“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 Now he has become his cat and I have withdrawn my magic.”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 herby 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 forrevenge?”
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 tohelpLaFleur, 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-twothumpof 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 thedoor, 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 hitSEND, 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 contaminationin 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.
