Dying Bites

by DD Barant

  “Yeah. The helmet starts filling up with blood, he’s thrashing around in panic, the paste and blood mix together. Once it gets up past his nose, he has no choice but to breathe it in. That gets the silver into his lungs.”

  “Which kills him, but not right away. Nasty way to go.”

  “And not good for forensic magic, right?” I already know the answer.

  “No. Too much silver, same as the Australian vic. But I might be able to get something from the surrounding terrain.”

  “Like the Miyagi bloodstain?”

  “Similar. The building she was killed in had too much psychic residue from its activity as a camp—like too many fingerprints smudging the one you want. Both the Australian and Arctic vics were in deserts—one hot, one cold, but both essentially lifeless in the immediate area around the body. This, though—this has lichens, and moss. I’m going to see if I can have a conversation.”

  He says it’ll take a while; vegetation is usually friendly but doesn’t talk terribly fast. It’s not like I have anyplace else to go, so I huddle in a corner and take turns staring at Eisfanger and the corpse. Eisfanger’s mumbling and running his hands gently in circles over the ground, occasionally stopping to sprinkle something from a small pouch.

  The corpse doesn’t do anything at all, for which I’m grateful. Not that it suddenly coming back to life would surprise me, but it’s been a long day and I really don’t feel like shooting my evidence in the head. Assuming that would work on zombies here—or even if they have zombies here. Maybe teenage punk thropes with a gangrene fetish are as close as they get.

  The quality of the wind-noise changes, in a way that’s hard to define. I wonder about it and get my answer a moment later as Charlie and Duvalier—now fully human again, and dressed—enter the tent, both of them flecked with white.

  “Starting to snow,” Duvalier says. “Got this tent up just in time, I think.”

  Charlie takes his fedora off, knocks it against his leg to remove the snow. “Be a long night,” he says. “I’ll take first watch.”

  Duvalier shrugs. “Fine by me. Wake me up when you want to switch—”

  “I’ve got something,” Eisfanger says.

  He’s got my immediate attention. “What is it?”

  “The moss remembers an incident from yesterday. Something large and heavy, rolling over the surface of the land. It stopped here, then left again.”

  “Sounds like a vehicle,” Charlie says.

  Duvalier frowns. “Nobody drives out here. Ground’s uneven, marshy in some spots and rocky in others. Four-wheel drive might make it, but I didn’t see any tracks.”

  “I think I can answer that,” says Eisfanger. “The moss says it was ‘spring-fed’ afterward, which means artificially invigorated. I think a spell may have been used to repair any surface damage to the tundra and cover up tracks.”

  “Can you—I don’t know—unspell it?”

  “Not as such. But the spell was probably only used to affect the moss itself—the ground beneath it might still hold a pattern.” He gets up, goes over to his gear, and selects a bundle of dried herbs and a small flask. He returns to where he was squatting and sprinkles a few drops from the flask, then lights one end of the herb bundle. He douses the flame by waving the bundle briskly through the air, then makes intricate passes over the floor with the bundle. The smoke flows downward, creating a miniature fog bank hugging the ground, then slowly dissipates.

  “Gotcha,” Eisfanger says with satisfaction.

  The moss has turned perfectly transparent, like a delicate ice sculpture crafted by insects. Beneath it, pressed into the thin soil, is the clearly visible print of a tire tread.

  “Find the other one,” I say. “It’ll give us a wheelbase to work with.”

  “Well, there’s a problem with that—”

  Duvalier is crouched down, studying the track. “You won’t find another one,” he says, straightening up.

  “How did you know that?” Eisfanger asks. “That’s what the moss said, too.”

  “What, now we’re after someone on a unicycle?” Visions of trained circus bears—white ones—wearing pointy hats and balancing on one-wheeled contraptions zip through my head. They’re juggling fish.

  “Not one wheel—two,” Duvalier says. “One in front of the other, leaving a single track.”

  “You recognize this?” I ask.

  “I don’t recognize the tread itself, but I know what it is. It’s a blizzard bike—a motorcycle designed to operate in the winter. Wide, studded tires, powerful motor with an engine block heater and antifreeze system. It’s the only kind of vehicle that could get around out here, but I didn’t think there were any zerkers in the area.”

  “Zerkers?” I say. “Like in . . . ‘zircus’?”

  “No, like in ‘berserkers.’ You know the term?”

  “Where I come from it referred to Vikings—Nordic raiders in longboats who spent most of their time pillaging, looting, and raping. They’d drive themselves into a battle frenzy beforehand, so they seemed more like beasts than men.”

  Duvalier nods. “An apt description. Zerkers are thropes too wild to join a civilized pack, but not so wild they reject technology. Their bikes give them greater mobility and independence; they often carry everything they own with them. Subzero weather on a bike can produce temperatures of a hundred below, but they ride in half-were form and ignore it. They work as mercenaries, thieves, smugglers—whatever’s illegal and dangerous. And they wear homemade armor.”

  I revise my opinion of the locals once again; not hillbillies with fangs, not street gangs with fur, but knight-Viking bikers. Better than those damn polar bears on unicycles, anyway.

  “So what was one doing way out here?” Eisfanger asks.

  “Could have been hunting,” Duvalier says. “Plenty caribou round here. Zerkers don’t give a damn about pack boundaries.”

  “Or he could have been giving our killer a lift,” I say. “Stoker’s got plenty of criminal contacts—these zerkers sound exactly like the kind of people he’d be mixed up with.”

  “Forgive me for saying so,” Duvalier says, “but that’s hard to believe. The only use zerkers generally have for human beings is to eat them. Hell, they’ve been known to eat each other.”

  I shake my head. “The guy we’re dealing with is no ordinary human. If anybody could forge an alliance with cannibalistic, Harley-riding lycanthropes, it’d be him.”

  No ordinary human. The words are accurate, but as soon as they’re out of my mouth they’re replaced by a bad taste. It sounds like the kind of thing a thrope or a pire would say—not a member of the same species.

  And then something odd happens; both Eisfanger and Duvalier snap their heads in the same direction, then freeze. It’d be funny if it weren’t for the intent, focused looks on their faces.

  “Whoever this zerker is,” Duvalier says, “I believe he’s coming back.”

  “Yeah,” says Eisfanger. “And this time he brought some friends along.”

  And now my merely human ears can hear it, too: the rising, grinding roar of a number of motorcycle engines, getting closer.

  “And here I thought first watch would be boring,” Charlie says.

  There are five of them.

  They roar out of the wind-whipped snow like lunatics, treating the bikes they’re riding more like motocross vehicles than anything designed to drive down a highway: doing wheelies, using boulders like ramps and launching themselves into the air, bouncing off the rocky ground like armored kangaroos when they touch down. The wheels on their bikes are wider than auto tires and spiked for extra traction.

  “You’re the top dog around here, right?” Charlie asks Duvalier. The Sheriff nods, but his earlier good humor has vanished; I can feel deep apprehension behind his serious demeanor.

  “That I am,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean they know that.”

  We’ve all come out of the tent to greet—or maybe “confront” is a better word—our visitors
. They pull up in a line and kill their engines. The leader is clearly the one in the center, pulled up just a little closer than the others. I study him carefully.

  He’s the only one not in half-were form, presumably so we can talk to each other using words instead of signing; I note that this also leaves his hands free, and slip my own hand inside my jacket to make sure the Ruger’s safety is off. He’s a big man, broad-shouldered and muscular; I’d estimate his weight at around 230, his height when standing close to seven feet tall. He’s got a rugged, craggy face, with a brow like a cliff and a jaw as square as a sledgehammer, bristling with stubble. His hair is a long, tangled brown mane, reaching past the shoulders of his armor.

  The armor they’re wearing is straight out of Mad Max: shoulder pads made from old steel-belted radials, held on by thick-linked chains bolted to the rubber. Thick fur pelts with bits of gristle and meat still clinging to them, stitched together with wire. One guy’s outfit looks like he murdered a leather couch and a chain-link fence, then wrapped himself in the remains. The rider on the far left is wearing a steel helmet clearly designed for a thrope skull, with a dozen or so six-inch butcher knives welded into a crest across the top. He lifts his lips in a silent snarl when he notices me glance at him.

  I’m starting to regret the quick slug of Urthbone I took before leaving the tent. It isn’t so much the hostility coming off them that’s unsettling; it’s the hunger. And the total lack of anything that could be called fear.

  The leader stares at us calmly. He gets off his bike and strides forward, stopping about a yard away from Duvalier and ignoring the rest of us completely.

  “Hey,” the giant says. He sounds very, very at ease; a man in his own living room, talking on the phone.

  “Hey,” Duvalier says. He sounds almost as calm, but there’s still no humor in his voice. “I’m Sheriff Duvalier. First Hunter of the Longjaw Pack.”

  “Bearbreaker. Independent—though I do have friends.” He grins, a huge, teeth-baring smile that reveals the longest canines I’ve ever seen in a nonfurred face.

  “I see that. What do you and your friends want?”

  “Nothing much. We were passing through on our way to the Lunatic Ride and thought we smelled fresh meat.”

  Duvalier’s eyebrows go up. He’s surprised, though he tries not to show just how much. “The Ride? I hadn’t heard anything about that.”

  Bearbreaker chuckles, a low rumble that sounds more like a growl than laughter. “Sorry. Guess your invitation got lost in the mail.”

  I have no idea what’s going on, except that Duvalier seems tense and Bearbreaker doesn’t. “What’s the Lunatic Ride?”

  The biker seems to notice me for the first time. “Mmm. And who might you be?”

  “Special Agent Jace Valchek, NSA. This is a crime scene, Mr. Bearbreaker, not an open buffet. I’m in charge of the investigation.”

  “For an investigator, you’re fairly ignorant.”

  “For a barbarian, you’re fairly polite.”

  He smiles. “True—so I’ll politely answer your question. The Lunatic Ride is a gathering, held on an irregular basis, of those who swear allegiance to nothing but freedom. It’s rarely in the same place twice, and only those invited know about it. We come together to celebrate our independence, to trade stories and gear and information, to settle grudges and get drunk and challenge each other, to do a little partying and a little business. This year we’re setting up camp just outside of a place called Bethel, where I’m sure the locals will welcome us with open arms. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”

  “Your money’s as good as anyone else’s.”

  “Good attitude. Should be a few hundred of us, and we’re real generous to our friends. Hope the bars are well stocked—meat, we can take care of on our own.”

  I can tell that doesn’t sit well with Duvalier—it’s probably his pack’s caribou that’ll wind up in the Ride’s hairy bellies—but it’s entirely possible they’ll pay for what they hunt and kill, too. I was at the aftermath of a biker rally in Sturgis, once, and while there was enough vomit, smashed glass, overflowing trash cans, and cigarette butts to swamp a landfill, the locals all came out of it with bulging wallets and a minimum of property damage.

  “A few hundred, huh?” I say. “Any of them pass this way recently?”

  “Could be. Why, you got one inside that tent?” The idea doesn’t seem to bother him particularly.

  “We haven’t identified the victim yet.”

  “Want some help? I could take a few bites and see if the taste’s familiar.” That brings a chorus of wolfy, barking laughter from the others.

  “Thanks, but I don’t think you’d appreciate the flavor. He’s got enough silver in him to support the Lone Ranger.” That gets me a confused look, but I think he understands my overall point. He meets my eyes—

  The jolt I feel is completely unexpected. Something passes between us, something tense and charged and somehow familiar. It takes me by surprise, but he almost seems to expect it. It lasts no more than a second before he looks away.

  “Okay. Guess we’ll be on our way, then. Drop by the camp if you’re in the mood, Valchek—I can show you a better time than this, anyway.” More feral laughter.

  “That’s not saying much,” I tell him, feeling a little stunned, and he grins and gets back on his bike. A few seconds later they’re all roaring off into the snow without a backward glance.

  Eisfanger clears his throat. “That was a little . . . unsettling.”

  “And it’s over,” I say. “Let’s get back to work.”

  Which we do. Eisfanger prepares the body for transport; I snap some pictures of the tire track he uncovered while the moss is still see-through.

  Somehow, I’m not surprised when it matches the tracks outside in the snow.

  TEN

  Duvalier heads straight for the radio in the boat as soon as the bikers leave, which is how he finds out that his people have been trying to reach him for the last few hours. Seems there is a large group of zerkers setting up camp a mile or so out of town, and what exactly did the Sheriff plan to do about that?

  What he does is make his apologies to us, morph into wolf form, and take off into the snowstorm. We stay put, processing the site and the body as thoroughly as we can with what we brought with us. We get both hair and fiber samples as well as the tire track, though we have no luck with foot-or fingerprints.

  And we finally have a suspect.

  “You think Bearbreaker will lead us to Stoker?” Eisfanger asks. It’s just after 2:00 A.M. and we’re finally done; all we have to do in the morning is break camp.

  “I don’t know.” I hesitate, then ask the stupid question that’s been on my mind. “You said Selkie was a shape-shifter. Is it possible—”

  “That Selkie’s posing as Bearbreaker?” Eisfanger shakes his head. “The same thought occurred to me after he left. I took Wittgenstein out and let him sniff around; he’s got a keen nose for changeling sorcery. He couldn’t find anything, and to add that much mass to Selkie’s frame would have required a lot of mojo—enough to leave plenty of traces behind. He’s not using that kind of magic.”

  “So Stoker has a zerker ally. I wonder what he needs him for—can’t be transport; he’s got Selkie for that. Muscle?”

  “Could be. Zerkers often work as mercenaries or bodyguards.”

  “Only when the client can’t afford golems,” Charlie says, ducking under the tent flap. He’s covered in snow, which is apparently just wet enough to stick to his dapper olive-green suit, but not so wet it melts from body heat—which I’m pretty sure Charlie doesn’t have, anyway.

  “Yeah?” I say. “What’s it cost to rent a golem mercenary?”

  “Depends on the war. We’re willing to work cheaper in certain locales.”

  “Like what, for instance?” Eisfanger asks.

  “Desert campaigns.”

  “Why?”

  “Local cuisine.”

  “But golems don’t—”
He stops as he realizes Charlie’s referring to sand, and as filler instead of food.

  I shake my head and say, “I’m going to bed. Wake me when it’s my turn to stand watch.”

  I stumble outside and to my tent, where I remove my boots and some of my clothing before crawling into the sleeping bag. The wind has died down, and the soft patter of snow on the fabric of the tent lulls me to sleep within minutes.

  My last thought before I drift off is of Bearbreaker. I’d felt something when he met my eyes, some sense of connection that I couldn’t define.

  But I got the feeling he could. . . .

  I wake up in the morning, cold and headachy; a quick shot of Urthbone helps one, but I’ll have to wait for hot coffee for the other. I ask grumpily why no one woke me for my shift, and Charlie informs me he heard noises coming from my tent that seemed to indicate either demonic possession or my having sex with a chain saw and he didn’t feel it was safe to interrupt either one. I inform him that my snoring isn’t anywhere near that bad, and anyway, shut up.

  It’s stopped snowing, and the wind has died completely. The snow makes the landscape look pristine instead of barren, and the early-morning sun breaking through the clouds turns the whiteness up even higher. Eisfanger hands me a pair of sunglasses and I put them on gratefully.

  A quick breakfast—peanut butter and bread for me, ham sandwich for Eisfanger—and we’re ready to pack up and leave. The one thing we haven’t examined thoroughly is the satellite broadcaster; we’ll ship that to Seattle and let the techs there take it apart.

  The trip back is uneventful, though the landscape now looks completely different due to the endless white blankness of the snow on either side of us; it feels not so much like something was added as erased.

  Duvalier is there to greet us at the dock in Bethel along with a few other locals, who are marginally less hairy and better dressed than the zerkers we met last night. He tells us the Lunatic Ride is camped to the east of the town and so far they haven’t made any trouble.