Harvest Hunting (24 page)

For once, a beam of sunlight broke through my window the next morning. I woke, blinking against the light, and found that I’d buried not only myself but the mostly empty bowl of Cheetos, a half-eaten Snickers bar, and a bottle of water under the brand-new quilt I’d bought a month ago. The Snickers bar was melted to my pillow.
Delightful.
The water bottle had come open, and I was lying in a wet spot.
Lovely.
The Cheetos had stained the sheets, but against the earthen tones of the comforter, the orange wasn’t that noticeable.
One out of three isn’t too bad.

Since I kept a mattress protector beneath the sheets—my hairballs were a constant threat—only the sheet had gotten wet and stained, and remembering Iris’s last reminder when she’d dumped my cat box on top of my bed, I stripped the sheet and put it in the hamper. She didn’t mind making the beds, but she and my sisters had pounded through my head just how much of a slob I was and how badly I’d abused her services. I was trying to make sure that I helped out more.

I opened the window and immediately slammed it shut. The sun might be shining, but it couldn’t be more than forty degrees outside. Digging through my closet, I came out with a pair of brown cords and a green pullover. I slipped my feet into a pair of cowboy boots, spiked up my hair with a dab of gel, and brushed my teeth. Earthside had it all over Otherworld when it came to dental hygiene technology, that was for sure. And being half-human, our teeth weren’t as strong as our father’s people.

When I was done, I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs. The smell of bacon and eggs drifted up the stairs, and I inhaled deeply, my stomach rumbling. We had a lot to do today, and in the back of my mind, I couldn’t forget the fact that every moment her captors had her, the danger to Amber grew.

Iris and Camille were at the table, Maggie in her playpen. The kitchen was otherwise empty. I glanced around.

“Wow. Where is everybody?” The breakfast table was usually jumping. I glanced over to the sink and saw the pile of rinsed dishes. “Looks like everybody’s already had a go at the food.”

Camille grinned. She looked better. “Trillian, Smoky, and Morio have enlisted Roz and Vanzir to expand the studio into a multiroom apartment. It’s not the best weather for building, but I think they can get a lot done today if the rain holds off. The guys certainly could use the room, and now and then I really want my bedroom to myself and the three of them out of the house. Husbands or not, they can be a pain in the ass.” She dotted the corners of her lips with her napkin. “When do we head out for Mary Mae’s?”

Iris handed me a sandwich of eggs, bacon, and toast. I wolfed it down, feeling oddly energized. My encounter the night before had done more than comfort me. I felt recharged.

“She said to come over around ten A.M.”

The phone rang, and she answered. After a moment, she handed it to me.

“Luke here. I just heard from Jason.”

“And?”

“Rice has been placed in Arizona. He’s not up here. And something else—Jason told me that there’s some big to-do going on in the desert down there, among one of the minor Packs.”

Damn it, that meant likely Rice had nothing to do with his wife’s disappearance, and we were back to square one. “What kind of to-do?”

“A string of deaths occurred in one of the werewolf Packs down there. Five beta males, all turned up dissected, their scent glands and other organs missing. They’ve cleared all the rival clans in the lycanthrope community. But there’s more. The scent of magic was picked up at one of the bodies—
trickster energy
. Dark trickster energy.”

Trickster
. There were a few clans that fed on trickster energy. Rabbits, jackals, hyenas . . . coyotes. “Coyotes—coyote shifters. From what Wilbur said, the coyote shifters down in the jungle use Wolf Briar to take over territory and kill off their rivals.”

“Fuck. Territory wars?” Luke fell silent for a moment, then said, “Coyotes—the good ones—are helpful to no end. But the bad ones . . . they’re dangerous and ruthless. They give Demonkin a run for their money.”

“We’d better look into the coyote Packs around here. Although what they might want with Amber is anybody’s guess. Nothing against your sister, Luke, but she’s a solitary pregnant female, and she’s not the Alpha’s wife.”

“Yeah, I hear you. So how’s Camille doing today? The Wolf Briar wear off?”

“She’s feeling better. We’re going to talk to Paulo’s fiancée, and I think we’ll also drop in on Marion at the Supe-Urban Café and see what she can tell us. Meanwhile, you try to figure out what the hell a group of coyote shifters would want with your sister.”

“The question for the win. I have no idea. I haven’t talked to her much over the years, until she called saying she needed to move up here. She sounded slightly crazed, but I thought it was the hormones from the pregnancy. Okay, I’ll let you get busy.” He hung up, and I stared at the phone before handing it back to Iris.

“This is as bad as fighting the werespiders. We didn’t know what they wanted, but in the end, it wasn’t anything good.” I ran down what Luke had told me about the trickster energy and the werewolf deaths in Arizona.

“Somebody in Arizona is producing Wolf Briar then. And so is someone up here. We have to make three stops today—Marion’s, Franco’s, and Madame Pompey’s Magical Emporium. I hate that we aren’t closer to finding Amber,” Camille said, carrying her dishes over to the sink and rinsing them off to stack them with the rest. “I keep thinking they’re torturing her or that she’s already dead. And there’s no good way to find out.”

“Is there any way you could scry on her? Find out if she’s still alive?”

Camille frowned, thinking. “I might. My spell of Finding won’t do anything more than point the way if she’s being held captive. Unless it backfired and dropped us into the captive’s lair.”

“Hell, I’d almost go for that—but not without backup. One whiff of the Wolf Briar, and we’d both be down for the count.”

“Yeah, about that. Sharah called today, told me be careful because I’m sensitized to it now, and subsequent exposures could cause an allergic reaction—which could be anything from mild to fatal.”

“Wonderful. Okay, what about the scrying? Can you do it?”

“Bring me a bowl of water. Use one of the crystal ones.” She sat back down at the table, closing her eyes and breathing softly as I prepared the water for her. We had several silver and crystal bowls that both she and Iris used for magic, and I pulled out the clearest one. Then, in a spurt of inspiration, I ran up to her study and found the Tygerian well water from back home in Otherworld. Couldn’t hurt to give it a little extra oomph by adding a bit of holy water to the mix.

When I returned, I saw that Camille was holding Amber’s picture. A touchstone. I added a cup of the Tygerian water to the tap water, and it spread through the liquid like oil, then blended, and the liquid took on a startling clarity. Cautiously, I wrapped my arms around the massive bowl and carried it over to the table.

Camille let out a long breath, and as I watched, she leaned over the bowl and opened her eyes. She searched the water, face pensive, scanning for—what I didn’t know. Magic confounded me, amazed me, and frightened me.

When Camille was wrapped up in the energy, it was as if she belonged to another realm, one that swept her away and consumed her. I couldn’t reach where she went. But then again, she couldn’t follow me into my realm as tabby and panther. We had our own private kingdoms—the same with Menolly and her bloodlust. And yet, each of us stood stronger together than apart.

A swirl of mist rose from the water, and she gasped and sat back. “Look,” she whispered, pointing at the bowl.

I gazed in at the still surface, waiting till the mist cleared. There she was—Amber. She was in a cage, holding on to the bars, a plaintive look on her face and—wait a second.

“What’s that around her neck?”

Camille leaned forward, squinting. After a moment, she jerked her head up, a frightened look on her face. “That can’t be what I think it is, can it?”

Around the frightened Were’s neck was a golden chain, and on the chain a pendant of the clearest topaz, brilliant yellow and sparkling. The setting was ornate, carved, and looked extremely old. And the gem glistened, even in what appeared to be dim light.

“It looks like the others, doesn’t it?” I sucked in a deep breath. Could Amber really have what we thought she did? And if so, how the hell did she get hold of a spirit seal?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Camille frantically scanned the image again. “I can’t make out anything other than that she appears to be in a cell—a cage—and the light there is dim. I have no idea where she is, and I can’t see anything to give us a landmark.” She slammed the table with her hand. “If she has one of the seals, we have to find her before she’s killed.”

“What would the coyote shifters want with the spirit seals? Would they even know what they were?”

Camille grabbed her coat. “Iris, we’re heading over to Marion’s. She should be at her café by now.”

I grabbed my jacket and purse. “Right behind you. Let’s take my—”

“
Not
your Jeep. The sun may be out, but it’s cold and supposed to get colder today. We’re taking my Lexus.” She held up her keys. I shrugged, giving in before I even bothered arguing, and we headed down the steps.

 

 

The Supe-Urban Café was on East Pike, and it was a hangout for Supes of all kinds, but especially Weres. We’d first met Marion—a coyote shifter, the owner—at a Supe Community meeting, and then, a few weeks back, she’d helped Camille and our friend Siobhan escape from a crazed psycho stalking the selkie.

Business was brisk at the café, with nearly every table filled. Scenic photos from around the area covered the walls, landscape shots of Mount Rainier and the city of Seattle—the Space Needle, down at the docks, Seattle Center—urban scenes mingling with the wild. The tables were polished wood, and the chairs were simple but sturdy—wood and green leather.

The smell of hot coffee, chicken soup, and fresh bread lingered in the air, and though we’d just eaten breakfast, the scents were enough to make my stomach growl. We took a table and motioned to Marion, who was behind the counter, making change for a customer.

She meandered over, coffeepot in hand. “Coffee? Biscuits and honey? Cinnamon roll?”

Camille broke into a grin. “What the hell. One of your big biscuits and honey, please. And a Sprite.”

“I’ll take a cinnamon roll. And if possible, a few minutes of your time. We have a few questions we could use some help on.”

Marion nodded. “Let me put in your order, then I’ll be right back to talk to you girls.” She headed toward the warming shelf and slapped our order up. Then, Sprite in hand, she returned and settled down at our table.

The woman was gaunt, but not for lack of food. Coyote shifters all seemed to be on the thin side, lean and wiry, and most were tough. Marion had curly red hair—almost mahogany—pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her eyes flashed hazel. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a green apron that had the Supe-Urban Café logo embroidered on the corner. Leaning back against the chair, she folded her arms and smiled.

A waitress came in with our order and handed me a gigantic cinnamon roll and Camille what was truly the biggest biscuit I’d ever seen, along with a nice big dab of butter and a miniature pitcher of honey. As the waitress excused herself, Marion motioned for us to eat up.

“What can I do for you?”

Camille glanced at me and nodded as she slathered the biscuit with butter and honey.

I cleared my throat. “This is a delicate situation, Marion. We don’t want to appear accusatory, but a problem has come up, and we’d like your take on it.”

Marion glanced around, but everybody seemed involved with their food, drink, books, and conversation. “Okay, what’s up?”

I leaned forward and kept my voice low. “We may have a problem with some . . . coyote shifters making Wolf Briar. Or buying it.”

“Fuck. Just fuck.” She paled, as pale as someone perpetually tanned can turn. “In my office.
Now
. Bring your food.”

We followed her past the kitchen, with its steaming pots and pans, to the office in the back, where she dropped into the chair behind her desk and motioned for us to sit. “Now that we’re in private, spill it.”

I ran down everything that had happened, leaving our speculation about the spirit seal out of the mix. Marion played with a piece of wood she’d been whittling into a figurine as she listened. When we came to the Wolf Briar traps hitting Camille, she leaned forward.

“I’m going to tell you something my people don’t talk much about. For one thing, the coyote tribes keep to themselves, and we don’t like our secrets to get out. But another: We have some dark cousins among our midst, and to speak of them . . . it’s feared we’ll invoke them by doing so.” She opened a drawer and withdrew a figurine of a coyote. He was standing up, a mask across his face, carrying a bag over his shoulder. “May Coyote Master hear our words and keep them secret,” she whispered, touching the statue reverently.