The relationship—if I could call it that—with Rick was still wobbly: bruised by miscommunication, stupid accusations, big-cat pheromones, and worse, the tattoo spells that kept my were-cat sorta-boyfriend in human form. Oh. And the were-taint that was said to be communicable by, um, having fun. Okay, maybe relationship was too strong a word nowadays. I pulled my hip-length hair across my shoulder as I walked out the side door and onto the porch. “So, where are you?”
“Too far for a meet and greet. I hope to get your way soon and make up for lost time, if you still have room for me with all the new men in your life.”
“New men?” Incredulity laced the word.
“The Younger brothers?”
I’m not the most man-savvy gal in town, but even I detected the hint of jealousy in his tone. “Partners, Ricky Bo. Not hanky-panky.”
“Good.” His voice dropped into the big-cat-purr register, more vibration than note. “I was kinda hoping you’d save all the hanky and the panky for me.”
“I was leaning that way. But for that to work, we need to cross paths sometime. You suck at the boyfriend stuff almost as much as I suck at the girlfriend stuff.”
“Soon,” he promised, “we’ll remedy that. But meanwhile, would you be interested in a side job for Uncle Sam?”
I sat on the edge of the porch, my legs in the weak March sun, feet in the lemon thyme ground cover. The smell wafted up from my feet and tickled my nose. “PsyLED?” The arm of the government that employed Rick seemed more likely to want me on a dissection table than on their payroll. Of course, maybe not. They had hired Rick. “Do they know . . .” About me? Not said aloud.
“That I’m dating a statuesque Cherokee? I told them all about us. They’re good with it.”
The subtle emphasis on statuesque Cherokee told me that he was keeping my secret. Not that my being a skinwalker would be secret for long. Not now that I had been outed to the paranormal world in such a spectacular way—by changing to one of my animal forms in the back of a car—in front of numerous people, including the vampire Master of the City of New Orleans, Leo Pellissier. It was the only thing that had saved my life. But yeah. My anonymity wouldn’t last long. “Why don’t you do it, what’s the job, how dangerous, and how much?”
“You don’t have to sound so suspicious,” he chuckled, “because this one is boring and the pay sucks.”
“Oh, well, as long it’s all that.”
“And more, Jane. Seriously, though, there have been a number of wild dog attacks west and south of you.” His tone changed and I couldn’t tell at first why. “They’ve been going on for four months with increasing severity. All on the full moon. All the victims died. Eaten.”
Werewolf, I thought, feeling all the joy leach out of me. I had helped decimate the pack of werewolves that had invaded Louisiana, killing almost the entire pack to save Rick from them. Instantly I remembered the sound of gunfire, the sight of wolves falling and dying, their howls and screams of fury and pain.
My team and I had saved Rick, but he’d nearly died. And saving him had left him scars, not the least of which were the spelled tattoos the alpha wolf-bitch had tried to eat from his arm and shoulder. She had mangled the tattoos badly, and messed up the magic spelled into them, which now kept him from turning into his were-cat black leopard form on the full moon. He had been tortured. Raped. Abused beyond sanity, yet he had survived. Rick was tougher than nails, which was not something I had expected when I met the pretty boy on my first day in New Orleans.
His tone in the safety zone of cop-speak, he went on. “The attacks started in Alexandria, and at first seemed to follow a trail leading south, along I-49.” The location and trail indicated that there could be a connection between the decimated werewolf pack and the pack of so-called wild dogs. Wild dogs didn’t follow highways. Werewolves might. “Recently the attacks have been centered near Chauvin, which is two hours from New Orleans and south of Houma. And I’m stuck farther north for the next few days.”
I thought about that. Centering in one location meant that they had chosen hunting ground and claimed territory. However many there were now, they were likely getting ready to expand their numbers—build a big pack. And two hours was within the distance I could safely travel from New Orleans. Long story, but I was bound to the MOC, the chief fanghead. Only he didn’t know it. The job Rick offered was doable. And I was bored. . . .
Carefully, trying to keep from hurting him, I said, “So. Okay. I’m to rule out . . . um . . . werewolves. That’s the job, and you’re too far away, and that’s why you aren’t doing it. So what about the danger and the pay? I’m still listening.”
“We need you to ride around, talk to the sheriff and the local law, see what you can sniff out.” He meant in animal form but wasn’t saying that over a phone. He added more slowly, “Inspect both the crime scene pictures and the scenes themselves. I’ve seen the pics, but you might see things I missed.”