Chương 4: “There's nothing more dangerous than a resourceful idiot.” —Scott Adams
Lucas Grey left the school building by a forgotten back door that opened into a lost courtyard: The Witches' Garden. Blue iris and purple-blue hydrangeas lined windowless walls veiled in misty purple cascades of wisteria. In one corner, bloodroot grew out of an ant colony where its seeds had been nurtured. Only the far end of the courtyard lacked a building to cut it off. There, a seven-foot barrier of red and white oleander did the job.
He remembered edging through the gaping corner where the building and oleander didn't quite meet. He'd explored the nearby woods, finding cultivated beds of foxglove which produced digitalis, used to treat irregular heartbeats—and to kill, simulating heart attacks.
Everything in or near the Witch's Garden was both useful and dangerous: eaten, hydrangea mixed with stomach acid to produce cyanide. In ancient times Egyptians ground Irises, together with salt, mint, and pepper, to make toothpaste, but the flowers were poisonous as well. The sanguinarine in the bloodroot also made good toothpaste due to antibacterial properties. It was once thought to cure skin cancer, burning away afflicted skin, but the disfiguring treatment allowed the cancer to return, not quite burnt away.
And the little peach tree dead-center in the space—its crushed pits were an excellent source of sugared cyanide, also the basis of experimental anti-cancer drugs in the human world.
Lucas' extreme survivalist training gave him insight into the knowledge the witches jealously guarded. He made a point of playing dumb even though he was tight with the latest coven leader. He had Home Economics with Amaranta—who was smokin' hot—but he made it a point not to sample anything she cooked. It was neither food nor romance that brought him here, but relentless, gnawing desperation.
That and a pocketful of stolen silver crosses.
Amaranta came around the peach tree, a watering can in her hand. As she approached, his heightened sense of smell detected Miracle Grow in the water. Her personal scent was attar of rose mixed with an apothecary blend of spices. She didn't wear black or a pointy hat, nor did she carry a handmade broom for doing loops in the evening sky. She wore hip-hugging jeans, sandals, and a llama-wool poncho from her home in Peru. Small of stature, hair and eyes black as soot, her exposed skin a rich, deep brown: there was a lot of Peruvian Indian blood in her, but she talked with the informal English of a mall-rat. He wondered how long she'd been in the U.S., and if she'd made a legal crossing.
Probably not. She's not the kind to care about other people's rules.
She stopped, eyes flicking past him to make sure he was alone. She'd warned him that betraying her activities might get him turned into a frog. He doubted any spell she'd use on him would work while he stood in the light of the full moon. His was a long line of werewolves. He'd inherited the curse genetically, not needing to be bitten to catch lycanthropy. His curse-induced strength and endurance were occasionally a blessing, as was the fact he wouldn't actually start shape-shifting until his eighteenth birthday, less than a year away.
Hence all this skullduggery.
He produced the stolen silver crosses on their chains and held them out. It had been a different witch he'd dealt with last time. He hoped there wouldn't be a problem now. "I need more silver-nitrate with the usual healing spell attached."
Amaranta sighed and set the watering can down at her feet. Straightening, she said, "I'd heard someone was stealing jewelry from the girls' locker room. I figured the choro was you." She made no effort to relieve him of the silver, letting it warm in his hand, gleaming in the moonlight.
The skin of his palm blackened. The stain crept to the back of his hand. He used his free hand to reach into another pocket and pulled out a small roll of bills. He offered these as well. "If the damn fog around this place would let me leave, I'd buy what I need elsewhere."
She smiled slyly at him, her dark eyes unreadable. "Your need is your right? We seem to share a common philosophy. I'll make the silver mixture, but I need additional payment, causa."
His eyes narrowed. His jaw muscles knotted from the pain as his hand started to smoke, the black stain easing down his wrist in the wake of darkening veins. "Who do you want me to kill?"
"Nothing so distasteful, I assure you. I need a date for the prom. For some reason, invitations haven't been flying in." A bat chittered, flapping leathery wings somewhere in the night. They fell silent, waiting for the creature to pass by.
Lucas hadn't planned on going to the prom; with the deadline for losing his humanity approaching quickly, he'd lost all taste for parties. Still, he needed the silver-nitrate. And the silver jewelry felt like it was burning a hole in his hand. "Okay, fine. I'll take you to the prom."
She moved closer, taking the silver and the money, stashing them under her purple poncho. Throwing its front section back, she displayed gentle curves and a thin cotton top that did little to conceal high breasts like firm apples.
He reminded himself: Apples are sweet, but the seeds are poisonous.
Amaranta pressed in, staring into his face. A warm breath was all that separated them. She said, "After the prom, I'll give you a gift you can unwrap and enjoy—in private." Her hand rose, sliding under his shirt, lifting it. Several of her fingers rubbed his red-brown chest hair, circling over his heart three times. His nose identified the herbal blend of her body wash: parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Chicken seasoning. This was the medieval love charm immortalized by Simon and Garfunkel in Scarborough Fair. She was attempting to beguile him, to bend him to her will.
She doesn't seem to know it's not the seasoning, but the roast chicken that reaches a man's heart, by way of his stomach. Still, it won't hurt to let her think she has some control here.
He smiled, catching her hand, lifting her palm to his lips. He planted a soft kiss there, then another on the pulse of her wrist, watching her with a side-long glance. Using his good hand, he pulled her against his body. His hand rose to cradle the side of her face.
As he was about to claim her soft, inviting lips, she pushed him away.
He blinked, trying to appear a little dazed.
"Ya fuiste," she said. "The moment has passed."
Because it's not about love, or at least not just about love. You want to establish who holds the reins and who does the heavy lifting.
A wolf spirit had been born in him, living all its life in a cage of human flesh. The wolf told him to claim what he wanted, to take the woman as his own, to rip away her clothes, bite her neck, taste her sweet blood, and drive himself into her until satisfied. He felt himself growing hard, but ignored the whispered suggestions. He didn't want power over just the witch, but over his own cursed flesh, over the wolf. He had the necessary strength—for now—to resist them both and walk his own path.
The wolf growled at its impotency.
The witch held out a black cardboard box.
He took and opened it. Inside were two glass vials from chemistry class, filled with clear water and sealed by cork stoppers. Touching a finger to a vial allowed him to sense the silver-nitrate crystals dissolved within the tube.
He nodded. "This will do, for now." He paused. "You know what will happen if this turns out to have any sort of dangerous impurities, right?"
Hard as obsidian, dark as sin, her gaze met his. Amaranta's lips pursed as she considered various possibilities. "What?"
His inner wolf smiled with their mutual face. Lucas knew that a hint of amber-yellow fire danced in his brown eyes. He let the wolf look out for a moment.
Shocked, Amaranta retreated a step, pulling her poncho back in place as if it could magically shield her from Lucas' beast. For all he knew, that might be true.
He closed the box. His right hand dangled, brushing the outer thigh of his pants where—when out in the wilds—he strapped his dwarf-forged combat knife, the one now sheathed inside his boot. Dwarven magic had been hammered into it. The enchanted steel protected him from low-grade magic. He smiled. "Let's just say it wouldn't be pretty."
She looked at the bloated silver moon as it spun cold fire down upon the school. Her dark eyes came back to him. "I know it's the moon talking. You would never hurt me."
Smiling at the faint tremor of doubt in her voice, he turned and left like someone with nothing to fear, putting his back to a definite threat. That, too, was how the game was played. He stalked across the courtyard, treading lightly, his shoes quiet for someone so big. His hand fell on the doorknob, dwarfing it. He twisted. The door opened. He felt a tingly resistance as he entered the school. There was a barrier here, a spell that turned away the faint of heart. Only those coming and going on "witch" business could push through and later remember the door was there at all.
He took the back hallway past the silent laundry room, toward the kitchen area. He entered the kitchen and strolled through like he belonged. In that he never helped himself to what wasn't offered, or paid for, no one said anything about his migration through the work area. In fact, Mama Hollie intercepted him with a huge smile and a plastic bag filled with her personally blend of trail mix. Thankfully, a pristine white apron covered much of her dress's eye-searing palette of yellow, orange, and indigo blue. Her face and eyes were the color of milk chocolate. Her lips were a bright cherry color. She carried three hundred pounds on her heavy-boned frame, but moved effortlessly, as if not quite of this world.
Lucas guessed the woman to be some kind of Jamaican priestess, though she'd never come right out and said so. He'd learned her perceptions of the spirit world were dead-on. She'd said the spirits—the loa—often gave her messages for others.
"Here you go, mon." She tossed him the trail mix.
He snagged it out of the air. "Mama Hollie, might I ask a favor?"
"For you," she eyed him with great delight, "anything. Play your cards right and you can have all this." Her hands slapped the white apron she wore. Her stomach jiggled. Her laugh fluttered hard like an escaping bird. She made a habit of propositioning him. Employed to run the kitchen, the student handbook didn't apply to her. He opened the little box Amaranta had given him, and held it out for her examination. "What do your spirits tell you about this?"
Her gaze settled on the open box and the two vials within. Her breath caught. Her eyes widened as if ghosts were spilling shocking secrets. "You promised me you weren't going to do that again."
He shrugged. "I never actually promised."
"What you're doing is dan-ger-ous!" she hissed the last syllable as she stretched it out.
"Life is dangerous. Changing one's fate, even more so. I've got to do what I can, Mama Hollie. Just tell me if there's anything in the potion besides what I've ordered."
She glared at him, saw the resolve in his eyes, and sighed. "Very well, but no more after this, understand? I don't want no part of such shenanigans."
He nodded. "I won't ask again."
"But you won't stop either." Her gaze returned to the vials. Her hand swam over the box, not quite touching it. She cocked her head, listening to voices that even the wolf in Lucas couldn't hear. Her hand withdrew. "The witch's brew is as it should be, which doesn't mean it is safe."
He nodded. "Thanks for the trail mix."
Fiercely, she mock-scowled at him. "Run along, you useless lay-about. I've got work to do."
He passed the various kitchen stations, avoiding the busy zombies engaged in food prep, carrying various types of pots and pans here and there. Preferring fresh meat, the wolf in him growled with distaste at all the walking carrion.
His inner beast wanted to hunt.
"Not going to happen," Lucas said. "You are not taking over my life."
He reached the archway to the cafeteria and went into the sprawling chamber. The place was gearing up for the midnight feed. Zombies slowly swept the floor with push brooms. Others wiped down tabletops. And still others stacked the trays and stocked silverware for student use. There were plastic utensils for fey who had a problem with stainless steel. Lucas was just glad the silverware wasn't real silver—though that would have made it easier to get his silver-nitrate made up.
He passed a vending machine for vamps that offered various types of blood in refrigerated foil packets with attached straws. He shuddered at the thought of drinking blood.
His inner wolf looked at him like he was nuts.
Lucas stopped by a different machine for a pint of chocolate milk. The machine's glass front caught his shadow—a very big shadow. Narrow of waist and hips, his upper body all but exploded with muscle. Four hours a night in the gym working weights had made a monster out of his human side.
He moved on to the next machine which offered fresh fruit as well as chips, candy bars, and nuts. He bought a pack of ranch-spiced corn nuts and moved on.
As he headed toward the dormitory wing, a bell rang. He saw Ravyn up ahead, her hips rolling as she strolled along, exuding an air of victory. Her short skirt caught his male attention.
The hall speakers came on with an electric crackle. A moment later a sour voice burst out. "This is Vice-principal Vickers with an announcement to the student body. Henceforth, there will be a relaxing of the student dress code. The same items will be worn, but students are encouraged to express their individualism." He paused as if the word had burned his tongue. "This is in the spirit of establishing a comfortable learning environment. That is all."
Now only six steps ahead, Ravyn laughed with dark amusement, her perpetual rage leaking out with the sound. "Teach you to mess with me."
They reached a stairwell and went up. Lucas found his thoughts momentarily stunned silent as he got a good look at her panties. They were pink cotton with a black bat across the butt.
She probably stole them from Batgirl.
Without looking back, and down at him, she said, "Are you staring at my butt, by any chance?"
"Uh-huh."
"Good. I'd hate to think my efforts were wasted." At the top of the stairs, she went another way.
He went his. A minute later he entered his room: a small space with a wall of windows, green drapes, a single bed, dresser, a small TV, night table, closet, and miniature refrigerator. His laptop lay on the bed, recharging, plugged into the wall. It was strange that Darkhaven had electricity, but no internet—that service was provided for a stiff fee by the witches. The rich kids had rich parents paying for everything. Lucas was on his own, limping along on a scholarship he didn't remember even applying for.
He stripped off his pants and stood there in Duck Dynasty boxers, vials in hand. Lucas bent to put one in the fridge to stay cool. From the top shelf, he withdrew an empty syringe stolen from the nurse's office, and a jar of alcohol. He always made a point to sterilize the needle after each use so it was stored ready for use. He half-filled the syringe. The remaining half-vial went into the fridge. He gave himself the shot in the fleshy part of his outer thigh, jabbing in the needle, thumbing down the plunger. He counted ten and withdrew the needle, swishing it in the small jar of alcohol, returning both to the fridge for next time.
The injection hurt.
Silver. How can it not?
Fire swept along his arteries, a growing torment. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He limped to his bed and flopped down. The blood vessels under his skin near the injection site went dark purple, then black, as the silver-nitrate spread through him. He hoped to burn the lycanthrope out of his system. Barring that, he hoped to build up an immunity so—if furry Fate overcame him—he might still survive as the only werewolf you couldn't take down with silver.
Crazy I know, but sometimes crazy works when all else fails.
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