The Shifting Price of Prey

Chapter Fifty-One

Something warm, wet and rough licked my cheek. My eyes snapped open, and I stared up into a huge furry face. It looked down at me with curious copper-coloured eyes, huffed as if to say, ‘Get up, lazybones,’ and yawned wide enough to showcase a gut-liquefying set of sharp, white, sabre-toothed fangs—

I threw myself away, rolling until I slammed up against the invisible wall of the ash circle, the heavy chain and collar choking my throat, and froze, staring at the big cat a few feet away, whiskers gleaming amber, the very tip of its tail twitching. Gradually what I was looking at sank into my mind. The big cat’s coat was a mix of glossy golds, bronzes and dark reds, marked with black stripes. It looked as if someone had given an orange and black tiger a funky metallic dye job. If I ignored the black stripes, its coat matched my hair. And unlike the tigers in the zoo, its pupils were oval, like a domestic cat’s. Or mine.

‘What are you?’ I croaked, heart pounding erratically in my chest.

Its ears pricked forward, the look on its face saying, ‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you?’ Then, as if I was no longer interesting, it went and flopped down at the cave entrance.

I huddled there, trying to catch the thoughts running round my head like a frantic mouse. Who was the gold cat? Was it another shifter? Was the funky gold cat why I thought I’d shifted into a big cat and eaten Carlson? But there was no way I had, not when I was still stuck in the circle, still collared and chained. Not that I wouldn’t have killed Carlson . . .

There was no sign of his grey and black striped cat body. Or his human one. His backpack was still here, its contents strewn across the floor: the cloth-wrapped package containing the ritual (ugh), phone (no use here) and a bottle of water (damn, I was thirsty). His discarded jeans and the bloody bandage were piled next to it. There was no sign of him. Not even a bloodstain on the cave’s floor. So had the gold cat chased him off? Eaten him? And where had it come from? More important, what did it want with me?

Not a lot, I realised, as the gold cat rested its head on its (very large and no doubt very sharp-clawed) paws next to the cold remains of the fire, and dozed in the sulphurous-coloured sunlight coming through the entrance. Not far from the gold cat was my own backpack. Which was an unexpected bonus. I took a calming breath – the cat could wait – untangled myself from the chain, then scrambled up and paced my magical prison looking for a way out.

The chain easily let me move to the edge of the ash circle, but I couldn’t cross the ashes or get a handle on the magic in them to crack it. Nor could I break the padlock on the leather collar, or the chain, which was obviously thick enough to hold the big cat it was made for. I shuddered, trying not to think of Carlson’s plans for me, and shoved the fur-covered pallet aside. The chain was welded to a massive iron ring, drilled and cemented into the cave floor. Crap. I was never going to break that. I’d have to work on the collar instead.

I twisted my ring. Ascalon should cut through the collar with ease. But before I started sawing at my neck with a two-foot-plus-long and razor sharp sword, I needed to take care of at least one biological necessity. Dehydrated I might be, but still, nature calls. I chose a spot facing the back of the cave and sighed with relief.

My relief was short-lived as I realised even with the collar off, I’d still be trapped in the circle. And Carlson might be (with any luck) dead and gone, but Marc and the other grey and black stripy cat-shifter, Steve, could turn up at any time.

Damn. How long had I been here? Since yesterday, seeing as I still needed to relieve myself and hadn’t had any involuntary accidents. Which meant this was the Summer Solstice. The Forum Mirabilis auction was tonight. And something told me that, no matter what plans Hugh had in place to rescue the kidnap victims, if I didn’t get back for the auction, then any chance of the Emperor answering my question about releasing the fae’s trapped fertility would be lost.

Crap. What if I didn’t get free in time?

‘No,’ I said, the sound of my voice loud in the quiet cave.

‘No. This is Between. Like the Fair Lands time runs differently here – faster or slower – if you can make it so.’ And I could. The magic liked me. All I had to do was decide ‘slower’ and it would be so. I clenched my fists, determined. ‘Slower, definitely slower.’ Hell, I could be here a week or more, not that I was planning to, and still return the same afternoon I’d left.

But first to escape. And find Finn. No way was I going anywhere without him.

I eyed my backpack. As well as water, some handy wipes and other useful stuff, it contained salt. Salt would break the circle, and while I couldn’t cross the ashes, it didn’t mean things couldn’t get in. After all, Carlson had planned to do whatever with me in the circle. I frowned at the gold cat. I was pretty sure it was a shifter, and while it didn’t seem able to talk to me in its cat shape, it still had ears and presumably a human brain between them.

‘Hey,’ I called.

The gold cat cracked one copper-coloured eye open.

I pointed. ‘Any chance you could bring me my bag?’

It opened the other eye and lifted its head. Finally, after what seemed an age, it rose with a lazy grace and nosed the bag before snagging it in its sabre-teeth. I held my breath as it padded over and then let it out in relief as it tossed the bag over the ashes, to thud at my feet.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

It huffed, almost like a laugh, then went back to lie at the cave’s entrance. Guarding it from outsiders? Or keeping me in? Whatever, I had my bag.

Ten minutes later I was watered, wiped and had one of Sylvia’s always-there BLT sandwiches filling my empty stomach. Thankfully, either by luck or design, her sandwich-replenishing spell on my backpack still worked here. I’d offered the cat water and half the sandwich, which it disdainfully declined by totally ignoring me. I wished I’d thought to ask Sylvia to do the same replenishment trick with the salt too; the plastic shaker was only half full. I started sprinkling it carefully onto the ash circle. As I made it about half way around, a strong breeze ruffled the gold cat’s fur, blew my hair back, and jasmine-scented magic tingled like electricity over my skin.

A girl appeared, sitting with her legs tucked under her to one side, in the middle of the cave.

I froze, half bent over, fingers gripping the salt. Gold Cat flattened her ears but otherwise didn’t stir. The girl was about my own age, raven-black hair curling extravagantly to her hips, dressed in a mediaeval-style dress in claret red that pooled around her like a puddle of blood. Her eyes matched the claret colour of the dress, and her cat-like pupils matched Gold Cat’s. And my own.

She was sidhe.

She was also a ghost.

I clamped my mouth shut on a scream as my stupid phobia hit, panic speeding my pulse. I swallowed the panic back. The ghost sidhe couldn’t hurt me, hell, she couldn’t even speak to me, since I can see ghosts but not hear them. Well, not unless it’s All Hallows’ Eve. Which this wasn’t—

She was sidhe.

Sidhe don’t leave ghosts. If we die, our bodies fade, dissipating back into the ether as our spirits dissipate back into the magic. Damn. Stupid phobia had zapped my brain cells. She wasn’t dead, she was some sort of spirit. I straightened, shooting the girl a narrow-eyed look.

She smiled, showing fangs every bit as sharp, white and pointed as Gold Cat’s, but way more dainty.

‘Nice gnashers,’ I muttered, wondering why she’d chosen to Glamour herself with them, then added louder, ‘so are you anything to do with the cat?’

She laughed. ‘Me, dearie? Oh no, that . . . cat is not known to me. I am Viviane.’

She announced her name as if I should know it. I didn’t. I did know her voice, even if the last time I’d heard it, it had sounded older, deeper and more crotchety. ‘You’re the spirit of the tarot cards.’

She snapped her fingers and a fan of translucent, blank white cards appeared in her hand. ‘I am, indeed, bean sidhe.’

Good to have it confirmed, even if her showing up in person added a whole slew of questions to the suspicions already in my mind. Nor was I thrilled about having Viviane’s now much larger and no doubt sharper teeth near my flesh. But now I’d get the last and final tarot card. Looking on the bright side, it was bound to be way more enlightening that the previous four.

I held out my hand. ‘I offer my blood solely in exchange for the answer to my questions. No harm to me or mine.’

‘Pfft!’ She shot me a disgusted look. ‘I’m not here for that.’

Disappointment and surprise washed through me. ‘Then what are you here for?’

‘Oh, just a little chat,’ she said airily. ‘Nothing more.’

Yeah, and I wasn’t a sitting duck in a circle of ashes with a magical collar fastened round my neck. Gold Cat seemed to agree with me, if its low growl was anything to go by. Maybe it was on my side after all. ‘Start chatting then,’ I said flatly.

‘Direct. Good.’ She nodded. ‘I like that.’

She didn’t, or she’d have told me what she wanted. No, she’d probably much rather string me along until she got me in a position that she thought I’d agree to whatever it was, without her giving too much in exchange. Well, two could play that game.

I went back to sprinkling salt on the ash circle. Viviane gave me an arch look for a moment then started laying her cards out in what, from the corner of my eye, looked ironically like Patience. Once she was done, she moved a couple, then said to no one in particular. ‘That cat is not a cat, nor is it a true shifter. It is an ùmaidh.’

An ùmaidh. A temporary changeling.

My hand shook and I only just managed not to dump the rest of the salt. It took flesh and a sliver of soul forged to living matter to animate an ùmaidh. The living matter had to be Carlson’s body; I wasn’t entirely clear where the flesh had come from, unless it was the flesh Carlson had fed me (ugh), and then somehow I’d managed to sunder part of my own soul. Did that mean Gold Cat was made from both of us? Was it gold because it was more me than him? And what had happened to Carlson’s soul? Or souls, since shifters had two souls. Maybe Gold Cat had two and a bit souls now? Or maybe there was nothing left of Carlson at all. I didn’t know. And I didn’t know how I’d created an ùmaidh either. Unless the magic had helped? It had done that before, made impossible-for-me-to-do things happen because it decided I needed them.

Viviane moved another couple of cards. ‘Now you’re thinking that cat is your ùmaidh, and you’re right, bean sidhe. But you’re also wrong.’

Hmm. I kept sprinkling salt; Viviane wasn’t done with the free information.

‘Shifters have two souls, one human and one animal,’ she said.

C’mon, Viv, tell me something I don’t know.

‘The human soul is the usual reincarnated one, but the animal soul isn’t. It’s an animus.’

Now she was getting interesting.

She placed a finger on one card. ‘Animus are primal spirits who long ago decided to embody themselves in animals, predators mostly, instead of the magical flesh The Mother chose to clothe herself in.’

I wasn’t entirely sure what a primal spirit was, but The Mother is our creator, and the first to shape herself out of the magic way back when. A shiver of fear pricked goosebumps over my skin. Bad enough when gods or goddesses take an interest in you, even more so when it’s The Mother. If primal spirits were anything like even a minor god or goddess, the last thing I wanted was to have one set its sights on me. I squinted at Gold Cat dozing in the sulphurous sunshine. It didn’t look like an überpowerful primal spirit, but hey, looks are deceiving.

Viviane flicked a card into the air and gave a sharp nod as it vanished. ‘Unfortunately, the animus shortly discovered the downsides of chaining their spirits to their animal hosts. One was that animals die too quickly. And by embodying themselves in actual flesh, the animus only keep their immortality so long as their spirit lives on in their host, or its descendants. Should all their descendants die, the animus dies too.’ She vanished another card. ‘But there was an even greater threat to the animus’s immortality: their animal hosts were not the most efficient predator in the humans’ world. So the animus sought primacy by bonding their animals’ bodies and souls with those of humans. In doing so, they succeeded in using the humans’ shapes, along with their animal shapes, as they willed, thus creating the first shifters.’

Which hadn’t panned out too well for them, since shifters had still ended up being hunted almost to extinction. But it did tell me how Carlson’s ritual was supposed to have worked. It should’ve bonded my soul with whatever part or parts of the animus’ soul that Carlson carried and turned me into a shifter. Only it hadn’t worked quite right, for whatever reason.

‘When the shifters die,’ Viviane carried on, ‘their human and animal souls move on, but the part of the animus’s spirit rejoins with itself by travelling into another shifter, a direct descendant of the human who is dead.’

I stopped sprinkling salt and stared at the back of the cave, hearing Carlson’s voice saying, ‘Our pride is dying. Adults ain’t living once the kits all gone. Only thing keeps us all living is if we’s mated an’ having kits.’ Which sort of made sense if the shifters’ pride were all sharing one or two primal spirits. With no more children being born, and the human and animal parts of them dying, the primal spirit had fewer bodies to inhabit. Until it had no body left at all, and died.

No doubt why Carlson had advertised on the Forum Mirabilis for a female weretiger, and when that hadn’t worked he’d got hold of a copy of the ritual and used me as his experimental guinea pig. He didn’t have any direct descendants. With Carlson dead, the animus was finally dead too.

Except it wasn’t. I’d somehow made an ùmaidh, and the animus had bonded to the part of my soul in the ùmaidh, instead of me. Or maybe I (or more likely, the friendly magic) had severed the part of my soul the animus had bonded to, so I didn’t end up a big-cat-shifter.

Whatever.

The ritual hadn’t worked. I wasn’t a shifter. The animus was stuck in a temporary changeling’s body. One that was going to die in a couple of weeks.

My relief came with a thread of pity for Gold Cat. No way did I agree with its methods (or Carlson’s methods? I wasn’t sure who’d actually been in charge), but it just wanted to survive, like the rest of us. Of course, Gold Cat wasn’t the only spirit in the cave; Viviane was another. And she’d been quiet long enough that her info-freebies had evidently come to an end. I turned and gave her and the Gold Cat an enquiring look.

‘So have the two of you been chatting’ – and no doubt plotting too – ‘about all things primal while I’ve been sleeping?’

Viviane shook her head. ‘Oh no, that cat isn’t interested in talking to me.’

Did that mean Gold Cat wanted to talk to me? So far it hadn’t been very communicative, other than the odd growl or disdainful look, much like any cat really. But if they hadn’t been chatting/plotting, where was Viv getting her info from? Since if all that stuff about shifters was known, if not by me, then by the fae, I was pretty sure Tavish would have mentioned it at some point. And he hadn’t.

I asked her.

‘Knowledge is easy to come by, bean sidhe, if you know where to research.’ Viviane grinned like a Cheshire cat, but unlike the cat she didn’t disappear only stretched her head and neck out like a cartoon character across the cave to where Carlson’s backpack and its contents were strewn on the floor. She stuck her head into the cloth-wrapped package. ‘Let us see.’ Her voice was slightly muffled. ‘Ah yes, pages thirty-two to thirty-eight talk about shifter creation’– she lifted her head and gave me a smug look – ‘with a note from a Witch Whitneyi to say that “animus” as pertaining to shifters bears no relation to Jungian theory, and not to confuse the two. The witch archives contain an amazing collection of knowledge, so vast that even they do not know what insights are to be found within. But I use it often enough that I have become quite proficient in discovering any answer I want.’

Did she expect me to applaud, or something? ‘Anything in there about why the ritual didn’t work?’

Viviane stuck her head back in, then after a moment she snapped back to her previous sitting position next to her cards. She gave me a sly smile.

Right. No more free info. And no way could I get hold of Carlson’s papers on my own— ‘Hey, Gold Cat. Any chance of you getting those papers for me?’

Gold Cat lifted its head, gave me another copper-eyed stare, then rose gracefully and padded out of the cave without a backward look.

‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ I muttered.

Viviane let out a pleased sound and moved three cards.

I went back to my salt sprinkling . . . and learned that even closing the circle with salt didn’t negate its magic. Frustrated, I chucked the empty salt container at the back of the cave, sighed, sat down, and arranged the chain so it didn’t touch me. I looked at Viviane. ‘What’s the deal, then?’