Shapeshifter's Turf: Kit Melbourne, #5

By Kater Cheek

They abducted her family. Now she's going to make them pay.

 

Kit Melbourne is looking forward to motherhood. So when her cousin-in-law's bear-shifter children are kidnapped by werewolves, her awakening maternal instincts insist she bring them home. But with a price on their young heads, Kit finds herself in a race against time to recover them before they're lost forever.

 

Extracting vital information from a pack of vicious selkies, Kit pieces together a trail she hopes leads to the abductees. But with a brutal bounty hunter dogging her every step, it's not just the lives of the kids in mortal danger…

 

Can Kit save her innocent in-laws before she's torn to shreds?

 

Shapeshifter's Turf is the fifth book in the electrifying Kit Melbourne urban fantasy series. If you like disturbing mysteries, graphic battles, and savage lycanthropes, then you'll love Kater Cheek's dark tale.

 

Buy Shapeshifter's Turf to protect the pure today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kater Cheek
• Release date: Aug 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393399261

Book preview

SHAPESHIFTER’S TURF

by Kater Cheek

Originally published as CHANGER’S TURF 2013

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Author’s Note:

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to places or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

Christine watched as the were-bear’s husband took the dog away in the minivan. Christine hadn’t wanted to drug the dog, but she couldn’t think of a convincing enough argument not to. Dogs could smell too well. A nice piece of luck that the husband took the dog to the vet. With him gone, they had one fewer person to deal with. Get in, get the kids, get out. Two small children, no dog, one woman so weakly bred she couldn’t shapeshift on command.

The mom, a fresh-faced brunette with a middle-aged heft to her, wrung her hands as she spoke with her children. Her soft face contorted with worry. An apron strained to cover her ample bosom. Made from quilting calico, it had the words What Would Jesus Bake? appliqued on it. She’d probably done it herself, in her quilting circle with her human friends, while her changer children consorted with their human children. If her children were raised by this weakly bred sport, they’d probably grow up to marry humans, diluting their blood even further. She probably thought she was doing them a favor, raising them as humans. These women always did.

We’re gonna have to kill the mom, Nate said. His lean muscled body crouched in the undergrowth without a care for the sharp thorns or insects poking into his bare flesh. She loved that about him, the way he felt comfortable in his skin, no matter which skin he wore.

Christine nodded, and if her wolfish jowls allowed her to smile, she would have. When this was over, they’d get their own land where they could be as free as they wanted. Changing, hunting. Maybe they could adopt some outbreeder children and start their own pack. Money made all kinds of dreams possible.

Sasha has the shotgun, Luke has the rifle, Nate said. I’m gonna change and go with you on paw. Michael’s gonna circle around the front with the car.

Christine lifted her muzzle, eyes asking a question.

His brother never showed up.

She lifted her lips, baring her teeth.

I know, baby, Nate said. But what do you expect from a pig?

She growled.

You won’t have to, he said, reading her mind as usual. If he doesn’t come through with the safe house, I’ll tear his throat out myself.

The mom was mixing some kind of batter in a bowl. They waited. Watched. The children threw a football back and forth, and the mom scolded them. Simple human lives. Such a waste. The mom poured the batter into a pan. By the time Nate finished changing and Michael texted to say he was bringing his car up the drive, the mom had put the pan into the oven and was starting to wash the dishes. She didn’t even look up as they approached.

Michael unloaded the first barrel of his shotgun at the window. The outer pane shattered, but the inner pane spiderwebbed and held fast. Someone screamed, but it wasn’t one of her pack, so Christine ignored it. Michael smashed the inner window with the butt of the shotgun, smashing a hole clear. Inside, the mom was ushering her children into a pantry. The reek of her fear mixed with the smell of breakfast sausage and the cake in the oven.

Michael knocked out the last of the glass. Nate and Christine leapt in unison through the remains of the window. The frumpy woman guarded the pantry door, a horrified look on her domesticated face. Christine leaped at her, snarling, and the woman backed away. Nate used a paw to push open the pantry door, and that’s when everything went wrong.

Christine watched in horror as the mom drew a serrated bread knife from the block. Time froze. The soft, frumpy housewife shoved the knife up under Nate’s throat. Christine couldn’t move. She was looking Nate in the eyes when the tip of the blade appeared through the back of his skull.

Michael shot the mom with his shotgun. The blast knocked her back, away from Nate. The mom slumped to the ground, grabbing the handle of the oven as she fell. Heat and the smell of peaches and cardamom wafted out of the oven. The mom’s chest bloomed red. Good. Christine had been afraid the blast had missed.

Sasha circled around the island, heading for the pantry door. As soon as Sasha touched the door handle, the mom sprang up with a roar. She grabbed a metal bar stool with one hand and threw it at Sasha. It bounced off her skull with a sound like a hammer hitting a block of oak.

Sasha fell. Brain matter peered through her broken skull.

Michael scooped up Sasha’s rifle and took aim. A shot rang out, breaking crockery and ricocheting off the backsplash. The mom spun around on her heel as the bullet clipped her. She roared and threw another bar stool at Michael, knocking his second shot wide.

Christine shook herself out of her panic. She lunged at the mom’s throat.

The were-bear woman got her arm up in front of her throat before Christine’s jaws could clamp down on it. Christine shook her head furiously, tearing until she tasted blood and felt the arm bones snap. Christine finally let go and lunged for the mom’s throat again, but the mom got her other arm up in time to defend herself. She grabbed a rubber spatula with her broken arm and began to hit Christine in the head with it. Christine whined in pain. Where was Michael? And why the hell wouldn’t this woman die? Michael drew back and kicked the mom in the head with his steel toed boot. Her eyes crossed, but she kept hitting. A second blow to the head made her strikes weaker, and when he kicked her the third time, the woman finally went limp.

Christine let go, panting and in pain.

She barely remembered how they got the boys into the car, whether she was in wolf form or human. She didn’t remember carrying Sasha’s body, or how they got to the Interstate. All she remembered was the brutal metal peering out the top of Nate’s head, like a third ear, and the taste of that wretched woman’s flesh in her mouth.

Chapter Two

Kit sat in the living room reading a book about the hundreds of things that could go wrong when you tried to create a human being and expel it, still alive, through a hole smaller than its head. It was grisly and horrifying, but she liked this book better than the fluffy ones. This book read like a Guild briefing on a dangerous mission. Motherhood was not for the faint of heart.

Fenwick sat on the ground. He held an Allen wrench in one hand, dwarfed by his massive fingers. In the other hand he held the instruction manual for assembling the pieces of crib scattered in an arc on the carpet in front of him. Fenwick whistled and tightened the nut on a cross brace. He’d wanted to be a father as long as she’d known him, and he looked forward to the impending birth like a student who’d secured his dream job to start the day after graduation.

He smiled at her. Whatcha reading?

Pregnancy book. She had books on child rearing too, but she preferred the ones on pregnancy. Placenta previa, ectopic pregnancies, caesarians, breech birth, eclampsia. This book could be titled The Worry-Wart’s Guide to Pregnancy: Everything that Can and Probably Will Go Wrong. She could handle childbirth. Pain and blood? Bring it on.

It was everything after that she really worried about. How could she be responsible for another human being? How could she keep it safe? She hadn’t even owned a pet, except for Kaa, and Kaa fed and preened himself, living outside in the tree most of the time. Mothering seemed to be one of those instincts that most women were born with, along with shoe fetishism and germaphobia and all the other feminine traits that Kit had tried unsuccessfully to fake over the years. She couldn’t fake this, though. The kid would figure out pretty quick that she had no idea how to take care of it.

She set the book down on the side table, then glanced at Fenwick. He was six-and-a-half feet tall, muscular and barrel chested, with fair hair pulled back into a pony tail.

How’s it coming? she asked.

I’ll have it assembled by the release date.

He didn’t sound worried at all. Did he worry? Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal for him, since the expectations were lower. Have a job and show up now and again, and you were a good father. Assembling a crib was extra credit.

But being a good mother? You had to attend to a squalling, shitting fragile creature day and night, without ever letting on that you didn’t love it completely. If you did it yourself, you were bound to either be smothering or neglectful (or both) but if you hired someone better suited to the job, you were a bad mother who (selfishly) put career ahead of your family. And your career would probably suffer, and your child would suffer too, because so many of those nannies were child torturers in disguise, weren’t they? Isn’t that what the TV news loved to tell stories about?

She sighed.

Fenwick looked up. You’re worried.

Kit shrugged.

Fenwick got up. He plucked the book out of her grip and flipped it open. Scanning the pages, he flinched. He flipped to another page and flinched again. He shut the book with an audible clap and tucked it into the center of the pile of pregnancy books Kit had gotten from the library. Don’t read that. You’ll just make yourself upset. You’re healthy, and we have a good doctor. You’ll be okay.

Fenwick’s phone rang, and he reached into his back pocket to fish it out. He glanced at the ID and smiled. It’s Laurel.

Laurel? Oh. His cousin. Nice as pie, Laurel and Brad were so conventional and conservative that they addressed their Christmas cards to Mr. And Mrs. Alan Fenwick, and Laurel emailed Kit articles about homeschooling and canning your own vegetables. Women like Laurel did motherhood effortlessly. Women like Laurel were made to be mommies.

Earlier that year she and Fenwick had gone to visit them at their rural home in Montana. Kit had floundered to find a safe conversation topic. Family? She disliked her mother, didn’t know if her father and sister were alive or dead, had her brother give her away at her wedding. Religion? She considered herself a lapsed Catholic, but the Pagans in their town considered her a witch because she was the familiar of a forest goddess. Job? She worked for the Guild of Vampires, and was required by her boss to wear a gun at all times. Yes, even in Laurel’s kitchen, though she hid it under a loose cardigan and Laurel was too polite to comment if she noticed. No, she did not intend to quit her job when she gave birth.

My, these cookies are delicious. No, thank you, I’ve had enough. Tell me more about your genealogy research. Fascinating. Do tell. Yawn.

Kit spent the whole week feeling like a dog in a cat costume. These people socialized by gender, so lucky Fenwick got to go fishing with Brad. Kit got to help Laurel make scrapbook pages while Laurel chatted on endlessly about her life of placid domesticity. She should have been taking notes. Vitamin shots? Antibacterial hand lotion? Parenting: a strange country with a foreign language and mysterious artifacts. She picked up the next book in the stack and began to leaf through it.

Both boys? Fenwick asked.

His tone made her look up. Kit put her finger in the book to mark her page. Fenwick sat up straighter. The allen wrench and the instructions had fallen to the side.

How long will she be in ICU? The image of a bear flickered over Fenwick’s features, even though he was ten days past his last change. Unlike his cousin, he could change when stressed.

I’m so sorry. And they don’t know?

Kit put the book down. Her hand reflexively touched her side, where the holster of her gun usually rested.

Yes. Yes. No. Absolutely. We’ll do whatever we can.

Kit raised her eyebrows at him, but he shook his head.

Okay. Here she is.

Me? Kit mouthed, but she took the phone and answered it. She listened silently as Brad explained what happened. She listened to the description of the house, Laurel unconscious, the missing children, the tire tracks. Neighbors saw nothing. Police had no clues.

Kit’s hand absently stroked her abdomen. Who would do such a thing? Try to kill such a sweet woman and steal her children?

Laurel wanted to talk to you, Brad said. Wait a minute.

Kit waited, baffled, as Laurel picked up the phone. The hiss of a ventilator competed with her weak voice. We want to— wheeze —hire you. Find our children.

Hire me?

S’okay. Alan said you. Her silence was punctuated by the hiss and ping of machines. Can’t talk about your job. Secret spy stuff. wheeze You have disk?

Yes, Kit said. The genealogy disk, full of all Laurel had dredged up about the Lundquist and Cook families. Kit hadn’t gotten around to throwing it away. It was probably still in the piles of crap on her desk.

Werewolves, Laurel said. Werewolves took my boys. Find them. Track them down.

There was a muffled sound, and Brad came back on the phone.

I’m wiring a retainer, Brad said. Fifty thousand. Let me know if you need more.

Why me?

Laurel wants this to stay in the family. She doesn’t want the FBI to know about her trait. It’s a family secret. Anyway, they won’t believe werewolves, might think we’re crackpots just for asking.

That wasn’t entirely true anymore. The world was changing, secrets were slipping out, and even hyper-conservative types were starting to acknowledge that otherfolk existed.

But you didn’t contradict a grieving father. I understand.

You’ll do it? he asked. You’ll find our boys?

Yes, she said. She felt a thrill of anticipation, of adrenaline. A challenge. Courage. Pain and blood. She could do this. I’ll find them.

Thank you, Kit. I know we’ll both rest easier knowing you’re looking into this.

Chapter Three

Welcome to Utah.

Tessali frowned. Her understanding of geography wasn’t the best, but she was pretty sure that if you drove from Arizona to Texas, the direct path did not go through Utah. She peered closer at the map and tried to trace their route with her finger, but the map ended at the state borders.

She glanced around, not seeing Chance. The rest area consisted of an ancient concrete restroom and a caged vending machine. He was probably in the restroom then, and she should pee while she had the chance. A hot, dry wind whipped her hair, loosening it from its braid. The spare hills looked like folded bolts of jewel-toned fabric faded into pastel by the sun.

She heard someone behind her, and turned to see an elderly couple walking a small white dog. They stared at her, and Tessali glanced down and realized she was still wearing her costume from the Renaissance festival. Her skirts had once been brilliant blue, but had faded into a dusty gray. Her bodice had the same greyish green of the distant cacti. The old woman collected her dog and hustled back to the RV as if Tessali were dangerous.

Chance came up behind her. He still wore his faded purple peasant shirt, and his black hat, but he’d replaced the hose and codpiece with a pair of jeans. His dark brown hair whipped around his stubble-covered face. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses. Your turn to drive. Chance tossed her his keys. You’ve been sleeping long enough.

I had good dreams, Tessali murmured. She hadn’t, really. She’d had a true dream, where she was in the Realm of the Faerie again. It cured homesickness about as well as alcohol cured a hangover, but she couldn’t help herself.

He was already heading towards the passenger’s side, so she got into the driver’s seat. She tried to remember what Rosemary taught her. She adjusted the mirrors and seat. She’d never been in this car before, and everything felt strange, but Chance wasn’t even looking at her. He was rummaging around in the glove box for some maps.

Her hands were shaking as she turned the key. The turn signal was in a different place, and the gas wasn’t as responsive as in Rosemary’s car, but pretty soon she was out on the highway, and it was just like before.

Chance laughed. You’ve had the turn signal on for three miles.

Oh, Tess said, and turned it off.

Do you know how to drive?

On the highway. I need help in the city.

He leaned over.

She held herself tense, hoping he wouldn’t hit her. She wasn’t very good at charming people, and while she’d been hit enough times not to fear it, she didn’t heal as fast as she did at home.

Chance didn’t touch her, just peered at the speedometer. You’re going under the speed limit.

I can’t get pulled over. I don’t have a driver’s license.

You got it taken away?

I never had one.

Chance grunted. You got the right idea. Stay out of the system.

Tessali had never found it an advantage to not legally exist, but she didn’t want to be rude, so instead she asked. Where do I go?

Keep going east on the 70. Wake me when we reach Kansas. Chance dug some money out of his pocket and gave it to her. This is for gas. He rolled up his cloak and used it as a pillow. Soon he was asleep, snoring gently in the afternoon sunlight.

Road trips with Rosemary and Sage had been a lot different. Singing, talking, playing guitar. The last time they had gone to Scarborough, they had stopped to see the bats fly from the famous cave. Rosemary would stop at fruit stands, and the three of them ate dates or oranges or grapefruit on the side of the road, cutting them open with their belt knives and bending over the gravel to keep the juice from spilling all over their clothes. Sage had emailed religiously at first, but her emails had tapered off as the school year wore on. Sometimes, when she found a place to get email, she plugged her tablet in and looked at the pictures. It hurt almost as badly as dreaming of the Realm of the Faerie.

Chance slept a long time, deeply, as though the road were his home and this was his usual bed. Tess was afraid to wake him, even after it became dark, even after they left Colorado and crossed the border into Kansas.  In the end, she didn’t have to. Chance’s phone chirped, and he groggily roused himself to read the text.

Tessali pulled off the highway. She winced at the bright light of the convenience store. Her eyes felt gummy and grainy, her limbs stiff from the hours behind the wheel.

What are you doing? Why are you stopping? Chance demanded.

Gas? She glanced at him. Chance looked as though his dreams had angered him. His brow furrowed, and the easy looseness of earlier had vanished.

He nodded, and she relaxed. Tess pulled up in front of the pump. It was her turn to fill the tank, so she stumbled along, heading groggily towards the bright light of the convenience store.  After using the restroom and washing her face and hands as best she could, she fished her moneybag out of the front of her bodice. Chance was in the store, filling his arms with energy drinks and beef jerky. She joined him in line, adding a deep-fried cylinder filled with cheese, a frozen blue drink, and a bag of chocolate-covered nuts to his pile, along with cash to cover her portion of the food and gas.

Chance’s jaw was clenched, his eyes feverish. When they got back to the car, he plucked the gas hose out of the tank and threw his snacks into the front seat. He started the car and drove off before Tessali had even shut the door. She sat with her arms by her sides, trying to eat her snacks without any noise. The whistling of the windows and the shaking seemed to have grown more intense. She peered at the speedometer. Ninety-five. Signs appeared out of the darkness, marking off miles to cities she’d never heard of. Speed limit fifty-five. He glared at the dotted white line rushing past as if he were fleeing invisible enemies. Or perhaps pursuing them.

The headlights of the other cars appeared like witch lights in the darkness. It felt unreal, as if she were floating through space, with just her and the other cars and the yellow and white lines heading off into eternity.

Chance was really one of the lesser cousins, disguised as a human, and when they got to Texas, he’d shed his outer form and reveal himself to her, saying that he was impressed that she helped him so much, and what would she like as a reward. Tessali would wish to go home. No, she’d wish she were the richest woman in the world. No, she’d wish that she had a shirfa, and he’d be so impressed by her modesty in only asking for a simple article of clothing that he’d give her a fine wardrobe and a magic ring that would let her go home whenever she wanted. And she’d go home wearing blue gowns that were so impressively made that everyone would think she was an Elder’s daughter dressing modestly, and they’d invite her to a Jal-Dit match, and the winner would meet her eyes over the sands and fall instantly in love with her. And he’d court her, and everyone would think that they would bond, but she wouldn’t because another famous Jal-Dit player would want her for her spira, and the two fighters would fight for her, and the higher ranked one would win and she’d bond with her, but she’d be lovers with the male Vargel in secret, and everyone would whisper about it, but no one would have proof, and they’d compose poetry about the lovely Tessali and her famous lovers.

The whistling of the leaky windows made speech impossible and the shaking of the car jarred her to her bones. He passed the other cars as if they were standing still. She fell asleep.

Tess dreamed she was in the palace of Clan Holly, not far from the tiny apartment she shared with her mother before she got exiled. She was in the servants’ lounge, where Indel chattered and worked on mending tasks. She smiled as she heard the Hawthorn-inflected Indel cant.

This was a real dream, not a trash dream. She was really back home again, if only in spirit. She walked around, touching things with her fingertips. A basket of mending. Some cleaning supplies. A stack of embroidered floor pillows. When she concentrated, she could feel the texture of the threads. The first time she’d dreamt herself into the Realm of the Faerie she’d accidentally walked through walls. Being able to touch things didn’t fix her homesickness, but it helped.

Ginna walked into the room, carrying a stack of cushions. She smiled at Tess. Hello Tessali! So fine to see you again.

Ginna, they are expecting that in the music room, Tessali’s mother said. Ginna rolled her eyes and shuffled off, giving Tess an apologetic glance.

Tessali’s mother wore a simple gown embroidered exquisitely in her signature style. Palest brown threads blanketed the white skirt so thickly that the unembroidered patches created interesting negative space. Kirali Hawthorn was a good seamstress, no one would doubt that. If skill alone could gain her a reputation, she would have bonded above her station by now. Some of the crueler members of Clan Holly and Clan Hawthorn had pointed that out in Tessali’s presence.

Ah, the ghost has come back to haunt her old life. Kirali set her mouth in a thin line.

If Tessali had any question about whether this was a true dream or a trash dream, this dispelled it. Only her mother could hurt her so badly and so easily. Tessali let her head fall. I miss you.

Her mother’s face softened into the frown that was as close to an apology as she ever got. An important person has come to our clan. I wish her to wear my gowns. Please, Tessali. Would you stand in the way of this? It could lift my reputation greatly.

The sound of people in the hallway made Kirali turn. She turned back to Tessali with a look halfway between pleading and irritated.

Tessali could ruin her mother’s life. She could embarrass her clan, go where she wasn’t wanted, make sure that her mother never bonded with a decent karla.

But Tessali had never taken pleasure in the suffering of others. She nodded and walked away.

Leaving the Realm of the Faerie in a dream was like falling asleep. She fell into a trash dream, dreaming about going out for pizza with the singing laundresses and a couple of local guys who worked at the lemonade booth. Then she woke, hungry and with a strained bladder.

They were off of Interstate 70 now, driving on a narrow two-lane road. Tessali thought about asking if she could get out to pee, but a look at Chance’s face made her decide to hold it a little longer. Dawn came, and then faded into darkness again, as if the Queen of this land only wanted a day that lasted an hour. Tessali glanced out the window and saw the reason why: dark clouds had gathered around, flanking them from east and west.

When the squall hit them, she thought he would keep driving through it, but this rainstorm would not be ignored. Sheets of rain slapped the side of the car like waves. The other cars put on their headlights, and then grew infrequent, and then stopped, as wiser folk pulled over to wait it out. The third time the car hydroplaned on a gentle turn, Chance growled and put on his hazard lights. He pulled off into a small gravel road with no marker, parking a scant quarter-mile in.

Close enough, he muttered.

Close enough for what?

Stay here, he said. His eyes looked glassy, fevered, and his teeth were clenched. I got something to take care of.

He slipped the keys out of the ignition, opened the door, and splashed out into the storm. She peered out, blinking against the rain in her eyes.

Chance! she called out.

It was as if the storm had swallowed him.

She shut the door. The rain drowned out the sound of her breathing. Where had he gone? What was she going to do? Tess looked into the back of the car and saw rivulets of water pouring around the edges of the hatchback. She pushed aside his drums and his camping gear, pushing the propane stove into the floor of the back seat. It was tight, but she finally made space enough to lie down. She wiped off a corner of the window to peer outside. All she saw was gray water. A patch of black-eyed Susans bordering the field beyond had been flattened, and the gravel road flooded as deep as the rims of the car.

Nothing she could do but wait for him to come back. She lay down. It grew colder, and the condensing rain fogged the glass until it began to drip in rivulets down the slope of the hatchback. She tried to turn on her tablet, but the battery died before she could look at photos of her and Sage and Rosemary, back when Rosemary said she was like a daughter and Sage asked if Tess could live with them forever. Back when she still thought that might happen. Eventually, she fell asleep.

By dusk the following day, he still hadn’t returned.

Chapter Four

Kit peered through the glass, watching James package up one-pound packs of coffee beans. The roaster was churning away, so she had to tap loudly to get him to turn. His scowl became a smile when he saw her face. He unlocked the door and let her in.

Not open yet? she