by Ben Meeks
“I went by Naylet’s earlier looking for you. The yard’s all tore up but there’s no cars,” he said. “Hey, where is Holt anyway? Is he all right?”
“He’s missing. I was hoping he was at the house but if you didn’t find him then I have no idea. You said something happened with Hob?”
“The factory was attacked, some of his workers were killed. Whoever did it made off with almost all the dust he had. We’re calling a council meeting to figure out what we’re going to do,” he said.
“Give me a couple days. I am going to get Cearbhall to help out. Something is really wrong with all this,” I said. “First, we need to get Farwell back to his normal life before he goes into conniptions.”
“Whatever you need, Obie. Just do me a favor and get back as soon as you can. A lot of people are worried,” he said. “The world’s going to shit and we need a plan.”
We loaded Naylet onto the back of the wrecker and secured her with some straps and a tarp. Farwell sat between us in the cab, looking more than a little uncomfortable as we left. I was trying to decide to tell him that his cruiser had been stolen, but since it was a short trip I opted to let him discover it organically. The ride was already awkward enough.
∗ ∗ ∗
Hank pulled the wrecker into the gravel driveway leading to Naylet’s house. I didn’t want to say it with Farwell there, but exchanging a glance with Hank, I could tell we were thinking the same thing: Petra could still be around. Getting Farwell back to his life in one piece was the first priority, one less person to babysit. When we rounded the corner to the house, the most noticeable thing was the absence of Farwell’s Explorer. Hank parked where it should have been and we piled out of the truck. The signs of last night’s fight with Petra were clearly visible. Large lines of torn up earth, looking like a bad plow job, ran the length of the yard where I had run over Petra. They stood in stark contrast to the beauty of the rest of the grounds. The brown lines on the lush green lawn were reminiscent of open wounds. Cuts not yet healed into scars.
“No, NO,” Farwell said in disbelief. “Where the hell is my cruiser?”
“The demon must have taken it,” I said. “I think we broke at least one of its wings last night. It must have used your car to get away.”
Farwell stood staring where his car should be. “I have to report it. I’m responsible for the car,” he said reaching for his phone.
I put my hand on his arm to stop him. “Just hold on a minute. We can find it before anyone misses it.”
“I already miss it. Besides, there’s a shotgun in it. What if someone gets hurt with it? That’s on me,” he said.
“That demon doesn’t care about your shotgun, trust me. She only took the car to get away. She’s running. We will find it and get it back to you,” I said. “Give me a day.”
He looked uncertain at my request but reluctantly agreed. “One day,” he said holding up an index finger.
“Thanks,” I said. “Just hang out here for a minute and we’ll get you home. I need to take a quick look around.”
Hank and I walked out into the yard where I could immediately see the brown spot where Petra’s body had come to rest. The large oval of dead grass was easy to pick out against the lush green. Demon blood is toxic, like an oil spill but worse. The ground was effectively dead where she had bled into it, nothing would grow there now. I could fix it, of course, when things calmed down, or it would eventually return to normal on a long enough timeframe. I would add it to the to-do list.
The spot of brown grass stank of rotten eggs and death, but I found it encouraging. If Petra bleeds then I can kill her, even if I had to do it with heavy machinery. I was debating the merits of getting a chainsaw to go Army of Darkness on her when Hank pointed out some smaller patches of dead grass leading off toward the shed. I found corresponding claw marks, making it clear she had dragged herself away.
“Looks like she crawled to the shed,” I said.
“Krasis?” Hank asked.
I nodded, kicked off my shoes, and pulled the Velcro on my pants before making the change. Hank completed his change a few seconds after me. We were about six feet tall in human form, but in krasis the black bear biker had a good six inches on me. Where I retained my slender physique, Hank’s already stocky build widened even further to accommodate the extra bulk. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t glad to have some backup.
“Jesus Christ,” Farwell said from behind us.
I turned around to see him walking to the back of the wrecker, shaking his head.
“I don’t think he likes us,” Hank said, watching him go.
“He doesn’t know us, how could he not like us,” I countered. “Let’s get this over with.”
Following the claw marks and spots of dead grass up to the shed, we found the door cracked. I took the left door while Hank took the right. I gestured a count and on three we pulled them open, ready to pounce on whatever we found.
Inside we didn’t find a demon, but the shed wasn’t in the same condition as the last time I saw it. A couple of the tools were scattered on the floor and the bags of soil that had been neatly stacked in the corner had been torn apart. The dirt from them formed into a mound with a depression in the center with what looked like crumpled paper piled up in the bottom of it. It reminded me of how Livy made biscuits, by using a mound of flour as a bowl and mixing directly in it. This wasn’t an attempt at the world’s largest mud pie, though; gun to my head, it looked like a nest. The dirt in the center had been compacted where Petra had been lying. I could smell the traces of her blood fouling the dirt. The question was, what was all the white stuff?
“Have you seen anything like this before?” I said, taking a step into the shed.
Hank looked in without setting foot inside. “It’s new to me.”
I took a rake off the wall and dug at the white stuff at the bottom of the mound. I hooked what turned out to be a leg on the rake and raised it to reveal a Petra-shaped skin suit, wings and all. She was injured in our fight, crawled here, and shed her skin. It must be part of her healing process. Regardless, I didn’t think she would still be in the area. That’s when I noticed the black mass in the bottom of the nest. I dragged the skins away for a better look. Snakes, a whole pile of them, big and black and still. I changed my grip on the rake to drive it down on the snake pile. The impact sent a shockwave through the snakes, but they appeared lifeless. Tossing the skin off the rake, I prodded the snake pile. Still nothing moved, confirming my suspicion.
“What’s all that?” Hank asked, keeping a comfortable distance by the door.
“Looks like the snakes from her head. They must have been killed between the lightning and getting run over,” I said.
After hearing they were dead, Hank came in for a closer look. “Big sons of bitches.”
I scooped one up with the rake for a closer inspection. It was about four feet long and wasn’t a whole snake, just a head and body. It was missing the tail, looking like it had been cut in half. That must have been where it had been attached to her head.
“Maybe Livy can make some more antivenom now,” I said. “I am going to have to take them.”
“As long as they ride in the back,” Hank said. “I’d rather not have them in the cab.”
Rifling through the soil bags, I found the most intact one and held it out to Hank. “Can you hold this for me?”
He didn’t take it. “Why do I got to hold the bag?”
“Come on,” I said giving the bag a little shake. “You’re not afraid of a few snakes are you, Hank?”
“Not afraid, but I don’t want to get bit either,” he said.
“Ok, I’ll hold the bag and you scoop,” I said holding out the rake.
He took it, and once I had the bag open, carefully lifted and deposited the snakes into it, one by one. None of them were alive but I can’t blame him for being cautious. Spinning the bag to seal it I walked outside and looked for tracks, footprints specifically. A set led off toward the
house.
“What do you think?” Hank asked.
“Looks like she went to the house,” I said. “I don’t think she’s still here. Let me check it out and we’ll get out of here.”
“Should I come too?” he asked.
“No. If you don’t mind keeping an eye on Farwell I would appreciate it,” I said. “He’s not taking this well.”
Hank changed back to human form and went back to the truck while I crossed the yard to the house with the snake bag. Inside it looked the same as before except the food that had been on the counter had been cleaned up and the pictures that were on the table had been put back on the walls. After Petra was healed did she come inside and clean up the mess? That didn’t make sense. Some of the pictures were missing and empty frames hung in their place. The bed in the loft looked like it had been slept in since last time I saw it. I climbed up and smelled the sheets. I could make out the stench of demon blood and that same perfume but the bed was neatly made, the way Naylet kept it. I guess after Petra shed, she made herself at home.
C H A P T E R • 13
The truck lurched onto a dirt path that didn’t deserve to be called a road. It was the back entrance to Morrison Salvage and the Tortured Occult’s clubhouse. The clubhouse, garage adjacent, stood in the middle of a large field. Old and wrecked cars surrounded the buildings like a metal horde laying siege to the garage. I thought of my Ford joining the ranks of this ramshackle legion and it just didn’t seem right. It had been with me through too much for it to become just another anonymous occupant in this mechanical graveyard. The truth was, it would never make it out here. These vehicles were slowly and surly being parted out, the auto equivalent of decomposing. Once everything of worth was taken, they were crushed and sold for scrap. That would be the fate of my truck. It didn’t make sense to repair it and keep driving it. While I would never admit it to him, Holt was right, the truck was outdated.
Hank parked in front of the garage. We got out and he went up to one of the mechanics working under a car on the lift before coming back to talk to us, notepad and pen in hand.
“He’s going to take you home. Write down your number and we will give you a call when we find your car,” he said, holding out the pad to Farwell.
He took it and jotted down a number. A couple minutes later he was on his way home, and Hank and I finally alone and could speak freely.
“If it’s all right I’d like to leave Naylet here, until I can figure out this Petra situation. She seems to know a lot about me and if she knows where I live, taking Naylet back there wouldn’t be safe,” I said, not looking away from the junkyard. “I think she took Holt and may be responsible for the attack on Hob as well.”
“We’ll have to call a vote, but after seeing what I have seen, you have my support,” Hank said. “But how could that demon do all that if you almost killed her just yesterday?”
“I don’t know, but I am going to find out.”
We walked over to the clubhouse, a two-story building that doubled as the premier social destination for all non-humans in North Georgia, and made our way inside through a heavy wood door with a dog door installed on the bottom. This was a safe haven for ultra-naturals and inside there was no need for disguises—in fact they were discouraged. Wearing a false face was unnecessary, unless you had something to hide. We walked through the front door into the changing room. The walls of the rectangular room were lined with coat racks and cubbies. Assorted items of clothing hung on the hooks or lay in piles around the room; shoes of all kinds filled the cubbies.
A pile of dirt in the corner caught my attention. I walked over to see a hole in the floor. Peering inside I saw a pair of yellow, glowing eyes attached to a small shadowy figure that scurried farther down when it spotted me.
“What was that?” I said taking a knee to get a better angle to look down the hole.
“A hunter chased some tommy knockers out of a mine. They are holed up at the clubhouse and refusing to leave until they have a ‘safe’ place to go. They’re burrowing all over the clubhouse, coming up though the floor in random places. They’re making a huge mess of things. I need to figure out how to get them out of here before they bring the whole building down,” he said.
Knockers were a kind of fairy that lived underground and in mines. They were nice enough but not ideal houseguests. Hank and I added our shoes to an empty spot and shifted to krasis. A door on each end of the room exited to the bar. Hank and I walked out separate doors into the bar, a large room taking up most of the first story, open to a loft on the second floor with additional tables. The bar ran across the wall underneath the loft, almost the length of the room, with a pool table and dart board on the right with the rest of the room dedicated to tables. Adan, the wererat emissary, was losing a game of billiards to a forest troll. While it wasn’t as busy as it would have been at night, there was still an assortment of regulars scattered around the room that would have sent Farwell into a coma. Cotton, an artic werewolf and Torch, one of Hank’s sons, both club members, leaned against the balcony, staring down at the festivities. The white of Cotton’s fur next the black of Torch’s reminded me of a shifter Yin Yang.
“Give me a minute to get everyone together,” Hank said.
He walked over and whispered something to Hornet, a grey fox shifter sitting at one of the tables. She wore a cut with PROSPECT across the back, showing she was applying for membership in the club. She got up and went outside, while Hank stuck his index finger up in the air, waved it around in a circle, and disappeared into the rooms behind the bar reserved for club business. Everyone wearing the T.O.’s colors started migrating into the back rooms. It would have almost been discreet if I didn’t know a meeting had been called.
Now I would just have to wait. It shouldn’t take more than ten or fifteen minutes; the T.O. was a lot of things but indecisive wasn’t one of them. I took a seat at the bar in front of the phone kept behind the counter. Leaning forward, I reached behind the counter feeling around for it. When I located it I picked it up and placed it front of me. Holding the receiver to my ear, I dialed Hob. It rang a few times with no answer. The bartender, a wereraccoon everyone called Tico gave me a nod, from the opposite end of the bar.
“Come on, pick up,” I said, listening to the metered ringing.
Tico crossed the bar to greet me. “What’ll ya have?”
“The usual,” I said, not paying him much attention.
He placed a napkin with an empty cup on top of it on the bar in front of me.
“You don’t have to be a smartass,” I said, as he moved to help another patron.
After a couple more rings a man with a heavy German accent answered. “Guten Tag.”
“Hey, Hob, it’s Obie. I heard you had some trouble. Everyone okay?” I asked.
“Oh, nein, Eric was killed. The attack was late at night. He was working alone and was taken by surprise,” he said.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I’m coming over in a couple days. We’re going to make this right.”
“Obie, the dust was taken,” he said not bothering to hide the concern in his voice. “We will have serious trouble stopping anyone with that much power.”
“I’m not worried about the dust. I’m just glad you’re okay. Stay safe and I’ll be over soon,” I said.
“Mind if I join you?” a yapping voice said from my left.
I turned to see the eyes and ears of a coyote peering over the edge of the chair next to me.
“Listen I got to go,” I said into the phone.
“Thanks, Obie. Come see me soon,” Hob said.
“I promise I will.”
“Hambone, what a surprise,” I said, hanging up the phone, not feeling even the slightest bit of astonishment. I gestured toward an empty chair beside me for him to have a seat.
He slid the chair back from the bar a little and a moment later the very overweight kobold was doing his best to heave himself into the seat. After a short struggle, that I wasn’t
sure he was going to win, he sat beside me, panting with his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. He was about three feet tall and looked like a mix between a very short fat man and a coyote. American kobolds all resembled coyotes, but where other shifters could turn into humans, kobolds only had two forms: coyote and krasis. As a result, they kept their distance from humans, and since they don’t blend in very well, that was probably for the best.
After a couple minutes to catch his breath he said, “Just mingling with my constituents. There’s an election coming up you know. Competition looks to be tough this year. The fairies got some looker showboating around like she’s already won. They just want to get one of their own elected, and I tell you, I don’t know why. I’ve always done right by them, the ungrateful flower bugs. That’s beside the point, I’m glad I caught you.”
Here it comes . . . “What do you want, Hambone?”
“Your support, of course. If I had the backing of a Keeper, I don’t see how I could lose,” he said, giving me a hopeful look.
“I don’t really get involved in politics,” I said.
“Oh, I know, I know. I’m not asking for much, just your permission to let people know you support me, and if anyone asks you, just tell them that you think I’m the best candidate. Oh, I almost forgot, if you could wear this button while you’re at the clubhouse it would be really helpful.” He slid a neon yellow button across the bar that said HAMBONE FOR THE PEOPLE in big black letters.
I put the button into my pocket. “I’ll think about it.”
“Please do, Obie. We all have to work together, you know. There was one other thing I wanted to talk to you about. I couldn’t help but overhear you say you weren’t worried about the dust.”
I knew there had to be more to it. “So?”
“Well, surely you understand how important it is to keep the dust flowing,” he said, making a swooshing motion with his hands. “We would be thrust into chaos without it, hunted like dogs. It’s in everyone’s best interest that we find it and find it fast.”
“Is it in everyone’s interest or is it in your interest?” I asked.