Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers

You ever wake up knowing that someone's watching you? It's a creepy-as-hell feeling. Doubly so when you're a Shifter. My first instinct is to lash out at the intruder, but something – a familiar magnolia scent - holds me back. It only takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of my bedroom.

Astraea is perched like a gargoyle on my dresser. Weirdo. As if wrestling her off Jose so he could shower and then wrestling her off me so I could go to bed weren’t enough, now she has to watch me sleep. There's a panic room on the first floor. It wouldn't take much to turn it into a padded room.

"Pillows don't belong on the walls, silly billy," she murmurs.

Psycho Princess. "Go back to bed."

"Dreams are darker than reality. Screaming and shouting and pain." She hops off the dresser, light as a feather. The mattress barely registers her slight weight when she crawls up the bed to lean against the headboard. "It's quiet in here. No one banging on the door and demanding to be heard."

"All the bedrooms are warded. A medium sweeps the house once a week. Any ghosties you're hearing are in your head."

She groans, buries her hands in her hair and presses her face against her bare knees. "This is my voice, but these are not my words," she says, whiny but lucid. "My words are buried. Hidden. Lost in the waves of… of… cotton candy." And, just like that, the lucidity is gone.

"Cotton candy." I'm never going to get back to sleep. Just as well. Dreams of Kassie's tassels and all I missed out on will only lead to another icy shower.

"No. No. No." She slams her head back against the headboard so hard the wood cracks. When she rears forward for another brain-rattler, I slide a pillow between her skull and the headboard. I like my mahogany headboard. A werebear in Arkansas carved it for me when I set up my pack. Besides, blood's a bitch to get out of the mattress.

"Ease up there, Princess. A trip to the ER is not on my agenda."

"Too many touches. No permission given. No never means no when I say it. Even the best sponge bursts." She slides down, curls up into a ball of blonde hair and bones. Her eyes meet mine for a moment before flickering down to her clenched fists. "You are the most peaceful thing I've ever touched."

Which is just one more sign that she's nuts. My life is everything but peaceful. Still, it's a compliment, and my momma beat manners into me. "Thank you."

"I want to crawl in your innards and sleep."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a crazy bitch?"

"Often." She flashes a smile brighter than sunshine in August. "Usually when I'm normal."

I don't know what normal for a void is. Or if there is even such thing. I pray that the creepy, insane ramblings, and self-harm aren't part of normal. Otherwise, I will be turning that panic room into a padded cell. Dealing with a house full of hormonal, violent Shifters is enough for me.

Astraea's stomach growls louder than an angry bear. She giggles and presses her hands over her stomach. "I like frozen waffles."

It's pretty bold hint, and it's not like I'm going to get back to sleep any time soon. No doubt her laughter has woken at least one of the Shifters. Once one wakes, they all seem to follow suit. It's damn irritating on mornings after long assignments.

"Let's go, then." I fling the bedding off me and over her head. It only makes her giggle harder.

I gave up sleeping naked shortly after I bought the Shifter house. In those early days there were late-night calls to retrieve pack members who'd picked bar fights or let their emotions get the best of them. Being a Shifter isn't just about sprouting fur and claws and fangs. It's about control. Those who learn control live happy lives integrated with society. Those who don't learn control have noticeably shortened life spans.

"Frozen waffles, huh?"

"Yum." She rubs her stomach before skipping off ahead of me. "They're even better when they're cooked."

Astraea leaps onto the edge of the counter while I root around for something to make for breakfast. Meal prep isn't my forte. Jose or Greta are usually on food duty. The rest of us take turns cleaning up the mess. I still don't understand why lasagna requires so many pots and pans. The last time I asked Greta, she nearly took off my nose.

"Coffee or OJ?"

"Coffee. Every engine needs gasoline."

That’s a point in her favor. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t drink coffee. She may have been Vardan's fairy princess, but he washed his hands of her and she's going to have to give up that sparkly tiara. Everyone in the pack pulls their own weight. Time for a little reverse Cinderella.

"Mugs are in the cabinet behind you. Break one and you clean up the mess."

Rather than get off the counter or turn around – like a normal person - she twists herself into a complicated knot to retrieve two mugs. She somehow manages to grab my favorite blue mug and a pastel purple mug no one has ever claimed without dropping either. There is enough sugar in her mug to keep a class of toddlers bouncing off the walls for days. When she stirs coffee into her mug of sugar, I'm only half-surprised the spoon doesn’t stand on its own.

Before I can crack open an egg, feet thunder down the stairs and into the kitchen. Greta and Ike stumble into the kitchen arm-in-arm. I recruited the pair of mated red foxes first. Greta’s challenge was the only one I'd honestly feared losing. They live in the house with the others, but keep a place on Galveston when the need for privacy overcomes the need to belong.

"Pleasant sun rise," crazy chick greets with a finger wave.

Ike and Greta had been home for the big pack pow-wow about Astraea, but I doubt our newest stray remembers them. She’d been preoccupied with bonding with Jose and trying to braid Uriah’s hair. Though she’d spoken with everyone for at least two minutes, I hadn’t bothered with proper introductions. I’ll get around to that when she’s less nutty.

"Morning," Ike grunts, stretching an arm around her head to reach the mugs. Quick as a flash, she grabs his wrist and drags it up to her face. Her small, pink tongue licks a slimy trail across the inside of his forearm.

"Red fox," she announces and drops his wrist. She lifts her mug up to her mouth and takes a casual sip, as if she hadn't just molested one of my pack.

"You know you can ask," Ike says, wiping his arm on the hem of his shirt. He's the most laid-back member of our group, but even he looks a little put off by our pet loon. "It's much more polite than licking."

"Taste never lies." She cocks her head like an inquisitive bird. Twin blue lasers narrow on Ike’s face. Ike shifts just a bit under that scrutiny. "Remember that."

Greta eyes her mate warily. Oh God. This is going to be a repeat of the time he let himself get sniffed by a werefox passing through the city. Hurricane Greta had broken every dish in the house and quite a few of Ike's bones. At the rate she's going, Princess is going to send me into that padded room.

The tension in the room doesn't seem to affect Astraea. She hops off the counter and lifts my arm. Her tongue is hot and not as wet as I'd imagined as it slides across the inside of my wrist. "See? Looks like puppy but tastes like Alpha." She dips her head and licks again. Smacks her lips. "Oh. Oh. Oh."

"What?" What does she taste on me? Soap? Laundry detergent?

"Taste never lies," she mutters to herself. "Never."

"What in the hell are you talking about?" I reach for her to shake a few answers loose, but she's a fast psychopath. She ducks under my arm and rounds the corner of the island.

I tense to leap across the damn island when Greta whispers my name. Greta is the brassiest, boldest woman I know. She rarely says anything at less than full volume. Whatever has caused her to whisper, for her voice to crack just that little bit, is sure to be ulcer-inducing.

Greta points a long finger at Astraea's back. After dodging me, Princess had pulled her mass of hair into a ponytail with a ribbon she'd had stashed away who knows where. The skin revealed by her tank top is pale and smooth. It's also mottled with bruises in shades ranging from sickly yellow to livid purple. A dark, hand-shaped bruise covers the nape of her neck. The bruise doesn't match the marks on her throat. The bruises on her face are bad, but knowing that there are more twists something painful inside me.

"Sweetheart." I lower my voice and keep it soothing. It's the same tone I use with new, unstable Shifters. "I need you to go with Greta, okay? She's going to take care of your bruises."

"Nope," she chirps, even managing to pop the 'p'.

"It wasn't a request."

"It's just gonna make you all snarly," she says.

She has a point. I had planned on having Greta photograph the extent of Astraea's wounds. Going after the Mage of New Orleans would be suicide in every sense of the word, but having evidence would go a long way to keeping him from ever getting his hands on her again.

"Do you need medical attention?"

"Nah." She grins. I'm worried about internal injuries or busted ribs, and she's grinning like a fool. "Missy cut off my pink cast last week. I asked to keep it, but she said if I wanted another cast so badly, she'd make sure I got one for each arm."

She holds out her left forearm. Sure as shit, it's a paler and, unbelievably, thinner than her right arm. Greta's growl rumbles like thunder. Ike's knuckles are white on her shoulders.

"Who is Missy?" Greta demands. For Missy's sake, I hope she's nowhere near Houston. Ike isn't strong enough to contain his mate.

Astraea blinks. Twice. The eyes she fixes on Greta are clear. Focused. "No one. She’s no one. Minnesota is a long way from Texas. This place is quiet. Restful. I can build up my shields."

"You don't let anyone hurt you, you hear me?" Greta insists. Her fists are clenched but there are tears in her eyes. "Anyone touches you in a way you don't like, call me."

Astraea launches herself across the kitchen. Her arms are around Greta's neck and her feet dangle a few inches off the ground. She presses a loud, smacking kiss to Greta's flushed cheek. "Momma fox!" She pulls back just enough frown at Greta. "Foxy Momma?"

Ike's booming laughter eases the last of the tension in the kitchen. He briefly joins the hug. "I think it's the latter, hon."

Astraea chatters on and on about foxes and packs and kitties while she helps Greta make breakfast. Having her so close to the gas stove gives me a mild heart attack, but she doesn't set herself or the house on fire. Another miracle.

I'm not sure which is more disturbing: the nonsense she spouts or the moments of clarity. She's coherent just often enough to remind me that she isn't a child. She's an adult, in mind and body, and if I continue to treat her like a kid, I'm going to have a hell of a mess on my hands when she gets back to normal. Whatever that is.

"Four hours," she says as she places a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me. Her hands are trembling a little too much for my peace of mind, so I grab the fork before it falls tines-first onto my groin.

"In four hours I'll have discharged or processed all the magic. If I don't absorb anymore. That means no touching." She waggles her fingers like a principal. "Not even the fun touches."

Greta's glare is downright murderous. Ike merely throws his head back and cackles. Jose chooses that moment, of course, to saunter into the kitchen. For the first time in months he’s not wearing the gray-sweats-of-depression. The powder blue dress shirt and pink tie isn’t a combo I’d choose but whatever works for him.

"My little star!" Jose holds out his arms to Astraea and stands braced for a pounce.

Princess stays rooted in place. The frown on her face is a sharp contrast to the grin she’d worn as she’d danced around the kitchen earlier. "Sorry, pretty kitty. No touching."

"Not even the fun ones," Ike laughs.

And, just like that, it clicks. Her ramblings aren't all nonsense. In the bedroom, she'd said something about a sponge bursting. Matt said that she absorbs magic through touch. Knowing what I do of her father, I doubt he associates with non-magical beings. Whoever bruised her up good gave her more than just marks and a boatload of pain. Even the best sponge bursts.

During the pack discussion, I had explained what I could about voids. I hope that when she's lucid, she can add clarification. We need to set ground rules so this sort of thing never happens again. I don't want to add magic-trippy void to the list of household landmines.

"You're slower than I imagined," Astraea observes, collapsing onto the chair next to me. She steals a triangle of toast off my plate.

"Funny." I snatch my toast right out of her mouth. "You're just as much trouble as I imagined."

"I know."

Because my life is one big cosmic joke, the house phone rings halfway through breakfast. Thanks to Princess's daddy, there's enough cash upstairs to keep the pack in the black for a while. I can't afford to turn down clients, though. That kind of thing is a reputation killer, and the cash won't last forever. Besides, I figure a healthy portion of that money is Astraea's.

It's the head of one of the local covens. Matron Sally Caplinger and I get along just great so long as she keeps her hexes to herself. They've had a rash of break ins – nothing of monetary value stolen just mystical items – and want someone to discretely look into it.

Her real meaning? She thinks someone in her coven has gone off the rails and is amassing supplies for some bad mojo or a coup. Still, Sally sends plenty of work my way. She's never balked at my fee. Or turned me into a newt.

When I turn back to the table, Astraea looks like someone just told her that unicorns weren't real. "What's wrong with you? Eating the rest of my food wasn't enough for you?"

"Witches," she spats, "love to touch."

Oh no. Time to nip this little cluster in the bud. I don't need a psycho-shaped tagalong. "You're staying here."

"I know magic."

"You kill magic."

"Doesn't mean I don't know it." She sticks her tongue out at me, crinkles her nose. "Remember who my father is?"

"I'd like to forget."

"Makes two of us." She cocks her head; her eyes glaze over. Something about the expression on her face reminds me of seers. I hate seers. "Think the gray-haired one will grope my butt the way she gropes yours? I don't think I'll like it as much."

Yeah. If I get Jose, Hank, and Ike working on it before we leave, that padded cell should be ready by dinnertime. Princess Blabs-A-Lot won't have to worry about touches, fun or otherwise. It'll be a long, long time before she sees the light of day.