Jagged blue light exploded across Hal’s vision as the wolf-man’s fist hammered into his temple. He flew for a moment, then hit the dirt hard, bowling across the paths like a ball down center lane. Strike! His head connected with something unmovable, and the image of the car smashing into the tree on Howard Avenue the night before flared through his mind. Hal slid down into darkness chased by the sound of Desdemona’s screams.
Knowing he’d failed.
8
THE UNDERGROUND POT DENS OF EUGENE
Movement. Vibration. Air fluttering through his hair. Low voices. Pain ping-ponged through his skull. Twisted his gut. The pungent smell of animal musk and blood filled his nostrils. Images strobed through his mind: the crescent moon hanging low in a black, starless sky. The fear in Louis’s eyes. Desdemona screaming.
Hal’s eyes flew open. He was in a car. He winced as light shafted into his eyes. His heart pounded so hard, his entire body pulsed with each beat. He tried to sit up, but a hand against his chest pushed him back down.
“I wouldn’t. You took a helluva blow.”
“Desdemona,” he whispered, batting Nick’s hand aside. He levered himself up. Pain corkscrewed from his head down to his gut, and dizziness spun him like a top. His stomach lurched. He swallowed hard, tasting bitter bile.
“I’m all right.”
Hal looked toward the driver’s seat. Desdemona’s gaze met his in the rearview. Her eyeliner was smudged and smeared, her eyes red. Had she been weeping? For him?
Galahad, sitting up front beside her, glanced back at Hal, his face somber.
“I’m okay,” Hal said. “Don’t order the coffin yet.”
“Fruitcake,” Desdemona said, her voice strained. Holding back more tears?
Hal had a feeling something was terribly wrong—something besides a monster from a horror movie rampaging through the Oregon Country Fair.
“Tell me,” he said.
“That . . . abomination . . . took Louis,” Galahad said, his eyes narrowing when he said the word abomination. “Toppled the tree and plucked him loose.”
“Took him?” That made no sense to Hal. If the wolf-man had been offing hippies and munching fortune-tellers, why had it suddenly decided to try its unnatural hand in the kidnapping business? Why not just nibble on the Goth boy’s head? Maybe it was saving him for a midnight snack?
Hal’s head ached, making it hard to think. He knew he was missing something—something obvious.
“Took him,” Nick affirmed. He patted Hal’s hand. “He’s a fortune-teller.”
“What?” Hal said, feeling a little thick.
“He reads tarot cards,” Galahad said. “Apparently has a very good reputation.”
Desdemona nodded. “He has a real gift.” Her voice caught.
“And he’s yōkai,” Nick said.
“I wondered about that,” Hal murmured. The smile like Galahad’s.
“He’s my friend,” Desdemona said. “He was a refugee from Katrina and I gave him a home. I learned what he was one evening when I saw him Shift from guy into cat.”
Galahad reached over and rubbed her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Hal said. He wanted to say more but didn’t know what.
“Jerkwad,” she whispered.
Hal’s aching head was nothing compared to the ache he felt for Desdemona, for her distress. Things didn’t make complete sense, but he blamed his muddled reasoning on his pounding head.
Why would the wolf-man steal Louis? It certainly hadn’t seemed capable of making rational decisions. Hmmm. Looks high-carb. Maybe I’ll have a hippie instead.
“Why didn’t it kill him?”
“Huh?” Nick looked at Hal.
“Louis. Why didn’t the thing just kill him like the others?”
Nick nodded. “Damned good question, and one I was chewing over myself. Considering the number of people it mauled at the fair, I think it was a monster on a mission. Ordered to fetch Louis.”
“By who?” Hal asked, meeting Nick’s yellow-eyed gaze. “Why? And what the hell was that thing, anyway?”
“Nothing born of nature,” Nick said, voice rough, a near growl. Sunlight glimmered in his eyes, sparked fire in their depths.
Hal nodded and settled back into the seat, the sun-heated vinyl squeaking beneath him. He looked out the window. Trees thick with green leaves and buildings bright beneath the summer sun flashed past. They were on Beltline. Heading east.
“Where we going?” Hal asked.
“To get Louis,” Desdemona said. Steel resolve hardened her voice.
Hal looked at her with renewed respect. Remembered her running into the face of danger with only a knife. A more-than-fitting companion for a hero.
Like air breathed upon a fire, that realization fueled the flames within his heart, burned hot. The pain in his head faded.
Desdemona steered the car toward the VRC. Toward the green tree-lined river. Hal’s stomach sank as he realized where they were going. He glanced at Nick. “You and Gally have been talking,” he accused.
Galahad shrugged. “We had to. She was crying.”
Desdemona parked the car. Switched off the engine. “Okay,” she said, turning around in the seat. Her blue-eyed gaze pinned Hal to the seat like a knife. “Show me the way to the underground pot dens of Eugene or I’ll eviscerate you.”
Hal smiled. “I might prefer that,” he replied, coy. “You keep promising.”
She poked a black-nailed finger at his chest. “Don’t mess with me, creep.”
Laughing, Hal lifted a middle finger. “Never, my sweet,” he said. “Never.” Sliding across the seat, he opened the door and unfolded himself out of the car. Leaned in through the open window. Met Desdemona’s narrowed blue gaze. “Maybe we’ll save the evisceration for a more private moment,” he said, nodding at Nick and Galahad.
Desdemona rolled her eyes. Blowing her a kiss, Hal spun and strode toward the greenbelt. The car door chunked shut. Once. Twice. Three times. He heard the patter of her boots on the sidewalk.
“Hold up, jerkwad.”
Slowing his stride, Hal grinned. He’d won the heart of Desdemona Cohen with courage, a spinning catch pole, and a lifted middle finger. Now all he had to do was descend beneath the earth and rescue her buddy from a monster.
A luckier man didn’t exist.
* * *
Hal helped Desdemona through the blackberry vines and shrubs and down into the tunnel, his hands around her slim waist. He held her even after her booted feet had touched the ground. “Let go, creep,” she said, pushing at his hands.
With a smile, Hal released her. He noticed that the silver knife-sheath strapped to her wrist was empty. A memory of gleaming metal flashed through his mind—a knife caught between the wolf-man’s ribs as it swung its fist down. She’d lost the knife, then. Might need to find his Desdemona another weapon.
The afternoon sunshine shafted into the tunnel’s mouth but no farther. Dirt and pebbles trickled into the tunnel as Galahad and Nick climbed down. The tabby wiped dirt from the seat of his leather pants with one hand while handing Hal his catch pole with the other.
“I hope someone thought to bring flashlights,” Hal said.
“Yup.” Nick held open a plastic Walmart bag. Four flashlights and five packs of batteries. He nodded toward Desdemona. “Her idea. Our first stop once we left the fair.”
“You went shopping while I was unconscious?” Hal asked.
“We locked the doors,” Galahad said. “Rolled the windows down a crack. You were fine.”
Hal fetched a flashlight and a pack of batteries out of the bag. Nick distributed the rest. Galahad clicked his flashlight on. Off. On. Off. Nick joined in enthusiastically. On. Off. On. Off.
“Playtime is after monster slaying,” Hal growled, blinking spots from his vision. Renewed pain spiked
through his skull. Nausea squeezed his belly. He’d dry-swallowed a handful of aspirin a little while ago, but it had yet to take effect.
Chittering.
Hal froze. Had he heard—
As if fired from a catapult, a furry brown object hurtled from the tunnel and smacked into Hal, hitting him with full squirrel force in the gut. Hal staggered back, swatting at the frenzied thing scrabbling up his chest, clutching at his shirt with tiny little claws. And chittering. Oh, yes. It was chittering.
The deranged rodent danced its way up Hal’s chest, to his face, his head, then leapt for the tunnel mouth, little limbs splayed like it was a flying squirrel. But it was only a leaping, insane squirrel.
Hal doubled over, nausea roiling through his gut. Dropped to his knees as bile burned at the back of his throat.
“Was that a . . . squirrel?” Desdemona asked.
“Yeah,” Nick said. “It has a thing for Hal.”
Hal willed himself not to puke. Stupid, loco squirrel. He concentrated on recipes featuring squirrel. Squirrel flambé. Squirrel Stroganoff. Squirrel à la king. Sweat popped up on his forehead.
“He’s not gonna puke, is he?”
Desdemona’s concern gave Hal strength. Swallowing hard, he straightened, using the catch pole to pull himself upright. He forced a smile. Desdemona’s vanished.
“You sure you’re not gonna hurl?” she asked, stepping back. “You don’t look good.”
“Never better,” Hal said. He gingerly tapped a finger against his temple. “Willpower.”
Desdemona looked at him for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. “Loon,” she stated.
Hal grinned at her. The name nestled in his heart. Loon. Desdemona’s loon.
“What’s the game plan?” Galahad asked.
“We find Louis,” Hal said.
“Alive,” Desdemona added.
“We don’t know who’s created and unleashed that wolf-man thing or why they’ve been slaughtering hippies,” Hal said. “Or why they’ve stolen a yōkai fortune-teller or—”
“Wait. Hippies?” Desdemona asked.
Hal nodded and instantly regretted it. Dizziness pirouetted the tunnel around him. He closed his eyes. “Fewer hippies. Have you noticed?”
“Y’know, I have,” Desdemona said. “I mean, I hadn’t really thought about it, but now that you mention it, there’s several I used to see on a regular basis that haven’t been around for the last month or so.”
Hal squinted. Nothing spun. He opened his eyes. “Exactly,” he said. “I found a bloodstained Birkenstock. Here, in fact.”
“The lycan’s clothes are gone,” Nick pointed out.
Hal glanced at him, moving his head cautiously. The folded pile of clothes and shoes were no longer stacked by the tunnel’s mouth. “Okay, then,” he said. “Desdemona, what do you know about shifters—lycans and yōkai?”
“Just what Louis told me,” she said with a fetching little shrug. “That yōkai are ruled by the sun and are animals that turn into people during the day. Lycans are ruled by the moon and are people who Shift into animals at night.”
Galahad nodded. “Right you are, sweet thing.”
“And you?” Desdemona looked at Hal. “Are you a shifter too?”
“No. All man.”
Desdemona rolled her eyes. “Sorry I asked. Look, all I want is Louis back.”
“And that’s what you’ll get,” Hal promised.
A tentative smile touched Desdemona’s lips. “I’m gonna hold you to that, creep.” She paused, then added, “Hal. I mean, Hal.”
“You can call me ‘creep’ all you want,” Hal said. “I like it.”
“You would,” Desdemona muttered.
Hal laughed, then thumped his catch pole against the tunnel floor. The smell of old ganja floated into the air. He waved it away, coughing. Looking from Desdemona to Galahad to Nick, he asked, “The most dangerous thing in these tunnels is us. Now let’s go prove it.”
Galahad’s eyes glowed like green fire in the gloom. He purred. Nick shivered and twitched like he was ruffling up the fur he wasn’t wearing at the moment. Desdemona regarded them both, expression decidedly dubious.
Hal switched on his flashlight and, catch pole in hand, led the way into the tunnel. “Time to kick ass and take names.”
Behind him, Gally’s purr intensified.
9
ON THE TRAIL
Hal stayed close to the left hand tunnel wall. Moisture seeped through the dirt walls in places and puddled on the floor. Not surprising, considering how close the tunnel was to the river. And considering this was Oregon.
The dank air smelled of mold and mud. But underneath that, Hal smelled Desdemona’s smoky incense-and-cloves scent lacing uneasily with the darker, earthier odors from the tunnel.
Sounds carried—the scrape of their shoes against the dirt floor; their voices, no matter how soft; the tap of his catch pole against the ground; the creak of leather and rustle of lace.
A pungent odor filled the tunnel, growing stronger the farther in they traveled. Pot. Ganja. Good ol’ Mary Jane. Hal’d never toked up, but he lived in Eugene, Oregon, so the smell was everywhere. Okay, he actually lived in Springfield—home of twenty-four-hour adult stores and meth labs—but Eugene was right next door.
Hal breathed deeply. Not a bad smell, really. Not compared to the lovely pulp mill smell pervading the air in Springfield. The aspirin was finally working, because his mind felt clearer, more focused. His stomach growled. Plus his appetite was returning.
Hal’s flashlight revealed graffiti on the tunnel wall. KESEY WAS HERE and STILL IS. As he stepped closer to investigate, he tripped over something and stumbled forward, catching himself with his catch pole.
Hal swung his flashlight down. The circle of light revealed a bearded face, mouth open wide. Dreads starred out from the head like tentacles. The neck looked as though the head had been wrenched from the body.
Hal sucked in a breath. “Christ on a stick,” he breathed. “Found one of the missing hippies. Part of one, actually.”
Galahad crouched down beside the head. Wrinkled his nose. “Not very fresh, either,” he murmured.
“Gross,” Desdemona said.
Hal glanced at her, surprised by what he thought he’d heard in her voice—fascination. She stared at the hippie head, a half smile on her lips.
“Gross,” she repeated, her voice a near whisper.
“Well,” Nick said, “we’re on the right trail, anyway.”
“Ah,” Galahad said, getting to his feet, “the obvious, boldly stated.”
“What’re you saying?”
A mischievous smile curled Galahad’s lips. “Why, nothing, Nick. Nothing at all.”
Hal resumed walking. A few yards in, his catch pole tapped against something in front of him. Muscles coiled, pole ready, Hal trained the flashlight on the object. A body. Sans head. Tie-dye tunic, hemp necklace, ratty jeans, and dirty bare feet.
“Found the rest of him,” he called over his shoulder.
“Goody,” Galahad replied.
Desdemona stopped beside Hal. She trained her flashlight on the corpse. “Gross.”
Hal nodded. He poked the body with his catch pole. “Gross,” he agreed. “You wanna?” he asked, offering her the catch pole.
“Noooo. Absolutely not, jerkwad.” Desdemona flicked her flashlight up, aimed it down the tunnel, and stepped over the body.
Grinning, Hal hurried after Desdemona, passing her in two long-legged Mother, may I? strides. “If you change your mind . . .” he said as he passed.
“I won’t. Don’t worry.”
The smell of ganja permeated the air, puffing up from the ground with each step, filling his lungs with each breath. Hal felt giddy. Giddy. With a capital G. And hungry. With a big ol’ capital H. He stumb
led over something, barely catching himself with his catch pole. He aimed the flashlight down. Another body. In two halves.
“’Nother one!” he called.
Galahad, Nick, and Desdemona caught up with Hal, their flashlights trained on the corpse halves. “Yuck,” Desdemona said.
Hal offered her the pole again. She shook her head but wrapped her fingers around the staff. A hot jolt of joy shot down the length of Hal’s spine. He was sure he glowed incandescent, his happiness stealing the darkness from the tunnel.
Murmuring, “Gross. Yuck,” Desdemona poked first one half and then the other half with the pole. She said, “Gross. Yuck,” every time she poked the Indian-tunic-wearing halves. But the way she said the words suggested cool and wow instead. She poked the halves many times.
Hal nodded. He knew how she felt. He remembered the first time he’d poked a dead thing. Admittedly, it had been a roadkill critter and not a dismembered human being, but still. After a few moments she handed the pole back to Hal, their fingers brushing in the dark.
Nick giggled. A disconcerting sound, considering Nick never giggled.
“What’s so funny, Nick?” Hal asked, stepping with grace between the halves but catching his heel against another unseen object. He fell. On his ass. Whatever he landed on, cushioning his head from another blow, farted.
“That wasn’t me,” he called out hastily.
Laughter echoed throughout the tunnel. Hysterical, knee-slapping, can’t-breathe laughter. Hal poled himself upright, then angled his flashlight down. Another freakin’ body. This one was intact, however. One Birkenstock, the other foot bare.
“Ah! Found the other Birkenstock!”
A fresh gale of gasping, helpless laughter. Smack. Smack. Smack. Someone was slapping their knee. Hal swung his flashlight around. Galahad, Nick, and Desdemona clung to one another, laughing, tears glistening on their faces.
“What’s so funny?”
“You didn’t even mention the body,” Galahad gasped. “Just the stupid Birkenstock.”
“Not true,” Nick said, struggling to keep a straight face. “He pinned the blame for the fart on the body, so he did mention it—in a roundabout way.”
Thinning the Herd Page 6