Ten hours after the mysterious Ling Mai and the pull-no-punches M.T. Stone had left, I was lying rock-still in my bunk, sleep eluding me. Damn them anyway.
How did they know what they knew about me and my family? Was that knowledge immediately dangerous? That was an easy one. Yes, if they used that knowledge against us. How could I warn my dad and brothers? Or would that create more problems?
Three of my brothers worked for government agencies who accepted their uniqueness without pushing as to why. A lot of government organizations who thrived on Alpha personalities and a hierarchical structure took advantage of Weres and shifters, without admitting that their members might be different. The ultimate don’t-ask, don’t-tell policy had been in effect for generations.
Ling Mai knew that most non-humans found it easier to hide in plain sight than to rattle the status quo and announce our abilities. For one thing, the sheer numbers of humans meant we were vulnerable, in spite of some of our talents; strength, stamina and for some, immortality. But not all of us were Weres, shifters or vamps, and all of us could be killed, one-way or another.
Like any species there were always a few who colored outside the lines and threatened to expose our existence. For the last thousand years or so we had policed ourselves, creating a Council of Seven whose sole function was to keep the knowledge of non-humans from humans. Not an easy task but a necessary one. So what if a mystery remained around Lizzie Borden killing or not killing her parents? Better to focus on that question than on the fact she was a troll with a little Beserker blood in her veins. Or what about Vlad the Impaler? Better to call him a vampire so people didn’t look too closely at his cousin Gyula the Old, who ruled Partes Transsylvana, the lands beyond the woods, and was a true vampire.
So did the Council of Seven know about the Guardian of Time and the damned list of non-human progeny? That wasn’t my real problem, my real problem was much closer.
What about the cryptic offer? Real or a hoax to flush out a non-human like myself? I wasn’t Wiccan, which was a choice. I was born a witch, the ability being passed down the female blood-line, and practicing or not, I’d die a witch, as well as pass along my abilities to any female offspring. My dad’s shamanistic abilities were also hereditary, which meant on the wild chance I ever got out of here and had kids, they were as doubly screwed as I was.
Nor did I want my dad or brothers to get hurt, doing what they’d held off doing for now.
And on top of that there was the niggling, very small voice of hope. Could I get out of here? Kiss Big Mad Martha and her cohorts goodbye? Do something with my abilities that might help people instead of hiding who and what I was as much as possible?
On the other hand, what Ling Mai and Stone were talking about was a death sentence of sorts. Being a witch didn’t mean I couldn’t die going up against non-humans, especially the strong ones such as Weres, shifters, trolls and warlocks. Witches bled red, just as quickly and easily as a human. The dozen bandages the infirmary doctor had plastered on me today, after a stern but very unnecessary lecture about survival, was proof of that.
Take a risk and go only to die? Or stay and die? Hard choices, but at least there was a choice. That’s the part that kept sprinting through my thoughts. If I did nothing I kissed life goodbye. If I risked, sure I’d most likely perish, but I’d die on the outside in the world of sun, not inside concrete and steel walls.
Since the overhead lights never gave a hint of the passage of time I listened for the tell-tale sounds of morning arriving: increasing movement, the thud of law enforcement issued boots signaling shift change, the rattle of prisoners facing another useless day of nothingness.
Then the other sound blasted through the cells. The ear-piercing whistle of trouble.
My muscles tightened, the fight or flight response. Something unexpected was happening and I didn’t need the double-time cadence of boots thundering down the hall to tell me it involved one of the prisoners.
Like the rest of the population trapped here, any change created interest and a break from the monotony. Plus if the siren meant danger, lying on my back was not the best way to meet it. I swung my feet over the hard bed and padded to the cell door, grasping the cool bars as a wake up tonic. It worked. It and the increasing cat calls coming from the other cells.
“Hogs gone wild.”
“Open the house, you snouts.”
“Lock-down.”
That last wasn’t good. Prisoners are managed in large part by the unremitting routine imposed on us. Change that routine and we got antsy.
I caught Mingo Martin scurrying toward me, a deep frown marring her face.
“What’s up?” I shouted, knowing I had as much chance as a snowball in an Arizona summer of getting an answer. Favoritism was frowned on in the Grey Hotel.
Damn though if she didn’t skid to a stop. “Keep your nose clean,” she snarled, as if I’d just screwed the pooch.
My response was automatic, holding my hands before me, palms out, stepping away from the cell bars.
Martin must have realized she’d come down really hard as she shook her head and stepped near my cell.
“It’s Been-There,” she said, as my stomach took a free-fall.
I grabbed the cell bars again, this time twisting the cold metal, knowing I didn’t want the answer to my next question. “What happened?”
“Hung herself during the night.”
Then and there I made my decision.