Black Beast (34 page)

The kitten was curled up on Catherine's backpack. She woke up, and then bristled and hissed when she saw the raccoon, becoming a tiny, angry puffball.

Catherine had failed to take into account how the kitten would react seeing her Change. She hadn't reacted to her strange smell that first night, so Catherine had taken it for granted that the baby animal wouldn't have learned those instincts yet. Clearly, she'd been mistaken.

She hoped it wouldn't wake her parents. They didn't know about the kitten. She knew they wouldn't approve. Her father, especially. Dog shifters hated cats as a general rule. If they smelled one in her room, they would just assume that she had Changed into one recently, as long as she managed to keep the litter box empty and hidden.

As soon as Catherine had a mouth and a larynx, she made calming, placating noises. The kitten's raised fur flattened and it regarded Catherine curiously, mistrustfully.

“It's okay,” she said, still speaking softly to the kitten. “It's just me—see? Just me.”

The kitten did not look entirely convinced. Catherine could imagine that the smells coming off her body were sending mixed signals.
You know me
warring with
wild, dangerous animals.
The poor thing.

“Just me,” she repeated, “Nothing to be angry about.”

The kitten looked at her empty bowls with an expression of betrayal. Such things took precedence over fear.

“Okay, maybe that,” Catherine allowed.

She refilled the water dish from the bathroom faucet. The water sloshed over the edges as she set it down on the floor and it was only then she realized that her hands were shaking. She poured some kibble into the other bowl before falling into bed. She didn't bother brushing her teeth, or even changing clothes. She was too tired.

Just more to add to the laundry queue.

No one had more dirty laundry than she had—and she wasn't just talking clothes.

She heard crunching as the kitten launched herself at the food bowl. Her paws made scrabbling sounds against the wooden floor as she hopped up to the bed. There was a soft thud, sudden pressure on the mattress. Small feet pattered over her chest. When Catherine opened her eyes, which she couldn't remember closing, another pair peered down at her, like twin suns in the darkness.

Catherine reached up obligingly to pet the kitten, smiling sleepily when a wet nose pressed against her palm and she felt the rasp of a warm tongue.

“So I didn't freak you out too much, then.”

Purring.

“Good.”

They lay there in the darkness awhile, waiting for sleep to come. But every time Catherine closed her eyes, she felt David's breath fanning over her lips, felt the warmth of his body and the way her own had seemed to explode into light.

“I have a boyfriend,” she said softly, unable to keep from grinning. “Me. Have one. Boyfriend. Isn't that something?”

The kitten definitely looked disapproving now, as if she didn't think any boy could be worth losing one's head—or syntax—over. She was right. Leaping into this headfirst could result in the metaphorical dashing out of one's brains.

On some level, she knew this. But knowing was different from actually doing, and she couldn't quite bring herself to issue any restraint. Why
shouldn't
she be happy?

Nothing was different. Everything was different.

Is this what normal feels like? This contentment?

Even Predator and Prey had fallen silent.

Catherine let her eyes slip closed, hardly caring that she had to get up for school in three hours. She had taken a risk, and it had paid off. That was exhilarating.

She understood now why so many members of her kind died so young. It was possible to squeeze an entire lifetime of living into a single day: to live more, to
feel
more, in the span of twenty-four hours than most did in eighty years.

Shape-shifters lived in a world of color and brightness, of heightened senses. They felt everything more intensely, and so they lived their lives more intensely—anything to make their hearts pound harder. Life could be like a drug.

But how does one wean oneself off life?

“I'm so happy,” she whispered, “That I could die.”

•◌•◌•◌•◌•

Bête noire.

Black beast.

It referred to something anathema, hated. In the legends it had a deeper meaning: black beasts were shape-shifters who never settled.

Or chimeras. Their beastly forms were monstrous hybrids. Powerful monsters. Mutants.

Freaks of nature.

Black beasts were the product of an unholy alliance. The offspring of a shape-shifter—and a witch.

The thought stung him with its venom-filled bite.

Only so many witches existed, and sometimes one had to satisfy longings of the flesh with humans. It was a necessary evil and their offspring, the Talents, were bad enough. A stinging reminder of the thinning blood of his race, which had once been so strong.

But to mix that precious blood with
animals—
that was a crime on par with genocide.

Excrement in the gene pool.

The shifter girl had witch blood. He realized that when he saw her Change into something small and then, minutes later, into an owl, followed by a raccoon. How could she, when he had seen her the first time as a hawk with his very eyes?

Then there was the way she reacted to the black magic crystal, as if she could see the aura. Which shape-shifters couldn't—or at least, they shouldn't. But she had. She had, and it had reacted to her the same way it would as if she'd been a witch.

There was magic in her blood. Faint, but very much there. The magic was letting her see auras she shouldn't be able to see, reacting to the magic in the environment, keeping her body from going through the Change as an ordinary shifter would.

Witch blood was poisonous to non-witches. There was evidence to suggest that if it was present at one's inception the body could adapt, as it could with many other poisons if they were introduced in small enough increments.

Not much was known about black beasts. Finn had only heard of them in legends and myths, mostly those of the precautionary variety.

There was some evidence to suggest that the monsters in folklore—dragons, hydras, unicorns, griffins—were chimeras, or shape-shifters whose settled forms had become warped amalgams because of the witch blood running through their veins.

They were slayed in legends, by the wicked and the just, alike. Killed, because of the threats that they posed to humans or because of some farcical quest.
Killed…for power, or because they ended up going mad?

It didn't make sense. Both the girl's parents were shape-shifters. They had settled, and lived normal lives. So where had the witch blood come from?

If she was part witch, it suddenly made a lot of sense why such information would be stricken from the roster. Someone was trying to cover their tracks and avoid a life of scandal and disgrace, and they had done it with much expediency.

Finn had tried to contact Karen again but she wasn't answering her phone. He couldn't get a hold of his father, either. He had the sneaking suspicion that the Council was taking a step back and waiting to see how things went before taking an official stance.

He had a creature on his hands that he thought had only existed in legends. Meanwhile, the Slayers were closing in, and getting ready to make their move.

It was time to make his.

Ack!(knowledgements)

There are so many people who helped me with
Black Beast
, indirectly and directly, and whether they realize it or not, I am very grateful to them. Because, without them, this book could not have happened.

But for starters, I would like to thank:

• The bloggers who interviewed me and helped promote my books. Thanks for giving a little indie author like me a helping hand!
  

   
  

• Wart, my beta-reader. He did a wonderful job, and if you see him around on Goodreads you should totally tell him how awesome he is!
  

   
  

• Louisa, my cover designer. She does such an amazing job, and it's really an inspiration for me to make my books as awesome as possible just to do her wonderful creations justice.
  

   
  

• The PH whore-cruxes.
  

   
  

• Everyone who ever read my books, ever.
  

   
  

• My parents and friends, who give me hugs when I has a sad. Being a writer isn't always easy, yanno.