This magic is vampire blood magic, Beast insisted. The taste was something old, from the beginning of their kind.

The blood of vampires powered the wyrd that was used against us, Jane thought, a spell of fire and light, and . . . fire and light kill vampires.

Just as our killing teeth killed puma concolor who killed our kits.

The bracelet or necklace, Jane thought. Or both. Oh crap. What if they were weapons of magic? Leo asked us to find what he called “les objets de puissance, les objets de magie.”

And Joseph Santana had one or maybe two when he got away, which means that Adrianna had them. She brought them to the sub-five prison to free her master or lover or whatever he was to her before he staked her through the brain. She died for her actions.

We merged closer in agreement and understanding. Together we focused Beast-vision and looked to the side of the fire that was set in the circle of stones. Saw the pile of twigs and branches, broken and dry, ends jagged and sharp. We stood to paws and stretched. Pulled muscles from toes/fingers, across paws, up legs and through shoulders. Bent and stretched, sending claws out to scrape on cave floor, forcing muscles of belly to pull and stretch. Stretch yielded and pulled into hips and spine and down lower legs. Chuffed. Cat stretch of whole body, restored after rest.

But not restored, Jane thought. We still need healing.

Looked at right paw. Was sick. Hairless and bruised. Licked it. Taste was of sickness, like rotten meat, crawling with maggots. This was not a thing that Beast could fix alone. Only Jane and Beast together could fix. Padded to pile of twigs and branches. Pile was much larger now. Many more branches. Grabbed branch in killing teeth, backed away, pulling, yanking, jerking, in manner of big-cats pulling fresh deer into brush to eat. Mouth flooded with saliva. Dropped branch. Want deer. Want to hunt.

Jane laughed. Soon, Beast. First we have to kill the predator that hurt Jane/Beast and killed so many humans. We have to heal from vampire blood magic.

Looked up into roof again. Drew in air over tongue and past roof of mouth, past scent sacs, with scree of sound. Thought, Taste/smell of vampire blood. Vampire blood marks walls and roof of soul home, like male big-cat marks territory to find female to mate.

Right.

Bent and put teeth to wood again. Pulled-yanked wood-plant-tasting branch to fire. Over fire, scattering coals. Lifted twigs in mouth and tossed dry, barbed things to coals, same way as tossing tiny kit to safety in back of cave. More. More. More wood. Tasteless. Without blood. To make fire hot and high. To cleanse vampire blood from soul home.

Flames brightened. Light and fire made whooshing sound. Grew high and hot and fast. Crackling fire, remembered from time of hunger when yunega cut down trees in mountains, all trees, leaving the earth bare and broken and ruined, dry limbs in piles, tossed away. Wasted. And then lightning came and fire burned everything that was left. Then rain fell and flood came and earth wept and died and washed away. Yunega was evil, Beast thought. Killing earth.

That was in the early nineteen hundreds, Jane thought. Part of me remembers that. And yeah. They were evil. A lot of them still are.

I/we padded, pawpawpaw, along narrow pathway between rock walls, away from fire to opening in wall, to ledge in back of cave. Leaped onto ledge. Lay in safe place, muzzle on paws, belly to cool stone. Closed eyes. Behind us, fire crackled and stank of red cedar, dry from autumn heat and winter snow and summer sun. Smoke filled soul home but did not choke or smother, like fire that burned the earth.

Yawned hard. Licked jaw. Groomed killing claws and paws. Went to sleep.

* * *

When I woke, I was lying on the ground in the sweathouse, curled in a fetal position, my head cradled on my arms. My body stank of sweat and essential oils and the residue of smoke. My mouth felt like a troop of monkeys had partied in it.

I ached all over as though I’d been beaten, but I uncurled and pushed myself up to my butt, sitting spraddle-legged as the last of the dizziness from the medicinal drink eased away. “Hey,” I said.

Aggie sat across from me, her arms around her bent knees, her chin resting on them. Her eyes looked worried. I knew without looking that the ceremony hadn’t taken. I didn’t want to look at my body, so I kept my gaze on her.

“I tried all that I know,” she said softly. “I even tried a few things my grandfather used to combat what he called white-man plague—what I think was probably smallpox.” A trace of a smile crossed her mouth and was gone. “I took pictures of you and sent them to some medicine men and shamans and wisewomen I know. One of them accused me of ‘ridiculous use of technology for ancient tribal healing.’” She shook her head, and I could see the dried sweat salt at her temples. “I called medicine men of the Western Cherokee. I even sank so low as to call a medicine man of the Great Plains region, claims to be part Arapaho and part Cree and part bastard white man. He texted me back that it was a dangerous thing and for me to dig a hole in the ground, hit you over the head with a shovel, and bury you. And mark the ground with warning signs.”

“Thanks for not doing that one.” My voice sounded hoarse but better than I’d expected. Stronger. Aggie passed me a bottle of water and I opened it and drank it down, still without looking at my hand.

“No one knows what magic harmed you, but we all agreed, it was black magic. And we all agreed that only you could heal you. So I tried to get your animal form to come forth.”

I sat up straight at that one and forced up the courage to look at my hands. They looked . . . fine. And I realized what was wrong with Aggie. She had finally seen me shift into my Beast. Or maybe my half-Beast form—which might, in reality, be worse. “Ummm. Okay. What did you see? And did you use your phone to take video or pictures of that?”

“I saw a dark fog flow from you and cover you, shooting with bright silver lights and blue-gray sparks. I saw your skin sprout hair and your bones twist. The sounds weren’t exactly like the sound of breaking bones, but they were quite . . . disturbing. I saw you change, but into nothing that I knew, nothing that I could recognize. And no.” The skin of her face pulled down and her chin lifted in insult. “I would never disrespect utlvgi—one who comes to me for v-gatahv-i—by revealing anything about their private healing ceremonies. When I took photographs of you, it was only of your arms and hands, not your face.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, ducking my chin and looking away. “I guess . . . I knew that.” She crossed her arms, waiting. I vaguely remembered that utlvgi meant sick. But, “V-ga-ta-hv-i”—I sounded out the word—“means . . . ‘knowledge,’ not ‘healing.’”