Grindy-marks and tracks were pressed into the edges of the kill-site, indicating that the little green Yoda-golem-wolf-killer came upon the site after the killing. Maybe several hours after. The grindy didn’t have access to modern transportation and had to swim, hence the tracks up from the stream below.
As I worked, thoughts floated through my mind, a free association that meant nothing until my subconscious found the linchpin and tied everything together with a satin bow. Useless, tired thoughts like: I need to find the grindy and pair up with him to track the weres, speeding both our searches. But I have no idea how to find him. I wish I had access to a dog form by day, to scent-track. But if I shift, I’ll be stuck in the shape until moonrise or nightfall, whichever comes soonest. And if I come upon the wolves in dog form? No dog has the natural weapons of a werewolf. I’d be Janeburger. And lastly I noted that the wolves had been particularly grisly in the way they had attacked and eaten the men, going for maximum impact—leaving a message.
I crossed the crime scene tape again and was back on the periphery, leaving Sam chatting to a tech, when I smelled something unexpected. I placed Sam and the techs—all were busy—before dropping to my knees in the brush, the small backpack riding up under my arms. I moved across the ground on four limbs, half crawling. The scent was faint, the reek of old, dried blood, overlaid and almost masked by pungent were-scent. On hands and knees, I followed the old-blood odor to a pile of leaves at the base of a tree. Checked the others again, finding them involved in their jobs, Sam discussing manburger with a tech. I reached in and rustled through the leaves. My fingers encountered something hard and cool. Metal. I palmed it and eased it out.
It was Rick’s key chain, the old one the wolves had access to when they had him prisoner. I had seen his new one yesterday, enamel black leopard. This one was plain, on a worn-out biner. I’d seen it many times, but it was best identified by the old scent of his blood.
The wolves dropped it, not by accident, but knowing it would be found. I palmed the keys, putting things together. I’d taken on the two surviving wolves of the Lupus Pack and won, as no human could have, not even with an element of surprise. They had bitten me, tasted my blood. They knew I wasn’t human. The weres were goading me, challenging me. Come and get us. If you can. And not just me. They had taken down victims, tried to turn them, in the Pigeon River at the bottom of Stirling Mountain. Which is where Rick and Kem were staying. Weres lived by smell, so they knew the were-cats were there. On the surface, the attack had been intended to turn humans. On the underside, it sent a message to me, Rick, and Kemnebi, leader of PAW, the Party of African Weres. I was the one who had brought Kem-cat and Rick here, which made it all my fault. Crap. I pocketed the key chain and jogged around the crime scene to Sam. “Describe the bottom of the gorge for me?”
He walked to the edge and looked down the mountain. “Thirty, maybe forty degree slope. Near vertical further down. Dangerous going and damn hard work coming back up. Debris-clogged storm runoff at the bottom.”
I thought about my paddler buddies. “Is it something that could be paddled or rafted?”
“Not by anyone sane, sober, or with ten functioning brain cells.”
I snorted softly. “Yeah, well, it was just a thought.”
“A stupid one.”
I lifted a hand and jogged away, back up the mountain. When I reached Grizzard’s position, hidden among the trees, he called out, “You learn anything?”
I thought about the key chain in my pocket, and knew Grizzard saw something cross my face. I had never been good at lying, and lying to cops was harder still. “Mmm,” I said, and scratched my chin thoughtfully. “I think there are only two, and they’re looking to make mates.”
Grizzard grunted. “Damn supes.”
“Yeah, well. The grindylow is on the humans’ side. Tell your guys to be on the lookout for a green Yoda with fangs and claws, about four feet tall. Don’t shoot it. It’s your friend.”
Grizzard’s eyes narrowed. “This grindy better not take the law into his hands. Vigilante law’s got no place in my county.”
I chuckled. “You corner the wolves, and they’ll go down fighting. Which means your men stand a chance of being injured and waking up furry. Then, if you do manage to subdue them, you have to put them in a cage strong enough to hold them, then feed them, and care for them, even when they go furry. Werewolves are more dangerous than any other supernatural creature, even a vamp. They’re literally insane. Let the grindy do his job. Just my advice.”
“I’ll take it under consideration. You guarantee that fangheads didn’t do this?” He jerked his head vaguely down the mountain.
“Guarantee.” I looked at my watch. I had missed church. Dang it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
You Chasing the Big Doggies?