"What questions can you answer?"
"Ask and find out," I said.
"You think this is a brand-new shapeshifter?" Dolph asked.
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"The first time you change on the night of the full moon. It's too early for a brand-new shifter. But it could be a second, or third month, but..."
"But what?"
"If this is still a lycanthrope that can't control itself, that kills indiscriminately, it should still be here. Hunting us."
Dolph glanced out into the darkness. He held his notebook and pen in one hand, right hand free for his gun. The movement was automatic.
"Don't sweat it, Dolph. If it was going to eat more people, it would have taken Williams or the deputies."
His gaze searched the darkness, then came back to me. "So the shapeshifter could control itself?"
"I think so."
"Then why kill the man?"
I shrugged. "Why does anyone kill? Lust, greed, rage."
"The animal form used as a murder weapon then," Dolph said.
"Yeah."
"Is it still in animal form?"
"This was done by a half-and-half form, sort of a wolfman."
"A werewolf."
I shook my head. "I can't tell what sort of animal it is. The wolfman was just an example. It could be any sort of mammal."
"Just a mammal?"
"These wounds, yeah. I know there are avian weres, but they don't do this sort of damage."
"So werebirds?"
"Yeah, but that's not what did this."
"Any guesses?"
I squatted beside the body, stared at it. Willed it to tell me its secrets. Three nights from hence, when the soul had finally flown far away, I might have tried to raise the man and ask what did this. But his throat was gone. Even the dead can't talk without the proper equipment.
"Why did Titus think it was a bear kill?" I asked.
Dolph thought about that for a minute. "I don't know."
"Let's ask him."
Dolph nodded. "Be my guest." He sounded just a wee bit sarcastic. If I'd been arguing with the sheriff for hours, I'd have been a large chunk o' sarcastic.
"Come on, Dolph. We can't know less than we do right now."
"If Titus has any say in it, we might."
"Do you want me to ask him or not?"
"Ask."
I called up to the waiting men. "Sheriff Titus."
He looked down at me. He'd gotten out a cigarette but hadn't lit it yet. He paused with a lighter halfway to his mouth. "You want something, Ms. Blake?" The cigarette bobbed in his lips as he spoke.
"Why do you think this is a bear attack?"
He snapped the lid on his lighter, and took the unlit cig out of his mouth with the same hand. "Why do you want to know?"
I wanted to say, just answer the damn question, but I didn't. Brownie point for me. "Just curious."
"It wasn't a mountain lion. A cat would have used its claws more. Scratched him up some."
"Why not a wolf?"
"Pack animal. Looks like only one animal to me."
I had to agree with all the above. "I think you've been holding out on us, Sheriff. You seem to know a lot about animals that aren't native to this area."
"I go hunting now and then, Ms. Blake. Need to know the habits of your prey if you want to bag one."
"So a bear by process of elimination?" I asked.
"You might say that." He put the cig back in his mouth. Flame flared, pulsing against his face. When he flipped the lighter closed, the darkness seemed thicker.
"What do you think it was, Ms. Expert?" The smell of his cigarette carried on the cold air.
"Shapeshifter."
Even in the darkness I could feel the weight of his eyes. He blew a ghostly cloud of smoke moonward. "You think so."
"I know so," I said.
He gave a sharp hmph sound. "Awful sure of yourself, ain't ya?"
"You want to come down here, Sheriff. I'll show you what I've found."
He hesitated, then shrugged. "Why not?" He came down the slope like a bulldozer, heavy boots forming snowy wakes. "Okay, Ms. Expert, dazzle me."
"You are a pain in the ass, Titus."
Dolph sighed a white cloud of breath.
Titus thought that was real funny, laughed, doubled over, slapping his leg. "You are just a laugh a minute, Ms. Blake. Now, tell me what you got."
I did.
He took a long drag on his cig. The end flared bright in the darkness. "Guess it wasn't a bear, after all."
He wasn't going to argue. Bliss. "No, it wasn't."
"Cougar?" he said, sort of hopefully.
I stood carefully. "You know it wasn't."
"Shapeshifter," he said.
"Yeah."
"There hasn't been a rogue shapeshifter in this county for ten years."
"How many did it kill?" I asked.
He took in a lungful of smoke and blew it out slowly. "Five."
I nodded. "I missed that case. It was before my time."
"You'da been in junior high when it happened?"
"Yeah."
He threw his cigarette in the snow and ground it out with his boot. "I wanted it to be a bear."
"Me, too," I said.
9
THE NIGHT WAS a hard, cold darkness. Two o'clock is a forsaken time of night, no matter what the season. In mid-December two o'clock is the frozen heart of eternal night. Or maybe I was just discouraged. The light over the stairs leading up to my apartment shone like a captured moon. All the lights had a frosted, swimming quality. Slightly unreal. There was a haze in the air, like an infant fog.
Titus had asked me to stick around in case they found someone in the area. I was their best bet for figuring out if the person was a lycanthrope or some innocent schmuck. Beat the heck out of cutting off a hand to see if there was fur on the inside of the body. If you were wrong, what did you do, apologize?
There had been some lycanthrope tracks leading up to the murder scene. Plaster casts had been made, and at my suggestion, copies were being sent to the biology department at Washington University. I had almost addressed it to Dr. Louis Fane. He taught biology at Wash U. He was one of Richard's best friends. A nice guy. A wererat. A deep, dark secret that might be jeopardized if I started addressing lycanthrope paw prints to him. Addressing it to the entire department pretty much guaranteed Louie would see it.
That had been my greatest contribution of the night. They were still searching when I drove off. I had my beeper on. If they found a naked human in the snow, they could call. Though if my beeper went off before I got some sleep, I was going to be pissed.
When I shut my car door, there was an echo. A second car door slammed shut. I was tired, but it was automatic to search the small parking lot for that second car. Irving Griswold stood four cars down, bundled in a Day-Glo orange parka with a striped muffler trailing around his neck. His brown hair formed a frizzy halo to his bald spot. Tiny round glasses perched on a button nose. He looked jolly and harmless, and was a werewolf, too. Seemed to be my night for it.
Irving was a reporter on the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Any story about me and Animators, Inc., usually had his byline on it. He smiled as he walked towards me. Just your friendly neighborhood reporter. Yeah, right.
"What do you want, Irving?"
"Is that any way to greet someone who has spent the last three hours in his car waiting for you?"
"What do you want, Irving?" Maybe if I just kept repeating the question over and over, I'd wear him down.
The smile faded from his round little face. He looked solemn and worried. "We've got to talk, Anita."
"Will this be a long story?"
He seemed to think about that for a moment, then nodded. "Could be."
"Then come upstairs. I'll fix us both some real coffee."
"Real coffee as opposed to fake coffee?" he asked.
I started for the stairs. "I'll fix you a cup of java that'l
l put hair on your chest."
He laughed.
I realized I'd made a pun and hadn't meant to. I know Irving is a shapeshifter. I've even seen his wolf form. But I forget. He's a friend and doesn't seem the least preternatural in human form.
We sat at the small kitchenette table, sipping vanilla nut creme coffee. My suit jacket was draped over the back of the kitchen chair. It left my gun and shoulder holster exposed. "I thought you were on a date tonight, Blake."
"I was."
"Some date."
"A girl can never be too careful."
Irving blew on his cup, sipping it delicately. His eyes had flicked from side to side, taking in everything. Days from now he'd be able to describe the room completely, down to the Nike Airs and jogging socks in front of the couch.
"What's up, Irving?"
"Great coffee." He wouldn't meet my eyes. It was a bad sign.
"What's wrong?"
"Has Richard told you anything about Marcus?"
"Your pack leader, right?"
Irving looked surprised. "He told you?"
"I found out tonight that your alpha is named Marcus. There's a battle of succession going on. Marcus wants Richard dead. Richard says he won't fight him."
"Oh, he fought him, all right," Irving said.
It was my turn to be surprised. "Then why isn't Richard pack leader?"
"Richard got squeamish. He had him, Blake, claws at Marcus's throat." Irving shook his head. "He thought when Marcus recovered they could talk, compromise." He made a rude sound. "Your boyfriend is an idealist."
Idealist. It was almost the same thing as fool. Jean-Claude and Irving agreed. They didn't agree on much.
"Explain."
"You can move up in the pack hierarchy by fighting. You win, you go up a notch. You lose, you stay where you are." He took a long sip of coffee, eyes closed as if drinking in the warmth. "Until you fight for pack leader."
"Let me guess. It's a fight to the death."
"No killie, no new leader," he said.
I shook my head, coffee sitting untouched in front of me. "Why are you telling me all this, Irving? Why now?"
"Marcus wants to meet you."
"Why didn't Richard tell me that himself?"
"Richard doesn't want you involved."
"Why not?" Irving kept answering my questions, but the answers weren't helping much.
Irving shrugged. "Richard won't give Marcus a freaking inch. If Marcus said black, Richard would say white."
"Why does Marcus want to see me?"
"I don't know," Irving said.
"Yeah, right."
"Honest, Blake, I don't know what's going on. Something big is up, and no one's talking to me."
"Why not? You're a shapeshifter."
"I'm also a reporter. I made the mistake years back of printing an article. The lycanthrope I talked to lied, said he never gave me permission to quote him. He lost his job. Some of the others wanted to out me, too, let me lose my job." He huddled around his coffee mug. Eyes distant with remembering. "Marcus said no, said I was more valuable to them as a reporter. No one's really trusted me since."
"Not a forgiving bunch," I said. I sipped my coffee and found it cooling. If I drank it fast enough, it would be drinkable, barely.
"They never forgive and they never forget," Irving said.
Sounds like a bad character trait, but it's one of my founding principles, so I couldn't complain much. "So Marcus sent you out here to talk to me. About what?"
"He wants to meet you. To talk some kind of business."
I got up and refilled my mug. A little less sugar this time. I was beginning to wake up just from frustration. "Let him make an appointment to come to my office."
Irving shook his head. "Marcus is some hotshot surgeon. You know what would happen if even a hint of what he is got out?"
I could understand that. You might get away with being a shapeshifter on some jobs. Doctor was not one of them. There was still the dentist in Texas that was being sued by a patient. Said she contracted lycanthropy from him. Nonsense. You didn't get it from having human hands in your mouth. But the case hadn't been thrown out. People didn't have a lot of sympathy for fur balls treating their kid's sparkling teeth.
"Okay, send someone else to the office. Surely, Marcus must trust someone."
"Richard has forbidden anyone to contact you."
I just looked at him. "Forbidden?"
Irving nodded. "Anyone lower in the pack order contacts you at their peril."
I started to smile and stopped. He was serious. "You're not kidding."
He raised a three-fingered salute. "Scout's honor."
"So how come you're here? You looking to move up in the pack?"
He paled. Honest to God, he paled. "Me? Fight Richard? Hell no."
"Then Richard won't mind you talking to me?"
"Oh, he'll mind."
I frowned. "Is Marcus going to protect you?"
"Richard gave a specific order. Marcus can't interfere."
"But he ordered you to come see me," I said.
"Yep."
"What's to stop Richard from busting your chops about this?"
Irving grinned. "I thought you'd protect me."
I laughed. "You son of a bitch."
"Maybe, but I know you, Blake. You won't like that Richard's been keeping things from you. You certainly won't like him protecting you. Besides, I've been your friend for years. I don't think you'll stand by while your boyfriend beats the hell out of me."
Irving knew me better than Richard did. It was not a comforting thought. Had I been fooled by a handsome face, a nice sense of humor? Had I not seen the real Richard? I shook my head. Could I be fooled that completely? I hoped not.
"Do I have your protection?" He was still smiling, but there was something in his eyes. Fear, maybe.
"You need me to say it out loud for it to be official?"
"Yeah."
"That a rule in the lycanthrope underground?"
"One of them," he said.
"You have my protection, but I want information in return."
"I told you I don't know anything, Blake."
"Tell me what it's like to be a lycanthrope, Irving. Richard seems determined to keep me in the dark. I don't like being in the dark."
Irving smiled. "I heard that."
"You be my guide to the world of the furry, and I'll keep Richard off your back."
"Agreed."
"When does Marcus want to meet?"
"Tonight." Irving had the grace to look embarrassed.
I shook my head. "No way. I'm going to bed. I'll meet with Marcus tomorrow, but not tonight."
He looked down into his coffee, fingertips touching the mug. "He wants it to be tonight." He looked up at me. "Why do you think I've been camped out in my car?"
"I am not at the beck and call of every monster in town. I don't even know what Fur Face wants to meet about." I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms. "No way am I going out tonight to play with shapeshifters."
Irving squirmed in his chair, rotating the coffee cup slowly on the table. He wouldn't meet my eyes again.
"What's wrong now?"
"Marcus told me to set up a meeting with you. If I refused, he'd have me...punished. If I come here, Richard gets pissed. I'm trapped between two alpha males, and I ain't up to it."
"Are you asking me to protect you from Marcus, as well as Richard?"
"No," he said, shaking his head, "no. You're good, Blake, but you aren't in Marcus's league."
"Glad to hear it," I said.
"Will you meet with Marcus tonight?"
"If I say no, do you get in trouble?"
He stared into his coffee. "Would you believe no?"
"Nope."
He looked at me, brown eyes very serious. "He'll get mad, but I'll live."
"But he'll make you hurt." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah." That one word so soft, so tentative. It wasn't like Irving.
His face bloomed into a grin that spread from pole to pole. "You are a true friend, Blake." All the sadness was gone, washed away in the rosy glow of finding out what the hell was going on. Even ass deep in alligators, Irving was a reporter. It was who and what he was, more than the lycanthropy.
The smile alone was worth a meeting. Besides, I wanted to know if Richard was really in danger. Meeting the man who was threatening him was the only real way to find out. Also, I didn't really care for someone threatening one of my friends. Silver-plated bullets only slowed down a vampire, unless you can take out the head and heart. Silver bullets will kill a werewolf, no second chances, no healing, just dead.
Marcus might remember that. If he pushed it, I might even remind him.
10
IRVING HAD CALLED Marcus from my apartment. Again Irving didn't know why, all he did know was Marcus said to call before we came. I went into the bedroom. Hung up my dry-clean-only suit, and changed clothes. Black jeans, red polo shirt, black Nikes with a blue swoosh, and real socks. I abandoned jogging socks for everyday wear once winter set in.
I reached for the bulky green sweater I had laid out on the bed. I hesitated. It wasn't the fact that the sweater had stylized Christmas trees on it, and it might not be the coolest thing to wear. I didn't give a damn about that. I was debating on whether to carry a second gun. A fashion accessory nearer and dearer to my heart than any piece of clothing.
No lycanthrope had threatened me yet, but ol' Gretchen the vamp had. She might not be a master vampire but she was close. Besides, the memory of the cop taking the Browning away was still fresh. I had too many preternatural enemies to go unarmed. I got out my Uncle Mike's sidekick inner-pants holster. A comfy fit that didn't ruin the line of your jeans unless someone was really looking.
My main backup gun is a Firestar 9mm. Small, light, pretty to look at, and I could wear it at my waist and still be able to sit down. The sweater hung to midthigh. The gun was invisible unless you frisked me. The gun was set in front, ready for a cross-draw. Probably wouldn't need it. Probably.
The sweater bulked up around the straps of the shoulder holster. I've seen people wear shoulder rigs underneath bulky sweaters or sweatshirts, but you lose a few seconds groping under the cloth. I'd rather look less than fashion perfect and live.
The sweater was too long for my leather jacket, so I was back in my black trench coat. Me and Phillip Marlowe. I didn't take any extra ammo. I figured twenty-one rounds was enough for one night. I even left my knives at home. I almost talked myself out of the Firestar. I usually didn't start carrying two guns until after people had tried to kill me. I shrugged. Why wait? If I didn't need it, I'd feel silly tomorrow. If I did need it, I wouldn't feel silly at all.
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