Black Beast by Nenia Campbell Read Free Book Online Page B

clothes and tugged on her t-shirt and panties. She slung on the flannel shirt without buttoning it, pulled on her pants and zipped up her fly. Her bra she stuffed into her pack because it would take too long to put on.
     
    She felt watched, and every beat of her heart was a drum of resentment towards her unseen assailant.
     
    The fire was his way of flushing her out. She knew it was a male because of the scent. It was stronger here, the sex obvious. Males were musky in a way that females were not. She thought she detected a feline odor too, though that had mostly been washed away and concerned her less than the cloying smell of ozone.
     
    She tugged her messenger bag out from where she'd wedged it, in the V-shaped groove of the oak tree's overlapping roots. Instinctively, she checked her bag. Nothing was missing. The book was still there.
     
    Its clasp was unfastened, though, and Catherine definitely remembered latching it. She could smell the witch's scent on her belongings, too, and the alarm bells sounding in her ears—muted until now—became a deafening blare that dizzied her with the sheer force of its intensity. Someone was following her for sure.
     
    And that someone had gone through
her
things.
     
    She was furious; she was terrified.
     
    Above her head, the sky grew darker, until it was almost black. As black as her mood. She felt liable to do anything. The witch had pushed her too far.
     
    Catherine skittered up the hill's face, vigilantly scanning the crest. Going up was far more terrifying than coming down. It was harder, slower, and she had to divide her attention between the slippery ground and the upward slope. Gravity was working against her, and it would be far too easy for someone to sneak up on her.
     
    That's not going to happen.
     
    But the leaves of the trees rustled ominously as she half-ran, half-stumbled. She kept expecting them to burst into flame and wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or anxious when they didn't. Only the cruelest hunters set their traps with terror and trepidation.
     
    She was glad to reach the top unscathed. She had a fair idea of where she was, and it wouldn't be too difficult to get back to civilization. She could take the bus home and figure out what to do about this witch of hers in the safety of her own home.
     
    A crack split the air, blinding her, and she was pushed back by a wall of heat as the log in front of her erupted into a massive fireball. The wind ripped her surprised scream of pain and fear from her lips, tossing them heavenward, mockingly.
     
    She lay on the ground, prostrate, stunned. Purple splotches danced before her eyes, lingering afterimages of the burning flames. Her ears were ringing but she seemed all right otherwise.
     
    She got to her hands and knees. She felt the cold sting of wet mud through her jeans, but was past caring.
     
    “What the fuck do you want?” she snarled.
     
    There was no response, save for a distant rustle.
     
    Catherine stumbled to her feet. “Show yourself, you goddamn coward. Show yourself so I can tear you apart.”
     
    A brown rabbit poked its quivering nose out of a juniper hedge. It stared at her for a long moment before diving back into the prickly underbrush to take shelter from the rain. A startled laugh escaped her, bubbly with panic and misplaced relief. A rabbit. It was just a rabbit.
     
    But a rabbit didn't set those fires
, she reminded herself.
He's still out there, watching me.
     
    How stupid she was being. How careless. That was how this all started—her being careless. She put her hands to her head, testing for injuries, and, finding none, threaded her fingers through her hair.
     
    He must have been watching her since that afternoon, waiting for the perfect moment to get her alone. And she had led him to the perfect place, given him the perfect opportunity. Out here, in this storm, there would be no one around to hear her screams.
     
    Proof that witches were not as urbane as they liked to