Blood Trade

neck. Body went to side and small ledge of sand. Hit and pushed, hit and pushed, down and down and side and side, bag and nugget bouncing. Swiveled body, changed direction, landed, pushed. Heard falling stones and mud and man waste of plastic bottles and cups falling, slower than Beast.

I slammed into small tree, its roots clinging for life into mud and dirt. Roots held and Beast stopped. Fast. Hit hard on chest and belly. Chuffed with delight. Water was close, whispering like low growl of big-cat and vampires and like thump of many running prey through ground.

Vibrations, Jane thought at me, waking up from sleep of shift into Beast. The vibrations of the water grinding on the earth, like a snake grinds on the ground to— Hey. How’d we get . . . ? No way. You did not jump. Crap. You are insane.

I chuffed with laughter. Was good leap. Ground is close.

No! Ground is, like, thirty feet below us.

Not far. I leaped and bounded from small limb, letting it bend with our greater weight and mass. Landed on mud at bottom. Jane said words in mind, words that she did not like. I chuffed again. Jane was frightened of short jump. Jane was silly like kit. I looked up cliff to sky, hidden by rising earth. Jane went silent in shock, as if shot by man gun. I chuffed again with laughter.

I hungered after shift and trotted upstream. Found sleeping place of water birds, all silent, white feathers bright under pregnant moon. I leaped and caught birds in claws of each front paw. Feathers flew into the dark. Birds made no sound of fear or death, but all other birds screamed and flew into night. Both birds in claws died. I ate, crunching bones and swallowing feathers and webbed feet and spitting out long bones and curved beak. Egrets were much good taste but not enough meat for new Beast shape and size. Wanted deer. Looked across snaky river to see deer on far side, safe from Beast. Snorted. Sneaky deer, to live on other side of river.

I smelled herbed smoke on wind. Stopped, snout high, sniffing. I remembered this scent.

Herbed wood smoke, Jane whispered. Dried sweetgrass and sage. A tribal Indian scent.

I sniffed into wind and trotted from bloody sleeping-place of birds. In distance, I saw flickering light. Fire. I slowed and curved from water toward fire. Scents grew stronger. Fire was burning plants used in Jane-ceremonies. I dropped to belly and crept closer, paws pulling-pushing me to light. When fire was close, the I/we of Beast slowed, stopping beneath leaves of winter plant, hidden.

Sitting across fire was tribal Indian woman, like Jane, but also different. Jane had strong nose and chin and golden skin. Woman across fire had knobbed nose and chin and darker skin, like metal coin humans used, left long in sun.

Old copper, Jane whispered to mind, seeing skin. Sniffing odor of fire she thought, Rosemary, sage, sweetgrass, and marijuana. Weird.

Old Indian woman smiled across fire, looking at Beast hidden in shadows. She had gray hair worn in a single braid over shoulder, and she wore a dress made from grain sacks, maybe blue with yellow flowers. Hard to tell in Beast night vision. On her feet were boots made from the skin of deer decorated with dyed porcupine quills. This is the woman from the photograph, Jane whispered to me, but old. Really old. I dropped head to paws, jaw heavy, ears curled forward. Nostrils wide and fluttering, I scented.

“Come, skinwalker,” the old woman said softly. “Sister of my people. Conqueror of my people. Come make ceremony with me.”

I brought paws beneath me, tight, ready for killing attack or running away, shoulders high.

Listen, Jane said to me. Listen to her!

“Come,” the old woman repeated. “Sit with me.” Smoke billowed before the wind. “Nuwhtohiyada gotlvdi,” she whispered. They were old words, Make peace with me, in Cherokee dialect. The words the white man spoke to the Cherokee before he stole the Cherokee land and forced the tribe west. Beast remembered, remembered the lie. Humans lied. Humans always lied.

But this is an Indian woman, Jane thought. Not the white man, not the speaker of lies.

“You will come to the church on the cliff at dawn,” the old woman said. “It is an old church, white painted. A tiny chapel with a very tall narrow steeple. It smells of humans and witches and much time. Its roof is stone, like overlapping leaves in the sun, dark gray in the moon. And it is no more.” She gave me an address on Jefferson Street. “You will come in human form. And you will know what you wish to know.”

The old woman leaned forward and tossed branches on the fire. The scent of burning rosemary filled the air, intense, hurting my nostrils. I backed away on slow paws, leaving tracks in sand from river. Smoke from the fire billowed up and burned my eyes, and I backed faster. When the smoke cleared, the flames were gone. I pawed forward. The old woman was gone too. I crawled to the fire, smelling an ancient flame wet from many rains, cold for many more than five days.

She was never here, Jane murmured. But . . . I’ve seen that church. I’ve seen it in a . . . a photo somewhere. Back at Esmee’s. And if I remember right, it burned down in the sixties. We need to get back up the cliff.

I tilted neck up. And up. Long climb. Better if Jane walks than Beast. I thought of Jane snake. And entered place of change.

No!

But it was too late. Beast was gone. Jane remained.

•   •   •

“You sneaky dang cat!” I dressed in the lightweight clothes in the go-bag: thin pants, flip-flops, long-sleeved tee, and a cheap hoodie. Somehow I’d forgotten to fold in panties, so I went without. Dressed, I looked up the cliff, which was a lot smaller here than where Beast had made her descent, and spotted a narrow path, something suited to a mountain goat, but it would have to do. Luckily, someone human used the path often enough to have left handholds of knotted ropes tied to roots and trees, and deep depressions where feet might go. I lost my flip-flops on the way up and arrived barefoot, sweating in the icy air and chilled to the bone, muscles quivering with fatigue and hunger, which was the body’s way of asking, What are you doing, idiot?

Once at the top, I saw the lights of Natchez in the distance and thought about calling a taxi. Instead I called Eli, who answered on the first ring. “’Sup?”

“I need a ride and some clothes. I’m about a mile upstream of Natchez. I can see the city lights in the distance. And I see a car running parallel to the river, maybe a thousand feet from the river.”

“Clothes? You want me to bring you clothes?”

“I’m not naked; I’m just underdressed for the weather. And bring boots and weapons. I have a place we need to check out. And stop and get some burgers. Maybe six.”

To his credit, Eli didn’t waste time with inanities like “Why?,” “How?,” or “Are you insane?” He said, “Google says Cemetery Road parallels the river. Get to the road. I’m not coming in the woods to find you.”

“And socks,” I added, but he had hung up. I started for the road in the distance and learned real quick about the burr grasses that grew offshore. The round, spiked seeds hurt like a son of a gun, and stuck fast to bare skin or clothes until pulled out. I said some more words I’d not repeat to a housemother, but I made it to the road in under an hour, which felt like good time, except that I could see an SUV parked on the verge in the grasses. He saw me waving and limping and was sporting nearly a full-sized grin by the time I got in and slammed the door.

There were no overhead lights, and so I demanded, “Flashlight.” Eli passed the oversized torch into my hand with a splat, like a tech with a surgical instrument. I used the bright beam to examine my sore feet. They were bloody, and several long slender thorns were deeply embedded. “If you make fun, I’ll hurt you,” I snarled.

“Me?” It was said with an attempt at innocence and a stifled snicker.

I slanted my eyes at him with a look that promised pain, and picked out the splintered thorns as Eli made a three-point turn. I remembered the street name of the church we were going to, though not the number, and I gave Eli directions before climbing into the backseat and changing clothes. I was relatively sure he didn’t watch, but I smelled his amusement and practically felt his stifled desire to mock. We were back in town, stopped at a traffic light, when he said, oh, so casually, “So, you shifted and went hunting?”

I thought about not answering, but the cat was out of the bag, literally, and there was no point not sharing. I