let into the house, and if he wanted outside, he had access on his own through the trapdoor. Vamps were unpredictable at the best of times, and silver-wounded vamps were the worst. Most didn’t live, and the ones who did were pretty nutso for a long time afterward. I worried that waking him might send him rogue and force me to have to kill him. Killing a friend wasn’t something I wanted to do. Ever. Especially a vamp bound to me.
He needed time asleep to heal. Chicken, a small, mean part of me whispered.
The wind outside howled. The bushes against the house smacked like finger bones tearing at the walls to be let in. Lightning slammed into the earth nearby, so close I could feel the blast through the floor and a tingle of electricity ripped across my skin. For an instant the Gray Between of my magic stuttered around me, a silver mist shot through with darker motes of power. Deep inside me, Beast padded close, her golden-amber eyes watching. Then the Gray Between closed. Fear pebbled my skin. That had never happened before. I swallowed, fighting to keep my breathing steady, to control my desire to grab a blankie and hide in my closet.
This was the first major storm since I was stuck by lightning—an attack that turned out to be deliberate and not an accident of nature. I forced myself to walk to the kitchen, get a bottle of water, and drink it while standing at the kitchen window looking out at the street and the rain. Dawn and night battled each other in the clouds overhead. Rain fell so hard there wasn’t time for it to run off, and water began to rise in the streets. Lightning struck again. The Gray Between danced through me and vanished.
“I don’t like this,” I muttered to the storm. Then added, “Ducky,” and laughed, the sound strained. “Water off a duck’s back. Betcha that ducks never get hit by lightning.”
A transformer blew, an explosion that would have, should have woken Eli. I heard nothing from upstairs. The power along the street went off, leaving the house and the nearby parts of the French Quarter dark. A car pulled slowly down the street, water cresting before it like a bow wave. The wind was cold outside, and the gusts were strong enough to shove through the cracks and crevices of the house, bringing the wetness of mist and rain that collected into the sponges I had placed at doors and windows. I’d learned the sponge trick from Eli. As long as I cleaned up the sponges before the water penetrated the paint and wood, I could avoid water damage. We usually took care of storm prep together.
Lightning struck, struck, struck, three times close by. I fell to my knees as I entered the Gray Between and my time-altering magic leaped and stretched. Outside, the sound of the rain deepened, its descent slowed to nothing. I didn’t know what was happening to me, but it couldn’t be good. I looked down at myself to see that my skin was shining in a pale, weird pattern, like heat lightning flashing across my skin. Then the place where my magic originated snapped back and time returned to normal. I fell flat, my skin tingling and burning. I felt sick to my stomach and figured I was already bleeding internally from bubbling time. Using that part of my gift was life-threatening and not something I wanted to happen all by itself.
Brute padded down the stairs and moved close to me, snuffing. Then he shifted his body at an angle, blocking my way or . . . making himself a support. That. I put my hands on his back and pushed partway to my feet. His fur was warm and dry and—
Lightning struck again, a flashing, booming explosion of light and sound. Close. The Gray Between skittered through me, lightning fast. Brute leaped away, yelping. I fell again, landing on my backside. “Sorry,” I whispered. “Something’s wrong.” He dipped his big head once and chuffed in agreement, his body a massive brightness in the dark. My own skin was glowing through my clothing in lightning patterns up and down my legs and arms. I lifted my shirt to see them on my belly too, though less bright there. I blinked against the light, and the glow faded to normal skin.
Though there was a pause in the lightning, Brute stayed far back as I made it to my feet, staggered to my room, and opened the closet. Because I don’t believe in coincidence. The Mercy Blade, once a storm god, in my closet in the middle of a late season tropical storm still gathering strength outside. Shaking, I gripped the jamb on both sides and rose to my toes. On the top shelf was the witchy item that everyone wanted, a wreath made of metal, neither silver nor gold, but something in between that looked like a peculiar mixture of hues, maybe white and yellow gold mixed together. The upper part of the circlet was carved or shaped in ascending points in what Alex thought might be laurel leaves, with the base carved or incised with markings that could either be decorative or some unknown early language, triangles and circles and squares and lines in no particular order. There were no stones or other ornamentation.
Le breloque in French, la corona in Latin, the crown was plain by comparison to crowns I’d seen in movies and on the Internet. The wreath was similar to ones the ancient Romans and Greeks used to indicate royalty. But this one was magic. A pale haze of power was glowing in my skinwalker sight. I could smell the energies wafting from it like ozone from a power plant.
The wreath, like the other magical trinkets in the closet, was under a hedge of thorns ward created by Molly. She was part of the Everhart witch bloodline and was married to Evan Trueblood, one of the strongest male witches alive today. Before Molly and her hubs had left NOLA after the witch conclave, she had recharged all my little-to-never-used toys and the ward that protected them from anyone but me. They had once been in a safe-deposit box, but I had a feeling that Leo had access to them there, and I had brought them all home, securing them under magic.
Including the thing I called the Glob. It was a weapon. Or I was pretty sure it was. It had started out as a black-magic, blood-magic artifact called the blood diamond, a spelled gem empowered by the sacrifice of hundreds of witch children over hundreds of years. It had once been evil, but things had changed. The diamond had changed. Now it was a brilliant white diamond, the stone itself transformed through magical means, when it was placed in close contact with a sliver of the Blood Cross, with iron discs from the spikes that had pierced the feet of the three men killed on Golgotha, and with my blood. I had been struck by lightning while holding it. An angel and a demon had fought over it. They had maybe fought over me too. Not sure who was winning that one. Now it was the Glob, a diamond/silver/iron thingamajig doohickey. And I had no idea what it could do.
Lightning cracked nearby again, the light blinding, reflecting bright off the pale painted walls. My skin glowed in the new odd patterns as the Gray Between opened. Outside of time, the wreath sparked. A bright white flash, brighter than the lightning, with the incised symbols darker, a purple color, like amethyst. In the silver energies of the Gray Between, with time stopped and bubbled, the wreath writhed like a brilliant snake, or like a vine caught in a thrashing wind, pulling in power from the air as if eating it.
It was absorbing power from the lightning.
An internal shudder raced along my spine at the sight of le breloque kindled by lightning. Sparking with power, power that was unclaimed. Unclaimed. It was in my possession, but its magic was still unclaimed. I knew, without knowing how, that the unclaimed part was important. In the moment outside of time, the lightning began to dim. Time resumed with a crash of the downpour, leaving the world storm-dark and the scent of ozone in the air.
Eli, Ed, and Gee had been with me when I acquired the wreath, and I was pretty sure that Edmund knew what le breloque was, but he had never admitted to it. We had first seen it in the dark of night in a rainstorm. Like this one, though not so electric. And now the wreath was acting up. And so was my own magic. “Crap,” I whispered to Brute, who was standing beside my leg. “
There’re connected somehow.” He didn’t respond except to flop to the floor with a thud.
I closed the closet door and settled to my bed, pulling the covers over me, and Bruiser’s boxing gloves close for the comfort. I breathed in his scent, the scent he’d worn before he was Onorio.
Lightning hit close by and the wreath sparked again, a light in the night, growing brighter with each strike, easy to see now, outlining the cracks around the closet door, far brighter than the silvers of my own power. But at least this time my own magic didn’t alter time. I was sick to my stomach, nausea churning.
Lightning flickered again and boomed as it hit, closer now, and all the magic sparked, but the closet didn’t catch fire and neither did the sheets, so I pulled them around me in a cocoon, staying put and warm. And worried. I had been right about one of my postulations for the purpose of the crown-amulet. It sucked in power from storms.
Eventually the storm settled, quieted, as if it lost power with the dull gray skies. The wreath calmed too. It was too large to put in a bank vault. But I had a feeling that if the storm didn’t abate for good, le breloque would continue to absorb power until it did . . . something. Exploded, maybe. I couldn’t keep it here; I couldn’t store it elsewhere. I wondered if Gee would kill me to get le breloque back, which would suck, as I would then die for possessing something I didn’t want.
• • •
The world was dark and wet and dripping, a soppy, foggy morning, after a night that lasted far, far too long. The air was blustery and chill, the rainwater running in the streets incongruously colder, like the chill of melted sleet. Sabina hadn’t called. Eli hadn’t woken. Brute snored at the front door. And still I sat.
In front of the house, a car pulled up and stopped, engine running, lights brightening the windows. I heard a car door open and slam, the splash of running feet, followed by Alex coming in the door, moving fast, tripping over Brute, who didn’t move. Alex reeked of garlic, pizza, and energy drinks, his eyes manic, his curly hair standing out in moisture-tight ringlets. His dark skin glistened with rain. He could be a heartbreaker if he ever decided to.
“How’s my bro?” he asked, putting down his electronic gobag on the foyer floor and picking up the sponges there, squeezing them out in the ornamental bucket in the corner.
I thought, So that’s what the bucket’s for. It had appeared there a month ago and I hadn’t known why. Hadn’t asked. Hadn’t cared. I wasn’t much for decorating. But placing the bucket near the doorway to wring out the sponges that absorbed rainwater that seeped or blew in was perfect and made sense, in a totally nondecorating, totally practical way. “Still sleeping.”
There must have been something in my tone because the usually oblivious teenager tried the lights, which were still off, before coming into the room. “You look like shiii—crap.”
“I feel like crap.”
Alex made a quick circuit of the kitchen and living area, wringing out sponges, redepositing them to catch the next band of sideways rain. When he was back in the foyer he asked, “Why’s the wolf in the hallway?”
“I think he’s worried about me.” I managed a partial smile. “Or your sheets were too wet to be comfy.”
“Holy crap!” Alex said, using my swear words and dropping the bucket with a clatter. “You let him on my bed?”
“You try stopping a three-hundred-plus-pound werewolf.”
Alex stomped up the stairs and yelled, “You damn wolf. I hate you!” A moment later he shouted, “My sheets smell like dog. Arrrrr. There’s brown stuff on it. Holy crap, it’s shit. He scuffed his butt on my sheets. I’m gonna kill you, Brute!”
I snickered softly. Brute snorted. Alex thundered down the stairs, pale sheets flapping in the almost-morning light, to the laundry on the back of the house. The storage room/gear-cleaning room/laundry room/mudroom had once been a canning room for fruit and veggies. I didn’t know what Alex was going to do back there without power. And when he cursed again, most imaginatively, I figured he had forgotten that small fact. I didn’t say anything about the cussing or the smell that emanated from his clothing and pores. He had a teenager’s temper and lack of control. I’d wait until he wasn’t so riled.
Brute and I were still sharing a laugh when Alex rounded into the foyer again. “Why doesn’t he ever get in your bed? Or Eli’s? Why always mine?”
“Maybe he’s our Goldilocks, and it has to be just right. Which makes you the baby bear.”
“Not funny.” He stood in the doorway and glowered down at the snorting wolf. “Not funny! And why’s Eli still asleep? And why are you still sitting in bed?” he shouted.
I let the last of my amusement flow away and said, “I’m getting Brute a very expensive bed. I think he’ll stay out of your bed now. Yes, Brute?”
The werewolf breathed out what might have been a promise. Or not.
“And Eli’s still asleep because he’s blood-drunk on vamp blood and because Gee DiMercy put a sleepy-time spell on the house. And I’m still sitting here because I hurt too bad to get up.”
In an eye blink, the Kid morphed into Alex, or the Alex he had the potential of being when he finished growing up. He made another fast tour of the house, checking the windows and doors and tapping on walls, which was strange. When he came back, he was wearing Eli’s shoulder harness and two of Eli’s guns. For the last few weeks Alex had been to the gun range almost every single day. We had discovered that he had a gift for shooting. Scary good. With a lot of practice, he might be better than Eli, who was an expert military marksman with a variety of weapons.
“House is secure,” he said. “I tapped on the shelf to Edmund’s room and he cursed me, I think, in some foreign language. Sorry I lost my temper, sorry I cussed, sorry I went out last night, and I’ll get a shower as soon as we’re secure.”
Tears burned my eyelids and my shoulders slumped. “If you had been here you would be asleep like your brother. Thank you. I think my magic needs Aggie. Will you call her and make sure we can come to water today? Sabina sent a message via Gee, telling us to purify ourselves. I have a feeling that we shouldn’t wait.”
Alex picked up my cell and punched in my code. Which I didn’t know he knew. He pulled up Aggie’s number and I heard it ring. “Who’s us?” Alex asked oh-so-cautiously as it rang.
“Eli. Me. And you. That is, if you haven’t eaten anything this morning. You have to be fasting.”
He turned away slightly so I couldn’t see his face. “Good morning, Aggie One Feather,” Alex said, speaking like an adult. Totally adulting. More tears gathered in my eyes and a single one slid down my face. “Egini Agayvlge i,” he added, using her Cherokee name. “This is Alex Younger calling on Jane Yellowrock’s cell. The outclan priestess of the suck—vampires said we all needed to come to water. Something big’s about to happen.” He listened a while and then said, “Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.” He put a hand over my phone and said, “She said we have to come before the storm gets worse again. She said she won’t take men, but she knows an old Choctaw man who will take Eli and me. That the ceremony isn’t as good as the Cherokee one, but that it will do.”
Which was essentially what she had told me. “We’ll have to wake up your brother,” I warned. Eli had done serious active duty. When woken unexpectedly, he came up fighting.
“I can handle it. And I’ll drive.” Into the cell, Alex said, “Clan Yellowrock will be there in an hour.” He listened and then said, “Yes, ma’am. I understand, ma’am. That’s just what we call ourselves.” He disconnected.
“Problems?” I asked.
“She says there are only a few Cherokee Clans, and Yellowrock Clan isn’t one.”
I knew what he was saying and it was something that I had figured out in the last months, since we missed the big October tribal meeting. But I wanted to see how Alex would handle it, so I let him talk.
“We can’t call ourse
lves Yellowrock Clan when we go through the adoption process into the Cherokee tribe. We’ll be adopted by Blue Holly Clan or Panther sub-Clan, and by the clan elders, not you, specifically. Nothing we can’t handle later,” he assured me. “Aggie said she would sponsor us, or whatever they call it, and not to worry. But before the official adoption process, we’ll need to talk to the elders and ask how it’ll be handled.” He changed the subject. “I’ll get my bro. Can you get dressed by yourself?”
“I’ll figure out something.”
Well. That was interesting. The Kid was growing up fast.
• • •
I watched as Eli and Alex were loaded into the rattletrap pickup. Aggie’s “old Choctaw man” looked about seventy, wore his black and silver-streaked hair in a short, deer-hide-wrapped tail down his back, and was dressed in loose work jeans, work boots, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and a sweat-stained cowboy hat that a fifties Western TV star might have worn. There was a hole in the crown that could have been a bullet hole, and a feather that looked like a turkey-buzzard flight feather in the band. He looked old, but he moved like a well-oiled machine, easy and smooth. Once he got my family loaded into his truck, he turned and studied me. Staring, reading, not speaking. His face was grooved and lined and his eyes were a black so deep they made Leo’s look pale. He touched one finger to the hat brim, got in his truck, and drove away.
I wasn’t happy about the Youngers heading off with a stranger into a ceremony that had been known to expose all sorts of things about one’s inner self. And Eli was on the edge of aggression after the night he’d been through. He needed calories, but he wasn’t getting them until we had done what Sabina wanted. Get pure.