Were- Page 9

  Family meeting. Usual spot.

  Eric had apparently been assigned the task of gathering the troops. I shifted my backpack—a smaller sporty thing meant for short hikes—downed the last bit of my coffee, and started out.

  The usual spot, in this case, meant Jack’s place. It was where the murder gathered when we were inclined towards lounging on the sofa instead of perching. Jack’s place was at the edge of town, where suburbia bordered on rural, but you could still get cable internet and public utilities. I settled my bike onto the front of the bus and climbed aboard for the rambling ride towards Jack’s. I had this commute down to an art form.

  We had an owl. It had only been a matter of time. The last owl had been years ago, when I was a scrawny adolescent just sorting out that flying was not an innate ability—that it had to be learned. The murder had been larger then. Predation had a way of thinning the ranks. Jenny had been a good friend, all shit-eating grins and wild gesticulations. I am pretty sure we more or less were the textbook case of troublesome corvids. I had been so new to the feathers that Jenny had seemed like an ancient sage. I still have no idea how old she had been—you learned not to ask members of the were- community how old they were as you would sometimes get an honest answer. Jenny had been one of the first kills, the first hint something was wrong. I had found her in human form, eyes open and face startled. Jack told me she had been caught just as she slipped from feathers to skin, when even the oldest were- was just that much more vulnerable. Anthony was a clean kill in comparison—wounds harder to make out through dark feathers. Jenny…I still had nightmares about Jenny.

  Jenny had at least been able to have a funeral of sorts, though she had no human family to claim her. It had been a parcel of crows dressed in their funeral finery attending her burial. Anthony would be buried at Jack’s place, under the old pines in the back yard.

  I got off the bus with an absent wave at the driver, unhitched my bike and started on the handful of miles down quiet roads that would take me to Jack and the rest of the murder. I could have pulled on my feathers and flown to Jack’s place, but the commute was therapeutic, it let me get my thoughts and my emotions together. It let me tumble through old, bad memories in my own time, in my own space, before I had to support the rest of the family, had to soothe and support crows who were too young to have experienced the hunt. The morning light was comforting—we had time now to look for the owl. The day was ours and we would use it to our advantage. I had no desire to spend weeks holed up, terrified and hoping the danger would pass. Not again.

  I ditched my bike at the end of Jack’s long, gravel driveway and started the mostly up-hill walk to the front door. Eric’s shiny new sedan was parked in the grass at the top of the driveway, next to the mechanical Frankenstein’s Monster that was Jack’s truck. Someone must have picked up Ashley and Kim as I could hear their voices from inside, but their well-used, well-loved car was missing and they were new enough to their feathers that they would not have started the day slipping skins, not after a full moon night.

  I let myself in the front door, grabbed a soda as I passed through the kitchen, and joined my family in the living room, saluting them with my drink in greeting. “Morning.”

  “Good morning, Erin.” Melody smoothed her skirts before gesturing for me to join her on the couch. I did my best to ignore the way my hair tried to stand on end as I settled beside her. It’s not that I disliked Melody, it’s just my subconscious gets a bit overwhelmed by the uncanny feel of her—age and something that is far less human than it looks. Old Crows are strange magic. That is the best way I can put it to words. Something to look forward to as I get older, I guess.

  The rest of the murder unconsciously moved closer to where Melody and I sat. Were we in feathers there would likely be some reassuring preening going on. We collectively ignored the dirt on Jack’s shoes as he came in through the backdoor and took his usual place in the rocker beside the couch. The family meeting was about to officially start.

  “It has been some time since we have had a predator in our midst.” Melody introduced the business at hand with a deceptively casual air. “Our family is smaller than it was, and we have new members who have yet to join us on the hunt.”

  “The trick is there are more of us than there are of them. And we use that to our advantage.” I leaned forward, hands on thighs. “We hunt together. We bring in the natural crows. The days are ours and we use them to our advantage.” And we stay the hell inside at night.

  “Erin is right.” Jack’s chair creaked as he rocked slowly. “We are a good family. Strong. With the assistance of our cousins we will find the owl and drive it from our territory.”

  Or kill it. I was fond of the killing it option. I did not trust a predator to stay gone. Owls and crows did not get along on a good day. Add in the supernatural nonsense that came with being a were-, all the size and strength and cunning thrown in to keep things interesting, and I don’t think scaring the owl off was an option. But then again, I was a bit blood thirsty when it came to owls. We all have our faults. I will give Jack credit—his gentle reassurance settled the family, so I set my bloodlust to simmer quietly in the background. “To drive it out we need to start moving now.” I settled back a bit, tried to force my posture to relax.

  “Skin or feather, you will know an Owl as you pass it by.” Melody’s voice was quiet, causing us all to lean in a bit. “You can always feel another were-. Magic calls to magic, and Owls feel like the quietest part of the night, when you want to keep looking over your shoulder, just in case.”

  “In human skin, it gets the hair on your neck to raise, gets you all goosebumpy. Feathered, you want to hide and attack all at once.” And shout, scream, let everyone know there is something dangerous and wrong nearby. There were memories I liked to keep swept under the rug. Staring at an owl, old and half-feathered, as it roused once and then stepped almost daintily off of Jenny’s torn body, feeling anger and terror to such an extreme that I was unable to move…that I would be dead if Jack had not arrived then, a monstrous amalgamation of corvid and man…that was one memory I tried to keep buried as deep as possible. “You can’t miss it, you will never mistake it for anything else. Trust me.”

  “So we should be hitting the streets now.” Eric managed to sound confident, even as his body language suggested he was more than a little unsure, unbalanced. “Get it before it gets another of ours.”

  “Eric, Ashley, and Kim—you will start hunting on foot. Stay together. Pay attention to our cousins in the trees. Melody started the alert call as the sun rose—they know to keep an eye out and to let us know what they see.” Jack stood and we all followed, even Melody. The time for talking was over. “Erin, Melody, and I will be flying. Do not try to take on the Owl alone. I buried one family member today. I do not want to bury another.”

  We reassured ourselves as humans do, touching skin to skin and speaking affection and confidence. I followed the twins and Eric out to Jack’s front yard and then reached for my feathers. Slipping from one skin to the other was different when not being coaxed by the siren call of the full moon. It was less of an obligation—instead it was an action of pure joy. Nerves tickled with anticipation as I pulled my magic around me like a blanket, gave a quick shiver and stretch, and unfurled my wings. It still hurt—there was no way to get around the sensation of a body reforming bone and tendon—and I still needed to make sure every feather was where it should be as soon as the shifting settled.

  I cut my preening short this time around. As soon as my stomach settled from the mix of nausea and butterflies slipping skins always produced, I took to flight with a croak of parting for my human-shaped family members. Jack and Melody joined me in flight, and we started off, our wings taking us back to where we had found Anthony.

  * * *

  The tall pines were filled with crows, cousins paying their respects to our Anthony, as well as passing on information, letting each crow that passed through know we had a predator in our midst. That
the Crows were going to take care of it, and that we needed to know if anyone had heard anything, seen anything. The cacophony that was a large gathering of crows quieted as we approached, diminishing into occasional rattles and the hiss of feather on feather as they shifted about where they perched. Jack and Melody made a point of seeking out members of individual families, to calm as well as interrogate. Questioning was not one of my more developed skills. I was content to let them sort out who knew what while I took myself higher, giving myself a good view and space to think.

  Under all of the local crow conversation, I heard the nasal call of a fish crow, a call that was short and sharp with distress. Leaving Jack and Melody behind, I called out reassurance as I flew towards the pond near the middle of the nearby community park. There, near a patch of scraggly willows, the fish crow stood, feathers raised in distress as she stood near the body of her companion. I circled, assessing the situation. They were young, still waiting to grow into their full adult glossy black. The male was limp and bloody, feathers and flesh having been rearranged by sharp talons. The female croaked and puffed, terrified and furious all at once, and unable to decide what to do about it. Calling for help. Calling for my family.

  She had been there, when the Owl had killed. I could see it in her eyes. I knew that immobilizing terror. I knew that self-loathing that crept in after being unable to act. I drifted down, settled next to her, bent to preen, to calm...

  She wanted none of it. With a shout she hopped back, rousing and puffing. She did not want comfort. She wanted blood.

  And I could not blame her. We were the same, she and I. I had not wanted the comfort of my family, had not wanted to be preened calm. I had wanted blood as soon as the terror had left. I had wanted to see Owl feathers torn free and broken. I had wanted to be the one doing the breaking. She met my eyes, the young fish crow, held me there with her terrified anger until I roused and jumped into flight with a rattle.

  It had stepped over a line, the Owl. It was one thing to hunt Anthony, a were-, to work within the somewhat bloody lines established by old conflict. It was another to terrorize my natural cousins. Anthony. The young fish crow. It was too much death, too suddenly. It dug at too many memories. And there would be more death, if we did not find the Owl, and quickly.

  I did not want to think about cold, dark eyes or the crunching crush of powerful talons. I flapped higher, as if trying to flee the memory of soft, soft feathers as the Owl brushed a talon-tipped finger across my cheek, drawing blood. Instinct must have turned my flight in the right direction, something just at the edge of conscious perception. In the middle of deciding to turn back and join Melody and Jack, I felt it.

  It was unmistakable—the sensation of being watched, a shiver of vulnerability and the feel of the deep woods at night. I did the thing we had spent the morning reminding each other we should not: catching a taste of the Owl, I took off in its direction, calling out to Jack, Melody, and all my natural cousins as I flew, letting them know that it was here, that I had found the predator in our midst.

  A Crow will always know an Owl as we pass it by. I could taste it on the air, musty feathers and old blood. I could see it where it sat, bold as could be, on a bench in the quiet corner of the community park, away from the noise of children playing and dogs barking. Nestled in the comforting dark of the tall pines it rested in its human form, tricking anyone who glanced its way into thinking nothing more than an old man rested there.

  Magic calls to magic and it noticed me, opening eyes that were too yellow to pass close inspection, lifting eyebrows that were more fine bits of feather than hair. So old it could just barely pull itself down into a human shape. It stood and slipped back into the trees. I shouted as I dove down through the pine branches after it.

  This old Owl had nothing to fear, not from a single Crow, but I dove at it, claws extended, screaming and shouting to wake the entire city. It slipped out of its human skin, pulling out talons and feathers, mouth gaping in the bastard cousin of a proper smile. Anticipation gleamed in bright yellow eyes as I struck at its head, as it brushed me away with one arm. A couple beats of my wings brought me back around to strike again. It was slow, not built to be active in the day, and that likely saved me as I dove at it again and again.

  This was what had killed little Anthony—so new to his feathers, an eager and excited member of my family. This was what had killed Jenny—mentor and partner in crime. This was what meant to kill me. It might be older than I, larger and more powerful, but I was a Crow.

  And Crows did not hunt alone.

  Melody dove with a scream that would haunt the dreams of all that heard her. Jack followed, touching ground to slip into the same sort of hybrid form the Owl was holding, providing ground support. I dove again, close behind Melody, who hit home, the scent of fresh blood trailing her as she turned up and around to strike again. I struck the back of its head with a triumphant shout, hitting and cutting before twisting into a turn of my own.

  The natural crows gathered, filling the sky with black wings and shouting. They added to our mob, pressing the Owl, giving it no time to counter or plan. Stuck on the defensive, bleeding and sun-slow, the Owl started to gather itself. Jack lunged forward, swiping with one clawed hand, but the Owl was moving away, muscles rippling and arms slipping to wings.

  It was going to fly and flee.

  I let the rein I had on my fury slip free and came in again, shouting and screaming. The impotent rage of the fledgling I had been sitting on for years bubbled to the surface, mixing with the outrage of an adult who saw their sense of security and safety slipping away. I came down with my hands around the Owl’s neck, claw-tipped fingers digging deep into flesh as I strove to strangle it. Surprise filled wide yellow eyes, just before I felt a bone snap beneath my fingers.

  I smelled blood as I pulled away, startled, as I blinked at hands that were unfamiliar- black and clawed. Adrenaline left a sense of exhaustion in its wake and I stumbled, catching my balance as the world stopped spinning. Everything was too sharp, all my senses seemed stuck on a high setting. It was disorienting. My throat offered a crow’s rattle as I decided, perhaps, it was time to sit and collapsed backwards, my descent eased by Jack’s strong arms as he came to settle beside me.

  The sky was filled with crows. They would mob for a few minutes longer, making sure the threat was well and truly handled, before heading back to their own territories. The old Owl lay in front of me, seeming smaller now that it was still and unbreathing. I could still feel its neck in my hands. I could still feel its talon on my cheek. A corner of my brain was horrified at what had happened, at what I had done. Another part was content, pleased and preening, knowing my family was safe. Humanity arguing with Crow sensibilities—nothing new. I sensed I would grow out of the sense of conflict the longer I lived feathered, the less human I became.

  I exhaled, forcing my way out of feathers, coaxing my magic to relax enough to give me proper hands—and who knew what else—but I was not taking the time to examine just how I had managed that half shift. Jack was kneeling in front of me, eyeing me with a mix of concern and pride. All bare skin and worry.

  And here I was, sitting naked in some pine needles, a bit of blood under my nails, wondering how many days I could take off from school before someone got concerned or decided to fail me. It could go either way. “Umph.” Not my most elegant statement, but it reassured Jack enough so that he stood and offered me a hand up.

  “Not the result I had anticipated, but it will do.” Jack patted me on the shoulder after making sure I was steady on my feet. Steady enough, at least. My brain kept wanting wings to fan out and balance with. I had not been this addled since the first time I writhed my way into feathers.

  Melody landed beside us, feathers fanning out as she slipped back into her skin. She took my head in her hands and kissed my forehead. “My little fledgling has grown up.” Her magic danced down my spine, this time far more familiar than old and strange. I would digest that later—preferabl
y with a side of adult beverage and Netflix. I was not ready to join the ancient and mysterious club.

  While Melody was favoring me with some Crow bonding, Jack was dragging the Owl into a decorative cluster of barberry bushes, caching it there to return for later. The crows above us were dispersing, and I could hear the usual sounds of the morning—cars and kids and dogs—now that the cacophony had diminished. I wanted to get back to my pants, and cell phone. Someone needed to call Eric and the twins, let them know they did not have to jump at shadows any more, that things had been handled. That the family was safe.

  Safe. I rolled the word around for a moment, letting it settle down deep where terror had been holed up for years. Since Jenny. Letting it take the painful edge away from losing Anthony. We would mourn our losses and rebuild. Perhaps pick up a handful more fledglings along the way so Jack’s house would not feel too quiet, family meetings would have more excitement. Melody and Jack, and more than likely myself now, would find the young ones as they fumbled through their first full moon, and bring them home.

  I pulled my feathers around me and flapped to a low branch, waiting for the family heads to join me. Jack was missing a tail feather. Melody was, as always, impeccable in appearance. We preened a bit, there in the tree, recovering and reassuring ourselves. When Melody took to the air, Jack and I followed. I was ready for a nap, and Jack’s rocking chair sounded pretty damn perfect.

  MISSY THE WERE-POMERANIAN

  VS. THE MASTERS OF

  MEDIOCRE DOOM

  Gini Koch