Curse on the Land

  The Allied bombing of Kassel had ended the attack of the slime molds and toxic fungi. Similar slime mold attacks hadn’t been documented anywhere else, even during the war. But . . . now we had the slime mold and the presence of two Rosencrantz witches and the great-grandson of Kurt Daluege in the same place. There was a connection. I just didn’t know what it was. I thought about Tandy and his ability to force info out of Makayla. I wondered if he could get Kurt to talk, once Kurt was back in his right mind. And that thought left a bad taste in my mouth. I’d do this the human way—research.

  According to Makayla, Kurt had tracked down the covens from the war. So maybe he had also specifically traced the Rosencrantz witches. Maybe he had set up his business here in this city, with the intention of using a Rosencrantz to re-create the spell that the witches had died to hide. Maybe a Rosencrantz was necessary to the workings.

  My fingers tapped nervously on the edge of my tablet. Torquil batted my fingers, this time with a bit of claw, and I went back to stroking him.

  Blood was an integral part of blood magic. A blood sacrifice was needed in most black-magic ceremonies. Maybe Rosencrantz blood was necessary to make the spell work. Maybe the working was a blood-magic curse and not just a working. And maybe Kurt hadn’t told the coven that. If so, then maybe Kurt had gotten Aleta and her mother to move here under false pretenses. And gotten them to bring their own family’s research notes. That sounded plausible. Maybe the Knoxville coven had been successful this time. And maybe the success had resulted in black slime, death, and destruction. And a faked accident. Maybe the death of a Rosencrantz. The sisters were missing, along with the other witches. Where were the Rosencrantzes? Had they been sacrificed, their blood used in the working? I opened a file and looked at the photos of the sisters, both gray haired and stern faced.

  And were Aleta and her family safe? Where were the witches? A knock came at my door right at dawn, and I grabbed my shotgun. I spotted Occam—human shaped, dressed in his thin gobag clothes—on the porch, leaning against the front wall, eyes closed. He looked exhausted, skin pasty instead of its usual golden tone, scruffy beard, hair too long and unkempt. But he looked as if he was in his right mind. I opened the door, aiming the same shotgun at him that I had leveled at Soul. “You thinking of doing me harm, Occam?”

  “Nell, sugar, I’m so tired you could beat me with a wet noodle and I’d cry uncle.”

  Paka was climbing up the stairs, also dressed in the too-thin clothing, her curly black hair in a mass. “You will shoot us?” she asked, pausing at the top. There was something odd in her eyes that I didn’t like but didn’t know how to describe or name.

  “Only if you try to eat me for breakfast.”

  “Breakfast sounds wonderful,” Occam said, pushing away from the wall and stumbling inside. “Eggs? Bacon?”

  “Fresh out,” I said.

  “Cereal? Coffee strong enough to stand up a fork and peel the bark offa tree?”

  I gave the two werecats a half smile and allowed Pea past as well. The grindy walked, neon green tail down, to the master bedroom and jumped to the made bed with the mousers, Torquil trailing behind. Not seeing a human-shaped Rick, I shut the door behind them and placed the shotgun down. “I reckon I can fix you something to stick to your ribs. Where’s Rick?”

  “He is caged,” Paka said, a hint of pitiless satisfaction in her voice. “He did not shift back.”

  He had to be in the cage that had been delivered. I didn’t know what to say to that, but it bothered me almost as much as Paka’s expression. I picked up my service weapon and snapped it into its Kydex holster, beneath my left arm, making sure the sound was loud enough for my guests to know I was armed. There were tales about werecats on the full moon. They weren’t quite human, and establishing that I was queen in this ever-expanding clowder seemed like an important task. I moved to the kitchen and started a fresh, strong pot of coffee. Paka was still watching me like I was a mouse and she was hunting. “He will not shift back,” she said. “He is leopard.”

  “That sounds bad,” I said as I measured out grounds.

  “It is, Nell, sugar. Very bad. Any chance you’d let me shower?” Occam asked. “I can pay you on Tuesday.”

  “Short shower,” I said. “I don’t have a very big hot water tank, but what I got’s free. Clean towels on the shelf. Homemade soap too.”

  Occam grunted, made his way to the bathroom, and closed the door. A moment later, I heard the water come on, and I hoped he had remembered to take off his clothes before he climbed under the spray.

  Paka, looking cold in her thin clothing and flip-flops, curled up on the couch and pulled the afghan over her. I hit the START button on the coffeemaker and went to the pantry, returning with the homemade organic granola cereal I had traded dried beans for at the market two months ago. It might not be stale. Milk, cold from the fridge, brought by the team the night I got back. Bowls and spoons and mugs went on the table. Paka watched me as I worked, not offering to help.

  “You got something to say?” I asked, without looking up. Avoiding eye contact, a leftover habit from my youth in a large polygamous family, was sometimes helpful.

  “I do not like the cold.”

  “I’m not too fond of it myself sometimes.” I leaned a hip against the kitchen counter, now meeting her predatory gaze. Maybe she had stayed too long in cat form and my movements looked too much like prey. I stretched slightly, adjusting the shoulder rig, drawing attention to it.

  “Why do you stay here?” she asked.

  “This is my land.” It seemed obvious to me.

  “You could claim land anywhere,” Paka said, her body relaxing from whatever hunting instincts she had been experiencing. She pulled a comb from a pocket and started to untangle her tight curls.

  I didn’t let the surprise show on my face. I could? And if I could . . . could I—

  “You could come with me to Gabon, in Africa, and claim the land. We could share it.”

  This was a bizarre conversation. “No. Thank you. I like it here. Besides, why would you want to go? Your mate is here.”

  “My mate no longer. I was given to him by Raymond Micheika of the Party of African Weres, that my magic might enchant him and force a change upon him. I have done everything that I was tasked to do. Rick is cat. He is trapped in human form no longer. More, I have freed him from my enchantment. I will go home now. Today.”

  “You will?” Occam sounded surprised and a little angry. He was standing in the doorway and had clearly been eavesdropping. He was barefooted from the shower, his thin pants hanging low on his hips, his chest glistening with water droplets, his blondish hair straggly and dripping. I politely turned my head away, but it wasn’t an easy thing to do. Occam was a mighty pretty man, in cat or human form. From the corner of my eye, I saw him smooth a towel over his head, but he didn’t take his gaze off Paka. The way a cat watches something it’s about to pounce on. “But who’s gonna help him change back?” he asked.

  “That is not my concern,” she said, wrapping a long curl around a finger and sliding the finger free. “That was not part of my task.”

  “Exactly what was your task?” Occam asked. And I remembered the strange story of how Paka and Rick met and came together, the night Paka stole him from Jane Yellowrock.

  “I was paid by Raymond Micheika to enspell the man and find a way to bring him to his cat. That is all. It is done.” But there was something in her expression that suggested there was more, and that she was looking for an excuse to tell us more. To gloat?

  “And Soul knew this?” Occam demanded. “That you would leave?”

  “I do not know what the dragon knew. I do not care what the dragon knows. I have completed my task, and I will return to my home. Today.”

  Occam’s mouth pulled down, his face hard, unyielding.

  Paka knew Soul was a dragon. Interesting.

  ??
?What does that mean?” I asked him. “That Paka will go home?”

  “Something’s still wrong with Rick. His tattoos are still glowing gold. He’s in pain. And he’s still in his leopard form. He should have shifted back to human slicker than owl snot this morning, and he didn’t. And she knows why.” He gestured to Paka.

  She said slyly, “I have magic and that magic called to him. It bound him, and my bites helped him to change. Now he has become his cat and I have withdrawn my magic.” Paka smiled, catlike. “I have completed my task. He is free.”

  Occam took one long stride toward the couch, growling out the next words. “And if Raymond Micheika, the were-ambassador to the US, the leader of the International Association of Weres, and the leader of the Party of African Weres, asks you to stay?”

  Though I’d never met the man, I knew the name from paranormal poli-sci class at Spook School. Micheika was a rare African werelion and the most politically powerful were-creature on the face of the planet.

  “I will still go home.”

  “Why?” he snarled.

  “Because that was the arrangement between Kemnebi and my family.”

  “Who is Kemnebi?” Occam asked.

  Paka stood slowly, her eyes lighting at the question. This was what she wanted us to know. “The husband of the woman Rick slept with in New Orleans. The husband of the black wereleopard female who bit and turned Rick. The husband of the woman killed by the mother of Pea for passing on to him the were-taint. The vengeance of Kemnebi is now complete.”

  I went still. So did Occam for a minuscule instant before he dove across the room. To Paka. Were-fast. He was holding her by the throat. His hands clawed. Paka laughed as if she thought Occam was amusing. He growled, lifted her from the sofa with one hand. “Vengeance? You were sent here for revenge?”

  I shook my head, trying to understand what was happening.

  The backs of Paka’s hands grew black hair. Retractile cat claws spread, pricking Occam’s skin where they touched. Occam shook her slightly, his grip tightening. Her husky voice went deeper, scratchier at the pain of his hand. But she didn’t fight. She seemed happy to talk. And maybe she was. Paka had been silent and undercover inside PsyLED for months. “Ohhh,” I whispered.

  The cat-woman wrapped one slender hand around Occam’s wrist and tilted her head up to him. Her black hair spilled across his hand, sticking to his damp chest. “Kemnebi, the leader of my people, brought money to my mother and father and secured my services. This was long before Micheika came to find me, for Kem knew that Raymond would seek me out. Among my people, I and my magic are rare and valuable, and I alone might free LaFleur from his torture.”

  Her cat smile stretched to reveal cat teeth, pointed and sharp. “Long before PAW or the IAW communicated with me, to bring me here to help LaFleur, my father and Kemnebi contracted together for me to do four things. To bind the wife stealer to me. To gain vengeance upon the American policeman who seduced Safia and led her into dishonor. To see that LaFleur achieved his cat form. And to leave him as cat. I have done all that Kem paid me to do and all that Micheika demanded. It has taken long, but my magic has accomplished all my tasks.”

  “What? No . . . ,” I whispered. “You have to help him change back.”

  Paka pushed away from Occam, and he let her go, backing away. “No. I do not. I have broken no laws of these United States of America. I have broken no laws of my people. I have avenged the death of Kemnebi’s wife, Safia, who was killed by grindylow claws for infecting Rick. I have helped Rick to achieve his leopard form. I am done here. I go home.”

  I didn’t see Pea leap, or even leave the bedroom, but she landed on Paka with a one-two thump of sound. Blood sprayed across the room, and then they were all outside, faster than I could follow, leaving the door open, the morning chill sweeping the house’s heat outside. I raced across the house and shut the door, locked it, leaned against it, wondering what all this meant to my life, to the case, to Rick, and to Unit Eighteen. I looked out the front windows, but they were gone.

  I could have forced Paka to stay in the U.S. I had claimed her months ago, when I fed Brother Ephraim to the land, claimed her to keep her safe, to keep Soulwood from rejecting her. But free will was important. Forcing her to stay seemed wrong.

  Not sure what else to do, I cleaned up the were-blood with lots of Clorox and paper towels and sent a group text to Soul and the unit, explaining what Paka had said. They were horrified, and a dozen texts came back demanding more information, but I had no more to share.

  SEVENTEEN

  Instead I asked JoJo to send traffic cam footage from anywhere near the accident on the Gay Street Bridge. I also asked for someone to take readings with a psy-meter at the accident scene and the vehicle once it was recovered from the river. Then I copied the first text I had sent and my fingers hovered over the cell, trying to decide if I should send the message. In the end, I decided that she should know about Paka’s deceit, and what she did with the info was up to her. I hit SEND, the message winging to Jane Yellowrock. Then I put away the phone and the food, packed up my gobag, and prepared the house for a day away.

  There was blood on my front porch. It might be part of a crime scene if Occam and Pea killed Paka. I rinsed off the porch and the grass nearby with the hose, and felt the land soak up the blood as if it was an offering. And I realized that I hadn’t fallen into bloodlust at the fight, the fear of the combatants, or the blood spray. Maybe I was getting some control over my desire to kill my friends and feed the land. That would be nice. I locked the door and drove away.

  * * *

  I was halfway down the mountain when I got a text from an unknown number. It was short and sweet. The witches you search for are at a witch safe house. An address appeared in the box below that. I pulled over and sent the number and text to JoJo to check out, and programmed the address into my GPS. JoJo sent back the information that the number was a burner phone, which meant several things. One, someone who knew my number had bought or used a burner to send me the note. Two, I might be walking into a trap. Three, it was my job to go anyway.

  I remembered the female voice beneath the ground. A witch? Someone who had orchestrated all this magical contamination in Knoxville? Had killed women and children and men to some political end? A true MED?

  According to sat maps, the address was an older, vinyl-sided ranch house on Airport Road in Oliver Springs. I’d have to travel within a mile or so of the address anyway. I might as well check it out. I motored slowly down the low mountain to the river valley below.

  * * *

  I parked my truck on the street and approached the house, my badge on my belt and ID in my hand. About fifteen feet from the door, I felt magics tingle across my skin. I stopped. The house was protected by a ward, and instantly I wanted to take off my shoes and read the land to see the magics, but not without backup to watch over me. One thing I knew, even without a read, was that the working wasn’t a kill-intruders-on-sight ward, but a someone-is-here ward. Because I was still breathing. I knocked on the ward. The magics buzzed under my knuckles, and a soft gong sounded inside, like an alarm. A small dog started a shrill barking, that of a house yapper, not the baying of a hunting dog. A moment later I heard a woman’s voice and I called out, “I’m Special Agent Nell Ingram. I’d like to talk to talk to you about LuseCo, Infinitio, and Unendlich. And maybe Germany and World War Two.”

  The dog went wilder, barking as if he had sighted a dragon. Or a mailman. Until it fell abruptly silent. When no one spoke, I said, “I don’t mean to make your situation worse. But you need to know that the workings at LuseCo might have contributed to the illness and deaths of several humans.”

  A moment later, the ward fell with a tinkle of almost-sound and a faint breeze across my skin, and then a second one that covered just the house itself. That one was likely the kill-on-sight ward. A young woman opened the door, and I recognized her from the e
mployee photos. This was Aleta Turner, the young physicist who had—inadvertently or not—set all this in motion. A woman stepped up beside and behind her: her mother, Wendy Cornwall. In the corner, as far from the door as possible, stood Rivera, Wendy’s twin sister. The witch twins weren’t identical, though both were strawberry blond and freckled.

  “How did you find us?” Aleta asked.

  “Tip from a burner phone,” I said.

  “Betcha twenty bucks it was Shonda,” Aleta said. “She always did hate witches. Or Irene.”

  They didn’t know about the accident on the bridge. “Irene’s missing,” I said carefully, watching their faces.

  The Witches seemed to take a collective breath. “That’s . . . not good,” Aleta said.

  “Lidia,” Wendy said. “Well, now we know, at least. Though what good it does us, I don’t know. Come on in.” She pushed the door wide. “We need to put the ward back up. We’ve had death threats.”

  I stepped closer, asking, “Did you know that Infinitio and Unendlich would drain the ley lines?”

  Wendy sighed, pushing the door wider in invitation. “No. We had no idea. Not until it was too late.”

  At which point Wendy fell back. A rifle shot echoed, ricocheting down the road. Rivera screamed, “Nooooooo!” Part of the doorframe splintered into the air. A second shot sounded.

  “Down!” I shouted, diving over the spot where the outer ward had been. Landing hard. A skidding scrape. The door still hung open. I rolled upright, raced up the front stoop. Dove again, this time inside. A lamp exploded. A third shot sounded. “Raise the ward!” I shouted.

  The ward went back up with a sizzling heat, and I realized that I was holding my service weapon in a two-hand grip at my right leg. Breath heaving, I slammed the door. Flipped off the lights. Crawled over to the two women close to the door. On the floor. One was bleeding. She held a pillow over her waist. I hesitated, but my need to feed the land didn’t rise. Maybe being shot at inside a house held it at bay. A titter of hysteria tickled the back of my throat. I swallowed it down.