“I’m using the ward where it enters the ground as my circle,” she muttered. Which was news to me. I hadn’t known that was possible. Magic was tricky, as tied up in the practitioner’s belief system about the practice of magic itself, as it was in the practitioner’s actual ability. A witch who believed she had a lot of power probably had a way to access more than she might have otherwise. And a witch who believed she was powerless likely was, regardless of her magical potential. And Molly was a freaky-powerful witch, and had become more so, when, in defense of her life and her sisters’, her magics mutated from earth magics with a hint of moon magic thrown in, into death magics, which she couldn’t use without killing something. Or someone. She had found her way back to earth magics, but her hold on them was tenuous and delicate.
There was little any of us nonwitch types could do to help her battle to keep the wards in place, but if they faltered, I’d need to have a weapon, and steel hurt even arcenciels. I accepted the vamp-killer and the small KA-BAR-style knife Eli handed me and strapped the double sheaths to my left leg. The vamp-killer I adjusted for a right-hand draw, up near my waist, and the smaller knife I set back for a left-hand draw nearer to my left knee. As I worked, nothing more happened—no booms, no house shaking, no nothing. Maybe it had gone away to lick its wounds. Or maybe the arcenciel had gone for reinforcements. I’m such glass-half-full-of-blood kinda gal.
I pulled my cell and tried to call Soul, the only other arcenciel I knew, but the call didn’t go through. I had no bars. The sat system Alex was setting up wasn’t working either. I slid the units across the kitchen table, where Alex was tapping. He jumped up and raced to the hardware under his desk in the living room and switched off some of the gray boxes and then switched them back on. Little green and yellow lights glowed. He ran back to the kitchen to work by the light of two tablets. I hated technology sometimes.
Whatever was happening outside, Molly was using the time to spin reinforcements on the ward. Her feet were shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, almost like the footing for a martial arts move, rooting her body to the earth beneath the floor, balanced and stable. Her fingers were flicking and snapping and the smell of rosemary grew on the air, a strong, intense scent that seemed to wend down the stairs from her room overhead, mixing with the scent of her fear and that awful perfume. When it came to magic, Molly was a battle witch, standing between her child and danger, and I could see the Celtic warrior women of her genetic history in her stance, fierce and tender and unyielding.
From the corner of my eye I saw a flicker as something leaped out of the shadows. I whirled, Beast fast, and caught it, whipping it out of the air. And got lines of scratches for my mistake. KitKit yowled and hissed and did some kinda ninja move and bit my thumb. I dropped her and she landed with another yowl, a whirling cat move, and a faster-than-sight leap to Molly’s feet.
The scent of fear Molly was exuding instantly eased. Her not-familiar had helped her control her death magics. KitKit was a not-familiar because familiars didn’t exist. They were myth. KitKit’s abilities were a big secret, the revelation of which would subject Molly to ridicule and embarrassment. But she couldn’t be without the dang cat.
Disgusted with myself for reacting instead of letting the cat reach her mistress, I went to the sink and washed my wounds. My skinwalker metabolism would heal them faster than similar wounds on a human, and they would heal instantly the next time I shifted into Beast. For now, however, they stung like crazy. But unless KitKit was rabid or had cat scratch fever, they weren’t life-threatening. I stared out at the night. In battle sometimes the hardest part was waiting for something to happen.
A boom shook the house. A zzzzzzzttttpowpowpow sssssss sound, ending this time with a slap on the tail end of the sizzle. The arcenciel seemed determined to get inside the house and was probably injuring herself on Molly’s wards.
Alex muttered, “I guess you already figured out that all coms are down. I don’t know what that thing is doing, but it’s affecting more than just the power. It’s like a mini–electromagnetic blast. I can use the tablets—ah shit. Now the tablets are down.”
Eli promptly head-slapped him. In his battlefield-mild tone, he added, “Language.”
Alex cursed again, but I think it was Klingon or Elvish or some fictional language, and no one else reacted. I was worried that the juvenile arcenciel’s light show would attract the attention of the cops, who would then descend and possibly get hurt. Or worse, attract the attention of a larger, mature creature, not Soul, but a stranger, and that the larger one would think the humans, the witch, and the skinwalker were the aggressors.
The arcenciel hit the house again and again; the floor vibrated under my feet. The ward beyond the windows spluttered and shuddered, the energies showing signs of cracking. Molly was sweating now, her perspiration full of adrenaline and its acrid breakdown chemicals. The cat was wrapped around Molly’s ankles, purring steadily. The boom sounded, harder, deeper. I shook my head and set my feet, oddly reminiscent of Molly’s stance.