Buch lesen: «The Shifters»

“By the powers of earth, fire, wind, and sea, I command thee: unmask!”

She felt a surge of power in the arm she held. And then the woman’s body shimmered—there was no other word for it—and the body resolved itself into…

A man.

And an amazingly handsome man, at that. Tall—very tall—broad-shouldered under a leather jacket, much bigger than she was, powerful through the chest and thighs. Longish hair curled around his ears, and he was wearing jeans worn so soft they looked like buckskin, all of which gave him a roguish, buccaneering look.

“Well done,” he commented, looking infuriatingly pleased with her.

“What are you playing at, shifter?” Cait demanded, while simultaneously scanning the room behind him for a weapon. Being located down a mysterious, romantic alley was a big plus for atmosphere. It was not such an ideal situation when you found yourself suddenly alone with a rogue shapeshifter.

“I’m not playing, Keeper. I’m not playing at all.”

ALEXANDRA

SOKOLOFF

THE SHIFTERS

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

ALEXANDRA SOKOLOFF is a California native and the daughter of scientist and educator parents, which drove her into musical theater at an early age.

At UC Berkeley (a paranormal experience all on its own) she majored in theater, and wrote, directed and acted in productions from Shakespeare to street theater, trained in modern dance, directed and choreographed four full-scale musicals, spent a summer singing in a Montana bar, and graduated Phi Beta Kappa.

After college Alex moved to Los Angeles, where she has made an interesting living writing novel adaptations, and original suspense and horror scripts, for numerous Hollywood studios.

The Harrowing, her debut ghost story, was nominated for both a Bram Stoker Award (horror) and an Anthony Award (mystery) as Best First Novel. The book is based on a real poltergeist experience from her high school years.

Alex is also the author of Screenwriting Tricks for Authors, a workbook based on her internationally acclaimed blog and writing workshops.

Dear Reader,

I’m very excited to introduce my—well, my sixth book, actually, but my first-ever Nocturne. I was thrilled when the lovely and stupendously talented Heather Graham asked me to co-write a trilogy set in New Orleans, that fabulous like-no-other city that I’ve shared such fantastic times in with Heather and our third co-writer, Deborah LeBlanc. Our mutual love of New Orleans and shared fascination with all things paranormal—and criminal—made brainstorming the series a dream: we got to use all our favorite places and “what-ifs,” and even some spooky experiences (the New Orleans cemeteries at night, the vampire and ghost walks, a séance at a magic shop, the sense of the city at three a.m…)

I’ve written ghosts, witches, poltergeists, and even a character who may just be the devil, but this book was my first time out with vampires, werewolves and shapeshifters. There is so much history in New Orleans, it was a lark to create a species of beings who had been around for some of the…stranger stuff, and who live on the fringes of the fringe of this very fringe-y city. And it was no huge stretch to write about three powerful sisters when I was working with such powerful sister-writers.

And I have to admit, I had a lot of fun with the sex. Scenes, I mean.

I hope you enjoy reading The Shifters as much as I did writing it.

Alexandra Sokoloff

For Heather Graham and all the Pozzessore clan,

who have made New Orleans (and so many other places!)

a true and beloved home away from home.

Chapter 1

The wind breathes over the Mississippi River, rippling the water, caressing the crescent of the New Orleans shore. It slips through the black iron gates of Jackson Square, stirring the colorful paintings by local artists carefully hung on the bars, and sweeps through the cobblestone Quarter, an old lover, knowing, familiar.

But this morning something rides the wind, something not gentle at all, knowing, but insidious, invisible and malevolent. The white cats sleeping on the shop steps shrink away from it, fur bristling in their slumber, and the magnolia trees shiver at its touch.

Evil.

Caitlin MacDonald shuddered awake in the predawn, her heart racing.

Far above her a ceiling fan thrummed, and the stir of air on her flesh made her shiver again as the remnants of her dream rustled in her head insubstantially, like leaves in the wind.

Bad wind, she thought. Something bad.

She sat up in bed, pushing away a silky comforter, and reaching for a silver and black kimono that went with her riot of blond hair and silvery eyes.

The feeling of unease was worse as she stood, and her first jolted thoughts were of her sisters.

Fiona. Shauna. Are they all right?

She crossed her bedroom quickly, bare feet slipping across the gleaming old oak floors, and pulled open the French doors to step out onto the balcony.

In the soft humidity of the morning, she looked out over the compound, the enclosed stone-paved garden sheltered by the house, built in three wings around the square. Caitlin’s every sense was on alert. The wind was strong, insistent, rustling the magnolia leaves and rippling through the hibiscus vines, splashing water from the center fountain onto the mossy paving stones. She froze as she glimpsed movement beside the brick wall, with its concealed gate out to the city street.

A sleek figure in black…sweatshirt hood shadowing its face…

The figure put its foot up on the rim of the fountain and bent over a leg, stretching. The hood dropped back, revealing a reddish-blond ponytail.

Caitlin slowly relaxed, recognizing her younger sister Shauna, warming up for her morning run. Caitlin leaned over the balcony railing, and Shauna, with her ever-present animal awareness, looked sharply up. Caitlin waved, and Shauna tossed her ponytail back. “Be careful!” Caitlin called down.

Shauna grinned and flipped a hand, dismissing the warning. Then she yanked open the gate, breaking into a run as soon as she’d shut and locked the iron door.

Caitlin breathed out, irked at Shauna’s nonchalance, but somewhat reassured at such a normal reaction. Then a pale shape leapt into her peripheral vision, and she started back in shock….

Fur brushed against her hand, and Caitlin shook her head at her own jumpiness. “Chloe! You scared me,” she scolded, reaching out to stroke the cat parading in front of her on the railing of the balcony—one of the cream and gold cats that roamed the compound, sisters upon sisters, as possessive of their space as if they’d been the ones who’d lived there for five generations. Which indeed they had, just as had the human MacDonald sisters.

Caitlin picked up the cat and cuddled it to her chest as she felt the wind stir again below them, saw the invisible force gather the branches of the trees into a swirling mass. She frowned again.

Fiona.

Caitlin looked across the garden to the wing of the house directly across from her own, her elder sister’s apartments. The balcony was unmistakably Fiona’s, overflowing with flowers, which seemed to burst into life when Fiona simply looked at them. The French doors were open a tad, and the sight made Caitlin’s heart start beating faster again.

What if someone got in? What if I’m too late? What if this time she really does die because of me?

The wind billowed the filmy curtains that hung behind the French doors, and Caitlin’s heart wrenched in sick anxiety.

Then the curtains were brushed aside and Fiona herself stepped out, oversize coffee cup in hand. Caitlin breathed a massive sigh of relief. Fiona stood at the railing for a moment, slender, gorgeous…the sunlight turning her long pure blond hair luminous as she looked out on the garden and then spotted Caitlin. Her lovely smile widened, and she raised her coffee cup.

Then the curtains moved behind her, and out stepped a tall, superbly muscled, dark-haired man, wearing tight jeans and nothing else.

He didn’t see Caitlin; his eyes were only on Fiona as he drew her into a kiss, openmouthed, hungry, and Caitlin watched in turmoil as her sister melted against him. The man raised his head and pulled Fiona back through the French doors with obvious intent.

Caitlin backed up and slipped through her own French doors, her heart pounding again, but this time in anger.

Damned vampire. How could Fiona be such a fool? Thinking she’s in love with that—that Other.

Caitlin slammed the French doors behind her. All kinds of bad omens this morning. She didn’t like it. Not at all.

Now dressed in a purple, green and gold peasant dress and comfortable beaded sandals—the Quarter’s cobblestone sidewalks were hell on a girl’s shoes—Caitlin moved out through the gate of the compound and into the soft light of day. She felt her unease begin to slip away.

She loved the Vieux Carre, the “old street,” in the morning. New Orleans was a city of night owls, so Caitlin had the Quarter practically to herself in the early hours. Her daily ritual was to walk down to Café Du Monde, the famous coffee-and-beignets shop, for a tall cup of the smoothest, most fragrant, chicory-laced coffee on the planet, and then out to the Riverwalk to check on her city, test its perimeters, feel for any trouble.

She breathed in as she passed the shops with their treasures behind sparkling plate glass: the gilded clocks, antique mirrors and elegant furniture from another time, the intricate jewelry and the splashy colorful paintings, the enticing clothing; and the smells—fish and sweet liquor and sugar candles, Cajun cooking and coffee..

There was hardly a thing that was normal or modern about it, Caitlin mused as she turned down Pirates’ Alley, walking past rustic storefronts on one side, the high iron bars that surrounded the gardens of St. Louis Cathedral on the other. New Orleans was a city out of time, existing in its own parallel universe.

And that made it a perfect settlement for Others.

For centuries, the Wild West, anything-goes atmosphere of New Orleans had made the city a natural draw for supernatural beings. Besides New Orleans’ more famous contingent of ghosts and voodoo practitioners, there also existed secret societies of Others: vampires, werewolves and shapeshifters, who had migrated from all over the world to make their home here, living totally under the radar.

The migration had started in the late 1600s and early 1700s, when the new American colonies became an attractive means of escape for Others fleeing the ongoing witch persecutions in Europe. Official church doctrine had made it clear that all shapeshifters, werewolves, vampires and otherworldly beings were to be classified as witches, and subject to the same laws of torture and execution.

So the New World meant a new start for thousands of Others. And as America expanded Westward, and new cities sprang up with their own distinct characters, the Others naturally gravitated toward the unique port city of New Orleans, where French law was lax, the supernatural—in the form of voodoo—was an underlying thread of the culture, and open-mindedness and indulgence were a cherished part of daily life.

Where better to hide in plain sight than in a city where masks and costumes were the rule rather than the exception, where eccentricity not only thrived but was expected, and the constant influx of tourists made change a constant and too many questions about anyone’s past…well, just plain rude.

It had been so for hundreds of years. And for hundreds of years the MacDonald clan had served as Keepers of the city, Keepers of the balance between the human and supernatural worlds. While the Others were perfectly aware of their human counterparts, and some lived fairly integrated lives, holding down human jobs and even owning businesses, few humans knew just how many Others there were—if they had any conception of the Others at all. It was how the Others wanted it; every sane Other was mortally aware of humankind’s propensity to hunt down and kill all that it did not understand. Not exactly witches, but far more than ordinarily human, it was the Keepers who made sure, to the best of their abilities, that didn’t happen. It was also their job to make sure that any supernatural shenanigans that encroached on human life were handled with utmost discretion, without exposing the existence of the communities. Fiona served as the liaison with the vampires, Caitlin, the shapeshifters, and Shauna, the were-packs. Each sister was marked from birth with the sign of the beings she Kept, and each had developed certain skills to help her manage her special charges. Since their parents’ untimely deaths, the three sisters had been in sole charge of Keeping the city.

So it was in her official capacity as a Keeper that Caitlin brooded that morning, brooded as she walked the narrow street, with its closed shop fronts and unique wood-shuttered windows set flush to the sidewalk. Relieved though she was that her sisters were fine, she was still keyed-up from her dream. Caitlin’s dreams were often precognitive, or at least hypersensitive. This one had felt like more than a dream; it had felt like danger. And she couldn’t afford to screw up again. She had been asleep at the wheel the last time the city had been threatened by a rogue Other, but being in a fog of her own concoction was no excuse.

And her inattention had put Fiona in danger, had nearly killed her. Had nearly killed both of them.

It had been just three months since a series of homicides apparently committed by a rogue vampire had threatened the city, and Fiona, along with homicide detective and vampire Jagger DeFarge, had taken on the brunt of the investigation, the vampire community being Fiona’s special purview.

It turned out the killer hadn’t been a vampire at all, but a shapeshifter, who had taken on vampire abilities after years of concentrated shifting into vampire form. A pair of such shifters, actually. And shapeshifters were Caitlin’s responsibility. Only she had been so—distracted…

She shut her mind down then.

No. I’m not going to think about it. It’s never going to happen again.

But even as she thought it, she felt the touch of the wind brushing against her bare legs, slipping through her clothes…

The wind.

Her heart contracted again.

The wind…soft and enticing, the warm breath of the Quarter.

But something was off this morning, like the dream. The wind was not comforting and caressing, that familiar invisible lover. Today there was an edge to it.

Bad wind, Caitlin thought again.

She stopped in front of the paintings hanging on the bars of the fencing around Jackson Square, looking around her. As her eyes swept over them, she recognized paintings from her dream.

And suddenly she had the distinct and unnerving sensation that she was being watched.

From the comfortable invisibility of the alley, he watched the Keeper.

She had been walking for blocks with no awareness of him. A bad sign—for her, anyway. For her—and for the city.

She was lovely, though, that rippling hair, blonde as moonlight, that ripe body, all that coiled strength and sweetness, pale and voluptuous curves. He felt it stir him, the thought of how it would feel to be inside that lusciousness….

Caitlin felt an intent, as clear as touch on her skin. She whirled and stared across the square at the intersection of streets.

There. A shadow, slipping quickly into Pirates’ Alley.

She froze on the cobblestone walkway, her heart in her throat..

Then, without thinking, she ran back toward the alley.

He hovered in the alley, aware of her sudden awareness, aroused by it.

Unmask now?

Too easy. There was a time, and he would wait for it.

The Keeper whirled toward him and broke into a run, straight for the alley.

He slipped back, insubstantial as shadow.

Caitlin put on a burst of speed and tore around the corner of the Absinthe Bar, into the narrow alley.

There was no one. The flat stones of the street were empty. She whirled from side to side, staring, her breath coming harsh in her throat as she scanned the doorways of the closed shops. The wind whispered in the corners, swung the antique shop signs on their chains….

No one…but a feeling of presence and intent. Overwhelming, ominous. Gooseflesh rose on Caitlin’s arm, crawled up her nape….

She backed away and ran.

Chapter 2

Armed with the largest café au lait available from Café Du Monde, Caitlin unlocked the door of A Little Bit of Magic, the mystic shop she and her sisters ran. Inside she locked the door firmly behind her; then, without even opening the wooden shutters of the bay windows, she marched back through the store, past the small coffee and tea bar, and the shelves of herbs and roots in glass jars, past bookcases of divinatory classics, histories of religion and magic traditions past and present, past jewelry cases full of sparkling gemstones set into intricate silver pieces and magical wands, to the doorway hung with its purple velvet curtain embroidered with glittering gold stars. She brushed through the soft folds into the reading room, a circular windowless space redolent with incense and hung with esoteric tapestries, a round table placed in the center, along with two high-backed chairs set across from each other.

Caitlin crossed to a wooden cupboard with painted symbols, and opened the doors to remove a silk-wrapped rectangle, her Tarot deck.

She breathed in, possibly for the first time since she’d entered the shop, and forced herself to be still, to focus, to release tension, to breathe from her center. When she had quieted her pulse, she stepped more deliberately to a hanging wooden shelf and took a match, which she struck to light the candles on the table, and then the ones in the tall metal candelabrum in the corner.

After that she sat in one of the chairs, facing the back wall, centered the deck before her and unwrapped it. She closed her eyes and mixed the cards, once, twice, three times, spoke aloud the name of the city itself as querent, and laid out a simple spread: Past, Present, Future.

“Where have you been?” she asked aloud, then reached and turned over a card.

The Tower. Destruction. That was Katrina, of course, still a wound, leaving the city vulnerable. It also had overtones of the war between the Other races that had killed her parents, and of the recent upheaval in the communities because of the cemetery murders.

“What ails you?” she asked, turned over a second card and froze, staring down at The Devil. One of the most feared cards in the deck. A predator.

She forced her mind clear, spoke aloud calmly. “What is the future?” And turned another card.

Death.

Caitlin’s heart was pounding now, so loudly that she could barely hear herself think.

Many Tarot readers tried to gloss over the Death card as an indicator of change, but sometimes Death meant exactly that, and in this configuration there was nothing benign about it.

What question now? What?

“What must I watch for?” she asked, breathing deeply, and reached to turn over a new card.

The Seven of Cups. Illusion. The card she associated with shapeshifters.

Something banged behind her, and she nearly jumped out of her chair.

“Damn it.” It was her sister’s voice, and it came just as Shauna pushed through the curtain into the reading room and gasped, seeing Caitlin sitting at the table.

“Cait? Mother Mary, what are you doing sitting there in the dark? You just scared the living daylights out of me.”

“I was just reading,” Caitlin said faintly.

Shauna flipped on a light, exasperated. “I saw the shutters closed and the lights off, and I didn’t think anyone was here.”

“Sorry…it’s…been a weird morning.”

Caitlin rose and slid the cards back into the deck, then folded the deck into the silk and put it away. It was probably past time for their daily meeting.

Shauna had already breezed back into the outer shop, and when Caitlin stepped out through the curtains the shutters were wide-open, letting in the light, and Fiona was coming through the door, her arms full of flowers and a bag of cookies. Customers at A Little Bit of Magic could always count on sweet treats, not to mention champagne on holidays. The shop was a “Best of NOLA” pick every year.

Caitlin looked at her sisters, both of them exuberant, overflowing with life. Shauna was glowing from her run, and Fiona was glowing from…something else. Caitlin felt dark and distressed by comparison.

Get in that early morning tumble before the bloodsucker has to crawl back into his coffin, she thought darkly, even though technically Jagger DeFarge neither sucked blood nor slept in a coffin. Still, a Keeper being involved with a member of the race she was charged to protect was just…wrong. Cait knew that all too well.

“What’s the matter?” Fiona asked her, instantly picking up on her mood.

“Bad wind,” Caitlin muttered, unable to help herself.

“What?” Fiona frowned, her clear blue eyes concerned, and Shauna turned from her cash register prep to look at her.

“Something’s off,” Caitlin hedged. “I had a dream…and I was followed in Jackson Square this morning.”

Her sisters were instantly alarmed, their voices overlapping.

“Followed?”

“Who followed you?”

“More like what,” Caitlin said darkly. “Something I couldn’t see. Watching me.”

Her sisters didn’t bother to hide the skeptical look they exchanged, and Caitlin’s defenses went straight up. “And it showed up in the cards just now, too. Death and the Devil and the Tower. And Illusion. Shapeshifters.”

Caitlin was the best card reader of all of them, but both her sisters knew enough to know that configuration was far from good. And yet, Caitlin caught another one of those exchanged glances. Caitlin knew exactly what the looks meant. Poor Cait. She’s over the top these days. Seeing shadows everywhere.

Caitlin felt her temper flare and tried to keep a handle on it.

Fiona made it worse by being gently diplomatic about it. “Tell us what we can do, sweetie.”

Caitlin now felt frustration as well as anger. “Be careful. Just be careful. When I know more, I’ll tell you.”

She knew she sounded bitter, but how long would she have to do penance? When was she going to be able to redeem herself, set the whole vampire/shifter disaster to rest?

She found herself suddenly wishing for a cataclysm, a challenge so profound that she would be able to save herself, save everyone, and finally feel herself a true Keeper.

Shauna was already looking at the clock on the wall. “Are you going to be okay here today?” she asked. “I’m buying in Lafayette today, and Fee is meeting with Rosalyn to pick up the new Halloween costumes.”

Caitlin bristled. “Why wouldn’t I be okay? I can hold the fort. I’m saying you be careful. Both of you. Until we know more.”

“We will, honey. You just call if you need anything.” Fiona stepped forward and kissed her cheek, and Caitlin burned under her sweetness.

As they left, Shauna’s look of pity obvious to anyone but the dead or blind, Caitlin paced the shop in a fury. She could hear them talking outside, not literally, but sometimes when the wind was blowing, she could just hear. Low, feminine murmurs now.

Shauna: Ever since the cemetery murders…

Fiona: But that’s ridiculous, it wasn’t Cait’s fault…

Shauna: But you know Cait. If there’s anything to obsess about, she’s gonna obsess.

With effort, Caitlin turned off her inner ear, seething with resentment. I’ll show them. One way or another. I will.

The morning flew by, with tourists arriving early for Halloween, coming up in just five days. There was a steady trickle of them, enticed down the short alleyway to the shop. The sugar candles were an irresistible draw, and the attraction spell the sisters had placed on the sidewalks outside didn’t hurt. The least likely people drifting down Rue Royal ended up veering into their alleyway, following the burnt-sugar scent—and something less tangible but even more enticing—into the shop.

In no time it was midafternoon, and Caitlin’s 3:00 p.m. Tarot reading was due any minute.

The woman who entered the shop had given her name as Amanda Peters, and she was a beauty: in her late forties, with a life force burning like a flame, lithe, auburn-haired, copper freckles on creamy skin, and a buttery Southern accent that Caitlin placed as Charlestonian.

She strode in wearing Katharine Hepburn trousers and a silky white shirt, looking like an old-style film goddess, but as soon as Caitlin led her through the velvet curtain and into the inner room and seated her in the reading chair, she dissolved into ugly, heart-rending sobs.

Love trouble, Caitlin thought wearily. Nothing else could so completely unravel someone as strong as this.

She braced herself for the inevitable question, choked out between more sobs.

“He left me. What can I do?”

Caitlin unwrapped the cards.

She sensed that Amanda was a Wand, driven by will, so Caitlin pulled the Queen of Wands as the significator, the public mask, to represent her, then placed the cards in front of Amanda to hold and then cut. Caitlin laid out a Love Spread and turned over the first four cards.

She studied them, frowning. “Your life is in transition. The high presence of swords indicates single-minded pursuit, vengeance..”

Funny, that wasn’t at all the read she had gotten from the woman herself; the cards were contradictory.

She turned to the first bar of three cards and touched her finger to the one on the far left. The King of Swords—which could indicate a dangerous, treacherous man, but with clients Caitlin always tried to start with the positive aspects of the cards. “The King of Swords is a highly intellectual, well-educated man, with a razor wit and many facets to his character. He is a natural problem-solver, but often moves on too quickly, from ideas, people and places, to provide any permanence. He can be passionate, charismatic, fascinating, challenging. and completely exhausting.”

As Caitlin spoke, Amanda leaned forward on her elbows, seemingly transfixed by what Caitlin was saying.

Caitlin could feel that she was reaching the woman on some profound level; she knew that look well. The other woman was hearing things that were true. “The card also represents a private person, a loner who defends his walls and boundaries fiercely. You may never get to know him no matter how long you’re with him. The card also often indicates someone heavily involved in occult study….” As Caitlin continued, she was more and more aware of something wrong.

She paused and looked down at the spread again.

And then it hit her, hard. The card she had been speaking about was not the card representing Amanda’s lover but was in the place of the querent: Amanda herself.

It made no sense.

She decided to deal an extra card, silently asking for clarification.

The Knight of Swords, reversed.

“This card indicates a deceitful man, treacherous and secretive beneath a surface charm…” Caitlin stopped herself. She had asked about Amanda, but again—the card indicated a deceitful man. And this time even more clearly indicated a manipulator, skilled in the occult, in glamours, in projection.

Could it be?

Caitlin bit her lip and then picked up the deck and held it as she asked the cards a quick, silent question: What is going on here?

She turned over a card.

Seven of Cups.

Shapeshifter.

Caitlin’s head was buzzing as if it was going to explode. Across the table from her, Amanda was suddenly alert, as if sensing Caitlin’s thoughts, and she started to push her chair back to stand, but too late. Caitlin lunged over the table, grabbed Amanda’s wrist and held her fast as she spoke a few low, quick words. “By the powers of earth, fire, wind and sea, I command thee: unmask!”

She felt a surge of power in the arm she held, Amanda’s whole body swelling with energy, a struggle. And then the woman’s body shimmered—in fact, all the air in the room shimmered, there was no other word for it—and the woman’s body resolved itself into…

A man.

And an amazingly handsome man, at that. Tall—very tall—broad-shouldered under a leather jacket, much bigger than she was, powerful through the chest and thighs. Longish jet-black hair curled around his ears, and he was wearing jeans worn so soft they looked like buckskin, all of which gave him a roguish, buccaneering look, decidedly unmodern.

“Well done,” he commented, looking infuriatingly pleased with her.

“What are you playing at, Shifter?” Caitlin demanded, while simultaneously scanning the room behind him for a weapon. Being located down a mysterious, romantic alley was a big plus for atmosphere but not such an ideal situation when you found yourself suddenly alone with a rogue shapeshifter. And a human-form shifter, too, the most dangerous and untrustworthy kind.

“I’m not playing, Keeper. I’m not playing at all.” There was a sensual menace to his voice now, which made her heart plunge in dismay.

If he meant her harm, she was in deep trouble already. She’d never seen such a complete and unexpected shift. Mentally she raced back through the encounter with the woman, racking her brain for any sign that she’d missed—a ripple, a tic, a shudder. But there had been no psychic leakage, no slipping of the form, nothing that would have signaled the presence of a shifter, much less one in assumed form. It was only the cards that had warned her.