Chapter 28
Harbinger had lied to her. Being a werewolf wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d described.
Sure, it had been awful at first; mind-blowing pain, incoherent rage, and thoughts so darkly violent that they’d make a homicidal maniac cringe—that part was exactly like Harbinger had told her it would be. But then she’d found her groove. Thinking was hard, but not impossible. It just took more concentration.
At first, in the dark, encircled in freezing cold steel, she’d been scared. Then she’d gotten angry. There was nothing in the world more important than killing everyone for putting her in the box. The black frenzy had blocked out everything else until she’d literally exhausted her anger.
Eventually other thoughts had snuck through the cracks in the madness. Heather had remembered her family. They were all gone now, but they wouldn’t want to see her like this. They’d be ashamed to think of her tearing people’s limbs off. Since she’d been young, she’d thought of herself as a peacemaker. She had always been the one to break up the fights, to kick a bully’s ass, to crack a joke, to try to help someone in need. When she’d gotten older, she’d continued doing the same thing, only more so.
Born with a strong sense of right and wrong, Heather had been an absolutist when it came to doing the right thing. Stubborn, she’d accomplished everything that anyone had ever dared tell her she couldn’t. She’d stayed a peacemaker, then added protector to the resume as she’d gotten older. As a female police officer, she’d had to work twice as hard to be considered half as good. So it had been her nature to work herself to death to be considered one of the best.
Back in Minneapolis, she’d risked her life to save a kid from being sold and disappearing into the underworld. She had been undercover, just supposed to be observing a ‘massage parlor’ for Vice. They’d had no idea what kind of evil really took place there. All alone, the radio failed, no backup, stupidly outnumbered, it hadn’t mattered.…Nobody else was there to protect that kid, so Heather had. It had put her on the fast track to detective.
But then her mom had gotten sick, and she’d dropped everything and come home. The decision hadn’t even taken a second thought; someone needed her help. Unfortunately, the only thing she could do was help make her comfortable. Her mom’s death had shaken Heather, and then she’d repeated the process with her grandpa, and then finally with her dad. One after the other. Her grandpa had always been a melancholy and angry man, and when he died it was almost like her dad had inherited that darkness, and then when he was gone he’d passed it on to her, like a family curse. By the time all of the dying was over, she’d been left burned-out and empty. She’d given until there was just nothing left inside, and she’d spent the time since on autopilot.
Then some scumbag had come along and threatened her town. It had awakened that dormant protective nature, and Heather again had a purpose. And she was a force to reckon with when she had a purpose.
The tracks in the snow behind her were paws, but as the distance grew, the tracks changed. By the time they were footprints, she could think clearly again. She continued running through the trees. The ice should have hurt her feet, but there was no pain. The cold should have cut through her naked skin, but she was warm. Faster than was humanly possible, she ran for town, never getting short of breath, never tiring. It felt good to be strong. It would have been so easy to pick a new direction and just keep on running, but Heather focused on the job. People were counting on her, and she couldn’t afford to let them down.
* * *
Copper Lake donated several snowmobiles with full tanks of gas to the cause. Nancy said their owners weren’t around to miss them. She’d sent someone to grab them from a local rental place. They were parked in front of the gym, just outside the pink-slush zone. Earl had sent runners to gather every remaining weapon from his overturned truck and was in the process of strapping the cases onto the back of a newer Polaris while Aino read aloud from Aksel Kerkonen’s journal.
“I don’t understand this,” Aino complained. “It’s nonsense words.”
“Repeat them to me.”
“They’re gibberish.”
“It’s a spell.” Earl sighed. He hated magic and had zero talent in that regard, but if you spent enough time hunting, you were bound to gain some familiarity. Earl had intimate knowledge of dark magic’s effects; he’d seen the dead rise, seas boil, and fire rain from the skies, but the idea of invoking it himself was abhorrent. But if it meant the difference between beating the Alpha or not, then Earl wasn’t above dabbling in the black arts. “Read them to me.”
“Aksel wrote that the Baba Yaga walked him through saying these first. I’m no witch of the woods.”
“No, you’re way too pretty.” Earl had never encountered an actual Baba Yaga. They were rare even in the dark frozen corners of Europe they originally hailed from and nonexistent in his usual area of operations, but by all accounts that particular fey was hideously ugly. “Just sound them out, already.”
“Well, Aksel couldn’t spell for shit, so this should be close.” Aino cleared his throat and made an attempt at the words. “Allut tvar mataw.”
Agent Stark, having found some supplies and another weapon, joined them at the snowmobiles. “What’re you doing?” He was livid. “That sounds like Old Ones’ language. You can go to jail just for speaking that stuff.”
“Add it to the list of things you’re going to prosecute me for,” Earl said. “It’s all in that journal, Stark. The Soviets had a badass werewolf by the name of Koschei dealing out a lot of hurt during the Winter War. He was so tough they called him the Deathless, and it was all because he was wearing that damn amulet. They couldn’t kill Koschei no matter how hard they tried, until some enterprising young officer got tired of retreating and cut a deal with a Baba Yaga for instructions on how to kill him.”
“How complicated could it be?”
Aino looked up from the book. “She made some weird magic for them. She killed a bear, and inside its belly was a fox, and inside its belly was a chicken, and inside that chicken was an egg with a silver nugget inside, that she melted into a bunch of needles. Personally I think that part sounds like bullshit she made up so she could charge the army more money. The silver needles, they had to be driven square into Koschei’s forehead. Only place that would do, and they’d only work for a minute. Then somebody had to put their hands on the necklace and say the spell before it could be pulled off.”
Earl pointed at the antique Mosin-Nagant rifle on the back of his snowmobile. “That’s our long-range needle applicator. We find the super-werewolf. Shoot him in the face. Recite a few words. Then go out for coffee and doughnuts. My treat.”
Aino grunted. “I better get some damned sprinkles on mine.”
Stark was unimpressed. “Sure. Magic chicken egg antique silver bullets…How’d that work out last time?”
Earl didn’t look up from tying down cases. “Our boy Aksel was the only survivor, but he got the job done.”
“Superstitious nonsense. We should play this by the book. Casting spells is against the law.”
“I know that, but you want to square off against a super-werewolf that the hardest sons a bitches that ever came out of the frozen north couldn’t beat without cheating, be my guest.”
“You get an Old One’s attention, or even worse, bring one here, and we’ll be—”
Earl had never realized just how uninformed a senior member of the MCB could be. Myers, in comparison, was remarkably competent. “Okay, okay. Listen…” Earl tried to control his frustration, but since he was resisting the urge to strangle Stark, he considered it a win. “Didn’t they teach any classes at your fancy MCB school besides witness intimidation? Baba Yaga are fey, not Old Ones.”
“What’s the difference?” Aino asked.