Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers

I have to call four people before someone answers. Each time I’m sent to voicemail, the tenuous hold I have over my panic frays until there’s nothing left when Hank answers his damn phone.

“What’s the situation?” It’s a demand. This is not the time for polite questions or chit-chat.

“Ambush just as a few of us were coming home. It happened block from the house. We contained it as best we could.” Hank keeps it concise. “Injuries but nothing critical. No fatalities. Some property damage. Attackers disappeared, but we killed at least one of them.”

“Ike and Greta?”

“Shifted and on perimeter patrol.”

That explains why they didn’t answer their phones. The panic subsides marginally. “Jose and Az?”

“Jose Shifted. I lost sight of Az shortly after the shit hit the fan.”

Fuck. Now I don’t know if it this was a random attack, another round of not-Shifter testing, or a ploy to steal my void. “Where are you now?”

“At the house. Fortunately not many of the neighbors are home yet, and we haven’t been bombarded with cops,” Hank says. He sounds distracted. I don’t want anyone distracted while there’s a possibility of a second attack.

“I’ll head Greer off. I’ll be there in five.”

Greer doesn’t like it, but he agrees to not send any units to the pack house. When I say I have things under control, it’s best not to interfere. He’s learned that lesson the bloody way.

It’s easy to pinpoint the location where the fight started. Mrs. Castillo’s mailbox is decimated – I’ll have Mark build her a new one – and two trees in the Winston yard are nothing but stumps. We’ll replace them. The unspoken agreement that keeps us from being murdered by the HOA is that we’ll fix whatever damage we cause. Lou Ferndale has a shed designed by a highly-esteemed architect and built by two repentant Shifters.

Pack cars remain where they were abandoned. Ike’s SUV is totaled. Greta’s motorcycle has a bent wheel. Jose’s car is missing a door, and there are claw marks across the hood of Mark’s Prius. Sloppy attack. Rushed. If I had been planning an ambush, I’d have set up camp closer to the house and forced close-range combat.

The trail of destruction stops short of the house. Hank’s ambulance is in the middle of the driveway with the lights still flashing. I park in the grass next to the ambulance. The hinges of the door protest when I slam it shut.

I immediately scan the area for Az, but she’s nowhere in sight. Two unnaturally large foxes approach, sniff my legs, and bow their heads. I can’t do more than nod at them. Fortunately, they don’t ask for more. They simply resume their patrol.

All I know is that my pack has been attacked, and I can’t find the weakest member. The pungent aroma of Shifter blood makes me dizzy. Makes me want to Shift right in the middle of the damn lawn. It is only years of self-control that keep me in human form. Knowing that Greta and Ike are prowling the perimeter of the yard eases some of my stress.

Okay, Rick, think rationally. Jose is Az’s unofficial bodyguard. In event of an attack, only death or dismemberment could tear him from her side. Since there aren’t any ocelot parts strewn across the yard, I have to assume that he’s still with her. Damn void. Why is she my first concern? She shouldn’t be. I never promised to put her ahead of the pack. The pack comes before anything else.

Though every cell is burning with the need to lay eyes on Az for reasons I don’t have time to contemplate, I check in at the triage station on the porch. Hank, a paramedic, watches as Tommy inserts a needle in the back of Mark’s paw. I’ve encouraged Hank to go back to medical school and become a veterinarian, but he likes the rush of working on emergencies. Besides, as he’s pointed out time and again, as one of the few licensed paranormal paramedics in the county he’s in high demand.

None of my people are dead. Two have lost a fair amount of blood. There is a gash in Oscar’s shoulder that will take at least two days, even with his accelerated healing, to close. Six broken limbs. One severed finger. Countless cuts and bruises.

Images from Dora’s Box flash through my mind. We’re lucky. Damn lucky.

Still no Princess. It takes an embarrassingly long time for me to remember Jose’s penchant for high places. Fucking cats. There are only two trees in the front yard sturdy enough to climb with enough branches to provide ample camouflage. I flip a mental coin and stare up at the pecan tree near the porch.

Four branches up, I spot something out of place. Jose has Az pinned to the trunk of the tree. Part of his left ear is missing. The fur around his right eye is matted. Az’s face is covered with blood.

“Get her down here right now.”

Jose peers down at me. His tail – bent at an odd angle near the tip – flicks languidly. After a moment’s consideration and quick survey of the scene, he scoots forward, turns around, and jabs his nose in Az’s side.

“Okay, okay. I’m going,” she mutters as she starts to shimmy down the trunk. In her dress. I keep my eyes firmly on her ankles. For the most part. From her awkward descent, it’s clear that tree-climbing wasn’t part of her childhood. Color-coordinating, on the other hand, apparently was a priority.

Three excruciating minutes later, she’s on the grass in front of me. The teeth she exposes with her smile are pink. The blood around her mouth and down her chin has dried. The blood on the front of her dress is still shiny.

“When this is over, Jose, you and I are going to have a discussion about what it means to be a bodyguard.” That I say it without growling is a point in my favor. In a fight he has one job: to get Az to safety. Failure to do so is akin to disobeying an order.

“It’s not mine,” Az speaks up as I drag her to the porch. Her voice sounds off. Higher than normal. Lighter. She doesn’t argue when I shove her onto the steps. A bucket of fresh water and a pile of old towels appear by my side.

“Shut up.” Anything she says is likely to fuel my temper. She and Jose are besties. Platonic soul mates or whatever. I get that. It doesn’t excuse the fact that he let her stick around an attack long enough to be harmed. I’m having a damn difficult time staying calm enough to gently clean her up. The last thing either of us needs is for me to accidentally hurt her.

The water is cold, but the blood washes off her face easily enough. The frigid temperature cools the worst of my anger. That there are no cuts or gashes under the blood helps, too.

In fact, there are no cuts on her face at all. There’s a tiny scrape along the curve of her jaw and her bottom lip is split, but there is nothing to account for the shitload of pink towels at my feet. “What the actual fuck, Az?”

“I bit ‘em,” she crows with a goofy grin. “Needed a sample of the blood to make sure they were the same guys. Couldn’t run the risk that they’d go poof at the end of the fight. One grabbed me, so I bit down on his forearm. He screamed like a baby and let me go. Next thing I know, I have ocelot drool on the back of my neck and I’m six feet off the ground. I think Jose put a hole in my dress.”

“Are they the ones who attacked Dora’s Box?”

“Yup. Same cheap vanilla taste.”

So the second round of testing is complete. Since all my Shifters are still standing, I suppose that means the not-Shifters failed. “Damn dangerous move, Princess.”

“Necessary,” she says with a shrug. Her grin widens. She leans forward as if sharing a secret. “I’m gonna have to go away for a little bit, okay?”

What? Go away? Go where? “No! Not okay.”

“I tried, but it’s too much. Magic in the blood. Magic at the scene. Magic everywhere. Everywhere.” She drags her nose across my throat. She tries to cluck her tongue but winds up giggling. “Naughty, naughty. Where have you been, Ricky?”

Ah. So that’s what she meant by go away. My Az – normal Az – has to take a backseat to crazy Az. Knowing that she’s trapped inside her own mind doesn’t make her less annoying, but it does make me pity her. I can’t imagine being a prisoner inside my head. I like control too much to let it go.

“What’re you smelling, Princess?” I don’t hold out much hope of getting a comprehensible answer out of her, but I have to try.

“It’s not right. It’s… wrong.” She heaves herself off me and twists her fingers together. “You reek of magic.”

“Dead witches, remember? Used up and burnt to a crisp.”

The end of her braid slaps me across the face when she shakes her head like a wet puppy. “No. Not barbecue magic. It’s bad. Dark and wrong and wrong and dark. Like pistachio tofu ice cream. Blech.”

This conversation is a complete waste of time. I’d offer to take the magic from her, but I’m still too close to Shifting. I rise, ready to leave her in Jose’s capable paws, when the air thickens. The sharp tang of elemental magic coats the back of my throat. Az sits up straight. Jose leaps off the porch and herds Az between two posts. On the other side of the porch, Ike and Greta take up position guarding the wounded.

Two half-Shifted creatures appear near the driveway at the edge of the wards. They don’t look like wolves or foxes or any mammal native to the area. Hybrids? The wind changes, and I can smell blood on one of them. Mark’s blood.

“Gimme all you got, Princess.” I brace myself for impact. She doesn’t disappoint. Energy slams in to me seconds after Az flings herself at me and presses her lips to mine. When this is over, I’ll have to ask if this how she always transfers energy or if it’s just for fun.

Fur sprouts along my arms. Before my hands turn into claws that will tear tender human flesh, I shove Az off me. The seams of my shirt give. Shit. Not a half-Shift. It’s hell on the wardrobe. Full Shift. The world goes hazy for a moment before returning to focus. Sharper. Cleaner. All my senses are heightened, and I feel more alive. God, I love Shifting.

The telepathic connection to the pack that is only present when one is Shifted snaps back into place. I give instructions to Jose before loping across the lawn. Ike stays with the wounded in case more not-Shifters show up. I can smell the scent of gun oil and hear Hank quietly work the slide on his pistol. Greta is only a tail-length behind on my left. The not-Shifters snarl at us. My answering growl makes the ground beneath my paws quake.

Adrenaline and rage, coupled with Az’s siphoned magic, take over. Attack my pack and then show back up for another round? Big fucking mistake. I rush the biggest not-Shifter. He tries to dodge, but I’m faster. I aim for his throat; a boot to my chest sends me flying backwards. I roll in midair, land on my feet, skid to a stop and launch myself at him again before he has a chance to recover. This time he’s too slow. He lifts his foot for a kick, but it’s too late. My weight and momentum send us crashing to the street.

Two massive paws on his brawny shoulders keep him pinned to the ground. Sharp claws scrape across my midsection. The stinging pain is nothing compared to the all-encompassing fury. The not-Shifter bucks desperately. Writhes. Twists. Stabs a claw between two of my ribs. He turns his head to try and bite my foreleg. I slam my head against his nose. His head cracks against the pavement.

In an impressive show of raw strength, he dislodges me with a massive, full-body heave. I land heavily on my back. Something near the stab wound cracks. I scramble to my feet before he can take advantage of my position. When he telegraphs a kick at my face, I duck my head and clamp my jaws across his calf as it whistles past. A sharp shake of my head dislocates his hip. Instincts take over. I hamstring him and render his leg useless. He howls, collapses on his back. I release his calf and rip through two layers of protective clothing to sever his femoral artery. In some ways the half-Shifted form is as weak as the human form.

His windpipe fragments like glass between my teeth. Blood, thick and teeming with magic, spurts into my mouth. I spit it all over the not-Shifter’s horrified face. I tear at the neck until the not-Shifter stops struggling. Easy kill. The body disappears in a burst of sulfur-scented magic.

Greta has the other not-Shifter cornered against our brick mailbox. He swipes a clawed hand at her muzzle. I intercept his swing. My teeth sink into his bicep. I shake my head viciously. Muscle and tendon shred. Bone shatters. With one final shake, I sever his arm. Greta growls at me.

Her kill. I can respect that. I’m not leaving without my trophy, though. I pick up the severed arm and trot back to the porch with it. Jose, ears down and tail lowered, slinks off when I approach. I drop the arm on Princess’s shoes.

“Thanks?” She gingerly pats the top of my head. When I don’t snap her hand off, she relaxes. Small, warm fingers tickle the back of my ears. “Good puppy.”