“River is that way.” Rick pointed. “Twenty paces. North is there.” He pointed in a different direction. “Moonrise will be in that general area.” He pointed.
I made notes on my cell, aligning with the north point on the witch circle. I tackled the pink elephant in the room. “Did the spell call you here? You specifically?”
Rick shook his head. “I don’t see how. To summon a human or a were-creature, the witch needs something personal from them—blood, hair with roots, fingernails with a bit of flesh on them. There’s nothing of mine here.”
“T. Laine—Kent,” I amended, “should be here, not me. My witch-magic knowledge is nothing compared to hers.”
“I texted Kent while I was dressing,” Rick said. “ETA ten. Meanwhile, will you read the land? Are you up to it?”
“Except for the dead cat, yeah.” Death and blood called to my magic. The team knew about me being easily caught up in the earth, but not about my bloodlust. If I got caught up in the land, hopefully someone would knock me out and stop me before I killed someone. Risking a brain injury was better than risking me killing someone.
“Manageable?” Occam asked, reading my worried expression, or maybe my worried scent.
“I think so.” But I’d discovered that most magical things were manageable with Occam around. Two dissimilar species of predator were seldom compatible, but, strangely, being guarded by Occam’s cat soothed my own predatory instincts. Maybe because we suffered bloodlust for two very different reasons. I hadn’t yet told Occam that his cat was so important to me. I didn’t like being dependent on others for something so basic as self-control.
I unfolded my faded pink blanket, settling it on the ground, at the north point of the circle but outside. I sat, my knees decorously covered. I’d learned not to place both palms flat onthe ground and thrust myself into the earth, but rather to put one index fingertip on it first and take a peek down. It was my version of testing the waters with a toe.
Rick was behind me, Occam to my left in case he had to cut me free of the earth. It had happened. I touched the ground with the tip of one, then both index fingers. Something wriggled beneath the ground. I jerked my hands to my chest, hugging myself.
“Nell?” Occam asked. “What?” He was kneeling near me, Rick beside him, all our faces on a level. Occam’s white scars and Rick’s strangely silvered hair caught the flashlight’s beam, creating voids of shadow and inky night where their eyes were. It was creepy, but I figured I better not say that. I frowned. Gingerly I put my right index fingertip on the earth. And frowned harder.
“What?” Rick demanded.
“Maggots. Lots of maggots.” For me that meant vampires. Vampires had been here in such numbers that I felt them stronger than the black magic.
“Why?” he asked, understanding what I meant.
“I don’t know. I’m going deeper.” I closed my eyes.
I heard the sound of a knife being drawn from a Kydex sheath, a snap/slide/plastic/steel sound. Without opening my eyes, I knew that Occam had drawn his blade. Just in case. Sometimes the ground got a little too excited when I was around and the earth had been known to send up vines and roots and tendrils to stick into me, to tie me to it, to pull me down. “So far so good,” I muttered.
I dropped slowly through the layers, past the sensation of maggots on the surface, where I encountered the black magic that permeated an inch below. It felt icky, slimy, like burnt motor oil and something I might scrape out of my compost pile. Underneath the magics, I slipped through soil poisoned with pesticides where modern farming had been continuous for decades. Below that was disturbed soil with evidence of earlier farming methods: an iron tip from an old tiller; bits and pieces of metal and old diesel fuel in one spot that felt as if some machine had broken and been repaired on-site; a refuse pit with rusted tin cans and broken bottles.
Below that were bones, the memory of blood and death. Abattle had been fought here once, in the distant past. My bloodlust wandered through the bones, the evidence of blood spilled, and violence. The memory of blood and terror and—
“Nell! Nell, wake up! Come back to the surface.” Occam. Upset. Excited. Worried.
I felt his ravaged hand on my shoulder, hot and shaking me, more claw than fingers. I eased my mind back from the battle and took a breath. Blinked. Occam was cutting me free of the ground. My fingers were buried in a tangle of rootlets and leaves and vines. Occam cursed when one extruded a thorn and bit his wrist.
From somewhere in the dark, Rick snarled. “Why is the circle attacking Ingram?”
A woman’s voice said, “It’s not the circle, boss. That magic has been expended. This is Nell’s magic.”
Occam sliced me free of the last rootlet/vine and picked me up, stepping away fast, holding me like a child. It was nice. I was suddenly cold and he was cat-heated. I rested against his hard chest, his arms holding me easily.
Rick yanked and ripped my blanket free of the vines. Cursing. Mad. His Frenchy black eyes glowing cat-green. I didn’t know if he was still reacting to the magic or to an attack on a member of his team. Both probably.
“Don’t mess up my blanket,” I said. “I need it.”
“I’m not messing up your blanket, Ingram,” he growled.
“We were afraid of you going all woody and branching out,” the woman said.
I swiveled my head to her. “Hey, Lainie.”
“Hey, Tree Girl. You got all leafy again.”
“I did?” I lifted my hands in the light of her shielded flash. My nails were greenish brown and leafed out, the skin of my fingers nut brown. I put a cold palm against Occam’s unscarred cheek, which was scruffy. His eyes were glowing gold. “You cut me free again.” Occam growled softly. I smiled up at him. “Thank you. You can put me down now.”
