I said, “A gather is a place of peace, Shoffru. That means magical as well as physical. Back off or the guys carrying silver shot might mistake your actions as hostile and shoot you full of holes. And the grindylows might get ticked.” And then I blinked. There were two grindys in one place. That meant that the African weres were here. And even as I had the thought, they walked into the entrance.
An African werelion in his human form stood there, his kinky coarse black hair streaked with lighter brown, his eyes lion-gold in a dark-skinned face. I had taken the time to study the names from the were-community that Rick had mentioned, especially the werelion who was mentoring him, and this was Asad. “Asad,” the announcer said, “emissary of the Party of African Weres, and his wife, Nantale. With them is Paka.”
Their scents filled the room, earthy, musky, the heated intensity of the sun on the African savannah. The two werelions advanced, Asad wearing white robes in an Arabian style, Nantale looking like a Nubian goddess in cloth of gold, wearing beaten gold on her wrists, on her ankles, and around her neck. Behind her moved Paka. Her scent was different, but if possible, even more intense, and it was familiar. She smelled like Kemnebi, of the dark wet heat of the African Congo, of green jungle and rushing water and danger. She smelled of black wereleopard.
And she was, with no doubt, in heat.
I pivoted toward Rick, and pain flashed through me, as if I’d been socked in the gut. He was staring at the woman. The girl. I looked back at her. She couldn’t be more than twenty-two. Her skin was dark, black as night, her hair lustrous and long, in a coil to the middle of her back. She wore a skirt in wildly patterned cloth, with a handkerchief hem, in reds and blues and purples. Her top was short sleeved, cropped to display her flat belly, the neckline round and gathered with a tie, which was open to reveal the curved tops of her breasts. The rounded mounds caught the lights, drawing the eye. Somehow I knew she was naked underneath the dress. That she would like nothing better than to toss the dress away and walk bare in the air currents and intense interest of the males.
The hot smell of her heat wrapped around me and tightened, and I was reminded of the snake thoughts from earlier. I couldn’t breathe. She was beautiful. Full lips, black skin, wide dark eyes, cheeks like perfect fruit, skin glistening with youth and health. I couldn’t breathe.
Rick stepped toward her. His face went slack and his eyes widened, like a sleepwalker or one who had been hypnotized. He took another step. Paka’s eyes found him and she smiled, her lips parting in a look that was pure sex, to reveal perfect teeth. She moved toward him, stretching out a hand. Magics tingled on the air, hot and sultry and sexual. Werecat magics.
Beast slammed into me. Mine! My mate!
“Not anymore,” I whispered back, feeling the shock of loss tingling through me.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard the words, spoken by Asad, “Paka. A rare unmated female discovered by the Party of African Weres. Paka agreed come to America, to provide succor to the only American black wereleopard, to assist the unmated male through the transition of his first change.”
“The kindness is appreciated,” Leo said. “Our leopard has experienced much pain since he was turned.”
A roar started in my head, the roar of angry wind. Of stormy waves. Our leopard? Closer, a low growl sounded. At my side, fingers gripped my arm, and I realized I was being physically held back. And that the growl was mine. I wanted to slash and draw blood. I felt the tips of my fingers burn as Beast’s claws once again forced through. My forearms ached as pelt broke the skin. I smelled my own blood as I clenched my clawed hands.
Mine. My mate.
Asad spoke again, and I heard his words through the roar. “The Party of African Weres believes that Paka’s heat will offer the American a mystic path through the transition, from his human form in which he is trapped, to his animal form. She is here to assist. And”—I could almost feel his smile of pride—“to be a prospective mate.”
I whirled and left the room.
? ? ?
Nearly half an hour later, I came to myself, my back to the house, my dancing shoes planted in the soil, in the middle of Leo’s back garden. It smelled of fresh flowers: the stock and alyssum of the ballroom, and spring roses and early jasmine. Herbs. Fertilizers. And the reek of loss and grief.
I didn’t smell blood except the stench of my own, so I hadn’t killed anyone. I had just . . . lost it. Rick had a prospective mate, a black wereleopard, like him.
I made fists at the thought. My hands were human again, but my fingertips ached when I released the fists. I took a breath and blew it out. And I thought of a string of curse words I might use, but none of them were bad enough. And no dang way was I gonna cry.