“Why didn’t you say anything?” Hawk says and the tremble in his voice breaks my heart. “You knew all this time and never said a word.”
“I didn’t say anything because I was ashamed,” Jefferson says quietly. “They died on my watch and I’ve never been able to catch the schweinhund that did this. I didn’t want to confront the kids of my dead friends only to say I had nothing to offer them. I failed.”
I glance at Hawk before I wipe the back of my hand under my eyes. Normally we would both be jumping to arms at someone calling a werewolf a vile ‘pig-dog’ but I think this black wolf deserves it. I take a deep breath, and move away from the map to face Jefferson. “But it’s happening again. It’s got to be the same black wolf as last time. There’ve been too many similarities. We have a chance to stop this before it gets that bad again. We can find that black wolf.”
“He’s a slippery dog,” Jefferson says and runs a hand over his face again. I just now notice the heavy bags beneath his eyes. “I’ve been going through all the paperwork, setting up cameras wherever I can, using all my contacts, but this wolf is a ghost.”
“No, he’s not.” I curl my hands around the collar of my shirt and tuck my chin down to rest on my knuckles. “He came here that one time, remember? I saw him when we were out shooting. He wasn’t hiding himself then.”
Jefferson braces his hands against the table and nods. “Keeping tabs on us no doubt.”
“Why not attack me right then and there?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
I’m exhausted but my mind is buzzing. I take the single chair at the table and puddle into it. I plant my elbows on the tabletop and set my forehead against my palms. “So that’s why you hate werewolves so much.”
“I lost people,” Jefferson says hardly above a whisper. “Everyone did.”
Hawk goes to inspect the map and points to the pins. “Biting incidents, I take it?”
“Yes,” Jefferson says. “The red pins are all back from 1996. The yellow are the random attacks in the between years. The blue are those happening now.”
There’s a large mass of red pins scattered through with yellow. There’s already a significant number of blue but they aren’t concentrated anywhere. They’re all over the city. Whoever this black werewolf is, he’s careful.
“There’s no pattern except for one,” Jefferson continues. “Random people are bitten but the teenagers are the first to really start acting out, then the parents—aggression sets in followed by attacks and disappearances.”
“Why would a werewolf do this?” I mutter to myself.
“There is no such thing as a lone wolf,” he says. “They always need a pack. I’ve known others to create their own packs out of desperation and loneliness, but this . . . it’s almost like a militarized operation. Like this wolf is building an army.”
From the number of pins on that map, I believe it. But an army for what?
“Shouldn’t we call in the IMS for something this big?” I ask.
At that Jefferson ducks his head and works his jaw. If I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s embarrassed.
“There’s a reason I’m out here by myself,” he says and starts shuffling through the loose paper on the table. “I may have used questionable judgment and acted recklessly in the aftermath of 1996. They don’t exactly trust me at my word anymore.”
“You? Questionable? Reckless?” Hawk says and scoffs, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t believe it for a second.”
After how often Jefferson has yanked on our chains because we’ve “misbehaved,” I’m curious to know what he did to make the IMS isolate him on purpose. “What did you do?”
He waves his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” I mutter. Disappointed, I let my attention float back to Hawk’s file in front of me. “So what now? How do we help?”
Hawk stands at my shoulder and we wait for an answer. Jefferson gazes between the pair of us and a sad smile adds fine wrinkles to his face.
“You two look just like your parents,” he says. “I mean, Robin was the red head, but Mary was the stubborn one. Guess you both got those genes.” He suddenly slaps his hands together, making me jump. “Well, I guess I owe you both an apology for keeping you in the dark. Hold on a minute.”
He shuffles over to the towering bookshelf and hauls down an old box covered with broken evidence tape. I swallow when I read the label on top. CLASSIFIED: Case File 1996-W5-44207; Robin Mason; Mary Mason.
“The original un-redacted case file.” Jefferson pats the top of the box. I realize it’s not dusty like some of the other boxes. He must have been going through it recently, probably because of the current situation in town. “I know it’s supposed to be classified but you have a right to know. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
It’s suddenly very hard to breathe. I have a crazy irrational fear that if I open the box everything inside will disintegrate and this precious gift of answers will be gone forever. It’s Pandora’s box. It’ll be everything I ever wanted to know, but at what cost? Will there be secrets about our parents we should never learn? Will there be something about Hawk in there? My mouth is dry and my palms sweaty.
Hawk reaches past me and tugs the box towards him so it’s between us. He lifts the lid and I stand so we can inspect the contents together. There’s a great thick manila file on top and plastic bags of evidence beneath from the crime scene. Hawk pulls out the file and begins to unwrap the string holding it shut but I’m drawn to the plastic bags sealed with red evidence tape. I lift out the largest to find a leather bomber jacket. The fluffy, tan insulating layer inside the collar is a little sun-bleached. My fingers tremble as I read the label. Mary Mason’s bomber jacket; found next to Phoenix Mason’s last location, under dining table; blood sample taken from lining.
This was my mother’s. I’ve never had anything of my mother’s. All I had was that single photo. I don’t even know how I got that much. My eyes are swimming. I want to touch the leather, I want to know if it still harbors what my mother smelled like, I want to know if I would fit her size, if I’m anything like her at all. I hold the bag out to Hawk.
“Do you think we can . . .” My voice cracks so I clear my throat. “Do you think I can open it?”
He doesn’t even look up. He has the police report clutched in his shaking hands. A single tear splashes on the paper but he doesn’t seem to notice that either. I clutch the evidence bag with my mother’s jacket to my chest and start to read over his shoulder.
The caption at the top lists our parents’ names and our old address. Then my name and Hawk’s follow with a little indicator for minors. No suspect is listed on the page. A report created by Agent J. Barnes follows under the IMS insignia.
The report starts at the same place Jefferson said—on October 31, 1996. He goes to their house after getting a call that they might have a lead on a suspect but the call cut out. When Jefferson arrives he finds a gaping hole where the front door used to be and debris scattered throughout the inside. Jefferson unholsters his bio-mech gun and makes for the dining room because he hears crying. Just before the entrance he discovers Robin’s body—
I stop and suck down a sharp breath. Images are being seared into my brain that I know will never go away. This is my father I’m reading about, his corpse on the floor being described in cold unmitigated detail. I wipe the back of my hand under my nose and have to find the spot where I left off. Hawk passes it to me as he reads on to the next page, his breathing ragged.
Jefferson stops to check Robin’s pulse but it’s obvious he’s gone. There’s too much blood and deep gashes down his side. Jefferson continues forward and discovers Mary next. She’s dead with a gun still clutched in her hand. Blood trails on the floor indicate she was grabbed from behind and pulled away from underneath the dining room table where Jefferson discovers Hawk and me hiding. Also there is a man Jefferson recognizes from previous contact—not a hum
an but a dragon in human form. Draco, a majestic class dragon. Jefferson notes Hawk has a large bite mark beneath his shirt that is bleeding profusely. He also observes three talon marks through the torn sleeve of my shirt left by Draco after passing on his dragon magic.
After a quick conference, Jefferson and Draco decide to take Hawk and me to Underground where we can both be safe and looked after. The dragon vanishes in a flash of white light along with Hawk and me, transported off to Underground. The report goes on to say Jefferson is contacted shortly after by Draco who says he saw a black werewolf fleeing the scene but Draco’s first concern was to make sure Hawk and I were okay. The werewolf got away. The rest is a summary of Jefferson attempting to find leads but they go nowhere. The report ends.
Hawk walks away sniffling and braces himself against the wall holding the map. I take a seat, hardly feeling the tears running down my face, and keep going through the rest of the papers in the file. There are photographs taken of the scene. I page through them as quickly as I can but I can’t unsee the ones of my parents lying lifeless in pools of blood. I shove the pictures away from me and fight back a sob crawling up my throat. I put my face in my hands to collect myself before I keep going.
There are a number of call logs with notes from Jefferson regarding a black werewolf. The monster seemed to come out of nowhere then vanish as soon as Draco showed up. Why the dragon showed up in the first place is beyond me. Any appearance by one of them is extremely rare and unheard of for something as trivial as a werewolf.
But it was Draco that saved us. Draco that made me one of the Blessed. And then it was Draco again that fought against Director Knox to keep us in the IMS. Always just out of sight, always watching over us. It doesn’t make any sense.
I read through the rest of the extensive notes of the investigation and linger over the handwritten pieces by my mother and father. I have the same jotting scrawl as my father whereas Hawk has neater penmanship like our mother. Hawk eventually comes back over to look at the bags of evidence and stands there staring at our mother’s jacket for the longest time. I go through the rest of the bags, dreading what I might come across. There are a few shreds of fabric, cut-outs of carpet with bloodstains, and in the very last is a pearl-handled .45. It was the gun clutched in my mother’s hand as she was dragged away from protecting her children.
In my dreams I always see a great black shape biting Hawk, and then myself punching the werewolf on the nose. Now I can almost hear a woman’s screams in the background—my mother screaming.
I shudder and have to leave. I hustle down the stairs so fast that I trip at the bottom. I’m unable to catch myself but Jefferson grabs my arm to keep me upright. I didn’t even see him there. I hastily wipe at my face and avoid all eye contact.
Jefferson lets me be and takes a step back. He plants his hands on his waist and hangs his head but I can feel his eyes on me.
“It might not be the same werewolf here now,” he says.
“But it could be.”
“Yes. It could.”
I swallow past the lump in my raw throat and force myself to stand straight. “Then we find it.”
“That’s not going to be easy.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Because Hawk is right. I would do anything for my family, and I will do whatever it takes to find my parents’ murderer, the person that passed their sick disease on to Hawk.
“The problem with finding a wolf is knowing their human half,” Jefferson says. “And right now, that devil could be anyone.”
Chapter 15
I can’t sleep. I check my phone thinking an hour has passed only to find it’s been ten minutes. I lay that way for the longest time and keep checking my phone until eventually I sit up, hug my legs to my chest, and stare out the window. The moon is out and just past full so I can see everything outside in shades of gray.
The light in the barn eventually goes out but Jefferson never comes inside. I check my phone again. It’s 3:00 a.m.
Reading the file on my parents has given me some answers but has also led to more questions. Who was the black wolf? Was it Draco’s presence that stopped it? If so, why has the wolf come back now? Why was Draco here in the first place? I know he was one of the founders of the IMS and a majestic class dragon, one of only six on earth. I’ve never actually seen Draco in his dragon form. In fact, I’ve only seen him twice that I can remember and each time was as a human looking to be about in his forties—tall, slim, and overall rather average looking apart from something in the way he held himself that made all eyes turn in his direction. But as a majestic class, in his dragon form he would be about the size of a house and an enormous source of magical power. What would a werewolf be to him?
Then again, what could I possibly be to him? My hand automatically touches my shoulder where the three talon marks are hidden under my sleeve. I never understood why Draco had chosen to give me a piece of his magic. So far it hasn’t really given me any astounding gifts. I don’t call my strength amazing by any measure. Sure, it comes in handy for kicking in doors and hauling Hawk out of trouble but it’s not like I’m shooting lasers out of my eyes or tossing around buildings with the power of my mind.
It certainly hasn’t made me able to handle the current situation. If only his magic had given me exemplary social skills, that would have been helpful—or something to track down this monster roaming in secret somewhere in Moose Lake.
Jefferson hadn’t let me open the evidence bags and right now I wish I could hug myself to my mother’s jacket. He said we can open them when the case has been solved. I’ll hold him to that. I try to block out the image of those crime scene photos but they keep coming back to me. I wipe my face a few times. I could really use a hug but I don’t want to disturb Hawk. So I grab my pillow and hug it to my chest. I curl up like a five-year-old with a security blanket but I don’t care in the darkness of night where no one can see me. I let myself fall apart so I can put myself back together stronger.
My mind continues to process the rest of the night and I only catch an hour, maybe two, of sleep before I’m jolted awake by nightmares. The sky is beginning to lighten outside so I slip out of bed and pull on my running clothes. I have a brief moment of panic when I realize Hawk isn’t in his bed and rush out into the main area only to find him stretching on the floor in his own exercise clothes. His eyes are red rimmed.
I silently take up the space next to him and start stretching out my hamstrings. We don’t say a word to each other but we don’t need to. There aren’t any words sufficient anyway. After a few minutes Hawk rises and holds the door open for me. Sunlight touches the tops of the trees and our breath mists before us.
Darkness lingers in the underbrush and I watch it with nervous disdain. Anything could be hiding out there watching us or ready to attack. I mean, we just learned the truth about a black wolf that’s probably back in town, has murdered before, and targeted us specifically.
“This is probably a really stupid idea,” I say quietly.
“Yeah, probably. Let’s go.”
He takes off down the driveway and I race to catch up. Once I reach him, we match our pace and keep together as we turn onto the roadway. We run down the middle of the right lane since there’s no one out at this hour. Hawk swivels his head this way and that, occasionally sniffing at the air. I keep an eye out as well, but being out here and getting my blood moving starts to shake me out of my reverie. I’m still alive. I can make a difference now. I have my brother and together we can work this out.
The burn in my legs starts to satisfy the pain surging through me by letting it out in a physical way. I push harder and Hawk does the same. We reach the end of the road and turn south down the next. We race each other and I’m sucking in sharp breaths of chilly October air. We reach the end of the road and the sun is climbing in earnest, dappling the asphalt with light. I tap my wrist to indicate the time and Hawk nods.
We turn back and challenge each other to go faster on the way to Jefferson’s.
We’re almost to Soldier Road when Hawk throws out his arm to stop me, then grabs me by the shoulders and hustles me off into the ditch to duck down. We both try to stifle our loud breathing and I follow Hawk’s line of sight.
Farther up the road a group of four wolves cross the pavement in a single file line. The one at the very end with a distinctly reddish hue—possibly the same wolf that had jogged beside me that one morning—stops and sniffs in our direction. We hunker down farther. Thankfully we are downwind because we stink from running hard and would have been easy to locate otherwise. Right now the thought of being confronted by a pack of werewolves and not knowing their current state of mind terrifies me. Who knows if they’re in their human minds or working off pure instinct at the moment? If they feel threatened by us while we’re in their territory, they could attack.
The reddish wolf eventually trots after its fellows and they disappear heading west into the woods. We stay hidden for another minute before Hawk helps me to my feet. Together we move at a more cautious pace east on Soldier Road and then sprint down Jefferson’s driveway to the finish at the cabin. Jefferson pulls up in his rusty truck fifteen seconds later.
“You two just take a run?” he asks as soon as he steps out with a cardboard tray holding three cups.
“Yeah,” I say.
I’m expecting an angry response, a lecture about safety, and how we were reckless. Instead, Jefferson slowly nods and brings us the drinks he’s carrying. I take one, unsure what to say, and inhale the fragrance of coffee.
“I figured you could use some,” he says. His tone is a lot kinder than it’s ever been and I realize he understands what we’re going through. He’s being nice to us, and suddenly it’s like we’re actually on the same team.
The Curse of Moose Lake (International Monster Slayers Book 1) Page 17