Black Beast (8 page)

Catherine needed to Change. Needed it so badly she could taste it coating the back of her throat like a film. “Sharon?” Desire rendered her thick-tongued, clumsy.

Sharon was bobbing her head in time to the radio, but one nod was deeper than the rest, so Catherine knew she heard her.

“Do you think you could, um, stop the car?”

Abruptly, the music switched off. The car swerved a little when Sharon took her hand off the wheel and she grabbed it again, quickly, shooting a concerned look Catherine's way. “You're not going to be sick, are you?”

“No. Well, maybe.”

“Fuck.” Sharon slowed down a little, but didn't stop, causing a red pick-up truck that had been tailgating them for the last couple miles to honk angrily.

Without looking to see who it was, Sharon flipped the driver the bird as the car went careening past on the shoulder of the road. “You want to stop
here
?”

On one side of the street was an ancient gas station. It was sandwiched between a dry cleaning business that didn't look like it had seen any actual business for decades and a Mexican restaurant. On the other side of the street was an auto repair shop and a deserted tattoo parlor. “Yes,” Catherine said, closing her eyes briefly.

“Why?”

“I want a soda.” She eyed the gas station. “A Coke.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? What kind of friend do you take me for? You think I'm gonna let your ass off here? It's almost dark. Barton ain't Oakland, but you don't want to be wandering around in this neighborhood at night.”

“I think I'm dehydrated.”

Sharon said, “Maybe it's affecting your brain.” She glanced at the shops lining the streets, adding doubtfully, “It doesn't even look like they're open.”

“So? I can catch the bus home. The transit center is just across the road from here.”

One of the large red buses happened to be going by at that very moment.

Sensing weakness, Catherine added, “I was gonna be walking home, anyway. Don't worry about me. I have a cell phone. If anyone tries to pull a dick move, I'll mace them where the sun don't shine.”

Sharon shook her head, but she popped the lock. “Whatever, you crazy bitch. It's your funeral.”

“Just keep the teachers from pissing on my grave.”

Sharon locked the door behind her and tossed off a careless wave that she was quick to return. Then she waited until the yellow Pontiac disappeared around the bend of the road before doubling back to the hills.

There was a fence, but it was easy enough to scale. No barbed wire, either. The grass was dewy and covered in crystalline beads of rain. It made soft shushing sounds as she walked through the ankle-length blades, plastering the legs of her jeans to her skin.

She felt better already.

Rocks crunched under her shoes as the grasses yielded to hard granite rock beds and tightly packed dirt that was only just beginning to soften from the rain.

The hill sloped steeply and Catherine was forced to throw out her arms for balance as she descended. She let out a whoop as she slid and skidded down the hillside. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, like a bird in flight. She felt—oh, there were no words for how she felt. The smells. The sights. The sounds. It was like stepping into a completely different world.

Gradually, the slope began to level out, forming a plateau that overlooked the gully below. Eclectic periods of rain and drought had provided the perfect recipe for soil erosion. She could see clumps of earth still clinging to the tree roots where they stabbed through the hillside, coated with yellow lichen and green moss.

A breeze stirred her hair, blowing tangled, sweaty strands of it back into her face. She hiked up her chin a notch, tossing back her head.

The horizon was magnificent: tawny hills, with purple snow-salted mountains looming up behind them, all before a misty gray backdrop that swam like the sea.

Catherine shimmied out of her clothes, took a deep breath, and then she stepped forward—and jumped.

•◌•◌•◌•◌•

She was in free fall for several seconds. Wingless, weightless, she plummeted towards the dark ribbon of the waiting river below. And then she exploded into feathers. Her wings unfurled, like banners in the wind, and she rose from her spiraling dive with a triumphant screech.

The little savage had no regard for the Rules. Technically she was in violation of the First, Changing in plain sight where any human could happen upon her.

Stripping like a whore
, he thought.
Like a—a—

Words were not sufficient vessels for his disgust.

Shape-shifters were not supposed to abuse their powers except in clear-cut cases of self-defense, and this one here was doing it for entertainment.

The picture in the file was several years out of date. The girl in the photo had looked fourteen. This one was at least sixteen—and probably closer to eighteen, if the fullness of her figure were any indication.

Photos were supposed to be updated yearly, to keep records current. And her animal should have been notated. Shape-shifters inevitably settled into one animal, usually around puberty, and that animal should have been listed. Both her parents' were.

Her brother's was not, but he was too young. Not yet a teenager. There was time. This girl, on the other hand, should have settled by now. And if she Changed like this regularly, someone should have noticed her animal and put it in the records, along with a court summons.

But they hadn't, and none of the infractions mentioned in the file had any sound basis. Certainly not enough to warrant conviction. There was only one obvious conclusion. Someone had chosen to omit them in blatant defiance of the Council.

Finn bit his lip and realized he could taste his own blood. He spat, tainting the grass nearby.

If he wanted, he could haul her in before the Council the moment she touched back upon solid earth. He held considerable sway among the members. If he were able to convince them that she was the menace Karen claimed she was, they wouldn't even bother to hear her plead her case. They would slap her in silver handcuffs and send her to the prison in Antarctica, the Keep.

But they would wonder. As he, too, wondered.

Why did he harbor so much hatred for vermin?

He watched the hawk circling overhead, oblivious to his thoughts, and he realized that he knew. Yes, he knew exactly what the cause of this irrationally intense hatred was. He desired her kind—and had, since he had first laid eyes on one of the slinky cat shifters his father had dealt with when he was still a young man. He wanted to
fuck
them, and it went against everything he had ever been taught, or
was
, and so he loathed them instead.

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.