“Because Bill told me last night that the Hunters were coming!” Karina rounded on him. “I didn’t believe him at first. I thought he was just being hot-air Bill with his big important talk, trying to impress some bored local kids. But then I thought, this time seems different. What if they are real? I had to scare you off and into the woods. I figured I’d be safe in the car! Who knew you would come tearing after it as if it were some giant fire-truck for you to chase like an overgrown manic puppy!”
“When did you leave the car?”
“When you were busy chewing off the tires and trying to eat the windshield. It was my only shot.”
“And you thought that was a good idea!” snarled Simon.
Karina was now standing inches from him, furious. “This is not my fault!” She shook her paintbrush at Simon, splashing puddles of red color everywhere. “Don’t even think about blaming me.”
“Calm down,” Simon instantly regretted the worst two words he could have said. It was another few minutes before Karina would speak, and she spent them picking up her brushes and scrubbing them until they squealed with the pain of it.
“I’m sorry.” Simon offered gently.
“Oh,” Karina glanced at the calendar, where the full moon cycle was marked; this month, by pure chance, it preceded her own personal one. “Sorry, too,” she mumbled. “Well, Simon, really!” Her indignation was followed by a giggle, and she pointed a clean, wet brush at the calendar. “Why am I arguing with the only man who ‘gets’ it? The whole PMS thing. Pre-monster syndrome.”
Simon chuckled, warmly and deeply, and Karina melted, aching for him. He stepped back a pace, his eyes reminding her, “Don’t fall for me, Rina,” echoing a long-ago conversation from the year she was just growing into womanhood.
She couldn’t sustain his gaze. She gestured toward a mirror that hung on the far wall of the studio, reflecting the full afternoon light. “Come over here and sit down,” she said gently, “and I’ll show you what you looked like last night.”
Simon pulled over a tall stool. Once she’d positioned him, she stood beside him and, glancing back and forth between the glass and his face, began to paint over his reflection. A pale gray outline of his face and features took shape on the mirror. “All right … here’s you at the moment.”
Darker paints were produced as she peered over his shoulder at eye-level. “And now …”
Something primeval began to emerge in the reflection. It had a flattened crown and a protruding face, with deep furrows where the human creases already were; then, an elongated, broad snout replaced Simon’s nose and mouth, and its leathery lips curled back from lengthened, sharpened teeth. He was soon covered in shaggy, spiky hair, his ears grown large and pointy, and standing out like demonic horns.
But the eyes … they were his eyes, and Karina had positioned him so that he was looking into his own face. These eyes, pale-blue ringed, were hooded by the upper lids with vicious folds of brow skin that covered the top halves of his irises. He looked psychopathic, dull-witted, brutish.
White-faced and looking heartbreakingly like a hurt and bewildered child, Simon turned to Karina. She softly brushed the sandy hair from his eyes with her left hand and pulled him to her shoulder, as he raised an arm to hold her in a half embrace. Picking up a wet rag with her other hand, she blurred and washed away all the evidence in the mirror, wishing she hadn’t picked up her cherished brushes at all, and feeling herself something like a monster.
Man Feast, Hold the Cheese
“You’re late,” stated the sheriff, “and I don’t want to hear it. You have a job to do here.”
Bill slinked through the peeling green door of the small sheriff’s station and slid awkwardly into his place at the dilapidated desk, muttering about having had to change clothes and earning himself an icy stare.
“I was on business,” he protested, glancing at the irrefutable 2:30 p.m. displayed on the wall clock. “I was assisting Adam Hunter’s guys.”
“I said you have a job to do here. Quit mooning around after the pretty painter lady and that pack of Sasquatch-chasing vigilantes and get yourself some dignity,” Sheriff Langston handed Deputy Moore a report form. “Go find out what happened to that smashed up car in the woods out near the creek.”
“I’m telling you, Sir, it was a were-”
“No such thing. Those Hunter idiots are a publicity stunt for the big silver outfits. Hey – why don’t you hang some garlic ’round your neck as well, keep the vampires away too?” Langston laughed to himself, “Damn’ idiots. ‘Werewolves,’” he mocked. “‘Silverize your property!’ Get a freaking grip, Deputy.”
Crimson and tight-lipped, Bill snatched the form and stormed through the tiny office, past a toothless old derelict the sheriff was holding for vagrancy, out into the muddy street and straight up against Karina, who recoiled.
“Deputy,” she acknowledged.
“Miss Redfeather. I was just coming to find you. About your car … ” Bill spun on his heel and followed her back into the sheriff’s office. “Tell him. Tell him,” he jabbed a finger in Langston’s direction, “what happened to your car.”
“Deputy,” Karina smiled coolly, “I was actually looking forward to your report on the matter.”
“As was I!” Langston chased Bill back toward the door as Karina asked about standing bail for the inmate she identified simply as “Old Jake,” who was curled up in a corner softly singing nursery rhymes to himself.
“You can’t save ’em all, honey, er, Miss Redfeather. But, since you know him, if you can put him up and keep him off my street, well then – Deputy!”
Bill shot off toward the diner, a classic 1950s-era place down the slushy highway that ran through what there was of Pigeon Creek; the tiny village was little more than an upscale truck stop on the northernmost edge of Minnesota. The luxurious, ostentatious cabins and beautifully appointed little cottages ensconced in the wilderness sheltered a fair number of reclusive creative types and the odd philandering politician.
Perfect for Howlers, Adam Hunter declared upon holding a press conference that morning, and he proceeded to distribute fliers to smirking residents regarding the innovative Silverizing process that could save their homes and families from being ripped to pieces by inhuman intruders. It gave local people something to laugh about for a while, and eventually inspired some bored and curious tourists, who usually just passed through, to stay for an extra night.
Bill caught sight of the Hunters in the diner window, shouldered his way through the door and inserted himself at their red vinyl booth, snapping his fingers and stabbing at the table in front of him. The Hunters remained silent, and when Bill’s coffee did eventually arrive, he found it somewhat on the cool side.
“Look,” Bill burst out, “that artist’s cousin, that Simon guy? He’s a Howler, I know it.” He leaned forward, in sotto voce, “And I think he’s got her now, too.”
“Thanks for the update, Bill.” Adam Hunter’s pale blue eyes had a chilling, unblinking quality.
“Yeah. Well, whatever I can do to help you guys.” Bill raised the mug and a streak of fuchsia on its rim caught his attention. Adam’s merriment flashed across his face, and a Hunter whose silver-stitched patch read Travis Figueroa observed, “Not your shade, Deputy?”
Bill rose sharply and headed for the door, announcing loudly, and to nobody in particular, “Gotta check out this werewolf attack on a car last night. Hey. You! No tip!”
Janine, the apparently guilty party of the two somewhat jaded waitresses who co-owned the diner, ignored him, and both women maintained their gazes upon the lean, dark-haired man at the booth.
The Hunters exchanged glances. “Well,” observed Adam, “guess that’s why we came here.” The three men stood up, stretched, and were rewarded with a barely audible sigh from Shari, the younger waitress. “No charge,” called Janine, brushing a lock of fading copper highlights from her cheek and waving the Hunters away, blushing like a middle-schooler at their winks a
nd the “Thank you, honey.”
“Oh, it’s good to be a hero,” grinned Figueroa as they paused outside on the diner steps, while their new recruit, a young red-headed man named Reese McConnell, looked slightly embarrassed and made a show of searching for his car keys.
Adam stared after Bill, and quietly whistled a snippet of the deputy’s theme from a long-lost TV show. “All the same,” he hauled on his jacket, its patch gleaming in the weak sunlight, “if there really were two separate Howler descriptions, we better check out this artist chick and her cousin. Oh, hey,” he indicated a young woman exiting the Sheriff’s doorway across the road, “that looks like her, from what I hear. Who the — is that mangy old guy her cousin?” The men watched Karina bid goodbye to Sheriff Langston and take Old Jake by the arm.
“Li’l Deputy Bill is worried about that?” laughed Figueroa, fondling the wolf’s ears at his belt. “Doesn’t even have teeth, does it? Aroooooo.”
The Hunters watched Karina escort the old man toward one of the side roads, and then the three men ambled in the other direction toward their motel.
Partway up the wooded road, a tall, sandy-haired figure appeared from the brush to greet Karina and her companion. The trio smiled and chatted for a moment. “Rina,” whispered Simon, as Old Jake pointed and laughed like a child at a large woodpecker hammering away in a nearby tree. “I saw the Hunter’s SUVs behind the motel. They’re here for the duration, all right.” He turned toward Jake, who was in danger of making himself ill by mimicking the actions of the bird high above him.
“See you tomorrow, Rina,” Simon announced so that Old Jake could hear him. “I need to get something into Jake’s stomach before sunset. Hey, careful tonight,” he half-smiled, “there are were-men around.” The three parted ways; Simon and Jake turned back up the road to the diner, where Simon leaped up the steps and entered first.
“It’s a man-feast this afternoon,” observed dark-eyed Shari appreciatively, “and I saw this one first!” she grinned at Janine, who simply rolled her eyes.
“Jake, over here!” Simon dragged Jake’s wide-eyed attention from the colorful gumball dispensers by the cash register.
Ignoring Jake’s entrance behind Simon, the waitresses agreed that this new customer, Karina’s cousin or something, was not one of those regular pretty boys. A square-jawed, broad-shouldered manly-man type, he had probably come to Pigeon Creek to join the Hunters. He looked the part, that was for sure.
“A real man-feast, yes, it is,” Shari repeated, seating her customers and languidly producing a menu.
“Miss,” Simon grinned ruefully, “You have no idea.”
Old Jake
“How did you say you met Karina?” Simon turned from watching rainbows drip from icicles spiking the eaves, and addressed his gummily grinning companion across the diner’s splattered table.
“She gib me a sammich.” Old Jake was a longtime acquaintance – many decades now – in the oddest club of misfits that Simon had ever known.
About twenty-five percent of the food on the worn wooden spoon Jake carried with him never made it to his mouth, and he had no compunctions against talking with whatever was in there at the time. Though Simon felt a great deal of affection for this weakest member of the pack, he still preferred to concentrate on something else while his friend attempted to make a meal. He turned back to try and find shapes in frost patches along the puddled roadway. “When was this?”
“Oh, well,” slobbered Old Jake, “she was just about ’lebben or twelb at the time, she tol’ me, so … about semty-fibe year ago, now?”
Simon smiled, raided the paper napkin holder without looking and gently tossed a pile across the table. He examined a “Lost Yorkshire Puppies” sign which was freshly taped to the wall above the table. “More like fourteen years, Jake.”
“Huh. You sure? Feels like semty-fibe.” Jake belched and Simon held his breath for as long as he could. “I saw her today!” Jake continued, and frowned. “She looked young.”
“She told me about that. She thought you might need a hand.”
“Me?” Jake pushed the bowl away, finally. “Don’t need nuttin’. Found me a chipmunk or two for a snack last night.” He grinned gummily. Simon sighed. Chipmunks, Yorkie puppies, they all tasted the same after a while.
“Jake, why don’t you let me take you to the dentist?”
“Ain’t goin’ near no sibber filling, Simon, you tryin’ to kill me?” The hurt in Jake’s eyes hit Simon in the stomach. He made another attempt to explain that techniques had changed, but Jake wasn’t going to hear it. “They put sibber in ’em,” insisted Jake, “an’ you know what happen’ then. Whoosh.” Chili splattered everywhere, across the table, onto the ceiling and all over the picture of the missing Yorkies. The thought flitted into Simon’s mind that the photo probably looked more accurate now, but he brushed it away.
Shari brought over some damp bar rags and threw them on the table with an “I’m-not-doing-it” look.
“It’s not like that now,” Simon mopped up what he could as Jake interrupted, “Don’t you tell me that. One lick o’ sibber and – you know.” He sat back, arms crossed and nodded several times at Simon. “You seen it.” Simon didn’t answer. “Right. That’s cuz you know. ’Member Jimmy? ’Member?”
It was decades ago. Jimmy had forgotten to empty his pockets. He was young, and in characteristic exuberance, ripping his way through the woods and thrilling to his own temporary strength, he’d managed to spill his coins and one of them — just one — had been old enough to contain a trace of silver. It slipped across Jimmy’s left foot and immolated him. Just like that. Nothing else, not even the dry summer brush, was as much as smoking. Flash. That was it.
From then on, the pack didn’t carry anything in their pockets, and some even sewed theirs shut for a while. That practice continued until the underground rumors surfaced that you could tell a werewolf by his empty pockets. For a while, you couldn’t hear yourself think for all the fashionable jingling coins, keys, and who-knew-what, even during non-cycle weeks. After that, the members just made sure to gather and check one another before sunset, before heading into the deep northern woods and succumbing to their relentless wildness. It was a ritual they still observed.
The waitress Shari returned with a slightly raised eyebrow and a trash bag into which Simon tossed the filthy rags. He couldn’t fault her distaste but it irked him to leave a tip when he’d essentially bussed a couple of years’ ketchup and coffee stains off the booth.
“I thought I saw Jimmy last week. You think … ” Jake licked his wooden spoon and put it carefully back into his deep overcoat pocket. “What do you think happened to him, anyway?” And he was off, rambling his own deranged pathways, aching without knowing why, chased by the demons of having lived too long and lost too many people.
“I need to wash my hands. Wait for me.”
“Simon says? You forgot to say Simon says!” Old Jake shrieked with laughter, regressing two-hundred-odd years to the small child he had been when his bitewolf had got him. Simon touched his arm gently. “Finish your water. Uh, Simon says finish your water.”
Jake settled but kept giggling as he slurped. Simon wished he had kept one of the wet rags for his hands, but Shari saw him and brought a couple over. Her look was softer this time. “I got a granddaddy like that,” she tossed her head in Old Jake’s direction. “Sweet of you to look after him. He your daddy?”
The diner’s bell shook above the door as three rifle-slung men seemed to fill the place; the tallest radiated an aura that enveloped the others and their own self-importance.
Hunters.
“Um, uncle,” lied Simon. “I need to get him back to the home before they come looking, too. Hey uh, here’s a ten. Sorry about the mess,” he called behind him, grabbing Old Jake and hauling him through the trio of armed men. He wondered if they really could tell, and something primal in him wanted to growl just to let them know for sure.
“Where we going, where we
going?” danced Old Jake, and Simon suddenly regretted the ten dollars’ worth of drawing attention to himself. He pushed Jake firmly into the slick parking lot and steadily guided him into the woods. Dark still came early at this time of year.
“Come on, Jake,” he soothed once they were in a good two miles, deep and unreachable. “Simon says let me check your pockets.”
Boo
Thirty minutes before sunset, one gray flash and then another ducked into the woods behind Simon’s guest quarters.
Not Simon and Jake; Karina knew that already. It was not yet dark; besides, even if it were, Simon had once told her that the wolves of his bloodline were black, and Old Jake’s were pale gold. Nevertheless, standing in her living room, Karina jumped as the front porch creaked heavily and she heard a rifle cocking.
“I’ve got a gun!” she lied through the door.
“Adam Hunter, Ma’am.”
“Who? What do you want!”
Peeking through the curtains, she saw a gray shape kneel at the woods’ edge and take aim with a rifle at something between her cottage and the little guest house.
“Werewolves spotted in this area, Ma’am. We’re here to help.”
“What-wolves? Oh, honestly. There’s no such thing. Get –”
“Two of them, Ma’am. No joke,” Bill’s voice chimed in, self-important and, she thought, Big-Bill-ish. “Miss Redfeather – Karina, we are here to protect you. Two werewolves were seen in this area last night, and we think you know that. Frankly,” he trailed off as Karina yanked open the front door in disgust, “we thought you could use a little extra help.” He recovered himself but began to edge behind Adam as the Hunter tipped his Texas ten-gallon hat.
“Your cousin around, Ma’am?”
“Why?”
“We want to be sure he can handle the situation, Ma’am.”
Falling Silver (Rising Bloodlines Book 1) Page 2