“Don't bite me,” I threatened the unconscious mutt. I arranged planks on both sides of his massive foreleg, and touched the bone with my finger. The ragged, hemorrhaging marrow felt like greasy frosting. He didn’t notice my finger, since the inside of the bone didn’t have nerves in it. Gagging, I stacked my hands together and laid them flat on the bone and shoved. The huge bone slid back into a briar patch of flesh.
The wolf roared and tried to get up. His gigantic skull cracked against my shoulder, tossing me back. He thrashed for his footing, but too many bones were broken. When he wore himself out (which didn’t take long, considering) I approached him again.
I put my palm over the wet, gelatinous meat and pushed the bone back inside. Clifford's body trembled with seizures or death twitches. A sound rose from deep in his lungs, and his chest heaved. I ran my fingers along his limb, pushing this way and that, trusting feel rather than sight. Certain I couldn’t do any better, I duct-taped the wooden planks on all sides of his mangled leg and duct-taped the crap out of it.
After his legs were set, I pushed on his intestines. The springy, membranous texture made my gut swirl. I gagged. Take a breath and do it. The air thickened with all the smells coming from the body, so I held my breath. I applied the rest of the duct tape across the split in his gut, trying to keep the insides inside. Bile rose. I rushed away from Clifford to vomit unceremoniously into the sink. I ran cold water over my hands until they were clean enough to cup water over my face.
I turned back to the body: duct tape, gaping wounds, and matted bloody fur.
Jesus.
“That's some medieval shit, buddy.”
I wasn't done. I pushed the ribs down, trying to make them into a familiar shape. His muscles trembled deep under his fur. As I pushed on the last protruding rib, Clifford jerked. His head came around, and his teeth latched onto my forearm. The sight of his maw on my limb startled me before I realized I felt pain. I stopped dead still, waiting, calculating how long it would take to my gun versus how long before his teeth worked through the jacket. Lucky for me, someone had knocked out his canines. He whined in the back of his throat, lips twitching like he would growl but didn't have the air for it.
“Hi, Clifford,” I said, as if we were about to discuss the morning weather. The free-range eyeball bounced and swung disturbingly. He released my arm and his head thunked to the floor, where he concentrated on breathing. I really should do something about that eye. “We have to restore your ocular cavity to some sort of shape. I'm gonna try something, and it will hurt.”
I washed my hands in the sink and searched through the silverware drawer for a serving spoon. I crouched by Clifford and straddled his head. He was huge. His mutt skull barely squeezed between my thighs, and I had no hope of pinning him down. Except, of course, that he lingered on the brink of death.
His eye dangled near crushed facial bones and swollen flesh.
Dirty work, but someone has to do it.
I put the back of the serving spoon against his ocular cavity, pushing the mess aside enough to create space for the eye. At least the optical nerve hadn't been severed. With my fingers, I scooped the eye back into the socket. He huffed, whined, and smeared snot and bloody froth on the floor.
I had thought it would be easier to look at him with the eye back in place, but it was worse. Those brown eyes belonged to my friend, and I manhandled his insides in a way no one ever should. I ran to the sink in case I puked again. I didn't. The moment passed. I threw the serving spoon in the garbage because I sure as hell wasn't going to eat anything it touched.
I returned to Clifford. His eyes were closed, but he breathed. Slight improvements, but I was grateful. I sighed.
Soon he'd need food to fuel his recovery. I searched the fridge for the leftover ham, dumping it onto a platter. I set the food by his head and poured him a bowl of water. As if he was a goddamn pet. Christ. I plopped down on the linoleum to monitor his breathing. The wound on his throat stopped bleeding and struggled to stitch itself back together.
“Clifford?”
He didn't stir.
Someone had dumped him in my front yard like trash. I couldn't decide if it was a threat or a setup. No. This was an act of terrorism. They wanted to scare me by brutalizing someone I cared about. Clearly, I didn't have the ability to protect everyone from all the crazies with an agenda. I was horribly outnumbered and far too busy.
Clifford might die on my linoleum. Goddamn it. This shouldn't have happened. I sat in blood and worried he might die and I’d never get to the bottom of it.
Davey ran into the house with a fistful of syringes. “Rainer didn't ask why, he simply gave these. Will they be enough?”
“I hope so. We'll keep a vigil, taking alternative shifts. I don’t care how much adrenaline we use, Clifford can’t shed down.”
“Kaid, Rainer wouldn’t tell me who did this. Maybe he didn’t see anything or maybe he’s protecting someone. It gets worse. Clifford’s dojo is on fire. The fire department is trying to hose it down, but there's not much left but a few beams and cinders.”
I gasped like a girl. “He loves that place!” I stared at the unconscious mutt. He would be heartbroken. Presuming, of course, his heart wasn't literally broken. Each breath carried light moans of pain.
“K-Kaid,” Davey said. “Y-you've got blood, like, all over yourself.”
Red coated my hands, soaked deep into my pants and pajamas. Clifford's strain scoured my skin, and the contaminant was still warm. I clenched my teeth and tried to recall if I had any cuts or scrapes that the disease could slip into.
Logically, the damage was already done. I was either contaminated or I wasn't. Even so, the occasion warranted a shower. “I'm going to shower,” I said. “Make sure Clifford stays in his fur.”
While showering, all I could think about was the dojo. It was one thing to give a man the walloping of his life, another thing entirely to destroy his heart and soul. Someone really had it in for Clifford, and giving me a message may have been an afterthought. I told myself not to take it personally.
Yeah, right.
I dressed, brushed my hair, and went to see what the progress was.
Clifford remained a gigantic wolf. Unconscious, looking like vulture-chow.
Davey said, “He almost came completely back to flesh before the adrenaline kicked in. He did say something though.”
“What?”
“Iago.”
Chapter 31
I woke slouched in a kitchen chair while Davey pressed a convulsing mutt down onto the floor. Spots of skin appeared under its red fur, ribs popped up through shrinking flesh, and the snout receded before my eyes. Clifford’s lungs heaved with irregular, hard breaths too large for his airway. He retched and wheezed sick, dying sounds. His body disintegrated as his mutt magic abandoned the fight against shock. Davey stabbed him with a syringe of adrenaline.
Clifford's ribs jolted up and down like a Clydesdale was stomping on him, and then the mutt roared. Brilliant new fur pushed through his skin with a puff of clay. He heaved, eyes rolling. His improvement was so promising that I didn't mention the L-pos drool slipping from his mouth or the puddle of urine on the floor. Davey sat back on his haunches, allowed the empty needle to drop from his hand, and heaved a sigh of relief.
“Crazy night,” Davey said.
“You can say that again.”
“Iago again?”
“Believe me, I'll get him.” My promise made us all feel better. “Coffee?”
He nodded. I stood up to make the pot, but Davey fell asleep on the couch before the coffee brewed.
Clifford remained mutt-face down on my floor, but I was tired of staring at him and doing nothing. I poured myself a cup of coffee, turned off the pot, and grabbed a couple of extra silver-loaded magazines on my way out the door. Climbing into my beautiful truck soothed me like a motherly hug and a mug of hot cocoa. My guns sat reassuringly, and I’d doubled down on Ag rounds.
How did I fall so far into
a bunch of crap? It started with one mutt, one crazy she-wolf strolled into my house and tipped the dominoes. One brief moment when I didn't follow the rules and landed waist-deep in a world I couldn’t escape, where mutts deposited brutalized mutts on my doorstep.
I turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the garage. Blasting the music and singing along with Tom Araya, I felt alert and almost happy. I could fix this. I could put a bullet in the right wolf at the right time and kill half the stress in my life.
I drove to the dojo. It was, most definitely, burned to the ground. I circled the building to see if I could spot any lurkers, then parked the truck in front. Waited to see if anyone had something to say about me loitering around. Mostly, I tried to think.
Not too long ago, Iago attempted to kill me. Twice. Now he played around, leaving body parts and threats, taking his time. What changed? How had I gone from being his number one threat to an idle tease?
He took hostages, making an example by leaving only one vic at a time. He found someone to contaminate large numbers of people with a quick-moving strain.
He was building an army.
Svetlana obsessed over vampire business, yet Iago didn’t make a move. Why not? Surely he had the numbers by now. Unless he had a bigger end game than a battle of attrition. Iago had something up his nasty, sociopath sleeve.
If only I was smart enough to discover his trick before it killed me.
I left the truck to stretch my legs, cautiously approaching the charred building. It stunk with a smoke-and-entrails kind of stink. Bloodstains on the pavement, a few chips of meat left drying in the hot sun. Smears left by footfalls, dragged bodies, splatters and circles and so many mutt-prints that I felt dizzy. Judging from the distance of blood trails, the nearby torn-up sod, and cracked asphalt, Clifford had put up quite a fight.
I followed the tracks around back. A whole herd of mutts with feet the size of bowling balls should be easy to follow. Hell, the trail could lead me to their lair. That hope died when I saw the tire tracks. The mutts had loaded up into a big vehicle, probably a sixteen wheeler or trailer.
I called Yoshino. “Can you track a large vehicle that might have left Crone’s Crater last night during the fire?”
“Sure, I’ll get right back with you.”
“Thanks.”
I hung up and turned around. I could see my silver truck through the ragged skeleton of the burned dojo. Couldn’t help but feel it was my fault. The sun beamed down on me with full summer heat, stamping my skin with sweat. I slipped sunglasses onto my face and stared at the lot. Felt like I was forgetting something.
Wandering around to the front, I leaned against my truck and stared at the road. If I needed to hide an army, which direction would I go? Out of town? Heading away from the cameras would put them in heavy drone territory, victim to fly-by scanning. They’d have to go really far out.
Yoshino returned my call. “The nearest functioning camera is at the highway overpass. I’ve got an ice cream truck, a moving van, and a sixteen wheeler hitting the junction within half an hour of the fire.”
“Can you track all three?”
“Sure, to a point. Looks like the ice cream truck leaves the city on the eastbound, though, while the sixteen wheeler heads westbound. Any idea which we’re most interested in?”
“Both. Where does the moving van go?”
“Back to the rental lot. Problem is, both of the other vehicles leave city limits, and I haven’t found a place where they reenter surveillance points. As far as I know, those trucks are not in Phoenix.”
“Thanks. Let me know if they pop up.”
“Will do.”
We ended the call. I turned the phone in my hand, worrying the buttons, nibbling on my lip. I didn’t want to make the call, but I was mad enough to ignore my pride.
I called Erik. “Clifford is at my house.”
“Why?” he said. “What’s he doing there? How do you know him?”
“Iago and his crew did a number on him. A real gangland beat down.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. Plan on doing anything about it?”
“If Clifford had joined me, I'd be all over that, but Iago and I have a spoken agreement that we don't interfere with the recruitment of lone mutts. Shit happens.”
“The problem isn’t going away. He dropped Clifford on my doorstep.”
“You aren't in my kennel either.”
“Tell me how to find him.”
“Then you'll get yourself killed and the Russians will take it out on me. You shouldn't be out on some vendetta, and I'm not going to help you. We have other things to worry about.”
“Damn you,” I said. “Remember the tantrum you threw over my supposed lack of loyalty?”
“Tantrum away to your heart's content. If you were one of my mutts it would be my concern, but you're not, so it isn't. This here is your problem.”
“Erik? Fuck you.”
He hung up and I cursed like a renegade pirate.
I put the phone in my pocket. Movement at the corner of the decimated building caught my attention. My hand found my sidearm before I processed the sight of a small creature, curled up and hugging herself: Nancy. Her shorn head and sticklike body made her look like a boy. She still wore the shirt I had given her. I scoured the area for Touchdown but didn’t see him. She came alone. With her knobby knees tucked under her chin, she looked pathetic and miserable.
Like a deer in headlights, I watched her. She watched me. Finally, I pushed my sunglasses higher onto my nose and glanced around. Chances were she’d be fine on her own. Street kids were tougher than nails. Maybe she didn’t need my help.
I kicked the dirt with my boot. Sweat soaked my sports bra, and indecision made my heartbeat writhe. “Wanna come with me?”
She didn’t move for a long, quiet moment. I sure as hell wasn’t going to beg, but I did open the passenger side door. She stood and started over, walking at first, gaining momentum until she nearly ran. I helped her into my towering truck, secured her seatbelt, and closed the door. No idea what to do with her then.
I got in and we drove toward my house. I mean, seriously, what choice did I have? Besides, she might be a witness. I chuckled, but even to me it sounded empty and pathetic. What an idiot I was.
We drove in silence while she strained to look out the window. She was too small for the seatbelt, and chances were an airbag would squish her, so I drove slower. When we reached my suburb, I parked at Zelda’s house. Certainly couldn’t take Nancy into my place; Clifford might get it in his mind to eat her.
I helped her out of the truck. Her dark eyes bounced around and took in Zelda’s fairytale cottage with a wild garden, climbing ivy, glorious blooms, and flock of cats. With her feet on the ground, Nancy was reluctant to let go of my hand, and I didn’t fight it. I led her to the porch where the evil tabby cat swiped at my head. I resisted punching the furry bastard in the face and knocked.
“It’s open,” Zelda called.
“What did I say about locking your doors?”
“Darling, you should know by now how hopeless this argument is.” She came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a floury apron. “Oh, and who is this?”
“This young lady is Nancy.”
“Hello, Nancy. Do you like cookies?”
Nancy didn’t answer.
“Maybe you can help me,” Zelda said. “I made far too many cookies this morning. See, I tried to perfect a recipe, and I kept adding this and that. Ginger. Cinnamon. Honey. Almonds. Soon I had piles of cookies and no one to eat them.”
“Well, I like cookies,” I said, heading toward the kitchen. Nancy could have released my hand, but she didn’t. Soon we were both seated at Zelda’s counter.
“What are you two young ladies up to today?” Zelda poured three glasses of milk and set mounds of cookies in front of us. My mouth watered while I chose an almond-chocolate chip concoction.
“Nancy and I had a rough night. I figured I coul
d call Vanessa, Andreas’ girlfriend? She works with child services and might be able to help Nancy get adopted.” Zelda and I looked at Nancy. The girl was a mess, and orphans were a dime a dozen. Her chances were slim. “She may need someplace to stay for a while.”
“We can swing that, provided Nancy has an open mind. You aren’t afraid of witches, are you, Nancy?”
The girl’s eyes grew as big as the cookie in her hand.
Zelda chuckled. “We’re harmless, mostly. I’ll give Marigold a call and see if she can spare a cot for a few nights. You remember Marigold, don’t you, Kaidlyn?”
“Sure.” I scrambled my memory bank. Zelda wasn’t fooled.
“Nancy, Marigold is a nice young witch and a great dancer. In fact, Kaidlyn and Marigold danced together quite a bit during the Sabbat. Do you know what a sabbat is?”
While Zelda explained, I blushed. Marigold and I had shared more than a dance, but the young lady had grown squeamish when she saw my scars and learned how awkward I became without tequila.
My elderly neighbor charmed our visitor into another stack of cookies and a relatively relaxed state, while I tried like heck not to bewail my complicated life.
Chapter 32
A decrepit green truck pulled into my driveway. “Watch Nancy, would you?” I said, quickly leaving Zelda’s kitchen and crossing the yard. Two of Erik’s mutts stepped out into the sunshine. Marc’s vivid pink shirt said Security, so I figured he had come from work.
“Christ,” Peavey said, eying me up and down. “Have enough guns?
“No, actually. Why are you here? Why not call first?”
“We're here to help with the heavy lifting.”
“What?”
“Rainer said you've got a recovering mutt in the house and you need supplies. Wouldn't say who or what happened, but he sent us with a few sides of beef.”
“I didn't ask him to. And I don't have that kind of freezer space. Am I supposed to keep a dead cow in my closet?”
“That's why he sent a freezer chest.” Peavey opened the tailgate, reached with one hand to snag the freezer, and dragged it across the truck bed. I punched his arm. “Ow!” he said, fake-complaining the way men only did when women hit them. Punch him in the face with a wrecking ball and he'd take it; a girl touches him and he whines like a baby.
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