“Thank you,” she said, “for the gift. Food is welcome.”
My mouth dropped open and I shot a quick look at Rick, but it was clear he hadn’t known the grindy could speak either. She smiled, showing fangs in her green-skinned face. “Uh, you’re welcome,” I managed. “For your babies.”
She dipped her head, the nod of acknowledgment odd-looking on her. She studied us, her heels kicking, tapping the stone softly like fingertips on a drum. “Jane-cat, you are not were. You do not fall under my judgment.”
“No. I’m not.” Confused, I added, “And, okay.”
“But you, little cat,” she said to Rick, “you are mine to judge. Come.” She gestured with her three-clawed hand at him. I instinctively shifted, hands at my blades. “He is in no danger, Jane-cat. He has not tried to infect you with his taint.” She cocked her bald head, studying Rick as he neared. “You have not shifted, little one. You are cat, and not-cat. Your magic is . . .” She made a little chirping sound and Rick tensed as the baby grindys crawled out in a swarm of wriggling green fur, huge black eyes staring at Ricky Bo. A series of chirps came from them, high-pitched and raucous, and they jumped back and forth over their mother and one another, like circus animals in an act. Rick laughed and held out his arm. One of the grindy babies leaped to him and scampered up his shoulder to nuzzle at his face. He petted it, gently, smoothing its soft fur.
The grindy went on. “Your magic is in stasis, balanced on a claw-blade of choice. You may never shift, which may give you magic of another kind, greater power, as you grow in acceptance and control over your cat-self. Or full were-power, as you shift for the first time. The choice will be yours to make.”
The tiny grindy raced over Rick’s head and nuzzled his other side, sniffing at the area of his tattoos as if a morsel of treat awaited her there. She chirped and whistled a tune that sounded, oddly, both happy and inquisitive. “Pea says your magic melds with hers. She is the littlest of my get, and has chosen you. Do you accept her?”
“Grindy, I don’t have a place in my life for a pet,” Rick said, as the green ball of fluff stuck its nose into his ear. He laughed and caught the baby, shifting her to the crook of his arm.
“Pea is not a pet, little cat-who-is-not,” the grindy said gently. “She is your death.” The cave went silent. My hands tightened on my blade handles, palms sweating. “You have no choice but to accept one of my young. Lolandes has proclaimed that even in the Americas, all weres will have keepers. Three of my young will go to the werewolf-clan hiding in the north and one will stay with you. I will go back to the terrible heat of the jungle with the leopards, there to deliver another litter. Then I may go home.”
Lolandes was another name for the witch who created the first weres, and then condemned the werewolves to eternal insanity. She had been worshipped as a goddess by tribal peoples for centuries. That brought all sorts of questions to mind, like, where is home to a grindylow, and where is the werewolf clan in the north, and mostly, What?
Rick was having an easier time with it, clearly, as he didn’t pull his gun and shoot them. He said, “My death if I try to infect anyone. I accept that. I’d deserve it.” He looked at Pea, who raced back up his shoulder, but still spoke to mama-grindy. “Can she talk?”
“Not human language. Not until she loses her fur in two decades, when she may gain the ability to speak. Many of my young have done so, though it is rare among my kind. Do you accept the joining of Pea for the balance of your life, knowing that you will come to love her, and that she will kill you without remorse if you stray?”
“It sounds a little too much like a marriage ceremony with a death sentence at the end, but yeah. I do.” Pea chirped and raced around Rick’s shoulders, whistling delightedly.
“Your fate is not written in the stars. You will choose as you will, and your life and death will play out accordingly,” the grindy said. “Go now. Feed Pea as Kemnebi has taught you. And again, my thanks for the meat.”