Black Beast (7 page)

Chase gave it to her. She wrote it down on the back of a bookmark while he watched.

He scooped up the romances and walked out of the Friends of the Library store without looking back. One of the books fell from his arms as he opened the door.

Catherine started to call out, hesitated, and ended up doing nothing. The book bounced once and landed in the middle of the floor, like a marker. A remainder of something bad.

•◌•◌•◌•◌•

Karen disappeared shortly after they had sex and did not come back. She didn't bother making an excuse for herself and it would never have occurred to him to ask.

Finn got up and stretched lazily.

He was very tall, slender, lightly muscled. His father had enlisted him in military service, so he had training with physical combat. Magic rendered weapons training redundant, but he had experience with the sword. Fencing had been one of his hobbies in college.

Finn ran his fingers through his hair, glancing around the room. Sunlight was pouring in through the blinds, catching the motes of dust that hung suspended in the air like magic particles. As he stepped into the light, his fiery locks morphed into a sparking blaze.

His shirt was draped over one of the throw pillows, which had fallen to the floor in the tussle. He picked it up, shoving his arms through the sleeves. The hair on his chest was a darker red, almost auburn, at odds with the milky paleness of his skin.

Finn had never particularly liked the way he looked. He knew he was attractive, in the same way others know that they are intelligent or brave, but it was not the rugged, masculine beauty that appealed to so many women. His fey good looks had caused many members of the Otherkind to underestimate him in the past.

It was often the last mistake that they ever made.

The information Karen had revealed to him about the shape-shifter bitch was disturbing. If she was in the habit of breaking the rules, it was possible that the omission from the file wasn't an accident, after all.

He shoved his arms through the sleeves.
It wouldn't be the first time a shape-shifter went behind a witch's back.

Finn did up the buttons on his shirt, then refastened his belt. The belt was tooled leather and heavy with charms. He had cast a glamor over it so it would not catch the notice of humans. They wouldn't hear the jangling noises that came from it as he moved, either.

Graymalkin was waiting for him in the stairwell, eying him with rampant disapproval. She could smell the traces of sex and spent magic on him and didn't like it.

He ignored her judgmental look. “Are you able to track a shape-shifter?” he asked, adjusting the leather bands that covered the scars around his wrists.

“Of course.” She sounded miffed.

“Then do it. Find it. Find
her
,” he corrected himself.

Her face shuttered. “Now?”

“Now.”

•◌•◌•◌•◌•

The end of the workday couldn't come fast enough.

Catherine hung up her lanyard in the closet. Together, she and Sharon—who had reappeared miraculously the moment Chase left the store—locked up and delivered the FoL store key to the librarian on duty at the front desk. She could feel Sharon's eyes on her as they left the adobe-colored building.

“It's kinda cold out,” she said, after a pause. “You sure you wanna walk all the way back? I'll give you a ride.”

Catherine looked back at the bushes. The branches were so heavy with leaves that she couldn't see through to the wall on the other side. That eerie feeling of being watched hadn't dissipated in the slightest, either.

Is someone there? Watching me?

Anger filled her at the thought, backed by fear and an ancient weariness that seeped all the way to the very bottom of her bones. Part of her wanted to investigate, but she was wary. Afraid. The shades hadn't helped.

She thought of the long walk home, under the hundreds of invisible eyes peering out at her from where they were concealed by the foliage, and shuddered.

“A ride sounds great,” she said quickly.

Sharon arched a pierced eyebrow, and slipped a cigarette out of her jacket pocket. “Are you okay?” she asked, as she lit up, cupping her hand around the flame to keep it from blowing out. “You're acting weird.”

Catherine shot her a look loaded with irony as she stepped downwind of the cigarette smoke. The pungent chemicals stung her nose and made her eyes water.

“Weirder than normal,” Sharon said, taking a heavy drag and then stubbing it out under her boot.

“I'm just cold.”

“Yeah? Lucky for you I'm not parked far.”

Sharon tugged open the door of her piss-colored Pontiac and a blast of smells sucker-punched Catherine in the face. She took a step back, fighting the impulse to cover her nose, which she knew was unspeakably rude.

The inside of the car was a mess. Crumpled fast food bags, empty soda bottles, moldy napkins, old homework, flavored hookah pens, all strewn about in a big compost heap. “What the fuck?” Catherine managed.

“Just throw everything over the seat,” Sharon said, grabbing fistfuls of paper. “It's all junk. I've been meaning to get this car cleaned out since forever.”

“Smells like it,” she said weakly.

“Fuck you,” Sharon shot back cheerfully.

Catherine threw some old homework over the seat, trying not to breathe through her nose.
Gods, this sucks.
Her eyes tracked a spider's path over a crumpled can of Red Bull.
Can this day get any worse?

And then she smelled it—silver.

She sucked in a breath of tainted air and immediately regretted it. Silver was the only thing apart from time itself that was sure to kill her. Even touching it caused agonizing pain. And she could smell it. Close enough to hurt. Close enough to
burn
.

No
, she thought, whirling around against the car. The impulse to keep something solid at her back was strong. So strong that she nearly collided with a very surprised-looking old lady who was on her way to her own car.

Catherine looked at her, trying to compose her breathing. The woman's large brown eyes were made even large by her reading glasses, magnifying her shock.

The old lady crossed herself, mumbling a quick prayer. She darted a backwards glance over her shoulder as she hurried away, heels clacking on the cement, bracelets jingling. Silver bracelets.
I wonder what she saw.

“Thanks for helping,” Sharon said sarcastically.

“It's your shit,” Catherine said, swiping a hand across her sweaty forehead. “But you're welcome.”

I wonder what's wrong with me.

Gray clouds were rolling in, promising the storm from that morning's forecast. Masses of cumulonimbus clouds followed the invisible line of the distant Sierras in a nebulous staircase. In the places where the pale light shone through, the hills glowed the dusty gold of desert sand dunes. Sharon's expression was grim as drizzle began to pelt the windscreen.

“My hair is going to be
ruined
.” Sharon spent an hour each day flat-ironing it. Something she shouldn't have been doing, considering how damaged it was by the dye.

Catherine stared out the window at the rain, to the hills beyond them. “So? Put it in a ponytail.”

Here in the city's outskirts, the flora and fauna weren't pushed back quite as easily as they were closer to its heart. Beyond the serene, rolling hills was dense wilderness: iron rivers fringed by dense curtains of cattails, thick beds of clover and soap-plants, and the towering native white oaks, with wasp-made oak apples festooning the branches like Christmas baubles.

At the base of the nearest hill, circled by the dense copses of oak trees, was a gully spangled with mustard seed flowers, purple lupines, and clusters of wild California poppies. Overhead, a red-tailed hawk circled lazily, searching the yellow-green grass for field mice.

Prey did not like the hawk, and made no secret of it. But Catherine's other beasts saw freedom in the shadows of that hawk's wings, and their wistfulness caused a powerful longing to swell within her breast, as sharp and as cutting as the blade of a knife.

This was her element, the wild and unrestrained beauty of the hills. The physical desire for it—it scorched like a pent-up flame, seeking release. She wanted to fly.

No, she
needed
to fly. Needed it the way Sharon needed her cigarettes. Needed it the way other people needed sex, or food, or company.

“Look at that sky,” Sharon said, following Catherine's gaze. She didn't notice the hawk. To her, it was just part of the scenery. “Shit. It looks like thunder.”

“Do you think so?”

“Those are anvil clouds. They don't fuck around.”

Perhaps not. But the bleak sky intensified the color of the flowers. An artist couldn't have put the lightning to better effect. Catherine rubbed at her arms. Her human skin had begun to itch uncomfortably and felt several sizes too small. Her beasts swam close to the surface now, lapping at freedom; they would not be denied.

Shape-shifters had to Change periodically, or else they went crazy, especially in times of stress. It displaced some of the cognitive load and sped up regeneration.