“I remember.” He also remembered that they had claimed to be “not real powerful. Mostly we’re used as routing for group workings.” He’d rather have the most powerful witch in the city here, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Thank you for coming.”
She introduced the others as Rowan Rose, Running Doe Poppy, and Orchid Sunrise. Rick nodded, not smiling at the silly monikers. If they could help, they could call themselves Catwoman, Batwoman, and Hercules-etta for all he cared. Rowan Rose looked around the room, checked her watch, and shook her head. “We have eighteen minutes to get the circle drawn and the ritual started. This is not going to be fun, girls.”
It wasn’t. And that was an understatement.
By one a.m., Jane had left the room. By two a.m., Rick was on the floor of his cell, writhing in his own vomit, gagging like the worst case of dry heaves any drunk ever had, shrieking, panting, screaming like a banshee, and begging for the next dose of medication. He got it. And he didn’t wake until the moon fell below the horizon near dawn.
The sound of mocking laughter woke him. His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked, trying to focus on the floor of his cell, his left cheek on the cool, wet stone. His eyes were working but independently; his brain wasn’t able to make the dual images into one. Water ran along the floor and trickled into a drain, running off him in fresh rivulets. He remembered where he was. And what he wasn’t. And his stomach did somersaults until he gagged. His abdominal muscles cramped hard with the retching, and he wondered how bad his sickness had been to make him hurt this badly afterward despite the healing properties of were-taint in his system. He had a bad feeling that this “hell on waking” sensation was going to become overly familiar for the rest of his life.
He had been hosed off again and was wet to the skin in the clothes Jane had brought him, but at least he wasn’t lying in his own filth anymore. His stomach churned, but he shoved an arm under himself and rested on his elbow as the world whirled around him.
Kemnebi was standing outside the bars, his hands on his hips, a feral smile on his face. He was wearing loose white cotton pants and a button-down shirt, the set woven of cotton and many times washed into a softness that Rick could see. The Africa Se. feeling tn smelled of black leopard and jungle nights and freshly killed prey. And cruelty. And anger.
“You survived your first night,” he said. “Good. Now I can watch you suffer again. And again. And eventually you will die in agony on the floor of that cell or by my fangs, my claws and killing teeth buried in your throa—”
The blur was faster than Rick could see. Faster than Kemnebi could react. It was less than sight, almost a sound, as of air being displaced. A snarl that echoed off the stone. Followed by the twin thuds of two bodies hitting the wall. The growls, hisses, and snarls of combat. A flash of a silvered blade. A shadow of black and yellow and scarlet. The smell of blood. Movement Rick couldn’t follow except as smears on his retinas.
He knew by the smell that it was Jane fighting. Defending him. But his eyes wouldn’t focus. He struggled to his feet. Fell toward the bars, hitting face-first, breaking his fall with his cheek. Pain shattered through him like lightning through a lightning rod, bright as the beginning of the universe, tinted with stars and blood. “Fuck,” he said of the pain, of the fight, of his helplessness. “Fuckfuckfuck. Jane? Jane!” he screamed.
An instant later George Dumas was in the room, moving almost as quickly the other two, pulling Jane off the black were-leopard. But she didn’t let go, and lifted Kemnebi with her, holding him off the stone. She held a knife at Kemnebi’s throat.
Red blood ran into the man’s white shirt, staining it scarlet. Rick growled, more vibration than actual sound. The blood smelled so . . . good. Kemnebi slanted a gaze at the cage, his eyes going wide. His irises were green gold. And they were afraid. Rick hissed. He hadn’t seen Kemnebi since the first night of the full-moon cycle, and the man had changed. Or Rick had. He just hoped he’d remember that when the drugs wore off. “Being stoned can be a bitch sometimes.” Only when the others all looked his way did he realize he had spoken aloud.
Jane pressed the blade into Kemnebi’s neck and snarled, the sound so unlike her that Rick jerked in surprise, his skin moving over his muscles as if he had a pelt. Her growl echoed off the walls, and she said, “Bruiser, I swear by all that is holy in the highest realms of heaven, if you don’t let me go, I’ll kill him while you hold him. And I’ll smear his blood onto your clothes so the other weres will think that you, and by extension Leo, are responsible for his death.”
“You won’t cause an international incident,” George said. But Rick could smell the uncertainty in his sweat. When Jane didn’t reply he said, more softly, “Kemnebi is here under the auspices of the International Association of Weres and of the Party of African Weres. He has diplomatic immunity.”