I sat down and gulped my tea. I'd never met Mr. Rodriguez. My father had spoken of him in flattering terms, and I'd been there when my mother had written his name and address on the portrait. I was told he was knowledgeable and I could ask him for advice. However, he wasn't a friend. When my parents vanished, I had written to him and received no reply.
Trying to phone him would be useless --no innkeeper would respond to a phone inquiry. The innkeepers were neutral entities and we operated covertly and independently of each other, separated by distance. The safety of our guests was our highest priority. We relied on first impressions and handshakes and did business face-to-face only.
If I made the trip to Dallas, there was no guarantee Mr. Rodriguez would even answer my questions.
What to do?
Sitting here waiting for the stalkers to make the first move was pointless. I had no idea what their avenue of attack would be. I didn't even have a clear idea what they were capable off. Was there some intelligence behind them pulling their strings or were they dumped here just to wreak havoc?
Leaving the inn was a risk, but it was a risk I had to take. I'd chosen to become involved --which might have been a mistake on my part, but now it was too late to second-guess it --and I needed to take steps to ensure the security of the inn. Forewarned is forearmed.
Besides, I'd overhauled the inn's security in the past three years. We'd run drills and tested different scenarios. The inn wasn't impregnable with me away, but breaking into it was impossible without making a lot of noise. I had a feeling noise was the last thing anyone wanted.
If I was going to go, I had to go now. At the moment Caldenia was my only guest, and she would stay safely in her quarters. But if another guest suddenly made an appearance, my trip would be canceled.
I got up and went upstairs to the northern balcony. Caldenia sat in her favorite chair, gazing at the street. She saw me and motioned with her long fingers. "Look. I find this extremely curious."
I sat next to her. Below us, a pair of cops was trying to calm two bloodhounds. The big goofy dogs shifted back and forth on their leashes. Officer Marais and another policeman looked on.
Finally one of the K9 officers got his dog under control and said something. The bloodhound obediently put its nose to the asphalt, took three steps forward, and backed away, whining, tail between its legs.
"Are they sensing the creature you brought in last night?"
"They are sensing Sean Evans."
Last night, as I was forced to hide in a bush with my grisly prize, I'd realized the creature's white blood was evaporating in the open air within about five minutes. The only way anyone would be able to track me would be by drag marks or scent. So I'd taken a risk and moved onto the road, dragging my corpse in plain view, ready to bolt or hide at the slightest noise. Eventually I'd made it to Uther Street, which connected to Igraine Road. I'd been about to turn onto Igraine when I saw Sean, a huge shaggy shadow, pure black, running on all fours. He'd dashed down Camelot and I'd sagged against the nearest fence to have a moment, afraid my heart might jump out of my chest because it was beating so fast.
The second bloodhound danced in place and howled, a hysterical, frightened wail.
"Last night he was reinforcing his signature," I said. "My guess is that he's ambitious as to what he considers his territory, so he must've gone quite far to mark his boundaries. Then when police showed up, curiosity got the better of him, and Sean turned to covert mode so he could close the distance fast, sneak up close, and see what was happening. His pheromone trail is all over the street."
The werewolves had three basic modes: their human form, which has the highest dexterity, they called the OPS form --operations; their wetwork form, a humanoid, wolflike monster for close and personal combat; and the OM, on-the-move, a covert form for rapidly and quietly covering great distances. When they shifted from one shape to another, the chemical cocktail in their bodies caused a release of pheromones that freaked out anything on four legs. Mrs. Zhu, an older werewolf who used to frequent my parents' inn, had told me the pheromone release was a deliberate signal, programmed into them but not under their direct control. When on a mission, it helped to know that other members of your group had changed shape without visual signs or sounds to give you away.
The neighborhood dogs had no problem with Sean the human. Sean the "wolf," however, made them hysterical. I was told that the pheromone emissions stopped within fifteen minutes or so of the transformation, they had left a lasting scent signature. Sean had freshly turned. I gambled that his scent would be strong and my gamble proved right. His pheromones freaked the bloodhounds out so much, they refused to follow his trail and since my trail lay in the same direction, they refused to follow it as well. With no blood and no scent trail, nobody had any reason to connect the inn and me with claw marks on the door of a house several streets away.
As if on cue, Officer Marais turned and looked directly at us.
"He suspects something," Caldenia said.
"He has no proof."
"If he ever becomes an issue, I could eat him. He looks delicious."