the shoulders of a Beast-form Aunt Jane was evident in her eyes. She led me to the kids’ room, past the bed and the sleeping Cassy, and up to the window, where she pointed at the tree line. “See the pine tree?” she asked. “Right there. Under the branches.”
EJ squealed as I swung him down from his perch to the floor. “Okay. You two stand here and watch for me. I’m going out there and I need you to let me know when I’m in the exact spot, okay?”
Angie nodded, all grown up and serious. “I’ll do like this.” She waved both arms over her head.
“Good.”
EJ just turned and raced from the room. “Toddler help” had its own parameters.
I left the room and the house at a trot, sprinted through the icy air, across two inches of solid sleet, to the tree line and the only evergreen. It was a wild spruce, not a pine, but close enough. The stink of male cat came to me, strong, the cat spray of a territory marking. It had followed me back here, whatever it was, based on the spray and scat that Beast had left on the territory boundary. I looked back at the window where Angie stood, silhouetted in the overhead light. She waved her arms enthusiastically.
I bent and crawled beneath the cedar fronds and saw what I was looking for and had hoped not to find. Paw prints. Not a dog or a wolf, which would have left claw marks at the tip of each toe, but a clawless print, four-toed, like a large mountain lion. But the center pad was too big for a mountain lion, the toes too close to the back pad. Not a bobcat, not even an exceptionally large one. This was indeed a big-cat print. Large spotted cat could mean that PsyLED was watching me. Unit Eighteen, in Knoxville, had a spotted African leopard on its team, and surely all of PsyLED knew by now that vamps had invaded Asheville.
Cat is not Africa cat, Beast thought. Is not werecat. Is other cat. Is cat from Beast’s hunting territory. Do not know this cat.
Okay. I was going to have to go cat hunting. Soon. But I had things to do first.
Back at the house, I threw a steak on the hot grill à la Eli, liberally sprinkled it with salt and pepper, and let it sizzle for a few minutes. I flipped it, gave that side the same treatment, turned off the flame, and picked up the two-pounder with a BBQ fork. The fat spat and spit as it dripped on the hot grill.
I spotted EJ, peeking around the corner. Holding the steak over the stove grill, I spoke over my shoulder, saying, “Aunt Jane can’t use good manners like I’m supposed to. My teeth are too big.”
“The be’er to eat me with, Ant Jane. Can I watch?”
I thought about that. I could say, Yes, but don’t tell your mama. Which was unfair to Moll and Big Evan. Or I could say, Go away, which hurt my heart. I said, “Grown-ups eat with a fork and knife and not with their fingers. I’m gonna be eating with my fingers. It’s embarrassing.”
“Oh,” EJ said. A few moments later he added, “I’m gonna go find sissy.”
“Thank you, EJ.”
“You we’come, Ant Jane.”
I heard him patter away and tore into the half-raw steak, swallowing big chunks. So good.
A soft noise made me whirl, and I saw Angie Baby peeking around the corner, one eye visible, one eye hidden. EJ peeked around too, his head lower. So going to find Sissy meant bringing her back here. I wiped my mouth and grinned, showing my fangs. EJ giggled. Angie said, “Can I braid your hair, Ant Jane?”
I went very still, meat in one hand, halfway to my mouth. For the Cherokee, the braiding of hair was ceremony. The placing of one’s entire self, one’s physical and one’s spirit self, into the hands of another. There had been a time when I let anyone braid my hair, not knowing the significance of the act. “Do you know how to braid hair?” I asked her.
She nodded, her strawberry curls bobbing. “Mama taught me.”
“Okay.” I put the meat into the fridge, washed my hands, and said again, “Okay.” I lifted both kids to sit on the bar, feet dangling off. “You fall and I’ll be mad.”
“I won’t faw, Ant Jane,” EJ said.
Angie just pushed me around and gathered my hair into her hands. She stroked