“I’m proud of you,” she said. “Here, talk to the dirtiest child in the world. Maybe she’ll let me finish her bath.” The phone made muted rubbing noises, as if she held it under her arm. I waited patiently.
Molly Meagan Everhart Trueblood, the witch who had spelled my saddlebags, knew all about me. Mol came from a long line of witches. Not the kind in a pointy black hat with a cauldron in the front yard, and not the kind like the Bewitched television show. Witches aren’t human, though they can breed with humans, making little witches about fifty percent of the time, and normal humans the other fifty.
Young witches have a poor survival rate, especially the males, most dying before they reach the age of twenty from various kinds of cancers. The ones who live through puberty, however, tend to live into their early hundreds. Mol was forty, looked thirty, and was fearless.
I had wondered whether witches and skinwalkers had similar genetics.The witch trait is X linked, passed from generation to generation on the X chromosome. About ninety percent of the witches who live to maturity are female; only a few sorcerers, the term some call the male witch, survive in each generation. Nobody knows why witches have such a poor survival rate, but Molly was one of the lucky ones when it came to kids. So far. She had married a sorcerer, Evan, and they had a son, Little Evan, and a daughter, Angelina—Angie. Both have the witch X gene. The girl is a prodigy. And she is only six years old.
Most witches come into their gift slowly, around puberty. Angie came into her gift at age five, and it was atomic bomb potent. Mol postulated that her daughter has a witch gene on both of her X chromosomes, one from her dad, one from her mom, which, if true, would make the girl one of the most powerful witches on the planet, and someone that everyone would want, from the U.S. government’s black ops programs, to the council of witches, to the Chinese, the Russians, you name it. And anyone who didn’t have her would want her dead. Molly kept Angie’s power level under wraps, a lot like I kept what I was under wraps. And she and Evan warded their children and their property with protection, healing, and lots of prayers.
A delicate, sweet voice said, “Hi, Aunt Jane.” My heart started to melt. Beast stopped pushing and sat, panting, in my mind. Kits, she thought at me, happy.
“Hi, Angie. Are you giving your mother a hard time in the bath?”
“Yes. I’m being a bad girl.” She giggled again. “I played in the mud. I miss you. When you coming home?”
“Soon. I hope. I’ll bring you a doll. What kind do you want?”
“Long black hair and yellow eyes. Like you.”
Cripes. My melting heart was a pile of goo. “I’ll see if I can find one,” I said past the lump in my throat. “For now, let your mama get you clean, okay?” Molly had needed backup when Angie’s power erupted. I had been there for her and we had been friends ever since, back-to-back, including when I took down the rogue vamp’s blood-family last year in the Appalachian Mountains, rescuing her sister in the process.
“Okay. Here, Mama. Aunt Jane wants you. And then she’s gonna go play.”
Into the phone Molly said, “Play, huh?”
“Yeah. You and Evan checked the wards around your house?”
Molly made a sound, half pshaw, half grunt, and I heard water falling into water as she lifted Angelina out of the bath. “Twice tonight. You have fun. Call me.”
“I will.” Feeling twenty pounds lighter, I left my belongings in the middle of the parlor floor and opened the fridge. Thirty pounds of fresh meat took up the center shelf. Beast hissed in anticipation, even though she hated to eat cold. I ripped the butcher paper off a five-pound stack, stuck it in the microwave for a bit, just enough to take the chill off, and, while it heated, gathered supplies. When the bell dinged, I carried the meat outside, a roll of paper towels under one arm, my travel pack and a zipper satchel under the other. Already it felt weird walking on two legs, as Beast moved up from the deeps into my thoughts.
I set the stack of raw, bloody steaks on the ground and wiped my hands. Beast wanted to lick them, but I refrained. I had that much control left. I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a pile. My stomach was rumbling. I was panting, salivating. Hungry, she thought at me.