Faith Hunter - Easy Pickings

I padded, silent, shoulders high and tight, legs bent, with belly low to ground. Mouth closed to hide white killing teeth in dark. Stood at edge of light and dark but could not see through. Joanne had gone there. Thing that Jane called Stinky had gone there. Stink thing made eyes water like smoke. Foul stench, like death and snakes and old ashes. Easy to follow. Easy to hunt.

I did not want to leave Jane clothes and claws in place of dark. Did not know how to get back to them. Gathered her things and pushed them into the light with teeth and paws. They disappeared into the strange light.

Hunger sank claws into belly. Needed to eat. I crouched and tightened paws beneath me. Growled. Took deep breath. And leaped, screaming big-cat scream, into light.

Landed on dirt. Light burned eyes, so followed nose. Leaped again, high. Onto big prey. Back claws sank into its haunches, front claws into its shoulders. Something flashed with shadow, at face. Ripped with teeth at flare of black. Was like paper, like feathers or scales. Tasted bad. Slung ruff away, growling.

Buried killing teeth into its spine, on either side. Crushed down. Felt spine sever. Crunch-crunch through bones. Shaking. Hard. Thing started to fall forward. Spinning. Shook it hard, tearing through flesh. Ripped killing teeth free. Fell and fell like jump from tree limb.

Pushed off, long tail spinning for balance. Landed on its chest. Gripped throat, killing teeth sinking deep. Tasted blood. Tasted good. Big, good prey. Beast rode prey down like bison. Thing landed and bounced. Tore throat out with single rip. Blood splattered over coat. Into eyes. Prey head fell to side. Attached by small piece of skin. Dead.

I raised head and screamed into strange yellow sun. Calling out: Beast is good hunter! Beast killed prey like bison. Like big snake like cow. Screamed again: Beast is hungry and will eat.

Looked up. Saw woman, but not human-woman. She stood, watching Stinky and Beast, holding sword. Light flashed over her like Molly witch-magic, but not like Molly magic. Like Aggie One Feather shaman-magic, but not like. Witch and shaman and yet different. Like traveler. She had brought us here, through black cave-not-cave place, leading Stinky, like false prey.

I snarled. My kill. My food. She stepped back one step. Two. Showing proper deference. You can eat after, I thought at her. Hunger hurt belly, twisting.

“You can eat the whole damn thing for all I care,” she said. “But it’s a demon. I bet it’s gonna taste awful.”

I snarled, showing her my killing teeth, and bit down, eating at neck, tongue laving fresh blood. Keeping eyes on her, I backed down and bit into stomach. Blood and liver and muscle and good food. Ripped at it and swallowed. Again. Keeping her in sight. She smelled stomach-sick with sweat. I chuffed with amusement. Ate more.

Woman stepped forward, but made herself small. Lifted chin. Showed throat. Deference. Smart shaman-thing. Wise. Curious eyes, full of gold. “. . . you’re Jane, aren’t you?”

I looked at woman, thinking. You hear my thoughts? I asked at her. She nodded. I ate, feeding hunger. Its claws, buried in stomach, tearing, began to release. More than five bites later, I thought at her, Not Jane. Not big-cat. Better than Jane. Better than big-cat. Am Beast. I swallowed. Beast is good hunter.

“No shit.”

I chuffed and ate. Many more than five bites later, I showed her my back and walked off of prey, down to dirt, lithe and lissome, Jane’s words for me. Belly was bulging, satisfied. I sat and cleaned blood from claws and muzzle with rough tongue. Spoke to her like to kit. You may eat.

“Y’know, I thought I was starving, but not so much now. It’s all yours.”

I looked at not-witch woman. She had gathered up Jane’s clothes, where I had pushed them, into the light, folding them like laundry. Her sword was gone. Magic sword? Comes and goes like Beast’s claws?

Not-witch woman grinned. “Yeah, kind of. I keep it under my bed at home. In reserve, you know? Kind of like Jane . . .” She stopped. Looked hard at Beast. Scent changed: scent of caution. Smart shaman-thing didn’t want to offend good-hunter Beast. “Kind of like you and Jane work together, maybe. I bet most people don’t know she’s got a Beast inside. You’re a secret. A sharp dangerous secret. So’s my sword.”

I chuffed. Looked back at still-hot stinky meat. Flipped dirt over it: done. Trash. Defeated.

Not-witch woman smiled again. “You said it, sister.”

There’s nothing to take the wind out of a girl’s sails like a ginormous lion coming along and ripping the head off the demon she was about to fight. I stood there agape while Jane—it had to be Jane—went positively medieval, if medieval people had mountain lions to do their dirty work, on the velociprator’s rainbowy ass.

It took a lot less time for her to do it than it would’ve for me. I had the good goddamned sense to back off when the lion looked like it was ready for lunch, and I wasn’t really even surprised when it—she—started talking in my head. I sent the sword home, watched the lion gorge herself on smelly demon meat, and nearly jumped out of my skin when a third voice intruded on our little conversation: “And heah Ah thought Ah’d be coumin’ to sayve d’daye.”

It took me a couple seconds to get past the rich rolling deliciousness of a Cajun accent so thick it sounded like it’d been poured on with molasses and honey. In that time, Jane-Beast went from sated contented cat to wary prickly lion. I held a finger up, like that would possibly stop her if she decided to make a second lunch out of the new arrival, and turned to see what this Lower World had wrought.

It had wrought the most gorgeous John Henry I’d ever laid eyes on. The guy looked like he’d earned every one of his muscles working the railroad, and the Lower World’s red sunlight just sank into skin so black he couldn’t possibly have had any crackers in his woodpile. He stood about six steps away, and even so I had to raise my eyes to meet his. That never happened. He was NBA tall, had shoulders a little wider than God’s, and wore a wife-beater that showed off beautiful arms and emphasized an equally well-muscled chest. His jeans had blown-out knees and his feet were bare, toes dug into the Lower World’s cool dirt. I had the idea he was introducing himself to it in the same way I had. Almost the same way. He hadn’t cut his foot open to bleed on the ground. Just as well. I was too busy gawking to think about healing foot injuries.

“You are?” he said. Aaah, really, the consonants all swallowed by Southern gentility.

“Smitten,” I said brightly, then shook myself. “Uh. I mean. Joanne. I’m Joanne. That’s, um.” I looked at Beast-Jane and decided not to go there. “That’s a cat. And you’re. . . ?” Utterly gorgeous. Physically flawless, with striking African features. The back of my brain reminded me that perfect people usually weren’t human, and that I should probably check the guy’s aura out, but his physicality was so much more interesting I put it off for a minute. I didn’t want to find out he was one of the bad guys. Not yet, anyway.

He grinned. “Lazarus, but you call me Laz, cherie.”

I deflated ever so slightly. Odds of him actually being named John Henry were, of course, astronomically low, but for a brief shining moment there, I’d had hope. “You better call me Jo.” Because while my romantic life was on an upswing, I still didn’t think it would go over well to explain to a boyfriend so new I wasn’t sure I should even use the word yet just why an unutterably gorgeous Southern gentleman was referring to me as cherie. “Lazarus, huh? Only in the South does that name not even cause a blink.”