Cat-fish are sneaky like cat too. Cat-fish were not always where they looked to be, when Beast stared from above. Sometimes were to the side. Or deeper. Fish moved fast. Had to study fish. Had to take time to be sure where they were. Would only have one chance to catch fish. When Beast dove into water, fish would flee, sliding through water like snake, and would be gone.
Beast does not like water. Alli-gator live in water. Some much bigger than Beast. But did not see any alli-gator in bayou. Was safe.
Stared at water. Stared at fish, longer than Beast tail, bigger around than Beast head, full of good, stinky fish-meat. Good food. Licked jaw with coarse, rough tongue, thinking about fish-taste. Wanted fish to eat.
Stared. Was more than five cat-fish. Beast could count to five. Was more than five.
Studied water. Water flowed from there to there, from upstream to downstream, like wind flowed from upwind to downwind. If Beast landed wrong, fish would flee from below Beast to there and Beast would have to hunt again.
Pulled paws in tight. Inched out on limb, pawpawpaw. Slow, so cat-fish would not see movement reflected in water. Beast was beautiful in surface of water. Big-cat. Beast hunter. Beast picked place where three cat-fish lay unmoving in water, nose to nose to nose. Slowly stretched out back legs and lifted hips into air. Slowly, slowly, slowly pulled paws close to fish-side of limb.
Snarled and closed mouth. Dropped. Hit water, nose first. Water shot up nose, into head. Opened mouth and spread claws wide. Before tail hit water, Beast brought front paws together in fast move.
Claws hooked into fish. Cat-fish wriggled and fought. Pulled cat-fish to mouth. Bit down on head. Caught cat-fish! Held cat-fish in mouth and swam to surface. Other cat-fish were gone. Sneaky cat-fish.
Swam to shore with cat-fish struggling like . . . like fish. Bit down harder and walked from bank of bayou, dripping, shaking pelt and loose skin free of bayou water. Lay belly down in cool mud and put paw on catfish, holding fish in mud. Bit off fish head and chewed. Fish stopped fighting. Was dead. Was good cat-fish. Was good fish-meat. Ate and ate. Beast belly was full and stretched. Beast lay on side in cool mud and snorted with laughter. Would change here. Would let Jane wake in muddy place, stinking of dead fish. Snorted with laughter again.
Entered Gray Between. And changed.
* * *
“I don’t freaking believe it. Mud? Beast, you are dead meat!” I slipped and slid to my knees and then to my feet. I was slathered in mud, as if I’d gone to a spa and had them do a total-body mud bath. But this mud was rank and fishy and . . . I saw something on my thigh and pulled off a fish fin. Tossed it to the water. “Oh, you are in so much trouble,” I muttered.
Inside, Beast chuffed with laughter.
I pulled off my gobag, tossed it into a low tree limb, and dove into the water. A trail of mud followed me as I swam off the muck and then paddled to the low-hanging limb where the gobag was resting in the branches. Using the limber branches, I pulled myself out of the water and up into the tree. And got dressed. I stank, but at least I wasn’t muddy. Two hours later I was back home, in the shower, and smelled less like rotting fish. Gag.
Deep inside, Beast was still amused and snorting with laughter from time to time. Dang cat.
* * *
We stood in sub-five, staring at the thing on the wall. It had some vaguely humanoid features—left hand, mouth, throat, two feet. The rest looked like hamburger, including his skull. The body smelled like sickness, like the way vamps smelled when the plague ravaged them, and slightly scorched, the way vamp blood smelled when it came in contact with sterling silver. As we watched, a small, discolored, bloody blob was expelled from the mass and fell to the clay floor. A silver fléchette, ruined by vamp blood and then extruded from the mass of muscle and bone as if by peristalsis. That had been Bruiser’s word. I had looked it up, as it hadn’t been part of my EMT training so long ago. It meant the fléchette had been pooped out on the floor.
If Santana was conscious, there was no way to tell. Leo had seen to it that vamps came by several times a day, always under guard, and fed it from their torn wrists. Humans came by too, two or three handpicked by Leo, and gave a few drops.
Jodi asked, “What’s the werewolf doing here?” She indicated the floor in front of the thing on the wall.
“Brute lies there twelve hours a day. He refuses to be sent away. You try getting a three-hundred-pound wolf to move.”
Jodi narrowed her eyes and looked from the bizarre thing on the wall to me. “I said, ‘What’s the werewolf doing here?’ A werewolf. In the city. Without one of those green things that kill them when they try to get out of hand.”
“Oh.” Lately I had begun to forget about Brute as a source of were-taint contagion and started thinking about him as a big dog. Not the smartest thing I’d ever done. “He lies there staring at the artwork while it quivers and drinks and occasionally pulses with some bizarre form of life. When that happens, Brute sniffs and growls and snarls. That’s about it. No grindylow has come by to check on him, but he also doesn’t seem interested in biting people.”
I didn’t add that at night the wolf appeared at my side door scratching to be let in. I had no idea how he got from vamp central to my house, but Alex had done a preliminary sweep of security cameras and found no trace of the wolf on the streets trotting, running, lumbering, or riding in a car to get there. He just appeared, scratched, demanded a steak on a plate, and went to sleep. He slept on a small twin mattress Alex bought him the morning after the Kid woke buried beneath three hundred pounds of dog.
“I’m satisfied,” Jodi said. “For now. But if he bites a human I’ll shoot him.” Brute raised his head to us and chuffed. Jodi frowned.
“Questions. What did you do with the heart of the vamp?” I nodded to the wall. “And is it decomposing?”
Jodi’s lips twisted into something that was nothing like amusement. More like satisfaction and vengeance and something darker than I’d ever seen on her face before. “Lachish has it. She’s . . . working with it.”
She turned on a heel and walked to the elevator. Just before the doors closed, she said, “Don’t forget girls’ day out this Thursday.”
“I haven’t. Del will be joining us.”
“Long as I get pampered, I don’t give a rat’s ass who’s getting pampered with me.” She lifted a shoulder as if she thought her words were a tad too strong. “I like Del. She’s good people.” The doors closed and the elevator took the local law up to the public floors. I was looking forward to a massage and maybe a facial. Maybe a little time in a steam room.