I grunted. Swung the backpack over my shoulder, and left the room. On the other side of the hotel, I raised my hand to knock at a room door. Inside, I heard the same announcer, still talking about me, and the rumors surrounding me. She said, “Some sources think it’s possible that Jane Yellowrock may not even be strictly human herself.” That’s just hunky-dory. Derek already had questions about who and what I was.
I knocked and Derek opened the door. Fast. As if he had been expecting me. He was still wearing his suit from the night’s work and he held a handgun at his side. His gaze whipped over me and settled on my throat. In my peripheral vision, I saw him unlatch the safety, his finger moving smoothly. Not good. I tensed, knowing that even drawing on Beast-speed, I wasn’t faster than a bullet fired at point-blank range by a trained killer. “What happened to the scar?” His voice was low, emotionless, an interrogator, who intended to scare the crap out of his witness.
A knot rose in my throat, but my voice, when I spoke, was steady. “I took six months off after that kill. It took me that long to heal.” Which was the truth, as far as it went.
“Skin grafts?”
“Something like that.” Actually shifting two or three times a week, letting my body heal from the wound that had nearly decapitated me, but I wasn’t sharing that with him.
“And your eyes in the film? You got an explanation for that?”
“No.”
Suddenly Derek chuckled. “Injun Princess, did I ever tell you I was Creek Indian on my mama’s side?”
“No.” I wondered if Creeks had a skinwalker mythos. I wondered if he guessed about me.
He laughed again, slanting his eyes at me as he reset the safety. I remembered to breathe. “Watchu want Injun Princess?”
“Keys to one of the SUVs. Preferably one fully trucked out.” Meaning one full of com gear, an onboard computer system, GPS, some extra armor plating built in, weapons, and all the other bells and whistles that Leo had provided. Though he didn’t ask, and as the titular head of security on this gig, I didn’t have to volunteer, I added, “They don’t know it yet, but I’m joining the cops and the SAR team this morning.” When he raised his brows, I said, “SAR, park service and civilian-speak for Search and Rescue.”
Derek holstered his weapon and walked across the room. I heard metal clink against glass. “I’ll call for valet parking to bring it around. You need backup?” He tossed a set of keys to me. I caught them one-handed.
“No.” I stepped from his room and closed his door, moving fast, down the hallway. I knew Derek wasn’t exactly a friend, but the sliding safety-off move had caught me off guard. It showed what our relationship was. And wasn’t. In front of the hotel, I slid into the driver’s seat of a partially armored SUV and closed the door. On the way past, I studied the protestors from behind the heavily tinted, bullet-resistant windows. Their signs were not particularly innovative, but they communicated their desires well enough: STAKE ALL VAMPS. VAMPS DIE! CUT OFF THE FANGHEADS. GOD GAVE THE WORLD TO HUMANS. That kind of thing.
I initiated the GIS, merged that info with the GPS as I drove. Buncombe County used GIS, the Geographic Information System, which was part of NC OneMap, a sort of geospatial backbone, mapping, and information project of the state, used by law enforcement, park rangers, realtors, and others who wanted to pay the fee. It allowed info about GPS positions, addresses, parcels of land, individual mountain peaks, etc., to be downloaded onto a spreadsheet or printable map, and was especially helpful in the steep, mountainous land of the county. Leo had provided us access to the system, making my job a lot easier and finding the cops nearly effortless.