Witchfire: Shadow Thane #1-3

Chapter One

Finn pored over the file on the desk. His heavy breathing stirred the papers. In his head was a snarl of forbidden thoughts and desires.

To hell and back with this, he thought.

Before him was a roster of all the Otherkind in Barton, a small California town of no consequence that had become a hotbed of strange Otherworldly activity. The files were classified and meant for Council use only, though he did not limit his usage and perusal of them as such.

He had paged through it several times and could have recited the information inside from memory. Slayers were migrating to Barton in droves. That was odd in and of itself, since the Slayers were normally content to stay in the bigger cities. More quarry there, to make quota. And a bit of petty lucre.

Finn knew a thing or two about that. He was well-acquainted with ill-gotten gains as both the trader and the goods. He often worked in the capacity of a bounty hunter and before that, once, he had been a slave. Sometimes, he could still hear the screams.

Pray to your gods. Perhaps they will turn over in their graves.

Or perhaps not.

Otherkind were leaving. Or disappearing, in some cases. No forwarding address. Nothing. Witches and shape-shifters both, vanishing without a trace.

Finn rubbed at his lower lip in thought. That could be construed as hostile. By law, all Otherkind were required to keep the Council notified of their location at any given time. Part of the truce that had been negotiated after the War. Supposedly it kept the dissidents from organizing.

In reality, the law was intended as a choke-chain to curb the shape-shifters, whose territoriality made them difficult to reckon with. Witches had no such problems. They didn't used to, anyway.

Karen Shields's name leaped out at him from the file. Many knew her as the daughter of Lincoln Shields, one of the esteemed members of the Council. She was also in the running for a seat, although if one were offered to her it was unlikely that she would ever take it.

She was Finn's fiancee. They had been betrothed at a young age. Informally, though there was nothing casual about the arrangements at all. Their union would be heralded in all the great houses for many years to come.

Heritage was everything: it was a golden skeleton key, gleaming with power, able to get the wielder through any number of locked doors; it was the christening of the marriage bed with virgin blood on snow-white sheets; it was the benediction of a pristine pedigree, refined through ages of selective breeding and the occasional mercy culling.

It was life, and death, and all that spanned between.

It was his birthright.

The Riordans were an ancient and noble line of witches who could trace their lineage all the way back to the nobility of fifth-century Ireland. For hundreds of years, the most powerful witches of each clan had been wed to one another, knowing that with each successive generation they were one step closer to creating perfection.

Most witches could only master one element. The dedicated could usually manage two, and they were known as Diads. Triads could master three elements. Then Quads, the rarest, had command over all four.

Phineas Riordan's father, Royce Riordan, was a Quad. He never let his son forget it—especially since Finn was not. No, he still struggled with earth. The filthiest element, the element of the wilds, of the base…of the shape-shifters.

A shudder tore through him.

And yet, the element eluded him, resisting capture, slipping through his fingers like so much water. It was an irony made more cutting by the fact that water, for him, was so fluently commanded. Only air was simpler. Even fire, the most difficult and mercurial element of all, had been a cinch in the face of this stubborn, unprepossessing element.

We hunger in earnest for that which we cannot consume.

The sycophantic masses praised him for his considerable prowess, responding to his power with the jealousy, awe, or even outright fear that were all his due. But until he could master earth, he would never be good or worthy enough.

He had been born to and bred for success. Finn slammed his fist on the table, rattling the various paraphernalia set out for him to do his work. Failure was not an option. To even consider it was blasphemous. Had anyone suggested it to him, even in jest, he might have killed them on the spot, and the Fourth Rule be damned.

Royce's word was law and none dared oppose him, not even his own son. On the day of Finn's inauguration, when he finally claimed his own seat on the Council, his father had only said one thing to him:

Don't make me regret this.

It was as if his father had cracked him open, to examine all the faults that lay within. As if they were no more than so many twisted, degenerate pearls before one pompous, vainglorious swine. If Royce knew how deeply ingrained his debauchery was, he would have amputated him from the line before the rot could take root, and lead to gangrenous family ruin.

One day, Finn would take his father's place. But when that moment came, he wanted to make damn sure that he was a Quad. Damn sure. The legacy of the Riordans would carry on. No one would compare him to his paterfamilias and find him lacking. That was his duty.

Everything else came second.

He ran his fingers over the edges of Karen's picture. The photo on file did not do her justice. She was as beautiful as she was ruthless. A mate, the shifters would say. A union based less on love and more on sex and dominance. The phrase had a grain of salacious truth to it, although any real interest she had in him was superseded by her desire for power.

Not that she was without her charms. She had many, most of which he was intimately acquainted with, and she was a powerful Diad. But women were as pernicious as a bed of vipers.

And speaking of vipers—

He flipped to the section on shape-shifters.

The facial features of those profiled became less fey, more robust. He was fascinated and repelled in equal parts. Witches were gracile and androgynous, whereas shape-shifters had a wild, blatant sexuality that was almost obscene, making it impossible to look away.

No matter how much he wanted to.

Finn exhaled slowly.

He didn't, though. That was the problem.

Each section opened with backgrounds on the family, with multiple indexes identifying extended family members. Marriages and children were tracked, listed in long, winding footnotes that appeared hastily tacked-on.

He turned past several families that were well-known to him in his perusals. A number of shifters preferred to live as their beasts, switching to human form only as a necessity. The Glamors, however, were shape-shifters who preferred to live as humans and assimilated to human lives, trading freedom for security.

The Van Sants, the Vasquezes, the Trans, the Pierces. There were only a handful of Glamors in Barton. The fact that Barton could claim four families despite its size was quite a feat considering their relative scarcity.

Finn frowned. The last entry had a tag denoting an edit. I authorized no edits for this file.

There were several notes delineated in the margins. Handwritten memos, glittering with trace elements of magic. Frowning, Finn leaned closer.

He knew this part of the file well. The Pierces had a delinquent daughter, guilty of multiple infractions of the First and Third Rules. She was several years his junior, attractive by their standards. That wasn't what had caught his attention—at least, not at present.

All fully developed shape-shifter had a beast, and the girl's should have been recorded. She was of age. He knew she was of age. But in the space where her animal should have been, it said only UNKNOWN.

The word, with its faint ringings of failure, rattled him. Unknown. How did I not notice this before? The gods knew he had studied this file more times than he could count. Was it a clerical error, perhaps, or something far more careless? Even sabotage? His eyes hardened. Whatever it was, it needed rectifying.

It was time to pay the little shifter a visitation.

•◌•◌•◌•◌•

A voice had been screaming into Catherine Pierce's ear the whole way to work. A field mouse, specifically. Prey never liked being out in the open. A harmless walk in the park became a march to the death. Enemies were everywhere, lying in wait. One only need let their guard down for a second before getting torn to pieces.

She paused, tilting her head in a twitchy, mechanical way that looked decidedly not human—though thankfully no one is around to notice, she added to herself—performing a cursory scan up and down the empty street.

The Prey alarms went off a lot while she was outside. Every time a car whizzed by or a shadow passed overhead; every time a loud noise sounded with no discernible cause; every second of every day, that little voice was nattering at her, flooding her nervous system with adrenaline, as it was so certain it was about to die.

Catherine was surprised Prey's caterwauling had made it so far past her highly discriminatory thalamus. She was used to tuning Prey and the other voices out. She would have gone mad otherwise.

The DNA of countless beasts lay dormant inside her, waiting to be accessed. All Catherine had to do was look at a photo once, although video or real life worked better, and form the animal's image in her head.

Then, the Change came, as swift and fast as a cobra. She would know—after all, she had been one.

The trouble was, the voices of the beasts spoke to her, whispered to her, all the time. So often, and in such great number, that she was forced to divide the voices into two distinct categories for brevity's sake.

Predator and Prey.

Prey was being unusually aggressive today. Ordinarily it was content to curl up into a terrified ball in the back of her skull and whimper quietly.

Not today. No, Prey had been chattering at her from the moment she took her first step out the front door this morning. Was something wrong?

Yes, Prey whined, Danger everywhere, all around us.

I wasn't asking you! She imbued the thought with a bit of Predator's fury and Prey cowered, receding.

Good, she thought. Still channeling Predator, she whipped her head towards the rustling bushes, hazel eyes glinting with filaments of light.

The bush in question was a juniper hedge. Its branches stretched over the grainy sidewalk like the grasping arms of a panhandler. Furtive, nervous sounds came from within. Probably small birds or mice.

Other Preys. Predator was dismissive. Small Preys. Not worth the time it takes to catch them.

Prey slouched off, leaving jagged, fitful spurts of baleful fear in its wake. Catherine was concerned. Prey was rarely so adamant. Not while Predator was there.

She shook herself. Her hands, when she thrust them into the pockets of her jeans, were cold.

The air grew heavier, thicker as she walked. It wasn't due to the humidity. No, this was more forceful, more tangible. It was almost as if someone—or something—were physically holding her back.

Who would dare?

Beneath the sleeves of her flannel shirt, her skin buzzed and prickled with gooseflesh. The air was cracking with enough static to spark a flame and her own aura was discoloring, reacting with electrical and chemical bursts. As she watched, the nebulous haze surrounding her split off into hair-thin fibers.

Only magic could do this.

Only a witch would dare.

She stiffened. Is someone there?

Her voice came out as a squeak. She winced, cleared her throat, and tried again.

Hello?

Over the pounding of her heart she thought she could make out soft breathing. Measured. Not quick and halting like hers. Breathing like a hunter.

I'm not Prey.

Catherine fingered her cell phone.

She could call the police if she needed to. If someone was following her with the intent to do harm they would quickly find out she was nobody they wanted to mess with. Those who had underestimated her small stature in the past had not made the same mistake twice.

Her small smile disappeared, and her lips turned down. If what she suspected was following her was actually following her, the cops wouldn't do much good.

But what would a witch be doing here, of all places?

Hunting, Prey whispered back. Hunting us.

Witches weren't predatory. They hid behind their magic as a shield to compensate for their lack of physical prowess. Also, they were arrogant, Machiavellian.

In a fight between a shifter and a witch, the shifter would often win—but only if they could keep the witch from speaking, usually by severing the throat or tearing out the tongue. If the witch was powerful enough, and quick enough, physical size didn't matter. Catherine had heard of the horrible ways the witches could kill their victims. Cooking them alive from the inside out, restricting oxygen flow through the nasal and oral passages by creating a vacuum, drowning them with vapor pulled from the very air.

It made fights between shifters look almost humane by comparison.

Of course, the Fourth Rule forbade all that.

But there are always exceptions.

Not me, she decided. I'm not going to be the exception.

She quickened her pace, trying not to rub at her arms and make her unease known. Her pursuer followed, and so did his electrifying presence. It was all she could do not to run.

Soon, her breath came quicker, and all she could hear was the rhythmic pounding of her blood in her ears and the sibilant whispers from the trees. Runrunrun. She was very relieved when she arrived at the library unscathed.

Before walking through the automatic doors, she glanced over her shoulder. The bushes across the street were still. Silent. Everything as it should be.

Except for a faint whiff of ozone, carried on the wind.

You're losing it.

Was she?

You're delusional.

She didn't feel delusional.

But then, she thought, wasn't that the point?

•◌•◌•◌•◌•

His first move in Barton was to see Karen. He didn't particularly wish to, but he knew the move was expected of him, and it would placate her and her powerful family.

Karen didn't sound surprised or pleased to hear from him but readily agreed to meet. He wondered at her distance, whether she'd taken up with another lover.

But no, she had too much to lose, too little to gain.

Also, she wouldn't dare.

Karen's domicile was above a small hobby shop called Mystique. Filled with power beads, healing crystals, and aromatherapy candles, it was all completely useless and all meticulously overpriced.

Finn shoved past the beaded curtains that sectioned off the back room and ascended the staircase.

Clever of her, to hide in plain sight like this.

But then, he had expected nothing less.

His thoughts then returned to the missing parts of the Pierces' file, and he frowned. Few had access to the records, and of the archivists he was the most well-known. The thought that somebody might be trying to frame him for criminal negligence had not escaped him.

The scent of candles dissipated, replaced by the electric, hazy smell of ozone. Finn couldn't smell it—at least, not as well as a shape-shifter could—but he could see the glowing particles. Swirls of shimmering mist wrapped around his wrist as he rapped sharply upon the paneled wooden surface.

The door swung open with a heavy groan, and a dark-haired woman with pale blue eyes regarded him intently before she allowed her fierce expression to relax into a close-lipped smile.

Councilman.

Her voice was demure—and insincere. Their relationship was not one of affection. Finn pushed past her, ignoring the mocking lightness in her tone. He was not in the mood for being ironic.

Aloud, he said, Spare me your pleasantries.

Karen's smile disappeared.

Satisfied for the moment, Finn scanned the room with a proprietary air. There was no furniture. The floor was covered by thick, expensive carpet, with a handful of pillows tossed about haphazardly.

He decided to remain standing since it accorded him greater dignity. Upon finishing his cursory inspection, he turned to her and demanded, What do you know?

A gray-winged moth circled the naked bulb overhead in drunken, lazy circles, before alighting on Karen's shoulder. She didn't appear to notice.

Hello to you, too, my love, she said dryly.

Don't toy with me, he said. I'm not in the mood.

Are you ever? Before he could respond, she said, It's as you suspected. The Slayers are moving into the suburbs. Inner cities are getting too competitive. The cost outweighs the gain, so they are taking their business elsewhere.

Finn cursed. Why? Why now?

Our eccentricities stick out more in small towns.

Finn took a step towards the window, keeping Karen in his line of sight. Dots of light pinpointed the thousands of human homes in Barton. They were clustered densely in the pit of the valley, and thinned out as they passed nearer to the hazy blue hills.

You have one particular eccentric in mind.

Your shape-shifter. Catherine Pierce. Karen spoke dispassionately but that couldn't quite mask her disdain. She is in my biology class.

Even this concession made her bristle; he knew the signs, and it amused him, to see her debase herself.

Oh?

She comes from one of their so-called distinguished families. European and Moorish ancestry. One of the first shifter families to come out of Europe. A mongrel.

Shape-shifters. Once they had been powerful—a race of fierce warriors with superhuman strengths and senses—but they had lost that edge, and become tame. Or mad.

Intermingling with humans had dulled their senses, made them less formidable, weak. There were few pure families left anymore. It was just one of the many consequences of the desegregation movement. They had become a race of half-breeds. Only the large predators had remained pure, for no other reason than that they would tear apart any human foolish enough to get too close. Their instincts were too strong.

They have never caused problems for us before, he mused, fishing for details. They are not part of the insurgency. At least, not to my knowledge.

You don't know their daughter. She is reckless, wild. Liable to do anything.

Finn felt the magic surrounding him stir in surprise, like a beast awakening. Anything? I'll look into it.

Will you, Phineas? She gave him a sharp little smile. One that said she had seen his reaction, and registered at least some of the implicit meaning behind it. Should I be concerned?

Just the thrill of the hunt, darling, he said. Why? Jealous of a little savage?

Are you a vermin-lover? She asked him, flat-out.

I'm engaged to you, aren't I? he retorted, with a cool smile. Revealing nothing. Revealing everything.

She unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall to the floor.

Shut up and fuck me, Councilman.

He was only too happy to oblige.

•◌•◌•◌•◌•

As Catherine rounded the corner she could make out the signature perfume of her human friend, Sharon. Too strong to be trace effects. Catching the scent helped abate some of the surprise when she pounced on Catherine the moment she walked through the door.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Sharon was a curvy girl with brown skin and hair that wasn't meant to be blonde, although it hadn't stopped her from trying. The cloying smell of bleach put her off, which was good, because beneath the chemical odors of hair dye and cheap perfume, Sharon smelled like raw meat. All humans did. And while she held her impulses rigidly in check, Catherine was grateful to her friend for rendering herself so extremely unpalatable.

Even so, shape-shifters were highly territorial and guarded their boundaries jealously. Violation of personal space could be construed as a challenge for dominance if the conditions were right.

This behavior was present in humans as well, but to a much lesser extent. Shape-shifters did not engage in nearly as much physical contact as their human counterparts, at least not naturally, and adjusting to that was an integral part of socialization.

Both Predator and Prey were bristling from the sudden assault. That brush with magic on the walk over had left her beasts feeling restless, agitated.

What the hell? Catherine shoved the other girl off her. Not too hard. Just enough to move her. Boundaries, much?

Rather than taking offense, the other girl laughed. Fuck boundaries, she said. I had to listen to the Myrna Bird channel Horace Alger for the last half-hour because of your lateness, thank you very much.

"Horatio. It's Horatio Alger."

Sharon put her thumbs together and made a W with her index fingers. Whatever.

Catherine gave her the finger in return. These human rituals, filled with mock aggression wrapped in affection, were difficult for her to accept, and she never really felt she got them down right.

She grabbed the lanyard with her name tag from the closet and clipped it to her shirtfront. The cord was too much like a collar, and the cheap material chafed her sensitive skin. "I was late because I had to walk, bitch."

Your mom wouldn't lend you the car?

Not while I'm failing fucking biology, no.

Her eyes landed on the toppling mountain of books beside the register and she groaned.

You couldn't have started without me?

What are you talking about? I totally did.

"Could you be more lazy?"

Hey, don't go there, said Sharon. That's racist.

Catherine allowed her gaze to say what she thought of that. And if a little bit of Predator happened to slip through the barriers she couldn't be faulted.

The Predator in question was a mountain lion. The intensity of its gaze could be a bit much, especially when the subliminal message was, I could eat you.

You know I can't listen and work at the same time.

Uh-huh.

She's so distracting.

So's a cell phone, Catherine shot back.

She would have bet all of this week's gas money that Sharon had spent the duration of the lecture texting beneath the desk instead of pricing the books.

The little used bookstore where they worked was situated next to the library and entirely nonprofit, kept running on the donations of the town. All the proceeds went to maintaining the library and paying its employees.

But not nearly enough to put up with this bullshit.

Catherine sat in the chair with a growl and picked up the nearest book. Dotted it—chartreuse, for December—placed it on the top of the pile. Book. Dot. Book. Dot. Book. Dot.

Sharon, meanwhile, continued to play with her phone, dotting new releases only when Catherine stopped to glare in her direction.

Three hours a day, Monday through Friday.

Gas was expensive, though, and Mrs. Pierce had decreed that if Catherine wanted to drive the family car, she would have to get a job. Thinking her daughter's spendthrift ways would deter her from driving. She had even smirked a little as she said it, so sure of her victory.

Being indentured to the humans was almost worth her mother's expression when she had announced her joining of the human workforce. Almost.

It was a petty fight for dominance, but still, Catherine reveled in it. Family politics were excellent practice for dealing with real-world pragmatics. Like the fact that you're a shape-shifter and need a car to get around?

Catherine let out her breath, and heard Sharon stiffen in her seat in the resulting pause. Beneath the noxious smell of her perfume, Catherine could smell revulsion.

Is that Chase Hill outside? Ugh. Tell me it's not. Tell me that loser is not fucking outside.

Catherine emptied out another sack of books.

Um, hello? Catherine? Did you hear me?

You told me not to tell you.

Sharon cursed.

Well, what do you want me to do if it is, huh? Forbid him from going outside? It's a free country.

"I sure as shit don't want him coming in here."

Too bad about anti-discrimination and all that.

Don't even talk to me about discrimination, white girl. You don't know shit. She snapped her fingers. I know. I'll tell you what we should do. I think we should put up the CLOSED sign and take an early lunch break.

That would be a great idea. Except, since he's a person with feelings—you know, those things you don't have, I'm pretty sure he'd notice. And complain.

God, you are such a bitch sometimes.

I'm not a bitch, said Catherine. You're the bitch. I'm just practical.

She had to be.

Her parents had seen the aftereffects of the War firsthand. They had seen humans being preyed upon by the shifters, and shifters being preyed upon by the witches. They had heard of shifters being collared in silver to rob them of their powers, and forced to do backbreaking labor. Or worse, sold to the vampires as blood slaves for the witches' own profit.

Not that the witches hadn't been victims, either, her parents had grudgingly admitted. A shifter who was wily enough could betray a witch to the Slayers, who hunted them for their blood. Witches weren't as good at hiding their nature as shifters; they were too arrogant to let themselves pass for humans, whom they saw as mundane and common. Pride was their downfall.

Catherine was very careful about her alliances. She did not make any in vain. Certainly, not for spite.

She was aware of Sharon watching her, curiously, and said, No breaks—get back to work.

Sharon muttered an insult under her breath that a human wouldn't have heard. Catherine, who did hear it, merely rolled her eyes and looked out the window.

She froze.

Chase was out there, just as Sharon had said. But he wasn't alone.

Shades were the ghosts of the departed. Ordinary humans couldn't see them, except only sometimes from the corner of their eye, but they were quick to dismiss the phenomenon as a trick of the light. Sharon wouldn't be able to see them.

Most shades were relatively benign, floating around, draining what little magic they could from the air. Magic gave them power. Others were more dangerous, more predatory, and these were more powerful than all the rest, because they lacked the scruples left over from their mortal lives. The ones that said, thou shalt not kill.

All the hairs on her body were prickling in alarm. There's so many—fuck, what are they doing here?

Shades usually only occupied places like cemeteries or battlefields, or any other dark, dank location otherwise linked to death. Libraries—and their adjacent nonprofit bookstores—didn't really fit the bill.

As Chase approached, Catherine counted no fewer than seven shades swarming around him. Magic gleamed in the depths of their bodies like stars that had been swallowed up by the shadows.

Magic. Stolen magic. Enough to render them semi-tangible.

Why are they following Chase?

The last time she had seen him had been—what, last Friday. He had been acting out of character that day, cornering her at the self-serve counter of the lunch line and pelting her with so many questions she wanted to dig her nails into his arms and tell him to shut up.

The shades hadn't been there, though. She would have remembered that.

Which means something happened between then and now.

She stared at the nerdy boy with the oily skin and the greasy hair, and found only dread.

Something has changed.

A finger poked sharply into her side and she yelped.

Paging Catherine Pierce, report to home planet.

"Don't do that."

Whoa, lay off the steroids, girlfriend. Okay? You've been staring at that door like a psychopath for the last thirty seconds. It's fucking creepy as hell.

Just remembering something Chase said to me.

Gross, Sharon said. And what words of wisdom did he impart to you, O Chosen One?

He'd asked her what she thought her superpower would be. Not that he cared what she thought. No, his sole purpose in asking her had been to tell her more about himself, and his desire to manipulate people's emotions psychically. She had laughed it off, torn between feeling sorry for him and wanting to run away, because the smell oozing from his pores made her feel slightly sick. She was still waiting on the grumpy chef to refill the hot pan of meatloaf, though, so feeling sorry for him won out and she said, grudgingly, Not mind control specifically, then?

Chase had shaken his head at her. As if she were the one in need of pity. Which had pissed her the fuck off, at least at first, but her rage had been lost in the face of what he'd said next.

People need freewill—or, uh, they need to be under the illusion they have freewill. People who are scared act so stupid, they don't have freewill. Not anymore. It's amazing how many rights people give up of their own volition just to feel safe. How far they go to rationalize it. Mr. Bordello told me, uh—

She waited, but Chase had stopped talking. Just run down, like clockwork or a piece of old machinery.

Catherine told Sharon the story. Sharon sighed and tossed her head. You do know he has the saddest crush on you, right?

You're not hearing me out.

Of course I am. Look. Chase has heard about your reputation. We all have. The teachers don't exactly make their hatred of you a secret. So he probably figured the tough-guy act would impress your big, bad self. Obviously he failed. Miserably. Big fat surprise.

Yeah, but who talks like that? He sounds like—

She wished she could better voice her doubts. But she couldn't. Not without violating the Third Rule.

Predator? Prey supplied helpfully.

Yes. Yes, Chase had sounded like a Predator.

But Sharon wouldn't understand that. She'd just give her a heaping dose of the stank-eye and ask if she was feeling all right. Catherine fumbled for an analogy her human friend would be able to relate to.

"—he sounded like a dictator," she said at last.

A dictator? Please. He couldn't dictate a speech. Have you heard him talk? She screwed up her face and intoned in a nasally stammer that really did sound like him, Hi, uh, my name's, uh, Chase. I guess Ill, uh, be taking over your country now. Is that, uh, okay?

Very funny, skank. Catherine turned her face away so Sharon wouldn't see the smile playing on her lips.

On the other side of the window, Chase and the shades entered the small coffee house next door. A thought occurred to her, and she was right back to frowning.

Isn't Mr. Bordello the name of that new teacher?

Yeah. Emilio Bordello. He's taking over for Mrs. Garcia while she's on maternity leave.

Mr. Bordello? She bit her lip. Is that his real name?

Humans were so strange.

What's he like? She heard herself asking.

"I have him for AP sociology. He is fine. I think he works out. He's really buff—and young. He won't tell us his age, but I swear he's still in his twenties. Half the girls in our class want to boink him."

Her tone left little doubt as to which half she belonged to. Catherine had to try hard to keep a straight face.

Boink?

Boink, screw, fuck, do. Whatever. She made the hand gesture again, suggesting she'd been watching too many re-runs of Clueless. He's also the faculty adviser for the new club.

We have a new one?

It was on the morning announcements.

Oh. Not surprising she'd missed that little tidbit of information then, since she usually arrived too late to hear them. Her attendance record bordered on truant.

What do they do?

"Who cares what they do? When you see the man in charge, you'll thank me."

I doubt it, said Catherine.

Yeah, Sharon said, her face falling. You're probably right. Chase is probably going to be there.

That hadn't been what she meant, but it gave her pause. He's in the club too?

Unfortunately. He has the biggest man-crush on Mr. Bordello. I bet it rivals the one he has on you. God, you should have heard him. Bragging about the meeting he was going to on Friday night. It was pathetic.

Friday night?

It came out sounding more panicky than Catherine intended. Chase was coming out of the coffee shop, Styrofoam cup in hand, and was now making a beeline for their store.

I swear, someone should tell the little jack-off that extracurriculars do not equate to having a social life.

Something happened during that meeting. Or after it.

Sharon threw down the book she was holding. It hit the desk with a loud thump, and Catherine jumped. Her knee thwacked against the underside of the desk and her startled gasp turned into a hiss of pain. The minor injury was fading even as she became aware of the pain, but her regenerative abilities did nothing for her annoyance.

I don't know about you, said Sharon, "but I am dying for a machiatto."

The dying part could be arranged if you don't stop throwing shit, said Catherine, massaging her knee for effect. It was what an ordinary human would do.

I'm going to get coffee from next door. You want anything? The usual hazelnut latte?

Catherine's anger hesitated like a wolfhound thrown off the scent. Sharon. There was a low note of warning in her voice, which was deeper than one might expect from a girl of her size. "Don't you dare."

Sharon cheerily disregarded her. She was halfway out the door. Following up on her threat of an early lunch break, Catherine realized.

"Sharon! Sharon! As your supervisor, I order you to get your fat ass back in that chair this instant."

A mother taking her young son to the library's reading room turned around, searching for the source of the noise, before quickly ushering her child onward. Sharon didn't even flinch.

You're going to get us both fired, you bitch!

She had the nerve to wave. Fucking bitch.

Damn it. Chase would be here any minute and she didn't have time to hang up the sign and hunt down Sharon. And she certainly couldn't leave the register unattended. That really would get her fired.

She sighed, cursed. Pretending to be human sucked.

Chapter Two

As Chase Hill sauntered up to the desk, his face was lit up with such smarmy pleasure that Catherine wanted to bash his face in. She didn't like it when people—not just men—looked at her in that way. As if she could be bought, or owned. It wasn't just about sex, either. Not entirely. There are more ways than that to sell your soul.

Welcome to the Friends of the Library Bookstore, she said, keeping her voice prim and her eyes cold.

Catherine, he said, as if they were long-lost friends. I didn't know you worked here.

Liar. There was no way he hadn't seen her through the large double windows. Do you need help with something? She asked him. Out the door, perhaps?

Nah. He seemed to completely overlook her frigid expression. I'm just, uh, browsing.

Great.

Some of the shades had followed him into the building. Through the glass wall she could see the majority of them drifting in the corridor like dogs awaiting the return of a beloved master.

One of the creatures happened to glance in her direction as she looked. Quick, accidental coincidence. Its reaction, however, was not.

The shade went rigid, raising its head. Catherine caught a glimpse of a shadowy mass in profile that might have been a nose. Her breathing halted. It seemed to be—no, she wasn't mistaken—sniffing the air, scenting her.

Drunkenly, it swayed forward and glided closer.

No.

Her hands moved from her lap to the desk as she readied herself to push from the seat. Her nails had sharpened, forming the beginnings of claws. She barely noticed. All her muscles were melting, melding, becoming liquid steel. Her weight shifted from her core to her legs as she prepared to spring and then—

And then what? You can't fight it. Not with Chase in the room. That would be breaking the First Rule, exposing yourself to a human.

Exceptions were made for self-defense, though.

Not for you, a delinquent shape-shifter.

Catherine was painfully aware of her throbbing pulse and how it made her feel like Prey. The only things in the room that had any meaning were the shades and her own frantically beating heart.

Would the Council grant her self-defense?

Probably not. They shamelessly discriminated against her kind. Her fingers dug into the wood hard enough to leave marks. Fuck, she thought. What am I going to do?

From behind the stacks she heard Chase's disembodied voice say, Did you, uh, watch that science-fiction movie that was on last night?

If push came to shove, she could knock him unconscious. She had never killed a human, never had to. But death ran in her veins, and at times it was all she could do to contain it.

Catherine let her shields slip a little. Not a lot. Just enough that her aura whipped out and crackled, snapping out at the shade that had challenged her.

Rising to the threat.

I am deadly, said Predator. I'll tear out your heart and eat it, still dripping, while you watch. Fuck with me, and you die.

Like most defense mechanisms, this was merely a well-constructed lie. A bluff. But it worked.

The shade turned away. Losing interest. Saving face.

Catherine relaxed a hair, still tense and waiting just in case it was a feint intended to cause her to let her guard down. It might have been her imagination, since the shades didn't have faces or auras she could read, but she got the impression that the creature was…disappointed.

She would not let herself think about why. Without taking her golden eyes from the creature she said, I'm not into science-fiction. My life is science-fiction.

Chase popped back into sight from the corner of the romance section—by far, the largest section in the store.

What are you into?

Life, she said shortly.

Oh. There was a long pause. He looked at her, up and down. I like your, uh, bracelet, he offered lamely.

She ran her fingers over the charms automatically. Her parents had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday; it had all twelve animals from the Chinese zodiac. She had been in the mind of each, at one time or another. Shape-shifters did not often give gifts—they didn't celebrate holidays in the same way humans did, preferring feasts to festivals—so the gesture was touching.

Red veins of annoyance infected her aura as a Predator silently bared her teeth. She did not appreciate Chase speaking of her prized possession so lightly. It conveyed a terrible lack of respect. The proprietary way he regarded her did not help matters. She wanted him to leave.

He ran his grubby fingers over the books—marking his territory, she thought—and finally looked away.

The submissive gesture was at odds with his body language. The desire to dominate warred with an inherent sense of inadequacy.

I'm not really much of a reader, he told the table.

The silence stretched on. An expectant air hung over the bookstore as if someone—or something—was waiting for a cue that had yet to be delivered.

Then Chase said, You're in my biology class.

Not your class, said Predator.

Two shades were watching. She felt the bite of her sharpened fingernails as they dug into her palms; they had partially morphed back into claws. The way Chase kept distracting her wasn't helping.

She could smell his nervousness: sharp and sour, with the tang of sweat. Not even Predator wanted to eat him; he was redolent of spoiled meat. This wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to make off with one of the more expensive books.

You're not doing so well in that class, right?

What business of that was of his?

If you need some help studying— he paused, deviously "—you could, uh, ask."

All the shades were paying very close attention now, waiting for her response. Something crucial hung in the balance here, and Catherine had no idea what it was.

She whirled around, so she was facing the READ poster Myrna had mounted behind the desk. She put two tentative fingers up to her mouth and felt the incisors sharpening, becoming as curved and cruel as sabers. Her eyes were blurry, too, the colors changing spectrum and hue. Shit. She ran her tongue over her teeth.

Slowly, Catherine counted to ten. She focused on the mental image of her human self. It was the only way to reverse the Change. Long brown hair. Hazel eyes. Swarthy skin that hinted at some unknown exotic heritage. An intense expression people usually mistook for anger. Her mind, however, remained uncooperative, buzzing with fear of discovery. The image rippled, distorted by panic. Her breath came in shorter bursts.

Focus, she urged herself. Focus.

Fingers closed around her arm, tight and unrelenting. Her shoulders rose instinctively as she spun around, dislodging the hand even as she put herself out of reach.

Oh no.

She clapped her hands over her face, trying to hide as much of it as she could. The First Rule. She had broken the First Rule. She was going to be sent to the Keep.

Over the wall of her hands, Catherine stared at Chase in horror. He stared back with limpid eyes. Not the eyes of someone who had just seen a monster. Did he not…?

She hardly dared let herself hope.

I must have Changed back in the nick of time. Any later, and he could have—he would have—

Doomed her to a life of persecution and exile with a single act of unpardonable selfishness?

The cool relief froze and hardened into jagged crystals of anger. The Council had spies everywhere. Her entire family could have been prosecuted for her crime. And to keep him silent, to protect herself and her family, Catherine would have had to break the oath she had made to herself so long ago, when she heard the tales of the atrocities committed by her kind: that she would never hunt a human—ever.

All because the little shithead wanted to get lucky.

She drew herself up to her full height. Don't ever touch me.

W-what? Chase looked bewildered, hurt. He waited, but no apology or explanation was forthcoming. This clearly wasn't how he had expected the situation to go. I—I was trying to help, he protested.

I don't need your damn help.

He winced at that. She was too angry to care.

Not now—and not with biology. My grades are absolutely none of your fucking business. None. Understand?

I—I'm sorry. He looked down at his tattered sneakers for a moment. She saw his hands clench. When he lifted his eyes, there was a flush of anger in his sallow cheeks. What is your problem, anyway?

You.

It was a good thing her human boss was not present.

Why? he demanded.

Because I don't like you, she said simply.

Chase flinched but after that he stopped trying to talk to her, and Catherine stopped pretending she was busy. What guilt she felt at speaking to him so cruelly was eclipsed by her conviction that he had participated in something terrible, too terrible to put into words.

She picked up one of the books she'd been dotting and began to flip through it. She was just beginning to get into the storyline when she heard a soft gasp, followed immediately by the covert sounds of someone trying very hard to be noticed. But Catherine—she noticed.

She set the book face-down and headed towards the stacks. Her footsteps didn't make a sound as she slouched into a distinctive walk that would look frighteningly predatory to any human observer.

Chase never saw her coming. Not until her shadow fell over him, and he uttered a shrill, girlish shriek of surprise. An angry blush immediately flooded his cheeks.

He snapped the book he was reading shut and glared at her as he got to his feet. I found something I want.

His voice was resentful, but Catherine could smell his unease; it flooded off him, the way other animals exuded ink or pheromones in times of distress. She wondered at it, and felt a little sick to her stomach as she realized that he could be holding a book of pornography for all she knew.

She stared at him without saying anything. His face reddened further. These too, he added, grabbing an armful of books from the nearest shelf. He didn't even look at the titles, and had grabbed a rather bawdy assortment of harlequin romance novels. All of them featured busty heroines spilling out of their Medieval gowns to be passionately embraced by men who looked like Fabio with a codpiece.

But she only felt the faintest stirrings of amusement, and even that quickly faded. Because she hadn't taken her eyes of the book in Chase's hands since he slammed it shut. A black, misty haze enveloped the covers. Curls of it clung to her fingers as she picked it up and began to leaf through it. The pages were thick as parchment and felt expensive. Why is it glowing like this?

She yanked her hand away with more force than strictly necessary, shaking her wrist. The black particles still clung to her fingers for a moment before dissipating like vapor. They reacted to her the way magic did, almost, but she had never seen magic like this.

Black magic?

Some Otherkind—witches, usually—argued that there was no such thing as black magic outside of philosophy, and that to call magic evil was to subscribe to outmoded, plebeian beliefs.

Others believed that black magic existed, but that it was a completely separate entity from the magic performed by the witches. They believed it was an alchemical transformation wrought in defiance of the natural order, forced, twisted, unpredictable. Lethal.

Catherine had never cared much for the debate. Shape-shifters believed most things having to do with magic were bad. It was a learned fear, and with good reason.