I slide out of bed and hit the floor on the balls of my feet to absorb the impact quietly. I sneak out of our bedroom, my eyes quickly adjusting to the dark. Jefferson’s door is open. A quick check inside tells me he must be the one in the barn. Why on earth he would be out there at three o’clock in the morning is anyone’s guess. Curious, I pull on my shoes and one of my old hooded sweatshirts with Go Fire Sprites! in faded red across the front. I push open the front door and freeze in the frame. It’s near pitch black outside and the only light is what shines from the windows and underneath the door of the barn. If that black werewolf is out there right now, I’d never see it coming.
My hand clenches on the door handle, the metal screeching under my death grip. I’ve never been afraid of the dark before. There is no reason to be scared now . . . except for giant werewolves lingering in the woods. I take a deep breath, throw the door shut, and sprint as fast as I can for the barn. I nearly ram my shoulder against the door in my haste to get inside quickly. The wood groans, one of the hinges cracks, and I fling myself inside the barn before slamming the door shut behind me again. So much for a sneaky entrance.
My unreasonable panic subsides and my mind focuses enough on my surroundings to realize there’s a gun pointed at my head. Jefferson lets out a choice swear word and lowers the handgun, tucking it back into its holster.
“Are you crazy?” he shouts at me. “What are you doing barging in here in the middle of the night!?”
Reasonable thoughts evade me and I blurt out, “It’s morning.”
There’s a strong smell of something foul coming off Jefferson and it only gets stronger when he continues to shout at me, “Get out! You don’t have any right to be in here!”
“I’m sorry! I just—I saw the light and I—I . . .”
“Thought you’d snoop where you don’t belong? Huh?” He waves his hands at me, one clutching a dark bottle. “Go back to bed before I kick your butt out of here!” he thunders. It’s clear he’s deranged, and furious, and I believe in earnest he really will physically punt me out of his barn.
I glimpse just a few things in the room—a tarp draped over something huge, file boxes, stairs leading to a second level, and a map with pins on the wall—before I’m clawing at the door and barreling back out into the night. As before, I sprint across the open ground and fumble with the door handle to the cabin before I slip inside and shut it firmly behind me.
My heart is hammering against my ribs and it’s only then I really consider that Jefferson pointed a gun at my head a second ago. It’s obvious he’s expecting trouble—that or he’s paranoid. I’m just glad he stopped to make sure what he was aiming at before pulling the trigger. Then I start to think. What is Jefferson hiding in that barn that’s so secretive he doesn’t want me to see it? The fact he wanted me out so badly only makes me that more intent on finding out what he’s hiding.
I slink back into bed and lay on my side to stare out the window. I’m exhausted and eventually fall asleep. The next time I wake, Hawk is roughly shaking my shoulder. His eyes are bright and his smile wide.
“Wake up, sleepy head,” he says and starts tugging on my pillow until my head thumps onto the mattress. I reach out and push against his face. He only laughs and shakes my shoulder harder.
“Okay,” I snap. “I’m up, I’m up.”
He rushes out the door and shuts it behind him. I get dressed and brush my hair up into a ponytail, all the while glaring out the window at the barn. If Jefferson follows his usual routine today, he’ll disappear for an extended period of time. It’s a window of opportunity if you ask me, and I plan to take complete advantage of it.
My brilliant plan comes crashing down once I step into the main room. Hawk and Jefferson are both sitting at the table enjoying cinnamon buns out of a white box and scrambled eggs fresh from the stovetop.
“Look!” Hawk says triumphantly, holding aloft a glorious, delicious-smelling bun.
Jefferson looks at me over the top of his ceramic mug. I can see the hint of a grin behind it. “I figured you two have been working so hard you ought to have a reward for your efforts. And I thought it was past time I helped you through all this. Plus, once it’s done, we can really focus on your other training.” He leans back and sips at his cup of coffee—evil, stupid coffee. “I’ve been neglecting you two. I’m going to stick around like glue and give you my full attention.”
Clever. Very clever. I take the seat Hawk offers with my eyes locked onto Jefferson to make it very clear that I know exactly what he’s up to. He wants to keep me out of that barn? Fine. He has no idea who he’s dealing with.
The cinnamon buns do look good though. I dig into the one my brother passes over and aimlessly scan the paper in front of me as I try to think of a way to ditch Jefferson. An obvious piece of paper is missing and I stare at the blank spot where I had left it the night before—the stained police report involving the little girl. When I meet Jefferson’s eyes again, they are frosty cold.
“You know,” I say casually. “Maybe if you told us what you were looking for, we’d be able to find it faster.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says as calm as can be. “I just need this organized so I can keep track of the werewolves better.”
“Uh-huh.” I blatantly turn away from him, giving him the cold shoulder.
Since he seems content to stay here, I decide to pursue his papers anyway and see if I can’t figure out what he’s looking for before he realizes what I’m doing. A calloused hand pushes a cup of coffee across the table to me. I glare at the hand and snatch the coffee, draining half of its scalding contents in one gulp. My mouth is on fire but I ignore the pain and the stares I’m getting from the other two. It’s time to work.
The effort we’ve put into organizing is finally paying off. Despite the sheer volume of information, I’m beginning to see patterns. We’ve managed to string together profiles for each werewolf Jefferson has identified. There’s several of his own hand written notes and photos of livestock attacks or peculiar break-ins. His notes identify the behavior of a new werewolf and tracks them in his field reports until he finally confronts whoever it is. The werewolf serum is ordered and kept track of through the family clinic. There are newly updated prescription reports for each person. Jefferson has been keeping a close eye on each identified werewolf, making sure they have been taking their medication. How he managed to do that considering the mess this place had been, I have no idea.
“Isn’t some of this stuff confidential?” I ask out loud, paging through a twenty-page physician’s report by one Dr. Rosewell. The doctor is clearly in the know—her findings specify the werewolf symptoms and stages of a bite healing in a report not printed from a hospital server.
“Werewolves are classified as special cases,” Jefferson answers without looking up from an old newspaper in his hands. “We’re allowed specific information to make sure the disease isn’t spreading to others and that the ones who do have it are in control.”
Hawk scoffs. “In control how?”
“It’s just like addicts and their sponsors. We make sure they aren’t giving in to the animal nature of the disease. That’s all.” Jefferson folds up his newspaper and tosses it onto a random pile. I snatch it up and put it along with the other newspapers. “Speaking of which, I’m scheduled to do a welfare check on Ben and his family this afternoon. You two can tag along if you promise not to do anything stupid.”
“Ben?” I ask, the name triggering a cache of information in the back of my mind. “Ben, the howler in your woods that one night? What’s Ben’s last name?”
“Ferguson. Why?”
I hold up a finger for him to wait and start paging through the stack closest to me which lists all the werewolves with a last name starting with ‘F.’ I find the Ferguson family and wiggle out their pile of papers held together with a rubber band.
“I noticed something earlier but didn’t think much of it.” Thumbing through, I stop on the fam
ily’s most recent prescription order. “Ben isn’t the only werewolf in the family, right?”
“His mother, too—the scary one.”
“Okay, then why are they getting enough serum to treat at least five more werewolves?” I toss the paper across the table and Jefferson catches it. His eyebrows rise into his hair.
“I guess we better ask them,” he says and gestures to the pair of us. “Come on. Grab your jackets.”
We dash back into our shared bedroom and throw on our junior agent uniform jackets. Hawk blocks the door before we go anywhere and leans in until his mouth is nearly at my ear.
“What’s going on with you and Jefferson?” he whispers.
I roll my shoulders and adjust my jacket. “He’s hiding something. He basically screamed me out of the barn when I tried going in there last night.”
“Okay. We’re going to try and get in there, right?”
I nod. “Right.”
“We’ll play it cool?”
“We play it cool.”
Chapter 7
We give each other a low five and hurry outside where Jefferson is waiting. The old, piece of junk, green truck is thrumming with life, shaking more rust flakes off its body. I’m surprised it actually works.
“Are we riding in . . . that?” Hawk says and points to the beastly thing.
“What did you expect?” Jefferson glares at us both. “What are you two wearing? You’re going to spook the Fergusons dressed like that.”
“Dressed like what?” I look down at my all black outfit. I honestly have no idea what he’s talking about. Isn’t it normal for agents to dress in their uniforms when on business?
“You look like you’re about to draw a gun on someone or whip out some kung fu moves. You don’t want to look dangerous. They don’t trust us enough as it is.”
I don’t mention that I do know kung fu. It was part of our training and I loved it.
Hawk leans in towards the old man. “Why don’t they trust us? We’re supposed to be their protectors, aren’t we? That’s the whole point of our job.”
“Maybe if our organization didn’t have slayers in the title, they would be more at ease,” Jefferson grumbles. “Doesn’t matter. Go change into some normal clothes.”
I sigh and slouch back inside with Hawk on my heels. I grab clothes at random and hustle into the bathroom to change. My brother and I meet back outside in our “normal clothes”—plain t-shirts, cargo pants, and worn tennis shoes. He pulls on a hooded sweatshirt against the chilly air as I button up my faded green, military-style jacket and walk to where Jefferson waits.
The truck rumbles and growls as we approach. There’s only one extended cab seat so Hawk and I squeeze in next to Jefferson who sits with both hands resting on the overly big wheel. I press myself against the door and try to give my brother as much room as possible but he seems to take pleasure in causing discomfort to Jefferson by getting in his personal space. The older man draws in his shoulders to keep from touching my brother and cranks on the shifter that makes a horrible grinding sound before the truck lurches forward.
Once we’re on the road, I roll down the window a crack to get a breath of fresh air. The cold wind brushes stray red hairs out of my face and I strum a finger over my lips in my boredom. Hawk tries to fiddle with the radio but all that comes in is the oldies station we found at the cabin. Jefferson eventually slaps his hand away and we listen to a deep voice sing about blue shoes as we pull into the heart of Moose Lake.
We take the main road straight out of town and keep heading north past raised railroad tracks and a cemetery. A paved trail follows the curve of the road on which a handful of runners and bikers are out enjoying the October weather. The truck turns and we cross the path to another road, going several miles until we are well back in the trees, and stop in front of a weatherworn farmhouse. The house itself is squat with big bay windows, and a story-book red barn sits behind it enclosed by fences this way and that. The truck lurches to a stop at the end of its rutted driveway.
Before I can get out, Jefferson reaches across and holds the door shut. “I don’t want you two to touch anything, say anything, or do anything. Just let me do the talking. You can watch.”
He releases the door and I push out as hard as I can. The door groans and I slam it closed again after Hawk gets out. Being treated like I’m a five-year-old gets old fast. Together we trek up the porch steps and Jefferson knocks on the frame of the screen door. Footsteps echo across hardwood floors and the door opens to a thin, severe looking woman with curlers in her hair. Jefferson flips out a badge from his jacket and holds it up against the screen door.
“It’s just me, Mrs. Ferguson.”
Her glare is fierce and she wraps her pink bathrobe tighter around her shoulders. “And who are they?” She jerks her head in Hawk’s and my direction.
“Interns. They’re shadowing me. May we come in?”
Mrs. Ferguson purses her lips and shoves the screen door open. We slip inside to a dark foyer leading to a flight of stairs with rooms opening up on either side. Jefferson has clearly been here before because he heads to the right into a living room and sits on a flower-patterned sofa. Mrs. Ferguson takes the recliner across from him but remains perched on the edge, stiff and hands clasped in her lap. Her scowl never fades.
Unsure where we’re even allowed to sit, I stand in the doorway with arms crossed. Hawk leans against the entrance beside me. Everything in this house looks like a perfectly normal family lives here. Photos of Mrs. Ferguson smiling and holding hands with a little boy line the mantel over the fireplace. I notice the lack of a father in any of the family portraits but there is a single photo in the center, a sign of its importance, of a young man in hiking gear grinning in front of a snowy mountain.
“Mrs. Ferguson, this is simply a check-up,” Jefferson begins, leaning forward slightly, hands braced on his knees.
“There’s nothing to report.” Her tone is snippy and she hoists her chin like she could use it as a weapon. Considering how sharp her jaw and cheekbones are, I wouldn’t be surprised if she could.
“How’s Ben doing?” Jefferson continues unfazed.
She rolls her thumbs around each other. “He’s a teenage boy. He likes to be active.”
“I see.” Jefferson pulls out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “How about we just go over the usual, okay?” She sniffles indignantly and nods. “All right, let’s start with transformations. Have you noticed any unusual patterns? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“No.”
“Any lingering sensations or urges?”
“No.”
As he continues down the list, I hear a creak in the floorboards above us. I know Hawk hears it too because he cocks his head ever so slightly. It could very well be Ben, the teen that had been howling on Jefferson’s property. It’s possible he knows who that black werewolf was that scared the crap out of me earlier. They certainly could have crossed paths if they had both been sneaking around Jefferson’s property. I can’t help it—I’m curious. I clear my throat and take a step forward.
“Mrs. Ferguson?” I interrupt. “May I use your restroom?”
Her head snaps about and she glares at me. “It’s the first door at the top of the steps.”
“Thanks.” I shuffle out of the room at a casual pace. When I pass Hawk he holds out his hand and I give him a soft low five.
I move quietly up the stairs but instead of taking the first door, I follow the sound of the creaking floorboards and pad down a short hallway. The last door has a length of what looks to be yellow police tape angled across it that repeats ‘Keep Out’ over and over again in black letters. The door is slightly ajar. Even from out in the hallway I can smell the distinct odor of wet dog. There’s more shuffling and a stereo kicks on playing rock music.
Light flickers under the edge of the door as someone moves back and forth. I stand there thinking how to properly announce myself when the door suddenly flings open. I flinch back and t
ry to hastily compose myself. A boy freezes in the doorway, his hand still clutching the knob, and stares at me. He looks to be my age but taller with dark shaggy hair that’s damp. His cheeks are flushed and he’s breathing hard like he’s been running. There’s a sheen of sweat on his skin that makes his white t-shirt cling to his chest and shoulders and he’s barefoot beneath the hem of his jeans. A thick leather cuff encircles his wrist. All and all an ordinary boy.
But I can detect the differences, even in my current state of shock at being caught outside his door. His red face and the sweat combined with the smell of wet dog are a good indicator that he recently transformed out of his wolf state. His entire body would be tingling right about now like it’s been pinched, hence the flushed skin. As for breathing hard, I notice an open window with scratch marks around the frame behind him leading out to a section of the roof. He probably climbed up and transformed within the last few minutes. And—the most peculiar thing—is the ring of yellow around his irises in his otherwise gray eyes. It’s the most telling factor and one that shouldn’t be there at all if he has been taking the werewolf serum regularly.
“Oh,” I say breathlessly, hoping to sound flustered and confused instead of guilty being caught where I’m not supposed to be. “I was just—” I point down the hallway and back to him. “Looking for the bathroom.”
“Who are you?” he growls. When he speaks I can smell the metallic tang of blood on his breath. In fact, I can see blood on his tongue and inside the edges of his lips. That’s when my other senses kick in—the ones honed into me during my combat training. My hand instantly goes to my hip before I forget that I’m not allowed to carry a bio-mech gun, or any gun for that matter, like I did back at Underground’s range. I brush my movement off as tucking my hand into my back pocket. I’m not afraid but wary.
“I’m Junior Agent Mason with the IMS. Can I talk to you?”
The Curse of Moose Lake (International Monster Slayers Book 1) Page 8