The aquarium was just ahead.
The Garou darted across the road and ran beneath the entrance arch, turning abruptly as if he had suddenly forgotten his destination. He slid, waved one arm, and went down on both knees, sliding again until he slammed into the back of one of the benches, the impact stunning him and knocking him over onto his side.
Richard smiled.
There was no humor.
By the time the Garou had ciimbed to his feet, Richard was there.
Waiting.
The Garou braced himself against the bench, panting heavily, head almost bowed.
He's old, Richard thought in amazement; damn, he's old.
Here in the open, the storm pummeled them, stealing part of their attention, just enough to keep them both reasonably steady on their feet.
The snow matted in the Garou’s fur added to Richard's belief.
"You're Spiro,'' he said, letting the wind spin his words.
Marcus Spiro lifted a weary arm in greeting.
"Why?"
Spiro's eyes, crimson fire, narrowed. "You think I'm a rogue?"
Richard shook his head. "No. But why?"
The Garou laughed, fangs not as long, not as sharp. "I was bored, you stupid boy. I was bored."
And before Richard could even begun to understand, Spiro sprang, claws at the ready, jaws snapping for Richard's throat.
For a second Richard couldn’t fight, but the first stab of claw against the wound in his side changed that, and they grappled, snarling, snapping mostly at air, wrestling across the icy paving stones until the corner of the bench caught the Garou’s hip, and he slipped.
lust enough.
Richard slammed an elbow into his temple, bringing him to his knees.
"No need,” he said. "Come on, Spiro, there’s no need anymore."
With surprising strength, Spiro launched himself from the ground, fangs scraping across the base of Richard's throat, burying a claw into the meat of his shoulder. The pain reignited the bloodlust, and Richard instinctively wrapped his arms around him, eventually spinning them both clumsily across the park while his teeth fought through the thick pelt to lay open the Garou’s back.
A large shrub took them, and they fell, rolling down the slope.
Spiro opened a gash on Richard’s chest.
Richard shoved him away and staggered to his feet, half blinded by the snow, deafened by the wind, arms hang loose at his side.
When Spiro charged again, howling his rage, the Strider caught him in the stomach with the claws of his right hand, pulled and turned, and let his jaws close around the back of Spiro’s neck.
It didn't take very long.
He tasted the blood, felt the vertebrae snap, and shook his head violently, just to be sure.
Spiro didn't drop until Richard removed his claws.
And opened his jaws.
The twisted body slid toward the black water river.
Shifting.
Bleeding.
But Richard simply watched until the water took him away. Only then did he let his legs collapse; only then did he fall, onto his back to watch the snow spin in circles into his eyes.
The desert warmth soothed him, and made him shiver as he remembered the storm's needle cold.
The table was empty.
The chameleon tree was gone.
He didn’t mind.
It was his place again, the place of sweet retreat.
Still... there was the voice.
He smiled, and stood, and walked among the ruins until he found a gate, took a breath, and stepped through.
"This is getting to be a habit, Turpin," Joanne said. She sat on the bed beside him, his shirt in her hands. "You do this often?”
There was still a faint burning in his side from Strand's silver blade, but the rest of his wounds had healed. No scars. Except inside.
She told him the hotel had been overrun by police shortly after Blanchard had died. When she told Lt. Millson the killer had been there—Blanchard’s body the proof—and that it had most likely been Wanda
Strand—knife in hand, plus other assassin's weapons found in her car—-it had been fairly easy to convince him that with the lights gone and all the shooting, it wasn’t hard to understand that a few hundred hysterics thought a monster was on the loose.
A werewolf, if you can believe it.
A goddamn werewolf in Chattanooga.
“You’re amazing," he said truthfully. "Absolutely amazing.”
She straightened, and grinned. “Damn right. He bought every word.’’ A hand brushed down his arm. "1 can see why those two wanted you dead. That much I get. But I don’t get Spiro. What did he mean, he was bored?"
Richard still wasn't sure he understood it himself. He had thought about it the entire time he had dragged himself back to the hotel and managed, with more than simple luck, to get back to his room. He had thought about in his desert place. And he thought about it now.
"He was old."
"So?"
“So when a Garou gets to a certain age, and it’s never the same for us all, we decide how we’re going to spend our last days. Human, or wolf. Whatever will make the last times easier.’’ He stared into the sitting room; there were no lights but the glow from outside. "I think ... 1 guess he must have been a fighter when he was young. I don't know. I do know, from what he said to me the few times we talked, that he wasn't entirely happy. That he was just going through the motions."
"Until he died.”
He nodded. "Yeah. I think so.”
"So . . . what? He wanted to go out in a blaze of glory or something?"
Richard thought a moment before smiling. "You know, you may be right. He was never a major writer. Never made the millions or had the fame other writers have." A shrug. "Maybe this was his way.”
loanne scratched a hand back through her hair. "Well, at least the Veil is okay, right?”
"Right." He hugged her with one arm. "You did fine, Detective. You did real fine."
She preened, she kissed him lightly, she slid off the bed before he could grab her and announced that she was starving. "1 have reports, you know. But I’m not going to do them on an empty stomach. You owe me a meal." She started for the door, stopped, and turned around. "Cooked, Turpin. Cooked."
He dressed slowly, favoring the stiffness in his side, saying nothing when she told him she had taken a call from a man named John Chesney, who wanted to know if he was all right.
"I told him you were busy,” she said. "I don't think he liked that.”
Richard didn’t care.
Changes were going to be made, and they were going to be made soon. He didn't appreciate how the Warders had apparently deserted him this time; he wanted answers, and he wouldn’t leave them alone until he got them. Neither was he going to take another assignment until he himself was positive a rogue was on the loose.
What, he wondered, if there were others out there? Others like Marcus Spiro, who weren't content to take the usual path to dying? What if Gaia, whatever Her reasons, had caused an alteration in the way the Garou were supposed to protect her? Changes.
There would be changes.
And there would be some answers.
"Are you away again?" Joanne demanded.
"No. Not really."
He joined her at the door, and she slipped an arm around his waist.
"Are you leaving town?"
"Soon. It’s my job, remember?"
"How soon?”
Gently he pulled her arm from his waist and took her hand as he opened the door. "Not that soon, I don't think."
She grinned. "Good answer, Turpin."
At the elevators, she said, "Will you come back?”
"It might take time. But yes, I'll come back.”
"Another good answer."
The doors opened; the car was empty.
She stepped in quickly, leaving him in the alcove. Joanne stood at the back of the elevator, lay a finger against her cheek, and said, "You
ever make it with a cop?"
Richard felt his mouth open.
The doors began to close, and she made no move to stop them. "Wrong answer," she said with a slow shake of her head. And the doors shut as she added, "Take the stairs, it'll clear your mind,"
He didn't move for a long second, and after that he shook his head.
Count to five before you jump off the damn cliff, Fay had told him; and remember the damn parachute.
He laughed.
"One," he said, and ran for the stairs.
The hell with the parachute; this was more fun.
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