I did the same to the wolf on the floor, but if weres shifted using the same laws of physics as I did, it wasn’t likely they would hold either guy.
Back in the office, there was a fresh stink of marijuana, coarse and prickly to my nose. I held my hand to the kid behind the counter and he removed the tape, placing it in my palm. But he didn’t meet my eyes, his own sliding to the right. I smiled, knowing it wasn’t a sweet smile. “If I find you made a copy or switched tapes, or anything else that comes close to breaking our agreement, I’ll come back and take my three hundred plus bucks out of your hide.”
Fingers shaking, he lifted a second tape from behind the counter and placed it in my hand. “Business doing nice with you,” I said, quoting him. He didn’t smile when I left.
In the parking lot I dug out my throwaway cell and punched in the number for the cop who had warned me that Rick was missing, Sloan Rosen. When he answered, I could tell he was at work, cop-shop noise in the background.
“You boys still missing a cop?” I asked, hoping they had recovered Rick, alive, since four a.m., and knowing Rosen would recognize my voice.
“Yes,” he said, his tone conveying that he was in the presence of other cops, and holding a warning that told me to be careful what I said.
I gave the hotel name, address, and room numbers. “Rick LaFleur was there until four a.m. He was alive when he left, but the dogs he was investigating know he’s a cop and I’m guessing they weren’t happy about it. If you hurry, you’ll find two trussed-up werewolves to question.”
“Who is this?” Rosen asked. “How did you know about the cop?”
“Cute,” I chuckled, knowing he was protecting both of us with the questions. “And while you’re at it, let me suggest that a sheriff’s deputy drop by Leo Pellissier’s. One of the puppies told me the wolves reconnoitered the clan home of the MOC at four this morning.” Sloan swore and I closed the cell, cutting the connection. I pulled out the battery, put them both in my pocket, and roared toward home.
My demeanor caused Evangelina and Bruiser to back away, their questions unasked. I shut my bedroom door and went online, pulling up city maps and vamp history and printing it all out so I could look over it one more time. I started at the front and went through everything, not reading, just looking, letting my mind take in it what it wanted. Midway through I saw the photo of a child, olive-skinned, dark-haired and dark-eyed. A pretty, young boy with short ringlets and a lace collar. I studied the photo. Something about the chin, the shape of the eyes, the mouth held in a tight, angry line, looked vaguely familiar. I flipped it over. On back, in the same cursive as the small sample of photocopied journal, was written Terrence Sweets, 9 yrs.
I kept on searching, knowing that something was here. If I just knew what to look for. Vamps didn’t have conflicts that started today. They had conflicts with roots in the past. Sometimes way in the past. This one started back in the early 1900s, and because I hadn’t figured it out yet, Rick might be dead. When I reached the end, I threw the pile of photos and photocopies onto the bed in disgust.
“Think,” I whispered to myself. The cops had heard that were-cats were in town, parleying with Leo in the two weeks before the official announcement and weres came out of the furry closet. They sent Rick in to investigate. The wolves showed up and Safia somehow heard about them. Rick heard about the wolves from Safia and went to visit them too. So far so good.
After a day off in the mountains with me, he dove right back undercover—but something had changed in his absence. Ricky Bo had known there were problems when he got back to town, but for whatever reason, he couldn’t call in official backup. So he’d taken a girl to breakfast at our favorite restaurant—Safia? The wolf-girl?—hoping I’d dig deeper. And I hadn’t. I’d pouted. Working for Leo had done the rest. I’d ended up in the middle of fighting cats and dogs and left Rick out to dry.
Angry at myself, at Leo Pellissier, and at Rick, I reweaponedup—not that I thought I’d need firepower until night, but, since I’d never been very good at walking softly, it might be smart to carry my big stick everywhere I went. Especially if there was a chance I might not make it back before nightfall. I dressed in my leathers, strapping the M4 to my back with the extended butt stock in place. I wouldn’t be target shooting but the extra stability might be handy. The Benelli was loaded with seven hand-packed, silver fléchette rounds, 76 millimeter shell shot, six in the magazine, one in the chamber.
My braided hair I curled into a fighting queue, leaving nothing to grab during a down-and-dirty fight. I added three sidearms to my weaponry and magazines to my pockets. Lately, when I bought weapons, as many as possible used 9 millimeter ammo and interchangeable magazines. Handy in case a gun jammed. And all guns jammed eventually, no matter how well machined.
I added all my claws to sheaths, my favorite vamp-killer—the hilt hand-carved by Molly’s husband Evan—under my left arm. I caught sight of myself in a mirror, my eyes glowing dark gold, my face pale and set.
A shadow on the wall at my back moved, the reflection of a branch at the window, pushed by the slow breeze outside, something I never noticed. But for an instant, it was a shadow on a cabin wall, moving with purpose. I heard again the slapslapslap of the yunega’s body hitting my mother’s. I felt my father’s blood cooling on my face as I added more stripes, blood promising blood.