“By dragging Renny and her boy out in the middle of the night?” his brother asked with incredulity.
“You would have done the same. Twice now, something’s come after my son.” Caleb quickly brought his brother up to speed. By the time he’d told him about the incident at the picnic, the grocery store, and the latest mishap at Renny’s place, Constantine had a pensive look.
“It’s happening again.”
Well, that wasn’t what Caleb expected to hear. “What’s happening again? What the hell are you talking about?”
Constantine met his gaze. “I keep forgetting you didn’t keep up with the local news. Or at least the shifter news from our town. It first started a few years back.”
“Hold on to that train of thought.” Caleb held up a hand. “Don’t tell me yet. Let’s go outside and you can explain what you mean while I check the perimeter of the property.”
Because while they’d driven several miles out of town, that thing, whatever it was stalking his child, had obviously no problem traveling or tracking.
Outside the house, the hum of the window cooling units was louder, but despite that, Caleb could hear the comforting sound of crickets and other bayou noises. Nothing out of the ordinary approached, but still, it never hurt to be sure.
As Caleb set off to walk around the house, eyes on the ground watching for prints, Constantine launched into a recap of some of the weird shit plaguing Bitten Point.
“So about two years or so after you left, we had a rash of disappearances. No men, just a few women and children. All shifters.”
“Abductions or murders?”
His brother shrugged. “We never really did find out. A few of those who went missing turned back up with no memory of what had happened while others…” He trailed off.
“Never came back?”
“Nope. They vanished as if into thin air.”
Or as if swallowed by the bayou. The swamps knew how to keep a secret—and a body.
“How long did this go on for?”
“Not too long. Two-three weeks at most. But at the time it was happening, there was talk among some of the children that they’d seen a monster.”
“That looked like a dinosaur?” Caleb asked.
“Actually, no, the rumors I heard said it was a wolfman, all fur and big teeth and claws.”
“A Lycan, in the bayou?” An incredulous note entered Caleb’s voice.
“No, as in a wolfman that walked on two legs, which we know is impossible.”
“Not really.” Caleb’s discoveries outside the bayou shattered many long-held beliefs.
“What do you mean not really?”
“It means that some of the things we grew up thinking were absolute aren’t. Shifters can walk on two legs, or four, or even eight.” Shudder. That one still gave him nightmares. “While the ability to shapeshift into a hybrid form is rare, it does exist. I’ve seen it.”
For a moment, his brother simply blinked at him. “Well, hot damn. Can you do it?”
He couldn’t lie. “Yes, but I don’t recommend it.” The mix of man and croc at once made for a strange mental process, but it was better than leaving the croc in utter control.
“Don’t recommend it? But why?” His brother’s face lit up. “I could be snakeman!”
For a moment, the Goliath that was his brother reminded him of the little boy Caleb used to have following him around, hero worship in his eyes.
“Snakeman?” Caleb couldn’t help a teasing lilt. “Leaving a slimy trail everywhere he slithers.”
While Caleb took after their dead father and became a crocodile, Constantine, took after their mother, a python. Given his bulk now, Caleb had to wonder just how big his snake had gotten. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to find out.
“Snakes don’t leave gooey trails.” Constantine drew himself straight and adopted a haughty sneer. “Try more like crushing his enemy in his mighty grip.”
“Hugging is not a fighting technique.”
“Neither are nibbles, crockie.”
“I’ve been trained to fight.”
“I guess they threw in the asshole lessons for free.”
The rebuke was tossed without any real malice, making it even more effective. “Sorry.”
“Whatever. I think from now on, instead of saying sorry, we should start a jar. Twenty bucks every time you say it. I figure within a week, I’ll be able to afford a whole new set of tires for my truck.”
The fist slugged his brother’s arm before Caleb could think twice. It was a habit from his military days when he and the boys shot the shit. For a moment, he could only gape at his brother, wondering how Constantine would take it.
He grinned. “Didn’t hurt.”
At those familiar words, Caleb did laugh. How many times had they used that phrase growing up, trying to prove who was toughest?
As far as he recalled, Caleb had been in the lead from the time he got shot with buckshot in the ass and grinned—over gritted teeth—while Ma yanked the pellets out with tweezers.