by Ryk E. Spoor
“What happened to you?”
He laughed shortly. “You . . . and that cop, Lieutenant Reisman . . . well, basically I got in the trouble you warned me about. I was almost killed by a gang.” His hand went to his stomach, which was where reports said he’d been stabbed.
“That much I knew. Where’d you go? Did the old man who beat up the gang take you to a hospital?”
He looked up, startled. “You know about him?”
“Not much, but there were eyewitness reports from some of the gang members. Said he trashed all of them at once.”
Xavier grinned. “And it was awesome,” he said emphatically. “Wish I could’ve seen it clearly but I was kinda dying at the time.”
He hesitated, then shrugged and went on. “Hospital . . . yes and no. He took me somewhere safe and took care of me until I healed. Then . . . he made me look at myself and what I’d been doing.” Now his gaze was more distant, looking at things that weren’t in the room. “I’m . . . kind of obsessive. And after what that . . . girl did,” for a moment his tone returned to the furious, cold, brittle sound it had held during his earlier visits, “. . . I don’t think anyone could really blame me. But he made me see how much I was hurting Mom and ’Chelle by what I was doing. And at the same time, that I probably would destroy myself if I just went home and tried to ignore it.”
“And so . . . ?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
I laughed. “You can always choose not to tell me, Xavier, but I guarantee that I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe.”
He laughed, a little nervously. “I guess. Man, I’m gone for a couple of years and the world goes crazy. I mean . . . werewolves?” He looked serious. “He taught me how to fight. Really how to fight. So I could take care of myself when I went on to find . . . her.”
I frowned. “So did you? Find her?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. I finished my training with him and came home.”
I remembered the reports that Jeri had brought me. “Where does the guy with the five-sided hat come into this?”
His eyes snapped back to mine. “Him? He was the one who sent me into the alley and almost got me killed!”
“You ran into him again, about a year later.”
He blinked. “I don’t remember seeing him again—and he’s kinda hard to forget. I just came straight home from Chicago. Hitching and walking, of course.”
Now that is interesting. He did run into Khoros again, a year ago. What’s up with that?
It was obvious, though, that he either really didn’t remember, or didn’t intend to say any more on that subject, so I just nodded. “All right. I’m glad you’re okay, Xavier; I was kinda blaming myself for you getting killed, you know.”
He winced. “Sorry. Really, really sorry. I . . . wasn’t thinking. At all.”
“Okay. Apology accepted.”
He straightened up, looking relieved. “I guess I’d better go find Lieutenant Reisman and—”
Crap. “Renee Reisman’s dead, Xavier. Sorry. She’s been dead about two years.”
He looked horrified. “Oh, man. I’m sorry. You . . . knew her, right?”
“She was a good friend of mine,” I said; it still hurt to use the past tense. “And a damn good cop, too. All I can say is she’d have been glad to know you aren’t dead. And both of us would hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
He bit his lip, then nodded. “Yeah, I have. I have to think about the people who are alive first, instead of the dead.”
And that’s a pretty good summary. “Good. Then you get on back home; I bet they’ll want you to stick close for a while.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I’ll probably be grounded for, like, ever. Or at least a month. And I deserve it, but I don’t care; I’m home.” He turned back to the door. “Thanks, Mr. Wood.”
“Thank you for stopping in, Xavier. Good luck.”
“Bye!”
I shook my head after he left. There’s more to this than I’m seeing. Maybe it’s connected with some other things . . . but I’m not sure I want to poke into it.
The problem was, of course, that there were elements of this too close to that of Aurora Vanderdecken. If I got the timing right, Aurora vanished very nearly the same time that Xavier Ross had been seen for the second time by David Ringo. And now he’d returned, within a few months of Aurora’s reappearance, and neither he nor Aurora apparently remembered much of that period of time, if I was right about his reaction to my saying he’d met Khoros a second time.
After a few minutes, during which all of my phone lines were ringing or blinking, I came to a decision. I’ll leave it for now; neither Xavier or his family need any more crap in their lives, especially since there’s bound to be news stories and police interviews.
But eventually—and not too long, either—I’ll have to ask Verne what the hell is going on.
CHAPTER 88
Bad Day, Bad Client
There are days when everything goes right. The shower’s the perfect temperature, breakfast’s cooked perfect, you hit all the green lights when you drive to the city, every client’s problem has a blindingly obvious solution that makes you look like a genius, and then when you get home your wife’s decided to arrange a romantic dinner that’s just what you were in the mood for.
This was not one of those days.
I won’t even go into the fiasco that was my morning, except to say that the expression “got up on the wrong side of the bed” would apply if you assume that I had a stone wall on the wrong side of the bed and kept trying to get up on that side anyway. But that might have been the high point of the day. Unlike my bachelor days, I now had to drive to work, since Wood’s Information Service was in Morgantown and our home was several miles out. The flat tire happened in the most inconvenient location: a stretch of road with no shoulder. During the heaviest rain of the day. At that point I discovered my cell phone battery was dead, then I cut my hand getting the so-called jack out of the back of the car.
As one might imagine, I was not in a chipper mood when I finally arrived at WIS about an hour and a half late. I spent the next several hours dealing with what seemed an endless parade of lunatics and flakes; my association with the Morgantown Incident had made me a focal point for anyone thinking they had a paranormal problem. Unfortunately, even with the increase in real “weird stuff,” ninety-nine percent of my callers and visitors were still lunatic-fringe whackos. By lunchtime I was approaching homicidal; I ushered the last person out of the office, locked the door, and switched on my “closed” sign. “Jeeeesus.” I sighed. “I have to get myself some helpers . . . and ones with good BS filters.”
Syl helped when she could, of course, but she hadn’t given up on running the Silver Stake when she married me—and, truth be told, with her being one of the few with real magic potential and being taught the real deal by Verne Domingo, it’d probably be a bad idea for her to stop dealing in the occult directly. More than once she’d found something useful and interesting through her connections, and I suspected that would be more common, not less, if things continued as they were.
I was looking for help that could be trusted. That was of course even harder than it sounds, since anyone who worked with me was going to at least touch on the fringes, and possibly get sucked right into the middle, of Things Man May Be Killed If He Knows. James Achernar of Pantheon was helping me look for candidates, and if we found likely ones they’d have to get past me, Syl, and eventually Verne. This seriously limited my potential pool of applicants. So far, we hadn’t found a good one that met all the requirements.
I pulled out my pack . . . to find that my lunch was not in it. Of course now I remembered putting it on the counter just before I left because I had to put something else into my pack first. And I didn’t have much in the office fridge.
“Fine,” I growled. “I’ll order out.”
I went back to my desk. As I was looking up the number of the local Chinese takeout, the phone rang
. I found myself reflexively picking it up—years of customer service training taking over. I cursed at myself even as I said in my best Professional Courtesy voice, “Wood’s Information Service, Jason Wood speaking.”
“Mr. Wood! Thank goodness I got through!” The voice was soft and light, giving me the impression of a woman Syl’s size and younger, maybe barely out of high school. “Um, my name’s Angela McIntyre.”
I took a deep breath. If you’re going to answer the phone, suck it up and do the job right. “Thanks for calling, Angela. What can I do for you? I have to warn you, I’m extremely busy, as you might guess. Technically, this is my lunch break.” I heard faint sounds of other phones and talking in the background. She was calling from some kind of public area . . . airport? Conference?
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry. But I really need your help and there’s absolutely no one else I can trust, not with something like this.” The voice quivered slightly. She sounded serious.
Unfortunately, most of the nuts sounded serious too, and without Syl I didn’t have a built-in bullcrap detector. Still, I caught a faint fragment of dialogue in the background that sounded like it mentioned “. . . the lieutenant . . .” A police station?
“Go on, please.”
“Well, I’ve been arrested, you see . . .”
I blinked. “I’m sorry to hear that, miss, but I hope you aren’t wasting your one phone call on me. I’m an information specialist, not a lawyer, no matter how odd your case is.”
“This is my one phone call, Mr. Wood, and I know you’re not a lawyer, but you’re a better choice for me.”
This was, at least, a different approach. “What have you been arrested for?”
“Murder. But he was going to rape me! It was self-defense!”
I winced. “That sounds terrible, Angela, but I’m sorry, I don’t understand why me.”
“Oh, damn, I’m going about this all wrong. It’s because of how I killed him that no one else would possibly be able to understand.”
Now it began to make some sense, although I really didn’t like where this was going. She’d probably used magic or psionics on the guy. “And how was that?”
“Chopped him in half, basically,” she said.
“Chopped—with what?”
“Why, with my claws, of course. I’m a werewolf.”
CHAPTER 89
Inhuman Rights
Staring at a phone does no one any good, but that’s what I did for some number of minutes, trying to grasp the entirety of the situation. Finally, her repeated “Mr. Wood? Mr. Wood? Are you there?” got through.
“Yes . . . yes, I’m here. A werewolf?” I asked incredulously. “Are you serious?”
“I am and these policemen are. They’re holding guns loaded with silver bullets on me as we speak, and I think they’re discussing silver handcuffs.”
I thought for a moment. The situation was so bizarre that it really took some effort to force my brain into its normal analytical channels. First, I’d better confirm that she was telling the truth. “Angela, no offense, but how do I know that you, well, really are a Great Wolf?”
She gave a light, pleasant chuckle. “Hard to prove it by phone, yes. But . . . Hastrikas told me about having to work with you.”
That sealed it. Hastrikas was the real name, the Wolf name, of Sheriff Baker back in Venice, Florida. The number of non-wolves who knew that name could probably be counted on one hand. “Okay, Angela.” The irony of her chosen name was, no doubt, intentional. “Then I’ll give you the same answer I gave a certain Mr. Carruthers when that deal was made. Why the hell should I care? I know what your people are like, I’ve killed a whole bunch of you, and I know you’d all kill me in a flash if your King hadn’t marked me down as his particular bag of munchies.”
“Because, Mr. Wood, you’re interested in justice and the truth, and because if you think about the implications, you’ll know it’s a good idea.”
I wondered how old she was, because it was that little speech that set the hook. The thought of a Great Wolf needing to be defended in the name of truth and justice . . . and that I was the one to be their defender . . . “I won’t promise anything yet. I think I need to see this for myself. Where are you?”
“Los Angeles.”
It was definitely going to be a long day. “Tell one of the officers I need to talk to them.”
“Lieutenant Ferrin here. Is this Jason Wood?”
“It is. This is one of the strangest calls I’ve gotten, and I’ve had a lot of strange calls, let me tell you.”
“You damn near didn’t get any call. If she’d stayed in wolf form, she’d have been gunned down, but we barely saw a flicker of the monster, and as soon as we pulled in—”
“Wait, wait, Lieutenant. I do need to hear everything from everyone’s point of view—if I’m going to get involved in this case—but this is probably not the best way to do it. What I do need to do is see the site, get the information from your ME and CSI teams, all that kind of thing. And I can’t do that remotely.”
“You’re seriously considering helping this . . . thing?”
I felt my skin trying to crawl. “I’m thinking about it. I don’t like it any more than you do. But I may have to.” A part of me was already starting to understand what she meant by it being a good idea. “I’ll need all the information on precinct or whatever you call it down there—where exactly you’re holding her, and so on.” I gave him my contact information, while swapping in a new, fully charged battery to my cell. No point in risking it failing again, I’d just keep the old one in case. “I’ll be getting airline tickets as fast as I can. Now put, um, Angela back on.”
“Mr. Wood?”
“I’m going to be on my way soon. I’m still not promising anything, but if you want me to do this, you have to cooperate with the police until I get there and make my decision. That means you’re going to sit in jail for a while.”
“I understand. If I want humans to help me, I have to play by your rules,” she said calmly. “I will cooperate fully, as long as they do not try to hurt me.”
“Good enough for now.”
I hung up and started to look for tickets online. At least money wasn’t a problem; if I had to, I’d charter a flight. However, a much more difficult problem lay immediately ahead.
I was going to have to explain to Syl why I wasn’t going to be home for dinner.
CHAPTER 90
Attorney-to-Wolves
“Are you sure about this?” Lieutenant Ferrin asked. “I’ve seen the videos from that wolf they caught in Vancouver last year. If she decides to take you out, there isn’t anything on Earth we can do to save you if there’s no one with you.”
“Lieutenant, believe me, there isn’t anyone on Earth who knows that better than me. But I’m sure. She won’t try anything on me even if I take a gun out and try to shoot her.” I went on through the doorway, which locked behind me.
Angela McIntyre, in her human form, was a dangerously cute young woman no more than five feet tall with straight bobbed blonde hair and bright blue eyes, a Nordic pixie designed by a fantasy artist. She stood up as I entered, a warm smile flashing out as she recognized me. “Mr. Wood! Oh, thank you so very much for coming!”
I shook her hand without much of a qualm. Somewhat to my astonishment I was starting to get used to this business. I made a mental note not to let that go too far. I had to remember that no matter how friendly this girl acted, from everything we actually knew about the Great Wolves she was nothing but a highly intelligent predator with humans like myself being the preferred prey.
“You’re welcome, at least tentatively. I’ve retained the services of Rosenfeld, Opal, and O’Brien to help me with the actual legal maneuverings, since I am not a lawyer myself.”
“A very good defense partnership. I know the firm. I will of course pay all your expenses and a reasonable fee.”
I shook my head. “No, this is pro bono. You blindsided me with the original call, but by the time
I finished my connection in Chicago, I’d figured out why you’d implied I’d better take the case.”
“Of course you did, Mr. Wood. Were you too stupid to figure that one out you’d hardly be alive now.”
“Thanks, I think. I’ll note that I’m treating this as though I were a lawyer, and Rosenfeld et al have found enough precedent to allow me the same privileges—that is, what we say here stays between us. The only recording of this conversation, or others we may have in the future, is being done by me. That took some arguing, let me tell you.” I looked her over. “Now, just to be on the record, the reason I’m taking the case is that I know other, shall we say, nonhuman residents of this world who are not inimical to our existence, and it would be inadvisable for me to permit a precedent to be established that allows human beings to deny these residents rights similar to their own, which allowing you to be railroaded and shot like a dog would indeed establish.”
“Exactly right, Jason!”
“Don’t get too excited yet. There’s a flipside to this, and you’re not going to like it. But it’s . . . my fee, so to speak.” I looked squarely into her deceptively human eyes. “You want legal rights established because your people will then have some leverage to slow down and stop the current all-out war of extermination that’s going on. Fine. But TANSTAAFL—there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, my friend. I’ll do my best to defend you, but you will accept the decision of the court . . . even if it means you lose.”
Her friendliness, alas, evaporated like dry ice on a hot griddle. There might even have been a flicker of inhuman light in the depths of the sky-blue eyes. “WHAT?”
“Oh yes, indeed.” My grin had all the savagery I’d saved up from the prior Day of Hell. “If they convict you for murder, you’ll meekly and obediently let them lock you up for fifty years, if necessary. And you’ll be a model prisoner. And if they establish premeditation and go for the death penalty, you’ll take that last walk quietly.”
The perfect white teeth sharpened and glittered for a moment, and I saw an accompanying snarl on her face. “And just why would I do that instead of trying my best to escape?”