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Portaby Airfield is small. I guess that's why it's called an airfield instead of an airport. There were two small runways and a cluster of buildings, if three could be called a cluster. But it was clean and neat as a pin, and the setting was postcard perfect. The airfield sat in the middle of a wide, green valley surrounded on three sides by the gentle slopes of the Smokey Mountains. On the fourth side, behind the buildings, was the rest of the valley. It sloped sharply down, letting us know that the valley we were standing in was still part of the mountains. The town of Myerton, Tennessee, stretched below us in air so clean it sparkled like someone had dusted the clouds with ground diamonds. Words came to mind like pristine, crystalline.
That was the main reason one of the last remaining wild bands of Lesser Smokey Mountain Trolls lived in the area. Richard was finishing up his master's degree in biology. He'd been studying the trolls every summer for four years between teaching full time. Takes longer to get your master's degree part time.
I took a deep breath of the clean, clean air. I could see why Richard would want to spend his summers here. It was exactly the kind of place he'd enjoy. He was into outdoorsy stuff in a big way. Rock climbing, hiking, fishing, camping, canoeing, bird-watching -- pretty much anything you could do outside was his idea of fun. Oh, caving, too. Though I guess, technically, you're not outside if you're inside a cave.
When I said that Richard was a Boy Scout, I didn't mean just his moral fiber.
A man walked towards us. He was almost perfectly round in the middle, wearing a pair of coveralls with oil on the knees. White hair stuck out from underneath a billed cap. His glasses were black-rimmed and square. He wiped his hands on a rag as he walked. The look on his face was polite, curious. His eyes flicked from me to the rest of the guys as they filed out of the plane. Then his eyes flicked to the coffins that were being unloaded from the storage compartment. Asher was in one. Damian was in the other.
Asher was the more powerful of the two, but he was several hundred years younger. Damian had been a Viking when he was alive, and I don't mean the football team. He'd been a card-carrying, sword-wielding, marauding raider. One night he'd raided the wrong castle, and she took him. If she had a name, I've never heard it. She was a master vampire and ruler of her lands, the equivalent to Master of the City when there is no city in a hundred miles. She took Damian on a summer night over a thousand years ago, and she kept him. A thousand years, and he felt no more powerful in my head than a vampire half his age. I'd underestimated his age by hundreds of years, because part of me just couldn't accept that you could exist that long and not be more powerful, scarier. Damian was scary but not a millennium worth of scary. He'd never be more than he was: a third or fourth banana for all eternity. Jean-Claude bargained for Damian's freedom when he came to be Master of the City. He ransomed Damian. I never knew what it cost Jean-Claude, but I knew that it hadn't been cheap. She had not wanted to give up her favorite whipping boy.
The man said, "I'd shake your hand, but I've been working on the planes. Mr. Niley's man is waiting in the building."
I frowned. "Mr. Niley?"
He frowned then. "Aren't you Mr. Niley's people? Milo said you'd be coming in today." He looked back, and a tall man stepped out of the building. His skin was the color of coffee, two creams. His hair was cut in a wedge, leaving his elegant, sculpted face bare and unadorned. He was wearing a suit that cost more than most cars. He stared at me, and even from a distance I felt the dead weight of his eyes. All he needed was a sign over his head that said Muscle.
"No, we're not Mr. Niley's people." That he'd made the mistake made me wonder who Mr. Niley was.
A voice called, "These are the people I've been expecting, Ed." It was Jamil, one of Richard's enforcers. The enforcers were Sköll and Hati after the wolves that chase the sun and moon in Norse mythology. When they catch them, it will be the end of the world. Tells you something about werewolf society that their enforcers were named after creatures that would bring about the end of everything. Jamil was Sköll for Richard's pack, which meant he was head enforcer. He was tall and slender in the way a dancer is slender, all muscles and shoulders planed down to a smooth, graceful machine of flesh. He was wearing a white sleeveless men's undershirt and loose, tailored white pants with a very sharp cuff rolled at the end of the pants legs. Black suspenders graced his upper body and matched the highly polished black shoes. A white linen jacket was thrown over one shoulder. His dark skin gleamed against the whiteness of his clothes. His hair was nearly waist length in cornrows with white beads woven through the braids. Last time I'd seen him, the beads had been multicolored.
Ed flicked a look back at Jamil. "If you say so," he said. He went back to the main building, leaving us to ourselves. Probably just as well.
"I didn't know you were here, Jamil," I said.
"I'm Richard's bodyguard. Where else would I be?"
He had a point. "Where were you the night his body was supposedly attacking this woman?"
"Her name is Betty Schaffer."
"Have you talked to her?"
His eyes widened. "She's already cried rape once on a fine, upstanding white boy. No, I haven't talked to her."
"You could try and blend in a little."
"I'm one of only two black men for about 50 miles," he said, "There's no way for me to blend in, Anita, so I don't try." There was an undercurrent of real anger there. I wondered if Jamil had been having trouble with the locals. It seemed likely. He wasn't just African American. He was tall, handsome, and athletic looking. That alone would have gotten him on the redneck hit parade. The long cornrow hair and the killer fashion sense raised the question that he might violate the last white male bastion of homophobia. I knew that Jamil liked girls, but I was almost willing to bet some of the locals hadn't believed that.
"I assume that is the other African American guy." I was careful not to point at Milo. He was watching us, face expressionless, but too intense. Muscle recognizes muscle, and he was probably wondering about Jamil just as we were wondering about him. What was professional muscle doing out here in the boonies?
Jamil nodded. "Yeah, that's the other one."
"He doesn't blend in, either," I said. "Who is he?"
"His name is Milo Hart. He works for a guy named Frank Niley who is supposed to arrive today."
"You and he sit down and have a talk?"
"No, but Ed is just full of news."
"Why does Frank Niley need a bodyguard?"
"He's rich," Jamil said as if that explained it, and maybe it did. "He's down here doing some land speculation."
"Ed the plane mechanic tell you all this?"
Jamil nodded. "He likes to talk, even to me."
"Gee, and I thought you were just another pretty face."
Jamil smiled. "I'll do my job when Richard lets me."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means if he'd let me watch over him like a good Sköll is supposed to, this rape charge would never have happened. I'd have been a witness, and it wouldn't be just her word against his."
"Maybe I should talk to Ms. Schaffer," I said.
"Babe, you just read my mind."
"You know, Jamil, you're the only person who ever calls me babe. There's a reason for that."
His smile widened. "I'll try to remember that."
"What happened to Richard, Jamil?"
"You mean did he do it?"
I shook my head. "No, I know he didn't do it."
"He did date her," Jamil said.
I looked at him. "What are you saying?"
"Richard's been trying to find a replacement for you."
"So?"
"So, he's been dating anything that moves."
"Just dating?" I asked.
Jamil swirled his jacket from his shoulder to one arm, smoothing the cloth and not looking at me.
"Answer the question, Jamil."
He looked at me, almost smiling, then sighed. "No, not just dating."
<
br /> I had to ask. "He's been sleeping around?"
Jamil nodded.
I stood there, thinking about that for a second or two. Richard and I had each been celibate for years, separate decisions. I'd certainly changed my lifestyle. Did I really think he'd stay chaste when I hadn't? Was it any of my business what he did? No; no, it wasn't.
I finally shrugged. "He's not my boyfriend anymore, Jamil. And he's a big boy." I shrugged again, not really sure how I felt about Richard sleeping around. Trying very hard not to feel anything about it, because it didn't matter how I felt. Richard had his own life to live, and it didn't include me, not in that way. "I'm not here to police Richard's sex life."
Jamil nodded almost to himself. "Good. I was worried."
"What, you thought I'd throw a fit and storm off, leaving him to his just desserts?"
"Something like that," he said.
"Did he have sex with the woman who's made the accusation?"
"If you mean intercourse, no. She's human," he said. "Richard doesn't do humans. He's afraid they're too fragile."
"I thought you just said he'd been sleeping with Ms. Schaffer."
"Having sex, but not doing the dirty deed."
I wasn't a virgin. I knew there were alternatives, but ... "Why alternative methods with humans? Why not just ... do it?"
"Doing the wild thing can release our beast early. You don't want to know what happens when you're with a human who doesn't know what you are, and you shift on top of them, inside them." A shadow crossed his face, and he looked away.
"You sound like the voice of experience," I said.
He looked slowly back at me, and there was something in his face that was suddenly frightening, like looking up and realizing that the bars between you and the lion at the zoo aren't there anymore. "That is none of your business."
I nodded. "Sorry, you're right. You're absolutely right. It was too personal."
But it was interesting information. There had been a point where I'd pretty much begged Richard to stay the night. To have sex with me. He'd said no because it wouldn't be fair until I saw him change into werewolf form. I needed to be able to accept the whole package. I hadn't been able to do that once the package bled and writhed all over me. But now I wondered if part of his hesitation had been simply fear of hurting me. Maybe.
I shook my head. It didn't matter. Business. If I concentrated really hard, maybe I could stay on track. We were here to get him out of jail, not to worry about why we broke up.
"We could use a little help here with the luggage," Jason called.
He had two suitcases under each arm. Zane and Cherry were carrying one coffin. They looked like pallbearer bookends. Nathaniel was lying on his back on the other coffin. He'd taken off his shirt and unbound his hair. His hands were folded across his stomach, eyes closed. I didn't know whether he was playing dead or trying to get a tan.
"A little help here," Jason said, kicking his foot towards the rest of the luggage. Two suitcases and a huge trunk still sat unclaimed.
I walked towards them. "Jesus, only one of those suitcases is mine. Who's the clotheshorse?"
Zane and Cherry put the coffin gently on the Tarmac. "Just one suitcase is mine," Zane said.
"Three of them are mine," Cherry said. She sounded vaguely embarrassed.
"Who brought the trunk?"
"Jean-Claude sent it," Jason said. "Just in case we do meet with the local master. He wanted us to make a good show of it."
I frowned at the trunk. "Please tell me there's nothing in there that Jean-Claude plans on me wearing."
Jason grinned.
I shook my head. "I don't want to see it."
"Maybe you'll get lucky," Jason said. "Maybe they'll try to kill you instead."
I frowned at him. "You're just full of happy thoughts."
"My speciality," he said.
Nathaniel turned his head and looked at me, hands clasped across his bare stomach. "I can lift the coffin, but it's not balanced right for carrying. I need help."
"You certainly do," I said.
He blinked up at me, one hand raised to block the sun. I moved until my body blocked the sun and he could look at me without squinting. He smiled up at me.
"What's with the coffin sunbathing?" I asked.
The smile wilted around the edges, then faded completely. "It's the scene in the crypt," he said as if that explained everything. It didn't.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He raised just his shoulders and head off the coffin like he was doing stomach crunches. His abs bunched nicely with the effort. "You really haven't watched my movies, have you?"
"Sorry," I said.
He sat up the rest of the way, smoothing his hair back with both hands in a practiced gesture. He slipped a silver clasp around the hair and flipped the tail of auburn hair behind his back.
"I thought silver jewelry burned when it touched a lycanthrope's skin," I said.
He wiggled his hair, settling the silver clasp securely against his neck. "It does," he said.
"A little pain makes the world go round, I guess."
He just stared at me with his strange eyes. He was only nineteen, but the look on his face was older, much older. There were no lines on that smooth skin, but there were shadows in those eyes that nothing would ever erase. Cosmetic surgery for the soul was what he needed. Something to take the terrible burden of knowledge that had made him what he was.
Jason limped over to us, loaded with suitcases. "One of his movies is about a vampire who falls in love with an innocent young human."
"You've seen it," I said.
He nodded.
I shook my head and picked up a suitcase. "You got a car for us?" I asked Jamil.
"A van," he said.
"Great. Pick up a suitcase, and show me the way."
"I don't do luggage."
"If we all help, we can load the van in half the time. I want to see Richard as soon as possible, so grab something and stop being such a freaking prima donna."
Jamil stared at me for a long, slow count, then said, "When Richard replaces you as lupa, I won't have to take shit from you."
"Fine, but until then, hop to it. Besides, this isn't giving you shit, Jamil. When I give you shit, you'll know it."
He gave a low chuckle. He slipped his jacket back on and picked up the trunk. It should have taken two strong men to lift it. He carried it like it weighed nothing. He walked off without a backward glance, leaving me to get the last suitcase. Zane and Cherry picked the coffin back up and walked after him. Jason shuffled after them.
"What about me?" Nathaniel said.
"Put your shirt back on and stay with the coffin. Wouldn't do to have someone make off with Damian."
"I know women who would pay me to take the shirt off," he said.
"Too bad I'm not one of them," I said.
"Yeah," he said, "too bad." He picked his shirt up off the ground. I left him sitting on the coffin in the middle of the Tarmac, shirt wadded in his hands. He looked sort of forlorn in a strange, macabre way. I felt very sorry for Nathaniel. He'd had a rough life. But it wasn't my fault. I was paying for his apartment so he didn't have to turn tricks to make ends meet, though I knew other strippers at Guilty Pleasures who managed to make ends meet on their salary. Maybe Nathaniel wasn't good with money. Big surprise there.
The van was large, black, and looked sinister. The sort of thing serial killers drive in made-for-TV movies. Serial killers did drive vans in real life, but they tended to be pale colors with rust spots.
Jamil drove. Cherry and I rode up front with him. The luggage and everyone else went in the back. I expected Cherry to ask me to sit in the middle because I was at least five inches shorter than she was, but she didn't. She just crawled into the van, in the middle, with those long legs tucked up in front of the dashboard.
The road was well paved, almost no potholes, and if you held your breath, two cars could pass each other without scraping paint. T
rees hugged the road on either side. But on one side, you caught glimpses of an amazing drop-off, and on the other side, there was just rocky dirt. I preferred the dirt. The trees were thick enough that the illusion of safety was there, but the trees fell away like a great, green curtain, and you could suddenly see for miles. The illusion was gone, and you realized just how high up we were. Okay, it wasn't like Rocky Mountain high, but it would do the job if the van went over the edge. Falling from high places is one of my least favorite things to do. I don't clutch the upholstery like in the airplane, but I'm a flatlander at heart and would be glad to be in the lower valley.
"Do you want me to drop you at the police station or take you to the cabins first?" Jamil asked.
"Police. Did you say cabins?"
He nodded. "Cabins."
"Rustic living?" I asked.
"No, thank God," he said. "Indoor plumbing, beds, electricity, the works, if you aren't too particular about the decor."
"Not a fashion plate?"
"Not hardly," he said.
Cherry sat very still between us, hands folded in her lap. I realized she wasn't wearing her seat belt. My mother would be alive today if she'd been wearing hers, so I'm picky about it. "You're not wearing your seat belt," I said.
Cherry looked at me. "I'm squashed enough without the seat belt," she said.
"I know you could survive a trip through the windshield," I said, "but having you heal that much damage would sort of blow your cover."
"Am I supposed to be playing human?" she asked.
It was a good question. "For the townsfolk, yeah."
She fastened her seat belt without any more arguing. The wereleopards had taken me to heart as their Nimir-ra. They were so glad to have someone act as protector, even if it was just a human, that they didn't bitch much. "You should have told me we were trying to blend in. I'd have dressed differently."
"You're right; I should have said something." Truthfully, it hadn't occurred to me until just that moment.
The road spilled down into what passed for flatland here. The trees were so thick that it was almost claustrophobic. There was still a gentle swell to the land, letting you know you were driving over the toes of mountains.
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