Black Beast (4 page)

But not nearly enough to put up with this bullshit.

Catherine sat in the chair with a growl and picked up the nearest book. Dotted it—chartreuse, for December—placed it on the top of the pile. Book. Dot. Book. Dot. Book. Dot.

Sharon, meanwhile, continued to play with her phone, dotting new releases only when Catherine stopped to glare in her direction.

Three hours a day, Monday through Friday.

Gas was expensive, though, and Mrs. Pierce had decreed that if Catherine wanted to drive the family car, she would have to get a job. Thinking her daughter's spendthrift ways would deter her from driving. She had even smirked a little as she said it, so sure of her victory.

Being indentured to the humans was almost worth her mother's expression when she had announced her joining of the human workforce. Almost.

It was a petty fight for dominance, but still, Catherine reveled in it. Family politics were excellent practice for dealing with real-world pragmatics.
Like the fact that you're a shape-shifter and need a car to get around?

Catherine let out her breath, and heard Sharon stiffen in her seat in the resulting pause. Beneath the noxious smell of her perfume, Catherine could smell revulsion.

“Is that Chase Hill outside? Ugh. Tell me it's not. Tell me that loser is not fucking outside.”

Catherine emptied out another sack of books.

“Um, hello? Catherine? Did you hear me?”

“You told me not to tell you.”

Sharon cursed.

“Well, what do you want me to do if it is, huh? Forbid him from going outside? It's a free country.”

“I sure as shit don't want him coming in
here
.”

“Too bad about anti-discrimination and all that.”

“Don't even talk to me about discrimination, white girl. You don't know shit.” She snapped her fingers. “I know. I'll tell you what we should do. I think we should put up the CLOSED sign and take an early lunch break.”

“That would be a great idea. Except, since he's a person with feelings—you know, those things you don't have, I'm pretty sure he'd notice. And complain.”

“God, you are such a bitch sometimes.”

“I'm not a bitch,” said Catherine. “You're the bitch. I'm just practical.”

She had to be.

Her parents had seen the aftereffects of the War firsthand. They had seen humans being preyed upon by the shifters, and shifters being preyed upon by the witches. They had heard of shifters being collared in silver to rob them of their powers, and forced to do backbreaking labor. Or worse, sold to the vampires as blood slaves for the witches' own profit.

Not that the witches hadn't been victims, either, her parents had grudgingly admitted. A shifter who was wily enough could betray a witch to the Slayers, who hunted them for their blood. Witches weren't as good at hiding their nature as shifters; they were too arrogant to let themselves pass for humans, whom they saw as mundane and common. Pride was their downfall.

Catherine was very careful about her alliances. She did not make any in vain. Certainly, not for spite.

She was aware of Sharon watching her, curiously, and said, “No breaks—get back to work.”

Sharon muttered an insult under her breath that a human wouldn't have heard. Catherine, who did hear it, merely rolled her eyes and looked out the window.

She froze.

Chase was out there, just as Sharon had said. But he wasn't alone.

Shades were the ghosts of the departed. Ordinary humans couldn't see them, except only sometimes from the corner of their eye, but they were quick to dismiss the phenomenon as a trick of the light. Sharon wouldn't be able to see them.

Most shades were relatively benign, floating around, draining what little magic they could from the air. Magic gave them power. Others were more dangerous, more predatory, and these were more powerful than all the rest, because they lacked the scruples left over from their mortal lives. The ones that said, thou shalt not kill.

All the hairs on her body were prickling in alarm.
There's so many—fuck, what are they doing here?

Shades usually only occupied places like cemeteries or battlefields, or any other dark, dank location otherwise linked to death. Libraries—and their adjacent nonprofit bookstores—didn't really fit the bill.

As Chase approached, Catherine counted no fewer than seven shades swarming around him. Magic gleamed in the depths of their bodies like stars that had been swallowed up by the shadows.

Magic. Stolen magic. Enough to render them semi-tangible.

Why are they following Chase?

The last time she had seen him had been—what, last Friday. He had been acting out of character that day, cornering her at the self-serve counter of the lunch line and pelting her with so many questions she wanted to dig her nails into his arms and tell him to shut up.

The shades hadn't been there, though. She would have remembered that.

Which means something happened between then and now.

She stared at the nerdy boy with the oily skin and the greasy hair, and found only dread.

Something has changed.

A finger poked sharply into her side and she yelped.

“Paging Catherine Pierce, report to home planet.”

“
Don't do that
.”

“Whoa, lay off the steroids, girlfriend. Okay? You've been staring at that door like a psychopath for the last thirty seconds. It's fucking creepy as hell.”

“Just remembering something Chase said to me.”

“Gross,” Sharon said. “And what words of wisdom did he impart to you, O Chosen One?”

He'd asked her what she thought her superpower would be. Not that he cared what she thought. No, his sole purpose in asking her had been to tell her more about himself, and his desire to manipulate people's emotions psychically. She had laughed it off, torn between feeling sorry for him and wanting to run away, because the smell oozing from his pores made her feel slightly sick. She was still waiting on the grumpy chef to refill the hot pan of meatloaf, though, so feeling sorry for him won out and she said, grudgingly, “Not mind control specifically, then?”

Chase had shaken his head at her. As if
she
were the one in need of pity. Which had pissed her the fuck off, at least at first, but her rage had been lost in the face of what he'd said next.

“People need freewill—or, uh, they need to be under the illusion they have freewill. People who are scared act so stupid, they don't have freewill. Not anymore. It's amazing how many rights people give up of their own volition just to feel safe. How far they go to rationalize it. Mr. Bordello told me, uh—”

She waited, but Chase had stopped talking. Just run down, like clockwork or a piece of old machinery.

Catherine told Sharon the story. Sharon sighed and tossed her head. “You do know he has the saddest crush on you, right?”

“You're not hearing me out.”

“Of course I am. Look. Chase has heard about your reputation. We all have. The teachers don't exactly make their hatred of you a secret. So he probably figured the tough-guy act would impress your big, bad self. Obviously he failed. Miserably. Big fat surprise.”

“Yeah, but who talks like that? He sounds like—”

She wished she could better voice her doubts. But she couldn't. Not without violating the Third Rule.

Predator?
Prey supplied helpfully.

Yes. Yes, Chase
had
sounded like a Predator.

But Sharon wouldn't understand that. She'd just give her a heaping dose of the stank-eye and ask if she was feeling all right. Catherine fumbled for an analogy her human friend would be able to relate to.

“—
he sounded like a dictator,” she said at last.

“A dictator? Please. He couldn't dictate a speech. Have you heard him talk?” She screwed up her face and intoned in a nasally stammer that really did sound like him, “Hi, uh, my name's, uh, Chase. I guess Ill, uh, be taking over your country now. Is that, uh, okay?”

“Very funny, skank.” Catherine turned her face away so Sharon wouldn't see the smile playing on her lips.

On the other side of the window, Chase and the shades entered the small coffee house next door. A thought occurred to her, and she was right back to frowning.

“Isn't Mr. Bordello the name of that new teacher?”

“Yeah. Emilio Bordello. He's taking over for Mrs. Garcia while she's on maternity leave.”

Mr. Bordello?
She bit her lip.
Is that his real name?

Humans were so strange.

“What's he like?” She heard herself asking.