I rise and force myself to think past the nightmare to the facts. My parents contacted Jefferson because they had a lead on the black wolf’s identity. Jefferson never figured it out, so how did my parents? What did they know?
I decide to check out the rest of the house even though I’m probably not going to find anything that the cops or Jefferson didn’t. When I turn to leave the kitchen I find Jefferson standing in the entryway and jump.
“You all right?” he asks.
I cough to clear my throat incase it’s raspy and say, “Yeah, I’m fine. Or I will be, anyway.” I run a hand down my face one more time to make sure there aren’t any traces of tears. “So after the . . . incident, I assume you searched the house?”
“Yeah, I picked over this place in case your folks left a clue behind. I never found anything. All the notes they had were with the file at my place.”
“Hmm. Yeah. I guess. Maybe.” I plant my hands on my waist for a second before I march past Jefferson and start exploring the house.
There’s a quaint little kitchen—at least I’m sure it was quaint before the animal droppings, cobwebs, and smell. I throw open cupboards and drawers and screech when a squirrel leaps out of one. I knock on panels and push things aside looking for hidden nooks or crannies. It’s just a normal old house, not some spy’s lair with compartments to stash weapons or secret messages. I know that but I keep desperately searching for something—what exactly, I don’t even know. I move upstairs and find what must have been Hawk’s and my room. Wallpaper of zoo animals peels off the walls. There’s no furniture left except a busted dresser sitting lopsided in the corner.
I smooth out the edge of wallpaper that’s hanging off the wall and smile at the zebras, lions, and tigers dancing across the paper. Jagged markings on the wooden paneling along the bottom of the wall grab my attention and I bend down to see what they are. I run my fingers over a terrible rendition of a cat or a bear. I can’t quite decide which. Yeah, I can picture us carving into the wall—little psychotic four-year-olds with knives going at the fixtures. I don’t remember it but it seems like something we would have done. I see another one farther down that is much more visible and easily identifiable. It’s a wolf.
The crude carving makes me uncomfortable, a message left behind like some eerie foreshadowing of our lives, and I’m quick to slip away from my childhood room. I check the master bedroom but it’s bare unless you count the garbage that animals have brought in. But my parents must have left something behind. They wouldn’t risk it to chance and wait until Jefferson showed up to tell him what they found. Why couldn’t they have just told him over the phone? Were they being watched? If they were, where would they hide something?
“They didn’t have time,” I mutter to myself. Jefferson continues to lag behind me as I wander and scuttle past him back to the dining room table.
“What was that?” Jefferson asks.
“They didn’t have time to leave a proper message. They called you and then were attacked. What if that wolf was watching them?” I duck under the table and inspect every inch of it. “What if my mother wasn’t just trying to protect us but was hiding something at the same time? Leaving behind a clue?”
“Phoenix . . . I know you’re hoping for answers but I think you might be grasping at straws here.”
“No, she whispered something to me. I can’t remember what she said. I was so scared then.” I twist around so I can run my hands under the bottom of the table. “She did something here. I know she did.”
Jefferson keeps trying to dissuade me but I’m not listening anymore. My fingers have found a crack between the flat top and the support leg. Stuck in between is something white and dusty—a slip of paper. I ever so carefully start to tug it out. I wince when the corner begins to tear.
“No, come on,” I mutter. “I’ve got you.”
After much wiggling and gentle persuasion, the paper slips free and it’s mine. I push out from the table and hold it aloft for Jefferson to see. That shuts him up fast. I unfold its creased edges and find the riddle my mother left behind in her last moments for us to follow the trail.
Lycaon.
Chapter 22
“Lycaon.” Jefferson gives me a sideways look as he pulls onto Soldier Road.
“Lycaon.”
“The Lycaon?”
I fold the one word note and stuff it into my pocket. “Who else could it be? It’s not like it’s a popular name or anything.” I stare out the windshield. “I actually picked that as my Greek myth for class the other day.”
“But that’s not possible. Unless . . .” He rubs at his beard. “I suppose if this really is the original werewolf, the father of the race, he could have greater abilities than any other werewolf.”
“Like immortality?” The story of Lycaon dates back to ancient Greece—the man who offered up a butchered human to Zeus and was turned into a werewolf for his horrid act. Of course, with it being an old Greek myth, the details are mixed. Some say it was a guest roasted up and served to Zeus, other stories have Lycaon sacrificing children, and some even say he killed his own child as the sacrifice. Whatever detail is true, the core of the myth is horrific. The man was a monster and was therefore literally transformed into a beast.
“Let’s hope not,” Jefferson mumbles. “Immortal or not, I’ll be emptying a clip into his face whenever I find the schweinhund.”
I silently agree. I’m not usually the one to say shoot first, ask questions later, but for this werewolf I would make an exception. Blood lust is in my veins this time. My parents were murdered. My brother is cursed. I’ll do whatever I have to in order to avenge them all.
“Well, now what?” I ask. “Should we tell the three stooges?”
“Honestly? I don’t think they’d believe either of us. I’m the crazy old guy and you’re the loose cannon, both with vengeance issues. I’ve cried wolf a few too many times. No, we do this ourselves.” We pull onto the driveway and the barn door is still open so we park inside. Jefferson peers up through the windshield to the loft. I can just make out the top of Agent Smith’s head from here.
“And the plan is?” I ask.
“Call your buddy in Underground.”
“Witty?”
He turns off the engine. “That’s the one. See if he can pull anything up on Lycaon in the IMS database. They might have an idea on whether it’s a myth or an actual person. I’ll distract Smith for you, Agent.”
A grin spreads on my face. “Did you just call me Agent?”
“Nope. Let’s go.”
We hop out of the car. Jefferson heads to the loft while I make for the cabin. As soon as I’m alone I dial the number and scrounge for paper and a pen while I wait for it to ring.
“This is Wallowitz.”
“Witty, it’s good to hear your voice.”
“Oh . . . hey, Phoenix.” His tone is strained.
Silence stretches on for what seems like forever. “Everything okay, Witty?”
“Of course. Yeah. Everything’s fantastic.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
More silence. I wish I could hear something in the background but it’s quiet for once. He must be sitting still and alone. This can’t be good.
“Witty, you’ve got to talk to me,” I say and press the phone tighter to my ear. “What’s going on?”
He heaves a sigh. “Look, you didn’t hear this from me, okay? You promise me you aren’t going to tell anyone. Promise me.”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me.”
“Promise me. I want to give you a heads up, Phoenix—you’ve always been a good friend—but I can’t get in trouble and be pulled down into this.”
That definitely doesn’t sound good. “Into what?”
“Promise me!”
“Okay!” I shout back. “I promise. Cross my heart, knock my hooves, paint my antlers, the whole schebang.”
His voice hisses static through the line. “The backup team they sent? Well, they reported
in saying you guys have made a mess of things and aren’t doing your jobs. As soon as they’ve caught the ring leader of the werewolves, they’re pulling the plug on you, Hawk, and Agent Barnes.”
I turn to stone. After everything I’ve been through in the last week alone, I can’t handle it. A switch flips in my brain and I want to burn the world down.
“What?” I say, my voice dead.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t supposed to say anything but . . . you deserve to know.”
“What do you mean pull the plug? What does that even mean, Witty? Shutting down the Moose Lake Field Office? Replacing us and sending us back to Underground?”
“Well, sort of,” he hedges. I want to reach through the phone and shake it out of him.
“Witty.”
“Director Knox plans to take all three of you off the force and stick you in civilian jobs where the agency will keep an eye on you,” he says in a rush.
I have to put the phone down. I brace both hands against the tabletop and hang my head, focusing on breathing in and out. No, not now. They can’t do this to us. Hawk and I are just getting started. Jefferson was going to turn us into proper agents. Now all of us are going to be canned and stuck in dead end jobs. I slam a fist on the table and the wood cracks in a spider-web pattern across the surface.
They’ll let us stick around to apprehend the black wolf but then we’ll be shipped away and I’ll never get actual answers, like why the wolf did what it did and why it killed my parents. It’ll be in a cell somewhere and I’ll be roasting slugs at Old Man Two’s for the rest of my life—unless they eventually kick us out of Underground too. Then I’ll probably end up flipping burgers at a fast food joint in Antarctica. Jefferson will never be allowed to find his daughter or know why his wife was killed.
I’m suddenly thankful Jefferson sent my blood to his expert and not directly to the IMS—I’d wind up in a lab bleeding out like he said instead of a fast food joint at the end of it all otherwise.
I want to rip the walls down. I’m winding up to start punching holes through everything around me when I hear Witty’s voice from the phone on the table so I pick it up.
“Yeah, I’m still here,” I manage to mumble. I close my eyes and keep a fist pressed tight to my forehead. I’ve quickly forgotten what I was supposed to be calling Witty about in the first place but I’m going to find out everything about this black wolf if it’s the last thing I do.
“Witty, look up the name Lycaon for me.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me,” I snap. “If this is the last job I do then I’m going to do it. Look up the freakin’ name.”
I’ve never been this mean to Witty but I’ve lost it. He’ll be sitting easy as can be in Underground while my life falls apart all over again. That stupid black wolf took away my parents and forced me into the legendary world and now because of him I’ll never become the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be.
I hear the familiar squeak of wheels and rush of air as Witty rolls along a hallway. The sound eventually stops and he taps at a keyboard. Then there’s some seriously fast typing and a choice swearword muttered under his breath.
“What is it?” I ask.
“The name’s flagged.”
“Meaning?”
“Anyone looking it up gets reviewed because it’s been classified.” More fast typing. “An alert went to—oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
I grasp at my hair. “To who? Who got the alert?”
“Draco,” he groans, defeated. “It went to Draco as in—”
“One of the dragon founders of the IMS. Yeah, I know who he is.” Geez, this is getting complicated. “If they start hounding you, send them directly to me. They won’t drag you down with us, Witty. I won’t let them. They’ve got to go through me first.”
I end the call and toss the phone onto the table. Well, I guess that answers Jefferson’s question at least. Lycaon is definitely real, otherwise a dragon wouldn’t be getting a warning if someone tried to look up the name. Why the crap does everything have to be classified?
Okay. Think. I need to think, and not about the inevitable, sticky end waiting for me, my brother, and our grouchy mentor once this is all over. Lycaon is real. My parents figured it out. Lycaon is here and, from all the facts so far, building a werewolf army. Why? No idea. How? Well, obviously by biting them and having other werewolves go around biting even more people. But how is he controlling the werewolves? I can’t imagine charm on its own could do so much. Maybe some super special wolfy power he has by being the first?
I snatch up my phone and march out to the barn. Agent Smith has his own laptop on the table while going through files, Jefferson standing over his shoulder. They both look up when I storm the stairs. I’m fire and wrath and my mind is clearer now than it’s ever been before. If this is to be my last shining moment, then it’s going to be finding and bringing my parents’ murderer to justice.
“Jefferson, I need you,” I say.
He doesn’t even question my attitude or why but meets me at the map on the wall full of colored pins.
I throw out my hands to gesture to the whole thing. “These mark locations where people were bitten, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Were they all teenagers or a mix of ages?”
He glances at the board and massages his beard in thought. “There was a mix but maybe two-thirds were teenagers.”
“Okay, was there a werewolf population here before the big incident in 1996?”
“Yeah, but not nearly as large compared to after that year.”
“Mixed ages?”
He watches me out of the corner of his eye. “What are you on to, Phoenix?”
“Just go with me on this one. I’m assuming there was a range of ages for the werewolf population before 1996 so there would have been a fairly wide sampling of werewolves in the area during that year?”
Jefferson angles more towards me and even Agent Smith is listening over his shoulder. I take a moment to glare at him before returning my attention to the only person I care to talk to in the room.
“Jefferson?”
He nods. “Yeah, we had children, teenagers, adults, even a few senior citizens.”
“But you said it’s always the teenagers that go first—this time and last time. Not being bitten but behaving weird even with the serum.”
He cocks his head, clearly starting to catch on. “Yes, I did. You’re right.”
“And if we had, say, a really old werewolf, maybe even the original werewolf, don’t you think he’d have kind of an alpha complex? The first of the monster breeds are the strongest, right? What if the other werewolves start acting odd because he’s nearby? What if it’s not about being young and naïve? What if it’s about proximity?”
Jefferson taps a finger on the map near the edge of the lake. “And where do we know large groups of teenagers regularly gather and would therefore be affected all at the same time?”
I snap my fingers. “The black wolf is in the school.”
“What?” Agent Smith asks and we turn on him. “Original werewolf? What are you two going on about? Proximity?”
Seeing he has nothing to offer us, Jefferson and I turn back to each other.
“So, he’s got to be one of the teachers or staff,” I say.
Jefferson taps his pointer finger against his chin. “Or she, and not necessarily. If this werewolf is immortal, who’s to say he or she still doesn’t look like a teenager?”
“Well, that could be problematic. We need to be able to narrow down the field somehow.” I bite my lower lip and gaze at the red pins in the map. “Do we have some kind of census records or something? Can we find out who was here both in 1996 and now? Would the school have a listing of previous staff and students we could get our hands on?”
“Census records would take too long to go through without a functioning database to search.” His eyes flicker to Agent Smith. “But school records might be a better idea. Principal
Tippy won’t just hand those over though, and showing up to demand the records might tip off our wolf.”
“You could come in handy for that,” I say and point at Agent Smith.
He looks less than enthused. “My team is handling this case, not you. I’m not going to storm the school, flash some credentials, and pull records for you. And you have no proof of some original werewolf running around.”
I’m on edge and with the promise of nothing to look forward to after the case is closed, I storm forward and get into the agent’s face. “How can you ignore the facts right in front of you? Jefferson laid it out, I’ve laid it out more, and you still won’t accept anything we have to say? What the crap is wrong with you!”
Jefferson grabs my arm and hauls me back. I shake him off. So he puts both hands on my shoulders and steers me towards the stairs.
“Come on, you need to cool off,” he says.
“What?” I have to say it over my shoulder because he’s walking me down the steps to the ground floor. Once there I spin about on him. “They can get us what we need! I’m not going to stand by and let them walk all over us!”
“Phoenix,” he says so sharply I lean back. “You’ve got to calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! This is the monster that murdered my parents and your wife! I’m not going to calm down when we’re finally onto something!”
“Get in the car!” he shouts and points to the passenger door. “We’re going for a ride and you’re going to clear your head.”
I don’t move.
“Now!” Then he winks. He winks.
Oh. I glance up to the loft railing where Agent Smith is leaning over and watching us. I keep up my angry façade, now that I realize Jefferson is playing me along, and get into the car. He opens the doors to the barn, gets into the driver’s seat, and guns the engine. Once out on the driveway he shoots me a dark look.
The Curse of Moose Lake (International Monster Slayers Book 1) Page 24