Bart answered the door and ushered me in. I immediately saw Stanley stretched out on the recliner, a plate of what looked like chicken tenders on his lap and a television remote in his hand. His face paled as he saw me.
“Please tell me you’re not here to make me drink more of that stuff,” he pleaded.
“If I had any more with me, I’d definitely make you drink it.” I looked him over. “Although you look pretty good, Stanley. I’d never know you’d been flattened by a car just last night.”
“It’s my fried catfish,” Bart said. “Makes everything better.”
I eyed what the contents of Stanley’s plate with grudging respect. Fried food wasn’t really my thing, but they did smell darned good.
“Any word from Sheriff Oakes?” I asked the werewolf.
Stanley and Bart exchanged uneasy glances. “No,” Stanley replied. “It’s okay. I didn’t have much to tell him. Might have even imagined the whole thing. My jack probably just broke or something.”
I blinked at shock about the sudden change in his story. Even without any magical spell, I could tell he was lying.
“Stanley, I heard that your car had been tampered with, and that there were rasp marks on your jack. You said you saw someone. It wasn’t your imagination.”
Stanley shook his head. “I’m gonna ask Sheriff Oakes to drop it. I was working on the car earlier, so it was probably my fault about the leak. And the jack.”
“What happened? Did you receive a threat? Was there another attack?” I demanded.
“Told him he needs to let it go,” Bart told me.
I stared at him, wondering how the werewolf so upset over his friend’s injuries and determined to get to the bottom of this had changed his mind in less than twenty-four hours.
Bart must have seen my thoughts in my expression because he sighed and ran a hand through his bushy brown hair. “I know, I know. After I got Stanley home though we got to talking and I got to thinking. Now’s not the time to be stirring up things in the packs. Give it a few months and this will all start to blow over. If Stanley lies low, then whoever this is will probably leave him alone. He pushes it, starts insisting on being accepted as a lone wolf, starts attending functions and hunting with the packs, and it will only get worse.”
I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. “But you’re still coming to the barbeque, aren’t you?” I asked Stanley.
He shook his head, his eyes not meeting mine. “It’s not wise, Glenda. Best to let the two packs patch things up without my putting a burr under the saddle.”
I knelt down beside the recliner. “Stanley, you didn’t do anything that would have triggered this attack on you. You’ve stayed away from Heartbreak Mountain. You haven’t participated in any pack events. Since you were exiled, the only thing you’ve done is get a job at Petunia’s and go back and forth from work and your house in town. If someone found your presence in Accident, your very existence, reason enough to attack you, then what makes you think laying low is going to prevent it from happening again? This person clearly wants you dead.”
Stanley stiffened and Bart came around me to put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be here. Two sets of eyes, you know. Pair of us will make sure nothing happens.”
Stanley made a low grumbling noise. “Gonna follow me back and forth to work, Bart? Stay here every night? That’s gonna piss off the pack more than me going to a durned barbeque or having Sheriff Oakes investigate.”
“It’s gonna be okay,” Bart assured him.
The other werewolf shrugged off Bart’s hand. “It’s not gonna be okay. And if I’m going to wind up dead, I’d rather the law makes sure Dallas punishes the killer. Or the witches punish the killer.”
Bart sighed and held up his hands. “Okay, but I’m telling you right now that if you wind up dead, Dallas and the witches ain’t gonna be able to punish anyone, ‘cause I’m gonna take that wolf out with my own claws.”
A smile flickered across Stanley’s face. “I’ll go the barbeque, but I don’t want you there. I don’t want to risk you losing your place in the pack, or having others target you.”
Bart frowned. “You think I can’t be at the barbeque and pretend I’m shunning you?”
Stanley chuckled. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. One of us is going to say something or act friendly, and you’re going to be a target as well. Can’t do nothing about what’s happening to me, but I’ll be danged if I do anything to cause you to lose your pack.”
There was a low, long growl that came from Bart’s throat, and Stanley reached up to pat his arm. “Knock it off. You’re the one who said to lay low and that things will get better soon enough. It’s too late for me to erase that target on my back, but no sense in having one on yours as well. Stay away from the barbeque, and we’ll meet up for fishing Sunday morning. I’ll even bring the beer.”
Bart shook his head and scowled. “Okay. But only ‘cause you’re bringing beer next Sunday.”
Stanley lowered his hand, then he took a deep breath and looked over at me. “There’s a few things I need to tell you if I’m gonna go ahead with this. Once I started feelin’ better, I started remembering more. That foot I saw? Had a boot on. It was a sort of hiking boot with a red stain about the size of a dime on the toe.”
“Blood?” I grimaced, not wanting to make an assumption here. Werewolves were hunters and it wouldn’t be all that unusual for one of them to have blood on their boots.
“Not blood. Wasn’t colored like blood,” Stanley said. “It was like paint or something. Not soaking into the leather like blood would, but sitting on top. Thick and bright red.”
I considered that for a moment, not sure what to make of the fact that the assailant had red paint on their boot. Werewolves tended toward neutral colors in their home décor, but one of them might have been painting a child’s toy, or something else. Maybe it wasn’t a werewolf that had attacked Stanley. We’d all been assuming so, but perhaps one of the other supernaturals in town had a grudge about an auto repair, or the length of his grass or something like that.
“A boot,” I mused. “That rules out a handful of residents like satyrs, centaurs, and minotaur who don’t have feet to wear hiking boots.”
“It was definitely a werewolf,” Stanley told me. “I caught his scent.”
“Then you must know who it was.” I stood, excited at the prospect. One phone call to Sheriff Oakes, and another to Cassie, and they’d be on their way up to the mountain to arrest the assailant.
“I don’t.” Stanley looked embarrassed at the confession. “It all happened too fast, and he was covering up.”
“He was what?” I had a sudden vision of a werewolf in paint-stained hiking boots and a burka.
“Covering up,” Bart interjected. “It’s when we use something to hide our scent. Werewolves got good noses, so we can’t totally hide it, but it works short term when the wind is in your favor.”
“Like mud? Or coyote urine?” I asked.
Both werewolves made a face.
“No wolf is gonna put coyote piss on himself,” Stanley told me. “It was Drakkar.”
I was so confused. “Drakar? Isn’t that Swedish for dragon? You make yourselves smell like dragons?”
Bart chuckled. “Now that would be funny. Can you imagine showing up to a hunt smelling like a dragon? Half the pack would piss themselves running away.”
Stanley waved a hand at his friend. “That’s not what I mean. Drakkar. The men’s cologne. Caught a faint scent of werewolf, and I’m surprised I managed that. The guy had enough Drakkar on him to ruin my sense of smell for an hour. Well, for an hour if I hadn’t had a car dropped on top of me.”
This was something I’d never known about werewolves. “You all do this? I mean, does every werewolf have a bottle of Drakkar in his house just in case he wants to drop a car on someone and not be recognized by scent?”
“Nah. Mostly we use it when we’re dogging some other wolf’s lady, or stealing a chicken.” Bart gr
inned. “Females used to use Opium, but sometimes they use Drakkar too if they want a werewolf to think a male is stealing his chickens.”
“So you’re not sure this was a male werewolf?” I asked. “It could have been a female with paint-stained boots wearing a bottle of Drakkar?”
Stanley shrugged. “Might have been. I thought it was male, but didn’t get enough of the werewolf scent to tell and females are just as physically strong as males.”
I frowned, thinking of something else. “Someone in the pack has to know who this was. I can’t imagine a werewolf coming home reeking of cologne and no one noticing it. Heck, that much Drakkar and I’ll bet the entire compound smelled him or her coming from a mile away.”
“That’s if he or she went home,” Bart pointed out. “Lots of us go out for a hunt and don’t come back ‘til morning. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing right now.”
I eyed him in disbelief. “And the scent would wear off in that time?”
“Shower a couple times. Swim in the swamp. Roll in mud. Kill a deer and wear it’s skin around for a few hours.” Stanley nodded knowingly. “There’s lots of ways to get the scent off. Plus if you shift a few times, it helps it wear off fast.”
Crap. Still, this information was better than nothing at all. I wasn’t a detective, but Sheriff Oakes and Cassie could certainly get to the bottom of this. Maybe someone at the compound had heard another werewolf spouting off about Stanley. And it couldn’t be too difficult to figure out which werewolves were out “hunting” on the night in question.
“Thanks guys.” I shook Bart’s hand and patted Stanley on the shoulder. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning with another smoothie for you. Just to make sure you can get through the work day without collapsing. Let Petunia know you might need a light work day or two. He’s discreet, and he can come up with an excuse to let you take a long lunch and get off work early if you need.”
Stanley smiled. I let Bart escort me the twenty feet to the door and cast a careful eye around as I walked to my car. The night seemed peaceful with cicadas singing in the moonless night, but I couldn’t help but feel a shiver run up my spine as I unlocked my car and climbed inside.
It felt like someone was nearby, like someone was watching.
Chapter 8
Glenda
I was up with the sun, once again relaxing on my back porch this time with a giant mug of coffee and a thick slab of buttered sourdough toast. My next door neighbor was also an early riser this morning and he saluted me with his own cup of coffee, the faint light of the sunrise reflecting in his fiery eyes.
“Morning, Kane,” I called out. “Come join me. I’ve got a warm loaf of sourdough and a pot of fresh ground, fair trade Ethiopian.”
He hesitated, then shook his head with a reluctant smile. “I’ve got to head up north to drop off a commission and a few pieces at the gallery. Next time?”
“Of course. Be safe.”
The ifrit was always safe. Anyone catching sight of his unusual eyes thought they were some weird techno contacts the artist wore as part of his edgy, punk image. Kane used to need an intermediary to deliver his artwork to the human world, but the last decade he’d been more comfortable venturing out on his own. Emboldened by the non-threatening reaction to his appearance, he’d even taken to attending gallery events and as a result, demand was increasing for his art.
Who knew burned wood sculpture could be so lucrative?
I sat alone on my porch, watching as the sun fully emerged over the horizon, hearing the town come to life as people started about their day. Kane loaded artwork into his bright red SUV and waved as he drove off. I finished my coffee and the last bite of my toast and headed inside, feeling oddly empty. I had plenty to do today. I’d stayed up late last night making potions that might be useful if there were injuries at the werewolf barbeque, but the rest of this week would be devoted to non-magical preparations.
First though, I needed to go visit Stanley.
Putting a Thermos of healing smoothie into my giant purse, I headed out. The werewolf was just about to leave for work when I arrived. Bart’s car was no longer in the driveway.
“He left before sunrise,” Stanley said, noting my expression. “Trust me, I had to practically fight him to get him to go. I didn’t want anyone at the compound suspecting he’d been here with me. Bart likes being part of the pack. I’d feel horrible if he got kicked out on my behalf. Besides, I’m fine. Whoever attacked me probably figures I’m either dead or in the hospital.”
I handed him the Thermos and hid a smile at his grimace. “Drink. Go to work. Make sure you tell Petunia you might need an extra break or two.”
He took the Thermos and hesitated. With a stern look from me, he unscrewed the cap and drank it down.
“Don’t taste any better the third time. Sakes alive Glenda, how can you cook food the angels would fight over but your magic potions taste so darned horrible?”
I laughed. “Trust me, if I could figure out how to make them taste better and still heal, I would. Sometimes you need to suffer, you know? There’s a price for everything in this world, and downing a horrible-tasting potion is the price for healing magic it seems.”
Stanley shuddered. “Wish it didn’t taste like butt and paint and rotted cabbage though.”
I took the empty Thermos from him. “Is Bart coming by tonight?”
The werewolf regarded the ground intently. “Don’t know. I hope so, but I don’t want him getting in trouble.”
“If not, then you need to let me know,” I told him. “Cassie’s going to make sure you’ve got wards around your property and Bronwyn’s working on an amulet for you. We’ve got your house covered, but maybe a couple of Sheriff Oakes’s deputies can keep watch for tonight, or Cassie and Lucien can swing by to check on you.”
Stanley shifted his weight, his nose wrinkling as he glanced up at me. “Hate for everyone to go to all that bother. I’m a werewolf. I’m fine.”
“You were squashed by a car less than a day and a half ago,” I retorted. “You may feel fine, but I don’t think you’re as strong as you normally are. Let us help, Stanley. You’re part of our community. This is what we witches do for residents of Accident. And it’s what we do for friends.”
He nodded, his smile warm. “Thanks, Glenda. I really appreciate it, you know. I’m thankful that you saw me there under the car, and that you’ve been helping me with your magic. When I was exiled from the pack, I felt so alone, but you, and Sylvie, and your sisters have been good friends to me. I hadn’t expected that. It’s good to know I’ve got friends.”
“You most definitely have friends.”
I let myself out, making sure I locked the door as I left. In spite of the huge to-do list I had waiting for me at home, I made a detour to the fire department. The doors were open revealing the big ladder truck in one bay and the ambulance in the other. The smaller response vehicle had been pulled out and Skip was there, topless with a pair of Daisy Dukes, washing the truck. The fact that he was a half giant meant it was easy for him to clean the roof. It also meant that every time he leaned forward, his jean shorts rode up and I got a nice view of the lower half of his hairy butt hanging out.
I waved, Skip returning the gesture with a soapy sponge; then I headed inside to see my sister Ophelia sitting on a wooden folding chair, reading a book. She set it aside as I approached, rising to give me a hug.
“What’s up?”
I glanced at the cover of the book, intrigued that she was reading a biography of Benjamin Franklin.
“Wondering if you had a moment to do a divination for me?” I asked.
“New moon.” She grimaced. “And Mercury retrograde. I couldn’t even do the scrying that Cassie wanted me to do. The only person I could perform a fully accurate divination for right now would be Eshu.”
I smiled thinking about the demon, or god of chaos, or whatever my sister Sylvie’s boyfriend was. “How about a less than accurate divination?”
“Abou
t you and that crossroads demon?” Ophelia wiggled her eyebrows and I felt myself blush.
“No, although if he comes up, I’d love any information you can give me on him. What I really want to know about is Stanley—especially if you can give me any insight into who might have attacked him as well as if he’s in danger of another attack in the near future.”
Ophelia nodded. “Come into the kitchen and I’ll see what I can do.”
I followed her back through the firehouse, accepting a dark, hot cup of coffee from Brandy who was finishing up with the breakfast dishes. She took one look at Ophelia and smiled, excusing herself to give us privacy. Given my sister’s work schedule, her co-workers were used to the firehouse kitchen being home to Tarot cards and crystal balls in addition to coffee cups and pots of spaghetti.
I sat and waited for her to pull out a bag of runes or cards, but instead Ophelia sat a small mirror on the table between us.
“Sit and drink your coffee while I concentrate.”
“What, no Ouiji board?” I teased.
She lifted one eyebrow. “And wait here all day while the planchet spells everything out one agonizing letter at a time? Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
I chuckled, then fell silent, watching and sipping the dark sludge in my mug as my sister worked her magic.
“A false sense of peace then danger,” Ophelia whispered. “Red. Not blood, but red…paint? It smells familiar but I can’t quite place it. Obnoxious ladies-night-at-the-disco cologne. Rocks. Something that I think might be chocolate. Meat spilling off a plate as it falls to the ground.”
“That’s a crime,” I told her.
“Hush,” she scolded. “A choice. A crossroads…no, more of a fork in the road. One path requires trust at great risk. That path drops from sight a few feet in. I can’t tell if it goes off a cliff, or just slopes out of sight. The other path is straight, steady, and familiar, but the destination ahead is shrouded in mist.”
Minions and Magic: Accidental Witches Book 5 Page 5