“It’s from a creature called a grindylow,” I said. “Ugly little green thing about four feet tall. It hunts weres that break were-law. If we can find it, we might learn something from it.” And I might be able to convince the little creature to join forces with me. Didn’t tell them that either. I couldn’t lie worth a dang, but lying by omission? I was learning to do that real well.
“We’re not releasing that to the public,” Grizzard instructed.
“Fine by me. The press is plastering my name and likeness all over the airwaves. They aren’t my best pals.” I thought I had worked my way into their good graces and so I took a shot. “Can I see the site?”
Grizzard nodded to Sam. “Orson, take her on down.”
Relief poured through me. “One last suggestion,” I said. “Weres are really hard to kill. Silvershot may not kill them any faster than regular ammo, but silver will hurt them. Bad. If they suffer a wound—say silvershot double-oughts—I don’t think they can change form to heal until the silver is surgically removed, forcing them to stay in the form they were in when injured. Left in them long enough, it’ll poison their bloodstream. If you want, I got a local guy who hand-loads my rounds with silver fléchettes. I killed several in New Orleans with them.”
“You’ve killed these things?”
“Yeah.” I looked into the trees, down the slope. They had nearly killed me, but I left that out too. Lying was getting easier. I waited for some guilt but nothing happened. It was Sunday morning; I should be getting ready for church instead of lying to cops. Yeah. I was going to hell.
“Name? Cost?” Grizzard barked.
I gave him the name and contact info for the guy who hand-loaded my rounds. “I can’t tell you the cost. That’s dependent on the market value of silver, the amount of silver he uses in the fléchettes, a whole bunch of factors.”
“Okay. Take her down. Don’t fuck up my crime scene, Yellowrock.”
“You’re such a softie.”
Before he could reply, Sam grabbed my elbow and pulled me away. “You never did know when to shut your mouth,” he growled.
I looked down at him and grinned. “You can’t hold your liquor.”
Sam Orson did a little eye-roll-blow-out-breath thing and pulled me down the hill. On the breeze I smelled blood. Dead meat. Human.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vigilante Law’s Got No Place
in My County
The hundred square feet inside the yellow crime scene tape reeked of human blood, werewolf, and dead fish to my sensitive nose. The three humans the weres had feasted on were still near the tents, buzzing with flies. The smell in the campsite had drawn a murder of crows, sitting in trees, watching, waiting. One turned and looked at me, cocking its head to the side in a movement reminiscent of the way vamps move when they aren’t trying to ape humanity. Or when they don’t care if someone sees their true nature. I held my face still, nonreactive, and studied the scene, walking around the perimeter, viewing it from every angle. Some of the crime scene techs were bagging evidence, marking where each body part or piece of evidence was found. Others were taking photos or making notes or putting down little evidence markers for new physical trace to be added into the bigger picture.
The campers had been attacked in the night, the wolves rushing in from the west, tearing into the tents, then into the sleeping campers. Three had been killed quickly. Three others had run into the woods and been chased. “What did the surviving campers say?” I asked.
“They were chased, knocked down, bitten, and let go.”
“All of the live ones were female,” I stated.
Sam studied me as I analyzed the scene. “How did you know that? We implied to the press that the one who called for help was male.”
“Three tents, three coolers, three bear-bags of food. All the dead and eaten ones are male, but you have female clothing of different sizes scattered all over the site. I admit to an assumption that it wasn’t six cross-dressers, ergo three couples.” Sam snorted softly. “Also, the werewolves in New Orleans were trying to make mates. Werewolves aren’t like other weres. They don’t breed true. The only way they procreate is to bite a human.” Of all the weres—the Cursed of Artemis—the wolves were the ones still sick, and the disease that made them two-natured and furry also meant they weren’t the brightest bulbs in the chandelier. I finished, “Females who are bitten don’t survive, or if they do, they go insane and into permanent heat.”
Sam sucked in a breath as the words sank in. There was so much I couldn’t say to the cops, but the effects on the victims could not be kept secret. I thought about the grainy, poor quality photograph of Itty Bitty: delicate features, big blue eyes, pretty. I closed my eyes, feeling the gritty dryness of exhaustion. “Where did the wolves enter the campsite?” I asked, though I already knew, having tracked the scent on the wind.
Sam pointed uphill. “They came in from a church parking lot, up that hill there, about three miles. Went out the same way.”
“Dogs tell you that?”
Sam snorted. “Dogs got all squirrelly soon as the handlers drove up. Every single one. Went into full-blown panic mode. One bit his handler. Fu—freaking terrified.” I grinned at his careful change of wording. Cops aren’t known for their diplomatic language, but Sam was trying. “The handlers took them down to the river after the three-toed thing instead. What did you call it?”
“Grindy. Short for grindylow,” I said. “I need inside the perimeter, closer to the vics. Tell me where I can step and where I can’t. Then I want to see where the grindy came in from.”
“The grindy came from a stream at the bottom of the crevice,” he pointed. “I ain’t going down there. The fall’ll kill ya,” he quoted from an old movie. “And so will the hike back up.”
“Okay. Walk me in.” Placing my feet into Sam’s footprints, I got close enough to the victims to verify that they had been dinner. I’d seen a herd of deer after a werewolf pack tore into them. This was a lot like that. I also smelled witch blood, and since few male witches survive to adulthood, it likely meant that one of the bitten women was a witch. Itty Bitty was of witch blood. This wasn’t coincidence. The wolves had tried turning human women for mates and it didn’t work. Now it looked like they were going for witches.
Sam said, “Turned them into manburger,” and chuckled softly, the way cops do to separate themselves from carnage. It made them colder and harder than other humans, but it also kept them sane. I understood that, and didn’t respond.
Grindy-marks and tracks were pressed into the edges of the kill-site, indicating that the little green Yoda-golem-wolf-killer came upon the site after the killing. Maybe several hours after. The grindy didn’t have access to modern transportation and had to swim, hence the tracks up from the stream below.
As I worked, thoughts floated through my mind, a free association that meant nothing until my subconscious found the linchpin and tied everything together with a satin bow. Useless, tired thoughts like: I need to find the grindy and pair up with him to track the weres, speeding both our searches. But I have no idea how to find him. I wish I had access to a dog form by day, to scent-track. But if I shift, I’ll be stuck in the shape until moonrise or nightfall, whichever comes soonest. And if I come upon the wolves in dog form? No dog has the natural weapons of a werewolf. I’d be Janeburger. And lastly I noted that the wolves had been particularly grisly in the way they had attacked and eaten the men, going for maximum impact—leaving a message.
I crossed the crime scene tape again and was back on the periphery, leaving Sam chatting to a tech, when I smelled something unexpected. I placed Sam and the techs—all were busy—before dropping to my knees in the brush, the small backpack riding up under my arms. I moved across the ground on four limbs, half crawling. The scent was faint, the reek of old, dried blood, overlaid and almost masked by pungent were-scent. On hands and knees, I followed the old-blood odor to a pile of leaves at the base of a tree. Checked the others again, finding them involved in their jobs, Sam discussing manburger with a tech. I reached in and rustled through the leaves. My fingers encountered something hard and cool. Metal. I palmed it and eased it out.
It was Rick’s key chain, the old one the wolves had access to when they had him prisoner. I had seen his new one yesterday, enamel black leopard. This one was plain, on a worn-out biner. I’d seen it many times, but it was best identified by the old scent of his blood.
The wolves dropped it, not by accident, but knowing it would be found. I palmed the keys, putting things together. I’d taken on the two surviving wolves of the Lupus Pack and won, as no human could have, not even with an element of surprise. They had bitten me, tasted my blood. They knew I wasn’t human. The weres were goading me, challenging me. Come and get us. If you can. And not just me. They had taken down victims, tried to turn them, in the Pigeon River at the bottom of Stirling Mountain. Which is where Rick and Kem were staying. Weres lived by smell, so they knew the were-cats were there. On the surface, the attack had been intended to turn humans. On the underside, it sent a message to me, Rick, and Kemnebi, leader of PAW, the Party of African Weres. I was the one who had brought Kem-cat and Rick here, which made it all my fault. Crap. I pocketed the key chain and jogged around the crime scene to Sam. “Describe the bottom of the gorge for me?”
He walked to the edge and looked down the mountain. “Thirty, maybe forty degree slope. Near vertical further down. Dangerous going and damn hard work coming back up. Debris-clogged storm runoff at the bottom.”
I thought about my paddler buddies. “Is it something that could be paddled or rafted?”
“Not by anyone sane, sober, or with ten functioning brain cells.”
I snorted softly. “Yeah, well, it was just a thought.”
“A stupid one.”
I lifted a hand and jogged away, back up the mountain. When I reached Grizzard’s position, hidden among the trees, he called out, “You learn anything?”
