Skinwalker

CHAPTER 23 Mass to mass, stone to stone

Moon was high when I padded into park land far behind Cherokee shaman’s house. Liver-eater’s scent was strong and hot, from upwind. It was running, sweat stinking with rot. Second scent floated on night wind—blood, fresh, potent with fear. Human. Liver-eater had hunted. Found man to drink and eat.

Deep in woods, on high ground surrounded by swamp, I found kill site. Paused. Studied clearing. Tent, latrine, shovel, lantern burning, guttering, latched cooler, string in trees, damp clothes hanging limp. Blood everywhere, slick, shiny in moonlight. Body parts, scattered. A homeless camp, she thought. A drifter.

I crouched, silent, sniffing, watching. Liver-eater was gone. With slow hunter steps I walked into camp—hunched low, back paws into space when front paws rose, no sticks or leaves to crackle. Sniffed chewed leg. Old and scrawny. Sick human. Not good eating. I moved through camp, scenting. Liver-eater was rank, rotten when he came. Scent changed as he ate.

Jane shuddered at thought. I hacked laughter. Padded around tent. Man-torso chewed in half at spine. Upper half near swamp. Lower half in water, pelvis jutting into air. Small fish fed at torn flesh. Gator swam close, eyes above water, tail moving like snake. I hacked warning. Feed later. My place. Gator slowed, stopped, sank. I jogged to tent opening.

Man-head inside tent, resting on cot. Liver-eater didn’t eat face of this one. Hairy, scruffy. Pale blue eyes caught lantern light. Cheeks drooped, wrinkled.

I found path liver-eater took from woods. His scent changed again. I stopped. Pulled air over scent organ in mouth. Studying. Rot smell changing. Gone. Not liver-eater scent. Vampire scent. Vampire over all other scents. Scent change worried Jane.

Path reached blacktopped road. Truck headlights moved through trees, coming this way. I leaped into tree, crouched on wide limbs hanging over road. Dropped on pickup bed cover, denting weak metal. Liver-eater came this way, in vampire body. Moving fast. Air blasted hard, full of smells. Rich, strong scents.

He stole a car, she thought. Or left a car here, planning ahead. She urged, Look at signs. Truck turned onto Lafitte-Larose Parkway. Still south. Signs proclaimed BARATARIA. Barataria, she thought. That’s where property is being purchased by Arceneau Developments and by Anna, according to Rick’s paper-trail search. But why?

I sniffed with disdain. No sense to humans or vampires. Truck puttered along Jean Lafitte Boulevard, across Fisherman Boulevard bridge, down Privateer Boulevard, in Barataria. When truck turned on side street, I leaped onto low tree limb, into shadows. Dark. Good place to hide, hunt. Liver-eater’s changed scent was fading. When headlights gone, I dropped to ground. Stretched, mouth wide, yawning. Shaking pelt into place after fast-truck wind. Jogged down street, following scent. She looked at signs, to remember. PRIVATEER BOULEVARD.

Liver-eater-vampire scent grew strong at small man-den, buried in overhanging trees, hidden behind shrubs, flowers blooming all around. Brick walls, hard, smooth walks between bushes. Lights on inside, spilling out windows. Car was dead in yard, parked on loose shells, car and shells both white in night. Mercedes, she thought. I trotted up to it, its roaring heart silent, but still pinging with life. Liver-eater had just arrived, his new scent on door handle. Scent was mingled, faint-faint liver-eater-rot. Mostly . . . vampire.

She thought, A vampire turned a skinwalker and the transformation didn’t take properly.

Yesssss. And no. I dropped to ground.

She thought more. He didn’t take the drifter’s form; he called up another one from memory. He has to eat a lot of protein to retrieve a form he wants. And his original form, is it old? Decaying? He has to steal another human or vamp and become him?

Yes and no. Skinwalker and vampire. Together they are liver-eater.

Sorrow filled her heart. She grieved, as I grieve when a kit dies. Foolish to grieve, I thought at her. Not your kit. Not kit at all.

But my kind. And the only one I’ve ever seen, Jane thought.

Not your kind. Liver-eater. I spat in disgust, padding around house. Bayou water flowed close, silent, blacker than sky when moon is dead and gone. Loud crickets and frogs.

A car roared along road, headlights piercing. Privateer Boulevard, she said, trying to remember. Car slowed, turned down small street, slowed more, pulled into yard. I slunk through foliage, to front of house. Crouched in darkest shadow. New car parked beside liver-eater’s Mercedes. Its roaring heart stopped. Anna-human got out, talking to phone. She wore white dress, her feet on tall spikes. Easy prey.

“I’ll get his help,” she said to phone. Mayor’s voice growled, low, scratchy, words not clear. “Once we get Clan Pellissier’s backing on it,” Anna-human said, “we’ll have enough vamp clout to push the project through the council. And enough money to disappear.” More mayor growling. “Love you too.” She ran to house, rang bell. Her perfume was strong on air, overpowering blooming flowers. Inner wooden door opened, then screened door. “You have no idea how hard it was to get away from the hubby,” Anna-human said, lying.

“Come here,” man said. Voice strange, not familiar. He smelled of liver-eater’s vampire scent. Rot smell almost gone, even to my nose. Screened door banged closed. Wooden door was pushed to. But not closed. Light streamed out. I gathered feet in close to leap. Hunt!

No! she commanded. She tried to wrest away control.

Yessss. I am big. Big Cat tonight. Big to kill liver-eater.

Another car turned into small street. Into short drive. I hacked with displeasure. Car died. Rick got out. He had followed Anna-human. Trailed her. Hunted her. I crouched, tight.

Rick raced to front door. Looked in window. His body went still, like predator in shock at size of large prey. Pulled gun from beneath arm. “Anna!” Rick shouted. He tore screen open. It banged against brick with sharp retort. Like gunshot. I flinched. Rick dove inside.

Big-cat roar echoed into night. Not mine. Not Beast.

Rick shouted. Words lost beneath roar. Anna-human screamed. Loud thumps. Liver-eater and Rick shouting, wordless anger. Fighting. Anna opened door, scuttled into darkness. Stench of liver-eater rot erupted out door with her. And hot smell of much Rick-blood. Crack, crack, crack of gunshots. Window broke. Rick screamed, choked off. Go! Jane commanded.

I leaped through door in one massive lunge. Landed, silent, behind couch, wood floor beneath paws. Lips pulled back to expose killing teeth. Rank, rotten-meat stench filled air. Slurping sounds were loud, coarse. Rose up on couch, claws half exposed. Seeing room.

Overturned furniture, candles flickering. Rick on floor, lying in spreading pool of blood. Face up, eyes open, arms out to sides, legs splayed, shirt ripped open. Chest poured blood from deep gashes. Liver-eater stooped over him, hunched, face at Rick’s chest. Drinking.

Mostly human-shaped, wearing human clothing—slacks and belt, white shirt, all stained bright with blood. Long, tangled black hair tucked behind human ear, fell forward, hiding face. Flesh showed at liver-eater’s forehead and ear, at forearm and bare feet. But liver-eater’s hands were paws, claws flexed. Huge claws. Body shimmered with silvery gray light, danced with black motes. Energies of skinwalker shifting, half changed, yet held in check. Half human. Half cat. Liver-eater’s face from nose down was tawny pelt and big-cat mouth. Huge fangs rose from upper jaw, smaller from lower jaw. Fangs bit, buried in Rick’s flesh. Rick wasn’t fighting. Unmoving, yet still alive. He’s in thrall, mesmerized , she thought. Break it.

I leaped over couch, reaching. Screamed.

Liver-eater raised head. Bloody mouth open. He roared.

Big cats collided. Bodies slammed. Rolled into wall. Glass breaking, falling. Energies of liver-eater’s shift flowed over my pelt. My claws sank deep in liver-eater flesh. Teeth latched on, killing teeth at liver-eater’s shoulder. Sinking deep. Foul taste, foul smell. Rotten/dead/bad. Remembered taste. Rolled, snarling. Clawed for purchase, to hold, to tear, to rend. I ripped muscle from enemy shoulder. Tore into wound again, again. Blood, hot, rank, splattered. Liver-eater arm went limp. Claws raked my side. Blood poured out. Strange energies poured over my wounds, energies of liver-eater, seeking change.

It’s trying to take on mass, she thought, panicked.

I understood. Liver-eater needed stone, but there was no stone. Desperate, liver-eater’s energies flowed over my pelt. Trying to steal Beast-mass, Beast-body. I bit deep in neck. Fighting. Never give in to skinwalker again. Never! I drew up dark energies, Jane’s energies. Fought back with skinwalker magics, using her power, using gray place she went to, to shift. Surprised, she saw what I did, helped, fighting. We screamed challenge.

Liver-eater rotated hips. Slammed me down to floor, hard. Belly up like prey. I lost grip on its pelt. Its fangs latched near jaw. Vital blood spurted. I screamed prey sound. Fear and anger. Fangs twice bigger tore into flesh. But liver-eater mouth was wrong, still part human.

Can’t bite properly, she thought. And there’s no stone to steal mass from. He can’t complete the change. She chuckled, full of malice. We are strong. And smart.

I faked weakness, going limp, withdrawing fangs. Screamed as if deadly wounded. Liver-eater snarled in victory and loosed hold. I raised hind claws and curled back. Reached. Dug into liver-eater’s unprotected belly. Latched on to neck with killing teeth. Just as Jane did when she was little cat.

Liver-eater squeal was death scream. Deadly wounded. Liver-eater slashed fast, across face, single swipe, claws digging in, scoring deep. Toward my eye.

I rolled, curling, throwing body. Flesh tore along cheek. Liver-eater claws caught travel pack at neck, snagging leather. I bit liver-eater bare foot-paw, sank teeth deep. Skinwalker energies flowed. Buzz of pain stabbed deep into tongue. Liver-eater paw . . . vanished . . . into gray place. And back. Liver-eater vaulted up, breaking window. Out. Into night. Trailing gray light and blackness. I gathered tight to leap. To follow.

“Help. I need help.” Gasping voice.

Glimpse of Rick, shaking head, rolling to side. Bleeding. Half lying on floor, half propped on overturned chair. Hand on neck, at ear. Metal of phone between fingers. Blood pouring across bare, wounded chest. Spreading fast. Dark red flood. No pulsing. Rick stared, eyes glassy with shock, wide with terror. Face white, bloodless. Spoke into phone, words slurred, voice low. “I’m at one-oh-two Walker Street in Barataria, just past A Dufrene Street.”

I showed teeth, growled. Rick’s eyes focused. Breath caught. He looked to side. Metal grip of gun lay under edge of rug. I shoved off with hind foot, spun in midair. Jumped over him, raced out door, from lighted house into dark. Smell of liver-eater rot was strong here. A car’s heart started. I leaped long, from porch onto white car’s hood. Growled at windshield. Liver-eater sat in driver’s seat. Naked, in human form. Met eyes. Liver-eater face went bloodless. For long moment, world stopped. Jane surged to surface, seeing, thinking, Cherokee. One of The People.

His eyes on travel pack. His mouth moved, sound almost lost beneath soft roar of car. He knew me/us for skinwalker. “Ani gilogi,” liver-eater said. Panther clan. Gray light sparkled over liver-eater. Face shifted into . . . something else. Blond-brown hair, narrow nose. Very young white man. She saw. She knew. Liver-eater spun wheel, hit gas. Car pivoted, bucked. I wrenched control from her, screamed with rage. My claws dug in, sliding, raked paint across hood. Slung off. Into air. Landed hard. Rolled. Snarled. Car sped off, spewing shells, pattered over pelt.

Shift. Now. Please, she asked.

Liver-eater runs. I snarled. Want to follow, to hunt. But car was fast. Gone. Away from territory. I huffed, satisfied. Victor. Padded beneath flowering bush full of blooms, long arms reaching from high, trailing over ground. I slunk into dark. Sat, panting. Thought of Jane. She reached into head, into thoughts. She took control. Remembered her snake, its twisted shape.

But Beast was big, had taken mass from rock. Jane needed to send mass back; thought of boulder in garden. Thought of gold scraped onto surface, renewed after rains. Thought of gold necklace tight on throat.

Mass to mass, stone to stone. Sound of drums rose in night, heard only by me and by her. Soft whistle of flute. Mass to mass, stone to stone. Scent of herbed flame rose in memory. Shadows danced against stone walls. Shifting. Pain. Painpainpain. Mass decreasing, moving through earth, back to rock with gold on it. Mass to mass, stone to stone. Dark magic.

Complex magic, she thought, becoming alpha, becoming Jane. Weight and muscle, skin and bone, slid away, through the grayness of the place between. Back to rock. Back to yellow rock. In my mind, I heard rattle of old bones, and crack of boulders.

I came to myself under a bush, dirt and grass under me, something sharp stabbing my face. I brushed a shell away. I was itchy, sticky with sweat, and being dive-bombed by mosquitoes. I pushed to a sitting position, running my hands over my face, along my sides to my hips and down to my toes. Ten fingers, ten toes, five on each limb, and all where they belonged. I thought I was pretty much my usual size, too; I didn’t want to add a hundred pounds of muscle and bone just so Beast could be Big Cat whenever she wanted. When I worked with mass, I was always afraid I’d come back all wrong, and this shift had been a first in many ways. Beast had never forced mass upon me, had never taken over and made choices against my will. And I had never given back mass through the gray place. I didn’t have time to worry about all that now.

I remembered the memory Beast had shared, and I shivered in the heat. It had clearly happened before Beast and I joined. And it showed just how much I didn’t know about her, how little control I might really have over her. It was another thing I didn’t have time for. Not now.

My stomach growled with hunger. I pulled the travel pack off. There was a tear in the leather, a claw tear, long and lethal if it had caught on prey. As in me. I opened the pack. My clothes spilled out: tightly rolled T-shirt, undies, thin cloth pants. Shoes. I dressed in a hurry and raced into the house, still pulling on my shoes as I ran. “Rick?” I shouted, stumbling through the front door, into the mess. It was worse through my eyes than through Beast’s, a lot more bloody. Rick lay in the center of a pool. I knotted my hair out of the way and knelt on the floor beside him, knees half in the blood, unable to avoid it. Rick was in bad shape.

I pressed a pillow against his neck, which was seeping. His eyes opened. He struggled to focus. “Mountain lion,” he murmured. “Sabertooth lion.” He worked to take a breath, his chest moving with obvious pain. “Lions fighting.” I pressed, knowing I couldn’t tie the pillow at his neck without cutting off his air, so I settled for minimal pressure, the cloth for a clotting surface. Not sterile, but infection worries were for later. If he lived. “Biggest . . . damn things,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” I found another pillow and laid it on his chest. The claw marks that scored across him had opened up from his left pectoral, laterally across his upper abdominals, and down to his right hip, deep enough that muscle had been ripped and white rib showed where the flesh had been torn away. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.” I spotted a drapery tie and yanked it off, wrapping it around his chest. Ludicrous yellow pillow, stained scarlet with blood, and a buff-colored, silky tie, the tassel hanging from his side. Not very good for a field dressing but marginally better than nothing.

My stomach growled again, demanding. “I heard you on the phone. Did you call an ambulance?” When he didn’t answer, I called, louder, “Rick!” and slapped his cheek. Not an approved medical response, but it had the right effect. His eyes fluttered open. His pupils were dilated, his face way too white. Shocky. I eased him down to the floor, and pulled an ottoman over, propping his feet on it.

“Jane?” he mumbled.

I met his eyes. “Yeah. Did you call for an ambulance?”

“Backup. Called for”—he stopped to breathe—“backup.”

I considered his choice of words. Cop words. Without permission, I patted his pockets.

“Not a good time, babe. Not quite up to . . . wild monkey sex.”

I chuckled, pulled his wallet and flipped it open, half expecting to see a badge, but there was only a driver’s license and bank cards. No official NOPD ID. But there was an odd choice for his “in case of emergency” number hand-printed in a little clear plastic wallet window. I was pretty sure it was Jodi Richoux’s cell number. I took the cell from his limp fingers and snapped it open, noting that he had called that number most recently. I tapped REDIAL. The call was answered almost instantly.

“Rick?” Jodi’s voice demanded. I almost answered, but instead I held the phone to Rick’s ear. “Rick?” she asked again.

“Yo, babe. I’m . . . kinda hurt.”

“Help’s on the way.”

“Bleeding . . .” He passed out and I dropped the phone. Jodi shouted for him. I left the phone on the floor, her voice calling his name. My stomach twisted with hunger, begging for food. I was shaky, needing to eat, but no time now. I had covered Rick’s wounds, but the pool of blood was still spreading. I stepped back, looking him over, searching for bleeders I had missed, and spotted it. Blood pumped from his arm to the floor, arterial bright.

Kneeling again, I gripped his torn T-shirt and ripped upward, exposing his right shoulder, revealing the tattoos that had been hidden there. Around his right bicep was a circlet of something that looked like barbed wire, but was twisted vines with claws and talons interspersed throughout. Recurved big-cat claws and raptor talons, some with small drops of blood on them.

I leaned over and tore his left sleeve, exposing the tat there. I rocked back, my fingertips barely touching him. Cold chills raced up my arms. On his left shoulder, from collarbone down his pectoral and around his entire upper arm was a more intricate tat. Much more intricate.

“Lion,” he murmured, unexpectedly awake. He focused on my face, his eyes bleary. “I saw a lion. Half man . . . half cat.”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“I like lions,” he said.

The tattoos that I had noticed before, the black points that looked vaguely clawlike as they peeked from his left sleeve, were panther claws. The tattoo was tlvdatsi, a mountain lion. And behind the staring, predator face peeked a smaller cat face, pointed ears, curious and somehow amused, lips pulled up in a snarl to reveal predator teeth. A bobcat. My first two beasts. On Rick’s shoulder.