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As I looked in the mirror again, my image flashed. It was as if my panther self and my tabby self were superimposed over my face, and al sides of myself began to merge, blending together as the tattoo on my forehead glistened and flared bril iant red, then back to the shimmering black. A wave of heat rushed through me, and I grabbed the nearest chair to steady myself.
"Hel . . . what was that?" My entire body felt on fire, and I dropped my head back as I started to sweat. It was almost the same confusion I felt the first time I shifted into my black panther form, but this was less transformational energy and more . . . like I was a pil ar of fire.
"Crap--what the . . . what's happening?" And then everything went dark, and the last thing I felt was the floor coming up to meet me.
CHAPTER 3
Blinking, I sat up, looking around. I was standing in a forest ful of wild, overgrown bushes and undergrowth. The trees were incredibly tal , rising far into the sky, towering beyond my sight. Cedar, fir, oak, alder, and birch--their trunks were thick with moss and toadstools, and lacework moss dripped from the boughs, swaying in the faint breeze that wafted past me. The deciduous trees were covered with a medley of red and orange leaves, burnished gold and yel ow, and from every branch dripped the last vestiges of some autumn rainstorm.
I stood, examining myself, but I seemed to be okay. No bumps, bruises, or cuts. I glanced around, wondering if I was dreaming. I seemed to be standing on a path that led deep into the forest, and a compulsion drove me to take off jogging down it. Wherever I was, there was something ahead waiting for me.
I raced along, my speed picking up as I ran. The trees flew by in a blur, and I realized how much I was enjoying the movement. My body felt so alive, zinging with energy, ful with the chase. My muscles rejoiced, stretching, moving, pumping ful with the blood that flowed through the veins in my body.
The sky was somewhere between twilight and dusk here--wherever here was--and even in the dim light, I had no problem seeing the scattered limbs and boughs that littered the trail. As I ran, I began to notice that I wasn't out of breath. Nor was I tiring. I leapt over rocks the size of my head and hurdled a fal en trunk blocking the path before coming to where I could see the end of the trail.
The drive to run slowed, but the summons forward was no less strong. I headed toward the opening leading out of the woodland. At the edge of the tree line, I found myself staring into a dark circle--a grove of sorts, and in the center rested a circle of bronze, engraved with runes and symbols I could not read.
I approached it slowly, holding my breath, waiting to see what would happen. Magic fil ed this place; it surrounded me like a crackling vortex, and even though I wasn't familiar with its workings, I could sense it racing through me, along my skin like a flurry of pinpricks, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
And then, as I watched, a figure appeared on the dais. It was a man dressed in a dark suit. He was young--he couldn't be over thirty--and a lost, confused look spread across his face. I frowned. What the hel was I supposed to do now?
As I watched him, a soft voice whispered from behind me.
"Training day, darling."
I whirled to find myself facing a petite woman dressed in a long, sheer robe the color of the twilight sky. Her hair was burnished copper, the same color as Menol y's, and it curled past her shoulders in thick waves. A wreath of autumn leaves ringed her head. I caught my breath--on her forehead was the same Mark I bore, the same tattoo. Only hers flared with a bril iant flame that burned brightly in the center of the crescent. And on her arms--intricate vines and leaves inked in vivid black and orange twined their way up her skin, glimmering tattoos mirroring the black of the crescent on our foreheads.
"You . . . you're . . ."
"A Death Maiden, like you. And yet, not like you. I am dead, yes, and yet as tangible and corporeal as you are." Her gaze met mine as she swept over me like a scanner, taking me in, examining me, and--I felt--finding me wanting. I blushed and stared at my feet.
"My name is Greta, and I've been assigned to be your trainer." She reached out, and her fingers brushed my chin. Greta could barely top five feet, but the power in her touch nearly knocked me flat.
"Tra . . . trainer?" The confidence I'd felt earlier seemed to flow away as her energy slammed into me. Like the Autumn Lord, and yet, not. She was steeped in his energy, but she didn't carry the season in her wake--instead she was . . . the huntress. The hunter, the hound after the fox, the tiger after the gazel e, the cat after the mouse.
"Our Master has declared it time to begin your formal training. You are the only living Death Maiden who has ever graced his stable; therefore you must be trained cautiously and with care. I am the leader of the Death Maidens and the best choice to help you adjust to your duties."
She circled the dais, staring at the man.
"I didn't realize I had to train for anything. He summons me and tel s me what to do." I was so caught off guard that I didn't realize she was creeping up on me. And then she was there, standing beside me, barely as tal as my shoulder.
"No more. Your training begins in earnest with me. Tonight, you learn what it truly means to be a Death Maiden. You watch. You listen. You feel. You begin your journey toward realizing the ful potential of just what you are becoming."
Before I could speak, she reached up and brushed her fingers over my mouth. "Silence. Speak not. Hush and be stil ."
And I was stil .
Greta moved toward the dais, toward the kneeling man. She leaned over the bronze circle. A frightened glimmer fil ed his eyes and he backed away, but a force--one I could feel from where I stood--kept his knees locked on the dais, and he struggled, trying to free himself.
"No, no, no, my friend." Greta whispered, and her voice echoed through the glade, a tril of sex and desire and love. "Do you know who I am?"
He bit his lip. "I'm not ready. I'm not ready to go." He swal owed, and when he spoke again, the tremor had faded. "It can't be my time."
"But it is. The natural balance demands it. The Harvestmen have sent me. You are a brave man, you have saved many lives today, but to balance the scales, the web demands your own death." Greta's voice danced in a singsong manner, tripping over her words. "Ronald Wyndhym Niece, I come for your soul."
And then he was crying. "But I helped save them--I did everything I could, and now . . ."
As I watched, Greta stroked his face and murmured something I couldn't catch. The tears dried instantly, and he looked up at her, a grateful and beautiful light fil ing his face. She leaned down, kissed him gently, then harder, and he opened his arms to her. As she slid against him, he embraced her, and their kiss turned long and luxurious.
