Galahad crouched again, fingertips touching the ground in front of him, green eyes narrowed and very, very, very displeased. Hal could imagine the pointed ears angled to the sides and the tail lashing just above the dirt. Could feel the force of Galahad’s feline will.
“No.”
A low growl rumbled up from Galahad’s throat.
“Bad kitty,” Hal said. “No.”
Nick rushed over to stand beside Hal. “I’ve got just the thing,” he said. He pulled a piece of string from his suit’s inner pocket and dangled it in front of Galahad.
“Look, Gally! Get it! Get the string!”
Galahad’s icy glare never wavered from Hal, shredding him—Hal had no doubt—in a million different ways
“No,” Hal repeated.
Nick shook the string. “Gally, look! Look at what Nick’s got!”
The low growl continued unabated, building in intensity and pitch.
“Maybe you should let him have it,” Nick said.
“No,” Hal said. “You can pout over that bike, Galahad Jones, or you can join us as we hunt a killer.” He squeezed Nick’s arm and tilted his head toward the entrance. The people wedge had thinned. Nick met Hal’s gaze, then reluctantly pocketed the string. Hal nodded. Good yōkai. Damned fine wolf. And led the way across the parking lot to the fair entrance.
“You can play with that bell,” Hal called over his shoulder. “Or you can play with a killer. Up to you.”
Hal handed his ticket to a pretty gal with a golden butterfly painted across her face and a smile tucking up the corners of her mouth. She glanced at his catch pole and her smile tilted.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but what’s that?”
“My equalizer in the fight against furred anarchy and human evil,” Hal replied.
Butterfly Girl blinked, her brown eyes puzzled, her smile fading. “Uh . . .”
Hal shook his head, grinning. Poor thing was obviously new to the whole identity-protecting thing. “Don’t worry,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning in. “You’re doing fine. Just keep pretending you don’t know me.”
Her expression brightened and her smile returned klieg-light bright. “Ohhhh-kay,” she said. “I get it. You’re off your meds, huh, sweetie? Well, you picked the right place to come. No one here will notice.”
Hal thumped the catch pole against the ground in approval. Turning to face the dreadlocked throng waiting their turn in line behind them, Hal proclaimed, “She is correct. I’m most definitely off my meds. Nothing to see here.” Facing Butterfly Girl once more, Hal winked.
Butterfly Girl flashed Nick a sympathetic smile as she tugged his ticket from between his fingers. Hal grinned. She learned like a champ.
Hal and Nick walked from the ticket booth and stepped into the Oregon Country Fair. The spicy smell of curry and teriyaki sizzled in the air, along with the smells of hemp and patchouli. Nick licked his lips. Hal edged his way into the crowd, scanning for Desdemona’s booth.
Trees curved overhead, casting cool green shade over the dirt paths winding through the fair. Music spiraled through the air, clear and sharp and rhythmic, and underneath like a beating heart, drums pulsed.
People weaved past one another along the paths, ebbing and flowing from booth to booth. Slender girls in miniskirts and swirling paint on their bare breasts sauntered past, coy smiles on their lips as male gazes goggled their every bouncing step.
Nubile, Hal reckoned. The very epitome of nubile. But they had nothing on his sultry Desdemona.
Men in belled caps and shiny costumes strode the paths on stilts. Jugglers in court jester outfits pranced through the crowd, tossing balls and hammers and apples into the air in an ever-cycling wheel.
“Keep an eye open for shifters,” Hal said as Nick brushed up against him in the crowd tide.
“Gotcha,” Nick said. “I’ll go check the food booths.”
“Talk to people. See if anyone knows about missing hippies and fortune-tellers.”
“There’ll be people at the food booths,” Nick protested, hurrying away before Hal could say another word.
Hal’s gaze skipped past the booths full of tie-dyed clothing and hand-carved walking sticks, past booths of crystal wonders, booths of flutes and new age music CDs, and jewelry booths, until one draped in black and purple velvet caught his eye. His heart skipped a beat. There. His beguiling and beautiful Desdemona.
Hal started forward when a hand to his shoulder stopped him. “I’ll talk to the fortune-tellers,” a smooth voice said.
Hal patted the hand. “I thought you would,” he said, smiling over his shoulder at Galahad.
One corner of the yōkai’s mouth quirked up in an answering smile. Stepping back, he bowed, one arm across his stomach, then turned and slipped like a shadow into the crowd.
Hal rubbed his chin. Had that been a lump in Gally’s pocket? A bell-shaped lump? Sighing, he pivoted and strode toward Desdemona’s booth.
She stood behind a velvet-draped table, a smile on her crimson-painted lips and a black rose pinned into her purple tresses. A black parasol protected her creamy-white skin from the searing July sun. She spoke to a Goth dude whose café au lait complexion didn’t require a parasol, her slender fingers tracing over a piece of jewelry on her table.
Goth Dude wore a black short-sleeved button-down shirt and purple pleather pants (say that three times fast), no doubt a Hot Topic frequent flier. Black welding goggles parked on top of his head kept his black, platinum, and blue dreads away from his face.
Goth Dude nodded at something Desdemona said, then tapped a finger against his pierced lip. Desdemona’s smile widened and her hands floated through the air like doves as she spoke. Goth Dude nodded again, laughing. Desdemona lowered her head, color blossoming like roses on her pale cheeks.
Hal grinned. She must’ve spotted him, then—her catch-poling hero. He remembered their last conversation and her gentle good-bye—a lifted middle finger accompanied by her dulcet-toned Guard this. As Hal watched, Goth Dude leaned across the table and kissed her blushing cheek.
Hal’s grin froze on his lips. Gay, surely. Not that there was anything wrong with that—he’d seen plenty of attractive men and had considered the possibilities—but Desdemona would only allow a gay friend or a male relative to kiss her. Especially in front of her one true love—Hal “Creep” Rupert.
True, she didn’t know his name. Yet. But he was most definitely the only creep in her heart.
Goth Dude stepped back and Desdemona lifted her head, the imprint of his black-lipsticked kiss marring the fading color on her cheek. As she looked up, Hal lifted a hand, extending his middle finger to remind her of his promise: I’ll be guarding you.
Her purple-lidded eyes narrowed and her lips parted, but before she could greet him or offer any other tender words, someone tackled Hal, slamming him to the ground as though the bell had just rung on the first round of a WWE grudge match.
* * *
Hal’s catch pole bounced away into the crowd. Someone was screaming and mewling—chittering almost as insanely as the damned squirrel from the night before. Feet in Birkenstocks and flip-flops filled Hal’s vision as he rolled across the dirt and into flattened grass and weeds.
He became aware that the mewling sounds consisted of words: ONMYLEFTWHATONMYLEFTWHATASSHOLEASSHOLEONMYLEFTGOD!
And realized who’d taken him down—one helluva poor sport.
Hands latched onto Hal’s ears, but before his head could be thumped against the ground, he cracked his forearm across the deranged bicyclist’s face. Something crunched. Hal was pretty sure it was the guy’s nose.
With a quick, deft movement, Hal unstrapped the bicyclist’s helmet with one finger, then jarred it off the guy’s head with a heel-of-the hand shove. As the helmet fell off, Hal’s left fist crashed into the lunatic’s temple.
The mewl
ing-screaming-chittering stopped.
The guy dropped onto Hal like a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound blanket. Hal grunted. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the nutcase’s limp body off and onto the Birkenstock-trampled grass.
Sucking in a breath of sandalwood-scented air, Hal rose to his knees. A black lace skirt over purple-striped tights—clinging to shapely legs—greeted his vision. His gaze traveled up from the skirt to a black corset, a purple-striped bodice, a black moth choker encircling a slender, pale throat, to rest upon Desdemona’s luminous face.
Hal’s heart ker-thudded hard, then pounded out a frantic rhythm to rival the tribal drumming echoing throughout the fair.
Desdemona’s crimson lips parted. “You dropped this, creep.” In her right hand, held within her slender fingers, was Hal’s catch pole.
Hal nearly swooned.
She poked the unconscious lump beside him with one end of the pole. “You stalking him too?”
Hal laughed. Her sense of humor was an unexpected delight. He climbed to his feet. “No,” he said. “Only you, my love.”
Rolling her eyes, Desdemona handed him the catch pole. “You must want to be eviscerated,” she said.
“By you,” Hal murmured, “anything.”
“See?” she said. “Total fruitcake.”
Hal realized Goth Dude stood just behind her. Saw the imprint of his kiss upon Desdemona’s cheek. Hal straightened, bringing himself up to his full five eleven and one quarter. Goth Dude eyed him with green, kohl-lined eyes, his expression thoughtful.
Hal thrust out his hand, “Rupert—Hal Rupert,” he said. “Pleased to meetcha.”
Goth Dude’s eyes widened, and Hal was pretty sure he saw a flash of recognition in those dark emerald depths. He grasped Hal’s offered hand and shook it.
“Louis Dark,” he said, his voice lightly accented.
Spanish? French? Italian? Southern? Hal wasn’t sure, but at least Goth—Louis’s—grip was strong. A smile curved his pierced lips. An amused smile that reminded Hal of Galahad.
Releasing Hal’s hand, Louis cupped his around Desdemona’s ear and whispered something that made her giggle. But her gaze lifted to Hal’s, incandescent once again.
And Hal understood. Their romance was forbidden according to strict Goth doctrine; their love needed to remain secret, hidden. A clandestine whisper between them. A furtive touch of hands in passing.
A bonfire blaze torched Hal’s heart. He smiled his understanding. “I’m only here to guard you,” he said.
“Guard her?” Louis asked, a smile lingering on his lips. “From what? Other stalkers?”
Hal thumped the ground with the end of his catch pole. “There’s a shifter serial killer working the fair. I’m here to take the bastard down.”
Louis’s smile vanished. He sucked in a sharp breath.
“See?” Desdemona said again. “Total fruitcake.” But Hal heard tenderness in her voice. Just like he saw fear in Louis’s face.
Louis believed him.
Desdemona looked Hal up and down. Pushed silky purple hair back from her face. “I suppose the only way to stop you from guarding me is to eviscerate you,” she sighed. Her black-painted nails tapped against a small silver-sheathed knife strapped to her wrist.
“I suppose,” Hal agreed.
With a coquettish look, Desdemona swiveled around, grabbed Louis’s hand, and walked—hips swaying—back to her booth.
“C’mon, then, creep,” she called over her shoulder.
Joy danced a flaming jig within Hal’s heart. He no longer felt his feet on the ground. He strode after Desdemona, catch pole in hand, head held high, knowing she held Louis Dark’s hand only as camouflage.
* * *
Hal stood beside Desdemona’s booth, eyeing everyone who approached or passed. He hoped Nick and Galahad were having luck in their pursuits and had gained useful information. The last couple of hours had slipped by uneventfully.
Louis left the booth several times, returning once with food for Desdemona and himself. The other times he returned empty-handed. But Hal noticed that the Goth boy seemed nervous and stayed near Hal—like he thought he could protect him too.
“So where you from?” Hal asked.
“N’awlins,” Louis replied, his voice low and melodic.
“Ah.”
Hal’s gaze narrowed as a middle-aged woman in khaki shorts, a white blouse, and a sun visor idled in front of Desdemona’s booth. She picked through the jewelry offered on the black velvet.
Desdemona watched her as well, a smile quirking up the corners of her mouth. Hoping for a sale.
“That’s a nice piece,” Hal said.
The woman’s head snapped up like a dog answering a whistle. “Excuse me?”
Hal nodded at the silver crescent moon pendant at her fingertips. “Nice piece. I don’t know if you’re into the Goddess and all that, but that crescent moon would make a lovely gift for any night-struck soul. Would work for anyone into Wicca too.”
Desdemona paused, lips parted. She glanced at Hal, an appraising light in her eyes.
“The velvet ribbon has silver filigree worked throughout,” Hal said, leaning over. “See? Another symbol of the night—black and silver. Luna. The subconscious. What have you.” He shrugged. “And a bargain at that price.”
“Is this your booth, young man?” The woman eyed the catch pole in his hand.
Hal laughed. “No. Hers,” he said, nodding at Desdemona. “Her work. I’m just her . . . bodyguard.” He winked at his beloved. She arched an eyebrow and tapped a finger against the knife on her wrist. Mouthed fruitcake.
Hal grinned.
The woman bought the piece. Color flushed Desdemona’s cheeks as she wrapped up the necklace. She tilted her head, purple hair cascading over to curtain half of her face, and looked at Hal for a long moment.
She opened her mouth. But whatever she said or was going to say was drowned out by a piercing scream that sliced through the fair chatter, drowning out the never-ending hypnotic drumming.
Hal jumped in front of Desdemona, catch pole held across his body in both hands. Spotting Louis already halfway up a slender elm, Hal called, “Behind me or go higher!”
People scattered in all directions like chickens before a raccoon. Hal tightened his grip on the catch pole. His muscles coiled. His heart thudded at a steady pace. Movement to his left drew his attention. Desdemona had stepped up beside him, knife in hand.
“Get back,” he growled. “I can’t protect you there, woman.”
“Shut up, jerkwad.”
Hal smiled at the use of the endearment. All the same, he stepped in front of her.
“Move!” she yelled.
People continued to shriek and scatter and the chaos seemed to be headed straight for Desdemona’s booth. Not wanting to spare a glance to see if Louis had climbed higher or had shimmied down and was even now running back to the booth, Hal wished him well.
Birkenstocks, lone flip-flops, even the odd Earth shoe dotted the fair paths like rose petals tossed ahead of a bride. Tatters of cloth and feathers and streamers floated through the air, all caught in a time slowdown. Sound faded.
Hal listened to the beat of his own heart. Was aware of the air his sweet Desdemona drew in behind him. Felt his muscles drink in the adrenaline rushing through his system. The last straggler slow-moed out of the way and revealed a huge silhouetted shape—backlit by the summer sun—running toward him.
Stepping forward, Hal swung the catch pole around and spun it over and up, holding it like a samurai warrior’s first kendo stance—poised, caught on the lip of time, heart pulsing slow and sure.
“Come to Papa,” Hal whispered.
And a nightmare ran toward him in long, loping strides. Hal’s eyes widened. Behind him, Desdemona said, “Holy shit!” Awe—in all senses of the word—edged her vo
ice.
Then time popped the clutch into full speed again.
Half-wolf, half-human, like a monstrosity from a horror movie, the creature slammed into Hal as he slashed the catch pole down, tumbling them both to the ground and into the velvet-draped table.
Air exploded from Hal’s lungs at the impact. Desdemona screamed. And the sound rang like true crystal through Hal’s soul. He couldn’t let the beast past him, couldn’t fail his beloved.
Crying out from the depths of his being, Hal climbed to his knees and whirled the catch pole through the air, smacking the wolf-man in the ribs, then brought the pole up and over in a series of sharp jabs, but the beast was gone.
Sweat stung Hal’s eyes. He spun around on his knees, the catch pole an extension of his arm. Desdemona was nowhere in sight. He shoved aside the fallen table, dug through the velvet and lace and latex of the collapsed booth, breathing her name and cursing his own.
An enraged howl pierced the tree-shaded air. Hal swung his head around. The wolf-man clawed at the elm Louis had climbed. The young Goth clung to the tree high up, arms and legs wrapped around trunk and branches. And at the base—Galahad and Nick knocked fists into the wolf-man’s burly torso.
And running toward them, knife in hand, Desdemona.
Hal jumped to his feet and ran after her. “No!” he shouted. “No!”
The wolf-man raked the air with unnaturally long claws, barely missing Galahad as he darted in and out, slippery as waxed tile, hands striking like snakes. Nick swung a baseball bat (and where had he found that? Hal wondered), hitting the creature with solid thwacks that echoed throughout the eerily silent fair.
Hal closed the distance between himself and Desdemona—was reaching for her trailing purple hair—when she raised her knife and slashed into the beast’s midsection. The wolf-man roared and the air-shredding sound seemed to steal light from the sun. The day dimmed. The wolf-man’s hand swung down like a headsman’s ax.
“NO!” Hal yelled and hurled himself at the monster. His body arrowed past his fierce Desdemona.
Thinning the Herd Page 5