by Debra Dunbar
I shouldn’t have cared. If the angels wanted to make life miserable for this species, drive them into extinction, why should I care? It wouldn’t make any difference to me. The whole thing bothered me, though. Angels were such controlling assholes. What gave them the right to target a species like this? The werewolves were so outclassed, too. If all of them united they’d never stand a chance against even a couple of angels. Bullies. And the thing with the baby. Hypocrites. Even if Althean accidently killed the woman and the baby, to mark them as guilty, to cover it up was deplorable. Fuck, I hated angels.
I asked Craig if he’d mind driving me back to the motel. I was still damp and muddy in spite of the hosing off, and my jeans were beginning to dry into the stiffness of plywood. Even though the rain had stopped, I didn’t relish a jog or even a walk back. My legs would have been chewed through to blood and bones by the time I reached the vacancy sign. Craig looked a little surprised as if he expected me to sprout leathery wings and fly back. I could do that, but I was pretty sure I’d be chopped out of the sky by an angel with a sword before I reached my destination. We walked over to the neighbor’s house and he motioned for me to get into a little Toyota pick–up. I’d pegged him for a Chevy or Ford man myself. The Toyota was trashed inside with dirt on the seats, balled up fast food bags on the floor, and a box of shotgun shells spilling out of the cup holder. At least I didn’t worry about my muddy ass staining his upholstery. I was more worried about week old barbeque sauce staining my muddy ass.
Craig turned to me even before we pulled out of the driveway.
“So, what do you do? Do you throw lightning, or shoot laser beams out your eyes or something?”
I didn’t blame him one bit. I hardly looked like a bringer of death, and the most impressive thing I’d done so far was get my foot stuck in the mud outside his window. Heck, I even had to ask him for a lift. Badass me.
I shrugged. “I can do a lot of things.”
It was a good question, though. What could I do? I didn’t know what it was going to take to kill this angel. I didn’t know what he was going to throw at me, or what he was susceptible to. What if nothing I had worked? What if he ended up being vulnerable to something stupid like aluminum beer cans? Deep down inside, I had a secret fantasy of Owning him. It would be epic to go home and parade around Owning an angel. That was a total fantasy though, and I knew better. Just concentrate on killing him before he killed me. I was thinking that, when I confronted this angel, I should probably start with the basics in terms of my skills and work from there.
Electricity and fire in varying intensities were pretty much gifts at birth. Caretakers had to be fast and proactive around the infants they guarded since babies let loose bursts of energy without warning or provocation. There was just no control at that age, and many would cook themselves, seriously injure their caregivers or accidently kill a foster sibling. Even the Low managed to master electricity and fire to some degree, although they often couldn’t do anything complicated. I’d always been skilled at electricity in all its strengths and forms. I was good at persuading elementals to service too, not that I was aware of any elementals on this realm. My greatest skill, though, was that I could shuffle the periodic table around like a dealer in Vegas. I wondered what a bolt of lightning would do to an angel. Could I use conversion on him? Turn bone to liquid? Harden joints and shatter them? I had thought I might have to fall back on just heaving raw energy at him. Very crude, but when you don’t know your enemy it’s difficult to be flashy.
Craig didn’t look wowed at my vague answer, but he kept silent the rest of the ride. We exchanged cell phone numbers in the hotel parking lot and agreed to call each other if any new developments emerged.
Chapter 12
Candy and Wyatt were back before I was. I had to stand outside muddy and wet while Candy carefully laid towels from the door to the bathroom. I wondered if we had any towels left for showers. There was a good possibility they might not bring us anymore. This wasn’t exactly the Hyatt.
“Take off your shoes and socks,” she instructed, “and walk across the towels to the bathroom. There you can shower and dry off. Leave your clothes in the sink. I’ve already put a clean set in there for you.”
“Why don’t I just take off my clothes here?” I asked. I’d drip less mud if the clothes stayed on the outside of our room.
“No. I don’t need to see anymore of your body, and the other patrons do not need to see your naked backside standing on the balcony here. Just try not to get anything on the carpet.”
I obeyed walking the tightrope of towels. Wyatt had wires and plastic things strewn all over the bed (not Candy’s bed), and barely grunted a hello. I wondered if he was still mad about not getting to drive my Corvette.
Nothing feels better than a hot shower after you’ve been wet and muddy for a few hours. Well, except for the parts of my inner legs rubbed into red raw chunks. Those stung like a motherfucker when I peeled off the pants and the water hit them. Hopefully I could stealthily fix the skin before I had to put clothing on.
Even though it was humid and sticky out, being rained on somehow makes you feel cold and damp. I got in with my clothes on figuring I could kill two birds with one stone and get them rinsed of their mud layer. After the water ran clean, I peeled them gently off and plopped the sodden mess in the sink. Candy was considerate enough to have bought shampoo, conditioner, soap, and even some razors. I hadn’t even thought of that since most hotels I stayed at had decent supplies in their bathrooms. Of course this one didn’t. So their guests didn’t take showers after their hour long rendezvous? Or just rinsed off? Or perhaps they brought their own little clean up bag with them, like I do to the gym. I let the water steam over me thinking about the similarities of Zumba at the gym and sweaty mattress aerobics on the first floor.
My warm feelings toward Candy faded when I saw the clothes she had bought me. A pack of cheap cotton underwear. Okay, no problem. It’s not like I needed slut panties for the next two days. Inexpensive jeans. Okay, although I resented that she bought me curvy/relaxed fit. The sports bra was Okay. The shirt was just revolting though. It looked like it should have come with a Mennonite cap and a long skirt. It was long sleeved. Perfect for these ninety degree days we were having. It was pink with little white gingham checks all over it. It buttoned up to a little peter pan collar with picot lace around the edge. The sleeve cuffs were edged in the same picot lace. I put it on and looked in the mirror. There was no fucking way I was even leaving the bathroom in this shirt. I walked out in my bra with the shirt in my hand hoping to see if I could slice enough of it off with my utility knife to tolerate wearing it until I washed and dried the muddy clothing.
Wyatt snickered as I walked out and Candy handed him a folded bill.
“I bet her a twenty that you wouldn’t even wear it out of the bathroom. She thought you’d slice it up and wear it frayed just to piss her off.”
“You’d have won if I’d brought my multi–tool into the bathroom with me.” I told Candy as I tossed her the shirt. “I’ll just do the bra thing until my clothes get through the washer and dryer.”
“No need,” Wyatt said grinning. “I bought you a present.”
He handed me a bag. It was glossy pink with an antiqued gold banner and a crest on it. Candy nodded approvingly seeing the designer logo.
I pulled out the t–shirt and unfolded it admiring the bold black and red colors. “Look,” I said turning it around and displaying it across my chest. “I’m ’Juicy’”
Wyatt’s grin threatened to engulf his whole face and Candy choked a bit.
“It’s Juicy Couture,” she said, dismayed. “It’s a designer brand name.”
“Yes, but I’m ’Juicy’,” I told her. “Do you think I’m ’Juicy’, Wyatt?” I turned to him all innocent.
“I certainly hope so.”
“See, it says right here that I’m ’Juicy’, so it must be true,” I said. “Wyatt, you’ll need to have one that says ’Crunchy’
. I think that you’re probably ’Crunchy’. And Candy can have ’Chewy’. Or possibly ’Tough and Stringy’, if they have that one.”
“Can I have ’Hard’?” Wyatt teased. “Maybe “Huge and Hard.”
I looked at the portion of his anatomy in question. “From this angle, I’d support that. Although I still like ’Crunchy’. I’m very fond of ’Crunchy’.”
Candy shook her head in exasperation and neatly folded the shirt I had thrown at her before tossing me a pack of plain white t–shirts she bought for me to wear.
“What did you find on your prowl?” she asked, deftly changing the subject.
I brought them up to speed on my pleasant visit with Craig Stottlemyer, although I left out the part on the off–the–grid werewolf.
“So nothing at his house. The one house is out since they are gone for weeks. We’ve got some time with this Robinson guy. We could check out his place tonight, get some sleep, and start surveillance tomorrow before he gets back.” Candy said, putting the hideous shirt in a drawer.
Wyatt and I agreed. I threw on a white tee so I didn’t get rain and mud all over my new Juicy shirt. Wyatt called shotgun as we piled into Candy’s car and headed out.
Robinson had a little one story house that looked like it was delivered on a flatbed. His garage was three times the size of his house, no doubt to accommodate his semi when he was home. The big garage was empty but for a monster–sized Ford 350. This must be where his money went. It had chrome all over, a custom painted Pittsburgh Steelers logo covering the back window, and pink rubber testicles hanging from the trailer hitch. Sheesh. The guy drove a big rig, had a huge truck, I was guessing his dick was the size of my pinky. Since he wasn’t home, I covered the ground outside his home in a grid pattern twenty feet out from his walls. Nothing. By the time I was done, I was starved.
“Do you think Althean got freaked out over killing a pregnant woman and is going to hold back for a while?” I asked,stuffing down a burger and fries at a local diner. “Maybe Gregory caught up with him and has pummeled his ass into submission?”
Candy shrugged. “I don’t think he can hold back for long. From the video we saw I think he’s snapped and gone crazy. He was pacing all over the place, and didn’t act like he was rational and in control of his actions. Still, if we don’t see anything in the next two or three days, then we’ll have to rethink our strategy. It could be that Gregory has caught up to him and stopped him, but I’m not convinced of Gregory’s intentions. It could be that he supports Althean and would only want him to be more stealthy in his kills.”
Three days. Shit. I had horses and Boomer, and a zoning hearing. Normally, Wyatt would make sure my animals were okay, but he was here with me. My neighbors weren’t on a friendly basis with me, so I called Michelle.
“You read those zoning documents yet?” she asked.
“No, and I’m probably going to miss the hearing. Can you sit in for me?” I asked in my nicest voice. “I’m out of state for a couple days, and I wondered if you’d please go by my place and check on my horses and dog. The horses are in the field, so you won’t need to do more than toss a bale of hay at them. Just dump some food in Boomer’s bowl. It’s in the barn by the tack room.”
“Sam, I’m a black girl raised in the heart of Baltimore. I’m not getting anywhere near those crazy animals of yours. Where is Wyatt?” She paused and I heard her gasp in excitement. “Oooo, are you both on a romantic trip? You’ve got to tell me what he’s like in the sack. I’ll get Darleen to check your farm for you. You just enjoy yourself and call me the minute you’re back in town.”
“Wait,” I said before she hung up. Who the fuck was Darleen? “Is Darleen your fat friend? The one with the curly hair who sings when she’s drunk?”
“She was raised on a dairy farm. Cows are the same as horses, so you can trust her.”
Crap, I hoped she wasn’t going to try and milk my horses. Especially since they were all geldings. I wondered if I should burst her bubble about my ’romantic’ getaway with Wyatt. I was pretty focused on my hunt, and I’d hate to disappoint her with no lurid stories when I returned.
“We’re actually up here with Candy on some business. Just wanted you to know that,” I said looking at Wyatt and Candy. Maybe I should have waited and had this conversation in private.
Michelle was silent a moment. I squirmed. I might be bad to the bone, but I didn’t want Michelle to get pissed at me. She was the best property manager I’d ever had.
“I didn’t think Candy was licensed to sell outside Maryland,” she said in a very scary calm voice. “And I’m certainly not licensed to manage out of state properties.”
“It’s a real long shot, Michelle,” I said soothingly. “If I buy anything you can open a Pennsylvania office and hire someone already licensed here to manage under you. You’re the best, and I’m not about to deal with anyone else. If you would cover for me while I’m gone, I’d really appreciate it. I’ll call you the moment I’m back and let you know how things stand so you can get the jump on things.” How cryptic was that? I hated stroking egos. It’s not a skill I grew up with.
Michelle seemed reassured and chatted on, gossiping about local politics and prominent business owners in town. Finally, she announced she had to go as she had a date with some guy named Javier.
Candy rolled her eyes as I put my phone back. “That girl could be a powerhouse if she ever learned to focus.”
“She’s young. She’s bright. She seizes opportunities and takes calculated risks; she’s got a great future. I don’t entrust my business concerns to anyone but the best.” I replied. Don’t criticize my people.
We headed back to our motel room. Wyatt took a shower while I ran my laundry down for a quick run in the washer. I left it spinning, thinking I’d throw it in the dryer in the morning, and popped back in the room just as Candy was finishing a phone call of her own.
“I love you and I’ll see you soon. Call you tomorrow.”
“Your husband?” I asked as she hung up.
“No, my son. I’ve been divorced for seven years now, and we really don’t speak any longer. I did see my ex–husband at my son’s wedding last year, though.”
Wow, I must have caught her in a sentimental mood to reveal this kind of personal information to me. I was even more shocked when she dug in her purse and pulled out a vinyl album of pictures.
“Here’s my son and his wife at their wedding. The bridesmaid here is my daughter. She just graduated college this spring and is working up in New York. My son and his wife are in Philly.”
She continued to flip through the album. Her kids were attractive, smiling, happy. A lovely family. She even had a shot of the whole wedding party with her husband and his new wife.
“What happened with your marriage?” I asked. Was that a polite thing to ask? Humans asked questions and showed interest in each other’s lives, but I never knew where to draw the line.
Candy shrugged. “We were married fairly young. It’s not always easy to find a mate, so if you’re attracted to someone in your area and they’re available, you tend to jump on it and rush into commitment. As we both grew older, I became stronger, more involved in business and in werewolf politics. Especially after the kids grew up. I think he just wanted a mate who wasn’t so dominant, who was less of a mover and shaker, less ambitious. We don’t talk, but we’re not hostile toward each other. These things happen. I know his new wife. We’re not a huge community, so you tend to know everyone, especially if you deal in politics. She’s very nice. They seem happy.”
Her voice was pragmatic, calm and reasonable. She didn’t mourn his loss, but I think she mourned the loss of something. Maybe intimacy? Maybe companionship?
“You never found another mate? Never remarried?” She was on a roll, so I thought I’d ask.
Candy shook her head sadly. “There aren’t a huge amount of us, and with our existence contract we’re limited in where we can make our home. Even if I wanted to marry someone in,
say Richmond, I’d need to petition to move there to be with him, or he’d need to petition to move to my city. Plus, I’m very involved in my business and in politics. It’s hard to find time for long distance dating.”
She showed me additional pictures of rounded babies and skinny adolescents. Her kids when they were young. They looked human. Kids with baseball bats, kids jumping in pools, kids making silly faces at the cameras. It was clear that parenting had been one of the most important parts of her life. I wondered how easy it was to move from one phase of your life to another? Candy was successful, but was she happy? Did she long for those days with a husband and her young children again, for a past her?
“I’m hoping for grandchildren eventually,” she sighed. “Werewolves live slightly longer than humans. Our average life expectancy is just over one hundred years, and we have a long window of fertility. We need it, because we don’t seem to get pregnant easily and we don’t always carry a child to term. I was so blessed to have two healthy children, but our numbers are dwindling because our fertility is low. Over the last five hundred years, it’s declined dramatically.”
“You need some hybrid vigor,” I told her. “Cross breed with humans. They are fertile like rabbits, and have a high live birth rate. You could interbreed with the hybrids then and strengthen your species.”
Candy shook her head. “It’s forbidden in our existence contract. No breeding with the humans. No sex with the humans at all. It’s been that way for thousands of years and it’s gotten to the point where we feel repulsed at the very idea. It’s just ingrained in our culture.”
There was something about that pronouncement that lit a spark in my memory. What was it with angels and cross species breeding with humans? They seemed to freak at the thought.