Those who'd decided to forgo the crowds, whether from exhaustion, too many children, or a genuine dislike of fireworks, had either gone to bed or were watching television in the darkened houses where blue-white lights flickered against the windows.
I saw the luceres' plan. Wipe out the ones who'd stayed home, then lie in wait for those who'd gone away. It was a good plan—if you were a pack of evil half-demons bent on murder.
Sliding behind the wheel of the Impala, I scanned the area for a place I could lie in wait myself. Lake Vista had a view of the lake on one side, hence the name. But on the backside lay an anomaly, a great towering grove of trees—as out of place here as the wolves would be.
We didn't call people from Illinois flatlanders for fun. Well, actually it was fun, but Illinois was also really, really flat. Until you got to the Mississippi.
We weren't anywhere near the Mississippi.
Illinois had once been prairie; in a lot of areas it still was. Farms surrounded by cornfields, silos, and massive electrical poles were the only structures with any height for miles once you left Chicago behind.
In Chicago there were plenty of skyscrapers, and even some bluffs near the lake, but there weren't too many trees. I wondered where in hell these had come from.
Suddenly I understood why the luceres had picked Lake Vista for their massacre. They could run into those woods as wolves if they needed to, then pop out the other side as human beings.
I made my way around to a dirt track that led into the tree cover. The Impala rocked on the rough terrain, and the carriage scraped against dirt, even as dry grass whispered against the bumpers.
I made it to the trees, slid the Impala between two of them, and the shadows closed around us with a near audible sigh. The dying sun flickered through the lush, swaying leaves and light danced across the windshield.
Behind me civilization loomed—suburb, city, freeway upon freeway—but in front of me lay a seemingly endless forest. Sure, if I kept going I'd hit another suburb or a highway that led to one. But right now I could see nothing but trees, not a flash of a car, not the faint grayish-white wash of cement. There could be anything out there.
"Even the big bad wolf." I laughed, but the sound was forced. I'd seen the big bad wolf. He did not wear Gramma's nightdress, nightcap, or glasses. He wore nothing but fur, and then he killed you.
I reconnoitered the area, searching for the best place to stand so that my shots would not be sent wide by low-hanging branches, but I could still remain far enough in the shadows so no one would see me if they happened to glance out of their windows. Once I found such a location, I doused the arrows with gasoline and built a pile so they'd be easy to reload.
All I had left to do was wait. I listened for the wind, thrilled to discover it had died, almost as if it were waiting, too.
I had no warning—not a shuffle of feet against the earth, not a whisper of a breath, but suddenly that invisible target on my back burned. Slowly, I turned.
In the depths of the trees, where the light had faded and the shadows ruled, a single pair of eyes flared. Too short to be human, too soon to be a lucere, nevertheless, I knew a wolf when I saw one.
Only that single set of eyes; was this a scout? Did the luceres plan to enter Lake Vista through the woods as I'd feared? I didn't want to shoot what appeared to be people with burning arrows, but I would if I had to.
However, my arrows were on the ground and so was the unloaded crossbow. I could make a grab for them, but I doubted I'd be able to get off a shot before the wolf was on me.
My Glock was in the car, useless against the luceres, but my knife rested in a sheath at my waist. I put my palm on the hilt. The weapon might at least slow the beast down.
The wolf snorted—not anger, more like amusement— and I stilled.
"Come into the light," I murmured, and when it did, I lowered my hand. "Sawyer."
I should have known.
CHAPTER 10
“What are you doing here?" I demanded.
The black wolf stepped completely out of the shadows. He looked just like a wolf—huge head, long legs, teeth and tail. I could never mistake him for a werewolf—he wasn't large enough and his shadow, when there was one, reflected only his animal form.
Sawyer was a skinwalker—both witch and shape-shifter—a powerful medicine man who walked a fine line between good and evil. He'd been cast out by the Navajo, who were very wiggy about the supernatural.
Sometimes one of his people tried to kill him. They never succeeded—it was damn near impossible to kill a skinwalker—which only added to his spooky-ass legend.
Long ago Sawyer's mother, the woman of smoke, had put a curse upon him. He could not leave the Dinetah as a man, which made it damn difficult for him to do anything but drool anywhere else.
The wolf was his spirit animal, but he could change into just about anything, as long as he wore a robe that reflected its likeness. For Sawyer, his skin was his robe. Upon it he'd tattooed the images of every animal he wished to become.