Black Beast (28 page)

Nothing happened.

Her arm wouldn't move.

It was stuck—both arms were—pinned uselessly to her sides.

“David,” she tried to say, “I don't feel good.”

And my head, my head, there's something wrong, it feels as if there's something in there—

A mechanical noise came out of her mouth. Dry, and toneless, like the ticking of a pocket watch.

What?

Something silvery gleamed in her periphery. The forceps. They, too, looked a lot bigger. And the giant forceps were descending from the sky, slowly, but undeniably in her direction.

And she couldn't help but notice that they were very, very sharp.

“David!” Her voice sounded raw with panic in her aching head. Perhaps they didn't leave her mouth at all, instead bouncing around like a spiked rubber ball. “What are you doing? Stop it!”

He looked down at her with an expression equal parts pity and disgust.

“Goddess, forgive me,” he whispered, bowing his head slightly in prayer.

That was when the pieces clicked together, with a sound like the ones from her very own mouth.

In her panic, Catherine had Changed into a cricket—

And David was about to dissect her.

Chapter Eleven

Catherine shot up with a gasp, a phantom scream ringing shrilly in her ears. Her—that was
her
scream.

It took her a moment to understand what had happened, and where she was.

I'm—I'm in my room.

I'm human.

I'm alive.

When she started to sit up, the biology textbook slid off her chest and landed on the floor with a heavy thud that made her jump.
I must have fallen asleep studying
. The sheets were wrapped around her legs, pinning them, cold and damp with chilled sweat.

That explains why I couldn't move. Why I couldn't—

Her mouth went hot with bile. There was a sudden rush of movement in her throat and she stumbled out of bed, running to the bathroom, where she promptly, messily, emptied her stomach of all its contents.

Her eyes were watering. The vomit left her throat feeling dry and raw and pinched. Slowly, she shook her head, trying to clear it. The dream had been too acute. Too
real.

This is what I get for being a good girl and studying before bedtime. Horrible dreams, science projects gone wrong, and puke.

It wasn't fair.

She flushed the toilet, wiped the seat, and, with effort, climbed back to her feet. The floor seemed to tilt and waver beneath her and her reflection, when she looked in the mirror, was horrifying. Almost a nightmare in and of itself.

Her face was normal enough except for the eyes, which were reflecting the light coming in from the bathroom window from the streetlamp outside. The eyes of a nocturnal predator.

In her panicked haste, she hadn't questioned how she'd made it down the dark, cluttered hall without stumbling.
I must have Changed partially over.

Catherine splashed her face with water, icy cold from the pipes that had been gently chilled by the crisp night air. When she opened her eyes again, the bathroom had been submerged in darkness. She could no longer see her eyes, much less her face, in the mirror, but knew that they had reverted back to their normal hazel.

Human eyes.

But she wasn't human. And she never would be, either, no matter how hard she and her family pretended otherwise. That was the kicker, the pièce de résistance. She was a shape-shifter, an unsettled one, which made the dream that much more horrific. There was a possibility, however remote, that her final form…would be a cricket.

She gagged again, wretchedly, bringing up a few ropy strands of saliva. The taste in her mouth was disgustingly acidic, and her stomach was clenching like a vise.
Pathetic
, thought Predator, with scorn.

Catherine had contemplated following David's advice but now that was out of the question. She was going through with her plan with or without David's help. There was no way in hell she could do the vivisection now. Just thinking about cutting into those poor creatures sapped away all her strength and left her feeling nauseated; it would be like cutting into herself.

Of course, she ate meat—had to, for the energy it provided, as most other shape-shifters did—but there was a difference between killing for nourishment and killing for curiosity or sport.

She kicked the damp sheets off her bed and sat there in the dark, with her knees hugged to her chest, listening to the gradual slowing of her heart, and the quiet scratching of branches on the windowpanes.

But there's no tree outside my room.

She got to her feet and yanked open the window. A blast of cold air swirled through her bedroom and she shivered violently. It was cold, but she could hear mewing. She stuck her head out the window. There was a kitten—a very small calico, probably about eight weeks old—curled up on the storm gutter in a quivering ball of orange and black fur as it tried to shield its tiny body from the wind. Catherine's heart melted instantly.

Animals tended to react oddly to her scent. She carried traces of different animals on her clothing, and shape-shifters didn't smell like ordinary humans to start with. There were some places she could never go because of the commotions she caused. Places like dog parks, pet shops, zoos were all out-of-bounds.

Unfortunate, really. She had always really loved animals. The feeling just wasn't mutual.

She reached out timidly, ready to draw back if the kitten decided it preferred attack to rescue. Hoping that because it was so young, it wouldn't be as wary as animals that were already fully grown. The kitten didn't move from its huddled position, and her fingers passed along its spine unscathed. She stroked the mottled fur. The kitten was very soft and clean—obviously not a feral or a stray. A rough tongue licked at her fingers, and she found herself grinning widely.

“Okay. You can stay, you manipulative little beast.”

She scooped the cat up and shut the window. The kitten immediately made for the bed, curling its tail around its body as it nestled on the pillow. Catherine eyed her cautiously.

“Are you house-trained?”

The kitten looked offended.

“Right. Of course you are. Sorry I asked.”

Sleepily, Catherine made a mental note to go out to the store tomorrow for cat litter and food.

•◌•◌•◌•◌•

“In the words of Caroline Lamb, Byronic heroes are 'mad, bad, and dangerous to know'.”

Mr. Bruin walked around the classroom, forcing them to turn their heads constantly to keep him in sight.

“She was right,” he finished, fixing each of them with an expression of irony that was lost on the majority. Most of the class was starting to doze off. It was the second half of the last block of the day, and he had long since lost his audience. “The phrase was coined from the life and poetry of an actual man, a deeply-flawed man. The poet, Lord Byron.

“Unlike your typical heroes, which generally promote character traits we would desire in ourselves, Byronic heroes are imperfect, their flaws highly romanticized. They appear in many times and forms, but share many common characteristics that are somewhat universal.

“For example, they are frequently emotional, mercurial—sometimes this results from problems with mental health; they are passionate; they have dark, checkered, mysterious pasts; they are intelligent, but in ways that they use to manipulate others or that have cultivated and/or manifested in a cynical view of the world; and last, but certainly not least, they are attractive—either sexually, financially, or socially. They are charming, these Byronic heroes. But not someone you would want to bring home to mother.”

That got a few intrigued blinks from the students who were still awake enough to hear him.

Mr. Bruin chuckled. “One of the most famous examples is a character from the book you should have already started reading. Jane Eyre's very own Mr. Rochester is a wonderful example of a Byronic hero. He is quite passionate, for his time…but it is a kind of restrained passion, fraught with angst; he is attractive, at least, according to our protagonist, Jane; he has the dark and terrible secret, a crazy wife he keeps locked away in one of the upstairs rooms; and he is manipulative, quite manipulative, dressing up as a fortune-teller to see what Jane's true feelings are about him, and hiding his wife from her in an attempt to further the relationship.”

Catherine had to admit, that was a pretty creepy thing to do. If a guy did that to her, she wouldn't think it romantic at all. She'd tear his throat out. She'd be pissed. And Jane had been pissed. That was probably why Catherine liked her; she had a good, solid backbone.

Certainly Jane Eyre was better than the whiny, melodramatic characters in Wuthering Heights. All they did was pine for each other and bemoan their so-called tragic circumstances which had been completely and unequivocally their own damn faults. Plus, sharing the same name as one of the main characters in the book had resulted in numerous jibes that went something along the lines of, “Hey, Catherine, where's Heathcliff?”

“For those gentlemen in the audience thinking about trying that out for yourselves with your own girlfriends—” Mr. Bruin was still talking “—it didn't end well.”

I'll say.