Circle of the Moon (Soulwood #4)

I studied the earth all around and decided that no witch magic had penetrated the ground itself. Nothing in the trees. Whatever the attack had been, it left no trace. Withdrawing, I stood and carried my blanket to the truck.


Rick was leaning against his vehicle, sunglasses over his eyes, his silvered hair swept back, ankles crossed, one hand dangling from his pocket, the other rubbing his mangled tattoo. “Ingram.”

I gave him a nod and opened the truck door. Heat billowed out. I had forgotten to leave the windows open an inch. I tossed the blanket inside to the passenger seat.

“You did good catching the thing about tea. I’ve visited at the Glass Clan Home before and been offered tea, always iced.”

“It might notta been an insult. What’s polite in one culture—Southerners drink a lot of iced tea in summer—is an insult in another. Ming’s an old vampire. She’s adapted, but I bet not enough to offer a respected guest tea from commercially packaged tea bags. When someone she respects is a guest, they probably get the good tea, something loose leaf from a single estate.”

He gave a faint smile. “I’m guessing she’s starting to respect you.” He shifted slightly and changed the subject. “What did you find in the earth?”

I leaned into the heated cab and found a water bottle. It was an old one I had filled with Soulwood water and, though it was disgustingly warm, I opened it and drank it anyway. The taste of Soulwood was a refreshment I couldn’t explain to anyone. I capped the empty and tossed it back in the truck to refill later. “Nothing useful. The witch magic didn’t soak into the land. The property itself wasn’t compromised. I’m guessing it was a calling, just like what you’re getting. I also have a feeling that when she talks to the vampires who lair off-site, she’ll find they’ve had issues that they didn’t report.”

Rick nodded slowly. “You did good, Ingram. Go home. Get some sleep.”

I was exhausted. I waved to the humans guarding the grounds, climbed into the heated cab, and drove home. With Mud at Mama’s I didn’t have to be alert. I slept like a log, which was still funny in all sorts of ways.





NINE




I woke to the sound of someone knocking on my door and the sensation of my land in happy welcome. Occam is here. I crawled out of bed, sweaty, sticky, and summer-miserable, and checked the time to discover that I’d slept a whole four hours. I shoved my arms into a robe and passed the cheval mirror to see a leafy woman with green eyes and very bad bed-head. I tried to tame the crazy, damp ringlets, but it was like yanking on kudzu vine—a study in wasted effort. I twisted the tangled mess up in a bun, stuck a long bobby pin in it, and went to the door.

Occam stood on the other side, leaning a shoulder on one of the porch posts. His face was in shadow, arms crossed, muscles bulging at the T-shirt sleeves. The scars on the side of his head appeared less rough and his ear actually had a curve of cartilage, a bit more healed than when I’d looked last. There was even a fresh spot of hair sprouting on his scalp where there had been only white scars before. Shifting was speeding his healing. Shifting on Soulwood was maybe speeding it even more. There were two brown paper grocery store bags at his flip-flop-clad feet, which were scar free, with rounded nails. Surprised to see him, I opened the door and stared at my—the—cat-man.

I said, “You’re supposed to be working, twelve on, twelve off, day shift.”

“Afternoon, Nell, sugar,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “You look pretty as a picture.”

A before picture in one of those beauty magazines, I thought, but since Occam looked a lot like the boogeyman in an old Grimm fairy tale, I didn’t say it.

“Rick gave me the afternoon off, putting me on split shift today. He wants me there at moonrise, which will be close to two a.m.”

To keep Rick safe, to help him not shift and race off to be slaughtered by a blood witch. I held the door wide. “Come on in. Hospitality and safety,” I said, paraphrasing from my church days. “I need to clean up, but I’ll be with you in a bit.”

“I’ll make us breakfast,” he said. “Eggs and ham in the microwave, some juice. I’d do banana pancakes except for the fact that you don’t use your stove in summer and it’s too hot to use the brazier in back.”

It was afternoon and it wasn’t too hot for the brazier, or not too hot for a churchwoman, but I wasn’t going to argue with a man who was gonna fix me a late breakfast. I dragged myself to the shower and cleaned up fast in the cool-to-tepid water from the cistern. As I showered, I mentally went over my long-term and short-term to-do list and added to it. The windmill that pumped my water into the cistern needed its semiannual mechanical inspection and maintenance. The old pump needed lubricating on a regular basis and that had been ignored while I was a tree. I also needed to figure out what to do about providing hot water to the upstairs bathroom. The little hot water heater on the back of the wood-burning stove was fine for the small downstairs bath but was insufficient for adding an upstairs shower. That meant buying a hot water heater and more energy usage. Coming into the twenty-first century and letting Mud be a townie girl was going to be expensive.

I dressed in the jeans and tee from Ming’s and twisted my freshly washed, overly curly hair into clips off my face. I opened the door and the smell of sizzling ham in the main room whooshed into the bedroom and woke up my hungries. It was only microwave ham and eggs, but any pig-based meat was good meat. I stopped in the doorway to catch a view of Occam bent over my sofa, tucking something up under the cloth bottom. “Got a mouse?” I asked.

Occam jerked upright and spun around. And looked guilty.

I frowned at him. “Occam?”

He chuffed a breath, sounding very catty. “You caught me.”

“Doing what?”

He reached under the sofa and tugged something out, scratching sofa and wood floor in a muffled scraping sound. It was a small gobag. He looked sheepish. “I’ve been keeping a bag of clothes here in case I needed to shift and change and didn’t have anything in the car. You know. Emergency supplies. Toothbrush. Soap. Just in case.”

“Whyn’t you just put it on the shelves?” I pointed to the wall with my few books and lots of Leah’s and John’s old things.

“Because it was … invasive?”

“And hiding things isn’t?”

“I didn’t want you to think that I thought I was living here.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I closed it. Living here? Oh. Like living in sin here. I started to grin but squashed it. Occam was trying to be nice, not realizing that the church’s idea of living in sin was vastly different from the rest of America’s ideas. Concubinage and polygamous marriages were normal where I grew up. As a church widder-woman, I could take up with an unmarried man if I wanted to and if my daddy didn’t object. As a former church widder-woman, I could do what I wanted and not ask my daddy. “You can put the bag in the bedroom at the top of the stairs, across from Mud’s room. There’s a closet with a bunch of John’s old things that I never got around to throwing out.”

“Oh.” Occam looked as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands and he finally tossed the bag on the sofa. “Okay. So. Um. So we should talk.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. In the church a woman said, “We should talk,” when there was trouble brewing and she wanted to head it off at the pass. Or when she was feeling neglected in some way. Or when the children had a problem. A man never said that. A man said, “I’m calling a family meeting,” at which point he laid down a new rule or law. This was odd. And interesting.

“I’m listening,” I said. But I didn’t sit down, and I put my shoulders back and my fists on my hips. I had learned that posture in the body language class during Interrogation 101 at Spook School. It meant, I’m not afraid and I’ll fight back if you try something I don’t like. It was an alpha-woman move.

Occam looked away and then back at me quickly, as if he’d caught himself doing something he hadn’t intended. “You know I was out of the country while I was healing and you were on disability.”

“I was a tree,” I said distinctly. “But go on.”

Occam hesitated, not even breathing for a bit too long, processing my words and my stance. I waited, face tight.

“I went to Gabon. In Africa.”

“Uh-huh. I know that.”

“To heal.”

“I understand that. You died. I brought you back and healed you where I could. You’re still scarred up and the two fingers you lost are still stiff and useless. Your ear is a mess but getting slowly better. You won’t take off your shirt so I can see what still needs to be done to heal you.”