Black Beast Read online

  Finn gritted his teeth, ignoring the looks his familiar kept sending him. She could read his mind, as he could hers, and she did not like what she was seeing in the violent maelstrom of his thoughts.

  That made two of them.

  Witches were not supposed to think about shape-shifters in this way. It was bestiality once removed, a violation of the Second Rule, which was that shape-shifters and witches could not have romantic liaisons.

  Ever.

  And yet, the moment he had laid eyes on her picture for the first time, months ago, he had found himself entertaining thoughts the likes of which he had never had reason to contemplate—not in such detail.

  Others did, of course. It was considered a fetish. Sometimes witches would dress up in furs or feathers during sex, and they would bite, scratch, and fuck like the animals that they so desperately desired in bed. It was considered a sickness. But he had never been one of them, had never been quite so depraved.

  Or so he'd thought.

  But when he had lain with Karen the other night, it hadn't been her face he'd seen during climax.

  Finn cursed. This presented an entirely new list of potential failures. He did not like to think about what his father would say if he found out his only son and heir was a filthy vermin-lover.

  His life, as he knew it, would be ruined.

  But this proud creature, who clearly thought herself above the law, would not care. She had no lost love for his kind. That much was obvious, when she had reacted so hostilely to the idea of being followed.

  And he had thought not being a Quad was the only problem he faced for the kingship. This was worse.

  Far worse.

  The more she circled and dove, the more he hated her. The more he wanted to clip her wings.

  To destroy her.

  Possess her.

  Own her.

  She was free in a way he never would be, and had done nothing to deserve it.

  “Where are her things?” he demanded of his familiar.

  She looked at him balefully, but she was bound to serve him, and serve she did.

  They came across the place where the shape-shifter had left her clothes and backpack. There were strange particles clinging to the canvas, buzzing as angrily as wasps. Graymalkin hissed when she saw them, and Finn narrowed his eyes. It couldn't be.

  He tore open the bag with shaking hands. It was. Black magic. The shifter girl was dabbling in black magic. He had his probable cause. His lips curled into a cruel smile that had Graymalkin backing away from him.

  He had her exactly where he wanted her.

  Chapter Three

  Catherine knew that smell.

  She knew it well, as did all shape-shifters. Because, for many, survival depended upon it. She had just never expected to sense it out here in the hills, and certainly not so strongly. Witch.

  The hawk part of her consciousness surfaced. At the moment, it was the only animal in her head. That was another reason shape-shifters liked to Change; it calmed the voices. Catherine had so many talking to her all the time, every day, it was a relief to have to deal with one.

  Intruder, it hissed, outraged.

  Red-tailed hawks were territorial. They would go after any bird of prey foolish enough to venture into their hunting grounds, even if the bird was bigger.

  Catherine sent the bird a picture of a witch. A generic, blurry image of a human surging with power.

  The hawk was unimpressed.

  This is mine. All mine. Two-legs will not take.

  The bird thought it could chase off the witch. Peck out its eyes if necessary. Eyeballs were tasty.

  Catherine sent the bird another image. A mangled bird carcass roasting on a spit. She felt the hawk bristle, its feathers ruffling indignantly. Finally, it understood.

  Danger.

  Magic.

  Sometimes the two were synonymous. Witches did not like shape-shifters. They claimed they were too heathenish and uncivilized to garner any sort of real status. It was only by winning the last War that shape-shifters had gained recognition and admittance into the Council. But only very reluctantly on the witches' part.

  Of course, the Fourth Rule prevented the witches from acting as cruelly as they might want to, but since the Council mostly consisted of witches anyway, that wasn't saying much. Once, they had hunted her kind for sport.

  It was too easy to look the other way.

  Catherine circled the gully twice, scanning the hills and valleys. She saw nothing, for one simple reason; the witch did not want her to see.

  The scent was difficult to track. Birds did not have a very good smell, and the witch was downwind of her. She would have been better off in her human body, but even then, it might have been difficult.

  The hawk's eyesight was good compensation but she couldn't see anything in the silent trees. There was a field mouse a stone's throw away from where she had left her clothes but no trace of the witch. None.

  Catherine snapped her beak in irritation. Why was she being followed at all? She had done nothing wrong.

  She screeched, and the valleys echoed with her frustration. She lighted in the topmost branches of an evergreen, turning her head to scan the many ravines that stretched out below like gridwork.

  Was it the same witch she had scented before, on her way to the library? Was she being…hunted?

  As if in response, the tree she was sitting in suddenly caught fire. She smelled the smoke before she saw the flames. It was toxic, sour and smoky. It stung her eyes, making them water. Shit shit shit shit shit.

  She screeched, flapping her wings frantically in an attempt to gain altitude. The wood was just dry enough for the fire to devour, which it did quickly.

  An insatiable beast, fire. Always wanting more.

  Catherine took off as the greedy flames climbed up towards her perch. With a crack like a gunshot, the branch she had landed on broke free and crashed to the ground, shedding burnt bark and glowing embers that were quickly put out by the falling rain.

  Luckily, she was already well away. She watched the tree as it succumbed to a fate that could have just as easily been hers. She didn't have to wonder how the fire had started. She knew. She could smell it. Magic.

  The witch was here.

  Catherine swooped back down to earth and Changed into a human. Naked, shivering, she slipped into the shadows of the oak copse where she had hidden her clothes and tugged on her t-shirt and panties. She slung on the flannel shirt without buttoning it, pulled on her pants and zipped up her fly. Her bra she stuffed into her pack because it would take too long to put on.

  She felt watched, and every beat of her heart was a drum of resentment towards her unseen assailant.

  The fire was his way of flushing her out. She knew it was a male because of the scent. It was stronger here, the sex obvious. Males were musky in a way that females were not. She thought she detected a feline odor too, though that had mostly been washed away and concerned her less than the cloying smell of ozone.

  She tugged her messenger bag out from where she'd wedged it, in the V-shaped groove of the oak tree's overlapping roots. Instinctively, she checked her bag. Nothing was missing. The book was still there.

  Its clasp was unfastened, though, and Catherine definitely remembered latching it. She could smell the witch's scent on her belongings, too, and the alarm bells sounding in her ears—muted until now—became a deafening blare that dizzied her with the sheer force of its intensity. Someone was following her for sure.

  And that someone had gone through her things.

  She was furious; she was terrified.

  Above her head, the sky grew darker, until it was almost black. As black as her mood. She felt liable to do anything. The witch had pushed her too far.

  Catherine skittered up the hill's face, vigilantly scanning the crest. Going up was far more terrifying than coming down. It was harder, slower, and she had to divide her attention between the slippery ground and the upward slope. Gravity was working against
her, and it would be far too easy for someone to sneak up on her.

  That's not going to happen.

  But the leaves of the trees rustled ominously as she half-ran, half-stumbled. She kept expecting them to burst into flame and wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or anxious when they didn't. Only the cruelest hunters set their traps with terror and trepidation.

  She was glad to reach the top unscathed. She had a fair idea of where she was, and it wouldn't be too difficult to get back to civilization. She could take the bus home and figure out what to do about this witch of hers in the safety of her own home.

  A crack split the air, blinding her, and she was pushed back by a wall of heat as the log in front of her erupted into a massive fireball. The wind ripped her surprised scream of pain and fear from her lips, tossing them heavenward, mockingly.

  She lay on the ground, prostrate, stunned. Purple splotches danced before her eyes, lingering afterimages of the burning flames. Her ears were ringing but she seemed all right otherwise.

  She got to her hands and knees. She felt the cold sting of wet mud through her jeans, but was past caring.

  “What the fuck do you want?” she snarled.

  There was no response, save for a distant rustle.

  Catherine stumbled to her feet. “Show yourself, you goddamn coward. Show yourself so I can tear you apart.”

  A brown rabbit poked its quivering nose out of a juniper hedge. It stared at her for a long moment before diving back into the prickly underbrush to take shelter from the rain. A startled laugh escaped her, bubbly with panic and misplaced relief. A rabbit. It was just a rabbit.

  But a rabbit didn't set those fires, she reminded herself. He's still out there, watching me.

  How stupid she was being. How careless. That was how this all started—her being careless. She put her hands to her head, testing for injuries, and, finding none, threaded her fingers through her hair.

  He must have been watching her since that afternoon, waiting for the perfect moment to get her alone. And she had led him to the perfect place, given him the perfect opportunity. Out here, in this storm, there would be no one around to hear her screams.

  Proof that witches were not as urbane as they liked to believe. Catherine started running again—because now she was fairly sure her life depended on it. Anyone could turn into a bloodthirsty monster when they had The Hunt boiling in their veins.

  But she—she was nobody's Prey.

  In the distance, she heard a rumbling sound. Felt the vibrations of it beneath her feet. Was it a car? No, it didn't sound right for an engine, and it frightened her.

  Birds erupted from the foliage, taking flight. Catherine had been pressing forward, but now she stopped. The rumbling had given way to a roar, and her eyes widened as she glimpsed the waist-high wall of water arcing speedily towards her. Fuck. “Fuck,” she cried.

  She doubled back and went flying as the toe of her sneaker hooked on a tree root. She caught her balance, though, and managed to use her momentum to pick up speed as she ran downhill. Unfortunately the water was faster. It slammed into her back like a battering ram, driving her to her knees.

  She couldn't help but notice how neatly the water filled the natural grooves of the earth. As if it were made for it. Because it is, she realized, bleakly. She was standing in the middle of a dried-out creek bed, although it wasn't quite so dry anymore.

  Catherine sloshed through the water. Moving through it hampered her speed, making her feel as if she was running from something in a nightmare. Everything felt too slow, everything but the water.

  I have to get to higher ground.

  She grabbed out, searching for handholds, but the dirt was loosely packed and crumbled uselessly between her fingers. She had to get out of here. Again and again, she reached out, searching for something solid. Her hand closed on solid root. Yes. She managed to heft herself up a few inches, gaining enough purchase that she was not carried off in the stream. Almost there—

  Another burst of water exploded between the trees, dislodging large chunks of wood and earth, sweeping them down in the current and taking Catherine along for the ride. It was taking her around the hill, to the side that wasn't visible from the highway.

  Maybe the fire wasn't meant to kill me, but to herd me.

  The current was too strong to fight against. She might have tried to Change into something that could swim or fly, but the transition from human to animal would leave her vulnerable, and Catherine was afraid she might drown. She tread water, and did her best to keep her head afloat. It was all she could do.

  The water was a filthy brown from all the dirt and debris it had picked up as it swept through the ravine. She had no control over where she was going. It was like being strapped into a moving race car with the brakes cut and the steering wheel missing. Sharp rocks and tree branches lurked at every turn, ready to cut, gouge, and impale. Only luck kept her from smashing right into them. Luck—or something far more fickle.

  And then something heavy slammed into the back of her head. There was a shower of sparks, and then everything went black.

  •◌•◌•◌•◌•

  He was lucky. The conditions of the storm provided him with the perfect medium to work with.

  A thread of air woven into the flood spell, and a low-hanging tree limb crashed right into the back of her skull. The branch broke, falling into the water nearby with a splash, and the shifter's head snapped forward even as her body slackened and went limp.

  “You killed her,” said Graymalkin. The sound of her voice was beginning to annoy him.

  Had he killed her?

  Finn hopped along the rocks, but couldn't quite keep pace with the current. At a glance her chest seemed motionless but her kind was not so easy to destroy. Their healing abilities were surpassed only by vampires. A human might have remained unconscious for several minutes at least. She was already stirring, much to his relief. He hadn't killed her, after all.

  “They're like cockroaches,” he said aloud, masking his emotions from his familiar with bravado. “They don't die.”

  Graymalkin gave no indication that she believed him. Theirs was a relationship based on the courtesy of falsehoods, and so she looked the other way.

  The shape-shifter was surprisingly small. Most were powerfully built, tall, and muscular. This one wouldn't come up to his shoulder. The runt of the litter, perhaps.

  If he could keep her from transforming, she would be easy to subdue. He had a pair of silver handcuffs hanging from his chatelaine. They often came in handy; shifters did not take kindly to law enforcement, especially not if the enforcer was a witch.

  Images flooded his head, involving the shape-shifter shackled beneath him, both of them devoid of several crucial layers of clothing. They said the shape-shifters fucked with the enthusiasm of animals—if they didn't devour you with the enthusiasm of one first.

  Many of them, it was said, had developed a taste for human flesh, which they had to force themselves to deny. Revolting.

  But not revolting enough, he thought furiously.

  He hit her with another blast of air, plunging her beneath the churning waves. She clawed for the surface, grasping for something—anything—to hold on to, and finding only nothing. It pleased him to see her struggle; it mirrored his own inner-turmoil, and made him feel vindicated. And when she gasped for breath, choking, gagging, it was just recompense for the unwelcome tightness she had elicited in his pants.

  “Was that necessary?” Graymalkin sounded worried.

  Yes. She has no right to make me feel this way. None.

  “Are you questioning my methods?” he asked icily.

  Shape-shifters were forever testing the strength of their cages, unable or unwilling to believe in their confinement. They were free creatures, so they claimed.

  During the War, some witches had experimented on their shape-shifter prisoners to test this theory. And there was, surprisingly, and element of truth to the claim. Freedom was as necessary to them
as eating or breathing; without it, many of them wasted slowly away.

  Rules could box one in as ruthlessly as silver bars. Psychological imprisonment was no less uncomfortable than its physical counterpart. In some ways, it was even worse; it provided the illusion of physical freedom, but garnered none of the benefits of it.