Black Beast (24 page)

“I can't believe I'm hearing this.”

“I can't do it alone David.” She smelled weakness, and pressed on. “I need someone to watch the tanks while I fly the crickets out. You know, to make sure they don't escape. I'll be doing all the legwork. You don't even need to Change. And I know you don't want to do this lab any more than I do. I mean it's basically torture.”

He flinched. “No,” he said. “No way.”

“David, please—”

“Don't worry, I'm not going to turn you in, if that's what you're afraid of.”

The thought hadn't even occurred to her. But now, remembering her mother telling her how the Trans wanted to report her to the Council, she felt a sudden chill.
How could I be so stupid?

How could she not? It was practically second-nature to her at this point.

“Even though I should—even if that's what the Golden Boy should do—”

Catherine closed her eyes. She shouldn't have said that. But it was too late now.

“I won't. For the sake of old friendship, and because I don't want to see you killed or sent to the keep.”

Killed? That was enough to make her choke out a humorless laugh. Someone already wanted to do that. “Thanks a lot.”

“You're welcome,” he retorted, with equal brevity. “Here's hoping you get some common sense.”

Catherine grabbed her bag and marched out of the hall. She felt like a submarine with a crack in one of its windows. All the pressure building up from the outside, leaving her to explode in a cascade of water and fire and sparks at any moment. She blinked angrily. The last thing she needed right now was for someone to see her cry. Nobody at school had ever seen her cry.

Because if they did, if they knew that Catherine Pierce was capable of crying, the slander and taunts would grow even more vicious. It was the same reason sadistic kids put beetles in jars to shake around. Shaking a pebble was pointless, because pebbles didn't feel any pain or fear—and that was the point of the whole exercise, when it came down to it: to see how much the poor, hapless creature could withstand. Butterflies flopped around like discarded rag-dolls, and yielded to a cruel hand in a crush of broken wings and dust, but beetles had those tough exoskeletons that crunched so satisfactorily. It took effort to kill a beetle, effort and time.

The witch had already rattled her around inside the proverbial jar. She'd survived—but for how much longer? Would it be hopelessly cliché to say that she was only human?

Chapter Nine

The parking lot was full of shouting and honking as students raced each other for the exit. Catherine shot a few death glares around as she cleared a path for herself through the crowded sidewalk in front of the school. Most people looked away from her searching eyes. A few met her gaze—with anger, fear, contempt. It varied depending on the person and their mutual history.

She was not popular with the humans; they scorned her for being different, and for not caring about it as much as they cared; they scorned her for being a female, and for not submitting to the false dichotomy of femininity set by the unspoken, hypocritical mandates of their society; and they scorned her for knowing herself, when they were too afraid to dredge the depths of their psyche and brave the beasts that swam within.

The contempt made her think of David and his final words to her. Final in more ways than one. When his parents had kept her from speaking to her, that hurt, but it was impersonal. This time, David had taken the reins, and taken the initiative upon himself.

He couldn't have just said “no.” He'd had to insult her, too. To drive every nail in the coffin that held the putrefying remains of their friendship.

Predator snarled. David must be a small man, small between the legs, to overcompensate thus.

The thought made Catherine feel a little better. Predator was usually good for that much.

But not for this.

Back when they were friends, David had been the one who was in her corner. The one who had never given up on her. Her parents loved her, but they were realistic. Lucas was the successful one, the one they poured all their efforts and energies into. He was the son, the heir. She was the one they worried about. Shape-shifter instincts died hard. But she'd thought David was past that.

…But no, eventually, even David had given up.

Maybe he was right, maybe her scheme with the crickets was far gone, even for her.

Maybe.

Tires squealed from somewhere ahead. People were always zipping through this street like it was the Indy 500. Humans were one of the few species on Earth who habitually tempted Fate. One did not see gazelles playing games of chicken with the lions, trying to see how close they could get while the large cats as they slept.

As though responding to the mental image of the lions, Prey uncurled and yelped,
Run away!

That was a poor choice with cats. They loved to give chase. Just like the witch.

Prey screamed, and screamed, until her ears threatened to burst from the weight of its terror. Catherine almost didn't hear the voice—an actual, human voice from outside her head—as it cried, “Look out!” Didn't even register whether it was male or female.

“Fuck,” she said hoarsely.

A truck was heading straight for her, a streak of silver lightning. She was on the sidewalk, and so was the truck—and it was set on a collision course for Catherine.

Her life did not flash before her eyes. She did not see a white light at the end of the tunnel. Wasn't that what was supposed to happen? All she saw was the truck, and the pulsing of the veins in her eyes as they throbbed with the very life that was about to end. She was afraid, but it was a helpless sort of fear tinged with resignation. She was surprised, but in a mild, detached sort of way. This was not how she imagined dying. She had always pictured herself older, gray on top.

Ironic, really. Most shape-shifters had a fairly short life-expectancy.

It seemed as if she were about to join them as just another statistic.

The headlights burned themselves into her retinas. Goddess help her, this was it.

She was going to die.

Catherine closed her eyes. A wall of heat and air sheared through the iciness of her paralyzed body, knocking her backwards with all the force of a bulldozer. She felt herself hit the ground and the breath escaped from her lungs in a disbelieving wheeze.

Was it over? Was she…dead?

She did not feel dead. Her chest was still pumping air, in and out, and the frantic drumbeat in her head hadn't ceased—yet.

The shriek of tires moving abruptly in reverse made Catherine lift her head. She was nearly twenty feet away from where she'd been before. But—how? Why? Not even she could jump that high. Had she somehow been at the perfect angle to receive a glancing blow that, in a thousand-to-one chance, not only failed to kill her, but also knocked her out of harm's way?

I'm not that lucky.

And yet, it seemed her luck was changing. But for the better—or for the worse?

The car fishtailed in the street, swinging back around in her direction. And then the driver slammed down on the poor gas pedal, and the car approached her doing close to seventy, accelerating the entire time. Catherine wasn't human, but that car was packing enough force to kill her before she had a chance to heal. This time, it was clear the driver meant to hit her.

She braced herself as it surged forward, ignoring the screams of the humans around her, and pushed up on the cement barrier for a boost as she jumped—and the wind seemed to carry her, to push her up, up, towards the sky—and for a few seconds Catherine felt truly weightless, cradled safely in midair—before landing with a metallic thunk against the hood of the car, knees bent, palms splayed out against the windshield in a defensive crouch.

Catherine lowered her head against the flying debris as the car tore through the cement barrier she had been standing in front of mere seconds before, sending up bits of concrete, broken glass, and twisted shrapnel. The windscreen was tinted, but she could see the people inside.

They had red eyes. Red as blood. Red as rage. Red as the most visceral of lusts.

Details from her dream flooded back, even as she tried to tell herself it was impossible.

I'm afraid I'm going to have to destroy you.

The driver moved in reverse again, sending the collected students scattering like quail, before gunning forward and sending her flying from the car. The front of the truck was all beaten in.

She hit the remainder of the cement barrier hard enough to take the wind right out of her lungs.

She crumpled to the ground like a crushed soda can. Groaning, she dug the heels of her palms into the grass and tried to push herself back up but her shoulders buckled. Pain licked at her spine with forked tongues of agony as she collapsed back in the mud. It hurt to move, to breathe.

Definitely a bruised rib. Maybe a cracked vertebra or two. At least nothing seems broken.

Not that it would have mattered a whole lot if it had. Either she would heal, or she wouldn't.

The squeal of retreating tires made Catherine jerk her head around. The car was speeding off. Mud was caked strategically over the license plate. That was no accident, and neither was the hit-and-run.

Someone had been trying to kill her.

•◌•◌•◌•◌•

Finn lowered his hands, which were glittering with particles of magic. He felt exhausted.

Graymalkin stared up at him, her ears flat against her head. Her eyes were narrowed slits. She did not speak in public, though no ears—human or otherwise—but his could have heard her. Old habits died hard. In response to her unasked question, he inclined his head slightly.