Blue Shadow

by Brad Magnarella

  Blue Shadow

  Blue Wolf Book 2

  Brad Magnarella

  © 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.

  Cover by Orina Kafe

  Table of Contents

  The Blue Wolf Series

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Join the Team!

  Books in the Strangeverse

  Acknowledgements

  The Blue Wolf Series

  BLUE CURSE

  BLUE SHADOW

  *MORE TO COME*

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  http://bit.ly/blue_wolf

  1

  El Rosario, Mexico

  Miguel Bardoza giggled as his bare feet beat down the hard-packed dirt road at dusk.

  “Get back here!” his sister called in Spanish from behind him. “It’s not safe! There are trucks!”

  The six-year-old boy paused long enough to look around before sticking his tongue out at her and scampering farther ahead. There were no trucks. Maria was just being bossy. She was trying to act like their mother, even though she was only three years older than him.

  “Miguel!” she yelled, storming into a fast walk that wasn’t quite a run.

  “Miguel,” the boy mimicked over a shoulder, then broke into more laughter, all while making sure to stay a safe distance ahead. She would tell on him when they got home, but to make her furious like this was worth it.

  They were returning from their grandparents’ on a long road that ran along one end of town. Miguel loved going to their house, partly because Grandpa would do coin tricks for him after dinner, then let him keep the coin. That night Grandpa put a whole peso in his mustache, but when Miguel dug his fingers through the thick, graying bristles, the coin wasn’t there! Chuckling, Grandpa pulled the peso from Miguel’s curly hair and presented it to him. Miguel could have burst. Grandpa had never given him that much money before.

  “Don’t tell your mother,” he’d said with a wink.

  Whether Grandpa had meant his actual mother or his sister, Maria, Miguel wasn’t sure. That was why he was running ahead of her now. His shorts lacked pockets, so he was having to hold the peso in his right fist. He couldn’t make it disappear like Grandpa, and he didn’t want Maria finding it.

  “Miguel!” she yelled again. “Do you want the monsters to get you?”

  He slowed a little. There were no such things as monsters. But although he knew this—or at least he’d heard his father say it enough times to believe it was probably true—the woods on the far side of the field they were passing did look kind of scary in the growing dark. Scary enough for something big and hairy to jump out from behind the trees and chase them, even.

  “There aren’t any monsters,” Miguel said, more to reassure himself than anything. He clung tightly to his peso and edged to the far side of the road, his large eyes roaming the dark trees.

  “Are too!” Maria shot back. “And they eat bad little boys.”

  Now he knew she was lying. But he was still anxious to get to the road ahead that would take them away from the woods and back to their house behind the church in the center of town. He was almost to the end of the field when he ventured one last look toward the trees.

  His breath caught in his throat, and he jerked to a sudden stop.

  A figure that he was sure hadn’t been there a moment before was standing across the field, near the trees. Miguel’s brain struggled to make sense of the fat silhouette with the wild hair and big nose. He didn’t know anyone like that in El Rosario … but there was something familiar about him.

  Maria, who hadn’t seen the figure yet, was still scolding Miguel as she closed the distance. Miguel wanted to tell her to be quiet, but couldn’t seem to find his voice. When the figure stepped from the shadow of the trees, his colorful costume came into full view. Miguel’s fear turned so suddenly to excitement that a little pee spurted from his bladder, but he barely noticed.

  A whole peso, and now this!

  “Maria!” he called back. “Maria, look! It’s Baboso the Clown!”

  “There’s no Baboso out here, you little liar. The festival ended last week.”

  But it was Baboso, his favorite of the Brothers Payaso. He couldn’t stop smiling as he bounced up and down. “Look!” he repeated.

  But Maria refused to follow his jabbing finger as she arrived beside him. Instead, her hand clamped around his wrist. “What do you have in your hand?” she demanded. “Did you take something from Grandma and Grandpa’s?” She tried to pry his fingers from his palm.

  Miguel glanced down at his fist, but he was too excited to worry about the peso. He waved his free hand and shouted, “Baboso! Baboso!”

  The clown with the big dumb smile raised a white glove and waved it slowly back and forth. Miguel found that so hilarious, he laughed until tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. That made Maria follow his gaze. Her grip loosened around Miguel’s wrist enough for him to jerk his hand away.

  “Baboso?” she whispered.

  Miguel ran to the side of the road, stopping at the field’s edge. He would have been content to watch the clown’s antics from there, but when Baboso lifted his other hand, a treat bag dangled from it. Inside the bag were fat nuggets of foil-wrapped…

  “Chocolates!” Miguel yelled.

  He was ready to take off toward the clown, his fear of the woods forgotten, when Maria seized his wrist again. This time, there was no discussion. Her mouth set in a determined line, she began tugging him up the road toward home, away from his favorite clown.

  “No!” he screamed. “Baboso! Chocolates!”

  He tried to bite her arm, but she smacked the top of his head. “It’s not Baboso,” she hissed, powering her lean legs into a run.

  He might have been faster than Maria, but she was stronger. Miguel made himself dead weight and looked back. The clown hadn’t moved. His grinning face shifted in and out of view beyond the field’s weathered stalks. And he was still holding up the bag of chocolates.

  “It is Baboso!” Miguel insisted, trying to brake with his heels now. “It is!”

  Maria grunted and smacked the top of his head again. Miguel hollered and rubbed the spot, almost the same place where Grandpa had fished out the peso earlier. That gave Miguel an idea.

  “Look what Grandpa gave me,” he said. “A whole peso! Look!”

  He opened his hand so the peso jostled around his palm. Maria glanced down at it distractedly. When it fell from his palm and onto the road, she paused to kneel for it. Miguel gave a mighty tug and jerked away from her. In the next instant he was racing at full speed toward Baboso.

  “Miguel!” Maria screamed.

  But he had too far a head start. She would never catch him, he thought as he crashed through the stalks in the field. He weaved around them, hardly able to contain his excitement as the clown and that wonderful swinging bag of treats grew larger and larger.

  “Chocolates,” Miguel cried. “Chocolate
s for meee!”

  “Get back here!” his sister called, but sounding very far away.

  When Miguel was almost to him, the clown raised a finger to his lips and stepped back into the trees. Miguel giggled through his panting breaths. Baboso was always playing silly games. Miguel slowed slightly as he entered the trees and looked around for the clown.

  “Miguel!” came his sister’s faint cry. “It’s not Baboso…”

  How could the clown have disappeared? Miguel thought. He’d been right here a second ago.

  “It’s a monster…”

  When the clown appeared beside him, Miguel saw what his sister meant. His eyes. Something wasn’t right about his eyes. Miguel had never seen a dead person before, but he imagined that’s what their eyes looked like. They stared down at him, blood-spotted and unblinking, even as the clown continued to grin. His top teeth were pointed and made of metal.

  Miguel backed slowly away, his stomach tight and a little sick. He didn’t want the chocolates anymore. He didn’t even care about the peso.

  He just wanted to be safely home.

  Baboso made no move to chase him. He simply followed with those dead eyes.

  Miguel spun and ran. He was almost clear of the trees when a large gloved hand closed around his wrist.

  2

  I braced myself against the edge of the sink, took a deep breath, and opened my eyes. For half a second I expected to see arctic-blue irises peering back at me from a stubbly, sun-browned face—the curse gone as suddenly as it had appeared. But no dice. Two weeks since the old woman in Waristan had marked me, and Jason Wolfe remained the Blue Wolf.

  I ran a taloned hand between my peaked ears. The thick hair that spiked back up looked electric blue under the bathroom’s fluorescent bulb. I squinted toward my yellow eyes before pulling my lips back. My muzzle wrinkled from rows of serrated teeth highlighted by two-inch canines. It still seemed impossible, but the proof was in the reflection.

  I’ve killed with these teeth.

  The thought stirred something powerful and predatory inside my chest. My heart began to thud harder. Before I could suppress the feeling, my ears canted away from the mirror: boots coming up the hallway. An instant later the door to the dorm room shook with knocking.

  “Yeah?” I called, relaxing my lips from my canines.

  “Here to give you a lift to the Legion compound,” a man’s voice answered from outside.

  I grunted and checked my watch. He was early. I straightened from the sink and looked over myself a final time. I was wearing a black jumpsuit Centurion had designed for my seven-foot, four-hundred-pound frame, as well as boots that fit over my massive clawed feet. My eyes lingered on the breast of the suit where the Centurion shield gleamed silver.

  The door shook with more knocking. “You coming?” the man called in a southern accent.

  I scowled at the Centurion insignia and left the bathroom. A flight helmet with what looked like a breathing apparatus sat atop the dorm’s dresser beside my gloves. The jutting apparatus didn’t circulate oxygen, though; it was designed with the sole purpose of concealing my muzzle. Reginald Purdy, Centurion’s head of program development, had assured me their technology division was working on something less obtrusive to hide my face. In the meantime…

  I palmed the helmet and was preparing to push it over my ears when the impatient knocking sounded a third time. Swearing, I tucked the helmet under an arm and pocketed the gloves. Yanking the door open, I glared down at the Centurion associate.

  “I heard you the first time,” I growled.

  The thirty-something man was wiry with shaggy muttonchops. His trucker hat read WOMEN WANT ME, FISH FEAR ME. He had been poised to say something, but now his jaw went slack. A vinegar scent of fear spiked from his skin. If he was transporting me, he had security clearance into the Legion Program, but hearing that the program would be commanded by a massive wolfman and getting an eyeful of said wolfman were two different things entirely.

  “M-Mr. Purdy is waiting,” he said at last.

  “Purdy told me 0800,” I said, looming over him. “And it’s quarter till. I’ve got a locker to pack.”

  Muttonchops had caught me at a bad time—dealing with my temperamental wolf nature on top of the moral dilemma I faced in transitioning from a decorated special ops officer in the U.S. military to what amounted to a mercenary. I was disgusted at myself for giving Centurion United that kind of leverage over me, and I didn’t bother hiding my disgust now.

  Muttonchops swallowed and adjusted the utility belt that separated his fatigue pants from the tactical vest he wore over a black tank top. “Fine, I’ll give you two minutes,” he said, trying to disguise his fear with authority. “You’re not ready by then, we’ll take off without you.”

  Bad choice of words. Before Muttonchops or I knew what was happening, my taloned hand flashed forward, grabbed him by his tactical vest, and slammed him high against the wall. His hat fell off to reveal a rust-colored mullet.

  “What’s your name?” I snarled inches from his reddening face.

  “R-rusty,” he managed.

  “Well listen up, Rusty. You don’t give me orders, and you sure as hell don’t talk to me like that. You’ve got no rank on me, one. And two, you’re a little parasite more interested in cashing a paycheck than serving your country like a real soldier.”

  “Hey, man, I’ve got a mortgage … kids to feed.”

  “The next time you come for me, it will be at the appointed time. If you’re early, you wait. And if you’ve got something to say, you damn well better make sure it’s not insulting before opening your mouth. We clear?” When Rusty sputtered and wrestled with my fingers instead of answering, I shook him and roared, “Are we clear?”

  “Captain Wolfe,” someone called.

  I turned to find Reginald Purdy hurrying down the corridor in one of his dark pinstripe suits. The smile lines of his aging African-American face were arcing up in question. “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  I lowered Rusty back to the floor. “Not anymore.”

  Purdy’s eyes moved between the Centurion associate and me. “Why don’t you wait in the car?” he said to Rusty, who wasted no time putting Purdy between us as he collected his hat and hurried down the corridor.

  I took a calming breath. “Sorry.”

  Purdy studied me for another moment, the pinch of his lips beneath his thin gray mustache telling me he’d read the situation. “Listen, I know this is a big adjustment for you. You’re not in the military anymore. You’re dealing with a different culture, different personnel. And you’re here for no other reason than to see your humanity restored and to return to your fiancé. I understand and accept that. But I assure you, the work you’re about to do is vital.”

  “Hunting monsters,” I grunted. After what I’d experienced in the last two weeks, I shouldn’t have sounded so skeptical.

  “Indeed, it’s a need that’s not currently being met. At least not with the kind of force and expertise a company like Centurion can bring to bear. Which is why we’re anxious to begin.”

  “Good way to put it.”

  Barely fourteen hours earlier I had been in Florida, meeting with the mother of my former civil affairs officer, Calvin Parker. I had steered conversation far from the cause of his death—a dragon’s lethal ice blast—instead sharing with her the privilege of having served with her son. The visit meant a lot to her, and I meant every word. Parker was one of the really good ones. I had wanted to stay longer, but the experimental drug worked for minutes, not hours. And with hair sprouting over my back, I’d had to leave the wedge of sweet potato pie Mrs. Parker had fetched for me half eaten.

  A direct flight later, and I was outside of Las Vegas and in Centurion’s employ, captain of the Legion Program.

  “In any case, I was coming in to tell you to leave your stuff,” Purdy said, waving toward the open locker at the foot of my bed. “Someone will deliver everything to your new barracks later this morning.�
��

  Back under control, I nodded and closed the door behind me.

  “Shall we?” Purdy asked, clapping my arm. “Your new team’s anxious to meet you.”

  As we walked down the corridor, I placed the helmet over my head and donned my gloves. The wolf in me didn’t like the confinement, but only a limited number of Centurion employees knew about the Legion Program—or me.

  We exited the building, passing between a pair of guards. Even with the helmet’s polarized visor, I caught myself squinting beneath the bright desert sun. Purdy and I climbed into the backseat of the solar-powered SUV that Rusty had pulled to the front of the building. He sat rigidly in the driver’s seat, shooting me wary glances in the rearview mirror.

  As the vehicle started forward, I gazed at the enormous campus sweeping across my view out the window. It was Centurion’s West Coast operating center: part military base, part research facility. Large dun-colored buildings with black windows rose from trees and heavily-watered lawns. Official looking solar-powered vehicles navigated between them. Though the campus held a certain aesthetic appeal, the security here was said to be even more stringent than at Area 51—and more deadly. Guards had standing orders to shoot intruders on sight. More valuable than the military secrets were the company’s intellectual properties.

  Different culture, indeed.

  Before long, we were passing through a checkpoint and leaving the main campus behind. To either side of the newly laid road, desert stretched to perimeter fencing. To my right stood distant mountains. We were heading toward a cluster of buildings about a half mile ahead.

  “I think you’ll like what we’ve set up out here,” Purdy said.

  He dabbed his mouth with a folded handkerchief and tucked it back into the front pocket of his suit jacket. Though he possessed the mannerisms of an old-time lawyer, the contract Purdy had presented to me was straightforward enough. In exchange for one year of my service, Centurion’s bioengineering division would work on a cure for my condition. If by the end of the year Centurion’s engineers had yet to develop a cure, their work would continue, with monthly progress reports. I would be under no further obligations but could remain on the campus free of charge—and would even draw a small salary.