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© 2014 Gem Sivad LLC. All rights reserved.

Blood Stoned, A Jinx story

 

 

Chapter Two

Bull on Fire

I shook out the reins, my glance fixed on the view between Clarence’s ears as I drove away. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder to know the jaguar sat in the clearing by my cabin; I could feel his gaze on me. As always when I’m near Hunter, my skin tingles from the spicy earth magic swirling in the air.

I pondered my last words to him as I made my way toward Willow Springs and the coming healing that pulled me there.

It seemed best not to wait on him to ask for a night in my bed. Considering the man’s silent presence and stoic demeanor, I thought sending the invitation by way of the beast made more sense.

I wonder if he’ll show up at my door as a cat or a man. My emotions concerning the beastman were mixed. It’s been sometime since I’ve enjoyed the attentions of a man. The truth is, just looking at Hunter makes my breath quicken and insides clench.

Though I’d have liked to moon over thoughts of Hunter as I drove to town, I’m a witch whose one talent is healing and I had work to do today. My gift is more a curse that makes friendships difficult to hold onto and learning my craft darn near impossible.

When I’m called to lay-on-hands, I take hurt away, knit bones together, and cure maladies; but I’m not a doctor. Taking away pain is my gift—it’s magic. I have no say over those I’ll help or where I’ll go. If my hands pulse and I feel the pull, I follow where they lead whether I’m called or not.

My life has always leaned toward strange, but since I moved to Willow Springs, it’s definitely slid into bizarre.

On my way to town, I inexplicably had an urge to visit the Patrick family and turned at the lane that led to their farm. Once I arrived, Myrtle bustled from the house all smiles, making me feel welcome.

“I told Paddy you’d get one of your feelings,” she said, beaming at me.

“What is it?” I asked, immediately worried that something had befallen baby Patrick.

“It’s Sullivan,” she answered and gave me a beseeching look. I didn’t have to have the sight to know she wanted me to examine her husband Sean’s prize bull.

When we arrived at the corral, Sean was slumped despondently beside the beast.

“Not to worry now, Paddy. Maggie Jenks is here to see to our lovely bull.” Myrtle looked with obvious adoration at both figures in the corral.

Noting the similarity between the hulking brutes, I cringed at the idea of laying hands on either. In this case, this particular animal’s temper was as bad as his owner’s. Both males usually pawed the ground and threatened me when I visited.

This time however, instead of belligerent, the beast was listless. So were my hands; they tingled slightly, but I felt no compulsion or flood of healing power.

Sullivan, Sean’s black, two thousand pound Aberdeen-Angus bull, stood with his head lowered, wheezing in and out so slowly his nostrils barely moved the dust on the ground.

“Look at this.” Myrtle’s husband swiped his big palm across the animal’s back and then showed me the results. Blood coated his fingers. “What’s wrong with him? Is he hexed?” Sean’s snarled question was more an accusation.

Though I’d just arrived, and not even had time for Myrtle to offer tea, her husband was ready to burn me at the stake if his bull died.

With Sean, every illness and malady known to mankind could be laid at the door of witches. His opinion wasn’t tempered at all by the fact I’d recently healed him from sure death and saved his son from the clutches of an evil-touched shaman.

I wanted to snarl back. I didn’t, in respect for his wife. I liked her; the bull and Paddy, not so much. She hovered next to me with baby Patrick on her hip. And a fine boy he was. I swelled with pride every time I looked at the couple’s son.

After I’d delivered him, I’d shamelessly cultivated Myrtle’s friendship. Unfortunately, that meant tending her entire brood when my healing skills were needed. Evidently that included Sullivan.

“Maybe he ate something that poisoned him,” I offered half-heartedly. There was an unpleasant odor surrounding him and I considered the possibility that he’d somehow gotten hold of some rotten hay or soured mash.

“Well ye’ll need to do your witchery and leech the poison out, if that’s the case. I’ll take no pleasure in eating the meat, but if he’s done-for, we’ll be having beef for our meals the rest of the year.”

Sean’s gloomy scowl made it clear what he thought of that possibility. I knew he’d spent a goodly sum acquiring the animal to improve his breeding stock. And, too, I couldn’t leave Myrtle and the baby with poisoned meat.

So, against my better judgment, I stepped forward and laid hands on the beast.

Nothing happened.

“Are you fixing him?” Paddy demanded.

“Hush, Sean Patrick,” Myrtle whispered.

“Did he walk through a patch of prickly cactus?” It didn’t hurt to ask. I didn’t know what was wrong with him. “He’s got cuts all over him. Maybe he’s allergic to something.”

The last was a desperate attempt to play doctor when I clearly was no such thing. Sean’s look of disgust warned me not to offer idiot speculations again. The bull represented two years worth of scrimping and saving and was treated as royalty.

Up close, I could see the tiny cuts still seeping blood. His back and legs—I squatted to check under his belly and found the same type of wounds there, too. All of the bull’s body was covered with tiny cuts that had sliced the tough skin as if he’d walked through needles. Watery blood still seeped from the lesions but I felt certain I could fix that.

For Myrtle’s sake, I closed my eyes, reaching inside for true sight. If I couldn’t heal the bull, maybe I could at least see what was wrong. A cloudy  aura of ill-health surrounded the beast but that told me nothing more than I could see with my eyes.

“You heard nothing last night?”

Sean’s head shake deepened the puzzle. He didn’t like me, but he tended his stock with the eye of true love and protected his wife and child from the world.

My gaze swung back to Sullivan. I couldn’t believe this monster that usually ruled the corral had stood quietly while a predator fed.

Though I had no desire to crouch on the ground next to the beast, I needed to touch the legs. Bending low, I laid hands on the right foreleg and stroked down, brushing across the seeping wounds.

“Alrighty then,” I murmured as I watched the cuts scab over. Inelegant though it was, I crawled around Sullivan, attending each leg. By the time I returned to the foreleg, the scabs had dried and flaked off, leaving pink scars.

“It can’t be anything he ate. His feed’s not been changed and he’s either been in the barn or the corral where there’s no weeds to eat.” Sean’s voice was gruff. He stared hard at me, letting me know without begging, how important the bull was.

Trying not to see the desperation in his silent plea, I continued my examination, stroking the muscled shoulder and following a vein up the thick neck to the bovine jaw.

Instead of the steady sound of a healthy heart, the bull’s pulse stuttered and beat in a sluggish rhythm. Not expecting much to happen in the way of healing, I settled both thumbs side by side on the vein, focusing whatever drib of power I might have on that spot.

I can’t describe what happened next, other than to say I became a conduit, pumping magic through my thumbs into the bull. I stared at the connection and watched the white haze buzzing around the beast gradually change to gray. When it finally dispersed altogether, the connection ended, and my hands dropped to my sides.

“That’s all I can do.” I closed my eyes, tottering on my feet as I shook my head to clear it. When I opened my eyes again, it was to see the recovered animal trotting across the barn lot.

Paddy grabbed up Myrtle and the boy and whirled them around, dancing an Irish jig. Watching them I paid no mind to the bull until I heard Sullivan snort. A quick glance his way confirmed he had his head down, pawing the ground in a challenge. Being both sapped of energy and bloated with magic, at first, I ignored the creature.

“Maggie, move,” Myrtle shrieked when the beast began a gallop across the lot.

I stumbled backward and fell, landing on my rear in the dust. I had no chance of reaching the fence before the bull reached me. Myrtle shouted at Paddy to do something and to his credit, he picked up a pitchfork.

Whether it was to be used on his bull or me, I didn’t wait to find out.

Drawing on the power I’d just harvested from the healing, I cast a protection spell to create a shield between me and the ungrateful beast. But instead of shaping itself into a wall, magic zinged from me and smacked the bull a forceful blow. Sullivan, named after an Irish boxer Paddy admired, fell to his front knees. A patch of hair on his right shoulder appeared singed while another spot burst into flame.

“Well isn’t that grand? The animal seems to be feeling frisky again.” Myrtle remained positive, ignoring my misfired spell, while Paddy beat out the blaze dancing on the bovine shoulder.

”’Tis true yer a jinx.” He pointed at the scorched patch of hair still smoldering. “You fix one thing and break two more. Ye’ve put a devil mark on my Aberdeen-Angus.”

Ignoring Paddy’s complaints, I climbed the fence and walked to where I’d left Clarence tied to my buggy. Before I drove from the farm lot, Myrtle handed me a basket.

“Thank you,” I said without looking at the contents. It wasn’t until halfway home that the aroma of fresh bread replaced the smell of singed hair. Depressed but hungry, I checked to see what Myrtle had sent and found a jar of honey as well as hot rolls. My humiliation was no less, but her gift gave me supper to look forward to.

Treating Paddy’s bull tired me more than it should have. I’d lost interest in proceeding on to Willow Springs and spent my trip home, wondering if I needed a tonic to perk me up and mulling over possible elixirs I might concoct.

I was pleasantly surprised on two fronts when I followed the path that branched from the main road to my cabin. It was wonderful after my early morning fiasco to see that my wards had successfully kept out visitors.

It was equally rewarding to discover I might not need a tonic after all. My heart thumped with a healthy beat and heated blood coursed through my veins as Hunter rode toward me. Two other members of his crew were with him and all were apparently waiting for me to come home.

*

Hunter had already laid the dead carcasses out on Maggie’s porch. He could have kept them until her return, but he needed to prove to Lynx and Wolf that her ward wouldn’t stop him from entering.

“If you can get through, I can too,” Wolf had growled. But when he’d tried to follow Hunter through Maggie’s magic, blue motes surrounded the wolfman, eliciting a surprised yelp.

Hunter had laughed to himself, pleased that two of the beastmen had witnessed evidence of his bond with the little witch. It was good. But the dead bodies he left for her to examine, they were bad; puzzling too.

Now, he rode close to her buggy, rewarded when she began to tell him about Sean Patrick’s bull. Caught up in the thrall of her voice, peace settled over him, calming the nagging worry burning his insides.

Once they arrived at her cabin, Hunter lifted her from the buggy, liking the way his hands felt circling her waist. He wanted to pull her close and breathe in her scent. But with Wolf and Lynx watching, he had to be satisfied with staying close to her as she inspected the bodies on her porch.

“They’re dead,” she said slowly, then looked at him as if for guidance.

“We want to know if they died by magic,” Lynx told her. “Hunter says you can tell by looking at the bodies.”

Lynx shouldn’t speak to Hunter’s rainha. Wolf ignored Hunter and used the common mind path to rebuke the other beastman. Ask Hunter your question and then he’ll ask his mate.

It was true Wolf knew more about the rules governing being mated than the rest of them but he’d been stingy with sharing. Apparently, that had changed.

As Hunter waited patiently, Maggie frowned down at the husks of three animals, a raven, rabbit, and fox, studying them again before she answered Lynx. “No magic.”

Then she looked at Hunter. “Will I get paid for this?”

“Yes.” His answer made her perk right up. “Can you tell if these animals died by magic?”

“No magic was used to kill them,” she said carefully.

That was bad. He’d hoped it was magic she’d be able to fix. The little witch focused on one thing, and it wasn’t the dead animals.

“When will I get paid?” she asked.

“When we figure out what did kill them, and the rest of us get paid.” Hunter could have pulled the wad of cash from his pocket and paid her on the spot; any money she received came from him.

“Oh, then I’m not finished?” She sounded hopeful. She needed the myth that she was part of their team. And then it occurred to him that maybe it wasn’t a myth. Maggie knew things they didn’t.

“Can you tell what happened to them? Is it a disease?” Hunter knew about plagues that swept over an animal population. If that was happening, they needed to find a way to stop it.

“Not a disease,” she answered. “If it was sickness, my hands would be kicking up a ruckus sending me willy-nilly to every sick cat, dog, and person around.”

“Any idea what killed them?” Hunter relaxed. He hadn’t been aware of the magnitude of his dread until Maggie said no plague.

“I don’t know,” she muttered, reaching out to touch the red fox pelt. “Why is it so flat? There’s nothing left but loose skin over bone.”

“None of the dead are cut, but they’ve all been drained.” He’d seen humans kill and collect the blood from animals; usually they cut the throats then hung them upside down on a pole to bleed out.

“Whatever happened to them, the skin isn’t ripped and the bones aren’t broken.” He picked up the dead carcasses ready take them back to camp.

“Wait.” Maggie motioned him to put them back down. “They stink like ammonia,” she complained and wrinkled her nose.

Even after being carted around from place to place, the unpleasant stench hung over the animals. The strong smell made Hunter sneeze whenever he got a good whiff of it.

She leaned closer, mumbling to herself as she focused her gaze on the fox. A hazy nebula of power surrounded her as she studied the corpses. “It’s not magic that killed them, but whatever drained all the blood from them attacked Sean Patrick’s bull last night, too. They have tiny cuts all over their bodies, like they rolled in cactus. The Patrick’s bull bore the same kind of marks.”

She began one of her long rambles repeating her story about the bull she’d tended this morning, openly puzzling over whether she’d healed him or not. Hunter listened to the music of her voice and barely restrained his purr.

“Get hold of yourself,” Lynx snarled at Hunter, giving him a disgusted look. Tilting his head to indicate the old lobo gazing from beast-wild eyes at Maggie, he said, “We need to get back to camp. And, as long as there’s no magic involved, there’s no need for her to come see the rest.”

Hunter sighed, and nodded his agreement, wishing he could curl up on her porch and spend the afternoon lying in a patch of sun while he listened to his rainha talk.

“The rest?” Maggie sounded surprised.

“We only brought these three,” he told her. “But there were many carcasses littering the ground up toward Raton Pass.”

“You need to take those with you and go somewhere.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “I’ve got to get rid of the stench and get clean now.”

He’d been planning to come back later for supper and take her up on her offer to sleep in her cabin. But his beast sat up and chuffed at the idea of joining her in the swimming hole, now.

Hunter escorted Wolf and Lynx through the witch ward, then doubled back and shifted into his jaguar form.

Play time.

For Trick-or-Treat Night,  Maggie and Hunter are posting their latest Jinx adventure in installments today.  Enjoy!

Blood Stoned.

Happy Halloween!

© 2014 Gem Sivad LLC. All rights reserved.

Blood Stoned, A Jinx story

 

Chapter One

 

“I will master this,” I muttered, determined to understand the difference between a spell and a charm. At the moment, it seemed to be the amount of power I fed into each. When I channeled lots of power, I could focus on an object and make it burst into flames. I wasn’t sure if that was a spell or a charm but it seemed like a handy skill to own. Unfortunately I’d only managed it once, but surely that meant I could do it again, though I hadn’t yet been able to repeat the process.

The ability to implement the easiest charm, a mage light, still eluded me. Of course, none of my spells tonight had worked either. Cupping my hands to shape the power, I compelled the current bit of magic to submit and be guided. The ball of fire I’d conjured, moved toward the bucket I’d earlier set on the floor.

My teeth unclenched and I sighed, exhausted by my effort. But, at least I’d successfully maneuvered the flame and doused it in the water. I slumped on the bed, watching a mist of steam rise to mingle with smoke and the aroma of burned wood drifting down from the rafters.

I’m not a skilled witch but I’m a good healer. I frowned even as I determined to block all of my negative humors and shed the memory of fumbled spells and broken charms. I am not a jinx. I just need more practice. Unfortunately the smell of singed rafters intruded on my positive thoughts.

I take no credit for my healing skills, though I have to admit I’ve not heard of anyone with more power. But my witchwork leaves a lot to be desired. I can’t ever seem to get the rules straight or fix the magic spells where they need applied. Hence, my detractors have nicknamed me Jinx.

What I can control is the afterward. I get a lovely boost of power from taking pain and illness from someone—it feels like bubbling warmth and tastes of sweet enchantment.

There are rules governing harvested magic. I know this because the power I reap from healing turns dark and malevolent if I charge for what must be freely given. So, I never take payment in return for helping someone.

That might not be so unhandy if the second rule wasn’t so arbitrary. I never get to say ‘not now, maybe later’.  My gift takes command over my body; when I begin to tremble inside and my hands throb, I have no choice but to follow where the healing power leads.

Figuring out how to shelter and feed myself isn’t always easy; and making new friends, just means leaving them behind. I’ve traveled all over the territory and before that—well I don’t talk about my earlier times. Suffice it to say my younger days were spent in a coven with witches I’d depended on once too often, and with a warlock from whom I now hide.

I consider myself lucky to be alive. For however long it lasts, my home is in a cabin on the edge of Willow Springs, a town in New Mexico Territory. I raise chickens in a little coop out behind my house and sometimes barter hen eggs for other things I need.

When I gather a particularly rich load of magic, I share. Part of it goes to feed the vegetables I’m growing in a patch on the other side of the cabin. Any remaining power I return to the earth. My backyard has begun to look quite lush around the mineral springs bubbling up from what was once rock.

My night’s activities had saturated the air around me with the essence of  ruined spells. Evidently, they acted as a conduit, amplifying my hearing. Outside the cabin, my chickens rustled in their straw nests, Clarence, my horse,  stomped and fidgeted uneasily in his sleep, and overhead an almost-sound vibrated, disturbing the night sky.

Curious, I peered out the window and looked up at the  crescent moon in time to see  a stream of bats winging back to their cave. Their movement heralded morning, reminding me I’d wasted a night of sleep and learned nothing new.

“This is not working,” I muttered. My mental ramblings prevented any hope of finding a calm center. I blew out my breath and inhaled slowly, then puffed out again, trying to clear my mind of everything but qi, a place of nothing and everything…

I squeezed close my eyelids and directed my amplified hearing inward; the steady thump of my heart became the beat of a drum, pulling me deeper and deeper. The lumpy cot disappeared from beneath my knees, and I entered a place pregnant with magic.

My inner sight focused on a spot in the distance. Amber eyes flecked with muted shades of brown and gold held my gaze.

“Beautiful,” I whispered. As if my acknowledgment had been the only invitation needed, a big cat emerged from the mists and padded toward me.

The jaguar’s presence jerked me from my meditation back into the reality of me kneeling on my bed in my old cabin. But, my inner self hummed with the confidence of a skilled practitioner. I opened my hand, releasing the spell I’d worked on all night; and there it was, a perfectly round ball illuminating the ceiling of the room.

I focused on the mage light I’d created and then made a second that I guided to the corner of the cabin. It hung, a ball of bright, illuminating the white bloom of my saguaro cactus. Interesting. Hunter’s spirit had entered my qi and stabilized my power. I wondered how that was possible.

When I licked my lips, I tasted the spicy flavor of earth magic and knew he was near. Gazing out the window, I could see the night already carried a hint of dawn. I’d lost track of time while I’d been spell casting.

Since I moved to the old cabin on the outskirts of Willow Springs, I’d slept with my bed situated so no window curtains marred my view of the night. Right now, I looked at dark clouds tossed and blown across the sky by a chill wind. The corn husk mattress rustled beneath me as I squirmed into a better position to look at the sliver of moonlight that remained.

Casting the perfect mage light had made me feel much better. Self taught though I am, I owe my magic to no one—and to me, that’s important. Just recently I found that shedding a drop of my blood to mix with my wards, strengthens my protection against human trespassers. However, obviously my charm is no match for the arrogant beast who sleeps above my chicken coop most nights.

Hunter can change from being a man to a big feline, a jaguar to be specific. He says he works for the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, a claim that I seriously doubt. When I pushed him for a last name, he seemed stumped. Finally, he’d offered, “Cat.”

Hunter, in cat form, stops by often. During his visits, I enjoy talking to him. I rock in my chair on my porch, and he lies on the floorboards purring so loud it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I love the way he listens to me; and during his stays, he’s certainly gotten an earful.

On the other hand I’m not sure what to do with his man side. I don’t think he knows either. His advances, friendly or amorous, have all been made by his cat. The animal purrs, and rumbles, and rubs against me. When Hunter, the man, is in charge, he sits next to me like a block of wood and growls when prodded into speech.

Nevertheless, I like the sound of his gruff voice as well as his purr. I’ve had lovers before and expect I will again. There’s a certain kind of magic in lust, and I’m not immune from its charm. Hunter, the man, sparks those feelings in me.

A massive head suddenly obliterated my view of the crescent moon and replaced it with a flash of white fang. Huge paws gripped the outer casement as the beast pressed his face tight against the window. Human eyes set in a jaguar face gazed back at me.

“What do you want, Hunter?” I pushed up the window as I asked so I could hear his answer.

The feline face of the beast at the window suddenly changed to that of a man. He remained in that form, just long enough to growl, “Familiar.”

The human head with too big teeth and pointed cat ears, resumed full jaguar form as soon as he spoke his request.

I rolled my eyes in mock despair, but his appeal secretly pleased me. I’d once teasingly asked Hunter to be my animal companion, my witch’s familiar. He’d latched onto the idea as an excuse to spend time with me and had accepted my playful offer.

“You are so spoiled,” I scolded now, not sure whether I meant myself or him as I leaned on the window sill. As soon as he had access, he butted me with his head and I circled his neck with my arms.

After tightening my hold on him and giving him a big hug, I rested my chin on his furry brow.

When I buried my fingers in his thick pelt and scratched behind his ear, he purred, rubbed his face against my chest, and nuzzled his way to my neck.

“No biting,” I muttered. When he felt me stiffen, ready to shove him away, he rubbed his head against my jaw, and then licked my cheek.

Unexpected affection for him welled inside me; so much so, that, if I could have, I would have purred too. I settled for hugging him, loving his scent, and the feel of hard muscles beneath the soft pelt.

My stomach growled, reminding me that I needed to eat.

“Would you like to come in for breakfast?” As soon as I tendered the invitation, I remembered that there was nothing here for me to share other than the eggs I would gather this morning, and they were already promised to Langdon Mars.

*

Hunter closed his eyes, purring with pleasure as Maggie scratched behind his ear. He wished he better understood the rituals he needed to follow in claiming his rainha. If she was a jaguar, they’d play, hunt together, and mate. Humans made simple things complicated.

When he’d sexed human females in the past, they’d ask for payment first, and after he’d laid his money on the table, they’d let him mount them. But sex with them had been nothing but relieving an itch.

Instinct told him that offering the little witch money to have sex with him wouldn’t make a true mating, even if she said yes. While he hesitated, debating whether she wanted him to change into his manform to eat breakfast with her, or whether he should climb through the window as he was, she took back the breakfast invitation.

“I’m sorry Hunter. I’ve already promised the eggs that I’ll gather this morning. I can’t offer breakfast after all.” After she delivered her rejection, she laughed, adding, “Unless you’d like to have carrots and beans from my garden.”

Hunter chuffed, trying to decide if there was hidden meaning in her words as he pictured the vegetable patch, good for catching rabbits and birds, bad for eating.

“I’m going to Willow Creek to drop off the eggs at the El Diablo Saloon early this morning. Afterward, I’ll visit Mr. Mars.”

Again, she confused him. It pleased him that she explained herself. But… Mars is getting the eggs she offered me. He repressed the growl that idea provoked. Does she cure him with eggs?

Had he not been in cat form, Hunter would have asked about Mars. The bar owner’s health went from fine to awful depending upon Maggie’s visits to keep him alive.

“Langdon Mars’ condition seems to be getting worse,” Maggie leaned on the window sill and continued scratching behind his ear as she answered his unspoken question. “I can fix him with a healing but the periods in between are getting shorter. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

Hunter wondered what malady plagued the El Diablo’s owner. Mars had admitted recently that without Maggie, he’d be dead, but he hadn’t volunteered the source of his illness.

It made Hunter swell with pride that the healer was his. He didn’t know if the little witch’s special powers made the link possible. He didn’t even know if she was pure human. It was probably better if she wasn’t. Humans weren’t to be trusted. But he trusted Maggie. None of those things mattered, though; she was his rainha, his mate.

“You don’t need to come along or guard me once I’m there.”

She’s telling me to stay away. The jaguar growled and his fur spiked as he prepared to snarl louder.

“The El Diablo cook usually sends a basket of food home with me. You can eat supper with me if you stop by tonight.” Then as if an afterthought, she added, “Bring clothes.”

Since Maggie stood up and seemed ready to close the window on his nose if he didn’t move, he dropped to the ground.

She was talking to me as a man. He sat in the dust of her yard mulling over the invitations he’d received. He’d adjust his courtship accordingly tonight. After she left, he’d travel to the camp for his clothes and a quick meeting; then he’d head for Willow Springs.

His mate didn’t want him hovering around her. He understood she’d been on her own a long time and seemed fearless. But, being a witch and healer didn’t make Maggie less fragile. He trusted her, but Langdon Mars was a whole different proposition. Hunter would be waiting outside the El Diablo when she finished healing the barkeeper.

He stretched, then climbed the tree again where he’d perched all night, guarding Maggie as she slept. Once he’d even interrupted the theft of a chicken. He cleaned his whiskers, hoping he hadn’t visited his mate wearing badger detritus.

Absently, he gazed at his mate’s den. He liked thinking about her lying in her nest of blankets, all soft and warm. He let his imagination roam, picturing her slender frame and pert breasts. She wore a thin slip to sleep in and the same garment when she swam. He didn’t know why she bothered. Once it was wet, it plastered to her skin outlining all her treasures. Inside the jaguar, Hunter smiled.

His rainha stepped outside the cabin and he stretched his body along the bough above the chicken coop, flexing his claws and purring as he gazed at her. She was a gift he’d never expected to receive.

The other beastmen were anxious for him to complete the mating. They’d all considered the Alma Gêmea a myth. But since he’d found his twin soul they were scrambling to remember what they’d been told. Hawk claimed that until Hunter sexed Maggie, the bond wouldn’t be set. Lynx claimed the first mating had to happen under a full moon.

Dire Wolf, who knew the answers to most things, snarled at questions and was even more surly than usual. The old lobo had been mated before the change. His she-wolf had been killed for her white pelt years ago, but he still mourned her. Most of the others cursed her loss instead. It had been her death that had ensnared and chained them in magical bonds.

Hunter remembered the time before his change when he’d been only jaguar. It had been a harsh year, and food was scarce. He’d followed the scent of prey into the mountains and been lured to a secluded place of darkness by the sound of rifle fire and the scent of blood carried by an icy wind.

Both hungry and curious, he followed a pack of wolves as they pursued their prey. During the great storm, Dire had led his pack of wolves on a mission of revenge, following the trappers who’d shot and skinned his mate.

The wolf pack had herded the men into unfamiliar territory. Hunter had followed along, lurking in the shadows under the low spreading branches of the evergreens. The foolish humans had carried the white wolf pelt with them, and by the time the wolves trapped them in a box canyon, the old lobo had gathered thirty followers to help him unleash his fury.

Half frozen and near death from hunger, Hunter had watched the six humans shoot their guns and kill wolf after wolf. Even during the brutal storm, the moon had cast an eerie glow over the landscape, highlighting the fallen beasts.

Hunter shivered, remembering the storm, his instincts at war with his hunger, and the moment of choice when he’d joined the wolves’ massacre.

The man he’d killed had fought hard, keeping the wall of the cliff behind him; but he’d not anticipated the crushing weight of a three hundred pound jaguar leaping from above.

The slaughter had attracted predators of all kind. Other animals besides wolves died that night. The magic in the place didn’t affect all of them. But, six animals that had eaten the human flesh, rose the next morning, blended in nature with the human they’d fed on. They’d been made into beastmen.

Hunter shuddered, pushing away memories of the time with no pack or pride to run with. He had become more than a beast. Smarter, stronger, longer-lived, superior in all ways.

And yet, he’d lost his world. He couldn’t mate with what had once been his own kind. He’d been bound to the human world, doomed to a lonely existence until he’d found his twin soul.

A true mating meant… He really didn’t know. His bond with Maggie wasn’t complete, but already Hunter felt himself changing. His rainha made him content in ways he’d never known possible.

Sooner or later Maggie would know the truth—he’d been an animal first and though his body sometimes changed, his mind mostly remained jaguar.

But, there was a bond between the little witch and him; he didn’t think it would go away even if she denied it. Hunter wondered if she could magic it away and what would happen to him if she refused to be his mate.

This morning he planned to tell her about their link; he was sure he’d initiated it with his nip. He hadn’t meant it to happen but now that it had, for him at least, there was no retreat.

Will she be furious, sad, happy? He’d left his clothes at the base of the tree and prepared to jump down, grab his pack, shift, and get dressed. Then maybe his rainha would invite him into her kitchen for breakfast. He’d decided carrots and beans would be acceptable this one time.

He was startled from his reverie by the subject of his thoughts. He’d been dreamwalking, as oblivious to danger as a cub. Hunter looked down at Maggie, currently standing beneath the tree.

“Come down from there now,” Maggie ordered him as her magic drifted upward, bathing him in orgasmic bliss. “You are not sleeping up there anymore.”

She held the basket before her and pointed at it. “You make the chickens nervous, and they don’t lay as many eggs; you are absolutely not sleeping in that tree anymore.”

Before he could growl his protest she added, “From now on when you’re here, you can sleep inside with me.”

Her words stunned Hunter. While she finished her morning chores and prepared to leave, he wrestled with the question of whether he’d be sleeping tonight as a man or a cat.

When she drove her old horse and older buggy out of the shed, he was no closer to the answer. But it was clear she wasn’t waiting on his response. He leaped from the tree and stared after her as she drove toward Willow Springs.