Faith Hunter - Skinwalker

I felt Leo pause, the utter stillness of the dead. I didn’t know if he was gathering himself to pounce or hearing my words. Feeling like I was running through the bottom of a ravine on a moonless night, I said, my words trembling, “I left him his head. A vampire could have been brought back; enough blood would have healed him.” In that moment, I knew that Leo had tried to feed his son, had tried to bring him back. And failed. In some part of his mind, he had to know that what I was saying was true and right.

Beast forced in a deeper breath, not letting fear’s claws paralyze me. “But the thing I killed wasn’t a vampire. It had taken on some of the qualities of one . . . but he wasn’t Immanuel.” I adjusted my grip on the weapons, firmed my tone and gentled it all at once. “He wasn’t Immanuel, Leo. He was Immanuel’s killer. He had stolen his way into your house. Into your family and clan.”

“You killed him,” he said, but his voice was softer, rougher, less certain.

“I killed Immanuel’s killer.” Remembering the words Leo had just said, I took a chance, adding, “I avenged his death. I paid his blood debt and left you the body of your enemy.” The silence stretched, my breath strident, my heart beating hard. The air conditioner came on, adding its chill to the air. I shivered, smelling my sweat and the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Leo whispered, “He wore the face of my son. You killed him. You will pay for this.”

Faster than I could see, the front door slammed open. Its window shattered. Tiny, antique panes of glass dinged across the floor. One shard tinkled between my booted feet. Dawn wind blew in. And Leo Pellissier, blood-master of Clan Pellissier, head of the New Orleans’ Council of Mithrans, and blood-master of the city, was gone. Relief slumped my shoulders.

I wasn’t stupid enough to think it was over between us, however. No freaking way.

I kicked high, hitting the padded glove, but holding back on the strength and speed gifted to me by Beast. Landed and twisted all in one move. Kicked the other glove. Punched hard, not putting my body behind it, but searching for and finding the perfect form. Again. Again.

“Enough.” Instantly, I stopped. Backed away. Put my hands to my thighs. Bowed. The padded man beside me bowed as well. “You should compete,” he said. I raised my body and cocked a brow at the sensei. He was trying to be funny. Everyone who trained with him knew he never competed. He thought competition was for sissies.

“Your cell rang. See you tomorrow,” he said.

Class was over. Dripping sweat, I went to my travel pack and saw Molly’s number on the screen. I hit REDIAL, and she answered. “Hey, Big Cat. Want company?”

I laughed, wondering if she would ever really come. It had been a whole week and she was still procrastinating. “Sure. How soon can you get here?”

“Angelina, Little Evan, and I are about a half hour out of New Orleans, with your address plugged into the GPS. Hope you got an extra bed in whatever dump you’re staying at.”

Joy blossomed up in me like light. My breath stopped, blocked by a heart that didn’t want to beat properly. I clutched the cell. Turned to the wall and ducked my head to hide my expression. I didn’t want my sensei to see me tear up. I managed a single breath against the pressure in my chest. “I got clean sheets on all the beds upstairs. Bought foodstuff y’all like.”

A small voice said into the phone, “Aunt Jane, you need a shower. You been fighting.”

“Yeah, Angie. I do. See you in a few minutes.”

“You got my doll?”

“I got it,” I said. I had found a doll maker on the back-streets of the French Quarter and ordered a Cherokee doll with long hair and yellow eyes. The porcelain, hand-carved doll wore traditional Cherokee garb and carried a bow and arrow just like Angie wanted. An entire wardrobe was being hand-stitched by a local woman, both modern clothes and more traditional garb. “It’s a beauty. She looks like this Cherokee girl I saw in a mural. Her name was Ka Nvsita , which means dogwood.”

“Yes!” the little girl said. I could picture the fist in the air, a gesture she had picked up from her dad. “I love you, Aunt Jane.”

“I love you, too, Angelina.”

Beast purred. Kits . . .

The phone clicked and I saw the CALL DISCONNECTED message. I raced outside for my bike, helmeting up as I ran.

A native of Louisiana, Faith Hunterspent her early years on the bayou and rivers, learning survival skills and the womanly arts. She liked horses, dogs, fishing, and crabbing much better than girly things. She still does. In grade school, she fell in love with fantasy and science fiction, reading five books a week.

Faith now shares her life with her Renaissance Man and their dogs. She is the author of the Rogue Mage novels: Bloodring , Seraphs , and Host .

To find out more, go to www.faithhunter.net.