Raising Wolves

by Preston Walker

  Beyond the kitchen and eating area were two tiny rooms and a ladder in-between. On the left was a tiny bathroom, fully tiled. Upon inspection, the tiles themselves appeared to be made from crushed seashells caught in resin. The shower basin was tall enough to act as a tub for a small person, the perfect size for Darla. On the right, curtains were closed over a twin-sized bed which had shelves and drawers at the head and foot and a window on the long side.

  "Darla, come see," Jordan said.

  She squealed as soon as she saw it, and climbed in. She immediately began opening doors and pulling out drawers, before pressing her face against the window and blowing razz-berries on it.

  "Princess bed!" she screamed, bouncing on it. "Princess bed, princess bed!"

  Jordan grinned and looked away, toward the ladder. He climbed up, and found the loft to be both taller and wider than he had anticipated.

  "There's a writing desk that pulls out," Monty told him. "I used it for my laptop, but you could use it for... I don't know... breakfast in bed or whatever."

  "Laptop," Jordan said, briefly.

  He pulled the desk out, and sat against the cushioned headboard. It was the most comfortable work arrangement he'd ever experienced. He followed Darla's lead and started to open the drawers and doors which lined the foot of the bed. There was plenty of room here for his most important things. The less important things seemed utterly meaningless in that moment. He looked out the window just as the clouds parted, and was washed in a beam of moonlight, which he took as a sign. Just then, he heard a sound which made his heart sink and his palms sweat. Darla was doing 'the Thing'.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jeffery eyed the front of the shop before going in. It was a small, unassuming storefront, topped with apartments as all the shops in this area were. The vertical nature of the town made Jeffery vaguely uneasy. The building he worked in was one of the tallest in Moorside at seven stories, and he'd kept his office on the ground floor in spite of the pressure from his bosses to move into one of the supervisor suites. Their kind didn't fly. They could jump and run and take down a car going thirty miles per hour, but high places were not their friends. He was glad that the shop, at least, was on ground level.

  Pushing inside, the chimes tinkled in a strange, otherworldly sort of minor key. Scents of sage and incense filled the air, and he sneezed.

  "I'm sorry, we're closed," a woman's harsh voice told him.

  "Not here to shop," he said, mildly.

  The beads hanging over the doorway into the back of the shop parted, and a frantic-looking woman with mascara running down her face cast her wild eyes in his direction. He noticed her eyes first, and her gun second. The rifle was leveled at his chest, though her hands were shaking. The smell of blood clung to her, but he couldn't identify which animal it came from, not with all of the interference from the scents which filled the store. Her waist-length blonde hair had red at the tips, and she wore a brown and green dress which swept the floor. He put his hands up reassuringly.

  "Has something happened?" he asked, calmly.

  "Who are you?" she snapped.

  He almost used the code name, then realized that it would get him shot.

  "My name is Jeffery," he said slowly, keeping his voice smooth and soothing. "I'm a friend of April's."

  "Bullshit!" The woman spat.

  Jeffery looked closely at her face, mentally comparing it to the file picture he had of April. This was definitely not the same woman.

  "I am," he told her, deliberately filling his voice with quiet confidence. "Has something happened to her?"

  The woman hesitated, dropping her gun slightly as she looked him over with the frantic precision of an animal in mortal danger. She was feeling him out. He wanted to take a step forward, feeling like that's what he was supposed to do, but he didn't want to startle her. Instead, he slowly lowered his hands. She snapped the rifle back up to chest level, but didn't fire. He kept his hands down.

  "How do you know April?" she demanded.

  "She and I have done some charity work together," he told her, coating the truth with a glossy lie. "I was her contact if she was ever in danger."

  "She contacted you?" the woman said, suspiciously.

  Jeffery caught the shimmer of hope in her eye, and pounced on it.

  "In a manner of speaking," he said. "She was supposed to get in touch with me after she met with a man named Nero Hunt, and she never called."

  "You know her well," the woman said ruefully, lowering her gun again. "She doesn't let people worry."

  Tears welled up in her bloodshot eyes, and dribbled silently down her chin. She had gone somewhere else, into some memory which haunted her. She gazed off into nothing for a long moment, and Jeffery took a step forward. When she didn't react, he took another step. Three more, and her gun was in his hand. She looked at him as if she had just noticed he was there, then broke down sobbing against his chest. He gently pulled the gun away from her and stashed it behind the counter as he held her shaking form. Now that he was closer to the beaded doorway, the stench of blood was unmistakably human. He realized that the brown in her dress and the red in her hair were not intentional; she was soaked in blood, but not her own.

  "Can you tell me what happened?" he asked, gently.

  She sobbed wordlessly and pointed a shaking finger toward the beaded doorway.

  "Up the stairs," she gasped. "Oh God, April..."

  She dissolved into sobs. Jeffery cast a glance around the room, and found a comfortable little couch wedged in a fairy-lit corner between two bookcases. He walked her over to it and deposited her gently onto the soft cushions, then covered her with the thick knitted blanket which had been draped over the back. She curled up into the fetal position and stared at nothing. Her trembling slowly stopped, and he patted her shoulder.

  "I'm locking the front door," he told her. "Can I get you something? Brandy? Tea?"

  "Tea," she whispered. "Back room."

  He nodded and patted her once more before locking the door and walking briskly into the back. The back room contained a tiny stove, refrigerator, sink and cupboard. A doorway led into what he assumed was a stock room, and a slatted staircase rose over the kitchenette. He found the tea (lavender and chamomile, he was pleased to see), and filled the kettle. Once he'd switched the stove on, he checked the windows and doors in the back room and stock room. None were locked. He addressed that rather egregious oversight, then the kettle began to scream. The woman looked slightly better when he brought the cup out to her. She was sitting now, with the blanket wrapped snugly around her shoulders.

  "There you are, dear," he said, handing it to her. "Careful, it's still hot."

  She took it, mouthing her thanks.

  "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name," he said.

  She blinked at him as if she were trying to remember.

  "Shania," she told him. "Shania Sprinkle."

  "You were her sister?"

  She nodded miserably.

  "I'm terribly sorry," he said, sincerely. "You sit right there. I'll go have a look."

  Tears fell into her tea, but she didn't answer him. He returned to the back and went up the stairs, noticing the smears of blood on the steps and banister and the claw marks on the wall. His gut churned. He knew what he was about to walk in to. He'd seen it before. The strays that had to be put down were always caught in the aftermath of a scene like this. It was the worst part of his job, and the most important. He paused just before the upper floor came into view and took a deep breath, steeling his nerves and absently wishing that there had been brandy in the cupboard. He could have used the courage.

  He stepped over the edge of the second floor, taking the scene in with a glance. A small office combined with a sitting room spread out before him. The large window had been smashed to bits from the inside; there was no glass on the floor. The desk was upended and scarred with claw marks and bullet holes. With that many shots fired, Jeffery wondered why the police hadn't arrived before him. Two
office chairs had been flung to far corners of the room, and whatever had been stored on the bookcases was smashed, torn and unrecognizable in piles on the floor. The couch and armchair were ripped and stained with blood. There was blood everywhere. It soaked into the wood panels of the floor, stained the desk red, and pooled in a dim little corner behind the desk itself. In the center of the pool lay a delicate, feminine hand. He swallowed hard and walked toward it.

  The scene behind the desk made his stomach lurch. No matter how many times he'd seen a werewolf attack, it never failed to make him queasy. There was something about the vicious, rabid style of the animal combined with the deliberately cruel human element which left each victim utterly destroyed. Most of their faces, if left intact, were twisted in terror and pain. April's wasn't. Her face was frozen in an expression of grim determination. He'd seen that once before, way back when he worked as a military specialist consultant. This was the expression that prisoners of war had when they refused to give up information, and the interrogator lost his temper before he broke their spirit. There was steel in the lines around her empty eyes; a ghost of the steel that would have reflected in them in life. Jeffery hoped that whoever had done this to her hadn't found what he wanted after he'd killed her. He had to wonder why Shania had been left alive.

  A filing cabinet against the wall had been broken open and its contents dumped on the floor. He scanned the folders without touching them. Each was labeled with a name, first and last. He recognized most of them. These were his strays, every stray that he'd been in contact with over the last five years, and more. The cabinet drawers were labeled with years. The one on the floor contained records for the last five, which was exactly the same timeframe he himself was investigating. His stomach clenched at the implications, and he knelt down to examine the folders more thoroughly. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary, and he pushed a hand through his hair with a sigh. He looked around the room from this new perspective, and something in the pile of wreckage caught his attention. A blood-smeared manila folder flapped in the breeze which blew through the broken window. He hurried over to it and pulled a glove from his pocket, pulling it on before picking up the folder. The name written on it was smeared with blood. He squinted to read it, then his blood ran cold.

  Steel-Hacker, Darla.

  He frantically searched the pile for the contents of the folder, but they were gone. Of course they were gone. Whoever had murdered April had taken the information on the Alpha's heir, and he could only imagine why they would want it. Jeffery cursed under his breath. He needed that information. He stuck his head out the open window and looked down. It was a straight drop, twenty feet or more to the cobbled street below. He couldn't see any blood on the ground, but his eyes weren't the best. Needing to get closer and catch the attacker's scent, he raced down the stairs and stepped through the back door into the narrow street. He sniffed and peered, walked this way and that, examined the back side of the building across from the Spiritual Oasis; but there was nothing. He pinched the bridge of his nose and considered the evidence. Someone wanted him (or whoever would eventually investigate this) to think that the attacker had escaped out the window. If they hadn't (which he had thought was unlikely from the start, seeing as werewolves don't fly) he must have gone out through the shop.

  April's sister must know more than she was telling. She might be in shock, but she should be able to give him a visual description of the murderer. At the very least, she should know where and how her sister backed up her files. She would have backups, wouldn't she? He could only hope. The fact that she had so many records of strays that he didn't recognize made him angry. Why would she hide them from him? What criminal activity was she protecting in the years before her death? He pondered these questions as he walked through the backroom and stepped through the beaded doorway. Then he stopped short.

  The front door was wide open. A glance at the couch told him the girl was gone. Her dress lay in a heap by the couch, and her tea had been left untouched on a shelf. Snarling with frustration, he ran out the door, looking up and down the street. She was gone, but he could smell her. He'd missed the scent markers under the layers of her sister's human blood, but they were as clear as the nose on his face now. The woman who claimed to be April's sister was the very wolf who had killed her in cold blood. She must have stashed the information somewhere before Jeffery showed up. Jeffery blew out a breath.

  "God damn it."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jordan was paralyzed with fear for a split second. He looked at Monty's face, and saw that he'd heard it too. Darla's Thing.

  "Excuse me," Jordan said, lunging for the ladder.

  Monty exited the camper quickly, following the sound. Jordan's chest filled with dread as he followed, not fast enough. When he stepped through the door, he knew he was too late. Monty was staring at Darla, who was no longer a little girl. Her soft brown fur fluttered in the breeze and her tail wagged under the hem of her skirt. She was standing upright, howling at the moon, in that odd half-form that Jordan had liked so much when Alex did it. On Darla though, it just filled him with panic. He cast a terrified glance at Monty, who was simply watching Darla thoughtfully.

  "Well look at that," Monty said, thoughtfully. "Guess she wasn't kidding."

  "Nope," Jordan said, not knowing what else to say.

  He looked around, thinking about what he would do if Monty reached for his cell phone. He'd have to shove him over the railing, grab Darla, and run. He realized that Monty had his phone number and had seen his license plate. Jordan began to panic.

  "You live in the city?" Monty asked.

  "What? Yeah." Jordan answered, shocked at the casual tone of Monty's voice.

  "Guessing plain ol' human neighbors."

  "Human landlady lives above us. And more live beside us, and across from us," Jordan said, hesitantly. "Do... do you know what she is?"

  Monty flashed Jordan an amused look, complete with shining yellow eyes.

  "I would say so," he said. "You been contacted by the outreach yet?"

  "Um... no? What is that?"

  "Bad news is what that is, brother. The sooner you get on the road, the better. How much are you gonna have left after you buy this trailer?"

  "Not much," Jordan admitted. "I actually... I wouldn't be able to buy it outright. I was going to spend a grand to clean up the apartment... she has... tantrums sometimes... got an inspection tomorrow, didn't know how..."

  "How to explain the claw marks," Monty nodded. "Been there, brother. Tell you what. She's yours."

  "What?"

  "The trailer. She's all yours, no charge. You'll owe me a favor. That girl needs to stretch her legs before she kills somebody."

  "Thank you," Jordan said numbly, unable to believe what he was hearing. "You... you're sure?"

  "Positive," Monty said, firmly. "Here, I'll write up the bill of sale right now."

  He pulled paper from his glove box and filled it out, then passed it over to Jordan, who filled out his section. The men shook hands as Darla sang in the background.

  "I've got the jacks to load her; we'll get you rolling in twenty minutes. Swear you'll get her out of town before your inspection, because if she decides to call the human authorities, they'll call the shifter authorities, then you'll be up shit creek without a paddle. I mean it, brother. Get the hell out of dodge."

  "I will," Jordan said, earnestly. "I swear."

  Darla was tired, and placidly returned to her car seat. Jordan strapped her in, then the two men loaded the trailer onto the truck, anchoring it in place. It looked beautiful. The deep browns and greens of the tiny house contrasted pleasantly with the cherry red truck. He wouldn't be able to get anywhere unnoticed, but he could keep moving. That seemed vitally important now.

  "This outreach," Jordan said nervously, as they finished anchoring the house, "will they get a heads up if I leave the apartment as it is?"

  "Likely," Monty said. "You might want to do what you were gonna do, just to co
ver your ass. You really don't want to run into them."

  "What will they do?"

  Monty sighed, and looked away wistfully as if he were remembering something painful.

  "They'll take everything from you," he said, quietly. "And charge you for it. If you want help from someone you can trust, go see April at the Spring Showers Spiritual Oasis. Hippie joint's just a cover. She'll hook you up with doctors and anything else you need. Shifter pediatricians are few and far between."

  "April Sprinkle?" Jordan asked, shocked.

  "One and the same," Monty told him. "You know her?"

  "Met her a couple times," Jordan said, with a nod. "I didn't know she was all that though."

  "Yeah, she'll help you out. Look her up when you can, but cover your tracks. The outreach is dogged... so to speak... when it comes to picking up strays."

  The word made Jordan wince. His daughter wasn't a stray. She was a wonderful, beautiful, aggravatingly intelligent little girl who happened to morph into a wolf every once in a while. The characterization of her as a feral animal from a stranger (though he occasionally drew the parallel himself, if he were honest) made him angry.

  "No offense intended," Monty said, and Jordan realized he'd been scowling. "That's what the outreach calls werewolves who don't bow to their will."

  "Oh." Jordan relaxed slightly and checked the time.

  It was after midnight, but the store stayed open twenty-four hours to cater to construction workers who started their projects in the wee hours of the morning. He glanced at Darla, who was blinking heavily and sucking her thumb. He would only get exactly what he needed and sighed internally, resigning himself to another sleepless night.

  "Thanks again, Monty," Jordan said, shaking the man's hand. "You have my number. If you ever need anything..."