"What did Chase say?"
I shook my head. "Honestly, I blocked it out. He was so stiff, so aloof. Right now I can't deal with his angst. That makes me a bad girlfriend, right?"
"No, that makes you half-human. If you were ful -Fae, he'd be long gone by now." Iris sat on the ottoman next to me. "Honey, Chase needs more help than you can give him. Let Sharah work her magic. She has the training to deal with matters like this."
"I guess he's in better hands with her. I'l back off." The thought stil stung, but I couldn't waste any more energy. I was exhausted by trying to help when my help wasn't welcome.
As we sat there, a tableau il uminated by the Tiffany-style lamps that Morio had found in a thrift shop, the door opened, and Camil e's laughter echoed through the hal . I slowly picked myself off the floor and moved to one of the chairs, but stil , when she darted into the room, she took one look at my face as she tossed her cloak over the back of the rocking chair and sat down beside me, grabbing my hand.
"What's going on? Bad news? Was there news from home?"
That was her way of asking if our father had left a message through the Whispering Mirror. Reluctant to burst her bubble, I gave her a quick shake of the head. "No hon, no messages. Not that I know of."
She stopped short, staring at me. "What the fuck happened to your hair?" And then she burst out laughing. "I love it--you're so punk! You look great! But man, Iris was right." Waving her hand in front of her face, she grimaced. "You got skunked bad, babe."
"Yeah, but it was worse before." As I stood up, Camil e's men came trooping in. At least they were polite enough to avoid commenting on my brand-new do and perfume, though I noticed Smoky's lips curl into a smile, and Morio's nose twitched. Tril ian just offered to take the tray of debris from Iris and carry it into the kitchen for her.
"So . . . you going to keep it that way?" Camil e walked around me, studying my hair. "I like it. Makes you seem more seasoned."
I smiled softly. "I don't know. Maybe. Everything's changing, everything's moving."
As I looked in the mirror again, my image flashed. It was as if my panther self and my tabby self were superimposed over my face, and al sides of myself began to merge, blending together as the tattoo on my forehead glistened and flared bril iant red, then back to the shimmering black. A wave of heat rushed through me, and I grabbed the nearest chair to steady myself.
"Hel . . . what was that?" My entire body felt on fire, and I dropped my head back as I started to sweat. It was almost the same confusion I felt the first time I shifted into my black panther form, but this was less transformational energy and more . . . like I was a pil ar of fire.
"Crap--what the . . . what's happening?" And then everything went dark, and the last thing I felt was the floor coming up to meet me.
CHAPTER 3
Blinking, I sat up, looking around. I was standing in a forest ful of wild, overgrown bushes and undergrowth. The trees were incredibly tal , rising far into the sky, towering beyond my sight. Cedar, fir, oak, alder, and birch--their trunks were thick with moss and toadstools, and lacework moss dripped from the boughs, swaying in the faint breeze that wafted past me. The deciduous trees were covered with a medley of red and orange leaves, burnished gold and yel ow, and from every branch dripped the last vestiges of some autumn rainstorm.
I stood, examining myself, but I seemed to be okay. No bumps, bruises, or cuts. I glanced around, wondering if I was dreaming. I seemed to be standing on a path that led deep into the forest, and a compulsion drove me to take off jogging down it. Wherever I was, there was something ahead waiting for me.
I raced along, my speed picking up as I ran. The trees flew by in a blur, and I realized how much I was enjoying the movement. My body felt so alive, zinging with energy, ful with the chase. My muscles rejoiced, stretching, moving, pumping ful with the blood that flowed through the veins in my body.
The sky was somewhere between twilight and dusk here--wherever here was--and even in the dim light, I had no problem seeing the scattered limbs and boughs that littered the trail. As I ran, I began to notice that I wasn't out of breath. Nor was I tiring. I leapt over rocks the size of my head and hurdled a fal en trunk blocking the path before coming to where I could see the end of the trail.
The drive to run slowed, but the summons forward was no less strong. I headed toward the opening leading out of the woodland. At the edge of the tree line, I found myself staring into a dark circle--a grove of sorts, and in the center rested a circle of bronze, engraved with runes and symbols I could not read.
I approached it slowly, holding my breath, waiting to see what would happen. Magic fil ed this place; it surrounded me like a crackling vortex, and even though I wasn't familiar with its workings, I could sense it racing through me, along my skin like a flurry of pinpricks, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
And then, as I watched, a figure appeared on the dais. It was a man dressed in a dark suit. He was young--he couldn't be over thirty--and a lost, confused look spread across his face. I frowned. What the hel was I supposed to do now?
As I watched him, a soft voice whispered from behind me.
"Training day, darling."
I whirled to find myself facing a petite woman dressed in a long, sheer robe the color of the twilight sky. Her hair was burnished copper, the same color as Menol y's, and it curled past her shoulders in thick waves. A wreath of autumn leaves ringed her head. I caught my breath--on her forehead was the same Mark I bore, the same tattoo. Only hers flared with a bril iant flame that burned brightly in the center of the crescent. And on her arms--intricate vines and leaves inked in vivid black and orange twined their way up her skin, glimmering tattoos mirroring the black of the crescent on our foreheads.
"You . . . you're . . ."
"A Death Maiden, like you. And yet, not like you. I am dead, yes, and yet as tangible and corporeal as you are." Her gaze met mine as she swept over me like a scanner, taking me in, examining me, and--I felt--finding me wanting. I blushed and stared at my feet.
"My name is Greta, and I've been assigned to be your trainer." She reached out, and her fingers brushed my chin. Greta could barely top five feet, but the power in her touch nearly knocked me flat.
"Tra . . . trainer?" The confidence I'd felt earlier seemed to flow away as her energy slammed into me. Like the Autumn Lord, and yet, not. She was steeped in his energy, but she didn't carry the season in her wake--instead she was . . . the huntress. The hunter, the hound after the fox, the tiger after the gazel e, the cat after the mouse.
"Our Master has declared it time to begin your formal training. You are the only living Death Maiden who has ever graced his stable; therefore you must be trained cautiously and with care. I am the leader of the Death Maidens and the best choice to help you adjust to your duties."
She circled the dais, staring at the man.
"I didn't realize I had to train for anything. He summons me and tel s me what to do." I was so caught off guard that I didn't realize she was creeping up on me. And then she was there, standing beside me, barely as tal as my shoulder.
"No more. Your training begins in earnest with me. Tonight, you learn what it truly means to be a Death Maiden. You watch. You listen. You feel. You begin your journey toward realizing the ful potential of just what you are becoming."
Before I could speak, she reached up and brushed her fingers over my mouth. "Silence. Speak not. Hush and be stil ."
And I was stil .
Greta moved toward the dais, toward the kneeling man. She leaned over the bronze circle. A frightened glimmer fil ed his eyes and he backed away, but a force--one I could feel from where I stood--kept his knees locked on the dais, and he struggled, trying to free himself.
"No, no, no, my friend." Greta whispered, and her voice echoed through the glade, a tril of sex and desire and love. "Do you know who I am?"
He bit his lip. "I'm not ready. I'm not ready to go." He swal owed, and when he spoke again, the tremor had faded. "It can't be my time."
"But it is. The natural balance demands it. The Harvestmen have sent me. You are a brave man, you have saved many lives today, but to balance the scales, the web demands your own death." Greta's voice danced in a singsong manner, tripping over her words. "Ronald Wyndhym Niece, I come for your soul."
And then he was crying. "But I helped save them--I did everything I could, and now . . ."
As I watched, Greta stroked his face and murmured something I couldn't catch. The tears dried instantly, and he looked up at her, a grateful and beautiful light fil ing his face. She leaned down, kissed him gently, then harder, and he opened his arms to her. As she slid against him, he embraced her, and their kiss turned long and luxurious.
I let out a long sigh, aware that I was getting aroused watching them.
Greta stroked his back, his arms, and the jacket was suddenly gone, and then she was holding him to her, and he was bare-chested--the shirt had vanished somewhere along with the jacket. I opened my lips slightly, sensing their passion, sensing the taste of his soul in my mouth . . .
She motioned for me, and I was at her side in three strides. She clasped my hand in hers, and I could feel the sensations run through her to him, making every touch explode in a minor death. I began to lose myself in the energy, sucked as deep as his soul, and as she drew him out through his mouth, inhaling his essence into her body, breathing his soul out through the pores, I shuddered and came, quickly and without warning, and dropped to the ground, stunned.
With one last moan, he slumped in her arms, then transformed into a pil ar of white mist and floated up toward the heavens.
Ron Wyndham Niece was dead.
Greta turned to me. "This is your first lesson: What it means to harvest the soul of a hero. He journeys to spend a while by the side of those who do great things with their lives and sacrifice their own in the process."
I blinked. "You kil ed him?"
"No, he was shot by the bul et of the armed gunman who would have kil ed a busload of people--except that Ron Niece was there to prevent it. He rushed the attacker, and in the scuffle, he was shot. Rather than his soul passing by unnoticed, the lords of Valhal a cal ed for him. Since the Valkyries only gather the souls of true warriors--and not al heroes are warriors--they asked the Autumn Lord to al ow one of us to harvest him before he could get away.
He wil sit with honor in the great hal s for a time."
"Do you harvest al souls with a kiss?" I didn't know if I was going to like that. What if I had to harvest a demon and kiss him? Like Karvanak or someone equal y filthy? Or some perv?
She gave me a sudden shy smile. "Heroes are given a death that removes the pain and loss they both remember and fear. Our kiss leads them into the afterlife in the most pleasant of ways. You wil see that we give other souls--ones with less to be proud of in their lives-- distinctly less enjoyable transitions.
But to answer another unspoken question: yes, sometimes we do kil for the Harvestmen when they request it."
I stared at her, realizing what she was saying. We truly were the harvest women for the Autumn Lord. We could make the transition easy or--I had no doubt--deathly painful.
Shuddering to think what infractions might befit the latter, I looked back at the dais. "Do we always come here to do our work?"
Greta sat down on the edge of the bronze circle. It was no longer glowing. "No, not always. But this is the easiest way to train you. When you travel to where our chosen actual y are, you must contend with seeing everyone gathered around them, even though they can't see you. It is . . . difficult . . . at first, to see the spouses sobbing or the emergency workers who so desperately want to keep our chosen bound to life."
"How do you deal with it when there's so much pain attached to the death? When you know it's going to hurt the ones left behind?" I couldn't imagine ripping the life out of someone whose wife or girlfriend or children might be watching. "How do you harden yourself enough so it doesn't hurt?"
She shook her head. "You are new to the life, and being alive gives you an added disadvantage. You have not passed through the veil; you're stil vibrant with the flush of youth." With a sigh, she reached out and closed her ghostly hand around my fingers. Unlike Menol y, her touch was not cold, but warm and invigorating.
"Help me understand."
It was futile to resist; this was my fate, and one day I might be sitting here holding some young woman's hand, teaching her what it meant to work for Hi'ran. He was my destiny, I might as wel accept and embrace it. Whatever amount of time remained between now and the day I joined his harem, I'd eventual y end up here, beside Greta.
She squeezed my fingers. "You seem so resigned. I know what you are fighting in your world--worlds, rather. I know what you face. So much, and yet it won't matter a whit once you join us. But for now, just know that you wil learn. I promise to help you. And soon, you wil understand what it's like to breathe the breath out of one of the chosen."
"Tel me. I want to know. It's important for me to learn correctly. This is a sacred trust, and I don't want to make any mistakes."
The tattoos on her arms flared as she squeezed my hand. "When you breathe out their lives, you can touch their souls. You feel them and rock them and cradle them. The ones who are violent, we don't entangle--we have no need unless we want to reassure ourselves that they are truly the monsters the gods say they are. But Ronald--I felt every inch of him, I felt his love and his sorrow, his memories. His joys and his disappointments. I washed them clean for him and left him ready to leave the world. We give solace to those who have done something with their lives, who have made a difference. We give them the gift of a blessed transition."