“Oh goody.” He coughed into his fist. “We’ve got scat.”
He knelt beside the human-sized pile of poop and used stick to break it apart, searching for larvae to age the dry mass. It was all I could do to see through the tears streaming from my eyes from the foul stench.
“Less than twenty-four hours old.” He covered the waste, sans larvae, with a layer of dirt. “It’s still in the area. That’s good news.”
“How is it even pooping if it’s dead?” I pulled up short. “Does that mean vampires poop?”
Taking the question in stride, Clay answered, “The zombie is expelling gristle and bone that—”
The wind changed, causing the stink to follow us, and I gagged as it swirled around us.
“Never mind.” I swallowed convulsively. “Forget I asked.”
A bone-chilling howl rent the quiet night, unmistakable for a wolf or coyote, and I shivered at its hunger.
Flame ignited on my periphery as Asa embraced his daemon form in response to the threat.
“Close.” The daemon flared his wide nostrils. “Smell bad.”
“You can say that again.”
“Close,” he repeated with adorable earnestness. “Smell bad.”
That was about the time I noticed we were still holding hands, and mine were aching thanks to the new width of his palm and girth of his fingers. Gently, so as not to hurt his feelings, I released him.
The daemon took no issue with that, happy to trade me a lock of his hair to hold instead.
Because of course he did. The only person more obsessed with his hair than me was him.
We tracked the wendigo four miles before we came to a crevice in a rock face that acted as the entrance to a narrow cave. Details from the copycat case rose in my mind, and I struggled not to pivot on my heel and march right back to the cabin.
Layers of brittle tape curled, as if this mural had been taken down and put up many times over the years and the artist didn’t want to risk damaging the paper further. The fae presses had the most extensive coverage, but the major para newspapers—all magicked to appear blank to humans—had run the story.
Candids of Clay and me from those days filled spots here and there on the wall, but the bottom row…
For a moment, my heart forgot how to beat, and my blood turned to ice water in my veins.
Colby was safe.
Safe.
Not every bad thing that happened was an elaborate plot to harm her.
We had a simple case. Track the zombigo, kill it—again—then find the witch responsible for creating it.
That was it.
That was all.
Nothing hinky.
Nothing Colby-y.
Nothing to worry about.
Once I tuned out the annoying pounding of my frantic heart, the guys’ too, I detected no other signs of life.
“I’ll go in.” I moved toward the jagged entrance, eager to burn off my nerves. “You two stand watch.”
Clay rolled his shoulders, clearly uneasy with me going in solo, but he couldn’t fit through the opening.
The daemon wavered in preparation for a shift, but I put my hand on his arm to stop him.
“I need you both in fighting form if it’s in there.”
The daemon was unimpressed with my reasoning, but he grunted assent and stood with Clay.
They had to know that I knew that they knew there was no zombigo in there.
Otherwise, they wouldn’t stand there and let me walk into certain danger. Still, despite the ding to my pride, I intended to explore in the event there were clues to be found. Poop was nice and all, but its secrets were limited. Or should that be secretions?
To light my way, I slid my wand from its sewn-in pocket in my pant leg and willed the tip to brightness.
A loud crunch underfoot distracted me as I wriggled between the stone slabs barring my way.
Lifting my boot, I identified a jawbone snapped in two from my weight.
A human jawbone.
The deeper I traveled, the worse it smelled, until I hit a narrow anteroom stacked to the high ceiling with bones. Some were cracked and yellowed with age, but flesh clung to others, reminding me of ribs from a macabre barbecue joint.
The human remains were easy to spot, but there were animal bones too. A rotting carcass in the corner was the source of the stink, not the wendigo. I got close enough to determine species, but it was only an unlucky bobcat who had been a snack a few weeks ago. Most likely prior to the wendigo’s zombification.
Now certain I was alone in the cave, I brought out my phone and allowed for the minor distraction of taking photos to give us an idea of how many humans had gone missing over how many years.
A careful wendigo, a loner, could hide in one spot for decades without being discovered by the locals.
Proximity to Chattanooga promised it a buffet of tourists would hike through its yard every few days.
More evidence this wendigo had an established den, that it wasn’t brought here, and its recent murder spree wasn’t instinctual behavior. Otherwise, it would have been bagged and tagged long before this.
Necromancy ought to be left to the necromancers, but they only resuscitated the dead for profit.
Black witches tended to be more practical and self-serving. They would hunt the most vicious creatures they could find, kill them, and then resurrect them to ensure their loyalty. Bargain-basement necromancy at its finest.
Working my way backwards, I reached the mouth of the cave and told the guys, “No one’s home.”
Neither one looked surprised to hear that, confirming my earlier suspicions.
“Can you tell what denned here?” Clay dusted a cobweb off my shoulder. “Animal or creature?”
“Definitely creature. There were more human than animal bones.”
“Old den.” The daemon flared his nostrils. “Smell like cat too.”
“That lovely aroma comes from a bobcat carcass in the late stages of decomp.”
“You know,” Clay interrupted, “Ace never said more than two words to me after he shifted in all the time we’ve been partners. Then you come along, and he’s always ready with a helpful remark.”
“Like Rue.” The daemon passed me a handful of silky hair. “Rue pet.”
“How sweet.” Clay rolled his eyes. “It still would have come in handy on those cases where I would be like ‘Hey, Ace. Do they have guns?’ and you were like shrug. That could have been a one-word answer. And yet you gave me a subtle movement, and not even a helpful one.”
Already bored with the conversation, the daemon zoned out, happy for me to simply hold his hair.
“I took photos and logged the coordinates.” I checked my bars. “Reception is better than I expected.”
There had been no cell coverage gaps since we arrived, and believe me, I would have heard about them. Forget using any blips in service as a warning. Given I had refused to share the cabin Wi-Fi password with Colby, she would have been pouting if nature ruined her raiding plans.
The phone buzzed in my hand, and my heart tripped over itself, but the text was from Arden.
Blowing out a slow breath, I steadied my nerves and reminded myself Colby was fine.
Once I got over my jitters, I turned my attention to Arden and switched gears from para to normal.
Under less hectic circumstances, I would have replied later, but the shop was a priority, and so was she.
Despite the tea, she wasn’t sleeping much. Neither was Camber. Since I stayed up late, puttering around in my kitchen, it wasn’t unusual for either girl to reach out to me at odd hours for comfort I was happy to provide, case or no case.
>>Uncle Nolan hopped a plane. He always says he’s going to stay, but he never does.
>>I don’t know why I let it upset me when I know better. Alabama has nothing on Africa.
>>I wish he had stayed in Spain. Why come back for like a day and then leave again?
A twinge of resentment toward Nolan for
hurting the girls left me reconsidering my stance on hexes.
>I wish I could fix this for you.
>>Not your fault he’s a jerk.
>Want me to beat him up the next time I see him?
>>Yes, please.
>Consider it done. Now, go sleep.
>>Fiiine.
“You’re not purpling with rage or sprinting back toward the cabin, so I guess that wasn’t about Colby.”
For a second, I forgot Clay really didn’t know, that he wasn’t just being polite.
Unlike calls, which everyone overheard, no matter how awkward, he couldn’t hear texts.
“Arden’s uncle blew into town the day you arrived and made big promises to the girls he just broke. He’s a wildlife photographer who travels all over the world. He came because of what happened to them, or I thought that was the reason, but Arden texted he got itchy feet and decided to walk them off in Africa.”
“Then he’s a dick.” Clay made a disgusted noise. “Arden could use the moral support right now.”
The reminder I was on yet another case, instead of supplying that support, didn’t sit well with me.
But a deal was a deal. I couldn’t break mine with Black Hat. The cost for Colby and me was too high.
Teeth bared, the daemon rumbled, “He ask Rue on date.”
“Ah.” Clay rubbed his jaw. “I see.”
“I doubt it,” I muttered, not trusting the look in his eyes.
“The real problem was his twu wuv bailed,” Clay teased, “so he flew off to nurse his broken heart.”
“Not wuv,” the daemon snarled. “I break his face.”
“No, you won’t.” I yanked on his hair. “Nolan is human. He only asked me out because of the girls, and the girls would have been there the whole time. It was more of a family dinner than a date.”
“The plot thickens.” Clay’s grin spread with delight. “He was bringing you home to meet the family.”
“He not family,” the daemon roared. “I break your face.”
“Clay,” I warned, “knock it off before I leave you here as a statue for the birds to poop on.”
Smudge or erase the shem, one of the Names of God written on his forehead, and the flow of his power was disrupted, immobilizing him. He would be stuck as a lump of clay until Asa or I repaired the damage.
Afraid of my threat, or wary of the daemon’s temper, Clay decided to behave.
“Rue has never, in all the time I’ve known her, dated. She’s just not wired that way.”
“Thanks for that,” I grumbled, unhappy at him for highlighting my inability to forge romantic bonds.
“Until she met you, Ace.” Clay ignored my death glare. “That’s what freaked me out the most. It was like my kid sister discovering boys exist.” He tilted his head. “No, that’s not quite it.” He gave it another shot. “More like she decided they didn’t have cooties after all.”
“I not have cooties.” The daemon puffed out his chest. “Asa have cooties.”
A laugh burst out of me that left the daemon grinning from ear to ear, huge fangs on full display.
Which didn’t, in any way, remind me of the daintier version Asa had been sporting earlier.
“You share the same body.” I hated to break it to him. “That means you share the same cooties.”
“Asa have cooties.” He jutted out his chin in stubborn refusal. “I not have cooties.”
Oh, yeah. There was more self-awareness, more identity, in Asa’s daemon side than maybe even he understood.
“Okay, fine. You win. Asa has cooties.” I checked with Clay. “Do you want to keep going or circle back?”
We had only the old den to show for our first outing, but dawn was still a few hours away.
“We’ve come this far.” He checked the GPS app on his phone. “There’s a waterfall just ahead. The area is a big draw for hikers. The wendigo likely denned here for the water source, and the lure for food. We should clear the area before we head back.”
Texting Colby an update, I warned her we might be later than anticipated, but not by much.
To the left, a tree with deep furrows you would expect from a bear marking its territory caught my eye. I crossed to it, examining the bark for signs to help me date it, and the daemon followed me on its tether.
“Hmm.” I picked at the beads of sap, but they were all hard. “Can you tell if the zombigo did this?”
A slim chance remained that a mate or small clan was in residence, but it was shrinking all the time. As predators, they would grasp the necessity of moving dens after losing one of their own. I doubt they had any idea what had happened to their brethren, assuming there were more wendigos, but the smells of decay and black magic would have warned them away from it and its hunting grounds.
“Same as cave.” He leaned in, sniffed the trunk. “Smell old.” He inhaled again. “No cat.”
More proof that the wendigo had been native, not brought in with the practitioner.
Wendigos weren’t super rare, but they were uncommon in urban areas. Their lack of impulse control and appetites meant they tread the line of exposing supernaturals to humans too often to be allowed to breed freely. They were tracked, monitored, and wiped off the map if they let their hungers rule them.
“The black witch found the wendigo here.” I turned it over in my head. “They hunted it, killed it, brought it back, and unleashed it in its territory to cage it within defined parameters. That’s why it’s retracing its steps. Not instinct. Instruction. Its orders must be to patrol and attack all intruders since it’s quit using its den.”
But why bother reanimating it? What here was worth the effort? Unless the location itself was the prize? Any predator would rid itself of competition, and black witches were no exception. Coven relocation was rare, but a loner? Maybe the black witch wanted a new territory and thought an enforcer would help them secure it against any other threats. If so, that plan blew up in their faces the moment it began eating townsfolk, alerting Black Hat to the witch’s failed attempts to control their henchman.
All of which reminded me of an old practice I hoped the Bureau had kept up since I left.
“Have you asked the Kellies to dig up tags on local supernatural wildlife?” I aimed the question at Clay. “There should be a record of any wendigos or other predatory species around here for culling purposes.”
Already, Clay was shaking his head. “This area has no recorded tags.”
That tidbit increased the odds it had been a loner. “Then how did the witch know where to find it?”
“Either they’re local,” Clay said, “or they got lucky.”
The Kellies kept tabs on locations with higher-than-average missing persons, deaths, and animal attacks. But so did monster hunters interested in bagging their next big thrill. This witch could have used any number of resources to locate an active zone, one teetering on the edge of intervention, even if they went in blind to what manner of beast or creature called it home.
“Maybe,” I murmured, unable to peg why the witch’s stroke of luck in finding the wendigo unsettled me.
The trek to the waterfall lasted about fifteen minutes, but the ground was level, the path was well-worn, and the walk scenic. Easy to see why hikers used this route often, even if it meant they were parading in front of the wendigo like contestants sashaying across a pageant stage. Except the winner got a slash instead of a sash.
With that happy thought, we reached a rustic campground, and I held out my arm to bar the daemon.
Two tents set back far enough not to risk contaminating the water supply, their flaps angled toward us.
“Hello?” I listened for hearts beating. Or, as I used to think of it, dinner bells ringing. “Anyone home?”
The lack of heartbeats didn’t mean no one was there. Just that no one had been left alive.
A circle of stones created a simple fire pit, complete with a metal grate for grilling, that formed the heart of the camp. A grilled meat tang clotted my nose
, but the rich scent wasn’t quite right for burgers or brats.
The daemon and Clay exchanged a weighted stare, then Clay jerked his chin at me toward the first tent.
Once again, I got the impression I was being allowed to participate in the search. It grated on my nerves, to be coddled by them, but I didn’t have that black magic oomph. Without Colby, I was the weakest link.
The second after I unzipped the flap on my designated tent, I knew who pulled the short straw. “Clear.”
“Found them,” Clay said grimly. “What’s left of them.”
After I joined him, I counted three rib cages, but the rest was too mangled and strewn for me to identify. The hikers hadn’t started to smell, yet, but the air was cooler up here, and the decomp would be slower.
Done waiting for an invitation to join the party, the daemon prowled out and began canvassing the area.
“We’ll need to call this in.” I entered the tent to examine the bodies. “The cave needs cleaning out too.”
The Black Hat Bureau’s purpose was protecting the supernatural community from discovery by humans, who outnumbered and often out-violenced us. We weren’t policing supernaturals for their sake. We did it for our sake. And if we made the world slightly less terrible in the process, then cool.
But the flip side of that was, if a few humans had to die for our cover to remain intact, then we had more than enough folks on the payroll who wouldn’t mind a hot dinner without any pesky legal repercussions. I ought to know. I had cashed in more than my fair share of meal vouchers over the years, though not for humans. Their gamey hearts weren’t worth the chew.
“Hear that?” The daemon lifted his head, tilting it to one side. “Someone there.”
“Where?” I craned my neck toward him. “Show me.”
The final victim rested under a fallen tree, its dirt-caked roots creating a blind for them to hide behind.
A woman, late forties, clutched her abdomen, grappling weakly with her insides to hold them in.
“Hey.” I knelt beside her in the soft pine needles. “Can you hear me?”
Fever had turned her eyes bright, and she had trouble focusing on me.
“Monster,” she whispered, voice ragged. “Leave…me.” She wet her cracked lips. “Go.”
Black Arts, White Craft (Black Hat Bureau Book 2) Page 8