Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers
Chapter 2

You ever wake upknowing that someone's watching you? It's a creepy-as-hell feeling. Doubly sowhen you're a Shifter. My first instinct is to lash out at the intruder, butsomething – a familiar magnolia scent - holds me back. It only takes my eyes amoment to adjust to the darkness of my bedroom.

Astraea is perchedlike a gargoyle on my dresser. Weirdo. As if wrestling her off Jose so he couldshower and then wrestling her off me so I could go to bed weren’t enough, nowshe has to watch me sleep. There's a panic room on the first floor. It wouldn'ttake much to turn it into a padded room.

"Pillows don'tbelong on the walls, silly billy," she murmurs.

Psycho Princess."Go back to bed."

"Dreams are darkerthan reality. Screaming and shouting and pain." She hops off the dresser,light as a feather. The mattress barely registers her slight weight when shecrawls up the bed to lean against the headboard. "It's quiet in here. Noone banging on the door and demanding to be heard."

"All thebedrooms are warded. A medium sweeps the house once a week. Any ghosties you'rehearing are in your head."

She groans, buriesher hands in her hair and presses her face against her bare knees. "Thisis my voice, but these are not my words," she says, whiny but lucid."My words are buried. Hidden. Lost in the waves of… of… cottoncandy." And, just like that, the lucidity is gone.

"Cottoncandy." I'm never going to get back to sleep. Just as well. Dreams ofKassie's tassels and all I missed out on will only lead to another icy shower.

"No. No.No." She slams her head back against the headboard so hard the woodcracks. When she rears forward for another brain-rattler, I slide a pillowbetween her skull and the headboard. I like my mahogany headboard. A werebearin Arkansas carved it for me when I set up my pack. Besides, blood's a bitch toget out of the mattress.

"Ease up there,Princess. A trip to the ER is not on my agenda."

"Too manytouches. No permission given. No never means no when I say it. Even the bestsponge bursts." She slides down, curls up into a ball of blonde hair andbones. Her eyes meet mine for a moment before flickering down to her clenchedfists. "You are the most peaceful thing I've ever touched."

Which is just onemore sign that she's nuts. My life is everything but peaceful. Still, it's acompliment, and my momma beat manners into me. "Thank you."

"I want to crawlin your innards and sleep."

"Anyone evertell you you're a crazy bitch?"

"Often."She flashes a smile brighter than sunshine in August. "Usually when I'mnormal."

I don't know whatnormal for a void is. Or if there is even such thing. I pray that the creepy,insane ramblings, and self-harm aren't part of normal. Otherwise, I will beturning that panic room into a padded cell. Dealing with a house full ofhormonal, violent Shifters is enough for me.

Astraea's stomachgrowls louder than an angry bear. She giggles and presses her hands over herstomach. "I like frozen waffles."

It's pretty boldhint, and it's not like I'm going to get back to sleep any time soon. No doubther laughter has woken at least one of the Shifters. Once one wakes, they allseem to follow suit. It's damn irritating on mornings after long assignments.

"Let's go,then." I fling the bedding off me and over her head. It only makes hergiggle harder.

I gave up sleepingnaked shortly after I bought the Shifter house. In those early days there werelate-night calls to retrieve pack members who'd picked bar fights or let theiremotions get the best of them. Being a Shifter isn't just about sprouting furand claws and fangs. It's about control. Those who learn control live happylives integrated with society. Those who don't learn control have noticeablyshortened life spans.

"Frozen waffles,huh?"

"Yum." Sherubs her stomach before skipping off ahead of me. "They're even betterwhen they're cooked."

Astraea leaps ontothe edge of the counter while I root around for something to make forbreakfast. Meal prep isn't my forte. Jose or Greta are usually on food duty.The rest of us take turns cleaning up the mess. I still don't understand whylasagna requires so many pots and pans. The last time I asked Greta, she nearlytook off my nose.

"Coffee orOJ?"

"Coffee. Everyengine needs gasoline."

That’s a point in herfavor. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t drink coffee. She may have beenVardan's fairy princess, but he washed his hands of her and she's going to haveto give up that sparkly tiara. Everyone in the pack pulls their own weight. Timefor a little reverse Cinderella.

"Mugs are in thecabinet behind you. Break one and you clean up the mess."

Rather than get offthe counter or turn around – like a normalperson - she twists herself into a complicated knot to retrieve two mugs.She somehow manages to grab my favorite blue mug and a pastel purple mug no onehas ever claimed without dropping either. There is enough sugar in her mug tokeep a class of toddlers bouncing off the walls for days. When she stirs coffeeinto her mug of sugar, I'm only half-surprised the spoon doesn’t stand on itsown.

Before I can crackopen an egg, feet thunder down the stairs and into the kitchen. Greta and Ikestumble into the kitchen arm-in-arm. I recruited the pair of mated red foxesfirst. Greta’s challenge was the only one I'd honestly feared losing. They livein the house with the others, but keep a place on Galveston when the need forprivacy overcomes the need to belong.

"Pleasant sunrise," crazy chick greets with a finger wave.

Ike and Greta hadbeen home for the big pack pow-wow about Astraea, but I doubt our newest strayremembers them. She’d been preoccupied with bonding with Jose and trying tobraid Uriah’s hair. Though she’d spoken with everyone for at least two minutes,I hadn’t bothered with proper introductions. I’ll get around to that when she’sless nutty.

"Morning,"Ike grunts, stretching an arm around her head to reach the mugs. Quick as aflash, she grabs his wrist and drags it up to her face. Her small, pink tonguelicks a slimy trail across the inside of his forearm.

"Red fox,"she announces and drops his wrist. She lifts her mug up to her mouth and takesa casual sip, as if she hadn't just molested one of my pack.

"You know youcan ask," Ike says, wiping his arm on the hem of his shirt. He's the mostlaid-back member of our group, but even he looks a little put off by our pet loon."It's much more polite than licking."

"Taste neverlies." She cocks her head like an inquisitive bird. Twin blue lasersnarrow on Ike’s face. Ike shifts just a bit under that scrutiny. "Rememberthat."

Greta eyes her matewarily. Oh God. This is going to be a repeat of the time he let himself getsniffed by a werefox passing through the city. Hurricane Greta had broken everydish in the house and quite a few of Ike's bones. At the rate she's going,Princess is going to send me into that padded room.

The tension in theroom doesn't seem to affect Astraea. She hops off the counter and lifts my arm.Her tongue is hot and not as wet as I'd imagined as it slides across the insideof my wrist. "See? Looks like puppy but tastes like Alpha." She dipsher head and licks again. Smacks her lips. "Oh. Oh. Oh."

"What?" Whatdoes she taste on me? Soap? Laundry detergent?

"Taste neverlies," she mutters to herself. "Never."

"What in thehell are you talking about?" I reach for her to shake a few answers loose,but she's a fast psychopath. She ducks under my arm and rounds the corner ofthe island.

I tense to leapacross the damn island when Greta whispers my name. Greta is the brassiest,boldest woman I know. She rarely says anything at less than full volume.Whatever has caused her to whisper, for her voice to crack just that littlebit, is sure to be ulcer-inducing.

Greta points a longfinger at Astraea's back. After dodging me, Princess had pulled her mass ofhair into a ponytail with a ribbon she'd had stashed away who knows where. Theskin revealed by her tank top is pale and smooth. It's also mottled withbruises in shades ranging from sickly yellow to livid purple. A dark, hand-shapedbruise covers the nape of her neck. The bruise doesn't match the marks on herthroat. The bruises on her face are bad, but knowing that there are more twistssomething painful inside me.

"Sweetheart."I lower my voice and keep it soothing. It's the same tone I use with new,unstable Shifters. "I need you to go with Greta, okay? She's going to takecare of your bruises."

"Nope," shechirps, even managing to pop the 'p'.

"It wasn't arequest."

"It's just gonnamake you all snarly," she says.

She has a point. Ihad planned on having Greta photograph the extent of Astraea's wounds. Goingafter the Mage of New Orleans would be suicide in every sense of the word, buthaving evidence would go a long way to keeping him from ever getting his handson her again.

"Do you needmedical attention?"

"Nah." Shegrins. I'm worried about internal injuries or busted ribs, and she's grinninglike a fool. "Missy cut off my pink cast last week. I asked to keep it,but she said if I wanted another cast so badly, she'd make sure I got one foreach arm."

She holds out herleft forearm. Sure as shit, it's a paler and, unbelievably, thinner than herright arm. Greta's growl rumbles like thunder. Ike's knuckles are white on hershoulders.

"Who isMissy?" Greta demands. For Missy's sake, I hope she's nowhere nearHouston. Ike isn't strong enough to contain his mate.

Astraea blinks.Twice. The eyes she fixes on Greta are clear. Focused. "No one. She’s no one. Minnesota is a long way fromTexas. This place is quiet. Restful. I can build up my shields."

"You don't letanyone hurt you, you hear me?" Greta insists. Her fists are clenched butthere are tears in her eyes. "Anyone touches you in a way you don't like,call me."

Astraea launchesherself across the kitchen. Her arms are around Greta's neck and her feetdangle a few inches off the ground. She presses a loud, smacking kiss toGreta's flushed cheek. "Momma fox!" She pulls back just enough frownat Greta. "Foxy Momma?"

Ike's boominglaughter eases the last of the tension in the kitchen. He briefly joins thehug. "I think it's the latter, hon."

Astraea chatters onand on about foxes and packs and kitties while she helps Greta make breakfast.Having her so close to the gas stove gives me a mild heart attack, but shedoesn't set herself or the house on fire. Another miracle.

I'm not sure which ismore disturbing: the nonsense she spouts or the moments of clarity. She's coherentjust often enough to remind me that she isn't a child. She's an adult, in mindand body, and if I continue to treat her like a kid, I'm going to have a hellof a mess on my hands when she gets back to normal. Whatever that is.

"Fourhours," she says as she places a plate of scrambled eggs and toast infront of me. Her hands are trembling a little too much for my peace of mind, soI grab the fork before it falls tines-first onto my groin.

"In four hoursI'll have discharged or processed all the magic. If I don't absorb anymore.That means no touching." She waggles her fingers like a principal."Not even the fun touches."

Greta's glare isdownright murderous. Ike merely throws his head back and cackles. Jose choosesthat moment, of course, to saunter into the kitchen. For the first time inmonths he’s not wearing the gray-sweats-of-depression. The powder blue dressshirt and pink tie isn’t a combo I’d choose but whatever works for him.

"My little star!"Jose holds out his arms to Astraea and stands braced for a pounce.

Princess stays rootedin place. The frown on her face is a sharp contrast to the grin she’d worn as she’ddanced around the kitchen earlier. "Sorry, pretty kitty. Notouching."

"Not even thefun ones," Ike laughs.

And, just like that,it clicks. Her ramblings aren't all nonsense. In the bedroom, she'd saidsomething about a sponge bursting. Matt said that she absorbs magic throughtouch. Knowing what I do of her father, I doubt he associates with non-magicalbeings. Whoever bruised her up good gave her more than just marks and aboatload of pain. Even the best sponge bursts.

During the packdiscussion, I had explained what I could about voids. I hope that when she'slucid, she can add clarification. We need to set ground rules so this sort ofthing never happens again. I don't want to add magic-trippy void to the list ofhousehold landmines.

"You're slower thanI imagined," Astraea observes, collapsing onto the chair next to me. Shesteals a triangle of toast off my plate.

"Funny." Isnatch my toast right out of her mouth. "You're just as much trouble as Iimagined."

"I know."

Because my life isone big cosmic joke, the house phone rings halfway through breakfast. Thanks toPrincess's daddy, there's enough cash upstairs to keep the pack in the blackfor a while. I can't afford to turn down clients, though. That kind of thing isa reputation killer, and the cash won't last forever. Besides, I figure ahealthy portion of that money is Astraea's.

It's the head of oneof the local covens. Matron Sally Caplinger and I get along just great so longas she keeps her hexes to herself. They've had a rash of break ins – nothing ofmonetary value stolen just mystical items – and want someone to discretely lookinto it.

Her real meaning? Shethinks someone in her coven has gone off the rails and is amassing supplies forsome bad mojo or a coup. Still, Sally sends plenty of work my way. She's neverbalked at my fee. Or turned me into a newt.

When I turn back tothe table, Astraea looks like someone just told her that unicorns weren't real."What's wrong with you? Eating the rest of my food wasn't enough foryou?"

"Witches,"she spats, "love to touch."

Oh no. Time to nipthis little cluster in the bud. I don't need a psycho-shaped tagalong."You're staying here."

"I knowmagic."

"You killmagic."

"Doesn't mean Idon't know it." She sticks her tongue out at me, crinkles her nose."Remember who my father is?"

"I'd like toforget."

"Makes two ofus." She cocks her head; her eyes glaze over. Something about theexpression on her face reminds me of seers. I hate seers. "Think the gray-haired one will grope my butt theway she gropes yours? I don't think I'll like it as much."

Yeah. If I get Jose,Hank, and Ike working on it before we leave, that padded cell should be readyby dinnertime. Princess Blabs-A-Lot won't have to worry about touches, fun orotherwise. It'll be a long, long time before she sees the light of day.