by Faith Hunter
“My father’s birth clan would have been something else,” I said, feeling even lighter than after I walked from the bayou. “So that my grandmother with yellow eyes, the old woman that I recall in my few early memories.” My throat tightened again. “She was related as a skinwalker, but may not have been my biological grandmother. Or may have been a grandmother from many generations up the line.” I felt my mouth pull into a smile, tight and sere. Somewhere deep in my soul, I had hoped this.
Aggie turned off the Toyota and we sat in the driveway, none of us eager to go back into the cold, not even to get inside to the warmth of the tiny house. I let my mind wander through the revelation. The old woman who made me kill two men as a five-year-old child, the old woman who forced me into my bobcat shape and threw me into the snow on the Trail of Tears, she wasn’t my real grandmother.
Softly, Aggie said, “You have many memories, buried, suppressed. Memories of your mother. Of whom you never speak. Memories of your clan and tribe. Of the grandmothers who would have taught you to farm and how to gather foodstuffs, how to live off the land. How to make pottery or weave baskets. Even as a child of five, you would have begun learning such things, and you have no memories of this?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.” And maybe that should have frightened me, that I didn’t remember, but I had forgotten so much. This was only one more thing. The face of my mother. The vision of her hands working. The sound of her laughter. Was that all still buried inside me, in some place that could be found?
Aggie said, suddenly sounding stern and staring me down in the rearview mirror, “Last thing. We told your brother this. When you take the Youngers into your Cherokee family, they will not be Yellowrock Clan. That would be according to vampire tradition, not Cherokee tradition. So you will have to adopt them twice, once into Panther Clan as your grandmother chose for you, or into Blue Holly Clan. Then once into your own clan as the vampires do. Understood?”
I ducked my head, hiding my reaction from Aggie. “Yes. I understand.”
The rattletrap truck bearing the old Choctaw man and the Youngers pulled down the street and idled at the drive. Alex and Eli got out of the truck and shut the doors. Without looking our way, they went through the rain to the porch and waited. They looked different too. Tired. Wan. Worn out. Aggie One Feather and her mother got out of the car and we all trooped inside, silent, frozen.
Inside, the old women once again fed us a king’s feast.
CHAPTER 7
The Crown of the Orcs
It was nearly ten a.m. when we drove back into town, Eli at the wheel. He had spent the night feeding a dying vamp and being healed and the morning puking and voiding. He looked exactly like a human in those circumstances should. Wan, pale, slow moving, and weary. Eli never looked tired.
The rainstorm hit again as another band of showers wheeled across us. The air was warmer now, though not by much, and the rain was free of sleet. Lightning blasted again, multiple strikes, and my magic responded with a flicker of the Gray Between, which made me less than happy. I had hoped going to water would free me from that, but at least it wasn’t as intense as before.
We were turning into the French Quarter when Alex, sitting in the backseat, said, “Got a problem on Bourbon Street. Mob forming. Cops have been called in. SWAT. The gang task force.” He was scanning reports on his tablet and through his earbud. Eli tapped on the radio to a local channel that gave news, weather, and traffic updates every ten minutes.
Alex said, “They called in ambulances but ordered them to take shelter on the uptown side of Canal Street. Shots fired.”
Eli turned right and then left and began the slow process of fighting traffic to bypass the riot. Lightning struck again. And again. Each time, my newly altered magics reacted and fluttered inside me.
Alex said, “Dispatch says lightning hit the pavement at the corner of Bourbon Street and Bienville. Arnaud’s is on fire.” The Kid’s voice sounded funny and I angled the sun visor’s mirror so I could see him. He looked intent. Older. As if he had matured in the last twelve hours or so. “Two rioters are receiving medical attention from bystanders and cops until medic gets there,” he said, “but the downpour is so bad that traffic came to a standstill and the ambulances aren’t moving.” He shook his head, tight ringlets bobbing. “The Royal Sonesta Hotel has been invaded by tourists escaping the rain, but the gang followed and brought the fight into the hotel. The lobby and restaurant are being trashed.”
Eli took more side streets. The storm worsened, the wipers not much help against the deluge. The SUV created a bow wave, and I remembered the truck from this morning doing the same thing. Lightning hit-hit-hit, blasting the entire world in flashing lights. Making my body spark and the time-bubbling reaction quake on and off. It also sent shocks of something different through me and I thought maybe the lightning might be exciting my new pentagram magic. Things fluttered inside me.
“Annnd the power is out,” Alex said.
Eli said nothing, his hands steady on the wheel as he took us far away from our house, trying to stay free of the snarled cars, circling slowly around to come in on the downtown side of our street. A half-hour drive across the French Quarter took over an hour and when we got home, there was no parking. Oddly enough parking on our little one-way street wasn’t usually difficult to find but, with the storm, today was different. Cars had pulled off the roadway and taken all the available spaces: people sitting inside, fogging up the windows, checking e-mail and talking on the phone.
Eli found a space one block over, which meant that we ducked and ran, getting soaked again by the time we got to the porch. We were met on the front stoop by Brute, growling, guarding the entrance, not letting us in.
With the storm getting stronger again, I had a feeling what the problem was. Lightning slammed down two blocks over, and my suspicions were confirmed. My bedroom windows, to the left of the door, flashed. Le breloque was still sparking and it was brighter than ever. It was still soaking up power.
Brute stood, blocking the door with his impressive body. “You have to let us in,” I said. He snapped at the air inches from my hip, and I belted him right in the nose. Hard. Brute yelped and leaped into the rain. Eli keyed open the door, and we dripped all over the foyer getting gear in. Alex tossed us dry towels and began replacing the sponges. We had power, which was a blessing. Eli trotted up the stairs, cell phone in hand, probably calling Sylvia. Brute walked in, shook his heavy white coat all over the walls, climbed on the sofa, and licked his nose and jowls and other body parts. I headed for my room so I didn’t have to watch.
I would never hit a dog, but werewolves were not dogs. They had human thought patterns and they were contagious, hence the blow to his nose and his pride. Werewolves were dangerous, and since Pea—the grindylow who acted as were-creature law enforcement, judge, jury, and executioner in New Orleans—clearly wasn’t here at the moment, I had to protect my team.
In the closet, the wreath was no longer sparking. I reached up and deactivated my BFF’s hedge of thorns witch-working that kept it safe and touched the metal. It was neither hot nor cool and it didn’t zap me with some kind of spell, so I lifted it down. It looked the same. It looked fine.
I carried le breloque to the small table beside the unused reading chair in my bedroom and shoved the pile of clothing onto the floor. The wreath went on top of the table in what looked like room décor for a nerd or geek. The crown of the orcs or something. In an old gobag I found an even older MP3 player and plugged it in to charge. While it was charging, I set it to play some of Ricky-Bo’s music, the anti-moon spells created (by my BFF’s husband) to keep him from going insane when the full moon tried to force him into his black wereleopard form. Rick was an old boyfriend. And a werecat stuck in human form. Maybe the same music that kept his were-magics under control might keep the wreath magics from blowing up. Maybe not. Maybe I should have left it under the ward. Magic was dangerou
s when handled wrong, but until the lightning struck again I wouldn’t know if I had been smart or stupid.
I started to turn away when the air sizzled, the lights flickered, and thunder boomed, all in a half second. My body shimmered. Le breloque sort of glowed but without the sparking light of before. “Go me,” I said. I texted Molly and Evan—the creators of the spells I used—and sent them pics of the wreath and the MP3, with detailed description. They were, by now, on vacation down in a gorge somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains camping, so it would be a long time, maybe days, before they replied, but I had done my best.
I hung up my wet clothes to drip and took the hottest shower I could stand, soaped up, and scrubbed with a sponge that was meant for the kitchen sink but worked well for dermabrasion and restoring circulation. But the moment I was all soaped up, the lightning decided to hit again. Of freaking course. The Gray Between opened and time bubbled. My shower water stopped falling. I said a slow string of words I’d have had my mouth washed out for as a child in the Christian children’s home.
This had happened before, and when it did, I saw visions of the future and its trail into the past in the drops. I had decided not that long ago that I had no business trying to save the future or fix the past, and I tried not to look at the possibilities that lay within each drop, no matter how tempting. Instead, I danced around in the small space, letting the droplets I touched enter the Gray Between with me, but there wasn’t enough to rinse. I needed to keep a gallon bottle of water in here to rinse with. Hindsight and all that. For now, I was covered in drying soap. I opened the stall door, not an easy process, but I made it without breaking the glass, and peeked into the bedroom. Le breloque looked fine. Kinda glowy, and with sparks going off above it, but nothing that looked like it might catch fire. I got back in the shower to wait.
Shortly, the Gray Between flickered off and I was able to rinse away the soap that had tried to dry on my skin. If this was going to keep happening, I needed to plan better. I shut off the shower and dried, standing in the steam. Slathered on some scent-free moisturizer and sprayed some cleanser on the tile walls. The house was cleaned once a week by someone from Katie’s Ladies, but that wasn’t often enough to prevent black mold from growing in damp corners. New Orleans weather meant a whole ’nother way of living compared to living in the Appalachian Mountains.
Within minutes I was dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt, warm slippers on my feet. But I made a decision not to go armed. Metal blades and metal firearms seemed like a stupid idea in the middle of a lightning strike, though the weather cell had moved off. Mother Nature probably had a belly laugh at me in the shower, dancing around like a monkey in a barrel. I towel-dried my hair and put it into a tail. The weather was too wet to braid it and I wasn’t interested in using the hair dryer in this storm. The house had old electrical wiring and I worried about being electrocuted. I worried about lots of things that had never bothered me before.
Back in the bedroom I pulled the covers over me on the bed, checked e-mail, and watched the wreath for a while. Just in case. It seemed fine now that the lightning was gone. Once I was satisfied about safety, I followed the smells into the kitchen. Bacon. Eggs. Grits with butter. Hot tea and coffee. Eli, who had showered with his usual Speedy Gonzalez efficiency, was busy with the fry pan and the protein, and Alex was making pancakes. That was still a surprise. Alex being a real and contributing part of the household team was stunning. The Kid was growing up.
I took a seat at the table and sipped the chai that was already poured into a huge red soup-sized mug that said NO SUCH THING AS TOO MUCH TEA in a whirly font. Inside, at the bottom of the mug were the words, in a tiny block font, you’ve just been poisoned. We had started buying funny mugs not long ago and now had a nice—or rude, depending on the mug—selection. I had bought this one myself because it was funny. And if Leo ever took tea here, this was so going to be his mug.
I contemplated the scene and realized that something felt different. Beyond the stove’s exhaust fan and the banging of the occasional pot or pan, it was weirdly silent in the house. No tinny TV in the background, no quiet video game going on the speakers, no music on the Kid’s headphones. I hadn’t been aware of the low-level noise of two other people living with me, one a teenager who lived twenty-four-seven with earbuds and music playing. The noise level had built up slowly, and now it was gone. Alex had no electronics on. At all. I sat back and sipped and watched them.
They were dipping food onto plates, working together as if they were two sides of one whole, when I said, “You wanna talk about it?”
Eli turned off the fan, which only increased the silence. They loaded up the table with food, sat, and looked at me. Alex said, “I had to puke. And shi—”
I heard a thump under the table, Eli kicking his brother. I stuffed a slice of bacon into my mouth and chewed, lips closed. Trying to hide my laughter.
“And void my bowels. That’s how Mr. America here phrased it.” He thumbed at Eli. “I had to smoke some tobacco that made me cough my lungs out, drink this gross drink that tasted like pond water, puke, and void my bowels, and then sit in the freezing rain, naked,” Alex’s voice rose, “and listen to this saggy old dude—and lemme tell you he was saggy in folds you could hide this in.” He held up a serving spoon and I still managed to keep my laughter off my face. “And listen to him sing, which he could not do, at all, in a language I did not understand. And then I had to get into the muddy water and dunk myself. Seven freaking times.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, finishing off the bacon and digging into the eggs, which had been cooked with onion and little bits of pepper and cheese. It was heavenly.
“I swear that I could feel an alligator swimming around my legs.”
“He squeaked,” Eli said. “Like a four-year-old girl.”
“Did not.”
“Did.”
I lifted my mug and said through a mouthful of food, “So you enjoyed it?”
“Totally,” Eli said. “Ready to do it again. Anytime.”
“You people are crazy. My family is insane. Bonkers.”
“But family,” I said. Just to clarify.
“Family,” he agreed. “But you all should be chained in an insane asylum. I’m getting pizza for supper tonight. Period. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”
“We can do pizza,” Eli agreed.
Alex glared at him as if expecting Eli to change his mind or say, “Psych,” but he didn’t. I got up and poured them more coffee and me more tea. Family breakfast—the way it was supposed to be. If it weren’t so cutesy, I’d get matching mugs that said that.
I said, “What do you think about restoring the house?” Eli looked interested. He was handy with hammer and nails and power tools and other home remodeling equipment. He had replaced the windows along the side of the house with extra-tall, narrow French doors and working shutters. I looked out into the living room. “I was thinking you could find and replace the fireplaces with gas ones.”
“No. Wood,” Alex said. “That way, when the zombie apocalypse comes we can have wood fire for heating and cooking.”
“When the apocalypse comes,” Eli corrected, “we’ll grab gobags and head for the hills. Some little holler Janie tells us about.”
“Until then, we need a bigger house,” Alex said.
“No,” Eli and I said simultaneously. Eli added, “We just need a better use of space. I’ve ordered a Pendleton King Revolving Gun Safe. That’ll give Ed more room in the gun room.”
I remembered something I’d seen when Eli and I were sparring not so long ago, and I had ended up, breath knocked out, hurt, on my back, staring up at the ceiling. “There’s a small attic door in the corner of the upstairs hallway.” Both boys looked at me. “I’ve never been up there or even looked up there.”
“If there’s space, I’m calling dibs,” Alex said. “Man cave. Game room.”
“If there’s space,” Eli said, “and windows that can be lightproofed, it should be for the fanghead. I’ll check it out over the weekend.”
“Spoilsport. Your turn to wash dishes, bro,” Alex said, shaking his head. “I’m gonna be busy monitoring HQ’s security measures. You need me, poke me. I’ll have music on.”
“I’ll put in a load of laundry,” I said. Both men raised eyebrows at me. “What? I can do laundry.” I hoped. I made a trip through the house, gathering wet clothes. In the laundry room, which did not originally contain a washer and dryer, I studied the units, trying to remember which was which. I vaguely remembered the one that opened on top was the washer. Directions were printed on the inside of the top. “Easy peasy,” I said, loading the clothes according to the instructions and adding liquid detergent. I hit the start button and was rewarded with the sound of water jetting into the tub.
“Hey!” Alex shouted. “Get in here!” I darted back into the living space.
Eli was gripping a nine-millimeter in each hand. I found that I was holding a coat hanger. Because of the lightning, I had left the bedroom unarmed, which now felt all wrong, and I put the coat hanger down before they noticed that I had planned on defending myself and them with a thin strip of metal.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“There’s a second riot near the corner of Jackson Avenue and South Robertson Street. It started with a lightning strike.” Alex popped open an energy drink and downed it. Lightning slammed down all around the house, the glare blinding, the noise like thunder. Thunder on steroids and meth. Sleet made sizzling and popping sounds against the windows. Sleet. In New Orleans. Eli holstered his weapons in a double rig of his own devising, both weapons at his waist, but well hidden beneath his tee.