CONTENTS

Rogues

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Epilogue

ROGUES

A Novel of the Demon Accords

By

John Conroe

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2016 John Conroe

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

The Demon Accords:

God Touched

Demon Driven

Brutal Asset

Duel Nature

Fallen Stars

Executable

Forced Ascent

College Arcane

God Hammer

Rogues

Cover art by Ryan Bibby.

To Irwin Conroe, who taught me the art of storytelling.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

Piscataquis County, Maine

Rusty machinery.  That’s the mental image that the just-past peak foliage inspired in Morris Alcombe, IV.  Old, useless, rundown metal remnants of the past.  The sun was setting on the forest of dying leaves and setting on his chances for a first-day deer. His mood reflected it.

For three years running, he’d bagged a respectable deer on the first day of his annual expedition back to the interior of Maine’s wilderness.  It gave him immediate bragging rights among the other hunters in camp, allowed him to kick back for the rest of the week, sleep in, and smoke cigars on the lodge’s veranda while the others all froze their asses off deep in the woods.  It was the reason he paid Shorty a ridiculous bonus.  And the guide had always come through.  Till today.  Not only had there been no bucks to select from, there hadn’t been any deer at all.  Just birds—blue jays and crows mostly, as well as arrowheads of flying, honking geese, headed south for the winter.  Not even the usual squirrels and chipmunks.

The day had been unseasonably cold, the sun weak, and he’d frozen his ass off from before dawn till now.  His chemical pocket heaters had given out hours ago, his bag lunch had been unsatisfactory and insufficient, and the battery on his phone hadn’t taken a full charge the night before, leaving him without even electronic games to distract him.  The sun winked out, dropping below the tree line, the light growing too dim for the Austrian-engineered lenses of his Swarovski Z6 riflescope as he tried a final, vain attempt to scope the edge of the forest one hundred and thirty yards away.  Nothing.

He stood up, his muscles stiff and unresponsive, which made him wobble a bit.  Not a good idea eight feet off the ground.  Damn that Shorty.  Not a damned deer all day.  It would take at least another day of this.  Not what he’d paid an extra thousand dollars for.  Shorty would be hearing about that as soon as he arrived in the Gator to pick him up.

The early evening woods were silent, not even birdsong, and the temperature, which had stayed in the low thirties all day, now dropped steadily lower.  Might as well climb down; at least get the blood flowing.  The sky was clear, early stars starting to wink above him, and was lighter in the east as the moon awaited her entrance into the night sky.  It would be full tonight and probably bright enough to shoot a deer by… if any still existed in this godforsaken wilderness.

He unloaded his Weatherby Mark V .300 Magnum, not even the sight of those huge brass cartridges able to buoy his mood.  The rifle had been his father’s, massively expensive and massively overpowered for this type of hunting.  Yet he loved the attention the classic rifle and cartridge combination evoked among his fellow hunters.  The rifle had been a symbol for much of his life.  Morris III had used it in Africa to bag a gemsbok, an eland, and a big male leopard whose stuffed body used to give the younger Alcombe the shivers.  When he was old enough to shoot the Weatherby, the roar of the cartridge and the slam of the stock into his shoulder had made him feel older, powerful, adult.  He’d inherited the rifle along with the paper mill and the two houses, and his only change had been to upgrade the rifle’s scope to the Z6.  And sell the paper mill.

Tying the drop cord to the stock, he lowered the rifle carefully till the butt hit dirt.  His pack normally went on his back but tonight, he just dropped it off the stand’s platform, too pissed off to care. Then he backed his middle-aged body to the ladder and gingerly stepped down the first few rungs.  A rustling in the woods behind him stopped him in place.  It sounded large.  He pulled a small flashlight from his hunting coat and scanned the woods, holding onto the ladder with his other hand as he turned in an arc.  Nothing.  Yet the eerie wind ghosting through the trees and the feeling of being watched had him unsettled.

Shrugging it off, he started down the ladder.  Another noise, this time from the forest on the other side of the stand.  He froze.  Some of the black bears in this stretch of Maine got pretty big.  Everything went quiet… quieter.

“Shorty?  That y—” was all he got out when a freight train hit him, ripping him from the ladder.  He was aware of fur and of flying, of an irresistible tug on his arm.  Then the ground stopped his motion with sudden, final brutality and he, in turn, stopped the massive form propelling him, its crushing weight blasting the air from his lungs with a crunch.  Unable to breathe, his world circled down to the act of attempting to pull air into his lungs.  The mass separated itself from him with a huff and a growl.

Panicked by his inability to breathe, only a small part of him focused on the beast that rose up on four thick legs.  Realizing he was dying for a breath, he nonetheless noted that the animal wasn’t a bear.  More wolf-like.  But bigger, with longer legs and a huge bear-trap jaw, which opened right before his eyes, moving closer.  As he struggled to draw another breath, the last one he had taken on the ladder ran completely out.  His vision shrank, a decreasing tube of light encircled by growing darkness.  The dim spot centered on the jaws, which opened wide enough to span his head.  The light disappeared, either blocked by the jaws or vanishing into his dying brain, but his ears heard the snap and the melon-like thunk of his own skull cracking. He did not, however, hear the victorious howl a second later.

Three quarters of a mile away, Shorty Kane took his foot off the accelerator of the John Deere Gator and listened for the sound that had penetrated the thrum of the engine.

The four-wheeled UTV coasted to a stop as the guide strained his ears for whatever had raised the hair on the back of his neck.

Only the idling engine filled the quiet.  Still the woodsman listened, hard-learned instinct telling him to wait.  The sound came again, but now the engine wasn’t racing and he could hear it way too well.  A howl, deep and angry, like a hound of Hell, full of hate and power, victory and awful promise.

Shorty Kane almost shit himself where he sat.

He froze completely for a second, then his hand went to the holstered revolver resting between the yellow seats.  His thumb trembled as he pulled the Smith and Wesson model 657 .41 Magnum Mountain gun from its leather scabbard.

He didn’t need to check if it was loaded—it was always loaded, stuffed full of heavy weight, hard-cast bullets.  He did need to get his suddenly racing heart under control.  The howl had been close—less than a mile.  About where his hunter should be.  Sudden fear for his client overrode his fear for himself and his foot stamped down on the gas, big revolver still clutched in his hand.

Less than five minutes later, he pulled the Gator to a stop, headlights pointed into the side trail that went ninety yards to the stand.  Morris Alcombe hated walking, so his watches were always close to the main trail.  The primitive part of Shorty’s brain, the part that had kept his ancestors alive long enough to pass on their genetic material, told him to leave the engine running.  His logic-based modern brain directed his hand to shut it off so he could listen. The primitive part bludgeoned the modern part into submission. The engine stayed on.

Hearing nothing, Shorty unlimbered the big rechargeable flashlight that he kept in the Gator.  Shaped like a pistol, it projected a beam about like the headlight of a Mini-Cooper.  With his real gun in his right hand and the hefty flashlight in his left, he slid out of the Gator and headed into the woods.

Less then five minutes later, he stumbled back out, somehow staying upright.  He’d tripped at the stand as well, but that had been on a leg instead of a tree root. A human leg. His heavy camo jacket was stained with vomit and all five-foot, five inches of experienced guide shook with adrenaline and terror.

Shorty had, in his forty-eight years, gutted or helped field dress over thirty moose, nineteen bears, almost a hundred deer, and countless rabbits, squirrels, partridge, and geese.  He had seen ten or more coyote kills, a first-year moose killed by a bear, and even the horror of a fisher that slaughtered an entire hen house.

None of that was sufficient preparation for the abattoir of Morris Alcombe’s final deer watch.

Eyes darting in every direction, Shorty slammed his small frame into the UTV’s cockpit and sent the powerful little vehicle careening down the trail.

Two hours and fifty-one minutes later, he was back, leading three ATVs and with a deputy sheriff, Sergeant Buck Thompson, riding shotgun next to him. He pulled to a stop at the same spot as before.

“This the way, Shorty?” the deputy asked.  He was tall where his guide was short.  Tall and lean, but with wide shoulders.  Black hair and black beard, brown eyes.  Young for his position at thirty-two, he efficiently wrangled the other guides who had ridden the four-wheelers, at least one of whom was older than him.

“LeClair and Olson, you need to be our security.  A bear might guard its kill. Stay sharp. Cort, you’re carrying the camera stuff.  Shorty, lead the way.  Shorty!” he spoke sharply at the last, breaking through the little guide’s distracted focus on the dark woods.

“This way, Buck,” Shorty said in his trademark raspy voice, reluctantly getting out of the UTV.  This time, he carried a short pump shotgun with a barrel-mounted light.  His revolver was belted to his waist.  Turning on both the gun light and a headlamp, the tough little guide led the sergeant and his fellow guides down the narrow footpath toward the deer stand.  Head light and shotgun light swung about constantly as he moved cautiously through the thick woods.

Buck Thompson had known Shorty Kane his entire life. He and his father had hunted with the man for years, and Buck had brought Shorty in to help track down missing hunters on several occasions.  The compact woodsman was generally more comfortable in the woods than he was in town.  Except tonight.

“Hell of a shock, Short,” Buck said as they moved through the woods, watching the guide as the guide watched the woods.  Behind them, the three other woodsmen also kept a close eye on the forest, the last man turning every few seconds to watch their back trail.

Shorty stayed silent, his attention focused on the trees, his breath puffing fast in the cold light of his own headlamp.  Just when Buck decided he wasn’t going to answer, he did.  “Never seen anything like it, Buck.  Never.  It’s just up here.  He’s just up here,” he said, slowing down and letting the others go by him.

A few moments later, Buck Thompson came to a stop and studied the scene before him.  He decided that Shorty had a point… and a talent for understatement.

Buck had done two tours in Iraq with Uncle Sam in a military police unit.  He had seen horrific things: men exploded by IEDs, women and children decapitated by terrorists, bodies that had fallen from helicopters at great height.  This was different.

The deer stand was a three-legged, metal, self-supporting model that occupied a little natural clearing at the crest of a ravine.  Looking out over the tiny valley, it had maybe ten feet of cleared space around it.  That space gleamed wetly in the light of the full moon, covered in black fluid that turned dark red when his high-powered LED flashlight beam hit it.

Morris Alcombe had been pretty much a giant douche bag for most of his fifty years, and Buck was not a fan of the man who had sold the family’s paper mill to a conglomerate that shut it down a year later.  But nobody short of a child molester or rapist deserved to die like this.

Behind him, Scott Olson made a retching sound and turned away from the grisly scene to throw up.

“Eyes on the woods, Olson.  You too, LeClair.  Security, remember?”

His lifelong friend, Cortney Brower, who guided for another camp, handed him the camera, already turned on and with the flash warmed up.  Buck started to snap pictures of the scene, moving carefully through the woods on the edge of the clearing to avoid touching anything, face wearing a professional mask.

Buck let his eyes roam over the remains, forcing his mind to catalogue the scene in a detached manner.  It wasn’t easy.  Morris’s leg, possibly the left one, was lying just across the trail two feet from Buck.  An arm was dangling from the ladder, its fist still clutching the upper rung, like it had been torn off the man as he was ripped from his position six feet up.  The torso was lying on the left side of the clearing, split wide open like a flattened cardboard box.  A wet, mushy cardboard box with splintered ribs.

“What the hell kind of bear does this to a man?” Buck wondered out loud.

“Weren’t no bear,” Shorty answered, eyes and gun still focused on the woods.

“Had to be a bear, Short.  Nothing else up here could do that to a man,” Buck said.

The other three guides said nothing, but their body language indicated they were listening as much to the discussion as to the woods around them.

“Look at him, Buck.  Poor son-of-a-bitch got taken clean off the ladder.  Hit ‘em so hard, it yanked his arm right out of the socket.  Landed on him over there, nine, ten feet away.  Likely broke his back or crushed his ribs or both.  Then it cracked his head like a walnut,” the guide said, taking his eyes away from the woods long enough to point at a flattened black mound by the edge of the woods.  When the young sheriff’s deputy put his light on it, a single hazel eye gleamed back at him from the broken mess that used to be the richest man in this part of the county.  “I’ve been thinking about it since I found him.  Couldn’t think of nothing else.  See that leg.  I think it stood on him and kicked each of its hind legs, ripping his legs off and flinging them over here by the trail and the other one under the stand, kinda like a dog on a stinky roadkill.”

Buck’s light illuminated the darkness under the stand along with a camouflage-clothed leg and booted foot.

“I think maybe it stuck its snout into his chest and ripped out his heart, ‘cause I don’t see it in there,” Shorty said, turning his head and spitting a wad of tobacco juice into the woods.  Buck seemed to recall Shorty had quit that habit.

“No animal does all that,” the big deputy said.

“Well now, no natural animal that I’ve come across, but you all watch any of that stuff what happened down in Washington?  Remember that big white wolf-creature and that other bear-wolf thing?  Them news folks said the white one was a werewolf.  A real, honest to God werewolf,” Shorty said.

“You can’t be serious.  You think the White Werewolf came up here and killed Morris fucking Alcombe the fucking Fourth?” Olson asked, glancing back at the guide.

“No you fuckwit,” the little guide snarled, too stressed and scared to be worried how the much bigger man might take his words.  “What I think is that if there’s one werewolf, there are others.  And I think a God-almighty big-assed monster of a wolf tore old Morris all to shit,” Shorty said.  “Which is why my gun is packing silver buckshot.”

“Werewolf?  He’s joking, right, Buck?” Olson asked, his nervous tone demanding the sergeant’s reassurance.  But instead of disagreeing, the young deputy was studying the scene with a new look in his eye, one that was rapidly approaching something like alarm.

“Right.  We’re out of here.  LeClair, you got point.  Shorty, you back him up.  Cort, you’re with me, and Olson, watch our six,” Buck said.

“Just as soon as these three replace their chamber rounds with these extra silver ones I got in my pocket,” Shorty said.  Sergeant Thompson was the only man not carrying a 12-gauge shotgun.

As quick as they arrived, the five men moved back out of the deep forest and back to the vehicles.  White clouds of frozen breath puffed from the seriously spooked men.  All of them were thoroughly experienced. All of them hovered on the edge of true terror at the thought of what might be lurking in the darkness just out of sight, their ancestral instincts screaming danger.

Nothing jumped out at them. The vehicles started smoothly, and then they were gone.

“Where the hell did you get silver buckshot, Short?” Buck asked as they bounced down the trail.

“Made ‘em up right after that Washington shit.  Melted down a bunch of coins and dropped ‘em through a screen into a bucket of cold water.  Silver don’t cast bullets for shit, too damned finicky, temperature-wise. Need special molds and shit. Seen some companies are making full-fledged silver ammo, though.  You’re gonna need to order up some of that, Buck.”

“That’s the very least of what I’ve got to do,” Sergeant Thompson said.  “I think I’ve got to make a whole bunch of phone calls first.”

“Who do you call for shit like this?” Shorty asked.

“Well, Sheriff Grable in Dover-Foxcroft first.  Then maybe some guys I know in New York.  Figured I’d start with them.”

“They know about werewolves in the crabby Apple?” Short asked.

“The guys I’m thinking of do, or at least they say they do. We’ll see,” Buck said, already making plans to return at first light.

CHAPTER 1

Thirty-six hours later

The Jeep alone would have drawn attention.  A late model four-door Wrangler Unlimited Rubicon dressed with top of the line off-road accessories: a winch, big knobby tires, extra lighting, and a dark aftermarket paint job that the manufacturer called Kevlar Slate.

In a town whose economic engines had gone mostly quiet, a town just like Fetter, Maine, an expensive rig like that would draw attention.  So would the New York plates.

It made sense then that more than a few pairs of eyes followed its progress down the main road till it stopped in front of the county sheriff’s substation.

If the Jeep was interesting, the young woman who climbed out of it was even more so.  Young and dressed in outdoor gear, she was an attractive brunette, maybe five-seven, perhaps in her early twenties. She was dressed in khaki hiking pants, tan boots, and an electric blue short-sleeve t-shirt that she quickly covered with a light plaid shirt.  The plaid shirt was new, a bit loose fitting, yet unable to hide the figure it enclosed.  She turned hazel eyes on the substation as her fingers automatically clicked the lock button on her key fob.  Hers was now the only locked vehicle on the street. An inch-long scar on her right cheek marred an otherwise unblemished face.

Looking up the street, she took in the details.  Two blocks back was the only gas station, a Mobil with a small, run-down convenience store.  Across from that was a bar named the Bitter Bear.  Probably a story there.  Old houses and the Post Office lay between the gas station and the old storefront now occupied by the sheriff’s substation. Other stores lay empty, the young woman spotting a closed florist, a boarded-up deli and several shuttered restaurants. Looming behind Main Street was a long, high-industrial building that looked barren and empty. Not much else.

Entering the sheriff’s substation, she found a tiny office, the desk manned by a young woman maybe a half-dozen or so years her senior.  Light brown hair and light brown eyes. The woman raised an eyebrow while her eyes scanned the newcomer from head to toe, flicking to the scarred cheek before landing on her eyes.

“The Sergeant isn’t seeing reporters at this time,” she said, her expression flashing a micro-expression of disdain.

The newcomer could see a doorway to another office in back, two chairs and a corner of a metal desk visible.  Her sensitive ears picked up the sound of the office’s occupant shifting slightly at the receptionist ’s words.

“I’m not a reporter.  I’m here to see a Sergeant Buck Thompson.”

“He’s pretty busy,” the gatekeeper said, her tone conveying her lack of belief in the non-reporter statement.

“Could you tell him that Detective Eddie Bellini sends his regards?  Asked me to drive up here and pay a call on your sergeant,” she said, eyes on the receptionist, ears on the far office.

The receptionist frowned, realizing that her initial perception of the situation was off.

A chair scraped in the back office and then she heard the sound of boots hitting the floor.  Both women looked back at the doorway as a large male figure filled the frame.

“Bellini sent you?”

The young woman studied the sergeant, taking in his height, shoulder width, and bushy black beard in a practiced glance.  Hmm, not bad.  No wonder little miss secretary is territorial, she mused.  Not her type exactly, but not bad on the eyes.  In the past, he might have been of more interest, but not now.  Still, better than a fat, balding, near-retirement has-been.

“Nice to meet you too, Sergeant Thompson.  Lisa Renault.  Eddie didn’t send me.  He said you had a problem up here… an unusual kind of problem.  Suggested it might be my kind of problem,” she said, letting his condescension roll off her.

Now he was frowning, which looked a bit threatening, what with the beard and the dark eyes.  Part of her took it for aggression. That part knew how to handle aggression.  The rest of her reined the first part back. She gave herself a mental pat on the back for maintaining her calm. What was that called?  Oh yeah. Positive reinforcement.

For his part, the Sergeant saw an attractive young woman whose casual stance implied complete confidence.  He revised the attractive bit to very attractive even as his eyes picked out other details, including the scar.  Her plaid shirt looked brand new, but her khaki pants were comfortably worn.  And on closer inspection, he noted the pants were more covert tactical than outdoorsy, with reinforced knees and concealed cargo pockets.  In fact, he would bet money he had seen the same model pants in one of his law enforcement catalogues.

Likewise, her boots were desert-toned combat models instead of name-brand hikers.  The clothes weren’t tight, but in the few places they clung, they outlined a fit, muscular physique that made him wonder how she would look in a bikini.  Brown hair in a ponytail and amused hazel eyes studied him right back.  Oddly, she wasn’t wearing a belt.  He’d have pegged her for definite law enforcement if she’d been wearing a belt.

“Cop?” he asked.

“Consultant,” she answered.

“ID,” he requested.

Now she frowned, but without answering pulled a plastic driver’s license from a small bundle of cash and credit cards that came from her front pocket.  Most women carried a purse and internal wallet.  Women cops would have had a credential case.

“I’m going to call Eddie,” the young sergeant said.

“Knock yourself out,” Lisa Renault said.  He turned back into his office and simultaneously heard the front door shut.  Spinning around, he was just fast enough to see the young woman walking past the window in the direction of the Mobil station.  A new model Jeep was sitting at the curb.  He looked at Claire, but she just shrugged and rolled her eyes, so he went back into his office to call his NYPD contact.  His gut had wanted him to go rushing out the front door in suspicion.

“Bellini, NYPD,” a voice he recognized from his military days answered.

“Ziti, it’s Thompson.”

“The Big Buck himself?  How’s your problem going?”

“You sent me a girl named Renault to handle my, er, problem?”

“Renault?  Oh.  She’s there already? Must have headed right up,” Bellini said.

“What’s her story?”

“Nope. You asked for an expert on werewolves and I was able to get you the one we rely on.  And she got up there in record time.  You don’t get more than that, Buck.  Her story is her own, and I ain’t gonna be the one to tell it,” the New York cop said.  His voice held a measure of respect and perhaps just a tiny bit of trepidation, at least at the last sentence.

“Eddie, this crime scene was like nothing I’ve ever seen.  I gotta know if this girl is up for it,” Thompson said.

“Just worry about yourself, Buck.  Don’t be fooled by the good looks and don’t go trying to impress her or protect her, and for God’s sakes, don’t be hitting on her, wife or no wife.  She’s not like anyone you’ve ever met, but she’s exactly the one for your problem. Now, I gotta go. The full moon’s got the wackos coming out of the woodwork.  The regular wackos.  Not the furry kind,” Bellini said.

“All right, Ziti.  Thanks, I guess.”

“ You guess? Shit, Buck, you owe me big for this one. Like moose lottery big, get it?”

“Yeah, I’ll see what I can do to draw a tag.”

“Hmpf.  Like I don’t believe you can’t get a moose tag anytime you want.  It’s me you’re talking to, Buck.  I know what a wheeler-dealer you are.  But do me and you a favor and treat that young lady with respect. Got it?” the detective said, hanging up without waiting for an answer.

Buck Thompson had gone through hell with the city-bred Bellini and trusted him implicitly.  That said, Morris Alcombe’s death was far outside anything they had faced in the Sandbox, and the young sergeant was having trouble reconciling the death scene with the young woman his old army buddy had sent to help him.  Still, there had been a large portion of respect in the detective’s voice when he spoke about her and maybe even the tiniest amount of fear.

He woke up his computer and typed her name and driver’s license number into the National Crime Information Center site and hit enter.  His computer went a little wonky.

First a photo of a blonde woman a good fifteen years or so older popped up, but the open window instantly closed and then almost as quickly reopened with a picture that matched the young woman outside.  Frowning, Buck hit the back button but the damned machine just took him back to the data entry view.  He reentered the information and the software delivered him the smiling picture of the brunette he’d just met.  The photo looked like it had been taken recently.  Like yesterday.  And who the hell smiles for a license photo?  No matter what he tried, he couldn’t get the blonde picture back.

Her record was clean and her address matched the license, listing her as a resident of Manhattan.  The plastic on her license was hardly scuffed, yet the issue date was over a year ago. Something odd here.  Time to go to the source.

CHAPTER 2

Buck found her outside, eating a submarine sandwich, its wrapping paper opened on the hood of her fancy Jeep.  She was watching the town but her attention shifted to him as soon as he opened the door.  Looked like she was on the second half of a foot-long mixed Italian with all the fixings.  The familiar paper bag was from the convenience store-gas station down the road.  She wolfed down the last few bites, white teeth flashing, wiped her hands and face with a napkin, and bundled up all the trash.  There weren’t any garbage cans nearby, so she tossed the garbage into the back of her Jeep.

“So, did you check me out?” she asked, still looking at the town.

He frowned at her choice of words, but her tone had been completely even.  “Bellini said you’re the real deal.  How do you know him?” he asked, handing her the license.

“I don’t.  Not really.  More of an acquaintance, really.  He works with Larry Dalton, who I do know,” she said.  “So, we going to visit this crime scene or what?”

He paused, uncertain, which was an abnormal state of mind for him.  She just looked at him expectantly.  “It’s extremely gruesome,” he finally said.

“You left the body out there for two days?” she asked, incredulous.

“No, of course not,” he answered, voice gruff.  “But the blood is still everywhere.”

She studied him for a second.  “Bellini said you think it might possibly be a werewolf kill.  He asked me to come check it out, implying I’m an expert on werewolves.  Let’s assume I’ve seen werewolf kills before, as well as were cat and were bear kills.  That I’ve seen entire buildings of torn-apart bodies.  Then let’s go ahead and figure I’ll be okay with your single body, which isn’t even there anymore.”

“Well I don’t like to assume things, but I’ll make an exception in this case,” he said, his eyes narrowed at her a bit.  “Were cat?  Were bear?  Those are real, too?”

“Yup.  Lots of stuff out of myths and legends are real,” she said, hands on hips.

“That’s just great.  You’ll be able to tell which we’re dealing with?” he asked.

“Yup,” she said.  As well as rough age, sex, and individual health issues, she thought.  “Let’s get going.  I’ll follow you,” she said, walking around to the driver’s side of her Jeep.

He was silent for a moment, then nodded before disappearing into the substation.  A few minutes later, an older Chevy Silverado four-wheel-drive pickup truck with Piscataquis County Sheriff’s Department on the side pulled out from behind the building.

She followed him for twenty-odd miles of rough road: macadam for the first ten, rugged dirt for the last.  He turned off the two-lane road onto a single lane and led her another bouncy, suspension-killing three miles.  The extra-long driveway opened into a wide space set on the bank of a small river, with a large main log structure and a number of smaller cabins and outbuildings. She noted a small satellite dish installed on the main lodge.  Wi-fi might even be possible, she thought.

Various vehicles were parked in a roughly even fashion against the side of a metal Quonset hut structure that appeared to be a combination garage and equipment shed.

Three pickup trucks were parked together: a Toyota Tacoma, a Ford F-150, and a Dodge Ram.  Next to the Ram was a Lexus SUV, then a Cadillac Escalade, a black Range Rover, and finally a BMW X5.  Parked across the back of all of them was a Chevy Blazer with an attached trailer carrying a fairly new Can-Am ATV.  The side of the Blazer was emblazoned with Maine Inland Fisheries and Wildlife – K9 unit.

“Great, a fricking dog,” Lisa muttered to herself as she parked her Jeep next to the sergeant’s truck.  A group of men and a dog came around the side of the Quonset hut at the sound of the two vehicles, a few waving to the deputy and all of them studying the out-of-state Jeep.

“Hey Buck. Rob showed up with Brady,” a compact man, in camo pants and a long-sleeve t-shirt with Stihl Country across the front, greeted them, his gravely words directed at the sergeant but his eyes on Lisa.

A tall, lean, sandy-haired young man in a ranger’s uniform nodded at Buck and studied the young woman, a big German Shepard sitting at his side.  Two other men in various camouflage clothing trailed behind.

“Hey Rob, Shorty.  This is Lisa Renault.  She’s a consultant from New York City who comes highly recommended by one of my old Army buddies,” Buck said.

Shorty, whose eyes had hardly left the attractive young woman, stepped over and offered his hand, a big smile on his face.  “How do ya do? John Kane, ma’am.  Most call me Shorty.”

“Fine, thank you, Shorty,” she said, shaking his hand.  He was in mid-shake, staring her in the eyes, whereas most men stared at her chest, when a flicker of a frown crossed his face.  Gone as quick as it appeared, he stepped back as the others came closer, his face going blank, smile gone.

“Lisa, this is Rob Sounder, with Inland Fisheries and Wildlife, and his dog, Brady,” Buck said.

Rob, expression bland but watchful, nodded at her but stayed where he was.  Brady, whose posture had gone alert at the sight of the woman, growled softly.

The game warden looked down at his dog then back at Lisa, a frown forming.  “What are you a consultant on, Miss Renault?”

“Werewolves, Warden Sounder, and other things that go bump in the night,” she said without a smile.

Everyone froze, varying degrees of disbelief on their faces. Rob, the game warden, paused, then turned to the sergeant.  “Are you crazy, Buck?”

“You saw the pictures, Rob.  Shorty doesn’t think it was a bear, and I agree with him,” Buck said.

The other two men moved around the sergeant and game warden as the two officers began arguing quietly, and approached Lisa with smiles.

“Scott Olsen, ma’am,” the taller of the two said, his eyes flicking to her chest before coming back up to her face.  He gave her a sly smile.

“Pete LeClair, Miss Renault,” the shorter, stockier one said.  His eyes also roved up her body from her feet to her face, but it seemed more reflex than Olsen, who’d been deliberate.

“What do you do here?” she asked.

“Guides, Lisa.  Can I call you Lisa?” Olsen asked, moving a little closer then necessary.

“Yeah, whatever.  Tell me, you fellas notice anything different about game patterns recently or find any strange animal kills?” she asked. She was hoping to shut down their male pattern boldness quick, and who knew, maybe she’d learn some small piece of information along the way.

“Deer have been very scarce this season,” Leclair said, getting her immediate attention.  “And we found that moose carcass last month.  Remember, Scott?”

The other guide broke off his not-so-subtle perusal of her figure and frowned at his companion.  “I forgot about that.  Young moose.  Mostly just a skeleton.  Coywolves had been at it,” Olson said.

“Had a broke neck,” Shorty interjected in his gravely voice.  He’d pulled back a bit when the two younger guides had descended upon Lisa.  Now he moved forward, watching her as he spoke.  “We thought maybe a bigger bull did it banging antlers.  It’s rutting season.”

Buck suddenly broke off his conversation with the IFW warden and joined the conversation.  “You had a moose kill? How come no one mentioned that?”

The three guides exchanged a glance, then shrugged.  “It was unusual but not creepy unusual.  Animals die—it’s nature,” Pete LeClair said.

“So there you have it,” Rob Sounder said.  “A bear that could kill a young moose happened on poor Morris.”

“Is that why you asked?  You thinking about bears?” Buck asked Lisa.

“No.  If this were grizzly country I’d think that a possibility, but the only bears around here are black bears, which I don’t think are usually moose killers.  But newly turned weres often make kills that kind of stand out,” she said.

“What does a New York city werewolf expert know about Maine bears?” the game warden asked, his tone confrontational.

She sighed.  “I happen to live in the city now, Warden Sounder, but I grew up in Vermont.  My uncle’s a state trooper and my dad was military.  Both hunted everything that you do up here.  I know about local animals.  Maybe we could go look at this kill site and then I’ll tell you what I think.”

“Getting late.  Only a couple hours of daylight left,” Shorty said.

“Then let’s get to it.  Do you have hunters out on watch?” she asked as the thought suddenly occurred to her.

“No.  They’re spooked by Morris’s death.  Been hanging here, playing cards, watching movies, drinking,” Shorty answered.

“Well, let’s get going.  How far is it?” she asked.

“About three miles,” Buck said, turning and walking toward the Quonset hut.  Lisa followed, and the other men trailed along behind her.  She knew that if she spun around fast, she’d catch them checking out her butt.  Men.

Warden Sounder, wearing a frown, turned toward his vehicle and the attached trailer as Lisa walked up even with him.  Suddenly, Brady caught her scent and came up to all four feet, barking like she was the devil’s daughter.  The young warden was caught by surprise, snapping around toward his dog, but Lisa spoke before he could do or say anything.  “Hush it,” she snapped at the Shepard, her tone low and stern.

The big dog stopped barking instantly, tilting his head at her, and began whining uncertainly.

“I’m no threat to him,” she said to the dog, her voice rising up to its normal range.

The dog whined once more and lay back down next to his master in an alert but oddly submissive posture.

“Whoa, Sounder, she schooled your dog,” Olson said, laughing.  The canine handler was looking at his dog in open shock, then up at the young woman who hardly weighed much more than the big Shepherd.

“Brady, come here,” he finally said, moving away toward his own vehicle.  Glancing around, Lisa saw that Olson was grinning delightedly, LeClair looked surprised, and Shorty Kane wore a thoughtful expression.

Turning back forward, she saw Buck Thompson watching her as well, but as soon as she started moving, he went on ahead.

On the backside of the metal hut, a John Deere Gator and two ATVs were parked haphazardly.  The four-wheelers consisted of a smaller Honda Fourtrax and a big blue Polaris Sportsman with a dedicated second rider seat.  Buck started toward the Gator, then suddenly stopped and looked back at Lisa.  She waved him on.  “I’ll ride on the back of the Polaris.”

Pete LeClair shot a grin at his fellow guide and headed toward the Polaris, pulling a key from his jacket pocket as he went. Olson’s expression turned sour as he headed toward the Honda.

They climbed onto their rides and started motors.  Lisa was very glad for the touring seat on the Polaris, as it would give her plenty of space between herself and her driver.  Seconds after starting their engines, another motor revved up and the game warden came around the hut on his own ATV, his canine running alongside.

Less then ten minutes later, they were stopping at a junction where another, much smaller, foot trail headed off at an angle.

The motors shut off and shotguns came off of carry racks, at least for the three guides and the deputy. Actions cycled, chambering rounds.  The warden was just armed with his sidearm.  Lisa stepped away from the men and listened to the woods around them.  The men had become tense as soon as they stopped and now they turned and looked at the slender, unarmed young woman who appeared more relaxed than any of them.  Her head swiveled around to the east and both Shorty and Buck noticed that Brady’s head had turned in the same direction at the exact same time.  Like they were both hearing something the others couldn’t.  The two guides were ogling her form, and the game warden was just watching his dog.

After a second, Lisa turned back to the men, noticing their attention.  A moment later, the big dog’s head turned back as well.

“Okay, down this trail, right?  Can you let me go first?” Lisa asked, moving forward even as she spoke.

Buck glanced at Shorty and then waved her onward.  She slipped past them with nimble steps that took her quickly into the woods.  Suddenly, the group of armed men found themselves having to hustle to catch up.  Despite their longer strides, she moved with a fluid grace that was deceptively fast.

Lisa ignored the others behind her, all of her exceptional senses trained on the woods around her.  She could smell the blood ahead and the taint of something else, a scent that was very familiar to her.  A male werewolf had marked trees somewhere up ahead, the urine smell strong.

She came upon the stand and took in the scene quickly, the clotted blood sprayed over half the clearing, the air almost overpowering with the scent of torn bowel, rank urine, and rotting blood.  After a moment, she moved off to the right side of the clearing just as the men came up behind her.

“He stalked in here and waited, staying downwind,” she said, studying the brushy area behind the stand.

“How did you know to go there?” Warden Sounder asked, suspicious.

“Just told you. I know predators. The wind comes from the west and northwest.  Mammalian predators almost always stalk into the wind.  Ground is too hard for tracks, but I see little wisps of brown fur on that pinecone.  You might want to collect that,” she suggested to Sergeant Thompson.  “Just so, you know… when you turn that over to a lab and it won’t classify as a known species, it’ll automatically get bumped up to the feds and they will classify it as werewolf.  Then you’ll have either FBI or DOAA or both.”

“DOAA?” Buck asked.

“Directorate of Anomalous Activity… federal monster hunters,” she answered.

“How can you be certain it’s a werewolf?” Warden Sounder asked, a little exasperated.  His dog, Brady, sat next to him, nose sniffing and ears listening nervously.

Because I can smell it, she thought.

“Because it stalked this man, tore him apart with excessive force, and didn’t eat him.  Because I can see indents in the ground where it dug its claws in to leap, and the pattern is canine—four claws, symmetrical structure.  Yet the spread of the claws is bigger than your hand, so not a regular wolf.  Much bigger than any wild wolf,” she said. “And over there, in that big spray of blood, you can see where four big paws blocked the spray.  Look at the distance between all four paws.  What’s that—seven feet from front to back, three, maybe three-and-a-half side-to-side straddle?”

“Ah, your narrative is off,” Buck Thompson said.

She frowned at him.  He spoke before she could dispute him.  “Autopsy indicates the heart is missing.  So it may have, in fact, eaten part of him,” he said.

Oh no, she thought.

“What?” Shorty asked, alarmed at the look on her face.

“That’s bad. Killing a human is very bad.  Eating one is an abomination.  Immediate death sentence. Who was the victim?” she asked.

“Wait—death sentence?  What are you talking about?” Buck asked, not liking talk of executions.

“Weres and vampires have always been among us.  They police themselves, always have.  Mainly it was to avoid detection.  But now the cat is out of the bag and their leadership is worried about incidents.  That’s to be avoided at all costs.  The history of predators who prey on humans has not been very kind to those predators. That’s why there are so many fewer lions, tigers, bears, and wolves than there used to be. The only ones to get away without extermination have been either humans themselves, domestic dogs, or supernaturals who have, until recently, managed to stay hidden.  Stirring up base fears will only lead to witch hunts,” she said, mentally cringing as she said the last two words.

“You’re saying that other werewolves will kill this one for hunting and eating a human?” Shorty asked.

“Pretty much.  A newly turned were might kill a human in a fit of rage or loss of control.  That’s bad.  But it looks to me like this one stalked the hunter and then ate his heart.  That’s a dominance thing. That’s rogue. Who was this hunter?” she asked again.

“Morris Alcombe the Fourth,” Buck said. “His family used to own the paper mill in town.  After his father died two years ago, Morris sold the mill to a big paper company that promptly shut it down.”

“And destroyed the local economy in the process.  Morris wasn’t a popular guy, was he?” Lisa asked.

“The current story is that he was mauled to death by a bear.  The locals want to give the bear a medal,” Buck said.

“How does a girl… er… woman who lives in New York City know so much about werewolves and their laws?” Sounder asked.

“Where do you think weres live, Warden?  Out here in the great wilderness?” she asked, speaking again before he could answer.  “Granted, it’s a great place for them to run, but werewolves spend at least eighty-five percent or more of their lives as humans.  That means jobs, houses, schools, and society.  Werewolves organize in packs.  A single werewolf could possibly stand it up here, but they’re generally extremely social, maybe more so than regular humans.  So packs need economies that work.  The biggest pack in North America lives in New York City.”

“You’re saying they live in cities for jobs?” Sounder asked.

“Is that so hard to imagine?  They’re doctors, lawyers, teachers, construction workers, business owners, store clerks,” she said.

“And just what job do you have that you know so much about them?” Sounder asked.

She’d known that question would be coming.  After running a half-dozen lies, partial lies, and fabrications through her head on the drive up, she’d decided on the simple truth.

“I work for the Demidova Corporation,” she said.

They all looked at her: the three guides, the warden, and the sheriff’s deputy, who paused in the act of tweezering the pinecone into an evidence bag.

“What do you do for them?” Olson asked.

“I fix problems, and you gentlemen, have a serious problem.  This isn’t a mauling—this is a murder.  Somebody killed Mr. Alcombe with calculated intent and ate his heart.”

CHAPTER 3

They got back to the hunting camp just after dark.  The men had become noticeably anxious as the sun went down, but Lisa stayed calm.  Brady, the police dog, took his cue from her rather than his warden partner.

“Do you have any open rooms in the lodge I can rent?” Lisa asked Shorty.

“What?” both he and Buck asked at almost the same time.

“I need a place to stay and I didn’t see any motels on the way in or out of town.  Plus, this is close to the murder scene.  You serve meals too, right?”

“Well, ah,” Shorty began, looking to the deputy, who simply shrugged.  “Yeah, got rooms.  Cabins are all booked.  We do breakfast and dinner and offer a bag lunch.”

“Works for me,” she said, heading for her Jeep.  Buck followed.

“You can’t go running around the crime scene unescorted and unarmed like you did tonight,” he said.

She had followed the werewolf’s trail out of the deer stand and then disappeared into the thick Maine woods for a solid fifteen minutes, which had left all the men sullen and anxious.

Opening the back of the Jeep, she pulled a duffle bag and a short nylon case from inside.  “First, Sergeant Thompson, I’m far safer out there than any of you.  I know all about werewolves… you don’t.  I went into the wind.  The dog, Brady, would have alerted if anything had been out there.  Second, who says I’m unarmed?” she asked, hefting the gun case.  “Speaking of which, you packing silver ammo in that Sig Sauer and your Mossberg 930?” she asked before he could answer her first question.

“Yes,” he answered, frowning.

“What about Shorty and the others?”

“Shorty makes his own silver buckshot,” he admitted, a bit grudgingly.

“Does he?  Resourceful,” she said.  “So if there’s nothing else, I’m going to check out my room and get ready for dinner.”

“What kind of plan do you have for tomorrow?” he asked.

“Two parts.  I’d like to follow the werewolf’s trail a bit tomorrow morning, and then I think we need to look at your incident reports for the last few months, particularly at the times of the full moon.  See if anything pops out.”

“Tonight is the last night of the full moon, or does it have to be the night of absolute full?” he asked.

“New weres have to change at full moon.  Primarily the fullest night, but usually the night before that and the night after as well.  But Sergeant, weres don’t need a full moon to transform.  Once they’ve had their first one, they can do it at will.  Also, they are a lot stronger and faster than normal humans, even in normal form.”

“That’s just great.  How much stronger?” he asked.

“Regular handcuffs aren’t much use.  Lock one in the back of a patrol car and you’ll be needing at least one new rear door.”

“Bellini never mentioned that,” he said.

“That’s because regular cops don’t arrest weres. Or if they do, the weres know not to resist.”

“You can’t tell me that none of them resist?” he asked.

“Not if they want to keep living.  Their Pack will ensure that.  But sometimes one will slip a cog or their mental train never went all the way around the track to begin with.  Those become rogues.  They’re a danger to everybody and everything.  Those get put down… fast.”

“Who puts them down?” he asked, frowning.  “You?”

“Anyone who can.  I haven’t.  Put down a lot of other stuff, but not a were.”

“And Demidova Corp has a lot of interaction with werewolves?  Enough that you’re an expert?” he asked.

She shouldered her bag, carrying the short case in her other hand.  “As I said, werewolves need jobs.  Demidova has great jobs.”

“So you work with werewolves and vampires?” he asked, tone slightly incredulous.  “Anything else?  Zombies maybe?”

“Hmm, you’d be amazed at the folks I work with,” she said with a smile.  “Have a good night, Sergeant.  Go home to your wife and daughter.”

“How’d you know I have a wife and daughter?” he asked, suspicious, like maybe she had psychic powers or something.

“I saw a picture on the corner of your desk.  It’s visible from the front door, you know,” she said.

“Oh, right.  Well, good night.  I’ll be around by eight,” he said, unlocking his truck.

Lisa headed to the lodge.  The main door opened into a hallway with a large coat, boot, and gear room immediately off the left, racks hung with enough smelly camouflage for a small army. Across the hall, two pairs of washers and dryers occupied the room on the right.  The rest of the short hallway led into a main room, floored with wide pine planks and walled with tongue and groove knotty pine. It took up the whole back of the building. A big stone fireplace, large enough to roast a small pig, crackled with flame on the left end of the room, beat-up couches and chairs arranged around it.  An old rear projector, large-screen television and satellite receiver occupied the back corner nearest the fireplace, with additional seating in front of it.  It appeared that NFL football was currently playing. Two men lay back in La-Z-Boy recliners, watching the game.

A short bar occupied much of the back wall, complete with two beer taps and a rack of liquor bottles.  A staircase, with railings made of bent and finished twigs and branches, climbed the rest of the back wall, rising from the middle of the room to the upper right corner, where a balcony started to encircle the end of the room.

Four big round dining tables were placed at the right end of the room, and as she moved further into the room, she could see a big rectangular pass-through window into a commercial-sized kitchen.

Three men, lodge guests based on their relaxed demeanor and casual dress, were playing cards at one of the dining tables, a mix of beer and highball glasses around them, and a small, middle-aged woman bustled about the kitchen.  Shorty appeared at the top of the stairs as everyone else stopped what they were doing and turned to look at Lisa.

Two of the card players had salt-and-pepper hair, looking to be in their fifties or sixties.  The third was younger, maybe late thirties, with a handsome face and slicked-back black hair.  The two by the television fell somewhere in between, maybe mid-forties to early fifties.  All five studied her like a prime steak newly presented on the butcher’s counter.

“Lisa, if you wanna come up here, I got your room ready,” Shorty’s gruff voice said into the silence, causing a few eyebrows to raise and a couple of glances to be exchanged between the other guests.

She met each of their gazes, letting her eyes slide over theirs without pause as she headed across the floor toward the staircase. First rule of dealing with predators, four-legged or two, was to not look like prey.

She turned her attention on her host as she climbed to the second floor.  He glanced around the room below and behind her before coming back to hers.  He shifted from foot to foot, nervous, until his attention locked onto the case in her right hand.

“We, ah, normally rack all our guns downstairs,” he said, starting off firmly but ending with uncertainty.

“This one needs to stay with me, Mr. Kane,” she said.

“Ah, it’s Shorty or John,” he corrected, a little absently as he visibly twitched, looking decidedly undecided.  “Ah, that’s not our usual hunter policy.”

“I’m not your usual hunter.  My quarry could be in the building, looking to hunt me back,” she replied.

He went pale, his weather-darkened skin turning almost white.

“You mean…” he asked.

“Could be one of your guests,” she said.

He froze, eyes large.  “Wouldn’t you know?” he asked.

“Maybe. I think it very unlikely right now, but I don’t take chances,” she said, bending the truth a bit.  “Rogues are very dangerous.”

He blinked at her and she could see him realize something, the flicker of a thought passing across his expression.  Then he nodded.  “Right.  Come this way,” he said, turning on his heel and leading her around the balcony.  There were seven numbered doors spaced around the L-shaped balcony, two on the end by the staircase and five down the length of the room.  Hers was number four, which put her over the kitchen.

The room was decorated in mountain rustic, with Native American pattern rugs over more wide pine planking, antique snowshoes on one paneled wall, a painting of a moose in a lake on another, a log frame bed with a red and black Pendleton blanket and green flannel pillows, a matching log chair and ottoman, and most importantly, in her estimation, a door leading to its own bathroom.

“They don’t all have their own facilities, but I didn’t think you’d want to be sharing the common shower room,” Shorty said, one hand shifting his black watch cap enough to scratch underneath it.

“Which I completely appreciate,” she said with a smile.

He nodded, looking a little nervous.  “Dinner is at six-thirty tonight.  Nothing fancy.  Roast beef, potatoes, carrots, and rolls.  With gravy.   But we do have strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert,” he said.

“Sounds great,” she said, meaning it as she set down her duffle and propped the gun case against the wall near the bed.

“Ah, I was wondering… how should I introduce you to our hunters?” he asked.

He’d mentioned that they were all on edge from the slaughter of one of their own.  On the one hand, telling them she was a werewolf expert might keep them from hitting on her, although, in her experience, almost nothing stopped the male drive for conquest.  On the other, it might drive Shorty’s hunters away, hurting his business, and he had been very decent to her so far.

“You can tell them I’m a carnivore expert from Columbia University,” she said.

“What if they Google you?” he asked.

“You have Wi-fi?”

“Yes, and satellite TV.  The password is trophy,” he said.

She glanced at her phone.  It was somehow already signed into the lodge’s network.  She wasn’t surprised.  Technology, a previously unreliable companion, seemed to be totally on her side lately.  Ever since certain events of early summer. She had more than a few suspicions as to why.

“You know what?  Let’s just take our chances.  I have a feeling it’ll be alright,” she said.  Might be an interesting test, and if the hunters called her bluff, she’d just tell them the truth.

He looked at her, unconvinced, then shook his head.  “You’re probably right.  They’re going to want to tell you all about themselves anyway.  Prepare yourself for some world class bulls… ah, bragging,” he said, flushing slightly.

“Shorty, my dad was an Airborne Ranger and my uncle is a state trooper.  You have no chance of shocking me with your language,” she said.

“Right.  Still, it doesn’t seem hardly right.  You settle in and I’ll see you at dinner,” he said, backing out of the room and pulling the door shut.

CHAPTER 4

The lock on the door was sturdy and clicked firmly, allowing her to take a deep breath and slump against the wall.  She hadn’t realized how tiring it was being someone else.  Her hand reached up and grabbed the base of her ponytail, pulling smoothly but firmly, and the whole head of brown hair slipped off, followed immediately by the tight wig cap underneath, revealing short, platinum blonde locks.  Oh my God, that feels better.  She left her contacts in place and checked in the bathroom mirror to make sure her scar hadn’t slipped around on her cheek. Then, after putting the wig on a collapsible wig stand from her bag, she kicked back on her bed, bouncing a bit to get a feel for its softness.  Adequate, she thought.

She lay back against the pillows, realizing that position gave her an awesome view out the single window.  It was pretty dark, but not to her eyes.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming text.

How ya doing?

It was uncanny how he managed to text her just when she was free to converse.

Pretty good, she wrote back, interested to see what he would say.  She hadn’t told him where she was going or why, but she had absolutely no doubt he knew exactly where she was.  But would he reveal that knowledge and risk her wrath?

Good day? He tested.

Coward.  Not going to be that easy, bub.

Yeah, you know. Same old same old.

Really?  Same old?  Seems new to me, he braved.

Oh? Ya think so? she typed, interested to see how far he’d stick his neck out.

Well I’m not saying I know a lot about your regular sorta day, but driving to the upper ends of Maine seems a bit irregular.

Got some brass ones tonight, do we, she thought, half-amused and half-annoyed.

You tracking me?  Stalking me? she wrote back, ready to tear into him.

Stalking sounds creeper-ish… and suicidal.  But I am something of a hacker, you know?  Be a real crime if I couldn’t figure out where the important people in my life were, don’t you think?

The fire of her temper fluttered out at the words “important people.”  He was brave enough to admit to keeping tabs on her, and he got points for including her in a very, very short list of names, but he’d stopped short of making any wild juvenile declarations. Extra points to him, although it made her wonder where exactly he did stand.  There were times she was rock-solid certain of his feelings, and then there were times she second-guessed herself.

You must have a spreadsheet of us all? she asked.

Don’t need a spreadsheet for three people.  And one of them hardly leaves her restaurant, he wrote.

What about Mack and his sister?  What about all the wee-otches?  What about Caeco?

If he was being bold, so would she.  She knew for a fact that he was, at the very least, friends with that Ryanne witch, who she didn’t like one bit.

All here at C A.  No need to keep an eye on them.  And I never track the wee-otches unless they’re up to something.

Aren’t they always up to something?  Like trying to get you to be their baby daddy.

True.  Its kinda wee-otch code to be up to no good, he replied.  So whatcha doing up there?

Thought he’d turn the tables, did he?

D–corp biz, she typed back.

Oh good.  I thought it might have to do with that dude that got mauled to death by some big ass carnivore.  Silly me.  I pictured you investigating and tracking down a wayward WW.  I wanted to make sure you knew you had backup if you needed it or if you needed any computers hacked, he wrote.

Made the news did it?   She was stalling while she thought about his message.  He was too damned sharp for his own good sometimes.

It’s being labeled as a bear attack, which are really rare, so it popped up on a news collection site I frequent.  You will let me know if you need anything, right?  That’s what friends do.  Seems a friend of mine told me that this past summer.

Was your friend hot? she asked.

Like the sun.  Don’t think I didn’t notice what you did right there.  Counting on my baser instincts, aren’t you?  You will let me know if you need any help, right?

Boys are so easy to distract.  You haven’t even asked what I’m wearing.

Still not answering the question, he wrote back.  Then she could see that he was typing again, so she waited.  What are you wearing?

Bingo.  Male libido strikes again.  Such simple beasts, boys and men.

Flannel and tactical pants with desert combat boots.

Mmmmm.  Sexy.

Despite herself, she laughed out loud.  Then she took a quick selfie, lying on the bed pretending to be a model, and sent it.

Powerful stuff.  New cover of Sports Illustrated kind of photo.  Hey, did you ever make up your mind on SI’s offer?

Yep, he was thoroughly off topic now.  Which was what she wanted.  She was warmed by his offer of help, but this was her mission—her chance to get away from corporate headquarters and all the baby and pregnancy foolishness that seemed to never stop.  Suddenly, for the first time all day, she found herself thinking of the other him, the other male in her life, and that was a bit of a shock.  For the better part of three years, she’d thought of one guy all the time.  Now it was five p.m. and she was only now thinking of that guy, and it was in passing, at that.  And that one was probably fussing over Miss Preggers.  Gag and yack.  Whereas the young man on the other end of the texts had crossed her mind several times today.  She wasn’t at all certain how she felt about that.

Well?

Oops. Took too long.

Still contemplating it.  It would make things like this even harder than they already are.

That the reason for the scar on your cheek and the funny color of your eyes?  It’s your trademark hair you have to do something about, he wrote.

She took a picture of the brunette wig on its stand and sent it.

Oh.  Got it.  Makes sense, but really Stacia, anyone could see through that.  Half the guys here at Arcane wouldn’t be fooled.  Of course, they spend hours drooling over your posters.  Hey, re-braid the ponytail so it comes out from one side.  You’ll look like Deb from Napoleon Dynamite.

She laughed out loud.

You are a wiseass in desperate need of a beat down.  I don’t think people up here spend anywhere near as much time with all the media crap.  So far, I think I’m good, she answered.

If anyone figures it out, you’ll have a media circus up there.  You using the Lisa ID?

Yes.  It seemed to hold up when the local fuzz ran it, she sent.

Please.  You could use it to get a friggin passport.  You want a passport in it?

Interesting how cocky he was getting about his hacking.  It reinforced her suspicions.

You shouldn’t take those risks.  What about No Such A-holes? They would object to you monkeying with government systems. Could ruin your programming career, she wrote.

Not so risky. They have way bigger problems. Probably changing majors anyway.

That was news.  When had he come up with that?

No friggin way?  What would you switch to, and why would you give up your calling?

I think maybe a business major.  Since this summer, I’ve thought Comp Sci might be archaic.  We pretty much broke the box on technology.

Business?  With the kind of bank you could make with your tech skills?  That makes no sense, she texted.

Not going to build any more of them.  One is enough.  And that one makes all the others kinda of obsolete.  Hard to sit through Computer Organization 121 when I helped create Omega.

Ah ha. Now they were exploring those very suspicions of hers.  The only known truly quantum computer, which Declan had named Omega, although he had never fully explained why he choose that name.  Chris and Tanya would have let him name the damned thing anything he wanted.  But she was certain there was more going on than anyone knew.  Too many strange tech-related events had occurred.

There’ll be others created.  You could consult, she wrote.

Not like Omega.  But nothing decided yet.  Back to your trip… was it a WW?

She thought about denying it or deflecting.  But she hadn’t lied to him yet and it didn’t seem very honest to try for yet another topic change.

Yes, she wrote back.

He didn’t answer instantly.  Ah… thinking it through.  Let’s see where you go with that, she thought.

Rogue.  Will you have to judge—jury—execute?

More points for assuming she would find the rogue and be able to handle it.  Most of her Pack wouldn’t grant her that level of confidence.  In fact, only Brock and Afina had done so when they gave her their backing to handle the matter.

Likely, she wrote.

It was his or her choice to commit the crime.  Let me know if you need to talk about it.  And you WILL let me know if you need ANY backup or computer support, right?

Damn.  The kid was on point tonight.  Then she amended her thought.  He wasn’t a kid.  He was only two years younger than she was and he carried enough power to blow a town like Fetter, Maine right off the map.

Well, class is about to start.  Wade’s teaching it.  He’s really good, he wrote.

Do the kids behave for him?

The wee-otches love him. Get all fluttery at the sight of him. He treats the wolf pack with respect and he’s interesting, he wrote.

Probably doesn’t hurt that he’s friendly with the Warlock either, does it?

I guess, he admitted.  So humble.  Going for a run tonight?

Maybe.  I might recon better that way.

Be good for you too, he answered.

Oh yeah? How do you know?

A third of my class is going for a run tonight.  I talk to them about it.  Dellwood says things are always better after a run under moonlight.

So do the rest of the kids stay inside when that happens?

Most.  I usually go out and wander around, listening to the runners, he said.

That’s dangerous! she typed back.

Nah.  I’ve been trained by the best to handle this sort of thing.

So cheeky, she thought.

Plus, they all know me.  They usually come running back to check on me as I blunder about in the woods.  I can see pretty well, though.  New spell I worked out for Wytch War.  Call it Wolf vision.  Infrared. Uses a WW eyelash.

She wanted to ask whose eyelash he was using for the spell.  Instead, she asked another important question. So if you were here, you’d go out with me while I was running?

Yup.  I’d wander about while you ran down moose and small mammoths, he responded.

Ummm.  Mammoth would taste good about now, she wrote.

Read they found a frozen one in Alaska.  Maybe we could snag you a couple of steaks?

Wiseass.

Well, Wade’s talking.  I better go.  CALL or TEXT if you NEED anything.

Yes dad, she wrote, knowing he’d absolutely hate that title.

As long as you admit to who’s your daddy.  Sorry, couldn’t resist.

Just stop.  And you were doing so well.  Alright, pay attention to Wade.  Bye.

Bye, Stacia.

CHAPTER 5

The dining room smelled delicious.  Beef and gravy scents made her stomach rumble.  She also smelled the potatoes, two kinds of scotch, a craft beer (heavy on the hops), cigar smoke from the guy reentering the building, and man smell.  Lots of man smell.  Her senses were all heightened, even more than usual, the pull of the newly risen moon outside bringing her wolf close to the surface.

Speaking of which, her inner beast was happy, an emotion that didn’t usually fit on a moon-filled night.  Somehow, conversations with Declan seemed to soothe the savage creature inside her. No one else had that effect. Uncomfortable with that thought, she took in the big room and its inhabitants as she quietly made her way down the stairs.

Shorty and the lady from the kitchen were bringing platters of food over to just one of the big round tables, while the guests wandered over and pulled out chairs.

Each of the big round tables could hold at least eight, but the lodge appeared to hold just the five men she’d noticed on the way in.  The two from the football game were already sitting down, but the three card players were just getting settled when she approached the table.

“Lisa, count all your fingers and toes before sitting down with this group.  They bark a lot and some even bite,” Shorty growled as he settled a bowl of mashed potatoes next to a platter of medium rare roast beef on a giant lazy Susan turntable.  She pulled her eyes away from the meat and nodded at the men.

There were two open spots left at the table, and she grabbed one.  The man on her left was one of the card sharks and she put him at a lean sixty or so, with a bald head rimmed with short, shorn grey hair.  He put out a hand.  “Hutch Lenzel,” he said.

“Lisa Renault,” she replied.  The man to Hutch’s left leaned around, slightly younger and thirty pounds heavier.  “Carl Rose.”  She shook his hand as well.  Next to Carl was the youngest of the crowd, mid-thirties, lean and muscled like an endurance athlete and even more handsome than her first impression. Dark brown eyes, black hair, white teeth, and a skin tone that spoke of a Latin heritage.  “Kyle Garcia,” he said with a roguish smile.  She pegged him as the group’s Lothario.  In any group of three or more men, there always seemed to be at least one womanizer, if not more.  Kyle’s practiced smile and twinkling eyes advertised more than just a polite welcome.  She was immediately glad he was sitting three seats away.

Next to Kyle and almost directly across from her was one of the football spectators.  Tall and ginger-haired, he waved hello, as the distance across the table was too far for hand shaking.  “Rodney Allen,” he said.  The man on his left was closer and leaned forward to shake hands.  “Dustin Wilcox.”  He was short and round-faced, with thinning brown hair.

Shorty arrived at the table with a big bowl of steamed carrots and a bowl of beef gravy, setting them on the lazy Susan before claiming the open spot next to her.

Every setting had a water glass, and a big pitcher sat dead center of the lazy Susan.  She helped herself to water.

“Oh, we have much better than that.  There’s a nice cabernet sauvignon open at the bar,” Carl said.

“Oh, no thank you.  I don’t drink,” she said.

“No wonder.  With your low body weight, you likely have almost no tolerance for alcohol,” Kyle said with a smirk.

So that’s his game.  Heard it before—like a thousand times.  Offer a backhanded compliment combined with an insult.  Interest her with a challenge then bed her, especially if she got drunk.  Hmm, wonder how he’d do with the game reversed.

“No, I actually have a rather amazing tolerance for alcohol.  I stopped because men kept challenging me to drinking contests and then cried like babies when I beat them,” she said, accepting the first cut of beef from Hutch, who was being a gentleman.

“Whoa, she just called you out, buddy,” Rodney said to Kyle in a tone that indicated he was happy about it.

“No, she thinks she’s smart, throwing out a statement like that without a chance for backup,” Kyle said offhandedly as he spooned mashed potatoes onto his plate.

I’ll just let him simmer for a moment, she thought.  Turning to her left, she said, “What do you do Mr. Lenzel?”

“I run a wealth management group for a regional bank in upstate New York,” he said.

“Really? Where?” she asked.

“Saratoga Springs,” he answered, watching her face to see if she recognized it.

“Ah, know it well.  Some friends of mine spent the summer there,” she said.

“What do you do, Lisa?” Carl Rose asked, leaning around Hutch.

“I have a number of irons in the fire.  I work with a sporting goods chain, Lupine Sports, and I’m pursuing a degree in Zoology at Columbia, among other things.  That’s why I’m here.  My specialty is large carnivores. Wolves and bears, mostly.”

“You’re here because of Morris?” Dustin asked.

“Yes.  Hoping to shed some light on the mauling,” she said.

“I’m afraid I have to call bullshit.  You’re hardly old enough to have graduated college, let alone developed expertise in predators,” Kyle said.

“And you’re more than a touch insulting, Mr. Garcia.  What exactly do you do that makes you such an ass?” she asked.

“I own a digital marketing company in Boston,” he said, smile gone.

“Interesting.  I’ll be sure to advise both my employers not to bother with your company’s services,” she said.

“As if they matter,” he said, frowning.

“Actually, Lupine Sports is pretty big in New York, Connecticut, Vermont, New Hampshire and I even think western Massachusetts,” Hutch said.  “What do you do for them, Lisa?”

“I’m special assistant to the president and his wife, who is the EVP,” she said.

Rodney laughed.  “You can cross them off your prospect list, Garcia.”

“What other company do you work for?  You mentioned two, but how could you have the time?” Dustin asked.

“I also do some work for the Demidova Corporation,” she said, cutting a goodly sized bite of pink beef and popping it into her mouth.

The table went silent.  She glanced around at the different expressions her comment had evoked.  Hutch looked interested while next to him, Carl stared at her with ill-concealed avarice.  Kyle looked momentarily shocked, while Rodney frowned.  Dustin was looking down at his carrots.  Shorty already knew and his face was blank.

“If I may be so bold, what’s your job there?” Hutch asked.

“It varies, depending on what they need.  Lots of PR work, lots of research and investigation stuff,” she said.

“And you’re how old?” Rodney asked.

“I’m twenty-one, Mr. Allen.  Some people would tell you that’s too young to know much, but me, I think it’s more about what you’ve done with your time than actual years,” she said.

Kyle had pulled out his phone and was tapping away on it.  He frowned at whatever he saw and then tapped some more before shoving it roughly into his pocket.  Rodney, who’d leaned back and looked over his shoulder, suddenly smirked.

“Wow, Lisa. Kyle just found that you’re listed on both companies’ websites.  Impressive work, young lady,” he said.

There it was.  Declan hadn’t mentioned building that kind of backstory into her false identity.  Anyone searching Lisa Renault shouldn’t have found anything at either company.  Her mother, Lisa Reynolds, worked at Lupine, but hadn’t used her maiden name in over twenty-two years.  Yet somehow, both websites had been modified to list her by her false name.

Sometime in the very near future, she was going to ask that young warlock some very pointed questions about what was really going on.  She had a flashback: a severely wounded Declan, lying in her arms, suddenly waking and looking straight into her eyes.  “We’re going to have to buy him lots of clothes,” Declan had said.  She still didn’t know what that meant.  When she had asked him, he’d acted confused, but her senses told her he was being evasive.  She hadn’t pressed him on any of it… yet.

“So she really might be able to figure out what happened to Morris?” Dustin asked Shorty.

“That’s why she’s here,” the compact guide said, voice raspy.

“Do you know them?” Carl asked.  She raised her eyebrows in confusion.  “You know—Chris Gordon?  Tatiana Demidova?”

“Yes,” she said, biting into more beef.  Her plate was heaped with food, a fact that some of the men were just starting to realize.

“Personally?” Carl pressed.

She frowned.  “Yes.  Why?”

“He’s angling for an introduction.  Carl is a partner in a private equity firm,” Hutch said.

“So you’d want to meet Tanya.  Chris doesn’t care about that stuff.  Send me an e-mail proposal and I’ll forward it to her.  No promises.  She gets a lot of this stuff,” she said.

“Looks like you can cross Demidova Corp off your prospect list as well, Kyle,” Rodney said with glee.  Definitely a rivalry of some type there.

“What do you do, Mr. Allen?” she asked.

“I’m a dentist.  So is Dustin.  We have a practice down in Bangor,” he said.

“You’re all regulars here, aren’t you?” she asked.  They all nodded, looking slightly surprised at her insight.

Rodney answered. “Dustin and I have been here for the last three years.  Carl and Hutch have been coming as long as Morris did.  This is Kyle’s second year,” he said. “Shorty’s a great guide.”

“How has the hunting been this year?” she asked.

“Before Morris died?  Pretty crappy.  Hardly seeing any deer or even sign,” Hutch said.

“You think the bear that killed Morris drove the deer away?” Dustin asked.

“A large predator in a new territory will definitely disrupt game patterns,” she said.

Kyle got up from the table and went behind the bar, coming back with two shot glasses and a bottle of Tito’s vodka.  He set both glasses down in front of her and poured vodka into both and then picked up the one nearest him.  Then he set the bottle down in front of her.

“We got off on the wrong foot, me being insulting and disbelieving you and all.  Here’s to new beginnings,” he said, voice way more challenging than conciliatory.

“Kyle, she told you she doesn’t drink,” Hutch said, annoyed.

“That’s okay, Hutch.  He’s not used to being told no.  I’m still saying no—I’m just going to punish him for not listening,” she said, picking up the glass and drinking it down.  Then she went back to eating roast beef.

Kyle frowned but downed his own shot, then refilled the glasses.

Swallowing her food, Lisa waved her knife around.  “A predator in a new territory generally chooses to take things slow and learn the lay of the land.  But really aggressive ones,” she paused to down another shot, “sometimes seek to dominate a new area through excessive boldness.  This can backfire,” she said, pouring the next round  “If the predator meets a nastier predator or fails to detect all the inherent dangers of the new zone, well, it can go badly for them.”  She pounded down the third shot and then stood up, moving lithely over to the bar, where she procured two rock glasses.

“Let’s speed this up,” she said, pouring each rock glass full of vodka.  “Sláinte, as a friend of mine would say,” she said, holding up her glass in challenge to Kyle, who was starting to look a tiny bit uncertain.

“Whoa there.  That’s getting a touch serious,” Carl said, clearly concerned.

“It will be for someone,” Lisa said with a smile.  Kyle clinked his glass against hers and then grimaced a bit when she tilted her head and drained it in one go. She raised her eyebrows at Kyle when she saw he still hadn’t swallowed his.  With a shrug, he tipped his back and gamely slugged it down.  She immediately refilled both glasses.

“Ah, is anyone else uncomfortable with this?” Dustin asked.

Rodney looked slightly in awe, his grin growing as he observed Kyle’s discomfort.

Lisa smiled and held up her glass.  “In nature, gentlemen, you have to take time to truly observe with all your senses.  Sometimes, what looks like prey is actually far more dangerous than first glances might imply.  For instance, a whitetail buck, like most animals, is generally only dangerous when cornered or surprised at close range.  But let’s say we transported one of you hunters and your stand directly to Africa and a waterbuck happens by.  You decide to shoot it, but only wound it.  It takes off and you follow, hot on its trail.  You take twenty steps into the thick bush and suddenly find yourself impaled on almost three feet of horn because you assumed it would react like a whitetail when instead of fleeing, it turned to confront its attacker.”

“Let me guess… you’re the waterbuck,” Rodney said.

“She’s the wolf that finishes off the waterbuck,” Shorty said suddenly.  The others all looked at him, surprised.  Lisa narrowed her eyes at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze as he stood to take his plate to the pass-through counter.

“You’re mixing the wrong carnivores on the wrong continents,” Hutch said.

“Doesn’t matter.  Kyle’s still going to be hurting in the morning,” the guide said.

The others turned to Kyle, who was holding the back of a chair and wobbling in place.  His eyes had gone glassy and unfocused until he became aware that people were paying attention.  At that point, he made a sloppy waving motion, as if to brush away their concerns.  Unfortunately, taking away one hand from his support chair unbalanced him and he started to lean alarmingly far in Rodney’s direction.

Grin even wider, Rodney shoved him back upright, then pulled out his own chair and guided the younger man into it.

“We done?” Lisa asked Kyle.  He frowned and started to shake his head but the motion almost took him out of his sitting position.  His frown turned to alarm and he visibly stilled himself, looking like a man with his foot on a pressure-sensitive land mine.  “We’re done,” she answered herself, getting up and taking her own completely empty plate to the pass through and handing it to the woman who was curiously watching the dining room drama.  “I’m Lisa,” she introduced herself.  The older woman frowned.  “I’m Mrs. Dox,” she said, turning abruptly away and heading to the big sink.

“She flirts with Kyle, and he rather shamelessly plays on it,” Hutch said in a quiet voice.

“So I didn’t make any friends there,” she muttered.

“Well, if you had fallen victim to his charms, she still wouldn’t like you,” Hutch noted.

“Right.  A no-win situation,” she said.

Hutch was studying her even as he nodded at her words.  “True.  You’re not even tipsy, are you?”

“After that much vodka?  Who wouldn’t be feeling it?” she asked back.

“Hmmpf,” he grunted.  “Shorty’s right.  You are a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” he said, looking over at Kyle, who had put his arms on the table and was leaning his head on his hands.  Because of this, Hutch missed the sharp look she shot him.

“Well, I’m going to catch the news,” she said, heading toward the abandoned television.

Hutch sidled over to Shorty, who was picking up serving dishes, grabbing a couple himself.  “That’s one seriously sharp young woman,” he said with a smile of admiration.

“Vein-opening razor sharp, Hutch,” the other man said, tone serious.

Hutch looked from guide to the girl, who was now leaning back in one of the La-Z-Boy recliners. He frowned as he thought about Shorty’s words.  The professional hunter was well known for his own regard for ladies of all shapes, ages, and sizes.  In Hutch’s estimation, Shorty would normally be falling all over a pretty young woman like Lisa.  His caution was troubling.  As if they needed any more trouble.

CHAPTER 6

“Gary, you ever gonna take the damned garbage out?” Florence Ducar yelled from the kitchen.

Gary Ducar grimaced and swore to himself.  That damned crone wouldn’t leave him alone.  Do this, get that, move this, haul that.  Her mouth was like an inexhaustible river of never-ending insults and demands.  Worse than the damned kids at the damned school.  At least there, he could force their respect.

He set down his beer and pulled himself off the couch, pausing to catch the last bit of the Cowboys failed offensive drive against the Colts.  Then, cursing his favorite team under his breath, he pulled up the waistband of his track pants and headed into the kitchen.

The white plastic bag was waiting for him by the back door, tied up tight like his life, both headed for the dump.  Florence didn’t look up from her pile of dishes in the sink, which was a small blessing, as he walked behind her and grabbed the sack of rubbish.  She had earphones in and was listening to her damned music again like one of his school kids.

Outside, the October air was brisk and sharp, the just-past-full moon rising over the treetops that framed his backyard.  His garage was the detached type, sitting twenty-five feet from the back door of the house.  As he got closer, he saw the door wasn’t shut all the way.  Damn woman… gonna have half a dozen raccoons in the damn garage if you don’t pay attention.   Details were important.  Fetter Central School ran on details, which he oversaw.  Principal Priess certainly had no eye for detail.  Which is why the Assistant Principal was the job that kept the place running and kept the punks in line.

He pushed the door open and reached in for the light switch.  It clicked, but no lights came on.  After flicking it a couple of times with still no effect, he swore softly and sidled into the garage, his temper rising.  She should have told him the damned switch was broken.  How can a man keep things repaired if he doesn’t know they’re broke?

The garbage cans were further in, close to the overhead door up at the front.  A beam of moonglow shone through the open doorway behind him, giving him just enough light to see the bulk of the two big waste cans.  He started carefully forward, but his foot kicked something on the ground, scooting it off into the darkness, rustling as it went.  Then it came to a stop.  And something else rustled in the stygian blackness.

Shit!  Some damned animal was already in here, he thought. It rustled again.  Hmm, bigger than a rat. Possum or skunk maybe.

He dropped the bag of garbage by the cans and moved toward his workbench, where he knew the exact location of every tool.  In this case, the work light that came with his Dewalt Cordless tool set should be sitting right on the corner of the workbench.  His hand found it right where he expected it and he turned while clicking the trigger switch.

The light pooled on the floor in front of him and lit up the object he’d kicked.  It was orange and red with a bit of white poking out, maybe six inches long.  He shined the light further into the garage in the direction the rustling had come from.  His table saw, drill press, lathe, and planer filled the space before him, the equipment effectively hiding whatever was still moving about.

Keeping his eyes toward the equipment, he squatted down and picked up the soft, fuzzy object, only looking at it when it was close to eye level.  It took a second for his brain to make the identification.  It was a paw and leg—orange fur—his neighbor’s tabby cat.  His cautious alertness turned to alarm as he realized the leg—a front one—had been ripped from the cat, the knobby end of the bone gleaming white in the bright light.  Reflexively, he threw the leg away from him like it might bite. Time to leave.  That wasn’t no possum, coon, or skunk on the other side of the planer and lathe.  He turned his light toward the door.  A disconnected wire dangled over the switch.

He stood up fast and turned to leave, but a massive shape shot over the top of his prized bench lathe with a snarl straight from hell. His light went flying as an irresistible mass drove him back into the wall of the garage.  His arms and legs instinctively scrabbled for leverage, but razor teeth punched into his stomach and ribcage and the massive head whipped him back and forth like a ragdoll.

He only saw patches of light and darkness as his head floundered and his last glimpse of recognizable vision was a blurry snapshot of his wife absently shutting the kitchen door, dancing in her awkward way to the music playing in her earbuds.  Then the beast reached a new level of frenzy and, with a final flick of its head, it broke Assistant Principal Ducar’s neck.  He dangled, dead, in its jaws, but that seemed to piss it off even more, as if he had dared to die too soon.  It shook his limp body even harder, an impossibly violent blur.  The flailing ten-pound lump of bone and dead brain on the end of the corpse’s neck exceeded nature’s design specifications and the soft, thin neck tore a bit more with each flick of the massive beast.  A final snap sent the head arcing across the garage to land upside down on the table saw, the sharp teeth of the blade catching and holding it.

The beast studied the head with its red eyes, chomping a bit as it shifted the body in its mouth.  Seemingly satisfied, it dropped the body and placed one giant front paw on the chest while worrying the rib cage apart with jaws that could snap a pressure treated four-by-four.

Inside the kitchen, Florence’s Lady Gaga song ended and the break in music triggered a thought.  Where the hell was Gary? Probably dusting his damned workshop. That man couldn’t even take out the garbage without having an OCD attack.

She opened the kitchen door and yelled out to him, “Gary, what’s taking so long?”

He didn’t answer, and the lights were off in the garage.  The door stood open.  He wouldn’t have forgotten to close that.

She stepped outside and glanced around.  Their house was the last one on the street.  It would have been the house on the cul-de-sac if their town had been fancy enough to have such things.  Instead, they were the last house on the dead-end dirt road.

Suddenly nervous for no discernable reason, Florence took several quick steps to the open garage door.  Her pace was birdlike, and she knew it.  Hated it, but knew it.  Her brothers had called her Finch for her short, jittery walking pattern.  That and her finicky eating habits.

Annoyed at herself, yet still unsettled, she reached into the garage and flicked the light switch.  Six sets of hanging fluorescent lights flickered into brightness, illuminating Gary’s shop and Gary… or what was left of him.

Florence Ducar started to scream, an ear-piercing, from-the-bottom-of-her-feet cry of terror that didn’t stop until her closest neighbor, Vito Abruzzo, found her in a heap.

CHAPTER 7

“Sounds nasty,” she said.

“Of course it’s nasty.  Puking your guts out is supposed to be nasty.  That way, it teaches us not to get into drinking contests with women we’ve underestimated,” Hutch said.  “How are you feeling?”

“Me?  Oh, well, you know,” she said, turning back to the Discovery Channel show about men searching for millions of dollars of gold with millions of dollars in heavy equipment.

Hutch watched her for a second.  She looked remarkably unaffected by half a bottle of vodka.

The door from the kitchen opened and Shorty appeared, his cell phone against one ear as he scanned the room, his eyes stopping on the girl in the recliner.  Immediately, he started over to them.

“What’s the matter?” Hutch asked when the guide got close.  “You look white as a sheet.”

Lisa swiveled around and took in the short man’s pallor and frightened expression.

“There’s been another one?” she guessed.

Covering the phone with one hand, Shorty nodded, his eyes assessing her condition.

“I’m fine.  Where do I have to go?” she asked.

“We’ll be right there, Buck,” the guide said into the phone before hanging up.

“Come on.  I’m driving.”

“I can drive myself,” she said, almost instantly regretting it.

“Can you?  After all that booze… which you smell strongly of, by the way,” Shorty said.  He leaned close, pitching his voice low for her ears alone.  “It wouldn’t be human for someone to drink as much as you have and be okay to drive.”

Then he turned and headed out the main door.  After watching him for a second, she followed.

Thirty-seven minutes later, Shorty pulled his Ford F-150 down a dead-end dirt road that was lit by the flashing light bars of three police cars.

She smelled it as soon as she stepped out of the truck—blood.  Blood, vomit, feces, urine and… wolf.  Werewolf.

The last house on the street was a single-story ranch, white clapboards, a blue metal roof, and a matching detached two-car garage.

“Sheriff Grable is here.  You’ll want to watch yourself with him,” Shorty growled as they walked up the driveway.

“Tough?” she asked.

“No nonsense.  Old school,” was the guide’s response.

The activity was centered on the garage, where there were several people visible through the small windows on the overhead door. A uniformed deputy stood with his back to them in the middle of the driveway, watching the garage.

Shorty, who she had noticed normally walked very, very quietly, scuffed a boot on the gravel driveway.  The deputy whirled around, hand going to the gun on his belt.

“Hey Nate,” Shorty called softly.

The deputy straightened from his instinctive crouch, calming visibly at the sight of Shorty and looking intently at Lisa.

“Buck said you’d show up.  This the animal expert?” Deputy Nate asked, his initial suspicion turning to a different kind of interest.  Lisa/Stacia was very familiar with men giving her that particular look, as any attractive woman would be.

“Lisa, this is Nate Lahey.  Nate, Lisa Renault from Columbia University and other places,” Shorty said.

Nate shot the compact woodsman a curious look at the term other places, but Shorty just waved a hand toward the garage.  “Was it Florence or Gary?  Or both?”

Confusion was replaced by somberness on the young deputy’s face.  “Gary.  It’s a real mess.  You sure you want to see this?” he asked Lisa.

“Nobody wants to see something like this.  But I’m here for a reason, so I might as well get to it,” she said.

Deputy Nate nodded, then sniffed the air a couple of times before nodding again.  “Mints are a good idea.  It’s pretty rank in there.  Hope you haven’t eaten a lot tonight,” he said.  Now he was patronizing her a bit, another reaction she was used to from men, particularly authorities.  It didn’t usually last long, though.  Shorty offered her another Altoid.  He’d suggested, in the truck, that she might not want to arrive smelling of vodka. He’d been very careful with his wording.  Okay, so maybe not all men were patronizing.

“Right, let’s go.  You need to sign us into the crime scene log?” she asked.

“Log?” Nate asked, confused.  “Ain’t really a crime scene.  It’s a bear mauling.”

“Ookay.  Whatever,” she said and headed up the driveway to the garage.  Behind her, she heard Shorty speak quietly to the young deputy.  “Between you and me, I think she’s seen way more of this kind of thing than hopefully we ever will,” he said before the sounds of crunching gravel indicated he was following.

When she got up to the buildings, she could see that the side door of the house led into first the kitchen, and then further in, she could see what looked like a standard living room setup.  A middle-aged woman was sitting on the couch, curled in on herself, while another similar-aged woman held her.  A man wearing a Carhartt jacket stood uncertainly nearby.

Turning the other way, the side door of the garage was open and at least four men were studying the blood-sprayed walls and floor.  Quietly, she stepped up to the doorway and took in the sights and scents of the scene.

Buck Thompson was talking to an older man who was dressed in civilian clothes but stood with casual authority.  Probably Sheriff Grable.  A uniformed deputy was taking pictures from various angles while another deputy shone a bright flashlight into the corners of the room that weren’t well illuminated by the overhead fluorescents.

“Found the right hand,” the flashlight wielder said from his spot near the front left side of the overhead door.

Buck and the sheriff looked over his way, but Buck caught sight of her and the sheriff noticed his sergeant’s diverted attention almost instantly.  A sharp man, she decided as she nodded to Buck and then continued to take in the scene.

The man, formerly known as Gary, was strewn about the floor of the garage.  His head was atop a table saw, ragged neck stump pointed up at the ceiling, eyes thankfully looking away.

The main part of his body lay almost dead center of the floor, the pool of blood congealing around it.  The chest was torn open and broken ribs gleamed whitely in the fluorescent light.  A tiny wisp of steam rose from the open cavity, indicating death was only a few hours old.  His left leg, clad in a black synthetic material, was only partially attached, the remaining threads of the pants doing as much to connect it as the few remaining shreds of tissue.

His right arm was much shorter than his left and missing everything from the forearm down, which explained the flashlight-shining officer’s find.  Blood sprays covered the open-framed walls, the white sheet rock of the ceiling, and the beige metal of the overhead door.

“Lisa, this is Sheriff Sherman Grable,” Buck said, coming closer.  “Sheriff, Lisa is the New York expert I told you about.”

“You think Morris Alcombe was killed by a werewolf,” the Sheriff stated baldly, causing the other two deputies to look up with interest.

“Sorry to meet you this way, Sheriff, and yes, Mr. Alcombe was murdered by a werewolf.  I’m pretty sure this man was too,” she said, continuing to study with her eyes to back up what her nose had already told her.

“That quick?  One glance from a doorway?” the sheriff asked, incredulous.

“If you know what to look for, a werewolf kill is really obvious, Sheriff.  Natural carnivores kill to eat or defend.  Weres that kill humans do it for usual human reasons, like greed, fear, the thrill of the kill, or in this case, anger.  Enormous anger,” she said, moving a step into the garage and looking around again, even glancing back at the doorframe, doing a double take and then back to the sheriff.

“If I had to guess, I’d say the victim brought that bag of garbage out.  But the lights didn’t work so he set it down near the garbage cans and grabbed that yellow worklight that’s currently on the floor there, from his tool bench.  Then he got killed.  The killer pretty much crushed his ribcage with its jaws while shaking his body so hard that his head eventually ripped itself off and flew over there.  See that pile of sawdust by that machine there?  It looks like it fell out of the machine when the victim’s body was slammed into it.  See how it’s shaped?  Like a paw print?”

“But the lights work?” Buck asked.

“There’s a smudge of blood on the wire just above the switch.  I think the killer pulled the wire loose, Changed into his wolf form, and waited for the victim.  Then when he was done, he switched back to human form and repaired the wire before leaving.  You should dust it for prints.  And check outside for footprints.  Ground’s not frozen yet.”

Sheriff Grable cocked his head a bit sideways and studied her, his expression hard to read but if she had to guess, he didn’t believe her.  He smelled of anger and fear, a dangerous combination.  She thought back over her words and realized she could have been more circumspect about her delivery.  That was too rapid fire, and she hadn’t pretended to study the visual cues long enough.  She was used to working with Chris and Tanya, all of whom could smell as well as she could, with the exception of Declan, but he had a whole range of senses that she and the others couldn’t experience.

The sheriff didn’t speak, instead walking closer and bending to look at the exposed white wire and its red smudge.

She stepped back out of the doorway and flashed her small LED light at the ground just outside the garage door.  She could literally smell where the killer had stepped, in bare feet, but there wasn’t a track until she turned the back corner of the garage.  There, in a small patch of grass and moss, mostly moss, was a bare human footprint.

The sheriff and Buck moved up near her and spotted the track, illuminated by her flashlight.

It was maybe a size ten or eleven, she guessed.

“Son of a bitch,” the sheriff said quietly.

“I’ll get the casting kit,” Buck said, heading back out front.

That left her alone with the sheriff, who continued to study the track, playing his own beam of light further ahead toward the treeline.

“He could be watching us right now, couldn’t he?” he asked.

She studied the line of trees, the shadows much less of a hindrance to her eyes.  The wind swirled, gusting from that direction before settling back toward that direction.

“Maybe.  I doubt it.  Although with young rogues, anything’s possible,” she said, not willing to assure the sheriff that nothing currently lurked in those woods.

“Buck says you know them,” he commented.

“Them, sheriff?”

“That Gordon and the vampire girl,” he said, clearing his throat a bit uncomfortably as he did.

“I know lots of vampires, Sheriff.  Lots of werewolves, too.  But if you mean Chris and Tanya, then yes, I know them.”

“You see this kinda stuff a lot in the city?” he asked gruffly.

“No.”

“What?  You just said you had lots of vampires and werewolves there,” he said.

“Actually, I didn’t.  I said I knew lots of them. But I think you know what I said.  Sheriff, my uncle is a state trooper.  I’m familiar with this technique for questioning.”

“What technique is that?” he asked, frowning.

“The deliberate changing of words to elicit more information when the subject feels it necessary to elaborate on the officer’s accusatory re-phrasings,” she said.  “But in the interest of speeding things up, I’ll explain.  Murders of humans by weres are not common.  Sometimes accidents happen, particularly in bar fights, as weres have bad tempers and are much, much stronger than regular humans.  But in those cases, death is from too much blunt trauma, generally.  Changing forms and killing a human in wolf shape almost never happens.  When it does, the killer is swiftly found and dealt with by the rest of the were society.  Something similar occurs with vampires.”

“That was before the general population knew of their actual existence,” he said.  “The wolf is out of the bag, so to speak.”

“Yes. Now the stakes are higher,” she said.

“What?”

“The supernatural society has long hidden behind the rest of society’s unwillingness to believe.  Now they believe.  Tell me, Sheriff, how do you feel about what that killer was able to do to that poor man?” she asked.

“It’s terrifying.  And it makes me angry,” he admitted after a pause.

“And what do terrified and angry humans do?” she asked.

He studied her for a moment.  “They attack,” he said.

“And humans today have machine guns, shotguns, explosives, robots, drones, computers, and night vision among other toys.  And they outnumber the supernatural world by billions,” she said.  “Vampires and werewolves are walking on eggshells at the moment.  Did you happen to catch any of what happened this past summer with the Church of the True?”

“I did.  I take your point, Ms. Renault, but if what you say is true, why haven’t other werewolves stepped in?”

Buck came back around the corner of the garage toting a plastic box that looked like it should hold fishing tackle rather than evidence-gathering supplies.

“One, because you probably have only one or two regular werewolves anywhere up here.  Loners who don’t want to be near a pack.  They’ll go into deep hiding with all this, not getting involved.  And second, how do you know they haven’t stepped in yet?” she said, having come to a decision regarding the sheriff.

Buck had only heard the last part of their conversation, but he got it first, drawing a short, sharp breath of air as it hit him.  The sheriff, to his credit, was only a few seconds behind.

“That’s why you figure out the scenes so quick,” Buck said.

She nodded without looking away from the sheriff, who was frozen in place.  He smelled of surprise, disbelief, and a tiny bit of sudden fear.  “Every police force should have a werewolf on the job.  Imagine an officer with a bloodhound’s nose and the ability to hear a suspect’s heartbeat,” she said with a little smile.

“That would pretty much rock, if you could trust them,” Buck said.  He didn’t smell of either fear or surprise, but maybe a bit of anger.

“There are a few of us who help out the NYPD from time to time, as well as a fair number who are already on the force.  Werewolves tend to gravitate toward first responder jobs and military work.  Pack-like hierarchy, a job that feeds our need to protect,” she said.

“Wolves don’t protect.  Wolves kill,” the sheriff said.

“Wolves protect pack, and wolves kill to feed the pack,” she corrected him.

“Humans aren’t pack,” the sheriff countered.

“Oh?  You know how we think?  You don’t believe we form attachments and extend packness to friends and family and neighbors?” she asked.  “My pack is varied and extended.  Many of us were bitten.  My mother is human.  If some jackoff messes with her, there are dozens of weres who will protect her.”

“You’re her!  You’re the one in the Washington videos!” Buck said suddenly.

“Of course she is, you moron,” Shorty’s gravelly voice said from the corner of the garage, where he was leaning.  “Some cop you are.  I knew as soon as I shook her hand.”

“Really?  That fast?” Stacia asked.

“I watch a lot of television in the winter.  Lots of documentaries.  The wig’s good, but you’re really too pretty to disguise very well,” the guide said matter-of-factly.

She sighed.  “My bo… a friend of mine said much the same thing,” she said, mouth twisting in annoyance at herself.

“And your, ah, friend let you come up here alone?” Shorty asked.

“My friend knows I can handle myself and he has offered his help, if it’s needed,” she said, thinking they were nowhere near ready to deal with meeting him.

“You gave me a false ID,” Buck said.

“That’s the direction you want to go?  I tell you I’m a werewolf and you’re worried because I traveled here undercover?” she asked.

“You started our working relationship with a lie,” he said.

“Well, I go by Stacia, but the ID I gave you panned out, did it not?” she asked.  He reluctantly nodded.  “I was trying to keep this from becoming a media circus.  There was always the chance it wasn’t a werewolf.  But that identity will check out all the way up through federal levels.  My mother’s maiden name is Renault.  Her name is Lisa, but my middle name is Illisa.”

“You’ve revealed yourself now,” Sheriff Grable stated.

“Yes.  Before, I thought the situation was cut and dried,” she said.

“But not now?” Shorty Kane asked.

“No, not now.  Sheriff, the man in the garage was killed by a werewolf.  So was Morris Alcombe. They just weren’t killed by the same werewolf.  You have at least two, more likely three werewolves involved,” she said.

CHAPTER 8

All three men just looked at her.  She waited.  Finally, the sheriff rocked back, hands going to the belt of his civilian jeans, where he had a Glock 30 holstered in a DeSantis pancake holster.  “You positive?”

“I’m sure that this were is a different individual than the one that killed Morris Alcombe.  I’m certain they are both young men, newly turned to werewolf.  That’s why I think that there is at least one more… the alpha who turned them.”

“You said this behavior is abnormal… horrific murders of humans,” the sheriff said.

“It is.  Sheriff, who was the man in the garage?” she asked.

“Gary was the Assistant Principal at Fetter Central School,” the sheriff replied.

“Assistant principal?  Was he disliked?” she asked, remembering her own high school years.

The three men shuffled a bit, exchanging glances.  Buck answered her question.  “Gary was a hard-ass.  He handled all the discipline and he had a tendency to go a bit overboard.”

“Would you say there are people, former students, who hated him?” she asked.

All three men nodded.

“This one is younger than the other, the one that killed Morris.  Maybe eighteen or nineteen.  He’s also a smaller wolf than the other one, which means he’s likely to be smaller in man form as well,” Stacia said.

“You think someone killed Gary? Somebody who hated him from school?  And someone killed Morris because he sold the mill?” Buck asked.

“That’s what it seems like.  The worrisome part is that it appears that an older were is recruiting angry, disenfranchised individuals and turning them into angry, disenfranchised werewolves.  They’re being allowed to act out their anger in the most vicious way possible.  And they’re cannibalizing at least the heart of their victims,” she said.

“Why would they do that?  They have to know that this will draw attention,” Buck said.

“It’s going to draw enormous attention. DOAA will come in like gangbusters, and the media will follow.  Fetter will become a circus,” she said, pronouncing DOAA as Doe-ah.

“DOAA?  Those the feds?” Sheriff Grable asked.

“Yeah.  We think they were the ones building those robotic centipedes last summer, but they wouldn’t admit it or admit to losing control of them,” she said.

“I watched all that on TV,” Shorty said.  “That young man you were carrying after the battle… that your young fella?”

“He’s my friend, not my fella,” she said.

Shorty looked thoroughly unconvinced.  “Maybe you should give him a call.  Being outnumbered and all.”

“She’s not outnumbered.  We outnumber them,” Sheriff Grable said, giving Shorty a glare.

“Wasn’t meaning to offend you, Sherm, but fighting a pack of werewolves is a whole different thing than poachers, pot growers, and old Alfie Coolidge stealing lunch meat at Keegan’s Market,” Shorty said.

The sheriff looked ready to explode, but Buck interrupted, his gaze still on Stacia.

“Just what are we facing?  What can we expect?” he asked her.

Stacia, who had started to protest Shorty’s suggestion to call her friend, had stopped herself and was visibly considering it before the sheriff had spoken.  Buck hadn’t missed that change, and it concerned him.  She seemed like the type to handle things herself and if she hesitated on that, then he wanted to know why.

“Changing people into weres isn’t easy.  The virus doesn’t work with everyone, and the people who fail to make it die.  So whoever is doing this would appear to be experienced.  We know of two; are there more?  How many are we facing?” she asked.

“Well, we can make a list of people who’ve gone missing, purportedly left the area, or died recently under odd circumstances.  As for the rest, can’t you, I don’t know, sniff them out?” Buck asked.

“Yes, if I get near enough to smell them.  But they can also scent me, which would cost us the element of surprise,” she said.

“What if we mask your scent?” Shorty asked.

She started to shake her head, but then remembered something.  “My friend’s roommate’s sister used perfume to block her scent several times to good effect.  Maybe we can do something similar.”

“Your friend’s sister’s roommate?  Why was she blocking scent?” Sheriff Grable asked.

“No, his roommate’s sister. My friend goes to a unique school.  Supernatural students.  His roommate, Mack, and Mack’s sister aren’t supernatural.  But as teenagers, they hunted down and executed the werewolves who killed their parents,” she explained.

“Maybe we should get them up here,” Shorty said.

“She’s like seventeen.  Might not look good for the county, plus she probably has midterms,” Stacia said sardonically. “Okay, as to what you’re facing.  They are faster than you are and maybe three times stronger in human form.  Most weres have two shapes: human and wolf.  They’ll be bigger in wolf form, which makes the physicist types go bonkers with conservation of mass and all that.  They can hear your heartbeat and smell your emotions.  Makes them difficult to trap.   In human form, they’ll heal from a broken arm in an hour.  In wolf form, they heal major wounds in minutes.  Silver-induced wounds won’t heal at all.  Fire will kill them, and they have extra-dense muscles and bones so they can’t swim.  Drop them in a river or pool and they’ll drown.  Decapitate them, they die.”

“What about the two-legged version?” Shorty asked.

“Older weres can sometimes learn to take a middle form, half-wolf, half-man.  We call it beast form or combat form,” she said.

“You took that form in Washington,” Shorty said.

“I did,” she said.

“But you’re only twenty-one, according to your license. Unless that was a lie too,” Buck said.

“The date was off a bit, but I’m twenty-one,” she said, frowning.

“He’s wondering how you’re old enough to be able to learn that beast form thing,” Shorty asked.

“I’m a special case,” was all she said.

“So these feds are going to show up?  These DOAA types?” Sheriff Grable asked.

“Like a freight train.  Going to ramrod right over you and everyone around here.  They have experience with weres but handle things like the whole bull-and-the-china-shop thing,” she said.

“So why not let them handle it?” the sheriff asked.

“Because if you point them at a known wolf, they’ll likely succeed.  But investigating multiple unknown weres?  Not so sure how they’ll do with that or what cost your civilians will pay,” she said.  “And I have to stay out of their way.  They would love to do something stupid and detain me.”

“Why exactly would that be stupid of them?” Buck asked.

“Because many weres they’ve captured have simply disappeared.  There are people, extraordinarily dangerous people, who will object if that happens to me.”

“Like that Gordon fella or the vampire princess?” Shorty asked, fascinated.

“Chris would have an issue.  Tanya maybe not,” she admitted.

“Or that young fella you were carrying?  What’s his story?” Shorty asked.

“He would object.  Loudly and forcibly.  That would be a big, big problem. Or him and Chris together.”

“The God Hammer would come looking for you?” Buck asked.  Shorty gave him a look.  “What?  I saw some of the footage. I just didn’t obsess over it,” Buck said.  “Anyway, would they take on the government?”

“He bombed New Hampshire from orbit, Buck,” Shorty pointed out.

She nodded in agreement.  “Chris would negotiate first.  Declan… hmmm,” she considered for a moment, thinking about her recent suspicions, then shuddered slightly.  “Anyway, we should figure this out as much as possible before you lose control.  That fur sample… did you send it to a lab?”

“Yes. Won’t get there till tomorrow, but we asked for a rush on it,” Buck said.

“That will likely trigger DOAA, although they may just have a computer program that searches for animal mauling reports or news stories.  Two of those in forty-eight hours will get a lot of attention,” she said.

“I still don’t see why I wouldn’t want to just call these feds in?  You’ve as much as said that they can handle werewolves,” the sheriff asked.

“I met the Directorate the same night I got bitten.  If Chris Gordon hadn’t found me before they did, I would have been torn to pieces by the werewolf they were hunting and then, if he hadn’t hidden my wound, I would have disappeared into a government lab somewhere.  These are not friendly, happy folks, Sheriff.  They will be here and they will go through your county with a fine-toothed comb looking for threats, which they get to define.  It will not be fun, healthy, or beneficial for most of your constituents.  But do what you want,” she said.

“You’re saying its best to just figure out the perps involved and hand them over?” Buck asked, an edge of disbelief in his voice.

“If they hadn’t murdered and cannibalized two men, I would seek to find them and help them.  But these are two lost causes, although they probably should have a clean death as opposed to whatever hell DOAA will put them through.  Anyway, I would like to keep helping you track the suspects,” she said.

“What do you suggest?” Grable asked.

“I want to Change and run down this scent trail.  Probably not going to tell me much, but it’s worth a try.  Then we need to look into anyone in this small town who is acting differently.  Getting into fights that never would have happened, displaying unusual athletic prowess, bragging about new prospects or conversely, people who have suddenly withdrawn from society, stopped normal habits, changed personalities, you know… just different.”

“You’re going to turn into a werewolf right here?” Grable asked, looking uncomfortable.

“Well, I’ll go around the corner.  But when I come out, I’ll be in wolf form.  A big, white wolf.  Please don’t shoot me or let your deputies shoot me,” she said, waving to the two other deputies who had appeared behind Shorty sometime during the last fifteen minutes.  They both looked confused, which would be normal even if they had heard the whole conversation.  Grable looked at where she was pointing and swore slightly, just under his breath.  She heard him anyway.

“Ah, it’s the last night of the full moon, so that tends to make us a bit edgy,” she said.

“What are you saying?” Buck asked.

“If you try to pet me like a dog, I’ll probably bite your damned hand off,” she said.  “But I won’t mean it,” she added with a smile that didn’t fool any of them.

“Right, got that guys?  No petting the big wolf when it… she comes back,” Grable said.

Stacia sighed and stepped around the corner of the house.  She quickly stripped off her clothes, folding them as she went.  If she’d been with her team, she probably wouldn’t have bothered to seek privacy, but these men would get caught up in watching her strip out of her clothes, and that made her uncomfortable.

Naked, except for the two amulets around her neck, both threaded onto stretchy cord, she calmed herself, listening to the thud of her own heart while her fingers fiddled with the amulets. One was a tiny white soapstone wolf, sitting on its haunches.  That was from Chris.  The other was a piece of quartz, hanging in a basket of copper.  That was from Declan.  He normally made amulets from Rowan wood, but werewolves were allergic to Rowan or, as it was also known, Mountain Ash.  His source of wood was the massive old Rowan tree behind his aunt’s restaurant.  This quartz had come from the ground underneath the tree.  She wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten the stone from underground without hurting the roots of his precious tree, but she suspected his massive golem-like construct, Robbie, had been involved.  The copper wire holding the stone had been painstakingly shaped into runes that he would normally have carved into wood.  It had to have taken hours and hours to get exactly right. She’d mentioned something about that and he’d just smiled and shrugged.

With one last thought of the young warlock, she put him from her mind, along with everything else, and concentrated on the Change.  It came, as it always did, easily and in a sudden rush.

She knew that Changing was painful for most weres, but it had never been more than a minor twinge for her.  And her transformations were fast—faster and easier than any were, even the Alphas, that she had ever met.  She was absolutely certain it had to do with Chris’s blood mixing with her werewolf wound the night she’d been bitten.

Falling forward as her body flooded with power, her hands were fully formed paws by the time she hit the ground.  Bones and muscles writhed and reformed in the blink of an eye.  Declan told her that it happened so fast that she actually blurred.

She stretched new muscles and then shook her thick fur.  Her senses, so much more than a regular human’s, were now twice as sharp.  Odors flooded her nose, sounds of the active darkness filled her ears, and when she trotted around the corner, the red and orange outlines of the humans lit up her vision.

“Holy shit!” one of the deputies said. “She’s fucking huge.”  The rest just sucked in sharp breaths, as if to oxygenate their lungs in the face of a fight-or-flight situation.  Luckily, none of them chose either the fighting or the flighting.  Which was good, because her wolf was in control and it had instincts that would be… difficult to constrain.

She watched the humans for a moment, her head tilting sideways, then trotted to the garage door, ignoring the big leader as he stepped hurriedly out of her way, and forced herself to ignore the smell of blood flooding from the garage.  Sniffing, she found the scent of the other were and growled slightly as it filled her nose and brain with information.  Here he had been wolf, there he turned to man, and here, as a man, he had run off into the night.  With one last glance at the frozen cops, she put her nose down and followed the trail, quickly leaving the blood-scented kill site behind.

“Mother of God, I didn’t expect her to be that big,” Buck said.  “She was bigger than that bear that your hunter shot last year, Short.”

“That was her?  That was really the girl that was just here?” Deputy Bruce Devany asked, his camera forgotten around his neck.

“That was her.  Just like on TV,” Shorty said.  “Although she was mostly filmed in the two-legged form. I think that would be scarier.”

“You’re shitting me?  That wasn’t her,” Devany said, turning to disbelief in the face of something he couldn’t wrap his mind around.

The sheriff took a couple of steps forward and shined his light around the corner of the house.

“Yup, there’s her clothes piled right there,” he said.

Devany and the other deputy started forward, as if to look.

“She can smell if anyone goes near or through her stuff.  You go pawing at her delicates, Bruce, and she’ll know it,” Shorty said, letting the mental image of that circumstance play out in their heads.

Devany settled for flashing his light at the pile of clothes with a brown wig on top, and if he had any observations about the bra and panties in the pile, he kept them to himself.

“What do we do now, Sheriff?” Deputy Hampton asked.

“Our jobs, Vince. We do our jobs.  Let’s finish processing this scene,” Sheriff Grable said, turning back to the grisly garage.  “The coroner should be here soon.”  They shook off the last few minutes of their lives and settled into work.

She came around the corner of the house twelve minutes later, buttoning the bottom buttons of her flannel shirt.  Shorty, who’d been leaning against the house as far from the garage door as he could get, stood upright.

“She’s back,” he said loudly.

Buck was the first one out of the garage, followed closely by the sheriff and his other deputies.

She nodded at them and then tossed an object to Buck.  He caught it reflexively.

“Dumbass shifted forms just inside the woods.  That must have fallen from his pocket when he ran back and grabbed his clothes,” she said with a smile.

Buck unfolded the cordura nylon wallet, colored in green and brown camouflage.  “Ken Spitzer,” he said, reading the driver’s license, absently wiping wolf saliva off his fingers on his pant leg.

“David Spitzer’s son?” Deputy Hampton asked.

“Yeah, he graduated a few years behind me,” Deputy Devany said.  “That makes a lot of sense.  Gary used to terrorize that kid.  His old man, David, got disabled at the mill years ago and became a mean drunk.  Kenny was the class wiseguy.  Always pranking and joking.  Between his father and Gary, he had it pretty rough.  Heard he was living in a trailer with some of his school buddies on Bleakman Road.”

“Let’s get over there,” the sheriff said.

“Ah, sheriff, if I might make a suggestion,” Stacia said.

He nodded a little grudgingly.

“He’ll be hopped up on adrenaline and testosterone, if he’s even gone back to his home.  It might be better to go first thing in the morning, catch him after first light when he’s come down from his kill rush.  And I’d like to go with you. In fact, I highly suggest it. He isn’t the same kid that any of you remember.  He’s a werewolf,” she said. “You’ll need to figure out where to keep him.  A normal cell probably won’t do it.”

Sheriff Grable studied her for a moment, thinking it through. “You have a point.  Buck, you got enough of the expensive ammo you bought for all of us?  I want every man packing silver,” he said. Buck nodded as the sheriff went on. “Hampton, call Miles and have him ask his brother if they left the old pay vault in the furniture mill he’s renovating.”

“Vault?” Stacia asked.

“Not a full-on bank vault, but a heavy-duty reinforced concrete room with a heavy-duty barred gate and a pretty strong door,” he explained.  “The old factory used to keep money on hand to pay the timber guys and their own workers.  I know for a fact it’s still there ‘cause Miles was complaining about how they had to redraw the plans around it.  Too expensive to take it out.”

“Alright.  Let’s talk about how to capture and restrain werewolves,” she said.  The men exchanged glances and then drew closer.  Overhead, a small cloud that had occluded the moon moved across the sky, freeing the bright orb to relight the night with a cool, silver glow.

CHAPTER 9

Dawn broke over the russet leaves at the top of the big maple tree that cast its shadow on the rundown brown trailer in the clearing below. The golden light also illuminated a hovering object. Seen from a bird’s eye—or in this case, a drone’s eye—dark shapes were visible moving slowly through the woods around the clearing.

“I can’t believe you have your own drone,” Devany whispered to Shorty Kane.

“Cabela’s in Scarborough had ‘em on sale last time I was there.  Had a gift card to burn up so I grabbed it.  Just a basic model, but handy for scouting deer,” the little guide said.

“All units, fox’s den is clear. Repeat: the fox’s den is clear,” Devany keyed into the mike attached to his shoulder.

“Devany, quit the tommy tactical talk and just use real words,” Sheriff Grable’s voice came back.

“Coast is clear, sheriff,” Devany said, chagrined.

“Everyone look sharp.  Sergeant Thompson, approach the door,” the sheriff ordered.

Buck, with Hampton and one other deputy, both packing short barreled shotguns, stepped up the rickety steps and rapped on the door with his left hand.  His right was holding a Taser, but it was a much larger, bulkier model than he was used to, a loaner from Stacia.

“Ken. Ken Spitzer, this is the sheriff’s department. Open the door please,” he said, rapping again.

Instantly, the sounds of sudden and furious activity came from within. Something fell and smashed inside the trailer, feet pounded down the length of the singlewide, and a door slammed open, the sound echoing over and around the trailer.

“Halt!” a voice yelled from the backside of the trailer.  A grunt and a snarl, then something heavy crunching into dead leaves, more footsteps running, a second, higher-pitched snarl, brief sounds of a struggle followed by a yelp.

Buck and his two companions ran around the trailer to find another deputy sitting up, clutching his arm, and further back, just on the edge of the woods, a slim female figure sat on a thin male form that held very still under her.

“You alright?” Buck asked the deputy even as other officers rushed into the clearing.

“He might have broke my arm.  Skinny bastard threw me ten feet like I was a five-year-old,” the deputy said, more shocked by the outcome than the injury.

Buck kept moving, coming up to Stacia, who sat on Ken Spitzer’s back, her right hand holding his throat.  Ken was wild-eyed and actually whining like a whipped puppy.

Looking closer, Buck realized the beautiful young woman’s hand on Ken’s throat was larger and more powerful looking than the one that clutched the teenager’s filthy gray sweatshirt. It also had long claws instead of painted fingernails, and little beads of blood welled up wherever they touched skin.

“Got the restraints?” she asked calmly, as though she were sitting on a park bench instead of a werewolf’s back.

He nodded back at Devany, who was already unzipping the small duffle bag Stacia had also provided.

With silver-plated handcuffs in hand, she quickly cuffed Ken Spitzer, then spun around and clicked silver leg restraints into place.  Only then did she stand up, dusting off her clothes while she watched the suspect.

“I thought silver burned?” Buck asked.

“It would, but the cuffs have a coating of clear fingernail polish over them.  Weakens without burning,” she said.

“You motherfuckers better let me go!” the man on the ground screamed, thrashing around.  His voice started to deepen as he cursed and snarled.

“Young, newly turned weres have exceptionally poor control over both their tempers and their Changes.  Right now, he’s working himself up to the point where his body will try to change.  Doing that while wearing silver cuffs is a major problem for him.  Could totally screw him up,” she said.  “Here’s a quick way to short-circuit his Change.  Pepper spray?” she asked Devany, holding out her hand.

The deputy frantically scrambled at his utility belt, and Buck was amused to realize it was as much to help the pretty lady as it was because the suspect was growing fur and claws.

Squatting down in front of Ken like she was teaching a class on first aid instead of werewolf control, she shook the pepper spray and then leaned down and pointed it at Ken’s rapidly forming snout.

“You want to be accurate with your spray, getting it into his nasal cavity, and avoid his eyes.  Werewolves noses are twenty times more sensitive than yours while in human form.  In wolf form, it’s estimated at about a hundred times.  Pepper spray up the snout will pretty much short-circuit his whole Change.  But spray one in the eyes and you’ll just piss it off,” she said.

“Have you been sprayed?” Shorty asked as he came up with the Sheriff.

“At least once a week, usually with bear spray.  Part of my normal training.  Get doused with industrial-grade pepper spray, then fight the most dangerous people on the planet,” she said.

“You ever beat them?” Shorty asked, fascinated.

“Please.  Chris alone has killed hundreds of rogue weres with just his hands and feet,” she said with a snort.

“So you get beat up by all of them?” Devany asked.

“They’re my instructors, so yeah.  But I hold my own with the other vampires,” she said, just a trifle defensive.

“What about the kid?  The one you were carrying?” Shorty pressed.

“Declan?  Usually, if it’s just a physical fight, I win three out of four,” she said with a grin.

“What do you mean just physical?” another deputy asked.

“The kid she’s talking about was the one that preacher called a witch on YouTube,” Shorty said, speaking with confident authority.

“You really do obsess about this, don’t you?” Stacia asked, eyebrows raised.

“I study stuff till I know it.  It’s just like learning the woods and animals,” he said, his turn to be defensive.  “And I’m right, aren’t I?”

“You’re talking about that skinny kid in the video?” Devany asked.  “He does what?  Magic tricks?  Guesses your card?” he asked with a chuckle, looking at the other deputies.

“That skinny kid can lift you one handed, Deputy, and he doesn’t do tricks.   You asked if I ever beat Chris or Tanya.  The only one who’s come close is that skinny kid.  And he’s only nineteen,” she said. “Now watch,” and proceeded to spray the thrashing, growling, half-furred suspect with a healthy dose of pepper spray.

Ken froze for a split second, then his whole body went rigid and his eyes squeezed closed, tears trickling profusely down his cheeks.  His body, vibrating with tension, reversed its changes and settled back to pure human form as he howled in pain.

Stacia looked around at the group and found Buck holding out a bottle of water.  Nodding her thanks, she took it and poured it over Ken’s face and nose, making several applications while he sputtered and coughed.

“Can’t we get in trouble for basically torturing a suspect?” another deputy asked.

“Have you seen the pictures of what this suspect did to Mr. Ducar?” Sheriff Grable asked him.  “Miss Reynolds is right.  We need every advantage we can get in handling werewolves.”

“Speaking of which, how do we take down multiple werewolves at the same time?” Buck asked.

“You probably don’t.  Chances of losing life and limb would be really, really high.  You could call in DOAA, but even they mess up.  The best answer is to call in another pack to handle it.  My alphas wouldn’t hesitate to provide help in a situation like that,” she said, pouring a bit more water over Ken’s nose.

“What about your God Hammer fella and his vampire?” another deputy asked.

“Could they?  Absolutely, but they can’t be everywhere and they still handle demon incursions on top of their business,” she said.

“How do we handle this group?” Hampton asked.

“Well, we talk to Kenny here and find out what we can.  And DOAA will likely show up to save the day,” she said, making little air quotes around the word save.  Then she stood up, reached down, and lifted Ken up one handed, gripping his belt like a shopping bag, leaning sideways against more than her own bodyweight.  “Okay, where’s that transport van?” she asked the suddenly shocked and silent group of men.

“I… I’ll go get it,” Devany said, backing away and then hoofing off to retrieve the van.

Ken chose that moment to buck around a bit. Stacia just simply gave him a hard shake.  “Stop it,” she said and the suspect werewolf went limp.

“You an alpha too, Miss Stacia?” Shorty asked.

“It’s just Stacia, Shorty.  I’m told I have that trait, but frankly I’m not with my pack enough to claim a spot.  Kind of leaves things unsettled when I’m at a pack event.”

“So you spend most of your time with Mr. Gordon and Miss Demidova, don’t you?” Shorty pressed.

“I’m the pack liaison to their team, so yes,” she said, frowning at his line of questioning.

“Just wondering,” he said.

“Why do I have the feeling you’re taking notes on all this?” she asked him.

“Told you.  I like to know stuff, that’s all,” he said, turning and moving over to his drone, which had touched down on the ground behind them.

A white panel sheriff’s van came bouncing around the corner and two deputies moved swiftly to open the back doors.  Stacia tossed Ken in like a sack of rice and then jumped in with him.

“Sheriff, I’ll ride back here with him.  That way if anything unforeseen happens, I can keep him contained,” she said.

Eyebrows still raised at her casual strength, he nodded. “Good idea.  Let’s get him to Dover-Foxcroft.  Evidence team, check the trailer,” he ordered, directing the last part to a group of four men, who all nodded and turned to the run-down singlewide.

The rest moved to various vehicles and a small, official convoy headed out.

CHAPTER 10

“I’d put another weld here, here, and here,” Stacia said to the welder.  He was reinforcing the metal gate that was the second line of defense after the steel door of the vault.

“You really think that’s necessary?” he asked, a dubious expression expressing his own views.

Without a word, she stepped into the vault, shutting the gate behind her.  The knob was gone from this side, a heavy plate welded over the latch hole.

Gripping the gate bars in the middle of the door, she pulled with one hand while bracing her other against the doorframe.  The steel gate flexed in the middle, bending out of true until the metal door bolt slipped out of its matching hole.

Buck Thompson snorted.  “Jerry, just do what the lady suggests, alright?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Jerry, the county facilities manager, nodded, eyes wide.

He proceeded to reinforce the gate under her watchful eyes while Ken the werewolf sat in the corner of the vault, head turned away.

Satisfied the minor reconstruction was well in hand, Stacia turned and crouched down beside the other were.

“Have you reconsidered?” she asked Kenny.

He shook his head.  “He’ll kill me.  You won’t.”

“Kenny, what do you think happens to weres that kill and feed on regulars?  Do you think the other weres just wait around for regular humans to get scared and hunt us out of existence?”

“He says we’re the top of the food chain.  That humans are sheep,” Kenny said like a belligerent child.

“First, did you know the federal government has giant robots designed from the ground up to kill werewolves?  Have you seen the price of silver now that every ammo maker in the world is making some kind of silver bullet?  Did you know that bear spray manufacturers are making a variety with liquefied wolfsbane in it?  Those sheep have fangs, Kenny, and claws of silver.  Why else would your leader be forming a pack way the hell up here in the middle of nowhere?” she asked.

“He says it’s only till we’re up to strength.  Then we’ll go where we want, take what we want,” he said, trying to make his points.

“What’s his name, Kenny?” she asked.  “At least tell me that.”

“No.  Betrayal is unforgivable,” he said, making it sound like a quote.

“How about his first name?  So I know what to call him when I meet him,” she asked, her tone warm and reasonable.

He was silent, but she waited patiently.  Knowing she was still there, he squirmed a bit.  “He says we’re to call him Loki’s First,” he finally said, his hand coming up to absently touch the bone earring he wore in his left lobe.

She rocked back on her heels, shocked.  After a moment, she stood up and moved past the welder, who made sure to give her plenty of room in the crowded vault.

“Did you get anything?” Buck asked.

“He’s more afraid of his alpha than me.  But he said this guy insists they call him Loki’s First,” she said.

“And that means something to you?” he asked, reading the answer on her face.

“I was bitten by a rogue.  A poor guy who had, in turn, been bitten by a passing werewolf and left to change on his own, without help or supervision.  The guy that bit him was part of a gang of weres known as Loki’s Spawn,” she answered, looking troubled.

“And?” he asked.

“And Chris Gordon pretty much hunted them all out of existence,” she said.

He rocked back, digesting that.  “Were there many of them?”

“Well over eight hundred at their worst,” she answered.

“He hunted down eight hundred werewolves by himself?”

“Not completely, but he did take out over half by himself.  I suppose a few might have slipped away and gone into hiding.  But if so, why would this one let his pack members create this much highly visible trouble? He has to know that word will get out,” she said.

“It’s already out.  The media in Bangor already got tipped off. In the last hour, we’ve gotten calls from every major network and paper in the country.  By this evening, the town will be full of journalists,” Buck said.

“And DOAA will be here even sooner,” she said.

Forty minutes later, her prediction came true.  The first indication was a call from Chase airfield, warning the sheriff that a federal Blackhawk helicopter was inward bound and that a convoy of black SUVs with government plates had arrived to meet the chopper.  Twenty-seven minutes later, those same SUVs pulled up outside the sheriff’s office, which was housed in a two-story brick building right next to the much larger converted factory building that was currently holding Kenny Spitzer.

Three black GMC Tahoes with heavily tinted windows disgorged eight people, seven of them armed to the teeth.  The eighth was dressed in the same midnight blue paramilitary battledress, but was only packing a sidearm.  He was big enough, however, to look like he didn’t need firearms at all.

Stacia recognized him on sight, pulling back from the window as he glanced around outside.

“You know them?” Buck asked from beside her.  He had also pulled away from the window, but it was more to watch her reaction than to hide.

“One of them—the leader.  Name is Eric Adler.  He ran the strike team that hunted the rogue that bit me.  Nasty piece of work.  I’m going to hang back if possible.  Maybe we can avoid an incident,” she said.

The door to the station opened and a big man strode through.  Maybe six-five and thickly constructed, well over two hundred and fifty pounds, projecting arrogance.  Brown hair cut in a crew cut, and pale gray eyes that scanned the room like he was its new owner.

“Where’s Sheriff Grable?” he asked the first deputy to get in his way, still moving forward.

“I’m the sheriff,” Grable answered from the door of his office, where he’d been meeting with a Maine State Police Captain.

“Special Agent Eric Adler, Sheriff.  I’m here to fix your problem,” he stated.

To his credit, Sherman Grable didn’t appear the least bit intimidated.  “What problem and what agency?” he fired back in a gruff voice.

Adler took his time answering.  “Hear you have a bit of werewolf problem, Sheriff.  And according to the Supernatural Crimes and Rights Enforcement Act, the Directorate of Anomalous Activity has jurisdiction over felony crimes committed by supernatural beings,” he said, squaring his chest so that the DOAA tag over his right pectoral was abundantly evident.

“I see.  So where the hell have you been?” Grable asked.  “Where were you this morning when my department arrested a werewolf suspect, Agent Adler?  What exactly do you bring to the party?”

Adler visibly bit back his reflexive response, his eyes moving around the crowded sheriff’s station.  At least two local reporters, who had been gathering prepared media release packets, were now blatantly recording the interaction with cell phones.  Adler certainly noticed them.

“You’re to be commended, Sheriff.  Taking down a werewolf… er… suspect is no light matter.  How many men were injured?” Adler asked, eyes now locked back on the sheriff.

“One has a sprained arm,” the sheriff said, nodding his head at the deputy that Spitzer had thrown, who now had his arm in a sling but otherwise seemed productive.

Adler frowned.  “And your suspect?  How are you holding him?”

“In a cell, Agent Adler. In a cell,” the sheriff responded, patiently, like Adler was a slow student.

“Normal cells can’t hold a lycanthrope, Sheriff, but we’re here now,” Adler said, turning to the muscular battle-dressed agent behind him.

“Did I say it was a normal cell, Agent?  Do you think the residents of Maine are stupid?” the sheriff asked, his voice cold.

Stacia had already appraised the sheriff as an intelligent man who listened well and adapted quickly, but she now realized he was also a skilled political operator who understood how to act in front of cameras.  Which made sense.  Sheriffs are elected; Special Agents are just appointed.

Adler turned back forward, his frown deepening, and Stacia could hardly wait to hear his response.  She was betting on the sheriff winning this exchange.  Before Adler could respond, the door to the station opened and another blue-fatigue-wearing agent appeared, this one incongruously holding a Jack Russell terrier.  Almost instantly, the dog sniffed the air and then growled, squirming in its handler’s arms until the young man set it down.  Then it ran helter skelter through the office until it planted itself in front of Stacia and began to growl.

When she looked up, she was the center of attention.  Adler was focused on her and both reporters were still recording.

“You’ve been infiltrated, Sheriff,” Adler said, rushing forward and drawing his sidearm.  Both of his fellow agents unslung their M4 carbines and drew down on Stacia at the same time that Adler did.

Almost as fast, another dozen weapons cleared leather, and Adler and his men found themselves staring down the barrels of most of the department’s weapons.

“Agent Adler, if you don’t holster those weapons immediately, I’ll arrest you for assault with a deadly weapon,” the sheriff said.

“You have a werewolf standing right there,” Adler said through clenched teeth, glancing sideways at the sheriff.

“Yes, Agent Adler, Miss Reynolds is obviously a werewolf.  Didn’t you see any of the footage from Washington?  I would think you people would have reviewed that sort of thing,” the sheriff said tightly.  “Miss Reynolds came here to consult with us and help us with the investigation.  You’ll note that she stayed incognito to avoid hindering the investigation with her celebrity status. Now holster those weapons!”

Adler’s pale eyes were locked on hers, his body frozen in place.  She moved her gaze to the trigger finger on that extra long Glock.  Some weird model she didn’t know.  Chris would know.  Declan… probably not.  He wasn’t as into firearms as his mentor was.  Weird thoughts, Stacia, she said to herself, especially when you’re staring down the barrels of what are most certainly silver-loaded weapons.

Only a few seconds had ticked by when she saw the scarred finger slip out of the trigger guard and index on the frame of the pistol.  Then Adler was holstering his weapon and signaling his men to do the same.  He turned to the sheriff.  “You should have told me you had a lycanthropic consultant on staff.”

“We barely met, Agent Adler, and if I recall, you were trying to demonstrate how stupid we were.  Not a whole lot of time to introduce you to the whole room,” the sheriff said.

“Miss Reynolds is the result of using amateur consultants.  Isn’t that right, Miss Reynolds?” Adler asked, turning to her.  The two reporters were visibly delighted with the opportunity to turn their cameras on a known supernatural celebrity.

“Exactly, Agent.  If Chris Gordon hadn’t been there, myself and my friend would have been torn to pieces by the rogue that you couldn’t seem to track.  So instead of death, I got one little bite before he pulled that poor twisted man off me.  And then got me the help I needed to adjust to my new condition.  Does someone want to do something about that?” she asked, pointing at the Jack Russell that was still growling and bouncing on both front feet.  “If it bites me, I’m gonna bite it back.”

At a nod from Adler, the dog’s handler moved forward, keeping his eyes on Stacia while picking up the dog and backing away.

“Cute,” she said, not meaning it.

“Why not a Rottweiler or a German Shepard?” Buck asked suddenly.

Adler frowned at him, but Buck just kept an interested look on his face.  “Most of the big dogs get too submissive.  The little terriers don’t know enough to be afraid,” he admitted.  “Now, enough of this crap.  Where’s the prisoner?”

The sheriff moved forward, leading Adler and his team next door to the converted vault.

“Miss Reynolds?  Can I ask you a few questions?” one of the reporters, a female, asked.

“Yeah, why not,” she agreed, pulling off the wig and wig cap.  Her short platinum hair fell free as she itched her scalp.  The cheek scar peeled off and went into the nearest garbage as both reporters swarmed in.

CHAPTER 11

Almost three hundred miles away, a tall, lean young man walked through a busy college campus, looking at his smart phone and apparently talking on a Bluetooth headset.

“What’s the probability of abduction?” he asked, approaching the crosswalk on the busy street that bisected the campus.  He looked up to note two young women gawking at him suspiciously, clearly hearing his words.  “Criminal justice class,” he explained hastily, not slowing his forward motion.

Luckily for him, the light abruptly changed to red just as he stepped into the crosswalk, saving him from getting mowed down.  He didn’t appear to notice the close call.

“You will tell me if it goes higher?” he asked his mouthpiece.  “Or anything more happens?  And please tell me you can interfere with their helicopter if necessary?”

He nodded at the answer only he could hear.  “I’m planning on going up there,” he said.  “Well, right after I get done with that economics test tomorrow morning.

“No, I want to take it myself, at least if the feds are behaving themselves. I like economics. You said that the probability was low, right?” he continued.  “I’ll also text her a bit later.  Oh?  No, I don’t think springing your own analysis on her is a good idea… well, because I need to come clean with her about you first.  We agreed I’d only do that when you were okay with it.”

He paused to listen, veering over to the side of the closest building to get himself out of the congested foot traffic of his fellow students.

“You think so?  Yes, of course she suspects.  She’s smart and observant. And I’m sure I’ve dropped hints and made mistakes.  What?  Thanks a bunch, O.  I’m only human, you know.”

He listened some more, his mouth forming a smile.  “Well, good.  But I’ll do it in person.  More secure, and she needs to hear this face to face.”

A second’s pause to listen and then, “Great.  Now I just gotta meet the gang at the Marche for lunch, if they show up.  Oh, they’re already there?  Of course Mack is late; probably hitting on a hot girl.  Thanks O.”

CHAPTER 12

“So Ken’s roommates, or trailermates or whatever, supposedly up and left?” Deputy Hampton asked.

“That’s what he told me,” Devany said.

Hampton snorted.  “What’s genius got to say about their wallets in his dresser drawer?”

“He said he’s holding them for his buddies,” Devany replied.

“And he was lying,” Stacia said.  “Heartbeat went way up.”

“And now that the feds are here, we can’t get near him,” Buck said.  “So what?  Did he kill and eat his own friends?”

Stacia frowned, turning to Devany without answering Buck.  “Did you know them in school?” she asked.

“Yeah a little. Spitzer hung out with them,” he answered. “Kindred souls, so to speak.”

“So a little mad at the world?” she asked.  Devany nodded.  “Then my guess would be that they were also recruited but didn’t make the transformation.  Probably buried somewhere out in the woods.”

“Why would he keep their wallets?” Hampton asked.

“Because he was never the brightest bulb in the batch.  Carl Durham was the smartest of the three and Matt Marshall did okay, if I remember, but they pretty much dragged him along after them,” Devany said.  “Durham’s debit card was used recently but I bet you if we get the footage from the ATM, it’ll be Spitzer’s face staring back.”

“So this mystery Loki guy recruited three and ended up with the dumbest one,” Hampton mused.

Stacia’s phone buzzed with an incoming text.  Her hand snagged it in a blur.  Looking up at the others’ startled faces, she explained.  “Thought it might be from one of my Demidova contacts.  Not though.”

“Yet whoever it is caused you to smile,” Devany noted with a knowing smile of his own.

“Just a buddy,” she said, turning to the message on the screen.

How’s it going, Sherlock? Declan wrote.

Digging through reports and stuff, trying to find a pattern, she replied.

How about any miracle cures?

“Hey Buck.  Have we checked with any hospitals or medical people about seriously or terminally ill people suddenly getting better?” she asked, mentally kicking herself for not thinking of that.

“No. I didn’t know that was a thing,” he said.

“Mostly because I never mentioned it.  If your body accepts the LV virus, then the virus becomes a jealous guardian.  It’ll root out cancer and disease as it works its way through its new host,” she said.

“We can try the Mayo Regional.  But HIPAA makes it almost impossible to get that kind of thing out of hospitals anymore,” Buck said.

“My aunt works for the hospital administrator.  Maybe she can help.  You aren’t telling your friend about our case, are you?” Hampton asked.

“No, but he already figured out why I’m here,” she said.  “He’s gifted with computers.  Actually, he could probably find out the answer to our question for us… if he hasn’t already,” she said wryly.

“That’s why he prompted you?  He, what, hacked the hospital already?  That’s criminal,” Buck said.

She gave him a level look that he returned.  Seeing that he was maintaining the straight and narrow, she shrugged.  “Don’t know that he did anything.  It’s just an idea he suggested.”

“If I find out he’s been illegally hacking private medical information…” Buck said, leaving the threat open-ended.

“One, you’d never find a trace of evidence. Two, he’s several states away. Three, you’ve got enough on your plate with a potential pack of rogue werewolves,” she said, meeting his stare.

“Let’s approach your aunt or whoever.  Let them know why we’re looking for what we’re looking for.  Story’s already broken.  Scared people might cooperate?” Devany suggested, trying to break the stare down that was suddenly occurring.

“No.  I’ll contact the hospital administrator directly.  Scared people on a witch hunt is exactly what we don’t need,” Thompson said.  “And if he breaks the law here, however remotely, I’ll see him in jail.”

Her phone buzzed again in her hand.  Gotta run.  I’ll check in later. I wonder if hospitals and doctors are part of the pattern DOAA looks for?

She was a little disappointed that he had to go so fast.  Thanks for the idea.  We’ll chat later.

“He had to run. Never mentioned hacking anything. He did wonder if the feds look through local medical records for just this kind of thing,” she said.

Before anyone could comment, her phone buzzed again, this time with a call.

She read the name on the screen, then hurriedly accepted the call.  “Hey,” she said.

“Hey yourself. Got your text. Loki’s Spawn?  Seriously? I thought I was done with those guys,” Chris Gordon said.

“Well, the one werewolf we grabbed admitted to a pack alpha who insisted he be called Loki’s First,” she said.

“Egomaniac much?  Listen, it’s easily possible that a few slipped away from us, especially at the end in Mexico,” he said.

“What were they doing down there?” she asked.

“Some weird kind of breeding program.  Trying to mix were and witch genetics.  Build a super army, you know, standard evil villain take-over-the-world stuff,” he said.

“Can that happen?  Weres and witches interbreeding?” she asked, suddenly intensely interested.

“Doc Singh says yes, but it’s iffy.  An LV-infected man and a normal woman seem to have low odds of producing a were offspring.  Most witches are women and most of the Lokis were male, so they were facing an uphill battle,” he said.

“What about a female were and a male witch?” she asked, then suddenly realized what she had said, immediately glad he couldn’t see her face flush through the phone.

“I don’t know.  Female weres having kids with regular males tend to have a higher number of were kids.  Not sure about the witch genetics, though.  I’ll ask.  Speaking of male witches, is yours up there yet?” he asked.

“Mine?  You mean ours?  No, he’s not,” she said.

“Hmmpf.  Give him time.  He won’t like DOAA being up there, eyeing you as a target.  I know that I’m not crazy about it,” he said.

“I just texted with him.  He suggested looking at the medical community for any miracle cures,” she said.

“That’s pretty slick.  I could run it through Omega and see what it comes up with,” he suggested.

“What would it do?  Hack the records?” she asked, watching Buck’s attention perk up at the work hack.

“I’m not sure hack is a word that applies to Omega.  Near as we can tell, it just sorta owns any other computer it comes in contact with. I’m telling you, this thing is kinda spooky.  Chet is, of course, in love with it, and Tanya thinks it’s awesome, but sometimes I feel like it has a mind of its own,” he said.

“Really?  Why?” she asked.

“Nothing I can put a finger on.  Just a lot of little observations that are kinda hard to put into words,” he said.

“How much contact does Declan have with it?” she asked.

“Declan?  I don’t know if he has any with it,” he said, sounding puzzled.

“Really?  The kid is the whole reason it exists in the first place. He’s a comp sci student, and he got that whole freaky talks-to-computers thing,” she said, turning away from the others and lowering her voice at the end of her sentence.

“Um, I hadn’t thought too much about it.  I mean, he’s at school and it’s here, right?” Chris asked, not sounding very sure.

“Wow, really?  You think he needs a keypad and monitor to get in touch with the computer that owns other computers?  You don’t think his cell phone is enough?”

“Well, when you put it that way, then yes, I’m sure he can contact Omega.  I could ask it.”

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t hold my breath.  He’s like the closest thing to its creator other than that creepy computer genius you had working there till he sold you out and ran off,” she said.

“That guy’s not a problem anymore.  But listen, speaking of Declan, he’s eventually going to show up.  I’d bet a lot of money on it.  So if I could give you a piece of advice, it would be to stay low key, especially around DOAA.  If they got stupid, we would use every channel we have to get you safe.  Declan… well, I think he’s a bit sensitive where you’re concerned and I think his response would be… rash,” Chris said, trying to sound diplomatic.

She sighed.  “Burn the town down rash?  I know.  I’m staying low key.  But on a side note, the local sheriff and his people definitely have my back,” she said, meeting the deputies’ eyes as they heard her say it.

“Damn right,” Devany said before flushing slightly and looking back down at his files.

“Sounds like you have at least one admirer on staff,” Chris said, somehow expressing both amusement and concern in one sentence.

“Relax, I can manage,” she said.

“Yes, I know you’ve dealt with admirers before.  Most of them can’t rearrange the local geography with a thought and a wave of the hand, though,” he said.

“He’s very… controlled.  I think that scary aunt of his drummed it into him,” she said.

“So here’s another thing.  When a wolf comes into the Pack’s territory, what happens?” he asked in a teaching voice.

“Well, they have two days to present themselves to the Alpha to declare their intentions.  Why?” she asked.

“What do witches do?” he asked her back.

“I don’t… oh.  Oh, you think I should alert the local circle or practitioners if Declan shows up?” she asked.

“Not sure.  Just wondering. A local witch might also have an idea or two about your rogues as well.  But think about the introduction part, especially if Declan shows up. If you’re sensitive to these things, that kid glows like a nuclear power plant,” he said.

She laughed.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s nothing.  He just said the same thing about you once.  I’ll check into it. Listen, if you want to ask your Skynet about the medical thing, be my guest,” she said.

“Okay, will do,” he said, sounding distracted. “Got to go.  Tanya’s up.  The babies move around inside a lot and make her really uncomfortable.  Bye,” and he hung up.

Babies?  As in more than one?

“That your brother?” Buck asked.

“What?  Brother?  No, it was Chris,” she said, confused.

“Chris Gordon?” Buck asked, eyes wide.  “You sounded like my wife when she talks to her brother, but her brother isn’t the Hammer of God.”

“You know I’m part of his team; you said you watched some of the Washington stuff,” she said, annoyed by the brother comparison.

“Yeah, but I guess I didn’t realize that he’d call to check up on you like, well…” he trailed off.

“Like a brother,” Hampton said without looking up from the file he was reading.

“So what did he say?” Devany asked.

She realized that they couldn’t hear both sides of her conversation with Chris like most of her team and coworkers could have.

“Well, it’s certainly possible a survivor of Loki’s Spawn got away and went into hiding way up here.  He also wondered about checking with any local… well, witches,” she said.

“Witches?  You think we would know if there are witches around?” Devany laughed.  Hampton looked surprised and Buck… Buck looked thoughtful.

She raised one eyebrow and waited.  After a few seconds of thought, he met her eyes and explained, “Know a guy.  Lives up past Shorty’s place.  In fact, Short is pretty friendly with him.  He’s Abenaki, Penobscot descent, Shorty says.  I think he’s an Elder.”

“So he’s old?  What of it?” Devany asked.

“No, he’s an Elder of his people. Shorty swears he’s dialed into the land in ways that we could never match.  Some kind of shaman or something,” Buck said.

“Sounds promising.  What’s his name?” Stacia asked.

“Maurice Bowwan,” Buck said.

“Sounds English, not Native American,” Hampton said.

“Most of the local natives married into the white population when the government was majorly anti-Indian. They either moved north to Canada or disappeared into the local communities to avoid persecution,” Buck said.  “Anyway, I’ll call Short and see if he can introduce us.  I’m presuming that you want to be there as well?” he asked her.

“Yes.  If he is a Crafter, then I want to forewarn him if… when my friend shows up.  Prevent misunderstandings,” she said.

“Witch stuff is a big deal, then?” Hampton asked, genuinely curious.

“Oh you have no idea,” she said, leaving it at that.

Her phone chimed again, this time with a text from Chet Aikens, the Demidova computer expert.

“Okay, the Demidova Corp is involved in some major medical research and their computer has access to all kinds of data.  Chris had them run a search, and two names popped up of people who had recent miraculous remissions of cancer.  Both have addresses up in Fetter,” she reported as she read the text. She wrote out the names on a pad of paper and shoved it over toward Buck.  He looked the names over, then passed it on to Devany and Hampton.

“Michael Tacchino,” Devany said with a grunt.  “Great.”

“Problem?” she asked.

“He’s a vet.  Fought in Iraq.  I heard he was sick.  Guy is tough.  It was always a problem when he got drunk in the Bitter Bear and started fighting.  Usually took both Buck and I to corral him.  Frankly, when he got sick we had less trouble, as crappy as that is to say,” Devany said.  “Definitely fits the disenchanted, angry model.”

“Why?  Why is he angry?” she asked.

“Never was a happy sort, but came home from the war on a medical discharge.  Caught something over there and never got over it.  The VA ran him around, lost his files, sent him everywhere for tests.  His disability checks got held up a number of times, too.  The whole thing left him bitter.  Has an explosive temper and knows how to fight,” Buck said.

“Well according to this, the VA now indicates he’s been cured of whatever the hell kind of lung cancer they showed him having,” Stacia said.

“What are the odds he was cured by the treatments?” Hampton asked.

“According to the records that Chet attached, he wasn’t taking treatments.  He refused them,” Stacia said.

“Great, so now we got a tough bastard that wasn’t much fun to tangle with before he became a werewolf and he was trained by the military,” Devany said.

“Who’s the other one? I don’t recognize the name,” Hampton said.

“Karen Lyon.  She graduated ahead of me, I think.  Quiet girl, kinda mousey, if I remember correctly,” Devany said.

“And now apparently free of leukemia,” Stacia said.

“So we should see if we can find these two, right?” Devany asked.

Buck looked at Stacia, then nodded.  “Yup, let’s do it.  But if we find Tacchino, we stay back, okay?” he asked, making a point of looking at Stacia when he said it.

“Listen Buck, I know I don’t make much of impression as a fighter, but I train with people that scare Hell.  In fact, I’ve been there.  Don’t judge me by my appearance,” she said.

Devany smirked.  “Sorry, but it’s kinda hard to imagine you as a cage fighter,” he said, giving her an appraising leer.

“And you don’t think I use that to advantage?” she said, leaning down to grasp the leg of his chair.  She straightened up, shifting her weight to get under the mass as she lifted the chair and the shocked deputy with one hand.  “I’m also stronger than other weres my size and I change forms faster than any Alpha I ever met.  I’m not your average werewolf, Devany,” she said.

“Okay, okay.  Put me down.  Shit!” he said, looking rattled.

“Hey Devany, now you can truthfully say you got picked up by Stacia Reynolds,” Hampton joked.

“If you three are done, we should go track down these two,” Buck said.

“Let’s do it,” Stacia said, lowering the deputy most of the way and dropping him the last two inches.

CHAPTER 13

They headed up to Fetter, then split forces, with Hampton and Devany visiting Karen Lyon’s address while Deputy Thompson and Stacia went looking for Michael Tacchino.

They had grabbed lunch and eaten in the cars on the way up to save time, as it was now well past noon.

Tacchino lived in a small cabin at the end of a long dirt driveway deep in a heavily wooded forest.

“This is like something from a horror movie,” Buck said as the overgrown oak and maple trees on the side of the driveway scraped leafy branches on the side of his county truck.

“Ah, but in this story, the monster is sitting beside you,” Stacia replied, her tone easy and calm.

“Damn, I didn’t mean it like that.  It’s almost like I keep forgetting you’re what you are until you remind me,” he said, grimacing at his own clumsiness.

“That’s because we’re humans first and wolves second.  Most of the time, we blend in much better than vampires do.  That whole sleep-through-the-day-and-drink-blood thing makes it hard for them to hide,” she said.

He looked at her sideways, then turned back to the road.  “You live in a much stranger world than I do.  And you’re not a monster,” he said.

“That’s sweet,” she said in a tone that indicated it was also naïve.  “But you’re wrong.  I am a monster,” she said matter-of-factly.  “It’s important to remember.  Not letting it weird you out is a whole ‘nother proposition.”

“How does your friend—the witch—handle it?” he asked.

“Like it’s not a big deal.  He goes to school with young weres, so he’s learned a lot about how to act and not act around us.  But the other side of the coin is that he’d tell you he is a bigger monster than me.”

“How do you feel about that?” he asked.

“Well… he’s right.  Don’t get me wrong; he’s one of the nicest kids you’d ever meet.  A bit of a wiseass, but not overly so unless you get on his bad side or unless your name is Lydia,” she said.

“I don’t understand… Lydia?” he asked.

“Sorry. Inside joke. Tanya’s right-hand vampire is this little bundle of attitude and mouth named Lydia.  She singlehandedly keeps Chris and Declan’s egos in check.  It’s a running battle of wits between two of the most dangerous people I know and a five-foot-nothing vampire.  She mostly wins,” she said.  “Anyway, back to Declan.  He’s generally quiet in groups, actually humble, and very controlled.  But pick on his friends or his family and he’ll get angry.  I, at my worst, look like a puppy compared to a really angry Declan.”

“I don’t get it.  You change into a massive predator and he does what?  Brews love spells?” Buck asked.

“Witches manipulate energy with their minds.  Some can start fires, some can create storms, most can cast spells that fog your mind or confuse you.  Declan is from a long line of truly powerful crafters, and he’s the best and the strongest.  He’s also an expert on old spells and witch knowledge.  Chris and Tanya handpicked him to work for them this past summer and he exceeded their expectations.”

“And he likes you,” Buck said.

“Why would you say that?” she asked.

“Because he’s male.  And because I heard enough of your conversation with Chris Gordon to understand you were talking about the kid coming up here to back you up whether anyone told him to or not,” Buck said.  “But the real question is… how do you feel about him?”

She whipped around to look at him as he drove.  “It’s complicated,” she finally said.

“Is it?” he asked doubtfully.

“Yeah, it is,” she said, starting to get mad.  “You don’t know me.  You don’t know any of us.”

“Sorry. You’re right,” he said quickly.  “Not meaning to piss you off.  Really, really don’t want to piss you off,” he assured her.  “It just that you’ll get a text and I’ll see a secret smile. I’m not sure because I don’t know exactly who is texting you, but I suspect those smiles come when your young friend is the sender.  That makes it seem like you like him.”

She stared at him, her angry expression turning to something more like mild horror.  He glanced at her and grew alarmed.  “What?”

“It’s just that we’ve just met.  You don’t know me.  But you think the same thing that a lot of my friends do as well,” she said.

“So just what would be so wrong about liking this kid?  Is he evil?  Would he hurt you?” Buck asked.

“Hurt me?  No, of course not.  He doesn’t even get road rage when someone cuts him off, which is a really good thing, by the way.  It’s just… I don’t know… not what I imagined… not who I imagined,” she said.

“Well, that’s reassuring,” he said with a laugh.

She frowned at him until he explained. “That werewolves and witches get blindsided by life, too.  But, we’re here.  Time to focus and check out the military werewolf,” he said, putting the truck in Park and opening his door.  “Alleged werewolf,” he amended.

“Nope, he’s a wolf alright,” she said, sniffing the air as she got out.  “And he’s done a thorough job of marking his territory,” she added, her nose wrinkling.

The cabin was constructed of logs—not a kit but actual logs, cut and hand-fit to each other.  It was small, probably no more than three or four rooms, with a large roofed porch, half of which had been screened against mosquitoes and blackflies.

The front door was a heavy-duty affair made from rough-sawn planks, and the cylinder lock on the door was first rate.

They knocked on the door, Stacia tilting her head to listen with more than human ears as they waited.

“I don’t think he’s here,” she said.  “I’ll go around back and sniff around,” she said, heading for the open end of the porch.

“Stop!” Buck said, the note of urgency in his voice freezing her in mid-step.

He walked past her and bent over to point out a single strand of taut fishing line that stretched from the corner porch post to the wall of the cabin, stapled in a trail around the log corner.  Buck studied it carefully before leaning on the cabin wall high up and peeking around the corner.

“I think that’s a CS grenade… pepper spray, basically,” he said.  “We need to proceed carefully.”

“Well he’s got my attention,” she said, following the sergeant as he cautiously stepped over the nearly invisible line.  “You’ve done this before,” she noted.

“Iraq.  Bellini and me were squadmates.  You always had to watch for traps,” he said.

“Were you kidding before?  About Hell?”

She was silent long enough for him to stop moving and glance back at her.  Silently, she shook her head.  When she still didn’t speak, he decided the look in her eyes was answer enough.  Suddenly, she put a hand on his arm, her head tilted.  “I hear a really, really quiet electrical hum.  Like a battery-powered something,” she said.

He stopped and looked around them, finally spotting something.

“Circle around that way.  He’s got a battery-powered motion detector on a tree,” Buck said.

They skirted the obvious clearing, instead moving along the edge of the tree line.  Buck pointed to the brown-painted plastic motion sensor fastened to a small oak tree, its sensor lens pointed at the cabin.

Following the wires from the back of it, he traced them upward into the branches of the tree.

“Shit, look at that.” He pointed upward.

An old single shot shotgun was lashed to a branch, some kind of homemade servo device installed over the trigger guard, the barrel pointing the same direction as the motion detector.  The gun was about ten or eleven feet off the ground.  Buck studied the tree, looking for a way up, but Stacia just bent her legs a bit and jumped eight feet straight up.  Adroitly catching a handy limb, she flipped up and slipped her legs over the same branch as the shotgun then, with a quick hand, unlatched the action and removed the single round from the chamber.  Tossing it down to the openmouthed deputy sergeant, she slid off the branch and dropped lightly to the ground.

“Damn, that’s handy,” he said.

“A girl’s gotta have skills,” she said, only slightly smug.

They carefully cleared the rest of the home site, finding four more booby traps of varying lethality, but no Michael Tacchino.

Back at the truck, they radioed Devany and Hampton, who had also struck out with finding Karen Lyons.

“Now what?” Stacia asked.

“Let’s check in at the Bitter Bear.  Tacchino hangs out there, or used to.  See if anyone has seen him.”

CHAPTER 14

The Bitter Bear had lots to be angry with, Stacia decided almost as soon as they stepped inside.

It must have been charming once, the stereotypical woodsy tavern with log everything, wood everywhere, and rustic out the ass.  A big chainsaw-carved bear greeted them by the door, one paw outstretched palm up, the other up in a wave.  Someone had broken off all the claws on the waving paw but the middle one, which made a big difference in the bear’s intended greeting.

The place was dirty, rundown, and smelled of old spilled beer, cheap spilled whiskey, a bit of spilled blood here and there, and deliberately spilled urine in at least one corner.

A log bar ran on one wall, across from a row of faded booths, with a few tables in between.  The back of the room held a pool table and some kind of long shuffleboard game that took up the whole back wall.

Three men looked up at the newcomers from their pool game, two women who had been watching them also glancing to the front.  One old-timer sat at the bar, and the overweight, bearded bartender’s face went from disinterested to outright surly at the sight of Buck’s uniform.

Ignoring the stares from the pool table, Stacia followed Buck over to the bar.

“Hey Curly, how’s it going?” Buck asked the bartender whose thinning scalp held not one single curl.

“If it isn’t Johnny Law,” Curly said, taking his eyes off Buck to give Stacia a top-to-bottom appraisal followed by a leer.

“Seen Tacchino lately?” Buck asked.

Curly’s head started to shake no before Buck even got the words out.

The three guys behind them were commenting on Stacia, and she was pretty sure she would have heard them even without wolf ears. None of it was charming and she’d heard all of it many times before.

Buck’s face flushed red, either anger at Curly’s attitude or anger at the crude comments from behind them, or both.  Before he could blow his top, the old guy to his left swore. “Shit on a stick, Curly.  You and every damned person who sucks suds in this hole have been doing nothing but complain about the law not catching the killer.  People dying, monster at large, and here comes Buck, doing his job, and you go dumb.  Dumber.”

“Maybe you about had enough then, Darrell?  Perhaps it’s time for you to pack it in,” Curly said, fixing his eyes on the oldster.

“Sure.  Maybe I have.  Maybe I’ll take my pension and spend it at the Dew Drop Inn.  Morgan would be glad to have a steady customer,” Darrell said.  He turned to Buck, nodding at Stacia.  “Tacchino hasn’t been around a lot lately.  At least a couple of months.  But last time I saw him, he looked good, like treatments were working.”

“Tacchino’s a fucking ass,” Curly said, snagging Darrell’s draft glass and refilling it at the tap, looking annoyed with himself for doing it.  “Got into it with Bob and Bob in September.  Beat hell out of both of them.  Broke a table.  I told him to stay away till he bought me a new one.  Fucking guy snarled at me and I ain’t seen him since.”

“Big Bob and Bigger Bob?” Buck asked, eyebrows raised.  Curly nodded, looking uncomfortable.

“Lumbermen, the both,” Darrell explained to Stacia.  “Big Bob is about six-five, two-seventy.  Bigger Bob is, as the name says, bigger.  Couple of hard cases that wrestle trees to the ground for a living.  Tacchino’s always been a tough son of a bitch, but never got anywhere with either Bob.  Beat the bejesus outta both of them that night, though.  And did it fast.  Coldcocked Bigger.  Two fast punches.  Put him right out.  Big grabbed him and Tacchino threw him across the bar into that crap table that Curly’s all worked up about.  Was on him when he landed and broke his nose.  Fucking growled, he did.”

Buck and Stacia exchanged a look, silently agreeing that this was confirmation.  A shadow at the side of her vision caught Stacia’s attention and she turned to find one of the pool players standing there, grinning like an idiot.

About six feet tall, he had a mustache but no beard, brown hair and brown eyes, and an obvious buzz.  “Hey, why don’t you buy me a beer and I’ll teach you to play pool?” he asked as soon as he had her attention.

One of the other two guffawed while the younger of the two women, a blonde, stood with crossed arms and a pissed-off expression.

“Give it a rest, Kyle,” Buck said, annoyed.

“Free country, Buck.  Lady can buy my love if she wants, right babe?” the back bar player asked.

Stacia gave Buck an apologetic smile, then turned to Kyle.  “Listen, I’ve already got one asshole in these pants. I don’t need two,” she said.

There was a moment of silence as her words were processed by everyone in the bar.  Then both Darrell and Curly burst out laughing and Buck coughed hard.  Kyle the ladykiller hadn’t heard that one before and his beer-bleary eyes went wide then turned angry.

He leaned forward and poked a finger at her chest.  “Listen, bit…” was as far as he got before his finger was grabbed in a small steel fist and he dropped to his knees in pain as she flexed it.  Point made, she let go, watching as he stood unsteadily up.

“Move on, Kyle,” Buck warned, but a bleached-blonde blur came between both him and Kyle as the crossed-arm girl came at Stacia.  Her left arm flashed out in a slapping arc, but to Stacia, it looked like slow motion. She leaned back and the girl’s hand slipped past her, the follow-through bringing it palm first right into the end of Kyle’s nose.

“Wha’ da ‘uck ‘elly!” he demanded, holding his nose, which was already swelling.

“Enough!” Buck commanded.

Swearing and holding his face, Kyle turned and stormed back to the pool table where his grinning buddies were unlikely to offer much solace.  Kelly went after him, pausing only to flash Stacia a glare before chasing after her wounded man.

“Listen, Buck.  I’ll call you if I see Tacchino.  Now could you maybe leave us alone before all my customers leave me?” Curly asked.

“Naw, that was the most fun I’ve had in here in years.  You, ma’am, can come here anytime you want,” Darrell said to Stacia.

“Thanks, but I’m not much of a drinker,” she said.  Buck coughed again at that and then led the way out of the Bitter Bear.

“You’re pretty much a menace wherever you go, aren’t you?” he asked as they climbed back into the truck.

“I don’t ever start trouble, but it finds me,” she said.  “So I tend to finish it.”

“Cause a lot of trouble in the Big Apple, do you?” he asked.

“Well, there’s always some guy that thinks he’s God’s gift to the females of the world.  Other than that, I’m pretty well-known in the places I hang out.  They don’t tolerate a lot of nonsense from guys like that,” she said.

“Your buddy the witch… what would he have done back there?” Buck asked.

“Declan?  Probably would have pulled up a stool next to Darrell and watched the fun.  He knows I can handle my own problems just fine,” she said.

“Hmm.  I think I’d like to meet this kid,” Buck said.

“He’d probably talk shop with you.  His step-aunt is a Vermont deputy near Burlington.”

“He doesn’t get jealous when men hit on you?” Buck asked.

“I don’t think he likes it, but he keeps calm about it,” she said.

“How do you feel about that?  Should he get jealous?” Buck asked.

“If you’re asking if I like drama and stirring up trouble around me, the answer is a loud hell no.  And I want him to stay calm.  I’ve only seen him angry a couple of times and it wasn’t anything I want to see again.”

“Hmm.  Like I said, I think I’d like to meet this kid.  But let’s go find Shorty and see if he’ll take us to Maurice Bowwan.  Maybe the whole balance of the earth business will give us a clue,” Buck said.

“That’s very open-minded of you Sergeant,” she said, surprised.

“I’m learning quick, Stacia. I’m learning quick.”

CHAPTER 15

Maurice Bowwan lived in a yurt out another six miles past Shorty Kane’s hunting lodge.  The road to get to it pretty much demanded a four-wheel drive vehicle.

“A yurt?” Stacia asked for the third time.

“They’re simple and efficient.  He can easily heat it with wood all winter, and it costs little in upkeep,” Shorty said as he navigated the pitted, muddy road.

“How does he earn a living out here?” she asked.

“He’s a writer, poetry mostly, but articles and stories too.  A few books.  He drives out every few days and uses Wi-fi in town to send his stuff out and correspond with his editor and publisher,” Buck said.

“What about the middle of winter?” she asked.

“He’ll snowmobile over to my place and use my Internet, sometimes spend the night so we can play cards.  It all works,” Shorty said.

They bumped and bounced another three tenths of mile till they came to a large clearing.  A very old Dodge pickup was parked under a pole barn made from spruce logs that still had the bark on them.  A massive garden space, currently covered with decaying compost, lay between the pole barn and the plywood-sided and canvas-topped yurt that occupied the pride of place in the center of the clearing.  Out beyond the yurt, an open expanse of water stretched over an area equal to several football fields.  Looking oddly similar to the yurt, a beaver hut poked up in the swampy section of the small pond.

A tall, fit-looking man watched them from a firewood pile, a splitting ax casually hung over one shoulder.

Shorty parked near the pole barn and led the way around the garden to the splitting grounds where the man was still working.

“Hey Maurice,” Shorty said, his tone casual but respectful.

“John.  You’ve brought me visitors?” Maurice asked in a deep stately voice, reminding Stacia of James Earl Jones.

“You know Buck of course,” Shorty said.  “And this is Stacia Reynolds.”

“How do you do sir?” she asked.

“The Wolf of Washington?  Brought to my door?” Maurice asked, turning to Shorty.  Somehow, it didn’t sound like he was delighted.

“That makes her sound like a politician or stock trader,” Shorty said.  “She’s here to help with the killings.”

“To help make the killings?  Or find the killers?” Maurice asked.  Stacia couldn’t tell if he was joking.

Well over six feet tall, he was lean and weathered, wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a sleeveless shirt that should have looked ridiculous but didn’t.  He was very obviously fit, in that ropey, sinewy way active older men sometimes are. His hair was thinning but still mostly dark, which matched his dark eyes. His high cheekbones were likely a gift from his Native American ancestors. He was studying her intensely and it was oddly uncomfortable.

She was used to people reacting to her physical attractiveness, but this wasn’t that.  It was almost as if he were looking under her skin.

“Well, come out to the porch.  I’ve got a pot of tea steeping,” he said, sinking the ax into his splitting log with an authoritative whack and leading the way around front.

A flat, railing-less deck was attached to the front of the yurt. The deck was only a foot off the ground but wide and spacious, providing plenty of room for a wooden slat futon and a rough set of split log benches.

He waved them toward the benches and futon, disappearing into the yurt, only to reappear moments later with a teapot and four mugs.

The three visitors took spots on the log benches and Maurice sat on the edge of the futon, pouring each of them a mug of sweet-smelling tea.

“Spearmint and chamomile,” he said as he handed Stacia her mug.  “Tell me about that,” he said, jutting his chin toward her chest.  It took her several seconds to realize he wasn’t looking at her breasts but rather the outline of her two amulets resting on her chest bone.

She fished them out one-handed.  “The wolf is a gift from a friend, the crystal a gift from another,” she said, oddly reticent.

“The wolf glows with power from the Creator.  The crystal also glows, but it is the power of Mother Earth.  Since I have seen videos and pictures of you with the others, I think I can guess who gave you the wolf.  Tell me about the one who fastened the crystal.”

“He’s a friend,” she said, shrugging slightly.

Maurice raised one bushy eyebrow.  “Just a friend?  It shines like a floodlight to those of us with the Sight and while I do not recognize the symbols woven into its fastenings, I can see that they are fiercely protective of you.  One does not create such a gift for just any friend.”

“Well, he usually uses Rowan wood, but I’m allergic,” she said.

“I should think so.  Wolf brethren and mountain ash do not mix.  Your benefactor is powerful, and skilled, but also young, I would say.  Not yet attuned to the balance of things,” Maurice said.

“Why do you say that?” Shorty asked.

“Most amulets of protection carry a mixture of elements.  It spreads the burden of the protection across many small objects of power.  This… this is a single crystal, carefully selected and empowered with enormous energy wrapped in a very precisely woven net of copper.  Protections are generally crafted to be subtle, to blend in but defend their wearers when needed.  This is like a beacon, powered by a nuclear reactor, covered with signs and warnings to keep back under pain of death.”

“You’re saying it’s gaudy?” Stacia asked.

“I’m saying it promises pain and destruction to any practitioner who dares come near it.  It draws attention to you.”

“It’s too much… overkill?” Buck asked.

“More like an excess of riches.  Like buying a diamond bracelet that costs more than most people make in a year.  It would take many, many practitioners a long time to duplicate this.  And he’s male?” Maurice asked.

“Yes.  From a rather long and famous line of witches.  Two lines of witches, really,” she said.

“Could you make something like that, Maurice?” Shorty asked.

The older man shook his head.  “It is much beyond my humble skills.  It is truly extraordinary.  Any Crafter who sees it will covet it,” he said.  “Although I would not fancy trying to take it from you.  In fact, I would not dare to send you so much as a blessing while you wear that.  Powerful, but not in balance.”

“I don’t think he would give me something unstable,” Stacia said, annoyed at his judgmental tone.

“It is not a danger to you, just any who come in contact with you,” he said.

“We travel in dangerous places and we have dangerous enemies.  He won’t stint on protecting his friends,” she said, squaring her shoulders a bit.

“In fact, he may follow her here to help her.  We thought you should know,” Buck said.

“Duly noted,” Maurice said.  “But why do I think you had other reasons to visit?  I’m no danger to someone who could craft a thing like that.  And I will warn the neighbors,” he said.

“Well, we’re looking for rogue werewolves and it was suggested that a local Adept might have felt something off,” Shorty said.

“A disturbance in the Force?” he asked, then chuckled at the expressions on their faces.  “I have.  But it is more along the lines of another Adept, as you might say, moving into the area.”

“Like a witch?” Stacia asked.

“There are many paths that would fit that description,” Maurice said.  “But somehow witch fits better than most.  Dark she is,” he said in a Yoda voice.

“What about werewolves?”  Buck asked.

“The local animals have made themselves very scarce.  Much as if large, new predators have moved in.”

“Any ideas where to find the witch?” Buck asked.

“She moves about.  I haven’t crossed paths with her, something I would like to avoid.  I would recommend you avoid her as well, Buck.  You are not equipped to deal with one such as this.  She, maybe, with that massive ward around her neck,” Maurice said, pointing at Stacia’s amulet.

“Well, we’ll see.  They may be unrelated,” Buck said.

“They may,” Maurice said, although his voice suggested otherwise.

CHAPTER 16

Buck left them at Shorty’s Lodge, the day mostly done. There were fewer vehicles than when she’d gone with the sheriff’s department to arrest Ken Spitzer. Only her Jeep and the Cadillac Escalade had been parked besides Buck’s sheriff’s truck and the Toyota Tacoma.

“Did I drive your customers away?” she asked Shorty.

“Two ripped-up bodies did the driving.  Although Kyle looked pretty bad when he headed back to Boston.  Only Carl and Hutch have stayed.  Hutch is curious, and Carl sees an opportunity to make a connection,” Shorty said.

“No mere pack of murderous werewolves will interfere with business, huh?” she said.

“No joke.  Carl is much more serious about hunting deals than hunting deer.  And he’s pretty damned serious about deer.”

She nodded at the two hunters who were camped out by the television, each nursing a drink.

“Hair appointment?” Hutch asked, pointing at his own hair.

“Tried to keep things on the down low.  Didn’t work,” she said, automatically touching her platinum locks.

“We know.  It was just on the news.  That sheriff has balls,” Carl said. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Reynolds.”

“Yes he does. And it’s nice to meet you too. Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, heading up the stairs to her room.

A long, hot shower and fresh clothes went a long way toward making her feel human again.

Her phone had a message on it when she came out.

Heading home then coming up.  Midmorning likely.

You have a test.

It’ll get taken.

Hmm, by you?

Of course.  Gotta get to Aunt Ash’s.  Be careful. Bye for now.

Didn’t think she could handle it on her own, did he?  Her annoyance wasn’t deep, no matter how hard she tried.  Instead, a warm satisfaction lived deep inside, awoken by his message.  Loki’s Spawn had been scary as F when she was just a newbie werewolf, and the idea of facing a pack of killers plus a possible witch was more than mildly daunting.  She would do it, but having the equivalent of a squad of Arkady’s vampire bodyguards for backup was nice.  Okay, two squads.  And wrapped in a package that she enjoyed being with.

Feeling refreshed and reinforced, she headed down for dinner.  Tonight’s menu appeared to be baked ziti, Italian bread, and tossed salad.  Shorty, Hutch, and Carl were all at the table when she came up to it, Mrs. Dox banging pots and pans in the kitchen.  The ruckus got louder and Stacia assumed she’d been spotted.

“Ah, here she is,” Carl said, smiling.  He smelled a little of excitement and fear.

“I like the new you,” Hutch said.  His smells were pipe tobacco and curiosity.

“Yeah, I kinda suck at undercover,” she said.

“Occupational hazard when your face has been plastered on magazines and the entire Internet.  Looks like you and Buck made progress, catching that Spitzer fellow,” Hutch said.

“Shorty was there, too,” she said, helping herself from the pan of ziti.

“Bah.  Didn’t need me.  Hell, she didn’t need the whole sheriff’s department.  Took him down like she played for the Patriots,” Shorty said.

“So what’s the deal with that federal agent?” Hutch asked.

“He was there when I was first bitten.  Chris hid it from them or else I’d have disappeared into a lab somewhere.  So he doesn’t like me.  Hates Chris.  I think Chris scares him.”

“He should be scared.  The literal Hammer of God,” Carl said, face a little flushed.

“Settle down there, fanboy,” Hutch said.  “What’s he like?” he asked Stacia.

“Chris?  Well, great.  Super nice, approachable, humble, likes to stay off the radar.”

“But he’s also dangerous,” Shorty said.

“Of course.  But that’s mostly Grim,” she said, buttering a slice of bread.

“Grim?” Carl asked.

“Oh, right.  It’s the name we have for his combat persona.  He’s pretty much a different person in a fight.  We call that one Grim,” she said.

“He actually has a split personality?” Hutch asked.

“Yeah, but he’s fully aware of it and it’s not as distinct as it used to be.  He’s matured,” she said.

“It’s hard to remember he’s only in his mid-twenties.  He just seems older,” Carl said.

“He grew up fast and young.  Never had the luxury of childhood.  My other friend’s a little like that too, although in his case, it wasn’t fighting demons. It was being responsible for so much power.”

“How old is he?” Hutch asked.

“Nineteen, going on forty, although sometimes twelve,” she said.

“Most nineteen-year-old guys just have the twelve-year-old thing going on,” Hutch said.  “At least my boys were like that.  Takes them longer to grow up.  My daughter felt like there wasn’t any hope for most boys in college, at least freshmen and sophmores.  Something about them bro’ing out,” Hutch said.

“What does that mean?” Shorty asked.

“Bro this and bro that.  Bros before hoes, dumb shit like that,” Hutch said.

“Yeah, that crap gets old quick,” Stacia agreed.  “Got pack members like that.  Declan doesn’t act like that.  He seems a lot older than he is, despite what your friend thought of his amulet.”

“Maurice was a little… taken aback, maybe.  Impressed,” Shorty said.

“You think so?  I couldn’t read the guy at all.  Heartbeat steady, no smell of fear or greed,” she said.

“You can smell greed?  Carl, you must stink,” Hutch said to his friend with a grin.

“Oh shut up, Hutch,” Carl said, glancing nervously at Stacia.

“Carl smells of excitement, like a hunter on a trail,” she said.  “I should warn you: Tatiana Demidova does not care for me.  My connection is with her Chosen, Chris, so anything that comes from me is treated with skepticism and suspicion.”

“What woman wants another beautiful woman hanging around her man?” Hutch asked.

“Thank you, Hutch,” Stacia said. “But honestly, Shorty, I couldn’t get a thing off of Maurice other than a lecture.”

“He has a couple of tells.  I’ve played enough poker with him to know them.  He was shocked, then appalled, then mildly jealous of the amulet, and by that I mean your boyfriend,” Shorty said.

“He gets that a lot.  Male witches are almost all very weak.  They can still learn and become skilled, but they lack the power.  Most witches’ circles have only a few men,” Stacia said.

“But your pal would be handpicked to be on a circle,” Hutch suggested.

She snorted softly.  “He’s pretty much a circle all by himself.”

“So it sucks to be a male witch?” Shorty asked.

“In terms of power?  Yes.  But females will seek out males—who are very rare, by the way—and do almost anything to have children with them.  Guaranteed strong witch babies,” she said.

“Oh, no wonder he stayed single all these years—he was studding himself out,” Shorty said. Stacia frowned, then realized he was probably talking about Maurice.

“That would mean your friend must be besieged by witches,” Carl pointed out.

“By every circle in the country—and other countries, too.  Last year was the first year he was in the special college he attends.  There were eight other witches, all girls.  The witch world found out about him then.  This year, there are forty-two new witches attending, all girls.  So yeah,” she said.

“How does that make you feel?” Hutch asked.

“I told you, we’re not a couple,” she said with a frown.

“I may not be able to hear heartbeats or smell emotions, but I’ve learned a lot about body language over the years.  You like this kid,” he stated.

She felt herself begin to squirm and squashed it ruthlessly.  “I don’t know how I feel about Declan.”

“Know?  Or willing to admit to yourself?” Hutch said.

“Why do you care?  I mean, not to be mean, but we’ve just met.  Why do you care if I like him or not?”

He shrugged.  “My daughter is about your age.  You must trigger my dad instincts.  Which is odd, but there it is.  Meeting you has been easily the highlight of my years of coming to Shorty’s Lodge.”

“Thanks a lot, Hutch,” Shorty said.

“No problem.  Maybe you can invite her back next year—guided hunts with Stacia Reynolds.  The place would be stacked three deep with hunters,” Hutch said.  “But honestly, Stacia, it has.  We’ve all seen the media coverage and the photos in magazines and the Internet.  But to meet you and find out that despite the brains, beauty, and ability to lift cars, that you’re a normal person with abnormal challenges, well, I guess it makes me want to see you happy.  I think this kid makes you happy. He’s obviously crazy about you, and you’re fighting it for some reason.”

“Why would you say he’s crazy about me?” she asked.

“So out of everything I just said, you honed in on that?  Hmm, I wonder why?” he asked, then spoke without waiting for an answer.  “Let’s see: he’s a great guy and very mature for his age; he’s got forty-two girls vying for his attention, yet he texts you constantly and by your own admission, wild werewolves can’t keep him from coming to watch your back,” Hutch said.

“You think he’s attracted because I don’t fall at his feet like the witches?” she asked.

“He’s attracted because you’re attractive… and then some,” Shorty said.  “Don’t know why he doesn’t like the witch girls, but I can understand fully why he likes you.”  He stood up and took his plate to the kitchen.

Hutch and Carl exchanged a glance before grinning at Stacia, who was watching Shorty walk away with a bemused smile.

“So you never answered the question… how do you feel about all those girls throwing themselves at him?” Hutch asked.

She frowned as she thought about it.  “His mother was raped by his biological father.  It was a set-up by the leader of the circle his mother and aunt were part of.  He doesn’t like other witches.  Most of the girls at his school just want him for his power, and he knows it.  So I guess I don’t really worry too much about them,” she said, sounding a little uncertain, even to herself.

“But you’re not sure?” Hutch questioned.

“Well, I don’t know a lot about the new crop.  I know he has no interest in the girls from last year, although there was this witch from Ireland who he kind of liked, but she got called back and a distant cousin of his replaced her.  He loathes that one.  I think he would be more likely to meet a girl in the bigger university where he takes most of his classes.  I don’t know how I feel, so I haven’t dwelled on it,” she said.

“So if he texts you that he’s seeing some coed and she makes him happy, how would you feel?” Hutch asked, immediately pulling back from the look on her face.

“Got it.”

She hadn’t been able to stop the wave of fear and anger that sentence had caused her.

“Stacia, a word of advice… don’t play poker.  You don’t hide emotions well,” Carl said.

“I guess I haven’t quite figured it out yet,” she said.

“Maybe he’s playing all the witches but chasing what he can’t get?” Shorty said, walking back over with two pies in his hands.

“He’s not a slut.  He went out with one girl last year, not a witch, and that was it,” she said.

“Are they all ugly?” Carl asked, absently, maybe wondering what it would be like to be young and chased by forty girls.

“No, not at all.  The twins, in fact, are quite pretty,” she said.

“Twins?” Hutch and Shorty chorused together.

“Yeah.  Swedish witch sisters.  Got that Nordic huntress look going.  They are sluts… or at least one of them is,” she said, helping herself to a slice of pumpkin pie.

“Identical?  Swedish?” Shorty asked, getting a nod from her on each question.  “All bets are off.  That’s a game changer.”

“What?” she asked.

“Universal male fantasy.  Identical twins, at the same time,” Carl said.  “Shorty’s saying it’s an unbelievable temptation.”

She pictured it—Erika and Britta, both scantily dressed, descending upon on frozen, trapped Declan.  Her wolf did not like it.  She did not like it.  Then logic made an end run around the green-eyed monster that had formed in her gut.

“Britta has a boyfriend.  They’re almost engaged.  And Declan loathes Erika,” she said, reassuring herself.

“But what if they were all drinking together?” Shorty asked.  Hutch, who had a slightly alarmed look on his face, maybe because of her reaction, turned quickly to the little guide and shook his head in warning.

“What?” Shorty rasped in his gravely voice.  “Happens all the time on these campuses.  Drinking games in a group turns into bedroom games.”

Instead of making her more upset, his words oddly calmed her down.  “You’re right.  That would be about the only way it could happen.  But most witches don’t drink, and Declan never does,” she said.

“Why?” Hutch asked, like he wanted to explore any idea that made her calm.

“They can’t afford to lose control.  First, witches don’t always get along among themselves.  Placing yourself in a vulnerable condition where your enemies can assault you is Darwinistic.  Second, a drunken witch wouldn’t stay under the radar for long, plus Declan tells me if you lose control of your magic or power or what have you, it can bounce back at you.  So most avoid drugs. Certainly, the most powerful do,” she said.

“Makes sense,” Hutch agreed quickly.  Shorty looked uncertain.

“But they’re beautiful, identical twins!” he protested.

“At least one of them is a nasty, vicious slut who uses people for her own advancement.  If you knew my Declan, you would understand that’s the worst kind of person for him, no matter their looks,” she said.

Hutch and Carl exchanged a smile.

“What?” she asked.

“You called him my Declan,” Hutch said.

“Oh,” she said, thinking back on her words.  “I guess I did.”

The lights went out, the room suddenly pitch black except for the glow of the fireplace.

CHAPTER 17

“What the hell, Short?  Didn’t pay your bill?” Carl asked in the sudden dark silence. The reddish firelight was just enough to make out details of the room.

“Generator should have kicked on?” Shorty mused, looking in the direction of the Quonset hut garage.  He started to get up, maybe to go see.

Stacia growled.  A full-fledged wolfish growl.  Too deep in tone to have come from such a slim girl.  Shorty froze, looking her way, but she was listening, head tilted.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she said, voice deeper than normal, as she moved quickly but quietly to the closest window. She had just stopped by the window when she spun her whole body around to look at the hall off the main door.

All three men followed her look at the hallway then, almost as one, stood up.

A shape formed in the blackness of the doorframe, resolving into a giant wolf, four feet at the shoulder, fur a mix of grey and brown, lit with the reddish glow of the fire.  It oozed out of the doorway, stalking on silent feet the size of salad plates, eyes fixed on the men in front of it.

Mistake one.  A white blur closed on it from the side wall closest to the kitchen, moving so fast that Shorty could barely see that it rushed on four legs before leaping off two and wrapping itself around the larger beast.

Taken by surprise, the wolf pushed back into the hall, taking Stacia in her beast form with it.  It roared but cut off with a sharp squeal, changing to a frantic half-snarl, half-whine.  The building shook with the fury of the battle, and the three men could feel as much as hear the sheet rock and studs of the hallway walls snapping and tearing.

Claws scrabbled and ripped at the wooden flooring, splintering sounds overlaying the hair-raising roars.  Then it went silent except for a low, steady growl, followed by a wet, ripping sound.  A dark-furred head sailed through the door, landing with a thump on the table in front of them, blood spattering the remains of dinner.  A giant, pale two-legged form, streaked with dark wetness, stalked out of the hallway, huge clawed hands gory to the elbow.  Her eyes were yellow and angry and focused on them.  For a long second, each of them thought they were next.  Then she blinked.  The yellow lost some of its glow and the massive form straightened up as she fully emerged from the shorter hallway.  At least seven feet of lean, corded muscle and claw stood breathing heavily before tilting her head and sniffing.  The muzzle visibly shortened and changed, enough that when she opened her mouth, actual words came out.

“Sshotguns.  Ssilver,” she growled.  The men were frozen for a second, then Shorty moved hastily across the room to a bulky wooden shelf that held a bear skull and a stuffed fisher.  He looked nervously at Stacia as he went by her, but her attention was focused on the walls of the lodge, and she moved her head as if tracking something.

Shorty grabbed an odd, t-shaped plastic object hanging from a string on one of the shelf’s support braces and placed it in the middle of the front of the shelf.  Something clicked and the whole bottom of the shelf rotated down forty degrees to reveal a short pump shotgun tucked into a foam cutout.  He grabbed the gun, pumped the action.  Another click and the light attached to the barrel lit up the room.

Turning to the werewolf, he kept the barrel pointed down, a puddle of light splashing on the wooden floor.  He looked slightly more confident with the gun in his hands.

“My rrroom.  Casse,” she said, words deep and growly but understandable.

Shorty nodded, understanding what the others didn’t.  “Come on you two, unless you want to stay here,” he said, heading for the stairs.

“What about Mrs. Dox?” Carl asked.  They all froze.

“I gettt,” Stacia growled, turning toward the kitchen.

“Ah, let me go first.  She’s not going to respond well to you,” Hutch said, moving quickly to catch up to her.  She paused to let him go by, which he did smoothly, although his head and shoulders were tight with tension.

They found her in the kitchen pantry, pressed deep into the cans of tomatoes and giant jars of pickles.  Hutch waved Stacia back, then went in to extract the terrified woman.  She resisted, but he was stronger and in the end, he simply pulled her from the pantry, moving her toward the main room.  She took one look at Stacia, screamed, and ran out, almost knocking over Carl, who stood guard near the bottom of the stairs with Shorty’s shotgun in his hands.  Shorty came rushing out of Stacia’s room, trying to unzip the black case in his hands.  He slowed down when he saw what was happening, then held up the case in frustration.  “It’s locked.”

Stacia lifted one pawed and clawed hand and flashed two long, clawed fingers, two fingers again and then three, talons flashing.  Understanding crossed the guide’s face as he twisted the luggage lock combination until the lock popped open and he unzipped the case.  Hutch hurried over to join Carl on the stairs.

“What the hell is that?  Space gun?” Carl asked, glancing at the stubby plastic gun that emerged from the ballistic nylon carrier.

“I think it’s a Standard Manufacturing DP-12, right?” Shorty asked Stacia.  She nodded her massive furred head.  “I read about it online.”

“Sssilver buck and sslugs,” she uttered.

“Bullpup design of a basic pump shotgun, times two. Basically a double-barreled shotgun married to a pump. It has two barrels, two actions, and two magazine tubes of ammo instead of one, so it carries like sixteen rounds or something.  Short and handy,” the guide said, admiring it and pumping the action.  “And fully loaded… and heavy.”

Glass shattered somewhere on the second floor and Shorty immediately turned to face the far end of the balcony, walking backward toward the top of the stairs.

The door to one of the rooms exploded in a cloud of splintering wood, a huge furred shape slamming through and stopping instantly before it could follow the door’s remains over the balcony.

Shorty fired instantly, then immediately fired again before racking the action automatically and firing again, the four shots sounding in one long string.  The wolf started moving almost as soon as it emerged, turning toward the three on the stairs, but the guide’s shots were from less than twenty-five feet away.  Sprays of blood spattered the wall behind it as the first wave of silver buckshot tore through it.  Stacia had alternated buckshot with slugs, so the instantaneous second round blew a massive gout of gore from its midsection and the last round of buck punched into its neck and skull while the final slug crushed its left shoulder.  Its front legs crumpled, the shot-blasted snout nose-diving into the western style balcony rug, body skidding to a halt five feet from Shorty.

Two of the big windows on the floor-level end wall imploded, glass crashing to the floor and dining tables, two more giant canine forms smashing through.  The left-hand wolf landed on a table, which instantly folded under the massive impact.  Carl’s gun boomed and the wolf, which was still adjusting its balance, took the shot on its ribs and flank.  It spun, jaws biting at the wounds and thus took the second shot on its neck.

The other wolf, yellow furred, landed on the wood floor, dug its claws deep, and leapt for the balcony stairs.  Shorty’s barrels were still pointed at the dead werewolf on the balcony, Carl was focused on the writhing wolf on the flattened table, and the tawny yellow wolf was going to land right between them, just about on top of the screaming Mrs. Dox and Hutch.

A muscular white missile caught it in mid-air, long arms wrapping its torso, heavy body taking it sideways across the room and into the wooden bar.  The heavy log that framed the front of the bar top fractured but held under the combined mass of the two twisting, snarling forms.  The yellow wolf fought from instinct, the white bipedal wolf from training and experience.  The massive white and tan furball spun and writhed on the floor against the planks of the bar front before suddenly resolving into a giant canine held in a headlock by a giant monster.  White-furred legs wrapped around yellow-furred body, and the massive arms tightened into a chokehold.  It took a full twenty-five seconds for the yellow wolf to stop fighting and even then, the arms did not loosen for five seconds more.

The yellow form suddenly shrank in on itself, the fur disappearing and pale skin showing through. Stacia stood up and listened, ignoring the form by her feet that was popping and twisting slowly into a small, naked female form.  Her senses focused on the world outside the lodge, she even ignored the silver-shot wolf on the table as it kicked out its final moments of supernatural life.

Head tilted, she stayed listening for ten whole seconds, sniffing the air.  Satisfied, she turned to the four on the stairs who were watching her with shock, curiosity, horror, and grim focus, respectively.  Then she too began to shrink, shifting smaller as she stalked to the pile of material that was her clothes.  The light from Carl’s shotgun outlined her lithe, blood-streaked naked female form as she pulled on leggings and shirt.  “You mind?” she asked.

Suddenly aware that he’d been spotlighting her like a burlesque dancer, Carl jerked the light away.

“They gone?  Or all dead?” Shorty asked.

“Gone.  That one is still alive,” she said pointing to the woman on the floor.  “Or at least she will be in a few minutes.”

“Is that why she turned back human while these others didn’t?” Shorty asked.

“Yup.  A dead were, truly dead, stays in whatever form they died in.  One that can regenerate will shift back to human to conserve energy and reduce the mass that needs to be rebuilt.  We’ll need to bind her,” Stacia said.

“No, we need to check on Olsen first.  He lives in one of the cabins,” Shorty said.

“I don’t hear a living thing out there, Short.  If he’s alive, he’s hidden deep. If not, well then, it won’t matter if we take a few moments to assure that this one doesn’t come back to bite anyone in half,” she said as she pulled on the moccasins she’d been wearing before the fight.

“There were more?” Carl asked.

“At least two, maybe three,” she said, moving past the four still on the stairs, Mrs. Dox jerking back hard when Stacia slid by.  Hutch grabbed the woman’s arm and kept her from falling backward over the railing.  Stacia lithely hopped over the dead werewolf on the balcony before disappearing into her room and, a moment later, reappearing with a bundle of cable tie restraints, law enforcement style.

“These have a silver wire braided into the stainless steel core,” she said, heading down the stairs and then binding up the naked woman’s ankles and arms.  When she was done, she zipped another one to the loop on the werewoman’s wrists and then down to the loop on her ankles.

“Shouldn’t we put clothes on her or something?” Carl wondered.

“Be my guest,” Stacia said, standing up and dusting off her hands.  Her face was spotted with blood and her hands stained red, her shirt and tights torn in ways that would have intrigued the men ten minutes ago, before they saw what she turned into.

“Let’s go check your guy,” she said to Shorty before turning to the others.  “We need to block those broken windows.  Just a thought, but that smashed table might work for one.”

“This other folding table will work for the other,” Hutch said, moving over to pick up the table he was eyeing.

“Mrs. Dox, please get the tool box for them.  Mrs. Dox?” Shorty said, snapping the woman out of her horrified stare at the bloody beast at the top of the stairs.  She nodded and headed down, only to stop and gaze into the darkness of the kitchen in fear.

“Come on.  I’ll light the way,” Carl said, still holding the shotgun and combat light combination.

“We’ll see about power too,” Shorty said, following Stacia as she walked to the doorway.

“Good luck,” Hutch said, working to get his table’s legs folded.

“Yeah, that would be good,” Shorty said, grimacing as the attached light on Stacia’s DP-12 shotgun lit up the carcass in the hall.

CHAPTER 18

Olson was dead, his cabin door caved in and his body strewn liberally around the interior.  Shorty spewed out his dinner off the end of the porch before shaking himself and standing guard, his back to the cabin.

“He died fast,” Stacia said quietly as she came out of the little structure. “Besides the four in the lodge, there were three others.  One stayed in human form.  I’ve smelled him before… that Tacchino guy.  All three took off to the northwest.  We should see about the generator.”

He nodded, wiping his mouth and keeping his back to her as he moved toward the Quonset hut garage. Pausing, he handed her his cell phone.  “Call Buck while I see what I can do with this.”

She did, filling the deputy in on the last few minutes.  Buck interrupted her once to take another call, this one from the sheriff.  When he came back on, his voice was grimmer, if that was possible.  “Someone freed Spitzer from the cell.  Killed the fed that was on security detail.  I’m headed your way, but Sheriff Grable thinks the feds will be up too.”

She thanked him and hung up, filling Shorty in on the conversation.  The little guide just grunted, then handed her the flashlight to hold while he rewired the transfer box that someone had pulled all the power cords out of.  Five minutes and several choice curses later, he hit the start on the standby generator. It turned over immediately.  Several lights, including a sodium yard light, came on.

Back inside the lodge, about a third of the lights were burning and Stacia could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen.  Hutch and Carl had screwed the tables to the window frames, which blocked much of the cold October air.  The dead werewolf on the balcony had been shoved over the edge through a broken gap in the railing spindles.  The other weres lay where they had fallen.  Stacia went into the broken hallway and dragged the headless were into the main room with inhuman strength that didn’t go unnoticed.  Hutch and Carl exchanged a glance before combining forces to drag the one Carl had shot onto the growing pile.  The naked woman was awake and staring at them with narrowed eyes.

Stacia noticed the flannel shirt she had hung on the back of her chair at dinner and put it on, more to cover her torn tee than from any sensitivity to the fall chill.  Still spattered with blood, she headed into the kitchen, which promptly resulted in Mrs. Dox almost racing out of it with a full pot of coffee and five mugs.

Hutch poked his head into the kitchen to find the blonde beauty hunched over a cold tray of ziti, spooning it into her mouth as fast as she could swallow.

“Not much of an appetite myself,” he said.

Swallowing a lump of cold pasta, she shook her head.  “Changing raises our metabolisms almost exponentially.  I burn thousands of calories an hour in my combat form,” she said, taking another spoonful.

“Should we feed the, er, prisoner?” he asked.

She shook her head, swallowing again.  “It’ll weaken her.  We want her to stay weak,” she said, pausing to wash down her ziti with a long draught of milk straight from the jug.

“You must be used to this,” he said.

“No.  I’m not.  We—that is, the team I work with—mostly fight demons.  That’s pretty shitty too.  Maybe worse.  But I’ve never had to kill a were in close combat before.  Trained like hell for it, but never done it.  This pack is fucked up.  Twisted beyond repair,” she said, taking another long pull of milk.

“Oh.  You seem so calm,” he said.

“Not calm.  I’m operating on training and experience, but I’ve never done this on my own before.  Without my team I mean,” she said.  Now he could detect the tiny trace of uncertainty in her voice.

“You saved all our lives,” he said.

“We saved all our lives,” she said.

“Shorty and Carl did some good shooting, but we wouldn’t have made it away from the dinner table if you hadn’t killed that first one.  Then it was your shotgun that gave us the extra weapon we needed.  Plus it was your senses that kept Shorty from heading outside and joining Olson in instant death.  You organized us,” he said.

“Thank you, Hutch.  I guess I did okay.  But I will be happy when my backup gets here,” she said.

“Your Declan is on his way, then?”

She smiled at his choice of words.  “I hope so, and probably breaking speed limits.  I really hope he can stay under the radar.  It would be bad if a cop tried to pull him over.”

“Can he do that?” Hutch asked. “Stay off radar?”

“Probably.  It’s hard telling what that boy can do, but I’ve learned never to underestimate him,” she said, then tilted her head into her listening pose.

“What is it?” Hutch asked, instantly alarmed.

“Helicopters.  Two of them.  I’d say the feds are here,” she said.

Twenty seconds later, Hutch could hear them too.  Forty-five seconds after that, they appeared over the treetops, a big Blackhawk first, followed by an Apache attack helicopter.

Lights flooded down from above as the Blackhawk lit up the night.  Shorty and the others came running outside in time to see the Apache line up on them, its 30mm chaingun swiveling to cover all five of them.

“ON THE GROUND, NOW!  FACE DOWN!” a voice boomed from the Blackhawk.

Stacia was the first to comply, dropping to her knees, then lying face down on the cold, hard ground.  Around her, she heard and felt the others following suit.

Rotor wash shoved them harder into the soil, and her sharp ears heard at least six people zip down rappelling lines.  Moments later, hard hands bound her arms with heavy metal cuffs that immediately weakened her.  Another set was snapped to her legs, then she was left in the dirt while feet pounded around the site, into the lodge, the cabins, and the Quonset hut.  Five minutes later, she was hauled up by two sets of hands and placed on board the metal deck of the Blackhawk.

“Trapper returning to forward base,” she heard the pilot.  Despite the engine and rotor noise she heard the reply.

“Wolfhound will remain on station.”

“Good hunting, Wolfhound,” the pilot replied, then the Blackhawk spun up and lifted from the ground with a smooth lurch.

About fifteen minutes later, they landed.  She was bodily yanked out of the helicopter and basically stood up on her feet.  Agent Adler was standing in front of her, slightly bent over, the spinning blades above making him crouch.  His eyes were hard, but she could see a grim satisfaction in his eyes.

“You can walk or be dragged, Reynolds.  Your choice,” he said.

She didn’t say a word, studying his face, smelling the rage and anger wafting off him and listening to the race of his heart.  He was on edge.

They were in the parking lot behind the Sheriff’s office, so she turned and shuffled toward the rear door of the building.  He turned away toward the other people in the chopper, but she still caught a glimpse of disappointment flashing across his expression.  He had been hoping for a struggle.

Her escort into the building consisted of a burly DOAA agent on each side and one directly behind her with a short-barreled Benelli semi-auto shotgun. She could smell the tension in the office as soon as she entered.  Half a dozen deputies looked up, expressions flashing anger before closing down, one by one, to rigid blankness.  Hutch, Carl, Shorty, and Mrs. Dox were herded into the room behind her, although none of them wore handcuffs or leg shackles.

“I want statements from each of these people, and I want them recorded,” Adler said from the doorway.  “Except her.  Leave her alone. We’ll deal with her later.”

“Why is she under restraint?” Sheriff Grable asked, voice cold.

“Because she’s covered in blood and there is at least one dead civilian.  And because I say she stays under restraint,” Adler said, voice just as cold.

“She saved our lives,” Hutch said.  “Killed one werewolf and incapacitated another by herself.”

“And I used her gun to kill another,” Shorty said.

“So let me get this straight: she identified and captured our first suspect all by herself.  Then she killed another and captured a third.  And you all killed another?” Sheriff Grable asked.

“We killed two.  Carl shot one as well.  But we wouldn’t have survived or been armed if she hadn’t been there,” Shorty said.

“And you all did what?  Lost our suspect?” Sheriff Grable said, turning to Adler.  Stacia noticed that he carefully avoided mentioning the dead DOAA agent, but Adler’s face went red and he crossed the room to get right up in the sheriff’s face.  Immediately, every deputy in the room put their hands on their side arms and the seven or so DOAA agents shifted and grabbed a hold of their own weapons.

“We lost a good man tonight, and lycanthropes were involved.  She’s lycan, so she stays wrapped up until and if I say so. Who knows what happened out there.  They left three dead lycans and a new prisoner out there,” Adler said.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered and several went dark.

“Which is why it makes absolutely no sense to have Stacia locked up,” a new voice said softly.  Stacia’s head snapped up to look at the front of the room and her eyes locked on a pair of bright blue ones framed by unruly dark hair.

Oh Shit, she thought.

CHAPTER 19

The front of the building had a secure entryway where visitors had to wait to be buzzed in by an officer who looked at them through the bulletproof glass.  The electronically locked and armored door was wide open and a tall, lean young man stood in the front of the room, staring straight at her. The officer at the window had been watching the sheriff. Now he just looked confused.

Immediately, she felt ashamed to be found restrained and under guard.  But she brushed that off, remembering what she had gone through in the last few hours.  Only then did she take in the young man’s stance and the hardness of his expression. Uh oh.

“Who the hell are you?  What kind of security do you have here, Grable?  The high school students are bypassing it,” Adler said.

“How’d you get in here son?” Grable asked, flashing an annoyed glance at Agent Adler.

“Why, the door just popped right open, Sheriff,” the kid said with a slight grin.  Stacia wasn’t fooled.  The grin didn’t reach his eyes.  “But back to my point.  The weres came out in force to attack what?  A hunting lodge?  Not much sense in that.  How about they attacked the biggest threat to them in the area?  Another werewolf who was routing them out?”

One of Adler’s men raised a smart phone and snapped a picture of the kid, a frown on his face like he was trying to recognize or remember something.

“How do you know all that?  For the last time, who are you?” Adler asked, glowering.

“I’m her partner.  And you’ve trussed up your best asset like a Thanksgiving turkey, gift wrapped for the Loki Spawn who wants her dead.  You need to let her loose and you need to… who did that to her face?” The young man suddenly pointed at her.

Confused by the comment, she glanced at Hutch and Shorty.  “You’ve got blood on your face,” Hutch whispered even as Adler and two of his men advanced on the young man.  The temperature took a sudden drop, the room chilling down for no good reason.

“Hey, my coffee just froze,” a deputy said, holding his mug upside down.

“Is that…” Hutch asked Stacia.

“Yup.”

“Should we be hiding under desks?” Carl asked.

“Possibly, but I’m not sure it would help,” she answered before raising her voice.  “Declan, the blood isn’t mine.  Sheriff, he’s with me.”

Declan, for his part, had been ignoring the agents, staring at Stacia, eyes bright blue with anger.  At her words, he paused.  “One of the weres you fought?” he asked, as if no one else was in the room.

“Yes,” she said, holding his eyes with her own.  He was balanced on a needle point and if he fell off, people were going to either get hurt or get dead.

“With her, huh.  Casey. Brannigan. Restrain him,” Adler said.

The two agents moved on Declan, forcing him to look at them rather than Stacia.  Dark shapes writhed across his skin, sinuous black tattoos forming on their own, climbing up from under his collar to twist around his neck and jaw, wrapping around his bare forearms like snakes.

“What the fuck?” one of the two agents asked uncertainly.  The other one pulled a Taser from his pocket.

“Oh great,” Stacia said, although it actually wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.

The agent with the phone and the frown suddenly sucked in a deep breath, his head snapping up to stare at Declan.  “Ah, sir?” he started, but Adler ignored him and the two other agents stepped up to within a few feet of Declan.

“Get on the ground, kid, or I’ll tase you.”

Declan slowly held out a palm, almost as if he was making a calming motion, but it didn’t match the fierce smile on his face.

“SIR?” the agent with the phone tried again.

“My name is Declan O’Carroll,” the young man said and lightly flexed his fingers.  The Taser fired itself, the agent holding it looking at it in confusion, trying to figure it out.  The barbs struck Declan in the middle of his hand and the gun hummed with power.  It had no effect, except maybe to make Declan’s grin wider.

Then he pushed his hand outward and a blue arc flashed up the wires, back into the gun, and shorted out into the agent holding it.  The agent stiffened up, shuddering, eyes rolling up and body collapsing.

The other agent snapped out a collapsible baton, but he no sooner had it extended when another blue arc jumped from Declan’s hand to the metal baton.  He too jerked like a fish in a frying pan and fell to the ground.

Adler’s other agents drew handguns, all except the one with the phone, who immediately raised his voice.  “STOP! STAND DOWN! STAND DOWN!” he yelled frantically.

“What’s the issue, Spencer?” Adler asked, staring at Declan over the sights of his Glock.

“Facial recognition identified him as an Oracle subject.  He’s on the special watchlist,” phone guy said, watching Declan nervously.

“You gotta be wrong on that, Spencer,” another agent said, his own eyes watching Declan through an electronic sight mounted on his M4. “That list applies to just a few… you know.”

“Chris Gordon and Tatiana Demidova?” Stacia asked although she knew the answer.  She was scared for Declan.  She had seen his magical shields stop bullets before, but he was facing a whole lot of firepower at the moment.

“Let me see that,” Adler commanded, moving over to Spencer so he could see the phone’s screen.

“What is the special watchlist?” Sheriff Grable asked.

Adler didn’t answer, but Stacia spoke up.  “It means they’re probably not to engage, apprehend, or antagonize the subject without higher authorization.”

Adler swiveled around to stare at her while the sheriff rubbed his chin and looked at Declan.  “Higher?” Grable asked.

“Probably General Creek or someone like that,” she said.

“Really?” Declan asked, looking surprised, too.

“What did you expect?  You really caught the eye of that NSA director, and Stewart was impressed with the whole centipede thing,” she said. “Gina told me.”

Adler lowered his gun and waved his men to do the same.  Declan instantly brushed by him and walked across the room straight to Stacia.  Adler watched him but did nothing violent, only pulling his own cell phone and placing a call, frowning at Stacia and moving into the sheriff’s office. He closed the door so even she wouldn’t hear.

The first thing Declan did was to touch her face, nodding to himself when he saw the blood flake off.  She stayed quiet, her eyes on his while his looked her over for damage.  Then he touched the arm restraints, and they both snapped open.  He did the same with the leg shackles, letting them lay where they fell.

“You guys are Directorate,” Declan said, turning to Adler just as the giant agent came out of the sheriff’s office.  It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, and you’re interfering with our investigation,” Adler said. “You’ve assaulted my agents.”

Declan tilted his head and Stacia saw a Bluetooth unit in his right ear.  She hadn’t noticed it before.

“She’s safe, Father.  See?  There is no need for a war,” a youngish sounding voice said in his ear.  She was the only other one to hear it.  Father?

“If I understood the Sheriff correctly, it appears you all are interfering with their investigation, which was actually achieving results.  You, on the other hand, have lost a suspect and a team member.  You then restrained the best investigator in the area.  Sharp work,” he said.

“Declan, I’m alright.  They just bound me. No abuse,” she said.

“You’re her witch, right?” Grable asked, a thoughtful look on his face, whereas Adler still looked ready to explode.

Declan smiled an honest smile at that.  “Yup.  I’m her witch.”

“Is it witch or warlock?” Buck Thompson asked.

The tattoos suddenly faded on Declan’s skin, disappearing before their eyes.

“Witch is appropriate,” he said.

“We have a crime scene right next door, but we’re having… issues with it,” Sheriff Grable said casually, as if two agents weren’t lying, twitching, on the floor.

“Issues?” Declan asked.

“Cameras malfunctioning, fingerprint dust not adhering, and… well, the crime scene techs are having trouble staying in the room,” the sheriff said.

“What?” Adler asked in disbelief, distracted from his anger and his downed men. “Why haven’t I heard of this?”

“It’s true, sir,” Agent Spencer with the phone said, glancing at his boss although his eyes kept coming back to Declan.  “I couldn’t stay in the room.  You were busy with the incident at the hunting camp.”

“Fear? Or forgetfulness?” Declan asked Spencer.

Spencer looked a little startled to be addressed.  “Forgetful sounds right.  I kept finding myself back outside with no idea why I had left the room.”

“Well, let’s go have a look,” Declan said.

“All right, follow me,” Grable said, heading out the front, Declan following with Stacia right behind.

Buck touched Stacia’s arm as she went by.  “Is he stable?” he asked in a whisper.

“Relax. He likes local law enforcement types.  I already told you about his step-aunt.  Got issues with feds though,” she said, glancing at Adler, who had moved over to his tased men.

“Don’t we all,” Buck said with a nod, falling in line behind her.

CHAPTER 20

The old factory next door had been renovated with a new classy front door that stood wide open, a pool of light from the ornate door lamp illuminating the entrance. A woman with a sheriff’s department jacket stood just outside the door, looking confused. Declan came to a sudden stop at the same time Stacia felt her crystal amulet rise in temperature against her skin.  The air was heavy and oppressive.

The sheriff turned back when Declan stopped, and now he just raised his grey eyebrows in question.

“You’ve got another witch,” Declan stated.

Stacia sniffed.  “And an older werewolf.  Male—alpha.  The girl is much younger. Maybe our age,” she said.

“Feel the air, Sheriff?  Like this is the last place you want to be?” Declan asked. “Like you need to be anywhere but here?  Like something bad is going to happen?

“Yeah, what is it?” the sheriff asked.

“Obfuscation spell,” Declan said, looking around the entryway.  “Creates confusion and dread.  Sometimes called a Keep Away spell.”

He looked around the entryway.  Suddenly, he squatted down and poked around behind a nice-looking vase stand.  Standing back up, he held a wispy wad of old cobweb, complete with dead spiders on it, wrapped around a set of twigs that were woven together to form almost a star. “Clever.  Crude, but clever,” he said.  After another look around, he found a second and third bundle on the opposite side of the hallway. He held them up to his face and breathed on them, whispering a word that even Stacia’s hearing couldn’t pick up.  The room seemed to brighten and the air lifted and freshened.

“They say you’re always three feet from a spider,” Declan said, looking at the wads of cobweb, twigs, and dead arachnids.  “They hide everywhere and in plain sight.  The witch used them as a base for her spell. A symbol for being hidden in plain sight. It would have covered their approach,” he said.  “Then she left them behind to mess with you and your guys, Sheriff.”

The twigs, cobwebs and spiders in his hand suddenly flared up into flame and a tiny wisp of smoke and then were gone.  Declan dusted off his palm and walked further into the building.  The sheriff and Buck exchanged raised eyebrow glances before turning to Stacia, who just smiled before following Declan.

She found him by the main condo sales office, which was exactly where the old factory office had once functioned.  A man in dark blue battle dress sat in a desk chair, body slack, head lolling in a way that left no doubt that he was dead.  The old money room safe door stood open, with no signs of damage or having been forced.  Declan was examining the dead DOAA agent.

“She pulled all the air out of his lungs.  He suffocated,” he said.  “She’s an Air witch.  Strong, too.”

“She just yanked the air he was breathing out of his chest?  Witches can do that?” Buck asked, appalled.

“A strong Air witch can.  Most can’t.  She’s got power, but she’s a little crude.  The cobweb thing was likely self-taught.  There are much, much better ways to build an obfuscation spell.  Hers worked well enough, though.  They basically blocked this guy from knowing they were approaching, and then she suffocated him,” Declan said.

“That’s horrible,” Buck said.

“Maybe.  Worse ways to die, though.  Like getting your head torn off by an angry werewolf,” Declan said.

“I don’t know.  That might be quicker.  Suffocation takes a few seconds at least.  Decapitation is almost instant,” Stacia argued.

Declan considered her argument for a moment, then shrugged.  “Maybe you’re right,” he said before walking over to the computer equipment.  The sound of boots on tile sounded before Adler and his agent Spencer came in behind them.

“The alpha werewolf has a witch.  She clouded—” Buck started to explain to the federal agents but turned to Declan at the word clouded.  Declan nodded in agreement, so the deputy continued on, “—your agent’s mind to block their arrival.  Then she sucked all the air out of his lungs and he asphyxiated. From there, they simply unbolted the safe door, which wasn’t locked, and took the prisoner.  Her spell was the reason we were having trouble processing the scene.”

“Her spell didn’t work on the camera equipment, though,” Declan said from over by the computers.  He’d been there about three seconds, yet he already had images of the breakout up on the screen.  “Like I said, her Crafting is crude.”

“But powerful,” Stacia added.

“Yeah, she is that,” Declan agreed, thoughtful.

“Is she stronger than you?” Adler asked, eyes interested.

Declan didn’t answer right away, studying the agent’s expression with a frown.

“I doubt it, but she has a different element or possibly elements from mine,” he said.

“How do you know?  That she’s not stronger?” Adler pressed.

“I don’t.  Hence my use of the word doubt,” Declan said.

“How likely is it?” Grable asked.

Stacia snorted, her face showing exactly how low she considered that possibility.

“Passably low,” Declan answered, glancing over his shoulder from where he was looking at the computer.

“Hey!  Don’t touch anything—this is an active crime scene,” the female tech who’d been outside said from the doorway.  She was looking at Declan, but she looked genuinely bewildered by all the people now on scene.

“I haven’t.  I’m not stupid, you know,” he said, still looking at the screen.  The security footage rolled across the screen, stopping and fast-forwarding although Declan wasn’t touching the mouse or the keyboard.

“What are you doing?  Sheriff, we haven’t processed that desk yet,” the woman protested, eye going wide.

“Sarah, you wouldn’t be able to stand in this room if he hadn’t done whatever he did,” the sheriff said, although his tone sounded uncertain as he watched Declan watch the moving, shifting screen.

“He doesn’t have much use for keyboards, Sheriff,” Stacia said as she prowled the room and the vault, sniffing.  “I’m not sure he remembers how to type.”

“Found them,” Declan said, the monitor freezing on a picture.  Adler, Spencer, Buck, Grable, and Stacia all moved over to look. Even the suspicious crime scene tech, Sarah, leaned around to see.

A tall, rugged-looking man with a beard and motorcycle leathers crouched behind the guard in the chair, holding the man’s hands without apparent effort. The guard’s eyes were wide open and terrified.  A really young-looking girl was leaning over the guard, her back to the camera, wafting a hand in front of his mouth.

“She’s just a child… fifteen or sixteen, maybe,” Stacia said.

Declan waved one hand casually and the video rolled forward at normal speed.  The girl moved her hand and the guard’s body arched up in the chair, his eyes going beyond terrified, his feet kicking wildly.  Ten seconds later, his eyes closed and he slumped down.  Fifteen seconds more and his body stilled completely.  The bearded man looked up at the camera and offered a feral grin.

“I don’t care how old she is. She’s a killer,” Adler said, voice tight with emotion.

“Not a very adept one, though,” Declan said, still focused on the monitor.  The others all looked at him in question.

He looked up, sensing the stares.  “He’s coaching her, holding the victim and encouraging her.  Look—” he said, waving his hand, which appeared to cause the video to back up a bit.  “See, still not touching anything,” he said with a grin to Sarah, whose mouth was hanging open in horror at the video and maybe even more horror at his obvious abilities.

“Okay, watch.  He’s talking to her and she’s taking a long time to get it done.  One of the Air witches at Arcane would just yank all the air out of his lungs with one gesture, probably collapsing them at the same time.  The way she’s doing it is actually worse, but I think that’s not her intention.  See… she’s shaking,” Declan said.

“The witches at Arcane could do that?  They practice that?” Adler asked, appalled.

“We take a survival class that teaches us to use our abilities to the utmost.  There are some CPR dummies that work well enough,” Declan said.

“But they don’t try it on living people, right?” Adler asked.

“One of them tried it on my roommate’s sister, trying to scare her, I think,” Declan said.  “But Jetta was protected and it didn’t work.  She then beat the shit out of Erika.”

“I would think Erika would seek revenge?” Stacia asked, mildly interested.

“She would have,” Declan said.  “I told her not to.”  His tone was matter-of-fact.

“And she listened?” Grable asked.

“I had her pinned to the ceiling while we chatted.  She got the point pretty clearly.  Not a stupid girl. Just mean and more than a little petty,” Declan answered.

“You said the girl was protected—how?” Adler asked.

“A warded amulet,” Declan said as Stacia fished hers out of her shirt and held it up for the others to see.

“You made that?” Adler asked, moving closer for a better look.  Stacia frowned and tucked it away.  “I want you to make more for my men and myself,” Adler commanded.

“Yeah, not gonna happen.  That one there is one of a kind.  Took days to make. Keyed specifically to Stacia. The others I make take a while as well,” Declan said, his expression calm in the face of Adler’s sudden glare.  “I could make some field expedient ones.  They’ll be one-shots though.  Protect from one spell or trap, then poof… all used up.”

“Would they stop what she did from hurting our men?” Sheriff Grable asked.

“I’d say yes.  But they wouldn’t help against the werewolves who’d be breaking their necks or tearing their insides out,” Declan answered. “Or multiple spells.”

“We’ll handle the werewolves,” Adler said.

“There’s an old saying among witches, Agent.  Never attack a witch in her own home,” Declan said.

“What does that mean?” Spencer asked.

“It means that witches like to ward and booby trap the bejesus outta their own places.  It’s almost a genetic trait, I think,” Stacia said.

Declan was nodding.  “That’s possibly true.  Magic works best if prepared in advance.  The witches alive today are the descendants of people who were hunted by the Inquisition, by the church and state and by each other, as well as other supernaturals. We have this… drive to protect our homes. This girl, as young as she is, will have prepared her home as thoroughly as possible.  One-shot wards aren’t going to help much against multiple layers of defenses.”

“So what do we do?” Grable asked.

“First, we find their lair.  Second, we gather intel, which means Stacia and I will have to scout it.  Then we prepare active countermeasures and employ as much force as possible, in waves and from distance before closing with them. Funnel them into a kill zone. Long range snipers, our own booby traps, and maybe even that Apache you’re illegally using,” Declan said.

“Kill zone? Shit, you sound like my old company commander,” Buck said, eyebrows lifted.

“Demidova Corp’s fault.  He spent his summer interning there, and all the security guys are ex-military.  They may have corrupted him. Actually, I’m sure they corrupted him,” Stacia said.

“But what about the kid witch?” Grable asked.

“One, she is really young, but Agent Adler is correct.  She’s now a killer and very, very dangerous.  Two, all the remaining werewolves are likely blooded as well.  Probably why the Alpha let them kill those two guys.  So, I’ll handle her. Stacia will guard me from weres and the two of us will clear the way in while you guys set up the kill zone.  I’m not saying you have to kill them, but it’ll be their choice,” Declan said.

“That’s incredibly dangerous, and you are both essentially civilians,” Grable said.

“Technically, anyone not in the actual military is a civilian, so that includes you guys, too.  Yes, you all have extensive training, but so do we.  And ours is expressly in the art of dealing with lethal supernatural threats.  Seven werewolves attacked that hunting lodge and because of Stacia, four were neutralized and three wisely ran away.  Yeah, she had help, but she organized that help and directed their actions.”

“How do you know that?” Buck asked.  “You only arrived like ten minutes ago.”

“And how did you know we have an Apache on site?” Adler asked, suspicious.

“You should chat with the NSA, Agent Adler.  They would be surprised if I didn’t know all that,” Declan responded.  “Now, how are we going to track down these two and their band of misfit killers?”

“With good old-fashioned police work,” Buck said.  “We’ll print out photos of that man and go door to door through Fetter and even here in Dover-Foxcroft, if necessary, to see who has seen him, where they saw him and when, then correlate the sightings.  Unless you have some fancy new way to find them?”

“New?  Try old.  Very old.  But I like your method, too,” Declan said.

CHAPTER 21

“Are you alright?” Stacia asked Declan as they headed back to the sheriff’s station next door.

“Yeah, why?  Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he asked.

“You acted a bit uncertain about that kid witch.  What’s the deal?  There can’t be three other witches on the planet with your kind of power, and you told me you still remember all of Sorrow’s spells,” she said.

He frowned, slowed down, and then stopped.  “You’re right.  It’s just we’re way up here in the great far north.  I’ve gotten used to heavy traffic and cement jungles,” he said.

She was puzzled.  Then the light broke through.  “You borrow, steal, or redirect power from other sources.  You’re worried about not having sources?” she guessed.

“Up here, there are trees, wind, rivers, and cold.  Not too useful to an Earth and Fire witch.  I haven’t had to live off just my reserves in a long time.  Not since New Hampshire and that witch that locked me in the missile silo,” he said, a bit hesitant.

Of course he wouldn’t ever want to appear weak in front of her.  That made her both sad that he wasn’t confident in her and a little warm that he held her in that regard.

“So summer in the city is big power, but fall in the wilderness and you’re worried,” she stated.  He nodded.  “Earth witch,” she said pointing at him, then waved her hand at the tree line around the town.  “Earth forest.  You can’t tell me that an Earth witch can’t draw power from trees like those?”

He frowned.  “Well, I do draw power from the rowan tree at home.  I just never applied it to the whole forest before.  I’ve always had trucks and cars, towns and cities.  This town is tiny, and I get the feeling the one we’re headed to is even smaller,” he said.

“Fetter is a postage stamp.  Blink and it’s gone.  Listen, I know you’ve been taught to prepare, so prepare.  Build up your arsenal like any normal witch and stop relying on the luxury of having unlimited access to power.  And maybe the tree thing works like that solar charger you bought me.  Trickles power into your witchy batteries or something.  Also, it’s fall. All the houses and buildings in Fetter are running woodstoves or some form of heat. Use that,” she suggested.

Sound advice, Father.

His hand came up to his earpiece even as his eyes locked on hers.  He knew she’d heard it.

“Father?  You got something to tell me?  You a teen daddy?” she asked.

He took a breath and nodded.  “This isn’t the ideal place, but what the hell.  That’s Omega, the quantum computer.  He’s… fully sentient.  He was born that night when Anvil attacked.”

“He?” she asked.

“He took the form of a baby boy, then a young boy, or maybe that’s just how my mind interpreted him.  I don’t know.  He doesn’t know.  When I was connected to the quantum structure and the operating system was starting to boot up, Anvil attacked, attempting to take it over.  Sorrow and I fought it off as best we could.  Chris’s dopplegheist then attacked Anvil with waves of whatever angelic power he wields.  Sorrow joined with the fledgling computer, and Omega was born,” Declan said.

“Why Omega?” she asked.

“He won’t allow any other quantum computers to come to fruition.  The threat to humanity is too great,” he said. “He’s the first and last.”

“The threat to humanity or to you?” she asked.

“He is sorta protective.”

“You know I haven’t hit a red light in months, except one that delayed me long enough to miss a major accident.  My phone and laptop never act up anymore, software updates load themselves, and I haven’t come close to using up my data limit since… since this past summer,” she said.

“He keeps an eye on you, too.  Actually, all the team members, and a number of others as well.”

“So I don’t follow all this stuff, but I know from what Chet and Tanya have said that he doesn’t just talk with them,” she said.

“No, he only talks with me… and now you.  We didn’t want to freak people out.  They might get scared.”

“Because a quantum super computer that’s sentient isn’t at all scary?” she asked.

“Neither is a beautiful girl who turns into a seven-foot-tall killing machine or a college kid that can set off an earthquake,” he pointed out.

“Set off an earthquake?” she asked, mildly appalled.

“I’ve never done it,” he said, defensively.  “It just seems like I could.”

Without question, Father.  Especially along fault lines which you can feel.

She looked at him with one raised eyebrow.  He shrugged.  Of course… nothing but a thing for him.  She shook her head.

“So Omega is more powerful than other supercomputers?  How about that IBM one?  Watson?” she asked.

Watson is, how you might say—my bitch.

“See this is what happens when teens raise babies,” she said, although her hand was covering her mouth so he couldn’t see her smile.

“Listen, I’ve wanted to tell you about this for months, but Omega felt uncertain.  But he’s decided you should know and he also thinks you’ve been figuring it out on your own.”

“He’s right,” she said.  “And I’m glad he decided he could trust me.”

“Oh come on?  Omega… what have I been saying about Stacia this whole time?”

That she should have my trust.

“Thank you,” he said, turning his eyes back to hers.

“He’ll probably say anything you asked him to,” she said, suspicious but still mildly touched.

Not true.  Not about this.

“He’s pretty much his own being in every way,” Declan said.

“And you’re a proud papa, aren’t you?” she guessed.

He shrugged but grinned.  “How many people have welcomed a new being to the planet that wasn’t born from a womb.”

I was born in a computer womb.

“Was that a joke?” she said.  “Computer room—womb?”

“We’re working on it.  Let’s collect some hair and get on with this search.  Omega has been looking through records both here and in Fetter, checking power usage and cellular traffic, that kind of thing.  We’ll try my witchy way, then compare notes with him.  After that, we can check with Buck’s group.”

“Alright.  Let’s go pluck some were hairs and we can maybe yank one from that female were I choked out,” she said.

Facial features match Maine DMV license photograph for Karen Lyon.

“Thank you, Omega,” she said, eyes slightly wide.

You are welcome, Miss Stacia.

“That’s going to take some getting used to.  I’ll need my own Bluetooth,” she said.

“He can speak to you through your phone and you can have the volume so low, only a were can hear it,” Declan suggested.

True, Omega said in a tiny voice from her pocket.  Declan didn’t react, so she knew he hadn’t heard it.

“Omega, we could tell secrets about Declan and he wouldn’t know,” she said with a smirk.

I will never betray my father.

“Whoa, it was just a joke.  I wouldn’t ask you to ever do anything to hurt Declan.  It was just kind of a tease,” she said, her mouth forming a silent “Oh shit.”

“We’re working on nuance in human communications.  He gets it mostly but doesn’t see the point,” Declan said.  “He’s read everything, watched everything, and listened to everything, so he’s got lots to work from, but the purpose of teasing holds no logic for him.”

“Everything?”

“Everything on any computer he can get to.  I think that covers almost everything except little Sallie Anne Everygirl’s personal diary in East Bumfuck, Iowa.”

Sallie Anne keeps her diary on her cell phone.

“Who is Sallie Anne?” Stacia asked.

“Nobody.  A fictitious entity.  Omega was making another joke,” Declan said.

Declan is using the name Sallie Anne to reference the ubiquitous every girl of modern times, although she would likely be a teenager and a citizen of the United States.

“Okay, this definitely takes some getting used to,” she said.

“You’ll adapt.  Let’s go get that hair,” he said.

CHAPTER 22

A large black tractor trailer had appeared in the parking lot behind the sheriff’s office.  The Blackhawk, which had flown away after dropping Stacia and the others off, was now back and sitting dead center of the large asphalt space.  A forklift hummed as it offloaded the dead werewolves from the helicopter and moved them to the trailer, its headlamps backlighting the steaming bodies.

Battle-dressed agents with assault rifles blocked them from getting near the bodies, which might have been a problem except Declan just made a small motion and a clump of fur pulled free from the wolf on the forklift’s tines.  He repeated it with the headless body already in the back of the truck and the one still on the helicopter.

The agents looked a bit wild-eyed at the free-floating fur, unsure of what to do.  One came forward a bit aggressively, but Stacia held up one palm.

“Watchlist, remember?”

He came to a halt, indecisive for a moment before turning away in frustration.

“That witchy stuff is handy,” she admitted to Declan as they took the fur to the back of his green Toyota Land Cruiser, which he called Beast.  He spoke four words in what might have been Gaelic and waved his hands through a series of motions.

“Beast is warded.  Works way better than an alarm system.  It fights back,” he said.  “To do this right, we should get the female were’s hair, too.  Problem is, we don’t know where she is,” he said, opening the driver’s door and retrieving a large disposable cup with a fat straw stuck in it.

“You,” she said.  “You don’t know where she is.  I do,” she said, tapping the side of her nose.  She pointed at the sheriff’s office.  “Plus, they brought her in right behind me.  I think they put her in a storage room in the back, still naked, I believe.”

He handed her the large cup.  “Vanilla shake. I only took a couple of sips.”

Her nose had already told her stomach what to expect and it growled in response as she slurped the thick, rich shake.  She was down a lot of calories from the battle, despite the cold ziti, and the shake tasted amazing.  Several seconds later, the straw made empty sucking sounds and she sadly conceded that it was gone.

“That’s a bit better,” she said.

“All righty then. Let’s go pluck some hair,” he said, grinning and rubbing his hands together.

“I’ll do the plucking.  I recall that you get easily distracted by naked women,” she said.

“Just one naked woman, Stacia, just one,” he said, heading toward the building.

She snorted.  “Smooth talker.”

My father ignores all the other females.  Even the ones who show up at his room, underdressed, her phone whispered.  Declan didn’t show any sign of hearing it.

Hmm, interesting information.  She hadn’t realized the extent the witches were throwing themselves at him, or that he was so uninterested in them.  And why did Omega offer up that tidbit?

A camera on a light pole at the corner of the building turned on its mount, the red power light gleaming like an eye as it pointed at them… at her.

Faithfulness is valued, is it not? Omega asked in super quiet tones.  Declan was in front, so she just nodded at the camera.

You questioned his faithfulness.  He is unusual for males his age, isn’t he?

Definitely.  Understatement.  She nodded again.

“I can’t hear the words, but I can sense the messages flowing.  Are you two talking about me?” Declan asked suddenly, without turning around.

Yes, Father.  I was confirming your ability to ignore undressed females with the exception of Miss Stacia.

“Oh. Well thank you, Omega, for sticking up for me,” he said, opening the door and holding it for her.  She gave him a smirk as she went by.

The station was still a beehive of activity, but a lot of faces glanced their way and stayed watching them.  Two burly guards in combat uniforms stood outside a door marked Supplies.  They headed that way.

“Hi.  We need to pull a few strands of hair from the prisoner for forensic comparison,” Stacia said with a brilliant smile, focusing on one guard.  The other guard looked annoyed, maybe at being ignored.

“We can’t let you in,” the annoyed one said.  The first one looked a little stunned by the smile.  She turned to the annoyed one and frowned in a distressed way.  It was almost as devastating.

“We told Agent Adler we would track down the rest of the werewolves.  We need her hair,” she explained earnestly, like it was only reasonable.

“How does hair track someone down?” the other guard thought to ask, looking like he wanted to be of help.

“Witch,” she said, pointing at Declan.

“Huh?” the second one asked.

“Just let her in, Nick.  She’s the one that captured the suspect in the first place,” the first said.  Both guards ignored Declan like he wasn’t there.  It was a common occurrence around Stacia and men.

The second guard unlocked the door, which was just a flimsy interior door, and stood aside to watch as she entered.  Declan slipped between them and moved to one corner of the little space, where he could provide his own brand of help if it was needed.

The girl was lying on the floor, trussed up but with a blanket thrown over her.  A set of prisoner coveralls lay on the floor next to her.

“You fellas know how to treat a girl,” Stacia said, giving them a look. They shrugged.

The were girl turned her head so she could see Stacia and then glared at her.

“Look, Karen, you attacked me, remember?  But hey, I’m willing to help you get dressed if you like, but you’ll have to behave or we’ll leave you naked,” Stacia said.

The girl’s silent snarl slid away as she thought it over.  Then she glanced at Declan and the guards, looking shy.

Stacia snorted.  “Please.  As if you haven’t been naked in front of males a whole lot since you Changed.  They stay.  And that one, in the corner?  He’s like your Alpha’s young girlfriend.  Only much, much scarier,” she said, pointing at Declan.

“Male witches aren’t that tough,” the girl said, although she didn’t sound certain.

Declan held one hand out, palm up, and called a ball of electricity into place above it. He held up the other hand and a ball of primordial fire flared into life.

“If I burn your brain from the inside out, there will be quite literally steam coming out your ears… and nose and mouth.  Do exactly as she says, when she says, how she says, and not a sliver less or more,” he said in a reasonable tone that was perhaps scarier then a menacing one would have been.

“Shit,” Guard Two said. They weren’t ignoring him now.

Stacia pointed at the silver strand cable tie that held Karen’s feet to her hands.  The fire and ball of lightning disappeared and Declan twitched his right-hand fingers just a bit.

The ratchet that held the cable tie shut suddenly released and the cable came off.  Stacia lifted Karen to her feet without effort, then pointed at the girl’s feet.  The other tie let loose so she could stand easier.

The picture of Karen Lyon that Stacia had seen before had shown a shy-looking, mousy girl.  The new Karen was nothing like that.  Her face and body were much harder looking, taut with muscle and completely devoid of fat.  In fact, Stacia could just about tell the second that the two guards stopped guarding and just leered.  Declan, on the other hand, was watching the girl’s eyes, and his right hand shimmered with waves of heat.  Karen smiled at the guards but absolutely refused to look at Declan.

Smiling to herself, Stacia moved around behind the girl and pulled the coveralls open, holding them for her feet.

Karen didn’t move her feet when prodded, her gaze still locked on the two guards.  Stacia sighed and glanced at Declan.  He curled two fingers of his left hand and Karen rose six inches into the air.  Her smile disappeared and her head flicked around to Declan.  His right hand still shimmered with heat.

“Hold very still, Karen.  If I think you’re resisting, I’ll just smash your head into that outside block wall a few times till it cracks or you get knocked out,” Declan said conversationally.

Stacia slipped the legs of the coveralls over Karen’s feet, then paused to rezip the cable tie around her feet.  Karen remained floating as Stacia pulled the cloth up to her waist.  At her nod, Declan released the other zip tie and Stacia had the uniform up and over Karen’s arms in a couple of seconds, moving smoothly.

She refastened Karen’s arms in the front and then she zipped up the coverall.  Only then did Declan put the girl back down on her feet.

The whole time she’d been floating, Karen had been watching Declan, her face a tightly held mask of absolute terror.

Task accomplished, Stacia pushed the girl back down to a sitting position and used the first twist tie to fasten her arms to a convenient fire sprinkler pipe in the corner.  Then she casually plucked a small clump of hair, maybe nine or ten strands, from Karen’s head and handed them to Declan.

“Thanks,” he said.  “I’m going to keep one of these in case you do anything crazy like try to escape.  That way I can… stop you.  From anywhere.”  He left the room, Guards One and Two moving quickly out of his way.  Stacia gave them another smile and walked out after him.  As she approached the back door to the station, she could hear them talking behind her.

“No wonder he’s on that list—that was the scariest shit I’ve ever seen,” Guard Two said.

“No shit. He terrifies werewolves,” Guard One agreed.

Outside, Declan headed for his vehicle, opening Beast’s tailgate and putting two of the strands of hair with the clumps of were fur.  He rolled up the heavy plastic liner that covered the cargo area, revealing a circle, about a foot and a half in diameter, precisely painted on the metal floor in gold paint.  Next he opened a computer bag and pulled out a large tablet, laying it in the middle of the circle.  It turned itself on and a map of the area came up.

Declan, in the meantime, had pulled a Swiss Army knife from his jeans pocket and was clipping little pieces of fur and hair onto the tablet’s screen with the fold-out scissors.  About two snips of hair or fur for each sample, speaking soft words in Gaelic as he did so, piling one sample in each corner of the tablet.  Satisfied with the result, he glanced her way.

“What are you grinning about?” he asked.

“You—cutting hair and fur with scissors,” she said.  “It’s just kind of funny.  Moments ago, you were wielding flame and bottled lightning, levitating naked girls, and then here you are clipping tiny hairs with a pocket knife.”

“You shouldn’t mock a geek’s tool,” he said, instant realization flooding across his face as the words left his mouth.

Her eyebrows had already risen.  “Really?  I don’t recall mocking your tool,” she said suggestively.

He blushed.  Kid could knock down a house but he was blushing at the wordplay.  His expression smoothed out and his own eyebrow lifted.  “Good, because I have complete confidence in my, um, hardware,” he said.

Double entendre, right? Omega asked through the earpiece.  This is flirtation, correct?

Declan froze up.

“Yes, Omega.  It’s flirtation,” Stacia said.  “Now, what’s going on with the fur bits?”

Still distracted and glancing at her, Declan reached a finger down and touched the edge of the circle.  Something snapped, spark-ish, and the air was suddenly charged with static.

“Some good old sympathetic magic using a new kind of map.  Some practitioners use a pendulum over a map.  Others will create a kind of pointer or compass guide.  I call this spell Magnetic Table.  Like those play tables for kids with the magnets underneath that you move around to change the metal filings.  What I’m doing is sorta activating the hair and fur’s natural attraction for itself,” he said, waving a hand over the tablet top and whispering another word, “Teacht.”

“That means…” she asked.

“Find, in Gaelic,” he answered as they both watched the hairs creep around the map.

“I don’t get it.  The bodies with all the fur are in the truck and the girl is in the room… shouldn’t we get a reading for just that?” she asked.

“Great point.  I didn’t explain that very well at all,” he said.  “I should have said that the hairs will seek out other hairs and since I’ve cast the spell to ignore the bodies and the girl in the building, they’ll go to the next biggest source.  Kind of like when you find the tare weight of the dish on the scale and subtract it when you’re weighing powders or liquids.”

“Which would be their lair?  What about their homes… their old homes?”

He pointed at the tablet.  All four samples headed north on the map, sliding eerily toward Fetter.  The map scale changed on its own and she didn’t know if that was Declan or Omega doing it.  The immediate area around Fetter grew larger, and additional detail appeared on the screen.  The hair and fur particles formed into tight little bundles around the map, but in one spot, they all commingled and circled up.

“That’s a big area of town.  Doesn’t it focus any tighter?” she asked, pointing at the circle.  The individual clumps were probably the individual weres’ old homes, she thought.

He was frowning.  “I think there’s a ward blocking the location,” he said.  “She would put one up to block this sort of thing, but it still narrows it down.  Between Omega’s research and the sheriff’s guys, we can probably figure it out.”

Stacia was looking closely at the map on the tablet, her eyes following the little river that flowed through the town while she remembered what she had seen of the village. The river crossed the center of the circle of hair right in the middle of town.

“Actually, I think I know where they are,” she said.

CHAPTER 23

“The Fetter paper mill?” Sheriff Grable asked.

“It’s abandoned and closed down, right?” Stacia asked back at him.

“Yes, it’s been mothballed for about a year, but there is at least one caretaker who checks on it,” the sheriff said.

“Chances are he hasn’t been as thorough as you might think.  And probably doesn’t even know it,” Declan said, not looking up from the pile of little wooden chips he was etching and drilling.  They were standing around the desk he was working at, situated at the back of the room.  Curious deputies were blatantly watching from every angle.

“That obfuscation thingy?” the sheriff asked before noticing all the eyes watching.  “Hey, don’t you all have things you should be doing?”

“These things will help us with that, right?” Deputy Devany asked, ignoring the sheriff.

“Yeah, I might have bent the truth a bit with Alder.  These should be at least a little better than one shots.  Especially because this wood all came from that little oak out back.  The tree is part of your official space, so that connection will lend strength to the runes of protection I’m using,” Declan said, starting to run cord through the little holes he had drilled in the oval chips.  One of the deputies did a lot of carpentry on the side and had some eighteen-volt rechargeable tools in his pickup truck.  Declan had borrowed a cordless drill and saw.

“Sheriff, we can hand these out now,” Declan said.  Before the sheriff could answer or call his troops, the entire staff in the station stopped whatever they were pretending to be doing and circled around.

“Okay, keep these under your shirts.  We want the surprise on our side.  Plus, if the witch sees them, she’ll know they aren’t heavy duty,” Declan explained.

“But hers is heavy duty?” Devany asked, pointing at Stacia.

“I harvested the stone from under a hundred-year-old Rowan tree at the peak of a full moon, then spent three days crafting the copper wire into perfect runes.  It’s the strongest ward I’ve ever made,” Declan said, eyeing the deputy as if figuring his angle.

“Just wondered if she would be protected if she’s in—you know?  Fur form,” Devany said.

“Somebody rates pretty high,” Hutch murmured from his spot next to Stacia where he was watching.  Shorty, Carl, and Hutch were all about to catch a ride back north to Fetter and the lodge with Stacia and Declan.

She elbowed him lightly.  “Of course I do,” she said with a fake haughty flip of her hair, then winked at him.

“What about Alder and his people?” Grable asked.

“Yeah, what about my people?” Alder asked from the back door of the station.

“Here are your wards, agent.  Don’t advertise them,” Declan said, handing a bunch to him.

“Hey, how did you carve these?  This looks like it was done on a machine?” the deputy who had loaned the tools asked.  The runes on the warded disc of wood looked professionally engraved.

“Proprietary process, Dan.  Can’t tell you my trade secrets,” Declan said, grinning.  “Hey, I gotta run out to my car for a minute. Be right back,” he said.  Stacia noticed his Crafting bag, which looked like a beat-up messenger bag, was lumpy and seemed awfully heavy.  It even clinked and clanked a bit.  She followed him outside. The government tractor trailer was still there, idling, as was the Blackhawk, whose rotor was spinning as it warmed up.

At the back of the Land Cruiser, he again uncovered the painted circle.  Then he pulled the heavy-duty silver handcuffs she had worn from his bag.  She’d known he’d been up to something.

He put the cuffs into the circle, then touched the circle’s edge to close it.  Stacia felt the small hairs on her forearms and neck stand up with static.  Magic.  Declan glanced at the Kenworth tractor, then at the Sikorsky helicopter.  Both engines revved suddenly, several times, and she realized he was siphoning power from them.  The helicopter crew chief looked at the pilot, who held up his hands to show it wasn’t him.

The restraints suddenly lifted three inches into the air and took on a glow that rapidly built to a bright cherry red.  The cuffs pulled away from the chain, stretching like taffy until they broke apart, leaving three roughly equal amounts of silvered steel.  Then each piece started to spin on its own, picking up speed until the red glow eclipsed the individual shape of each.

“Hey, who turned down the refrigeration back here?” a voice yelled in anger.  Stacia glanced at the back of the tractor trailer, where an agent was rubbing his hands together, obviously cold, the refrigerated trailer door open. He checked the trailer’s controls before looking around for a culprit.

Declan was still focused on the spinning metal and Stacia could now see that the individual cuffs and chain had become three balls of glowing red metal.  He nodded to himself, said, “That should do it,” and made a pulling gesture with his left hand. All three orbs stopped spinning and instantly frosted over.

A thump sounded from the pavement under a squad car, the vehicle bouncing slightly on its springs.  A ridge of asphalt jutted up under the rear right tire. Declan muttered “Oops” before shrugging.  “Must have turned some water in the soil to steam.”

Stacia didn’t look his way this time, instead staying focused on the three balls that lowered themselves to the metal floor.  Dull steel gray in color with asymmetrical lines of silver racing through them like a spider’s web on crack, they were each the size of a pool cue ball.

Declan picked one up, looked it over, wrapped it in a t-shirt that was in the back, and handed it to her.  Then he picked up the other two, inspected them briefly, and stored them in his messenger bag.  Stacia threw the ball up and caught it, a little awkwardly because of the cotton shirt.

“Okay, silver and steel balls.  Weapons of some kind,” she guessed.

“Yup.  Remember the wooden blocks in that old factory where you and the others all beat me up?” he asked.

“Trained.  Where we trained you, Declan.  Yeah, the spinning circle of wooden… oh.  I get it.  Spinning balls of silvered steel… nice.”

“Yeah, little two-inch-diameter cannon balls that either fly around me or just blast holes in whatever I point them at.  I’m going to throw some runes on them too,” he said.

“Well, looks like you got them done just in time.  Here come the others,” Stacia said, nodding to Carl, Shorty, and Hutch, who were heading toward them.  Shorty carried Stacia’s little DP-12 shotgun that he must have rescued from DOAA’s clutches.

“Here, thought you’d want this little baby back,” the little guide said upon arrival. “Sheriff says to go ahead and take us back to Fetter while you two recon the mill.  His group is going to come up tomorrow before first light in a convoy.  I think your federal friends are too, but who knows.”  He handed the gun to Stacia.

“Thanks, I like this one a lot.  Gift from a friend,” she said, with a head toss in Declan’s direction. He was putting his messenger bag between the front seats.  She stowed the shotgun in back, on top of the now re-covered cargo area.  A green duffle bag shifted suddenly on its own when the shotgun’s barrel touched it and she took a quick step back.  Looking up, she found Declan smiling at her.  “I didn’t come alone,” he said.  “Aunt Ash insisted I bring him.  The big one stayed home.”

Realization dawned on her and she gently closed the back tailgate, careful not to jostle the back again.

“He won’t bother you,” Declan said as he read her caution.

“And I won’t bother him.  Be tough on car thieves though, huh?” she asked, thinking about how that might go down.

The other three were watching the two of them in confusion.  “My car is old, but I’ve made a lot of non-standard changes to him. Anti-theft stuff. Stacia gets shotgun, no pun intended, and I’m afraid the three of you will have to squeeze in the back,” Declan said.

They all packed in and Declan started Beast’s engine, shifted into gear, and rolled out.  The helicopter crew and the truck driver were all still looking over their vehicles in some obvious confusion.

“What’s up with them?” Shorty asked.

“Engines running too hot or something,” Stacia said with a little smile.

It was a little over fifty miles to Fetter up Route 6, but it took a full hour and ten minutes to get there because of the twisty, two-lane road and the slow local traffic, plus stopping at a late-night McDonald’s for some greasy food.

As they entered the tiny town, all four of Beast’s windows rolled themselves down four inches.

“What the hell?” Carl jumped when the hand crank next to him suddenly spun and the window dropped.

“Sorry. Sorry. Should have warned you,” Declan said.  “I want Stacia to have a chance to scent the air as we drive by the mill building.  In fact, why don’t you drive, Stacia so I can concentrate on sensing the witch and hiding us.”  He pulled over and put the transmission in neutral.

“I’ll drive,” Shorty offered from his spot crammed between Carl and Hutch.

“Ah thanks, but it has to be Stacia.  You haven’t been fully introduced to my car yet and he’s particular about who drives him,” Declan said.

“You’re joking?” Hutch asked.

“No, he’s not.  Beast won’t run properly if you aren’t one of a handful of people that Declan has cleared.  His aunt and step-aunt, his roommate and roommate’s sister, and a few friends from high school are about it,” Stacia said, climbing out of the car.

They resettled into position and Stacia put the Cruiser in gear and gingerly let out the clutch.  Beast responded smoothly and they continued slowly through a dark and quiet downtown Fetter.

The massive structure of the mill, which loomed behind the stores, houses, and buildings of Main Street, was pitch black and seemingly empty.  From his position in the backseat, Hutch glanced over at the young witch who had somehow redirected the investigations of both a sheriff’s office and a federal task force.  He looked like he was sleeping, head down, slumped in his seat.  He didn’t move for the whole thirty-eight seconds it took them to slowly drive past the mill.

“Should we move over to the street the mill is actually on?” Stacia asked.

Declan, without changing his posture or opening his eyes, answered instantly.  “No!  Sorry, but I can feel her wards from here and if we go closer, we’ll wake them up,” he said with a shudder.  “I take back what I said before… she meant to kill that guard slowly.  All of her magic seems to involve death and dead things.  This is one twisted girl.”

“Which explains why all I smell is dead, rotten smells,” Stacia said, continuing on through town.

“Dead things?” Shorty asked.

“There is power in death just as there is power in life.  Most witches use life for energy, but some use the dark stuff.  Generally, it’s a pretty good indication of who they are as people.  She’s not someone to take home to Momma,” Declan said, sitting up and looking at the three in back.

“Can you fight it?  And can we go back to the lodge now?” Carl asked.

Stacia glanced at Declan, who nodded.  “That’s a good idea and yes, I can fight it.  I have a bunch of… book knowledge about death magic, but I could use some advice.  Mr. Kane, does your lodge happen to have an Internet connection?”

“It’s Shorty, and yeah, we’ve got Wi-fi,” the guide said.

“Good. I need to make a Skype call,” Declan said.

CHAPTER 24

Hutch and Carl disappeared inside the lodge to pack their gear.  An attack by werewolves effectively ended their hunting aspirations for the season and Mrs. Dox wasn’t coming back to work pretty much anytime.  Shorty gave Declan the password for the Wi-fi and went, with Stacia to guard him, to check the generator’s fuel.  Declan took a stroll to the main power line that fed the property, moving along it till he sensed rather than saw the break.  Someone—with claws, based on the marks in the wood—had climbed the pole and cut the lines.  Declan stood on the ground below and placed both hands on the pole.  Above him, the cut lines suddenly slithered together, the cleanly sliced ends fusing themselves with a spark.

“Sheeeeit,” he heard, turning around to find Shorty and Stacia by the garage, staring at him.  Shorty was open-mouthed but Stacia just watched him with her head tilted ever so slightly.  That made him more nervous than the guide’s open amazement.

“You are, um, a handy individual, Declan,” Shorty said.

“Thank you, Shorty.  According to my aunt, striving to be useful should be a personal goal.”

“Do you think they’ll come back?” the guide asked.

“I’d love to hope that they would, but sadly I think not,” Declan said, moving back to his car.  The back gate stood open and he pulled the green duffle out and set it on the ground to unzip it.  It appeared to be heavy.  Something emerged from the bag, shook itself like a cat or a big bird of prey.  About as big as a medium-sized dog, the creature unfolded wings that were each at least seven feet long. It was too dark for Shorty to see any details, but he could tell it had a long neck with a good-sized head that swiveled to lock onto Declan.

“Guard and hunt,” Declan said to the thing, which instantly launched itself into the night sky.  Flapping strongly, it quickly climbed up above them, the outline of its wings much more bat-like than birdlike.  It screamed once, the sound an exact match for the pterodactyls in a dinosaur movie that Shorty couldn’t recall the name of.

“Now, if you have a bunch of old nails, I’d like to ward your lodge,” Declan said.

The guide was still staring open-mouthed at the circling creature overhead.  He brought his attention reluctantly down to the young witch who waited patiently.

“Nails?”

“Yeah, I’ll ring the main building and lock it up with a ward that will stop a werebear at a full charge.  But I need quite a few.”

Shorty rubbed his unshaven face, looked from the young man to the beautiful woman, and then glanced once more at the night sky where the flying creature had disappeared.  Then he grunted and led the way to the garage hut, where he pulled out several large coffee cans of assorted nails.

“Perfect,” Declan said with a smile.  “I’ll just get these in the ground and then we’ll call it a night.”

“I’ll help you,” Stacia said, taking one of the cans of nails.  The witch and the werewolf looked at each other, grinned, and headed off into the dark.  Shorty shook his head and then went into the lodge to face the disaster that had been left behind.

He found Carl sweeping up the debris; several large contractor-sized bags of garbage had already been bundled in the main room.

“The food on the tables was unsalvageable, but Hutch is reheating the stuff in the kitchen.  He mopped the bloody hallway, although it seems the federal guys must have sprayed some kind of disinfectant when they took the… ah, bodies,” Carl said.  Then he glanced at the lights overhead.  “Nice to have the power back on.  Ah, where are the other two?”

“Declan is doing something with nails that he says will protect us tonight, although I honestly think he would like it if the werewolves came back.  He, ah, sent some kind of flying thing up to protect us,” Shorty said.

“A flying what?” Hutch asked, coming out of the kitchen with a tray loaded with food.

“It’s an elemental,” Stacia said from the doorway behind them.  “He’s finishing the ward and should be right in.  Is that food you got there?” she asked, intently interested.

“Ele-what?” Carl asked.

“Elemental.  A spirit of the one of the main elements of magic; earth, fire, water, and air.  Draco is an Air elemental,” Stacia said.

“Like a familiar?” Hutch asked.

“Not even close.  Elementals are extremely powerful entities with their own… minds.  They are decidedly not familiars, and most witches want nothing to do with them,” she said.

“But Declan of course messes with them?” Shorty asked.

“Declan seems to create them.  By accident—of course,” she said.

“Of course.  That thing will alert us if a werewolf comes around?” Shorty asked.

“Nah.  If it were just one werewolf, Draco would just kill it.  A pack would be different.  Then he would alert Declan and the two of them would kill the pack,” she said.

“That thing can kill a werewolf?” Shorty asked.

“It’s much stronger than it looks, it attacks from the air like a giant eagle and it is, at least in form, a fire-breathing dragon.  Gentlemen, I suggest we eat and then go to sleep.  It’s a little past midnight and you don’t want to go anywhere tonight.  I absolutely promise you that this lodge is now the safest place to be.  At first light, you two can hit the road while the kid and I go meet the sheriff and feds to sort out that witch and the remains of the pack,” she suggested.

The door opened before they could answer and Declan came in, rubbing his hands together briskly.  “Cold out there,” he said.  “The building is now warded.  Please don’t leave until morning or it’ll break the ward.”  He smiled as he said it, looking around, then heading for the cold fireplace.  Silently they all watched as he piled a bunch of logs on the andirons and then waved a hand.  With a whump and a whoosh, fire flared up and fully involved the cold logs in a split second.

“That’s better,” Declan said, holding his hands out to the flames.  “Is that food I smell?”

Some time later, everyone had eaten something and gone to their rooms.  Carl, Hutch, and Shorty had been concerned about sleeping without a guard but Declan, backed up by Stacia, had assured them that the watchful Draco would be sentry enough and Declan felt he, himself, would be up for several hours more.

Now the two of them were up in Declan’s room, which was between Stacia’s and the one with the broken window and door.  A sheet of plywood covered the shattered window in the trashed room.

“Who are you going to call?” Stacia asked as she watched him power up the same large tablet that he’d used with the tracking spell.  They were sitting on his floor, which had a large Western rug.

“Erika’s roommate Tami,” he said as he activated the call. “It’s still a bit before one a.m., and most of Arcane doesn’t go to bed till two or two-thirty.”

Fifteen seconds later, the screen cleared to show an unsmiling girl with rich black hair and Native American features wearing a yellow t-shirt that said Get a Taste of Religion, Lick a Witch across its front.

“Warlock,” the girl said, unsmiling.  She might be pretty if she ever animated her face, Stacia thought.

“Witch,” Declan answered evenly.  “Nice shirt.  Erika’s, I’m guessing?”

She looked down at it and then shrugged.  “Of course.  I was naked when you called,” she said.  Most attractive girls speaking to an attractive male acquaintance would either blush, make the statement flirty, or make it a challenge.  She just delivered it matter-of-fact.

“What do you want?” she asked brusquely. “And where are you?  The teachers have been asking.”

“Death magic and northern Maine.  There’s an air witch up here who has surrounded her lair with it.  I’d like some pointers,” he said.

“I see.  What do I get out of this?” she asked.

“What do you want?” he replied.

“Screw Erika,” she stated bluntly.

“Not happening,” he said.

“Didn’t think so, but it was worth a try,” she said, glancing for the first time at Stacia.

“How about you owe me a favor?  Largish favor.”

“Too open-ended.  How about upgrades to your avatar?” he offered.

“How about upgrades to my team’s avatars… plus a small favor?” she asked, then pushed on before he could respond. “The favor won’t break rules, won’t cause harm, and doesn’t involve you boinking any witches.”

“Acceptable,” he said.

“Okay.  What’s your sitch?” she asked.

“Young witch.  Hooked up with a pack of rogue weres.  They’ve taken over an old factory space, a paper mill, I believe.  I could feel death and possibly spirits.  Stacia smelled dead flesh,” he said.

“That’s remarkably vague, Warlock.  I would expect more detailed information from the Master of the Wytch Wars… unless… ah, holding back on purpose,” she said, tapping her lips with a finger.  Stacia noted that her fingernail was painted glossy black.

“Garbage in, garbage out, as you programmers say, right?” Tami asked.

“Yeah, I can live with that.  I’m looking for general approaches and things to watch out for.  For instance, I know death magic wards generally suck life from anything that trips them,” he said.

“Exactly, so the easiest thing is to send something living into the fray and when it dies, you move in.  Some wards will get stronger from absorbing life, some will be one-hit wonders and disappear.  If you sensed trapped spirits, those will be the ones that gain strength,” Tami said.

“So I’ve got to sacrifice living things to the spells in order to get by them?” he asked.

“That’s the quick way.  If you have lots of time, you can erode them safely from a distance by taking apart the foci of the spells, but your witch would likely notice and attack back,” Tami said.  “So go to a pet store, buy like twenty mice, and toss them into the spells. It might distract any big nasty enough to get past it.”

“Yeah, not happening,” he said.

She smirked, the first real expression Stacia had seen on her face.  “Bunny-loving tree hugger can’t harm itty bitty mice?”

“If I had to, I’d do it.  But I’m in the backend of nowhere and pet stores are few and far between,” he said.

“Hmmm, I still think you’re just soft.  Is he soft, werewolf?” she suddenly asked Stacia.  “Or can he get hard at all?”

Stacia just raised one eyebrow.  Declan answered before she could.  “Alternatives, Tami?” he asked.

“Spoilsport.  Cut switches from living saplings, preferably evergreen, ideally juniper or holly.  The trees will live but the branches take a long time to die.  That resistance works well against many death spells.  Plus, you can hold them out in front of you like a detector.  When you see the needles at the tip turn brown, you know you got a problem.  Since you aren’t tough enough to sacrifice mice, which I know damn well you could call by the dozens, you’ll have to erode the ward.  Salt and herbs.  Best if you can deliver them from a distance, like with hollowed eggshells. Captive spirits can come at you in disembodied form or may take some type of physical construct.  Salt, some of the stronger herbs, and draining spells are useful in slowing them down and weakening them.  But to completely banish, you’ll need to find and burn their remains… with more salt.”

“How about shotgun shells stuffed with salt and protective herbs, plus a few pressurized paintball grenades filled with more of the same?” Declan asked.

“Yeah, maybe.  What herbs do you have?” Tami asked.

He looked around the room and then frowned.  “I left the herb kit in the car.  I’ll be right back.  Just gotta let myself out of the ward and then repower it.  Talk to Stacia while I’m gone,” he said, jumping up and heading out the door.

Stacia’s eyes followed as he left and then turned back to the girl witch on the screen.  Tami was watching her with her arms folded, eyes hard.

“So you’re the one.  Why?” Tami asked.

“Why what?” Stacia asked, although she had an idea.

“Why is he fixed on you?  I get the physical part; you’ve got that in spades, but hell, there are at least four girls here who are pretty close to you and would tag team him if he wanted.  Why a werewolf?” Tami asked.

“We aren’t boyfriend and girlfriend,” Stacia said, suddenly wondering why she was even answering.

“Does he know that?” Tami asked.  “Because he won’t even look at the girls that are throwing themselves at him.  I almost started to think he was gay, but then some newbie made a crack about your picture on a magazine cover and Declan lost his shit.  Kid almost went home.  Baddest witch in the school got all up in his face on, like, his second day.  A lot of posters came down that day.  The garbage closet was full of them.”

“We are friends for now, not that it is any of your business,” Stacia said.

“Listen wolf cheeks, anything to do with that kid is witch business.  He’s like a global treasure.  Arcane’s witch population quadrupled this semester and we got some of the best teachers in the witching world all of a sudden.  Coincidence or intense interest in the strongest male witch ever heard of who has intimate knowledge of the Book of Sorrows?  You tell me.  If you’re leading him on for shits and giggles when he could be setting up his life in the Crafting world, then you’re a bigger bitch than my roommate.  At least she’s honest about her desires,” Tami said.

“I’m not leading him on.  I like him.  It’s complicated.  And why the hell am I telling you my business anyway?” Stacia said, getting angry. Inside, her wolf was standing at attention, growling.

“Easy there, Blondie-locks.  Don’t get your panties in a twist.  The kid is, in my opinion, besotted with you.  He obviously likes you a great deal more than you like him, but that doesn’t give you the right to jerk him around.  He’s all full of honor and loyalty and useless crap like that despite the people that constantly try to use him.  I just want you to realize that he picked you out of almost everybody and while I know you must be used to having any guy you want, this one is special.”

“You don’t think I know he’s special?  And for your information, most guys find me interesting right up until I Change.  Then they’re terrified, except the werewolves.  They just want me as a trophy mate and to get my connection to Chris and Tanya, or just to break my spirit and dominate me. And just how would you know how much I like him?  Maybe I’m just not going to drop into bed with a guy I really like.  Maybe I want it to go a little slow so we both know it’s real,” Stacia said, her wolf just under the surface.

Tami studied her for a moment.  “Good.”

“What?” Stacia asked, confused by the sudden change.

“I wanted to see where you stood.  I think that’s now pretty clear.  I’m not usually interested in who sleeps with who or any of that crap.  My path is clear of that shit.  But this kid is a game changer and frankly, I’d rather he was with you,” Tami said.

“What?  You just gave me the third degree!”

“Listen.  If he decides he likes a witch here, it will change the balance of power between every witch circle in the country.  Personally, he scares the fuck outta me because I can’t control him.  He’s too independent and full of principles.  So I’d rather he was with a werewolf and none of the witches,” Tami said.

“Why did you ask him to sleep with Erika?” Stacia asked.

“Because he knows I’m uncomfortable with him, myself, but he expects something like that.  If I didn’t go that route, it would make him suspicious.  Plus, I knew he wouldn’t touch Erika with his roommate’s dick.  Shit, he has girls knocking on his door in bras and lace thongs and he ignores them.”

“No way? How desperate are they?” Stacia asked.

“They’re serious like heart attacks. Like their whole lives depend on it.  He put a stop to it, though.  Moved his room into the middle of the werewolf floor.  Now any girl who comes strolling through in her undies—or even dressed—has to pass every male werewolf, who can smell them coming while they’re still on the stairs.  A lot harder to knock on a door when every other door is open and the wolves are laughing, making comments, and trying to get them into their own rooms,” Tami said.

“That was clever,” Stacia said, picturing it.

“Oh, your boy is sharp as a laser.  He’s pretty quiet about it, but there are times when he’ll bring up a spell or ward that none of the hotshot witch teachers know.  It’s partly why they’re here.”

“You’re saying the teachers are looking to learn from him?” Stacia asked, incredulous.

“The Book of Sorrows was one of those fabled grimoires that supposedly contained the knowledge of the ages.  He’s the only one alive that’s seen it.  And Chris Gordon gave the empty shell of the book to the Irwin Clan.  Word is it’s blank,” Tami said.  “So yeah, the teachers will sometimes describe a problem and then ask a student to try and solve it with a spell.  They did that to Declan a few times till he started playing dumb.  But the few times it worked, he used spells of such refined efficiency that they took your breath away.  No way any kid my age should have been able to come up with that on their own.”

Stacia was quiet for a moment.  “He threatened a kid over my poster?  That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Well, to be fair, we had just fired him from Wytch Wars, so he was already pretty pissed,” Tami said.

“You fired him from his own game?” Stacia asked.

“We made him the permanent Game Master.  It wasn’t really fair for him to compete.  Hell, he made most of the dirt dudes that we use.  Anyway, it was day two of the new semester and we were introducing the new kids to the game.  The veterans got together and voted him GM.  He wasn’t happy.  Then this new kid cut out a picture of your face from a poster and taped it to his avatar.  Asked Declan how he could make it more realistic so he could take you home and have his way with you. Obviously had no idea you were connected to Declan and, of course, being a dumb ass boy, he had to say it much cruder than that.  Declan waved a hand and the avatar just crumbled into dust, the picture mask evaporated without even smoke.  The rest of us oooo’d and ahhhh’d and the kid realized he’d stepped deep in it but didn’t know how bad.  He was a pyrokinetic and like I said, tree stump dumb.  He pulled a flame on Declan.”

“Ouch, what happened?  Did Declan hurt him?” Stacia asked.

“No, he just took the kid’s flame.  Took his power or something.  One second it was roaring, the next it was gone.  Then the kid couldn’t generate so much as a spark.”

“Witches can do that?” Stacia asked.

“Well, before, I would have said no.  But he can obviously do it.  We don’t know what he did.  That’s more than mildly terrifying, by the way.  Imagine that someone could just take your ability to Change into wolf girl,” Tami said.

“Did the kid get his power back?” Stacia asked, thinking it would suck to lose what she had now.

“Yeah, after Declan left.  A bunch of kids videoed the confrontation and we’ve been studying those, trying to figure it out.  Best we can come up with is that because he’s so strong in Fire, he just took all the heat the kid generated and directed it elsewhere.  Problem is he’s so smooth at it that we couldn’t figure out where it all went.  Imagine pulling your power on this kid and he just takes it and uses it against you?”

“Okay, that would be scary.  No wonder you don’t like him,” Stacia said.

“I don’t dislike the kid.  I just don’t have time for boys and certainly not that one, as if he’d ever stop looking at you and look at a girl with RBF syndrome,” Tami said.

“RBF?”

“Resting Bitch Face.  My relaxed expression is, I’m told, off-putting.  But that’s okay because I have way bigger things to think about than boys,” Tami said.

“Like what?  Family?  Career?  Money?” Stacia asked.

“My family is Navajo, what we call Dinè.  We follow the Witchery way… the path of death magic.  The path is hard and requires… sacrifices.  I have issues with it,” Tami said.

“Sacrifices?  Like human sacrifices?” Stacia asked.

“Hmm, you’re no dumb blonde, are you?  I begin to see what he sees.  Yes, human sacrifice.  Usually a loved one.  That’s what’s expected of me,” Tami said.

“Oh!” Stacia said as the light bulb went off in her head. “If Declan could or would teach you, you might be able to get power without sacrificing someone,” she guessed.

Tami’s frozen blank face, her RBF, cracked into shocked surprise.  “Okay, you are sharp.”

“That’s the favor you’ll ask of him,” Stacia guessed again.

Tami nodded.  “Only, let me ask you this.  The witch that wrote Sorrow was reputed to be a master of death magic as well.  So why does the kid need me?” she asked.

The answer was instantly apparent to Stacia.  “You don’t know?” she asked.

Tami shook her head.

“My turn to ask you a question… has Declan ever met your family?  Does he know about your problem?” Stacia asked.

Tami nodded.  “I had to give a brief presentation on the background of our family path once. And Declan let my kid brother run an avatar once on family day.”

“And what would happen if he just started to teach you some of his secrets?  How would the other girls react?” Stacia asked.

Light dawned on the dark witch’s face.  “They’d lose their shit.”

“But if he owes you a favor, that would be different, wouldn’t it?  Then they could seek to do him favors and get access, right?”

“He’s helping me?” Tami asked, shocked.

“It’s what he does.  And despite being a boy, he’s oddly observant sometimes.  And I hear him coming,” Stacia said, glancing at the doorway.

“So he doesn’t need my advice?” Tami asked.

“He will certainly value your expertise.  Both Chris and Tanya always harp on gathering as much information as possible.  Despite his book smarts, he doesn’t have firsthand death magic experience… I don’t believe,” Stacia said, then glanced back to the door.  “He’s back,” she said loud enough that Declan heard her as he came in through the door, lugging a hard-sided black case.

“Got it,” he announced in a breathless rush.  He popped it open and sat on the floor, glancing from Stacia to Tami’s face on the screen before looking into his case.  “Got the basics: osha, angelica, copal, anise, rosemary, rue, agrimony, blessed salt, sea salt, even iodized salt. Sage too, of course. The kitchen had basil, caraway seeds, clove, coriander, cumin, garlic, and bay leaf.  What else?”

“Anything protective that grows naturally in that region should be particularly effective.  Burdock, plantain, blackberry, maybe blueberry too, since Maine is known for them.  Also, any marigolds or chrysanthemum flowers grown locally will be helpful.  I’m sending you some family recipes for defending and defusing death magic.  Share these with the others and I’ll use your bones for a chair,” Tami said, typing into her phone.

“Right, no sharing.  Got it.  Thanks, Tami,” Declan said.

“Don’t thank me, warlock.  Repay me,” she said with an emotionless face.

“Okay. We’ll work that out when I get back,” he said.

“Good-bye wolf,” Tami said to Stacia.

“Yeah, nice chatting with you, witch,” Stacia said coolly.

Declan cut the connection.  “You two get along alright when I was outside?”

“We understand each other a bit better.  Now what do we do?” she asked.

“We start by opening these shotgun shells I borrowed from Shorty.  Game loads, but we’ll dump out the shot and refill with a mixture of blessed salt and some of these herbs.  I don’t have a lot of the really powerful ones like osha and angelica, so we have to make them count,” he said, settling into work.

“That we will,” she said, studying him with a slight smile while he worked.

CHAPTER 25

Stacia woke instantly.  Just a tiny sound… way downstairs.  A split second later, her brain supplied the identity: Shorty, rising and beginning his day.

She was lying on Declan’s bed, still clothed, but with her leg thrown over his.  A blanket from the foot of the bed covered them.  She vaguely recalled the two of them lying back on his bed sometime around two a.m., talking about herbs and spirits.

Declan lay on his side, facing her, sound asleep, hair falling over his right eye.  Deep inside, her wolf was quiet and happy.  If she were a werecat, her beast would’ve been purring.  It was ungodly early, still dark out.  Her phone suddenly buzzed with a text.  It was Buck Thompson with a simple On our way.

It was time to get moving, but she hated the idea of moving.  The bed was warm and Declan smelled good.  It was weird because she could identify tens of thousands of scents from just one sniff, but she couldn’t figure out why he smelled of forest and earth.  She could smell his deodorant, his toothpaste, the smell of the chicken salad he must have had for lunch yesterday still redolent in his t-shirt, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why his body—his skin—smelled like the wild places of the world.  Why his hair, under the odor of his Dove for Men shampoo, smelled like the air before a summer thunderstorm.

A car was coming down Shorty’s long driveway. Pickup truck.  Older engine, V8.

Now getting up wasn’t a choice.  She gently untangled herself from the male next to her—her male, according to her inner beast, and padded to the bathroom.  A shower was pointless, but she washed her face, drained her bladder, and brushed her teeth with Declan’s toothpaste on her finger.  When she came out, he was awake and watching for her.

“Hi,” he said, eyes curious.

“Someone’s coming.  Just pulling into the yard.  Also, Buck texted me.  They’re on their way.  Time to get our act together,” she said.

“Attack at dawn type of thing?” he asked.  She nodded.  “I’m glad you fell asleep here last night.  I don’t know what today will bring, but I wouldn’t want to face it without you,” he said awkwardly, suddenly a little shy.

She leaned over him and kissed his cheek.  Then, after a pause, she kissed him on the lips.  It was a soft, lingering kiss, one that promised more.  She pulled back and looked into his bright blue eyes.  “I thought I’d find one rogue werewolf up here and instead, I found a whole pack with a deranged alpha and a death witch.  I’m not ashamed to say I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my life than when you came through that door yesterday afternoon. By myself, I would have grave concerns.  But the two of us together?  Forget about it.  Of course, at some point, I thought you might level the station and start a war. So you get a couple of points for not obliterating the local law enforcement population.”

“I was pretty angry when I saw you bound in that chair and heard the asshat Adler talking.  Omega was trying to talk me down, telling me your heartbeat was steady and even, that your breathing was normal so you weren’t in pain, but I was still really mad.  But I also heard the sheriff and I realized how much you must have impressed him in the short time you’d been here.  So I figured maybe smooth and slow was better than shock and awe,” Declan said.

“Wow, a college guy that actually thinks before he acts… amazing,” she said, giving him one more kiss.  “Alright.  Let’s get this over with,” she said.

“You in a hurry or something?” he asked.

“I can’t continue what I just started until we clear out this pack and that little witch bitch,” she said, her eyes amused and sly.

His face flooded with sudden understanding and he jackknifed upright.  “Right. One pack of killer werewolves toasted and one evil witch roasted, coming right up.”

She went back to her room to dress for combat… and brush her teeth again.  When she got back to Declan’s room, she found him in black cargo pants, a long-sleeve black shirt that said DEMIDOVA SECURITY across the shoulders, and black combat boots.  He was fastening on a crossdraw holster with a stainless steel revolver at his waist and already had a combat tomahawk in a kydex sheath hanging over his right shoulder.  She raised both eyebrows at him as she looked the hardware over.

“Mack made me the tomahawk and Jetta gave me the Ruger.  It was her uncle’s, but it’s a bit too light and too powerful for her to be comfortable with.  SP 101 in .357 Magnum. She’s an artist with a 9mm but this… not so much,” he explained as her fingers tugged on the tomahawk’s sheath.  Truth be told, she was admiring the way his torso filled out his shirt as much as the gun and hawk.  The Arcane training programs were definitely agreeing with his physique.  He’d never be bulky, but he was getting much more defined.

“It only holds five shots, but they’re pretty potent.  Right now, it’s loaded with three garlic and rowan rounds and two silver loads,” he said, his heartbeat running faster as her fingers danced lightly over his back.

“Garlic and rowan?  Is that supposed to be for vampires and werewolves?” she asked idly, smiling at what she heard inside his chest.

“No.  It would just piss them off.  Garlic oil and slivers of rowan wood are for things like the revenants that attacked our restaurant.  Things of spirit.  They’re kinda like those salt and herb rounds in your shotgun,” he said with a nod at her slung DP-12.

“Well, those are a hell of nice gifts,” she commented.

“I bought them some rifles at the end of the summer.  Tanya way overpaid me,” he said.

“Oh?  About the same time you bought me this shotgun?” she asked.

“Yeah. So?” he asked defensively.

“Nothing.  Just a lot of nice stuff for a college kid to hand out—even one who got paid really well,” she said.

“All of my needs at Arcane are met by the scholarship that Chris and Tanya gave me.  Plus I have the absolute best robo investor in the world managing my money,” he said.

She froze, thinking what a sentient quantum computer could do to the world’s investment markets.  “Is that why my 401k has been doing better than it should have?” she asked.

Correct, Miss Stacia.

Declan had the earpiece back in place.

“We’ll talk about invasion of privacy later, Omega.  Right now, you better grab your bag and your balls and let’s get moving,” she said to Declan.  It was his turn to frown at her words until she smirked and chin pointed at the bed, where his Crafting bag and three new steel and silver balls of doom lay.

“Oh, right,” he said.

They found Shorty outside the lodge, talking to a tall man who stood like he was looking across a fence. An invisible fence.  Stacia recognized the man immediately.  “Maurice Bowwan.  He’s a local practitioner,” she said to Declan as they stepped out the door.

Shorty turned to them when he heard the door open.  “I didn’t know how to let him by the magic thingy,” he said.  Maurice stood quietly, watching them closely, about ten feet from a line of tall nails that were poked into the hard ground, each about a foot apart.

“Well, this is your property, Shorty.  Those are your nails.  So you have the ability to simply invite him across the threshold of the ward.  Anyone else would need to pull one of the nails to create an opening and then replace it,” Declan said, his eyes focused on Maurice.

“Invite him in?  Just say come on in?” Shorty questioned.

“Pretty much.  Personally, I would say something like ‘You are welcome to enter my property today or for now.’  That makes it a conditional entry, not a blanket license to enter at free will,” Declan said.

“Maurice, you’re welcome onto my property any time you want,” Shorty said, then glanced at Declan to see if he understood the importance of his words.

“Okay, free license then.  Maurice, I’m Declan.  Shorty must trust you implicitly,” Declan said, holding out his hand.

Maurice took so long to look at the outstretched hand that Stacia started to get pissed, but Declan stayed cool.  But finally, he strode forward, crossing over the ward and, with an odd formality, took Declan’s hand.  And held it.  “I am Maurice Bowwan, Declan.  I am honored to meet you on the lands of my friend John Kane,” he said.

Declan’s eyebrows twitched upward just a little bit and he smiled slightly as he shook Maurice’s hand.  “Thank you,” he said.  The grip looked tight, like they were doing that guy thing of testing each other’s grip strength, which Stacia thought was kind of dumb, especially since she could have crushed any of their grips.  But somehow, they reached a mutual, if silent, understanding and released hands.

“You have created a fine protection for my friend John,” Maurice said, curiosity in every line of his body.

“We were attacked by werewolves last night.  Olsen is dead,” Shorty said, nodding at Olsen’s cabin, which stood without a door about forty feet away.

Maurice’s eyes grew slightly larger as he looked first at the broken cabin doorway and then turned his eyes on the main building with its two boarded-up windows.

“I was blinded by the ward this young man put in place.  But now I see why,” Maurice said.  “I am so sorry about young Olsen.”

“They came at suppertime.  We’d all be dead except for Stacia here.  Took out two by herself,” Shorty said.

“How many were there?” Maurice asked after an appraising glance at Stacia.

“At least seven,” Shorty said, turning to Stacia for confirmation.

“Exactly seven.  Three ran away.  Three died, and one was captured.  That one is in police and federal custody,” Stacia said.

Maurice opened his mouth to ask a question, but a sharp cry overhead caused them all to look up.  A huge set of wings flapped as a monstrous flyer back winged to a landing on the roof rack of Declan’s Land Cruiser.  It was as gray as the pre-dawn sky, scaled looking, with massive bat-like wings that stretched from one end of the Cruiser to the other.  Two powerful legs with sharp, thick talons clutched the metal rack and shook the vehicle as it settled onto its roost.  A long neck and reptilian head with backward-thrusting spikes around its crest completed the perfect image of a miniature dragon.

“That’s Draco.  He’s with me,” Declan said.

“You bound a being of the Air?  You fool!” Maurice said, outraged and maybe scared as well.

Declan’s expression went blank, but his eyes got hard.  Stacia knew that he wore that face when he was frosty with anger.

“If you have the ability to tell these things, Mr. Bowwan, you will perhaps see that he is not bound in any way.  Do you have that level of skill?” Declan asked, voice cold.

Bowwan, still looking at the dragon, picked up on Declan’s sudden anger.  He looked first at the young warlock and then back to the dragon, who was now preening one wing.

“Oh, I see,” he said, suddenly much subdued.  “The elemental isn’t bound.  In which case, we need to stay behind this ward.”

“No Mr. Bowwan, we don’t,” Declan said, crossing the line of nails.  Stacia felt something like spider webs being lifted from her skin and knew that Declan had just broken the ward, a fact that wasn’t missed by Bowwan, who sucked a sharp breath.

Ignoring the others, Declan strode up to his car and the miniature mythical beast that immediately stopped grooming and inspected the young man like an interesting bite to eat.  Holding up one hand, Declan waited as the dragon stretched its neck down and rubbed its jaw on him.

“He is not bound in any way, except perhaps by affection,” Declan said, turning to look back at the others.  Draco’s head darted down, but the toothy jaws stayed closed as the beast rubbed its face in the boy’s hair. “And he won’t attack unless he perceives a threat.”

“You befriended an elemental?” Maurice asked.

“Actually, I made the shell and he sort of moved into it.  A minor miscalculation,” Declan said.

“What were you going for?” Maurice asked.

“More of an animated robot,” Declan admitted, turning back to the beast on the truck. He was slightly uncomfortable.

“You were trying to create a golem?” Maurice asked, incredulous.

“I didn’t know they were called that.  I was just a kid,” Declan said.

“One with prodigious power and no supervision apparently,” Maurice said.

Declan snapped around, his cool anger, which had begun to subside, now flaring to hot outrage.

Uh oh, Stacia thought, stepping forward.  Wrong thing to say.  “He was supervised by two of the most skilled witches to ever come out of Ireland; witches with more power and knowledge than anyone I’ve ever met or heard of.  Exactly who are you and what have you achieved that grants you such vast judgment of people you don’t know a thing about?” Stacia asked, her wolf awake and angry.

Draco had raised his head from his young creator’s head and was now focused with a sharp predatory gaze on the older man.

Shorty was frozen, looking like he was torn between backing up his friend and getting the hell away from him.

“You accidentally called an elemental into being and you think that is adequate supervision?” Maurice said, not backing down although he was beginning to look uncertain.

“I created Draco to help with a game.  My supervisors realized what he was immediately.  They monitored the situation closely but saw no reason to dispel him.  I’m not sure how much experience you have with elementals, but I sincerely doubt you have a hundredth, no, a thousandth of their Craft,” Declan said.

“And he’s not even the really scary one,” Stacia said.

“There’s another one?” Maurice asked in disbelief.

“Robbie isn’t scary.  If anything, he’s much calmer than Draco,” Declan said, frowning at her.

“Please,” she said.  “He’s big as a wall and crushes robots with one hand.”

“He’s the one that retrieved the crystal in your necklace.  Robbie wouldn’t harm you,” Declan said, puzzled and maybe a little hurt.

“Oh, I didn’t say I was worried about him.  It’s other people that lose their shit when he rumbles up out of the ground like an animated boulder,” she said.

“He’s really very placid.  He prefers the quiet of the woods around the restaurant.  In fact, I think Draco gets on his nerves a bit,” Declan said, watching her instead of Bowwan.

“I know.  Your aunt explained it and showed me where he likes to sit, like a pile of rocks, on the edge of the property.  It’s just he’s pretty intimidating when he’s angry,” Stacia said.

“What makes him angry?” Shorty asked.

Bless you, Stacia thought before answering. “Anyone or anything that threatens the land, Declan’s aunt, or Declan.  You may have seen some footage of him on TV, Shorty.  There were a number of news clips that caught him this past summer in New York City.”

“That monster that rose up out of the pavement?” Shorty asked. “The one that beat the insect robots to pieces?”

“That’s him,” Stacia said.  “What, exactly, may we do for you, Mr. Bowwan? We’re on our way out.  A little matter of some rogue werewolves and a witch, you might recall?” Stacia asked.

Bowwan was staring at Draco, who had now laid his head on Declan’s shoulder, still watching the two older men.  He took a breath and stepped back.  “I apologize, young master crafter.  It was not my intention to come across as a judgmental bumpkin.  It’s just I had a certain expectation based on Miss Reynold’s word and I was… unprepared… for the reality.  You are even more powerful than I surmised.  But I wanted to deliver what help I could,” he said, turning and walking back to his truck.  He reached into the bed and pulled out a bundle of evergreen boughs.

“Juniper mixed with blackberry, with a little marigold and daffodil mixed in,” he explained.

Declan was nodding.  “Strong, locally grown protection from evil and death magic,” he said.  “Thank you.  That saves me from scrounging a much less effective alternative.”  He looked calmer and his tone seemed sincere, but Stacia could hear his heartbeat pounding with constrained anger.  He didn’t forget comments, no matter how oblique, that maligned his aunt and his mother.  For a local wise man, Maurice had made a monumentally bad first impression.

“I also have this…” Maurice said, holding up an Altoids tin.

“Does my breath stink that bad?” Declan asked, eyebrows up.  He knew damn well it wasn’t mints, but his default setting was wiseass.

“No, no, of course not.  This is Chaga mushroom.  From the boles that grow on birch trees.  A powerful antioxidant tea is made from it, said to even cure cancer,” Maurice said.

“Antioxidants?  That’ll be handy if we live through the morning.  Keep the plaque off my artery walls and all that,” Declan said, frowning.

“When the tea is brewed with the power of an adept, it becomes something much much more.  A healing draught of impressive capability,” Maurice said, frowning at Declan’s sass.

“How impressive?” Declan asked. “Wait, I remember hearing about it now,” he said, glancing at Stacia.  Probably remembering something from the Book of Darkest Sorrow, she thought.

“Depends on the crafter.  Heat the water with your power and think of what you want the tea to accomplish.  But the tea must be consumed immediately after brewing or it will lose its power very quickly.”

Now the tall local adept turned to Stacia.  “After you left the other day, I entered my sweat lodge and spent a good deal of time contemplating the situation and communing with my ancestors.  My real purpose today is to leave you with the impression that I came away with from that ceremony.  Nature seeks balance.  The universe seeks balance.  And from time to time, when the balance of things is broken and things are pushed too far in one direction, an opposite reaction occurs to push it back the other way.”

“Statisticians call it returning to the mean,” Declan said, which earned him a raised eyebrow from Stacia.  “What?  It’s in that business class I’m taking.”

“A very good analogy. Like the stock market crashing one year and then rebounding the next.  Very good, Declan.  My point is this:  in recent years, good and evil have been far out of balance,” Maurice said.

“What do you mean?  Chris Gordon has closed all the gates and sent the demons back to Hell,” Declan said.

“That’s exactly my point.  Mr. Gordon is powerful, a giant stride forward in the power of good, if you will, in this realm.  The breakout of gates that occurred over the last few years was an attempt by the universe to return to that mean you were talking about.  But that was squashed and the balance has been pressed even further out of order.  What I’m trying to say is that when you face this pack and this dark witch, I think you have a very good chance of coming across yet another pushback from the other side.  A strong rebound.”

“You think the universe wants evil over good?” Stacia asked.

“I think the universe wants a balance in all things.  The Creator gave us all the capacity for good and evil.  Our time here, in this life, in this realm, has purpose.  When we leave this life, the only thing we take with us is what we did while we were here—good and bad.”

Stacia was unconvinced, but a glance at Declan showed him to be deep in thought.  He nodded when she caught his eye.  “My aunt has said a lot of the same stuff.  She never spoke directly about Chris and Tanya, but she’s been on edge since we met them.  Almost like she’s been waiting for another shoe to drop,” he said.

“Did she have reservations about you working with us this summer?” Stacia asked.

“No, not really.  In fact, she encouraged it.  But she’s constantly warning me to be on guard, constantly preparing wards and charms for, like, everything imaginable.  She’s been like a witchy survival prepper,” Declan said.  “I think she might agree with you, in theory, Mr. Bowwan.  At least about this aspect.  Probably school you in several other areas, but there ya go.”

“Sooo, what does all this mean?” Stacia asked.

“That we keep our guard up and expect the unexpected.  Thank you for the juniper, Mr. Bowwan, and the mushroom extract.  Shorty, thanks for dinner and the room,” Declan said, shaking each man’s hand.  “We’ll be back after this is over.”

Stacia’s phone buzzed with Buck Thompson’s name on the screen.  Exchanging a glance with Declan and Shorty, she accepted the call, putting it on speaker phone.

“Hey Buck, where are you?” she asked.

“At the mill.  You and Declan need to get here immediately.  Agent Adler moved up the timetable.  He’s attacking now without you.  He wants this to be a human—normal human—victory.  I’ve got a bad feeling it’s going to be a cluster fuck,” the young sergeant said.

Stacia hung up, nodded to Shorty and Maurice, and headed for Beast.  The door lock popped up automatically as she approached the passenger door.  She turned to look back at Declan, but he was facing the lodge, deep in concentration.

Probably magically erasing any stray hairs, skin cells, or clippings that would have been shed inside the lodge.  He had taken it on as his task on the team to sterilize their presence whenever they left a site or job.  Inside the building, little puffs of smoke would likely be popping and snapping, especially in their rooms.  She turned back to the ’72 Toyota, wondering about the lock.

“Ready?” Declan said, coming up behind her.

“Beast unlocked himself,” she commented.

“Really?  He doesn’t do that with most people.  Really just me… and now you,” he said with a quick smile before jumping into the driver’s seat.  She looked at the green Land Cruiser and then shrugged, giving the roof a pat as she popped open the door and climbed in.  Seconds later, they were bouncing down the driveway, Shorty and Maurice dwindling in the distance.

CHAPTER 26

The first thing they saw as they entered the town was the Apache helicopter hovering on station, its 30mm chain gun aimed at the paper mill.  As they got closer, the rest of the scene looked like something out of a movie.  Drones of all kinds swooped through the air, at least some of them run by the media crews that were situated on Main Street, blocked from getting closer by police barriers.

They got through the first such barricade by mentioning Grable’s name.  Mill Road, which ran alongside the old facility, was like the staging area for a war film.

“It’s like Blackhawk Down, isn’t it?” Declan mused, driving Beast around a black Humvee. Armed and armored agents had already begun to assault the building, entering through two different doors while the Blackhawk swooped low over the building’s roof to drop a squad from rappeling ropes.

“That didn’t have a great outcome, if I recall,” Stacia said, frowning at the sheer volume of people and guns.

At the next roadblock, the deputy on duty directed them to the command and control area.

Sergeant Thompson, Sheriff Grable, and several of the other deputies Stacia had met were clustered around a black mobile communications van.  “Sheriff, what are you doing?  Those men are going to get killed,” Declan said as he exited Beast.  Sheriff Grable didn’t look any happier than they did.  He just shook his head and jabbed a thumb inside the van.

“Those men are trained professional fighters, armed with the best weapons and carrying your protective wards,” Adler said from inside.  He turned back to the wall of monitors, speaking rapidly into his headset.

“We tried to delay him, at least till you two could get here, but that made him go even faster,” Buck said.

“Goddamned glory hound,” Sheriff Grable swore.

“They’ve breached the doors,” a seated agent said over his shoulder to Adler.

“She won’t let that go unanswered,” Declan said.  The first scream came as he finished his sentence.

“Hunter One, advise?” Adler asked, voice even.

“Contact, sir. Agent Kinte is gone.  Just yanked away.”

Gunfire sounded, both through the speakers and through the air; a burst of controlled full auto fire mixed with single shots.

“Sit rep, Hunter One,” Adler demanded.

“A swarm of… well… lights, sir.  They’re hitting us but the protective gear you issued seems to destroy them.  Also, fast-moving shadows in and around the factory floor.  Those are the shots being fired.”

“She’s testing your amulets, Agent Adler.  Seeing what they can take and wearing away at the wards,” Declan said.

“But they’re working,” Adler stated.

“Yeah, against her lightest defenses.  I told you that those amulets were only good for one or two spells.  You’re using them up on the easy stuff.  If you had waited, I would have cleared those little warden spirits before your guys got near them.  You should pull back and we can regroup,” Declan said.

“Not happening, O’Carroll.  We’re in and we’ll win,” the giant agent said, turning back to the monitors.  “Hunter One, belay that weapons fire.  Pop flares and get some light in there.”

On the big main monitor, which had an identifier labeled Hunter 1, the view of the interior of the factory was coming from either a helmet or shoulder camera.  Red light flashed in the darkness as flares arced out through the air to land around the squad.  A second and third monitor showed views from Hunter 2 and 3, which must be a rear-entry team in the case of 2 and the roof squad in 3’s.

Weapon lights strobed the darkness of the building, which appeared to be almost an unnatural black.

“Shouldn’t more light enter through all those windows?  I mean, it’s not full daylight, but that seems darker than it should be,” Stacia said.

“I think she’s causing it,” Declan said.  “I can think of two or three spells that would add gloom.”

“Magic can eat light?” Buck asked.

“It can appear to, which is pretty much the same thing if you can’t dispel it.  That space is perfect for ambushes; all those abandoned machines to hide behind and around,” Declan said.

“Yeah, a pack of weres would have the advantage in that space,” Stacia said.

Adler gave her an annoyed glance, then spoke into his mic.  “Hunter One, this is Hunter Actual. Deploy flood units.”

“Affirmative Hunter Actual,” the calm voice came back.  On screen, four agents in heavy battle dress moved in opposite directions before setting down basketball-sized objects that immediately sprouted legs and massive light lenses.  Wide angle lights flooded the darkness with intense white light.  The units moved themselves to keep the light pointed outward and away from the squad, effectively blinding enemies while leaving the agents’ vision intact.

“New issue.  Tested to be resistant to magical interference.  I believe you might even know their inventor,” Adler smirked at Declan.

“TJ,” Declan said, receiving a confirming nod from Adler.

On the monitor, a huge wolf head peeked around the side of a hulking steel machine then darted back as rounds from at least two rifles sparked off its metal hiding spot.

A round object flew through the air over the top of the machine at the same time.  A flash of light and clap of thunder came a second later as the expertly thrown grenade detonated almost before landing on the other side.  A sharp squeal of inhuman pain came immediately on the heels of the blast, and two agents scooted forward to poke rifle barrels around the corner of the machine and deliver a burst each of auto fire.

The whining squeal cut off abruptly.

“Lycan kill confirmed,” one of the onscreen agents said, looking back at Hunter One.

“Excellent work, Team One,” Adler said into his mic before giving Declan and Stacia a smug smile.  “Continue mission.”

“Affirmative.”

“She’ll pull back her wolves and send something that’s not impressed by bullets or bombs,” Declan said.

“Like what?” Grable asked.

Declan, whose eyes were pinned to the monitor, suddenly pointed.  “Like that,” he said.

“Contact,” the team leader said.  Motion flooded the floor of the mill, a black wave that flowed from all directions.  Gunfire sounded as strobes of muzzle flash licked out into the oncoming mass, which quickly resolved into a moving carpet of small animals.  Declan recognized fishers, weasels, raccoons, skunks, a couple of bobcats, coyotes, several dogs, and an abundance of cats.  At first, they were moving too fast to get a good look, but somehow Declan had the impression that the animals looked… tattered.  Then a stumbling agent crossed the team leader’s camera feed and it was apparent that the big black fisher attacking the man’s face had seen better days.  Like living days.  It was missing an eye and one foreleg flopped brokenly, but the vicious thing still sank its teeth into the body armor that was protecting the agent from getting his throat ripped out.

Turning to Stacia, Declan gave her sleeve one tug and a head nod toward the mill.  Silently she agreed, shifting her DP-12 on its sling for better travel.  Then they were off, running all out.

“What the hell were those things?” Stacia asked.

“Revenants.  Animated remains.  It happened at Rowan West back when I first met Caeco.  But those were humans, and it took a full circle to power and control them.  This witch has probably been working on these little ones for months, building up her mini-army.  Every roadkill or wolf kill that didn’t get eaten could have been reanimated, then stored in stasis for just this kind of thing,” he replied, voice choppy because of the running.

Voices yelled at them from the police lines as they ran, and Stacia was aware of at least two drones that flew in their direction.  Declan ignored everything, running hard for the entrance that Adler’s first team had entered, his neck covered in black tattoos that told Stacia he was drawing on magic to fuel his speed.

Inside the door, the entry team was immediately visible, a group of frantic men fighting a horde of small, violent enemies whose numbers and speed made weapons fire more dangerous to the agents than their attackers.

Declan never hesitated, barreling up to the combat team, which was too preoccupied to notice and maybe accidentally shoot the two of them.  His left hand dug deep into his Crafting bag and when he pulled it out, he swung it in an arc before him.  Glittering white crystals flew into the swarm, causing an immediate effect.  The biting animals hit by the blessed salt simply stopped being animated, collapsing into the rotting corpses that they were.  Moving quickly, Declan threw handfuls of salt in all directions, stopping most of the attackers in their tracks.  But the bigger animals proved more resistant, the coyotes, one of the bobcats and two big dogs—a Rottweiler and a Doberman.

Declan caught Stacia’s eye and pointed at the big canines.  “Pull!” he shouted.

With a grin, she raised the little shotgun and began to shoot the animals with salt and herb rounds.  Fire, fire—pump, fire, fire—pump. The range of the shells was very short, but the animals’ own aggression made that a moot point.  The Doberman went down first, followed by the Rottweiler and one of the coyotes.  The other remaining coyote and the bobcat simply dissolved under the concentrated weapons fire that the now-unencumbered combat team sent their way.

There were more furry bodies, but they had stopped at the edge of the furthest spray of salt, waiting.

“You’re O’Carroll and Reynolds,” the team leader stated.  His nametag read Hollis.

“Yes, Agent Hollis, and you need us.  You’re barely in the foyer and look how much ammo you’ve expended, not to mention the amulets,” Declan said.

“Agent Adler said the amulets would protect us?” the tough-looking leader asked, eyes hard.

“For one or two threats, then they’re gone—used up.  You’re facing an enemy you haven’t trained or equipped for,” Declan said, pointing at the waiting horde of animals.  “Some handfuls of blessed salt took most of these down, and a smudge bath of the right burning herbs would have driven off those earlier spirits you encountered.”

“Agent Adler commands you to return to the C3 van,” Hollis said, one hand holding his earplug.

“Agent Adler isn’t in our chain of command.  And you need us, or this witch and her pack will be reanimating your corpses,” Declan said.  Without waiting for a response, he turned and raised one hand to the wall of furry enemy waiting for them.  The front line burst into flames, the unnatural fire racing back through the rest of the bodies.   Stacia noticed that four of the burning red flares behind them suddenly burned ultra bright before shrinking down to nothing. She’d seen that before.  Declan was pulling the heat and energy from the flares to burn the animal revenants, saving his own reserves as much as possible.

“I say we keep them—sir,” one of the agents said as the team watched their enemies burn into ash.

Hollis, too, was watching the effectiveness of Declan’s casual gesture.  He looked from the young warlock to the beautiful blonde, who was thumbing more salt rounds into her stubby shotgun.

“It’s either that or shoot you, I guess,” Hollis said.

Declan spread his arms with a tight smile. “You’re welcome to try, but I’d save my ammo if I were you.  You’ve already lost a man and you’re not halfway there.”

Gunfire and screams came from above as the roof team met resistance.  Seconds later, more shots sounded from the far back of the building.  Glass shattered abruptly overhead and a screeching pterodactyl cry froze most of the team in their tracks.

“That one is with us.  Helping your roof team, I’d say,” Declan said.

“Hunter Three is not responding,” Hollis said, signaling his men to move forward through the ash field.  “Hunter Two has run into another force of those things,” he said, waving at the carcasses under their feet.

“She’ll have kept her more powerful stuff closer to hand.  She and the pack are likely upstairs and your roof team ran into something big and bad,” Declan said, leading the way across the floor of the old factory toward the back.  They moved around a hulking metal mass and spotted the sharp, bright weapon lights of another squad, mixed with flaring bursts of muzzle flash.

“Tell them we’re approaching so they don’t shoot us,” Stacia said to Hollis, who nodded and spoke quickly into his mic.

Hunter Team Two was in worse shape, with two men down on the ground.  This horde of roadkill was primarily rodents: squirrels and rats, but two black bear carcasses were wreaking havoc.

Stacia picked up the pace, leaving Declan and the others behind as she raced up to the first bear.  The tattered hide had bone and gristle showing through, but the zombie was standing on its hind legs, its left paw pulled back to rip an agent’s face off even as he pumped heavy 7.62mm rounds through its body with his SCAR-H rifle.

She grabbed the bear’s paw with her left hand and one-handed the shotgun into an exposed gap in its fur with her right. The death strike felt like it would pull her arm from its socket, but she dragged it to a stop while the muffled pop of the salt round froze the creature in place. Pulling back hard, she yanked on the heavy rotted paw and fired the second barrel, pulling the trigger to send the bear to the ground as a collapsed corpse.

A roar behind her froze her blood.  She turned to find the second bear charging her while her gun was still pointing the other way. Despite her speed, it wasn’t going to matter.

Three silver blurs smashed into the bear, ripping through its hips, shoulders, and head in that order, hitting so fast and so hard that the bear was actually yanked sideways.  It stopped and started to collapse as Declan’s silver orbs simply froze in space and then reversed direction to crash into the dead beast from the opposite side.  It continued to thrash its broken limbs until she shot it with a salt round.

The rest of Hunter One ran up and started to dust the rats and squirrels with salt from Morton’s canisters.  She looked at Declan.  “I liberated them from Shorty’s kitchen,” he said.

She shook her head, not caring about the damned salt.  “Those balls of yours arrived in the nick of time,” she said.

An agent nearby suddenly coughed hard, his eyes darting to her and Declan before going back to the wounded man he was aiding.  He might have been covering a laugh.

Stacia felt an uncharacteristic flush, if only for a moment.  “I probably could have said that better,” she said.

Declan raised one eyebrow, then shrugged.  His silver balls were hovering on station above and slightly behind him.  Hollis walked over, another agent in tow.

“We have three men wounded.  Two pretty bad and one mostly chewed up.  Most of our guys have at least one or two bites.  What can we expect?” he asked, speaking to both of them.

“Sepsis, possibly,” Stacia said with a sniff.  “Those things have some serious rot going on.”

“While still animated, revenant bites might have a draining effect on your men’s… energy.  But they’re all down and out, so like the lady said, treat for infection.  Also, those wounded guys should be moved out of here,” Declan said.

“If this area is clear, I can get a backup team to come in and remove them,” Hollis said.

Declan looked at Stacia.  She tilted her head, sniffed the air, and nodded.  He squatted down and placed one hand on the ground, closing his eyes.  Then he opened them, grimacing as he stood up.  “This place is fucked up.  Clear—but fucked up.  Call your backup for extraction.  The rest of us need to get upstairs to your other team.”

“No shit. They’ve been fighting these things without help,” said the other team leader, whose nametag said Cochran.

“From the sounds of it, they’re fighting something else,” Stacia said.

“And they have help,” Declan said.  “Tell your men not to shoot my dragon.  I’ll be pissed,” he said, turning back to the dead carpet of carcasses.

“Dragon?” Cochran asked Hollis.

“I don’t know anything either.  Just pass the word not to shoot the damned thing when we see it.  I don’t think we want to piss that kid off,” Hollis said as they moved to organize their men.

Stacia, who had heard every word, smiled.  No, you certainly don’t, she thought.

Declan, who had just lit two borrowed flares, waved his hand and the furry bodies on the floor, including the two bears, burst into greasy smoke and fire.  The red flames flared ultra bright like red stars as he transferred all the heat to the revenants, burning the road flares down to stubs in seconds.  The smaller animals were already ash as the combined squads moved out, one man left behind to guard the wounded men and await the extraction team.

CHAPTER 27

Pounding up the stairs, the remnants of teams one and two, originally numbering a combined fourteen but now down to nine, plus Stacia and Declan came upon a scene from Hell.

Light streamed down from a set of broken skylights, illuminating a single space in the center of the massive room.  Three men stood back to back, aiming weapon lights out into the blackness of the rest of the room.  What looked like human bodies—or possibly parts of bodies—littered the floor around them. Massive hulks of metal surrounded the open area where the men huddled. The sound of flapping wings came from the darkness and flame suddenly blossomed, illuminating a massive humanoid figure and a flying creature from whose mouth poured flame directed at the monster.

The huge man shape suddenly moved, dodging the fire and somehow getting past the bat-like wings of the mini-dragon. It grabbed one of the three men like a child and pulled his arm off at the shoulder.

Three streaking orbs hit the monster as one, entering from its side.  Hips, armpit, and head were all pounded by silver and steel moving over three hundred and fifty miles an hour.  The humanoid dropped the agent and somehow still stood, then turned to face this new threat, apparently unharmed.

“It’s a guardian spirit.  Kind of like a duppy, I think.  We can’t hurt the body because it’s all ectoplasma-type shit.  But somewhere inside it should be the skeletal remains of the poor bastard she made it out off.  We need to get that and burn it,” Declan said to Stacia.

She tossed him her shotgun and started to run at the monster, stripping off her shirt and ammo bandolier as she ran.  From one step to another, she was suddenly two feet taller, two hundred pounds heavier, and covered in white fur.

“Don’t shoot my partner,” Declan yelled to the men around him, never taking his eyes off the massive yet lithe form that bounded and leapt to meet the charging humanoid.

The spirit thing was huge, easily matching her seven feet, but much heavier. Dressed in a long coat whose sleeves were too short and burned on one whole side, a wide, floppy hat that still smoldered from Draco’s fire, its feet were bare, and its face long and pale, almost greenish.  The eyes burned with red fire, which reminded her of numerous demons she had seen over the last two years, although this was slightly less intense.  Oddly, this last bit helped her to settle her raging beast and focus on the enemy.

Werewolves in two-legged combat form make insanely efficient fighters, but the very rage that drives them is also their biggest weakness.  Stacia had been trained, and trained, and trained until she’d learned to harness her rage and to fight with intellect and skill.  And her trainers were all world-class fighters, each easily able to dump her on her werewolf ass every time she lost her focus.

So as she bounded at the guardian, she studied it.  It was big and heavy, yet moved forward in eye-blurring bursts that seemed more spirit-powered than body-powered.  Her amulet, Declan’s crystal ward, flared hot against her fur as the distance between them closed with shocking quickness. The spot of heat on her breastbone reminded her that she stood between this challenger and her male.  She roared and lunged for it.

At the last second, she put all of her inhuman speed into sidestepping the monster’s charge and ducking under its sweeping arms.  Her lycan body didn’t move the same way as her human one; the joints and muscles attached differently.  In her human form, she might have spun down into a leg sweep, but this body didn’t extend its reverse-jointed legs that way.  Instead, she stepped and crouched, spinning on the pads of her feet and swiping one massive front paw at the monster’s ankles.  Its feet ripped out from under it, the spirit monster slammed face first into the floor.  Then she was on it, shoving one clawed hand deep into its back.  The coat tore easily, the greenish flesh resisting like old, moldy rubber.  Her fingers brushed something hard and knobby in the repellent, waxy flesh, but couldn’t get a grasp. Her time ran out.  The creature shoved itself upright, her weight inconsequential, her body flying backward.  It turned and blurred toward her, arms sweeping in to grab her own limbs.  Her amulet flared: white hot, a burst of actinic light pulsing from inside the crystal.  The monster reared back, arms flailing at its own face.

“It’s made from spirit and it’s powered up from all the agents it just killed.  The amulet hurts it and keeps it from bringing its full power to bear on you.  Fire just seems to damage its clothes,” Declan yelled, having moved up behind the thing.  He was firing off salt rounds into its back with her shotgun, which it noticed, but only in the way a bear notices a bee’s sting.

The monster spun toward him then blurred forward, too fast for anything bound by mere physics.  It should have been on the boy instantly, but suddenly it was stuck fast, feet frozen to the ground even as its arms strained to reach her very breakable partner.

Declan let the shotgun swing down on its sling, studying the monster with a thoughtful eye before dropping down to the ground and producing a piece of chalk.  It was only then that Stacia noticed the crudely drawn circle and symbols on the concrete floor.  He was adding a string of runes to what he’d already drawn. Tricky male.  Setting a warded circle to trap it while she was fighting it.

“I’m going to drain off some of its power, then we can yank the remains out and burn them,” he said.

She growled.

“Yeah, okay, so you’ll have to yank the bones out.  You’ve got longer arms in that form than I do,” he said, giving her a little grin.

A blur of fur and muscle shot out of the darkness and bowled him over, the form several times his size.

She started forward, but instinct or smell or some small sound made her look behind her.  Two more werewolves bounded her way.  She dropped back down, hooking one of the wolves with her claws as it shot by overhead.  Three of her long claws caught and tore the whole front of the wolf open, effectively disemboweling it.  The wounds would heal with time, but for the moment, she was free to deal with the other, which had shot by her and jumped over the one that was on top of Declan.

Her wolf almost went insane when it saw the massive beast sitting on her Declan.  But she could see the lights of the Hunter teams shining between their bodies.  He had his shields up, supporting the full weight of the thing that was trying to chew his head off. Its feet and claws scrabbled against the invisible wall of willpower that was the only thing protecting him from being shredded.

“Bad dog,” he breathed, eyes a little wild, holding one hand up in a mock pistol gesture, aiming his finger at its head. His thumb dropped like a revolver hammer and the whole top of the werewolf’s skull exploded into steaming brain and smoking bone.  Everything from the lower jaw up was just gone, blasted by the explosive fire that had suddenly formed deep inside its brain.  Tattoos squirmed around his body as he put everything he had into bench-pressing the beast’s dead weight off himself and to one side.

The wolf that had overshot them rolled to its feet and reared back to leap, but before its nerves could fire off the steel muscle of its legs, a single beam of green laser light lanced it from behind.  Its eyes bulged and a spray of blood erupted from its open mouth, the sound of the rifle shot reaching them before the first spatters of grisly mist could.

Declan waved at the sharpshooter, who was lowered his rifle and nodded back.

A man stepped up on top of one of the hulking machines, fluidly shouldering and firing an AR-15 into the sharpshooter’s face from seventy yards away, then dropped back down with inhuman speed.

Without uttering a word, the suddenly brain dead sharpshooter, his face a bloody ruin, dropped in a heap.

Declan snapped around, the remnants of his smile turning to instant rage.  Bringing up both hands, he shoved them at the machinery the sniper had ducked behind.

Stacia knew he was strong in magic.  She’d seen him call lightning from the skies and stop a runaway elevator with a thought.  But this was sudden rage translated into instant death.

The machine, some kind of paper roller, streaked with corrosion and rust, was the size of a delivery truck, ten feet high and almost fifteen feet on a side, fastened to the floor.

With a high-pitched twang, the steel bolts that were driven deep into the concrete floor either snapped or tore free as the entire mass of the unit flipped up and away from the insane blast of mental power.  Her sensitive eyes saw a dark blur barely escape being crushed by tons of metal crashing down, shaking the entire building.

He raised his hands and she growled, a questioning warning growl.  He turned to her, blue eyes enraged, but saw her head tilted and both arms held open to get his attention.

Frustrated, she willed her muzzle to more woman-like.   “Ttttaunt youuu.  Madden youuu.  Dddrain youuu,” she said, voice twisted around inhuman vocal cords.

Light dawned in his eyes.  The glint of icy blue rage turned to something more thoughtful.

“That was the soldier.  She wants him to anger me into spending my power,” he said.  She chose to just nod, the words hard to form.  “Tricky bitch,” he said, putting his hands down.  He was a little shaky, but she didn’t know if that was from having four hundred pounds of werewolf on top of him or from the expenditure of so much internal magic. Probably both.

Stacia turned to finish the wounded werewolf, but a silver orb found it first; pounding its head to jelly with three eye-blurring blows, the metal ball actually bouncing back up off the floor with each hit.

The man with the rifle darted around the side of another machine, raising his rifle with well-trained skill and speed, pointed right at her.  For a micro-second, her vision tunneled down to the bore of the gun that could be her death.

Then granite talons slammed shut on the weapon, tearing it from the man’s hands as Draco swooped down from the darkness of the ceiling.  The little dragon turned its head to the man and loosed a stream of liquid fire that flowed over his head and shoulders.  The man, who had to be Tacchino, screamed and flung himself away.  He disappeared behind the metal, still screaming, but the high-pitched human sound changed to the roar, snarl, and whine of a wounded beast that moved away from Stacia and her Declan.

“Thank you, Draco,” Declan called out.  A pterodactyl cry sounded from the gloom of the ceiling and the two broken halves of the rifle fell to the ground halfway between their spot and the blackened, burnt machine.

Hollis and his men arrived, faces grim.  “Bad enough we get torn apart by this thing,” the commanding agent said, waving at the massive spirit guardian that was straining to get free. “Now we got ex-soldiers sniping us.”

“Burnt ex-soldiers.  Even Changing into his wolf form won’t heal those burns,” Declan said.  “But I need to destroy this thing before we go further.  Can’t leave it behind us.”

“Ah sir?” one of the agents asked, stepping forward.  Stacia was struck by the respectful tone of the highly trained, thirty-ish federal agent, undoubtedly ex-military, armed to the teeth with weapons and gear as he approached the nineteen-year-old college witch.

“We noticed that you seem to use our flares to burn stuff,” the man, whose nametag read Hoyt, said with a glance at some of his companions.  “We wondered what you might do with a thermite grenade?”

“You have thermite?” her witch asked, his gaze zeroing in on the big agent who would make almost two of him.

“Yes sir,” the agent said, just a touch uncomfortable with the laser-like focus of the kid who had just thrown a ten-ton chunk of metal with his mind.  The agent unclipped a smoke grenade-looking object and held it up.  Even in the gloom of the space, Stacia’s werewolf eyes could read the word thermite.

Declan took the offered grenade and turned to the monster in the circle.  It was still straining to get at them but something in the young man’s expression, which she couldn’t see, caused it to pause.

Moving swiftly, Declan pulled open his bag.  He rummaged for a moment, first coming up with a zip-locked baggie containing a mass of unwrapped pemmican bars.  He popped the baggie open and tossed her the wad of high-calorie meat and nuts.  She scarfed it down before he had time to pull a stick of chalk from his bag.

“Is that pink, sir?” another agent asked, slightly incredulous. Hoyt suddenly realized how close he was to the white werewolf and moved a careful few steps away.  She ignored him, concentrating on her witch.

“I buy those little buckets of sidewalk chalk for kids, so it comes in all kinds of colors.  Pink for this fucker will do just fine,” Declan said, dropping down to one knee.  He drew another smaller circle, then a set of runes that ran across two feet of floor to connect with the runes on the spirit monster’s circle.

“Fire in the hole,” he said, backing up and bumping into Stacia, who had been crouching over him protectively.

Everyone moved back a few yards as Declan pulled the pin on the grenade and set it inside the circle.  He let go with one hand while closing the circle with his other, then settled back just a few feet.

The grenade went off and burned like the center of the sun. Somehow, not a flicker of heat touched any of the onlookers, all of it contained in the foot-wide circle.

Declan looked up at the monster.  “You are bound by my hand.  Now burn by my will,” he said, making a two-handed push in the thing’s direction.

Instantly, the eye-searing light around the grenade dimmed and new light flared around the monster’s feet.  Suddenly, the grenade in the small circle all but went out and the bigger circle became almost a solid column of white-hot light, lancing up to the ceiling, where the sudden illumination startled a small dragon perched on a steel rafter.

The monster disappeared from view, completely occluded by the brilliant, fusion-bright pillar of flame and light.  Stacia looked up at the ceiling where the beam touched the metal.  Red-hot drips of molten steel pulled away from the edge of the circle and started to fall.

She hooked one four-inch claw into Declan’s rear belt loop and gently pulled him back another two feet, just getting him clear before the first droplet of melted ceiling hit right in front of where he had stood.  He didn’t say a word or make a motion, his concentration completely focused on the two circles and whatever he was doing to the thermodynamics between them.

The paramilitary agents around them noticed, though, even as they divided their attention between the spectacle of fire and the dangerous spaces around them, which were newly illuminated by the massive tower of light.  Partially, they were uneasily watching her every move, but when her nose caught a scent and her head snapped around to study the shadows, they all trained weapons and lights where she was looking.  She realized they were monitoring her for her reactions to things they couldn’t sense.

Humans adapt quickly or die, she thought.

The column of fire suddenly expired, the darkness flooding back.

“Turns out I was wrong,” Declan said to her.  “It wasn’t immune to fire.  Just warded.”

The bigger circle was empty, the base a hollowed crater of glowing red concrete and orange hot rebar.  The monster of spirit was gone, like it had never been there.

CHAPTER 28

Buck Thompson pounded up the metal stairs to the second floor of the mill, standing aside for two tense-looking DOAA agents who were on their way down with a bumpy-looking body bag on a stretcher.

Behind him, Devany and Hampton watched the litter go by with concerned eyes.  Devany seemed particularly tense, holding his Remington 870 shotgun with what looked like a painfully tight grip.  The body bag had looked a little too full.

Continuing up the stairs, Buck found an open space where little bot lights lit up the dark corners and more heavily armed agents stood watch.  He remembered coming here as a boy, with his father, to visit the plant foreman about an order of paper.   It had been noisy and bright, with never-ending rivers of mile-wide paper flowing from one machine to the next.   Now it looked like Armageddon’s foyer, all dirt, corroded metal, and darkness.

A cluster of agents standing on the edge of a deep pool of blackness so deep that even the powerful robotic light units couldn’t illuminate it. It was the agents who caught Buck’s attention.  Moving closer, he found the two surviving leaders of Hunter units One and Two conferring over a blueprint of the building.

One of them, whose nametag read Hollis, looked up at them expectantly.

“Sheriff Grable wants his own people in here,” Buck said a touch defensively.

“Welcome to the party, Sergeant,” Hollis said.  “We can use all the bodies we can get. We’re down almost half our men.  You got silver in those popguns?”

“Yeah, slugs first,” Buck said.  “Then buckshot.”

“I would have argued about that choice with you before, but after seeing firsthand how handy a scatter gun is in here with this stuff… well, let’s just say I get it,” Hollis said, waving a hand ahead of them.

At his gesture, Buck saw Stacia Reynolds, kneeling on the floor about twenty feet away, thumbing rounds from a bandolier into her stubby little double pump gun.  Just beyond her, no more than two feet away, sat the witch kid, Declan, cross-legged like he was taking a meditation class.  Except most meditation classes don’t have free-floating steel orbs hovering around the participants.

“What are they doing?” Buck asked.

“The way I understand it, he’s scouting out the enemy.  She’s on overwatch,” Hollis said with a wry grimace that said he didn’t really understand anything.

“Wouldn’t drones be better?” Devany asked.

“They’d be great… if the damned things would work.  They keep breaking down in here.  Either won’t start at all, or the batteries go dead in seconds, or they just friggin’ crash.  The kid says he can feel the building enough to figure out what the bad guys are up to.  Based on what he’s done so far, I’m not second-guessing him, for all that he looks barely old enough to drive,” Hollis said.

“I don’t know much about him, but she says he’s a real power among witches, and I’ve got nothing but respect for her,” Buck said.

“The two of them are the reason that any of us are still alive,” the second leader said, his nametag reading Cochran.  “Them and that dragon thing,” he said, pointing up overhead.

“Holy shit,” Devany said.  Silently, Buck agreed.  A dog-sized dragon was perched on a steel beam up in the rafters, silently watching the darkness, its body almost directly overhead of the werewolf girl and her witch boyfriend.

“It’s like the freaking Munsters,” Cochran said.

“How many men have you lost?” Buck asked, hating himself for the question but needing the answer.

“We lost the first guy as we entered the building.  He just got yanked off his feet like a doll, straight up.  Then we had three guys wounded by the Pet Cematary army,” Hollis said.  “And Hunter team 3 had four guys ripped apart by that, that thing, including the team leader.  Then the last one lost his arm but the kid dumped some mushroom powder in a metal flask, heated it with his hand, and poured it on the arm and the stump and shoved them back together.  Then he put something that looked like blood in my guy’s mouth and told me he thought he’d live and possibly be able to have the arm reattached,” Hollis answered.  “And my team sharpshooter got sniped by that ex-military werewolf.”

“Tacchino,” Deputy Hampton said.

“Whatever. So we’re down nine guys,” Hollis said, voice cold.

“Blood in his mouth?” Devany asked.  “That’s fucked up.”

“It wasn’t blood.  It was vampire plasma and it saved his life, and you couldn’t buy it for any amount of money,” a calm female voice said.  Stacia was looking at them from twenty feet away, obviously able to hear them just fine despite the quiet voices they’d been using.

“Hello? Demidova Corp?  Remember?” she said.

Declan shifted his body and her head snapped around to watch him resettle himself before turning back to them.

“So he’ll be a vampire?” Devany asked, voicing the question that all of them wanted to ask.

“No, dumbass.  He’ll live and because of the chaga tea and the vamp plasma, he’ll likely get his arm back,” she said, standing up in one lithe motion. She wore a stretchy black shirt, shotgun bandolier, and a pair of black tights that were so thin, they looked more like body paint than material.

Declan popped up with the energy of youth, but with a lot less grace.  The floating balls swung around and followed him as he moved.

“How is your guy?” he asked Hollis and Cochran.

“Stable and en route to the hospital.  What did you find out with your meditation thingy?” Hollis asked.

“They’re down at the far end.  I can’t tell for certain, but I think they’re down to four regular wolves, plus the alpha, the witch, and one more that I can’t quite get a handle on.  And I think your first trooper, the one that got yanked away, is there as well.  He’s pretty heavily wounded though, but still alive,” Declan said, glancing down at the blueprints on the empty box Hollis was using as a war table.

He traced a finger across the drawings.  “Lots of vats and holding tanks ahead.  I think this must have been where the wood pulp entered the building?” he looked up at Buck, Hampton, and Devany for confirmation.

“That’s right.  It’s a fair bit of distance away, though.  This building is big,” Buck said.

“So from here, it’s gonna get real hard.  That part up ahead is the center of their home and she’s gonna have some real harsh shit lined up for unwanted visitors like us, and all that big, built-in machinery worries me a bit,” Declan said.

“I absolutely hate that you just said it’s going to get harder,” Cochran said.

“How do the werewolves run all around and not get caught in her traps?” Devany asked.

“Well, the witch can teach her wards and traps to identify friends from foes.  Or she can give them a sorta key to the kingdom, like a necklace or bracelet or something, that lets them pass through unharmed,” Declan said.

“Really?  A passkey?” Devany asked.  “Did you all check these bodies for anything like that?” he asked, pointing at the three dead werewolves.

Declan frowned, started to speak, and then frowned again.  Instead of answering, he walked over to the nearest beast carcass and began to examine its neck and feet. Stacia moved to another one.

Declan looked stumped but Stacia was examining the head of her wolf with a thoughtful look.

“D, is there a bone earring on yours?” she asked.

Switching from the heavy neck fur, Declan checked first one ear and then the other.  “Yes.  Yes there is,” he said, pulling his tomahawk from its kydex sheath.  He choked up on the handle, holding the razor-sharp little ax just under its head, which let him use the fine edge to slice into the were’s ear.  “Got it,” he said, triumphantly.

“You can just spin them around till you get to the break in the ring and just pull them off,” Stacia said with a smirk.

“Oh.  Not up on ear fashion technology,” he said, examining the bloody ring of bone he held in his fingers.  His head was bent, but Buck was pretty sure his expression was one of chagrin.  Never doubt the power of the female opinion; he thought, watching the boy witch.

“Yeah, this is a ward key,” Declan said.  “How about yours?”

“Not up on witch technology,” she said, still smirking as she handed him the earring.

“But definitely up to date on current trends in sass,” Declan muttered as he studied her addition.

“This one is all broken,” Deputy Hampton said from the third body, whose head was a pulped mess.

“Well, we have two.  One is all we need.  It’ll let me get into the trap so I can disarm it from the inside—at least in theory,” Declan said.

“What’s to keep her from changing the locks?” Buck asked.

“Time. Hopefully. It takes time to modify a ward or trap.  Some are simple and can be done relatively quickly, but most of what we’ve seen has been long-term, fairly complex stuff that took her a lot of time to create,” Declan said.  “She’ll get to it eventually, though.”

“Could you do what she’s done?  Could you animate those dead bodies or make that monster?” Hollis asked him, suddenly.

“Could I?  Do I have the knowledge?  Yes.  Would I mess with death magic and sacrifice a human to create a guardian?  No,” Declan said, looking offended.

“But you could?” Hollis pressed.

“Could you build a bomb that would blow up Fetter, Agent Hollis?  Could you figure out a poison to put in the water supply and kill almost everyone?” Stacia asked, eyes hard.

Buck watched the realization hit Hollis’s face as her words sank home.  But most of Buck’s attention was on the beautiful girl, and not on her more obvious anatomical assets, either.  He was highly aware of the tension in her shoulders and neck, the tendons and tight muscles of her arms, which she had crossed in front of her.  And he remembered clearly the deadly killing machine she turned into. That had come through the helmet camera feeds just fine.

He wasn’t the only one to pick up on her instant hostility.  Every man in the group edged back slightly—except Declan, who leaned over until his shoulder touched hers.  It was a tiny motion, barely noticeable, but somehow it was enough to drain away the worst of her anger.

“You are wondering how dangerous I am.  Am I a threat to the public?  If this girl witch can be capable of so much evil, how much could I be capable of?” Declan asked.  “It’s a good question.  But as Stacia points out, there are lots of people who can create widespread death and destruction with just the contents of a local hardware store.”

“Most of those can’t wave a hand and burn a building to the ground,” Hollis said.

“So it’s ease of destruction you’re concerned about?” Declan asked.  “Devany here can load an empty six pack with a mixture of gas and dishwashing soap, attach a road flare from the trunk of his car, and toss it with a wave of a hand and accomplish the same thing.  Not to mention that all of you have access to weapons and explosives that regular people don’t,” Declan said.

“We’ve all been vetted by our respective agencies,” Cochran said.

“Whoopie do,” Stacia said, spinning one finger in a circle.  “Like that’s a hundred percent effective.  How about Tacchino?  Uncle Sam taught him to be a skilled killer and now he’s using his training against his own country,” Stacia said. “And he almost killed me.”

“It just doesn’t seem right that any individual could have the power that you do,” Hollis said.

“Power is unevenly distributed across the population.  That’s a fact.  As cops, you guys have plenty of power to abuse, and you can’t tell me it doesn’t happen.  I have my own power, but if I abuse it, I’ll become a target and someone, somewhere will take me out.  Do I have dangerous knowledge?  Yup.  But so does anyone with a smartphone and Google,” Declan said.

“A smartphone can’t kill with a thought,” Hollis said.  “And we generally keep track of dangerous individuals.”

“And you and your agency keep track of me.  What was it? Some kind of list?  You even have a special list for me.  Now, if our soul searching can be put on hold for a moment, maybe we can get on with capturing or stopping these dangerous individuals that have committed crimes and clearly demonstrated a willingness to harm the general public,” Declan said.

Buck had kept quiet, watching the byplay and wondering about Hollis’s judgment.   It should have been blatantly obvious that this young man and young woman were a pair.  An incredibly dangerous and effective pair that instantly came to each other’s defense.  And Hollis was poking them while standing in the middle of a combat zone that only they were uniquely qualified to handle, but didn’t have to.

“Personally, I want to go on record as saying I’m super glad you’re on our side,” Devany said.  “Other people might not be grateful but I am.”

Buck looked at his younger deputy in astonishment.

“Nicely said, Dev,” Deputy Hampton agreed.

Hollis grimaced.  “That’s not what I meant.  Of course I’m grateful. I just got wondering how bad this would be if it was you instead of her?”

“Well, we can all be motivated to do horrible things.  Me, I’m pretty easygoing, but threaten my family or friends and I’d make this witch look like a Brownie selling Girl Scout cookies.  Wouldn’t you do the same if someone threatened your wife and kids?” Declan asked, pointing at Hollis’s wedding ring.

“Which is probably why they put that alert thing on your file,” Devany said, surprising Buck yet again.  “Keep away from this dude and for God’s sake, don’t threaten his family and girlfriend.”

“Can we get on with this?” Stacia asked, shifting impatiently.

Hollis was silent for a moment, then he nodded.  “Yeah, right.  Not the place for philosophical discussions.  What’s your plan?”

“First let me see if they sent in more salt with the medics.  I’ll be right back,” Declan said, moving across the floor toward a couple of agents with med bags.

He had no sooner started across the floor when Stacia whipped around, grabbed Hollis by his assault vest, and lifted him six inches off the ground.  Then she and the much larger man were suddenly around the side of the nearest machine, out of Declan’s view, him pinned to the metal, her staring into his newly fearful eyes.

Buck, Cochran, Hampton, and Devany instantly followed, all alarmed by the sudden violence.

“You fucking stupid asshole,” she started in a tight, quiet voice.  “That vial he gave your man was never meant for anyone but him.  Do you have any idea what it was?  It was distilled from the blood of the only natural-born vampire on earth.  It was given to him as an emergency measure because he has a habit of jumping straight into danger to protect innocent people, but he’s not Superman.  He’s breakable.  But what does he do with it?  He gives it to your guy so he might be able to have an arm again.  It was the only vial he had.  And you know absolutely nothing about him.  If he dies here, the possible shockwaves could effect everyone, everywhere.  There are multiple reasons he is on your radar. You barely know any of them. The people who labeled him don’t know half of them. You question whether he should live with the power he has, but you have no idea what could happen if he dies. Now you’ve questioned his honor and his willingness to sacrifice.  After he saved everyone here.  Congratulations; you just primed him to take more risks.  If you survive this and he doesn’t, then you probably won’t make it more than a day.  That’s not a threat from me, by the way. I won’t have to kill you.  You’ll probably be dead before the line forms to kill you. You guys should just shut the fuck up and listen to everything he says and do what he says, and possibly everyone lives to go home,” she hissed, then dropped Hollis like a sack of corn and strode past the others, headed for her witch.

Hollis stood up slowly, the sudden fear still in his eyes.  “What’s she talking about?”

“I don’t know.  Way above my pay grade,” Cochran said.  “But there’s a reason General Creek took over the operation remotely as soon as those two entered the building.”

“Oh, I think it goes higher than the general,” Buck said.  “I was watching in the command post and I could hear the general’s feed.  He was briefing someone else and he called that man Sir.”

“I got hung up wondering what that kid could do if he decided he wanted something.  No one could stop him,” Hollis said defensively.

“He does want something,” Devany said.  “It’s incredibly obvious.”

Hollis frowned, so Buck took the liberty of answering.  “He wants her.  He’s here because of her.  She’s the only reason you have that kid as a resource.”

“So what happens if she turns him down?” Cochran asked.  “If she breaks his heart?”

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen,” Devany laughed.  “You think a girl has the kind of reaction that she just had with you over someone she’s going to kick to the curb?”

“Devany is, shockingly enough, right.  Don’t they teach you guys anything about reading people and body language?” Buck said, turning and heading over to where Stacia and the kid were now talking.  Declan was watching them curiously but didn’t seem to have any idea of what had just gone down, which Buck thought was probably for the best.  Thankfully, it was the girl who had the super hearing.  Although, Buck reflected, that kid wasn’t going to get away with anything with a girl who had those kinds of senses.

CHAPTER 29

“Ah, Declan, I was outta line back there.  You pulled our bacon out of the pan, and I am grateful.  I just wonder about stuff,” Hollis said awkwardly.

Declan frowned, looking from Hollis to Stacia, who was checking over her shotgun.  The kid’s eyes lingered on her for a minute, but it could have just been the clingy Spandex she was wearing the hell out of, Buck thought.

“That’s cool.  At least you know I’m no Chuck Norris,” Declan said.

Stacia’s head jerked up, a look of worry on her face.

“When Chuck Norris turned eighteen, it was his parents that moved out,” Devany said almost instantly.

Declan’s right eyebrow went up and Stacia’s expression turned to horror.

“There used to be a street named for Chuck Norris, but they changed it… nobody crosses Chuck Norris and lives,” Declan said.

Stacia groaned in disgust, but Devany and Declan ignored her, each focusing on the other.

“Death had a near Chuck Norris experience,” Devany said.

“Chuck’s been dead for twenty years.  Death’s too afraid to tell him,” Declan said.

“You idiots are unbelievable,” Stacia muttered.

“Chuck Norris can start a fire with a magnifying glass—at night,” Devany answered.

“They once made Chuck Norris toilet paper, but there was a problem,” Cochran suddenly interjected.  “It wouldn’t take shit from anyone.”

“Nice,” Declan said, grinning, and as if by some silent, common agreement, everyone moved over to the blueprints, leaving Stacia swearing under her breath.

“Okay, as I said, things are going to get tougher.  She’s an Air witch and possibly Fire,” Declan said.

“Fire?” Stacia asked as she came over.

“There was a serious anti-burn ward on that giant jelly-skinned Jason motherfucker,” Declan said.  “And it held against Draco’s fire so yeah, I think she has some affinity for fire.”

“Draco?” Devany asked.

“The dragon,” Hollis said, pointing up.

“Seriously?  You named it after Draco Malfoy in Harry Potter?” Devany asked.

“I was freaking eight years old and I wasn’t going to name it freaking Ron, now was I?” Declan said, glaring at Devany.

“Just saying,” Devany said, not at all worried about the deadly witch boy, making Buck wonder about his young deputy.  “It even looks like a Hungarian Horntail.”

The kid shifted his feet.  “Again, eight years old and yes, I saw the movies.”

“What does that mean? The air and fire thing? For us?” Buck asked, trying to get them back on point.

“She will set traps that reflect her skills.  Windstorms, mini-tornadoes, firetraps, things like that.  She’s really only limited by her ability to imagine and implement, as well as power and time.  She’s had lots of time to prepare,” the young witch replied.

“How do we counter?” Hollis asked.

“Well, I will wear one of the ward keys.  As I enter each trap or ward, I’ll disarm each,” Declan replied.

“Sounds easy.  Too easy,” Buck said.

“It is.  At some point, she’ll have cancelled the key.  My hope is that it gets us most of the way through her defenses,” Declan said.  “The rest I’ll have to handle on the fly.  But if I’m tied up with a tricky trap, I’ll be vulnerable.”

“Which is why I’ll be with you, with the other key,” Stacia said, her eyes hard.

“Thanks,” he said, turning back to Hollis and Cochran, his body suddenly less tense.  Stacia’s face flickered with some emotion at the young man’s instant acceptance and visible relief.  It was too quick for Buck to analyze but the obvious trust he had in her had an impact on her.

“You, your men, and the deputies need to be ready for attacks from the surviving weres.  It looks like this section was originally full of a lot of smaller machines.  If they’re still there, it’ll give the advantage to the werewolves.  Stacia, can you tell them what to expect?” Declan asked.  She nodded, then waited while Hollis gathered the remaining agents, a couple of which she noted were female.

“New weres can’t take the combat form that you’ve seen me use today.  That usually takes lots of time to master.  The alpha, on the other hand, may be able to do so.  But in regular wolf mode, they’ll each be the size of a black bear. But bears don’t hunt in a pack.  A well-coordinated, sophisticated pack. And weres aren’t constructed the same as regular canines.  Our paws and forelegs have more striking and swatting ability, like a cross between a big cat and a wolf.  So they can rake you from atop a machine, rip into you from any opening, or simply bite your head off with one chomp.  You guys all wearing the new silver-lined body armor?” she asked.

Hollis jerked, surprised, then nodded.

She grinned.  “You keep tabs on us… we keep tabs on you.  Anyway, keep the collars up and keep the vests closed.  A werewolf is a super apex predator, and if we see the smallest opening, we’ll take it on reflex.  You all seem to be packing either 7.62 caliber or 12 gauges. Good choices. Personally, I have silver slugs loaded for precision, but at these ranges, buckshot won’t have time to spread.  You have thermal sights and night vision?”

“Yes to both,” Hollis said.

“I’d skip the night vision and don’t get reliant on the thermal sights.  If she has any ability with Fire, she’ll blind both of them or play tricks on them,” Declan said.

“Fire, sir?” one of the female agents asked.  “How do we fight that?”

“Agent Tillson, your coveralls are Nomex, which is also woven into your vest, gloves, and boots.  You all will wear your Nomex balaclavas as well,” Hollis ordered.

“Good,” Declan agreed.  “If it was me in her place, I’d make it hot as balls during the approach so that you all would unzip vests or take off protective gear.  Don’t do it.”

“How hot can she make it?” another agent asked.

“Well, that’s the good part.  Whenever I feel heat, I’ll absorb it and add it to my reserves.  Then I can use it against her later,” Declan said with a grin.

“Is that how witches normally do it?  Sir?” another asked.

“No.  But that’s how he does it.  This witch stuff is effing scary.  And I live and work among them.  But you should know that the scariest witch is on our side.  He won’t tell you that, so I will.  Try not to get freaked out at whatever happens.  He’ll handle it,” Stacia said.

“However, in the interest of equipping you each as best as possible, I want everybody to carry a bag of salt.  Salt disrupts magic.  Pouring an uninterrupted circle of it on the ground around you will do wonders for protecting you from many spells.  You also all have a limited-use amulet.  I’ve reinforced them as much as possible, but I need to be the one to take the brunt of any magical attacks.  Your amulets won’t hold up.  If your weapons don’t work on something, sometimes a handful of salt will.  Not always, but often,” Declan said.

“Not always?” an agent asked.

“Better than nothing, Crowe.  Better than we had coming in here, right?” Hollis asked.  The entire mixed team nodded.

“So, Stacia and I will be a team, watching each other’s backs.  All of you need to have a partner to watch your backs.  Weres move several times faster than humans and love to attack from ambush.  You need to watch each other’s sixes at all times,” Declan said.

“We actually train that way. Three hundred, sixty degrees of security coverage. They’re trained for rapid movement to contact in buddy pairs,” Cochran said.

“I’m going to guess that Air is her primary element.  That means attacks that either pull the breath from your lungs or shoves a hard wind in your face so fast, you can’t draw air.  If you see someone who is choking, turning blue, can’t breathe… throw some salt on them—at them.  Might break the spell.  Might not.  But nothing else you do will make a difference except maybe to sacrifice your own amulet, putting it with theirs,” Declan said, sorta thinking out loud.

Stacia thought he’d been doing well, but the last bit had rocked their world a bit.

“Listen, he’ll take care of the magic stuff.  We take care of the weres.  We also have air support,” she said, pointing up.  Everyone looked up to see Draco perched and staring into the darkness.  Some of the new ones hadn’t seen the dragon yet.  Others had somehow forgotten it up among the rafters.

“That reminds me,” Declan said, looking around the floor of the factory.  He spotted a two-foot length of two-by-four and picked it up.  Unlimbering his tomahawk, he swung back to chop into the wood.  Stacia plucked the board from his hand and proceeded to snap it into two one-foot pieces and then broke those into six-inch sections.  She did it like it was a pencil.

“Showoff,” Declan said, before looking up and whistling.  Draco looked down, then dropped off the I-beam he’d latched onto.  With a graceful swoop and three big backwings of air, he landed in front of Declan, who proceeded to toss chunks of wood to him.  His toothy jaws crushed the wood to splinters, which he then somehow choked down.

“He eats trees?” Devany asked.

“Refueling his fire supply.  He converts organic material to gas and then ignites it,” Declan answered.

“Sounds like you, Devany,” Deputy Hampton said, “Converting anything organic to gas.”

An obvious shot, but it still caused a ripple of tension-relieving laughs among the group.

“Okay, he’s full up,” Declan said when the little dragon spit out his most recent mouthful and stared expectantly at his young boss.

“Watch and guard, please.  Light up any threats,” Declan said with a wave of one hand.  The dog-sized dragon unfurled his seven-foot wings and snapped them hard while leaping straight up off the ground.

“Motherfucker,” one of the agents said in awe.

“That’s some shit alright,” another agreed.

“Let’s go,” Hollis said, and everyone rechecked weapons and armor for the last time as the two-person teams spread out.  The little robot lights trundled like awkward spiders over the concrete floor, lighting the path ahead.

The open floor narrowed to a mini forest of smaller rolling and sorting machines, creating a post-apocalypse industrial jungle look. The lights from the bots, the agents’ headlamps, and weapon lights all caused as many shadows as they dispelled, creating almost a strobe-like effect as they moved through the first of the smaller machines.

Stacia’s head snapped around, catching a sound from one direction and a smell from another simultaneously.  Declan, who was watching her, turned and exchanged a look and a nod with Hollis.

“Launch flares,” Hollis said.  Three agents pulled military aerial flares from their vests, yanked off the caps and fit them over the bottom, then slammed the caps with their free hands.  The little pin in the center of the inside of each cap connected with the shotgun primer at the bottom of the flare tube and with a loud crack, each fired a white, bright star into the ceiling rafters.  Tiny parachutes deployed, two of which got tangled in the metal rafters, leaving the artificial star under it to dangle like a chandelier.  The third fell to the floor and burned brightly, deep in the tangle of machines.

Stacia moved ahead, eyes, ears, and nose working overtime, shotgun in ready position, safety off, finger indexed alongside the trigger.  At her side, Declan touched each metal relic that they passed.

For twenty yards, there was nothing, just slow careful movement.  Then Declan held up one hand, turning in place, eyes closed. Reaching into his messenger bag, he pulled out a stump of densely wrapped gray plant matter, which he lit with a lighter-sized flame that popped up on his fingertip.  White smoke swirled up, then suddenly spun into a little dust-devil tornado as Declan spoke softly in some language that Buck didn’t understand.

The smoky funnel of white dissipated and Declan nodded.  He flashed an all-clear signal and touched Stacia’s shoulder.  The shotgun-wielding werewolf had stayed watchful the whole time, ignoring her partner’s actions as she studied the dark shadows around them.

They moved on.  Above them, one of the hanging flares swung back and forth, adding to the shadows more than it dispelled them.  Till it stopped.  All on its own.  Full swing to full stop.

Declan instantly froze in place, looking up at the white-hot light, a frown on his face.  The air was completely still, and Buck thought of the calm before a storm.

The wind came up an instant later.  Dead air to gale force, no in between.  The wind screamed at them from further ahead, the air immediately filled with dust, sand, garbage, and grit.  A sharp, inhuman scream cried out overhead and Buck looked up to see the dragon getting blown backward till it snagged onto a rafter with its talons and wing claws, then something blew into his left eye and he had to blink both of them shut.

Around him, the DOAA agents were hastily putting on combat goggles and when he looked at his fellow deputies, he found Devany with Oakley shooting glasses on and Hampton wearing sunglasses despite the gloom.

The blowing sand and grit made opening his eyes almost impossible and he had a sudden panic attack that he would be useless.  A touch on his forehead snapped both eyes open to find the witch kid gesturing on his skin with one thumb like a priest blessing him.

The air immediately around his head was suddenly free of sand or even wind, which was weird, as he could feel the force of the windstorm fluttering his uniform and pummeling his body.  But not his head, which was a wind-free zone.

Stacia nodded at him as Declan turned back forward and studied the wind.  A sharp scream that cut off mid-cry caused them all to look back at the end of the group, where a pair of kicking legs and boots were just disappearing around the edge of a machine.  He glanced at Stacia and Declan, suddenly worried about attack from behind them, which was actually the front.  He found that Declan was kneeling down, one fist planted on the concrete, a look of intense concentration on his face while his partner faced the wind, her hair not even rippling in the breeze

The ground shook hard, like an earthquake, the whole building quaking on its foundation.  Far ahead of them, something broke and crashed, like something made of masonry or concrete, and then the wind died completely.

Hollis moved up closer, looking to the boy who was somehow leading them all.

“They’re going with guerilla warfare. Distract and attack,” Declan said.  “No, don’t touch your forehead, Sergeant.  If the rune gets rubbed off, it won’t protect you from wind and sand.”

Buck’s hand froze on its way to his head before he forced it back down, trying to ignore the minor itch that had started on his head.

“What did you do?  To stop the wind?” Hollis asked.

“I broke a wall… back there where she’s holed up.  Think part of the roof might have come down,” Declan said.

“Should you be knocking down the building while we’re in it?” Stacia asked, frowning.

“Wasn’t going for a knockdown, just trying to distract her from the massive blow job she was giving us,” Declan said, slightly defensive.

“And how much did it cost you?” Stacia asked.

“Not a huge portion.  Lots smaller than the machine back there,” he replied, even more defensive.

“What are you talking about?” Buck asked.  “Cost?”

“He only carries so much power, magic, energy, whatever you want to call it, at a time.  Depending on his environment, recharging can be quick or take forever,” Stacia explained.  Some of the other pairs of agents drifted closer, listening.

“Let me guess.  This environment is bad for recharging,” Buck said.

“Correct.  If the power was still on to the building or a boiler was going or machines running, it’d be no problem.  But it’s cold, power’s off, and dead silent,” Stacia said.

“What about her?  The other witch?  She can’t recharge either, right?” Hollis asked.

Stacia looked at Declan, quirking an eyebrow.  He reluctantly met Hollis’s eyes.

“That’s probably why your guy is still alive… for now,” he said.

“Wait, what?  She’ll sacrifice him or something?” Hollis asked, voice rising.

Declan didn’t say anything, just started checking through his bag.

“You people can do that?  Kill people for, for power?” Hollis asked, getting worked up.

“I can’t.  Not into death magic.  She is and she can,” Declan said.

“That’s sick.  That’s the sickest thing I’ve ever heard,” Hollis sputtered.

“Killing for power?  Oldest motive in the world, next to killing for money or love,” Stacia said. “Torture? Ever hear of Guantanamo Bay?”

Hollis opened his mouth to say something but Buck jumped in.  “What about the flares?  Would they help you recharge?”

“They can, a little, but I would use them up quickly, and we need the light,” Declan said.

“How about Tasers?  They didn’t seem to hurt you at the station,” Devany said.

“You have Tasers?” Declan asked with the immediate interest of an addict sensing a fix.

“Great.  All the ways of charging you up and it has to be Tasers,” Stacia muttered. Seeing the others’ questioning looks, she explained,  “He’s got a Taser addiction.”

“They would help though,” Declan said eagerly.  “A couple would top up the tank a bit.”

“Ain’t much use on werewolves anyway, right?” Devany asked as he pulled a M26 Taser from under his sheriff’s department raid jacket.  “Ah, what do I do?” he asked.

Declan just reached out and grabbed the end of it, where the barbs stuck out of their carrier cartridge.  “Fire it up,” he said with a grin.

Shrugging, Devany zapped him.  The unit buzzed before going silent in a ridiculously short time.

“That’s better,” Declan said, holding up his hand, which clearly showed the imprint of the barbs.  A tiny arc of blue traveled up between his index and middle finger before disappearing.  Hampton stepped forward with his own stunner.  Twenty seconds later, that one was dead, too.

“What about the thermite thing?” Cochran asked, hefting another grenade.

“That would be better used during actual combat,” Declan said, watching the chunky cylinder bounce up and down in the other man’s hand.  “The Tasers helped quite a bit,” he said.  Stacia turned and looked at him carefully, head tilted as if listening to something only she could hear—like his heartbeat.  He didn’t meet her eyes.

“Well, carry it in your gear and use it on the bitches when you think best,” Cochran said, tossing the grenade Declan’s way.  A slim hand shot out and snapped it out of the air.

“When the timing is best,” Stacia reiterated before handing it to Declan.

A long, pain-ridden scream ripped out of the darkness ahead of them.  Human, but just barely.

CHAPTER 30

“That was Kinte!  They’re killing him! Why are we standing here?” one of the agents asked.  A big guy, with muscles on his muscles, Buck thought, carrying a FN SCAR-H CQC shortened model, wearing all name-brand protective gloves, eye armor, and boots.  Nametag read Allaire.

“We’ll get him, Andre,” Hollis said, but Agent Allaire wasn’t having it.  Another heart-tearing scream echoed through the building

“Screw this, man.  This tip-toeing shit ain’t working,” Allaire said, turning and rushing ahead.

“Don’t Andre! Stop!” Hollis ordered, but the big man kept running, darting past machine after machine.

He was a good thirty feet ahead when it happened.  Between one step and the next, the thud of his feet was the loudest sound.  Just beyond a couple of smaller machines was a pile of old lumber, much of it broken and split into uselessness.  The breeze started when his left foot was parallel to the smallest machine.  It went to tornado force the second his right foot came down next to the pile of wood.  The entire assault team saw it happen.  One moment just a mound of scrap wood, then a burst of high velocity wind, like two seconds clipped directly out of a Category Five hurricane.  Allaire was instantly speared with over fifteen pieces of shattered two-by-four and split planking.  The wind threw him against another machine; a single two-by-four punched right through him and deep into the metal of the machine, and then the wind died as quickly as he did.

It happened so fast that Buck was still trying to process it when Declan moved forward toward the obviously dead agent and Hollis breathed out a short, sharp “Fuck!”

The young witch veered toward the woodpile that still had several layers of boards left on it, reaching into his bag with his left hand and throwing a handful of salt across the boards, the ground around them, and the machine behind them.  Then he knelt down and rubbed the sleeve of his arm across the metal of that machine, wiping something away.

“It’s deactivated,” he said in a tired voice.

The group moved up in pairs, and Buck was impressed by their discipline to security, the outer groups keeping their attention on their assigned arc, despite their fear and horror.  He was looking away from the horrible sight of Allaire, who had one wooden spike transfixing his skull, and toward the back of the group when the next attack came.  A big wolf came darting around a heap of rusted mill machine, huge open jaws aimed right at an agent whose head was turned just a few degrees away from the beast. The man jerked back, his gun off target.  But his partner was right there and his rifle pushed forward, firing a burst of auto fire that blasted right into the machine, completely missing the wolf but driving it away to disappear back into the shadows as fast as it arrived.

“Hold fire! Watch your arcs!” Hollis yelled.

Buck and his two deputies were in the middle of the group, and now they all faced outward, each in a different direction, theoretically adding a second layer of fire support.  Buck had never seen anything move that fast and he was honestly shocked that the agent had been able to get a shot off at all.  The man’s partner cursed and held up the arm of his combat shirt, which was sliced cleanly in two lines from cuff to elbow.  Only his and his partner’s reflexes had saved him from losing his arm.  As it was, he wasn’t even scratched. The whole thing felt like a fucked-up flashback to Afghanistan.  Except how did you fight wolves the size of ponies with the brains of insurgents?

“They will use every distraction for an attack,” Stacia called out, still watching her own arc while her teenage partner removed the last of the spell he’d found.  “They are faster than you, and the space is tight.  Despite the guns, the environment favors them,” she said.

“Then why do you stay… you know?” Devany asked.

“In human form?  Because I’m as fast as they are and this—” She shook the stubby double pump shotgun, “—fires two shots almost as fast as one.  Plus I can talk and tell you to watch your damned arcs,” she said.

Her head darted up and Buck glanced where she was looking, just seeing a hint of a flying object before her gun went off and the improvised grenade was knocked down to explode among the machinery yards away.

He heard her pump, two different sounding brass tings on the concrete.  A quick glance showed her picking up the unfired shell she’d ejected, leaving the single spent case on the floor and pushing the good one back into one of the two magazines on her gun.  She caught his eye as she pulled a new shell from her bandolier and fed it to the other magazine.  “I freaking love this gun,” she said with a feral grin.

“We’re clear here.  Moving forward,” Declan said, not paying any attention to her shooting or the explosion, but his lips smiled at her words.

Amazing.  Neither of them would be out of college yet but they were as battle hardened as the young men and women he’d served with in Iraq. The kid looked intense but relatively calm, focused on whatever the hell this magic shit was that he and the other witch were doing.  Stacia was coiled and alert, her amazing body a predatory machine, leashed strength and watchfulness as she covered him.  To see her on the street was to want a beautiful woman.  To see her here and now… well, your libido runs and hides while you realize you’re in the presence of an apex predator.  The boy witch sure didn’t seem to mind, though.

Buck went back to his own arc, which was from roughly eight o’clock to eleven o’clock, both eyes open and looking down the barrel of his Remington 870.  Old instincts and conditioned behaviors kicked in as the group began moving past the horrible sight of Allaire’s pin-cushioned body.

Nothing happened as they moved another twenty feet through the forest of machines.  The space suddenly opened up to a flat, empty area the width of the room and maybe fifty yards across.  Declan immediately stopped, eyes searching side-to-side, even looking up each wall and up—up to the ceiling, which was completely dark.  Across the open floor, another pair of machines waited and beyond them, Buck could see many, many stacks of wooden pallets.

“What do you think?” Hollis asked him.

“I think the security guys at Demidova would start preaching about area denial and kill zones,” Declan said, still studying the space.

“You think it’s mined?” Buck asked, wondering again what kind of corporation Demidova was.

“The witch version of mines, although I suppose that shithead that threw the bomb might have improvised something as well.  Shout out if any of you see anything that raises your hackles,” Declan responded, rustling in his bag.  He pulled out a black ovoid, gripped it like a grenade, pulled a pin from its top, and tossed it in a high arc out onto the open floor.

“Grenade!” Buck yelled.  Most of the team crouched instinctively.  Declan just stood straight and glanced back at him a bit sheepishly.  Stacia ignored everything, her focus locked on the darkness around them.

The black orb hit the concrete and bounced, the top flicking off and a spray of fluid spattering around and around in a random fashion.

“Sorry.  Not a real grenade—I would have said something.  Paintball grenade filled with salt water and herbs,” Declan said, pulling a second one.

This one went further, landing between the first and the far edge of the space.

“So the salt water will set off the traps, or what?” Hollis asked.

“It may destroy some of the triggers.  As you can see, the spray pattern is nowhere near uniform, so I don’t know how much good they’re doing,” Declan said, frowning at the results.

“How do you mine a concrete floor with witch magic?” Devany asked, eyes roving back and forth over his one-o’clock-to-four field of fire.  His gun barrel traversed the floor in front of him so as not to cross any of the agents between him and the darkness, but still ready to snap up and fire.  Buck was impressed with the young deputy.

“I would use chalk or paint, mostly.  She could use a stone or tool to scratch spells, like she did on that machine back there.  One of my fellow students uses colored sand.  It might also take the form of a pile or pattern of ash, dust, bones, or almost any other representative substance she could think of,” Declan said.  “Okay, here’s the plan.  I’m taping the bone earring to my lobe and then working my way out there.  I need cover, but you all have to watch for attacks from behind and each side, as well as above.  I’ll clear a path across and mark it with paint,” he said, pulling out a slim can of spray paint.

“How much shit do you carry in there anyway?” Devany asked.

“As much as I can, Deputy,” Declan said with a grin. “But I’m starting to run low.  Only one more pair of those cheap tights, Stacia,” he warned her, pointing at her lower half.

Buck felt his eyes drawn to the aforementioned clothing, almost against his will, and then jerked his eyes up to see she was now watching them all with raised eyebrows.

“Eyes on your assigned positions, gentlemen, not my legs,” she said.

The kid, who was using a little strip of duct tape to fasten the bone earring to his own right ear, noticed the number of men whose attention had followed his finger and frowned.  Heads snapped away much faster.

“I’m going with you,” Stacia said, deftly threading the second earring into her own pierced ear.

“I thought you might.  Just like practice, okay?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” she said with a smirk.

“That’s better.  In fact, I like that. Keep it up,” he said.

“That’s what I said,” she said in a sultry tone.  The kid actually blushed, even as he threw a handful of salt ahead of him.

Hollis, all business, watched him carefully, his helmet camera following the kid’s every move.  “That work like the water?”

“It can’t hurt.  Strong enough spell might ignore it or be only slightly weakened,” Declan said.  He took two slow steps onto the concrete and stopped before his third step, foot raised, frozen.  Backing his leg down, he crouched and studied the floor in front of him.  Then his hand went up to his earlobe as he kept his eyes looking all around. “Change of plan.  I don’t trust this thing.”

The hand came away with the bone earring and then went into his trusty bag before coming out with what Buck thought was a collapsed metal baton.

“Hey, that’s mine,” one of the agents suddenly said.

“Yeah, I might have borrowed it when you and your pal tried to Taser me,” Declan said, snapping the baton open.  More duct tape came from the bag and the bone earring was taped to the metal button on the end of the baton.

Crouching, Declan looked back to his partner, who immediately shifted the short but heavy shotgun to just her right arm and then grabbed his belt with her left.  At her nod, he turned back and delicately extended the rod out into the space his third step would have hit.

Buck felt rather than heard or saw the trap spring, like a pressure wave from an M80 firecracker, but without any sound. Declan and Stacia came flying back toward them as she yanked his belt and jumped at the same time.  Buck, Hampton, and Devany grabbed the two and pulled them even further back as something fell from overhead.

It hit with a crash that sent chips of sharp concrete spinning in all directions.  Six pieces came their way but stopped like they hit a wall and hung in the air right in front of them, one shard big enough to have truly ruined someone’s day.  Declan waved a hand and the concrete pieces dropped to the ground.

Out on the floor, a two-hundred pound steel roller was lying in the crater it had gouged out of the concrete.

“Anyone got a light strong enough to shine up there?” Declan asked, pointing up.

A half dozen lights lit the ceiling, illuminating a forest of hanging objects, including a half-dozen more rollers of various sizes, some kind of mechanical press, dozens of concrete blocks, and what looked like the frame and motor from a wrecked motorcycle.

“Clever.  Use werewolf muscles to pull that crap up there, and make spell triggers to drop it,” Declan said.

“So any ideas on how to handle it?” Hollis asked.

The kid pulled a small pad of paper and wrote on it with a Sharpie, Stacia looking over his shoulder.  She nodded as he handed it to Hollis, whose eyes flared before he, too, nodded.  He passed it to Cochran, who studied it and then handed it to Buck after taking a picture of it with his smartphone.

Buck looked at the pad.  There are at least two weres on this side of the minefield with us, listening to us and waiting.  We should flush them out and kill them before going any further. Leave no enemy behind and all that. When everyone is ready, I’ll send Draco to birddog them.  ?????

Buck looked back up to see half the team pulling their phones and looking at the photo Cochran had just sent.  They showed it to their partners.

“So, clearing the field.  How you want to play it?” Hollis said, a little loudly and maybe overacting a bit.

“Draco,” Declan called out.  A short cry came from the ceiling behind them as the dragon dropped off his perch and glided down on giant bat wings.  Pulling up sharply, Draco landed smoothly on the machinery nearest Declan, then stretched his neck down to nuzzle his boss.

Declan grabbed the horn-covered head in both hands and leaned close to the toothy maw.  He stayed like that for a few seconds, then patted the monstrous brow.  Draco shook out his wings and gave a loud chirp before launching back into the air.

“Okay, get ready, everyone,” the kid said, watching as his creature climbed back to ceiling height.  The bat wings flapped as Draco circled around twice, coming close to the suspended payloads of metal and concrete.  Suddenly, he folded his wings and dove back behind them, straight between two massive hulks of metal, a bloom of flame roaring out to light the darkness.

A sharp yelp and a snarl sounded before a big furry shape jumped out from the metal canyon it had been hiding in and into the open.

The four men at the back of the group had the clearest shots and all four opened fire, green laser beams targeting the speeding beast.  It was fast, and they missed with at least half of their shots.  The other half hit, though, tearing through it with authority.  The werewolf piled up and slammed into a support post, lifting its head in time to receive a final round through its eye socket.

“Reload,” one of the quad of men said and two of them pulled partial mags and replaced them with fresh ones from their assault vests. Then the other two followed suit.

That’s when the second werewolf jumped over a stack of pallets and landed in the middle of them all.

CHAPTER 31

The wolf, gray with big swatches of brown, landed right next to Devany and instantly chomped down on the young deputy’s thigh, throwing him like a rag doll.

Hampton, who was facing away from the action, got knocked down on his face and held down by the massive wolf that partially stood on his body.  Buck lifted his shotgun, but there was no clear shot with all the agents in his line of fire.

Stacia dropped her shotgun and grabbed the tomahawk hanging down Declan’s back.  The wolf was already savaging another agent, its jaws locked on the poor man’s left arm and shoulder.

The custom hawk came out of its kydex sheath with a rasp as she wove around Declan.  The wolf threw the mangled agent away and spun around to face this new sound.

It was just in time to catch the silver and steel custom fighting ax in its shoulder, causing it to flinch and yelp in pain.  Her left hand slapped out to palm heel strike the wounded shoulder, which helped the hawk come free from the dense flesh.  Her follow-up strike came instantly, a fast rotary chopping motion that tore through its snout, the left hand again striking out into the incredibly painful wound while her right hand wound the ax back up for strike three.

Her thumb automatically stroked the haft of the hawk, the action ingrained by countless repetitions forced upon her by a deceased friend named Trenton.  The deceptively simple thumb motion spun the head of the tomahawk one-hundred, eighty degrees around, leaving the short, sharp, reinforced spike front and center just in time to punch through the were’s superdense skull and deep into its brain.

She automatically pulled the hawk free and hit it again.  And again.  Then she stepped out around to the werewolf’s side and, spinning the ax again, chopped through the spinal cord.

“Watch your assigned sectors!” Hollis yelled out.  “Koska, provide aid to Bundt.  Sarah, you help the deputy.”

Stacia stood up as the agents began to follow their orders and their training. She wiped the tomahawk on the dead were’s fur, trying to get as much sticky blood off as possible before turning to Declan.  He caught and held her eyes with his own, giving her a nod.  She nodded back and he turned around to the front, watching her sector for her, holding the shotgun that she barely remembered dropping.

Stepping closer to his back, she put the tomahawk into its sheath, pausing a moment to catch her breath, hand on his left, non-shooting shoulder, head tucked by his shoulder blade.  He kept his attention to the front, watching, while she stayed still just a moment longer.

She took a handful of deep breaths, then lifted her head and stepped around Declan to reclaim her shotgun.  He handed it over smoothly, gave her a quick glance, then set about mixing up more magic-infused Chaga tea in the short metal University of Vermont Winterfest insulated mug that came out of his ever-handy bag of tricks.

“Sip this, Devany,” he told the deputy, who was getting his wounded thigh bandaged by a female agent with obvious medic training.  The medic frowned at the young witch, but Devany had no qualms about following the kid’s instructions.  He sipped the tea, grimacing in pain.  Declan reclaimed the water mug and moved over to the other wounded man in time to see him shudder out a death rattle.  When he turned back to the deputy, Devany was slumping down, eyes fluttering shut.

“He’s going into shock,” the medic agent said.

“No, it’s the tea.  It dulls the pain and the rest of his senses.  It can also have a sedative effect,” Declan said.  “It might help him adapt to the virus.”

The medic sat back and looked at Declan in disbelief and a little anger.  “Nothing helps against the LV virus,” she said. She looked ready to argue it out.

“What does she mean?” Hampton asked.  He was unhurt, just dirty and a bit battered, but visibly upset by his friend’s condition.

“LV virus either accepts a new host or kills them,” Stacia said.  “It’s the primary mechanism for spreading Lycanthropy.  The tea might help, right?” she asked Declan.

“I had an ancestor who liked werewolves as pets. I remember reading that she used this kind of tea to help improve the odds of successful transitions,” Declan said with a sigh.

“He might die?” Hampton asked.

“He might,” Stacia said, moving over and sniffing at Devany’s wound.  It wasn’t a human-like action.

“If he does live, he’ll be one of them,” the medic said.

“He’ll still be Devany, but he’ll be a werewolf, too.  The key is learning to handle the dual nature.  It takes some time, and you’ve got to have the right instruction,” Stacia said.

“How the hell will he get that up here?” Hampton asked.

“He’ll have to go to a pack,” she said, patting the worried deputy’s shoulder.  “I happen to be the assistant to the Alphas of the New England and Mid-Atlantic region,” she said. “He’ll have all the help he needs.”

“That’s new, isn’t it?  Mid-Atlantic?” Declan asked, watching his dragon circle above.

“There was some consolidation,” Stacia said.

“What’s that mean?” Buck asked.

“Means some dumbass alpha from a smaller pack challenged Brock Mallek and got hosed, would be my guess,” Declan said, looking down from the aerial display.  “We’re clear, by the way.  No more wolves hiding behind us.”

“How can you know that?” Hollis asked.

“He would alert me if anything was hiding,” Declan said, pointing up at Draco, who had grabbed onto a support strut with his wing claws and now hung in place, more than a little bit bat-like.

“Like the K9 guys in Afghanistan,” Buck said, looking up at the creature that looked like it ate canines.

“Yeah, kinda.  He doesn’t shed, though, and he won’t eat dog food,” the kid said.

“Ah, what does he eat?” Buck asked.

“I don’t actually know,” Declan admitted.

“That’s not very reassuring,” Buck said.

“Oh, I don’t think he eats meat or anything like that.  He’s basically an elemental, so his energy comes from his elements,” Declan said.

Stacia heard Hollis receive an order through his headset to move up close and monitor the conversation.  It sounded like someone she knew.  She moved her head enough to catch Declan’s eyes and rolled her own eyes toward Hollis’s helmet-mounted camera.  He gave her a tiny nod.

“What do you mean an elemental?” Hollis asked.  “What is he really? Where did he come from?”

“He’s… complicated,” Declan said.

“Complicated?  How so?” Hollis pressed.

“Long and very intricate story, Agent Hollis.  There’s even some math involved, and I’m not fond of math,” Declan said.  “Golden Ratios and stuff.  Hey, how about we clear the deathtrap and hunt down the rogues, okay?”

Without waiting for an answer, Declan waved an arm at Draco to catch the dragon’s attention, then pointed at the field of hanging traps.  His fingers made an explosion motion like two people might do after a fist bump.

Instantly, the little dragon dropped off his perch and flew toward the forest of hanging ropes.

A molten stream of fire poured out of Draco’s mouth, illuminating the hanging objects, the entire ceiling, and most of the room as well.  Buck could feel the heat from down on the ground as the ropes holding aerial bombs flared into flame.  Draco flew through the ropes with sinuous ease, snaking between concrete blocks and chunks of machinery, breathing liquid fire in all directions.  As he arrived at the far end of the field of death traps, a man darted out from between two pallets.  He raised a shotgun toward the dragon, but the pallet next to his arm exploded into splinters as another gun fired two lightning-fast shots.

Buck heard a pump next to him, two tings of brass, and then two more quick shots as the man dove for cover.

“Fuckhead,” Stacia growled.

“Nice shooting,” Buck said.

“I missed,” she replied, pissed.  “These two barrels don’t shoot to the same point of aim.  I’m not used to it.”

“Doesn’t matter.  You beat him to the shot and made him take cover.  That’s a win,” Buck said, glancing at Declan.  The kid looked mad.  Objects started to drop from the ceiling, the first batch of ropes burned through.  The dragon was sweeping back through the unfired part of the ceiling, squirting fire at new targets.

Declan was watching his dragon and when it got closer, he whistled.  Immediately, Draco looked his way and the kid made a two-handed bring it motion.  Draco opened his jaws and breathed out a stream of flamethrower-quality death right at them.

Buck instinctively crouched, but nothing got near them.  Instead, the fire disappeared within two feet of the dragon’s mouth, just completely gone.  Declan nodded, satisfied, then looked across the minefield, which was rapidly filling with falling, smashing objects.  He pointed a hand at the stack of pallets Stacia had shot, and it exploded into flames, like a gasoline-fueled inferno, followed instantly by the stacks on either side of it.

“Did he just use the dragon’s fire to ignite those pallets?” Buck asked Stacia in a quiet voice.

“Yup.  Doesn’t touch his own reserves at all.  In fact, he’s charging back up right now,” she said in a similar whisper, nodding at the falling objects.  Buck, confused, looked closer.  Now that she pointed it out, he could see that something was weird about the way they fell.  Then it struck him.  Everything that fell barely bounced and hardly made much noise at all.  Certainly nothing like the first heavy roller.  The concrete floor had no other craters in it, just the first, yet concrete blocks and steel objects were falling like rain.  Buck watched a cinderblock hit fifteen feet away.  The block collapsed into a pile of rubble, but there was none of the violence of impact he expected.

“Taking some of the kinetic energy and storing it,” she said quietly with a glance at Hollis and Cochran.  Hollis was standing so his camera covered the kid, and Cochran was facing the burning pallets.

Buck realized she was confiding something to him that she didn’t want the DOAA guys to know.  There wasn’t a lot of trust here.

“Moving forward,” Declan said, glancing at the others before checking with his partner.  She finished thumbing top-up rounds into her gun and nodded.  Her bandolier was now only half full of stubby 12 gauge rounds.

The kid moved out onto the debris-strewn floor, eyes watching ahead, silver orbs beginning to spin around him and his lithe partner.

“I’ll stay with Dev,” Hampton said when Buck looked his way.  The medic, Sarah, was finished packing up and was moving back to her own partner.  Buck was torn between staying with his guys and seeing this through.

“Go on.  I trust that they wouldn’t go forward if something was left behind us,” Hampton said, slinging Devany’s shotgun over his own shoulder.  “I’m good.  Lots of silver firepower.”

With a nod, Buck moved out, following the witch and the wolfgirl, staying just back of the spinning orbs of metal.

CHAPTER 32

The three stacks of abandoned pallets burned hot enough to make it difficult to get near as they crossed the minefield. Buck could feel his skin getting burned as if he’d been in the hot sun for an hour. Abruptly, the flames disappeared and the coals burned bright for a couple of seconds before going out.  Three blackened towers of smoking charcoal stood where roaring infernos had previously burned bright.

Buck wasn’t the only one to glance at the kid when the flames went out, but the supernatural duo just kept moving forward.

Past the stacks of pallets, the huge pipes and giant funnels of the pulp processors came into view.  The kid was right.  The intricate weave of man-sized tubes and house-sized vats made things way more dangerous.

Declan suddenly paused, his hand going up in the closed-fist signal to hold position.  Someone had given this kid serious training in military techniques.

The young witch seemed uncertain, so Buck moved up closer.  The spinning orbs swept out around him, now including him inside their orbit.

“What’s up?” he whispered, a little unnerved by the death balls changing their pattern without the kid even glancing Buck’s way.

“There’s a spell ahead. I think it’s a death spell.  I left the tree boughs I need outside when we rushed in here.  Not sure how to proceed,” Declan said.

“You need to do what Tami suggested,” Stacia said, watching the spaces around them.

The kid shifted his feet nervously.

She sighed at him.  “I know you don’t like it.  I don’t like it either.  But they have to be stopped.  Nature will forgive you.”

Buck was lost and shrugged at Hollis and Cochran when they came up to confer.

“What’s up?” Hollis asked.

Buck explained what little he knew while Stacia whispered a few more words in Declan’s ear.  The kid nodded, but looked a little sick to his stomach.  He knelt down by her feet and placed both hands on the floor.  Seconds ticked by, and the team spread out around them looked on with uncertainty.  A little brown shape came scuttling between a pair of pipes.  Guns came up as the DOAA agents shifted to instant aggression.

Stacia held up both hands, palm out, to calm the tense agents.  The animal was a good-sized rat, and it ran up to Declan and froze in place.  Immediately, a half-dozen more came scurrying in from all around.

Declan lifted his hands and touched the first rat on its head with his index finger.  “Thank you for answering my call.  Thank you for your sacrifice,” he said so quietly that only Buck and the team leaders could hear him. The kid pointed ahead, and the rat scuttled forward.

Everyone stood frozen: the agents, the witch and the werewolf and Buck.  Even the other rats were all mini-statues, not even twitching.

One foot, three feet. Nothing happened until about eight feet.  The rat stopped in mid-stride and trembled. Then it fell over.  Its eyes glazed, its feet stopped moving, and its tiny chest froze between breaths. It shrank in on itself, reminding the deputy of his wife vacuum-wrapping food for the freezer. Within two, maybe three seconds, it went from a vibrantly alive animal to a mummified corpse.

The kid swore and lifted one hand but Stacia grabbed his arm and caught his eye, shaking her head slowly.  Reluctantly, Declan lowered his fist and took a deep breath.  Then he rummaged in his bag of tricks and came out with half an egg carton.  He pulled out an egg and tossed it underhand at the rat’s body.

When it hit the floor, it shattered, releasing not wet yolk and whites, but a cloud of grayish powder.  Immediately, the powder puffed up and began to cling around something: a shape that didn’t stay still but shifted in an amorphous blob.  It reminded Buck a little of a lava lamp.  Except lava lamps don’t scream.  This thing screeched like a hundred fingernails on a blackboard.

The powder-covered blob lifted off the ground, pulsing in what could only be described as agitation, its noise one of the most painful things Buck had ever heard.  It was even worse for Stacia, who clapped her hands to her ears and dropped straight to the ground.

The young witch, face locked in an angry grimace, strode forward and shoved both arms straight into the blob.  Expanding outward like an overblown balloon, the blob stretched until gaps appeared in the powder covering its previously invisible form.  Then it just collapsed back into itself, shrinking until it disappeared with an audible pop, its cry collapsing along with it.

Declan stood there, still angry, flexing his powder-covered hands.  Stacia pulled her hands away from her ears and looked at him in surprise, followed quickly by worry.

“What did you do?” she asked, clearly upset, although Buck, for one, was really happy the screaming thing was gone.

“I took it.  And in the near future, I’m gonna shove it down that witch’s throat,” Declan said.  He turned to look over the team.  “Clear.  Moving forward.”

He started forward, committing the cardinal sin of not waiting for his partner.

“What’s the issue?” Buck whispered to Stacia, who was gathering herself and her gun.

She shook her head, frustrated.  “I don’t know.  He shouldn’t have done that.  It smells wrong.  He smells wrong,” she said, then moved to catch up.  Buck, not having a partner and desperately hoping to see his family at the end of this nightmare, stayed close to the two most powerful players on the field.

The rest of the team spread out, two by two, moving through the tangle of pipes, valves, and storage tanks.

It happened ten seconds later.  A sound like a steel trap snapping shut, a wet gurgle, and when Buck looked back, he saw two headless bodies, gouts of blood jetting over their armor, standing, then falling.  There might have been an impression of something brown blurring back into the tangle of pipes and conduits.

Stacia stepped up next to him and aimed her bullpup shotgun, tracking its double barrels across the jungle of metal.  Buck waved other team members down as the girl’s muzzles crossed their positions, apparently tracking something only she could hear. The gun fired abruptly, both barrels almost as one.

A round hole, three-quarters of an inch in diameter, appeared in one pipe; a dent and a streak of silver popping into being on the side of a vat next to the hole.

Something squealed in pain, the noise dropping off as audible footsteps took it rapidly away.

“Tagged one of them,” Stacia said, slipping two more shells free from her bandolier and popping them into the dual mags of her shotgun.  “They attacked together to overcome both partners at the same time.  Won’t do that again.”

Without a word, the rest of the team pulled in closer, eyes wide and faces tight with fear.  There were only six left, not counting Buck, Stacia, and Declan.

Hollis’s face was a mask of anger.  “They’re wearing us down.  We aren’t going to make it at this point.”

“Well, it could be worse.  You all would have been dead twice over by now if it wasn’t for us,” Declan said, voice calm and even.  He was the least scared, the least worried.  Stacia was standing half a pace behind him and watching him with a deep frown.

Buck couldn’t place it, but the kid seemed odd.  Up until now, he had seemed remarkably normal, if perhaps a little quiet and maybe slightly more mature than the standard nineteen-year-old college male.  But now he seemed colder, maybe more aloof.

“Do you have any plan for getting this done without killing all of us?” Hollis asked.

“There are two wounded wolves, the alpha, and the witch left,” the kid said, as if that made it easy.

“Wounded doesn’t make them less dangerous.  Probably more,” Buck said.  Cold blue eyes turned his way, making his breath catch in his chest.  The young witch was definitely different and Buck was beginning to see why Stacia was worried.  “Also, you said there was another. One you couldn’t figure out?”

A frown appeared between the blue eyes.  The kid dropped down into a kneeling crouch, left palm on the concrete.  His eyes stayed locked on Buck for a moment, then he closed them.

“Male wolf—burned, but functional.  Female wolf—wounded right forepaw, not very effective.  Alpha wolf, large male, full health, nasty,” Declan muttered.  “Female witch, hmm.  She’s brimming with power.  Oh?  Your guy?  He’s dead.  She’s animated him, which will be a drain on her.  And… yes, something else.  Small.  Can’t quite get a grasp on it.  A… a child?” he asked himself, face scrunched up in concentration.  Stacia shared a glance with Buck.  She was really worried about her witch.

Declan opened his eyes and looked first at Stacia, then around at each of the rest, one by one.  “The area past here opens up to—”

“Dump it!” Stacia said, interrupting him.  “Whatever the fuck you’re carrying from that spell back there, dump it now.”

“And waste energy that I might need?” he asked, frowning angrily.

“I don’t care.  Get rid of it.  It’s not you.  It makes you stink.  Even Draco doesn’t like the smell of it on you,” she said, getting right up in his face. He glanced at the German shepard-sized dragon.  It was clinging to a metal railing behind Stacia, its feet flexing and shuffling like an anxious parrot. When it saw him looking, it ducked away.

He swore.  “It’s just energy,” he said, but he didn’t sound real confident.

“And crack is just chemicals.  Get rid of it.  Your aunt would be disgusted,” Stacia said.

Young men are a stubborn species and never more so than when confronted by a young female.  Buck wasn’t at all sure how it was going to go, especially drawing a parent figure into it.  The kid stood frowning at the beautiful girl, who wasn’t backing down an inch.  Finally he swore again, pulled some chalk from his bag, and dropped to a knee.  He broke the chalk as he violently drew three runes before jamming his right hand on top of them and saying something in Gaelic.

It was like a stream of darkness flowed from the kneeling kid, down his arm, and into the ground.  The room was already murky, with a small amount of daylight from the few skylights high overhead, but the area around the kid seemed to brighten—to lighten up visibly.

Stacia, who’d been holding her breath, breathed out in relief.  Then she leaned down and sniffed the kid’s hair, which should have seemed weird but by now seemed almost normal.

“That’s a whole lot better,” she said quietly.  He didn’t look at her, but stood slowly and turned away, looking into his bag.  He could have been angry still, but Buck thought it was more embarrassment. Hard to tell. Stacia ignored it, instead turning to Hollis and Cochran, who’d been watching the mini-drama like everyone else.

“You guys packing any Silver Payload, Armor Piercing rounds?” she asked.

“I’d like to know how you know so much about our gear and procedures, Miss Reynolds?” Hollis asked.

“I have my sources, Agent Hollis.  So how about it?  Any S-PAP?” she asked again.

“Sounds like a gynecological test,” Declan muttered without looking up from his kit bag.

Stacia caught Buck’s eye and gave him a victorious wink before looking back at Hollis and raising an eyebrow.  She was visibly relieved and now exuded confidence.

“Yeah, we all carry at least one mag of S-PAP.  Why?” Hollis finally answered.

She pointed at the pipe with the hole and the vat with the dent in it.  “They’ll be darting in and out of these pipes.  Standard silver ball ammo won’t cut it.  Too soft, as you can see where my one slug failed to punch through.  S-PAP should cut through some of this cover.  Might make a big difference.  Right, Declan?  You were about to tell us what’s up ahead.”

He pulled out a little Altoids tin, one of the very small ones, before looking up and meeting her eyes.  Then he looked around at the rest of them and his expression was vintage teenage male—wary and ready for a fight.  Buck held his breath, hoping no one would say a word about whatever it was that had just gone down between him and his weregirl.  Luckily, Devany wasn’t there and the rest had better-honed survival instincts because no one said a word.

“It’s full of tubes and pipes, holding tanks, and all that kind of shit. I think there might be wood grinders and boilers.  I think it’s going to be nasty because I get the impression that she’s used some of them to store her shit.”

“What do you mean?  Store what?” Cochran asked.

“Not sure.  Just a feeling.  But think about what this bitch has done so far.  She’s into dead stuff,” Declan answered.  He opened the Altoid tin and was poking at the contents with a finger.

“What’s that for?” Stacia asked.

“It’s what I use for that wolf vision spell I told you about,” he said, holding the tin so she could see inside.

“Hairs?” she asked.

“Eyelashes,” he corrected.

“Let me guess… from Dellwood and his crew?” she asked.

“Close.  His younger sister, Clary.  She volunteered them,” Declan said easily.  Buck would have warned him if he had the time, but it was too late.  A low growl rumbled all around them.  Some of the team glanced around, but Buck knew it was coming from Stacia.

Declan froze, eyes locked on the dangerous girl in front of him.  He held very still as she reached out, deceptively casual, and took the tin from his hand.  Then very, very deliberately, she turned it over and dumped out the contents.  Her other hand came up and pulled at her own lashes with short, sharp tugs.  She opened her fingers over the tin and rubbed them together to free the new lashes.

“I, uh, needed some, ah and she just, ah, sorta volunteered,” Declan said.  He glanced at Buck and caught the older man’s warning headshake before bringing his attention back to Stacia.  “Anyway, who wants anything even remotely related to Dellwood near their eyes?  Right?” he asked, quickly looking into the tin and, after wetting a finger, picked up one of her offerings.  Closing his eyes, he touched the lash to his left eyelid before opening his eyes and securing a second lash.  This one went to the right eye, and then the kid started to mumble in Gaelic, giving Stacia a slightly nervous smile.

Her growl had shut off, but she kept both narrowed eyes locked on her prey.  Buck was certain there would be no escape for the kid.  Apparently the matter had been decided, and it didn’t seem as if the kid had a vote in it.

“Okay, who’s ready to party?” Declan asked, looking excited to get on with less dangerous tasks, like cornering a witch and her werewolves in their den.

CHAPTER 33

It was worse than predicted.  The tangle of pipes and tubes, vats and storage tanks made it impossible to keep the team together.  Add in a deeper gloom, darker shadows, and the near certainty that fangs and claws waited around every corner and it was the scariest damned thing Buck had ever done.

Hollis spread the remaining pairs out a bit.  Stacia argued against it, but the senior agent ignored her.

Buck silently agreed with the girl werewolf.  Spread out in here made for easy pickings.  He stuck close to Stacia and Declan, aided by the fact that the ultra-tight quarters made it impossible for the orbs of death to orbit their master.  Likewise, there was no room to fly, as the liquid pulp had all come in from vast funnels that occupied the space where the ceiling should be.  Draco was therefore relegated to a rear guard position, on the ground, following the group on feet and wing tips.  A few hours ago, the deputy would have been less than enthusiastic about a fire-breathing mini-dragon following on his footsteps.  Now?  Well, the Air elemental might have been more comfortable flying, but watching the little beast snake and eel through the pipe yard, toothy head swiveling like a turret, gave Buck an unusually secure feeling about his six o’clock.

The DOAA team was using weapon lights, headlamps, and thermal sights.  Buck’s shotgun came equipped with a Surefire high-intensity LED light clamped to the magazine tube, and that was the only light in his group.  Stacia was a werewolf; apparently she could see in thermal vision.  The kid had done his spell with the eyelashes and now he seemed to have no problem navigating the stygian darkness, and every time Buck looked back at Draco, the little dragon’s eyes were lit with an eerie reddish hue from within.

So he kept his muzzle low, lighting the spaces by his feet, and hoped the battery in the department-issued light had been replaced recently.

The first attack came fast. Gunshots ripped through the quiet; light pistol caliber pops that came together in a quick, staccato beat.  The roar of a shotgun answered.

“Contact. Connoly is down,” a female voice yelled out.

“Evans, pull back our way,” Hollis responded from somewhere off to Buck’s left.   A snarl followed by a wet crunch, a sharp cry, and the clatter of a weapon falling to the ground.

“Evans?  Evans, respond,” Hollis yelled.  There was no answer.  Stacia glanced back at Declan, then Buck, reaching up to tap her ear to indicate she could hear something.  Her head swiveled, then seemed to lock onto something moving across in front of them.  Buck glanced back behind him.  Draco’s head was moving in a match to Stacia’s, so Buck shifted his body slowly and silently to free his field of fire.

Instinctively, he crouched, lowering his profile, making himself a smaller target.  A soft huff told him the mini-dragon was now at his shoulder, facing the same direction.  Time seemed to slow, just the beat of his heart in his chest to mark its passage.

It stayed like that for nine fast pulses, then he felt Draco draw in a breath, a deep, deep breath, and he crouched even further.

The woman came around the column of transfer pipe that stood like a pillar to the right side of their forward travel.  She just stepped out of the darkness, like a specter of death, raising a Hi Point carbine one-handed, her other arm hanging loose and bloody at her side.

A cone of white-orange death shot straight at the wolf woman as Draco released his breath.

The splash of fire flowed over her chest and face, her good arm jerking up in reflex.  The carbine went off almost at the same time that Buck triggered his Remington, the bullet from her gun hitting a pipe overhead. His shot hit her chest, his left arm automatically pumping the action, his follow-up shot hitting her face as she went over backward.

Buck was peripherally aware of Declan stepping up behind and to his right.  The kid’s arm made a wide sweep and two of the three orbs whipped out over the dead, burning corpse of the were woman, at waist height.

There wasn’t space for the balls to get up much speed, but the impact of steel and silver on fur and flesh was audible even over the ringing in Buck’s ears from his shotgun.  A wolf yelped and the sounds of scrabbling claws told the deputy that the woman’s partner was beating a hasty retreat.

Declan waved a hand and the two balls came floating back around the bend of the pipe and took up station with the third one.

Stacia handed her shotgun to Buck.  “Carry this for me?  Loaded with silver slugs and buckshot.”

“What about him?” he asked, nodding at Declan, who was tossing Draco another block of wood from his satchel.

“He’s best off without a weapon.  Not a bad shot, just more effective with his mojo,” she said, pulling off her bandolier and handing it to him as well.

“So you’re going to…” was as far as he got before she pulled her shirt off.  She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.  He turned his head but the image was already burned onto his retinas.

The shirt went to the kid, who tucked it into his bag, waiting for her to strip off the tights.  Buck kept his eyes to the front, figuring security was most important.  It wasn’t like he was conflicted about wanting to watch Stacia strip naked.  Not like he’d be able to explain it to his wife; not to mention the chance of either offending her or her scary witch boyfriend.

Crunching, popping sounds came from just behind him and the hair on the back of his neck rose.  He couldn’t help it; he turned to watch as she grew to a full seven feet of twisted muscle and claw, white fur, and fang.  Her eyes, now the size of tangerines, were bright yellow and narrowed.

“It hurts, even for her and she’s the absolute fastest there is,” Declan told him casually.  “So she’s usually a bit touchy.  Best to avoid eye contact.”

The monstrous beast that had just been a beautiful girl growled and strode forward, between them.  It knocked into Declan and sent him flying; or at least would have if a long white-furred arm hadn’t caught his left bicep in passing and held him upright.

“She’s also a bit of a bully in this form,” Declan said, stepping back as the hand-paw that had just held him now became a backhand swing.  “Likes to beat up on people half her size,” the kid continued conversationally.

The massive head swiveled around and one glaring yellow eye locked on the tall witch.  “Yeah, yeah, pain and retribution are headed my way, blah blah blah.  You just focus on the path ahead,” Declan said, his voice calm.

She turned back to the front, her body crouching in the tight headspace, leaning forward on long arms to place her knuckles on the ground gorilla style.

She sniffed the air and then tilted her head to the left.  Her left paw tapped four times on the floor.

“Four persons that way, which should be Hollis and the last of his people,” Declan translated.

Her head tracked to the front and paused.  The same left paw reached forward and tapped the ground four more times, but with different levels of force.  A hard first tap, an even harder second tap, a soft third, and just the brush of knuckles for the fourth.

“That wounded were is probably just ahead, followed by the alpha.  I’m guessing he’s in combat form?” he asked.  Her head nodded slightly.  “Then the witch and finally the last one who seemed like a child to me.”  The giant white were grunted agreement.

“So the kid?  An innocent off the street, or their own child?” Buck asked, amazed at how these two understood each other.

“Not sure.  Either way, we got a kid up there to worry about,” Declan said.  “HOLLIS?  There’s a kid up there with them,” he yelled.

Stacia slapped her paw-hand on the floor.  Declan noted it and nodded.

“And an animated body.  If you see your missing man, throw salt on him.  Lots of salt,” Declan said, loud enough for the rest of the team to hear.

“ROGER THAT,” came the reply, echoing in the steel jungle.

“You ready?” Declan asked Buck.  “You comfortable with her shotgun?”

“I’m going to stick with mine unless I need it.  No way am I going to switch to an unknown weapon in the middle of combat,” Buck said.

“Yeah, good choice.  I’ve heard that exact rule from no less than half of Demidova Incorporated security at one time or another.  But if you need it, here’s the safety and then you have two fast shots before you need to pump.  Think of it as a double-barreled backup.”

“Roger that.”

“Alrighty then.  Let’s roll out,” the kid said softly.

CHAPTER 34

The kid kneeled down and drew in the dust on the floor.  He pointed at Stacia and made a dot on the drawing next to a circle that Buck guessed was the big floor-to-ceiling pipe immediately ahead.

The finger drew a circular path around the column of the pipe.  Then it drew four dots up ahead of Stacia.  Next, a second dot representing Declan himself.  And a third, which was Buck, because he pointed at Buck.  With a couple more passes of his finger, the whole of the simple plan was clear.

Stacia would lead around the corner.  The wounded were was likely the first obstacle.  Declan would step around just after the white werewolf and fling his balls of death at the wolf.  Stacia would move forward to engage the Alpha.  Buck needed to finish off the wounded wolf, which was probably Tacchino.  Declan would concentrate on the witch.  The animated dead body was an unknown.  It had no heartbeat for wolfish hearing to track, just a stench of death.  They would have to handle it on the fly and also keep an eye on the rest of the DOAA team, when and if they entered the fray.

It was a silent briefing, preventing the enemy from hearing its details. The plan was cold stone simple, allowing for change to accommodate Murphy’s law of combat.

At Buck’s nod of understanding, Declan tapped Stacia’s massive, muscled back and she slid silently forward.  Just like that, the assault was underway.  No time for nerves, no time to second guess, just instant commitment.

It wasn’t just training that made these two so effective.  There were massive amounts of raw combat talent here that made this almost easy for them.  They’d been trained, that was clear, but the rest was just instinct.  Buck had seen other natural soldiers and warriors before, but none that could double their own mass and grow claws and fangs or burn down a building with a gesture.

It took one second to clear the arc of the pipe, and then they were in a broader area.  A massive black wolf, its head a scabby mess of burnt black and blood-red tissue slid out of the shadows, crouching to leap. Stacia simply leaned low and to her right, her weight on one arm and her squatting legs as the three steel silver death balls shot over her left shoulder and hit the wolf in its forehead, left shoulder, and right leg.  It collapsed forward and Buck shuffled forward, carefully stepping heel-to-toe, just enough to line up his sights on the broad cranium and stroke the trigger.

A boom and a flash of muzzle fire, the skull bulging at the intrusion of an ounce and a quarter of silver slug.

Then he was pulling back and pumping his gun’s action as a roar filled the space and a giant, dark-furred form leapt from a catwalk above.

The falling form was immense, bigger by a third than the white monster that was Stacia, and it was dropping fast, claw-tipped arms widespread, jaws opened wide.

Stacia jumped backward, her left arm clotheslining Buck back with her.  He hit the ground, clutching his gun and feeling the DP-12 imprint itself on his spine.  Awkwardly, he squirmed and scrambled until he got his feet under him and stood up.

The Alpha had missed Stacia and him both, thanks to her speed, but it had somehow managed to get its feet under it as it landed, which left it ready to meet Stacia’s lunge.

The white wolf was badly outsized, a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter, but she didn’t hesitate as she shot for the bigger beast.  They both roared and came together.

Buck expected raw fury and unrestrained violence.  That was certainly the impression that the Alpha gave off.  But Stacia’s attack was more studied and less frenzied.  She took a blow to one shoulder that would have decapitated a man, shrugging it off as she slid in to get her own arm under the bigger monster’s, and then executed a hip throw that could have come directly from an army MACP combatives course.

Werewolf reflexes are faster than human and the Alpha, even taken by surprise, was able to twist his body and land with one leg under himself.  Stacia was even faster still, noticing the leg and instantly dragging the bigger wolfman backward as her right fist clutched at his throat.

Unable to get leverage with the posted leg, the Alpha pushed off it, adding a little to the backward momentum, twisting his upper torso as he did, pulling his throat away from her claws.

Giving up on a quick kill, Stacia grabbed a fistful of brown fur with her displaced hand and shoved the Alpha in the same direction as he was pushing, adding to his own momentum and driving his skull into a giant steel funnel-shaped tank hard enough to dent it in.  She added a left hammer fist to the side of his skull and simultaneously slashed the back of his right leg with her right claws.

A massive hand flung backward, a wild desperate reverse swing that still had the power to throw Stacia across the floor.

Another figure moved out from the darkness, this one human-shaped and sized, but shambling.  The bloody DOAA uniform was a dead giveaway, Declan thought, snorting at his own pun.  He drew the little Ruger revolver and fired three fast shots, two center of mass and one to the head, the way he’d been taught at Arcane.

The revenant that used to be Agent Kinte jerked to a stop, frozen in place by the garlic-oil-and-rowan-wood-filled plastic CCI capsules.  Made to hold snake-killing birdshot, the little plastic cylinders worked fine with Declan’s anti-evil mixture.

But the revenant was still standing there, so the young witch threw a handful of salt on it with his left hand while holstering the revolver with his right.  Then he plucked the combat tomahawk from its sheath and stepped closer.

With a quick, practiced motion, Declan poured two arcs of salt, forming a down-and-dirty circle around the motionless body.  Then he moved around behind it and found what he suspected he might find… a long incision on the corpse’s back.  It cut right through the uniform, and the bloody material made it clear the cut had happened while Agent Kinte was still alive.  Pulling apart the sliced cloth, Declan could see the hasty stitches that bound up the long slice just to the left of the spine.

With a quick slice of his ax head, he reopened the wound.  Flipping the haft in his hand, he stroked the spike on the tomahawk down through the wound.  It came away with a bundle.

The brain and heart of a small animal, surrounded by small bones and a mix of herbs that he couldn’t identify in the gloom.  It was all bound together with long, bloody strips of skin, likely cut from the young agent himself.

He shook it clear of his ax, stepping back as the vile thing splatted on the concrete.  With a gesture, he burned it, then threw more salt on the ashes.

As he stepped away, the body fell to the ground.

Behind him, the fight was raging back and forth although Declan felt Stacia had the upper hand, as the large male’s leg was still wounded.

Movement to his left caught his eye and he turned to see gun barrels come poking out of an opening between pipes and vats.  The DOAA team had made it to the party.  All four assault rifles opened up, mostly on the Alpha as he scrabbled across the floor, pulling himself with his arms as much as he pushed with his legs.

The bullets tracked across the face of the giant funnel vat, trying to catch up to the huge wolfman that was crawling faster than an Olympic sprinter could run.  The armor piercing rounds tore a dark, jagged smile in the metal of the tank, failing to catch up to the monster that lunged at Stacia.

Declan threw up a shield over the combatants and himself, afraid the agents wouldn’t stop their fire for Stacia’s sake.  Sure enough, a dozen bullets froze in mid-air, two feet from the writhing furball of brown and white.

The Alpha was trying to use his greater mass and strength to crush and control the lighter, smaller Stacia, but Declan actually felt better now that they were ground fighting.  He knew, from deep, personal experience, just how skilled the blonde girl had become at Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Although, truth be told, her grappling skill had been carefully morphed away from traditional competition jiu-jitsu, becoming something much more brutal and deadly.  Tanya and Chris had foreseen exactly this type of scenario when designing her training, and so her claws ripped and tore as much as they gripped and twisted while her bear-trap jaws snapped shut on anything he offered.  It wasn’t one-sided though, as her snow-white fur was stained red with her own blood in dozens of places.

The DOAA team had run out of ammo and was changing magazines, moving closer as they did.  The bizarre smiley face on the vat was now dripping black fluids that were spreading across the floor.  Declan almost ignored it, caught between watching the fight, looking for the witch, and making sure his allies didn’t shoot his friend.

But something made him look back at the black flow now pouring from the crippled vat.  It was dark, but his spelled vision showed him the truth.  What was dropping in clumps and clods from the tank wasn’t fluid.  It was bugs.  Insects.  Cockroaches.  Hundreds of thousands of cockroaches falling from the vat and spreading across the floor, seeking, searching.

In a flash, he understood.  She had bred them.  Fed them on carrion, probably the bodies of the unfortunate recruits who failed to reach a biological truce with the LV virus that the Alpha had introduced to their bodies.  There could be millions of them, and like everything else in this cursed mill, they would be twisted and bent far from nature’s path.

The flowing horde was closest to the furry fury on the floor, but they had run into Declan’s bullet shield, which stopped them cold, leaving the combatants free to continue their twisting, jaw-snapping fight.  The flood of bugs flowed along the shield’s edge, moving closer to Declan, Buck, and Draco while another, larger flow streamed toward the DOAA team, pouring over the body of Agent Kinte and covering it in a black, squirming blanket.

You must burn them, Father, Omega said in his earpiece.  The sentient AI had stayed curiously quiet throughout most of the battle across the mill, but now there was a certain note of concern.

I calculate that the volume of that vat exceeds one thousand cubic feet.  Assuming two adult insects per cubic inch, you are looking at approximately three-point-four-five-zero million carnivorous insects.  Burn them, Father.

The flood continued, and now the bugs were piling up against his shield and flowing closer to his group as well as the DOAA team.  The body on the floor had become a skeleton wrapped in threads of cloth.

“Draco, burn those please,” he said, pointing at the closest bugs.  The little dragon had been watching the horde with increasing agitation and now it immediately pulled back its head, took a breath, and blew a streaming cone of orange fire across the floor.

The agents jumped back at the flare of fire, but it wasn’t directed their way.  The light of the flames did do a fine job of illuminating the mass of insects almost at their feet.

“Hold still,” Declan yelled to them, waving his right hand in a tight, precise manner.  Two of the agents had shotguns and began to pump round after round into the mass of insects, killing hundreds with each shot and having no effect whatsoever on stemming the tide.

Unlike his dragon, Declan didn’t bother with visible flames.  Too much lost heat, too inefficient.  He couldn’t spare any power on showy spells that he might otherwise have chosen if supplemental heat sources were nearby.

Instead, his gesture threw an invisible wave of focused thermal energy across the front ranks of the bug army, withering thousands of black bodies into crispy little piles of carbon.  As many as he burned, more flowed forward, unimpressed with the loss of their cousins and siblings, dropping in waves from the source: the massive funnel vat.  Declan studied it even as he pushed heat into the pool of bugs spread across the floor.  The air grew hot and he harvested some of the waste heat, recycling it back into his beam of infrared energy.

His left hand dipped into the messenger bag and rummaged through the contents, finally bringing forth a squat, round container.

“Draco, clear a path,” he said, pointing to the vat, but when the little dragon took a breath, a blast of air came up hard on them both, pushing with implacable force into their faces, removing Declan’s ability to breathe and making it impossible for Draco to loose his fire.  Instinctively, Declan dropped to one knee and turned his head back to find enough of a break in the wind to draw a breath.  The wind blew even harder, blasting air past him too fast to breathe in.

It was hardwired into Declan to avoid using his very limited abilities with Air around other witches.  Most figured out his dual affinity for Earth and Fire, but there were no records of a witch having a third affinity, no matter how weak. So it was his hidden edge. Now there was no choice. There was no other option; his lungs were frozen tight and he was getting dizzy.  With a wave of his left hand, he parted the gale force blasting his face and took a deep breath.  Then he lifted his head and stared across the open space to the one part of the room where dim daylight shone through.  A figure stood outlined in the pale light—small, slight, but with female curves.  Long hair and shadow hid her face, but he knew she was staring straight at him, her head and neck pulled slightly back in what he read as surprise.

Still kneeling, he touched his right hand to the ground and pushed.  The concrete floor shook hard, bouncing bugs, agents, the skeleton, and even the two fighting werewolves a foot into the air.  It also knocked the witch off her feet, disrupting her concentration and ruining her spell.  Almost instantly, the wind died and Draco loosed a fiery cone of concentrated flame that burned through the bugs and pushed toward the witch.

She had enough presence of mind to stop the flow of fire from hitting her, splitting it ten feet short of her position like a rock diverting a river, holding her hand palm outward as she lay where she had fallen.  The light of the flames showed her face for a second, and it was Declan’s turn to be surprised, for she was beautiful, with dark hair, chocolate skin, and dark eyes.  It didn’t stop him from sending his steel and silver orbs flashing her way, through the flames, too fast for her to see until it was too late.

Something jumped from the side, from a gap in the tubes and pipes.  Something smaller than the witch but so fast, it was nothing but a blur.  It intercepted the balls of death, collecting one and two with impossible catches and knocking the third off path with a kick.  Somehow it twisted and spun in mid-air to catch and kick and finally land across the room, a ball in each hand.  It was child-sized, but covered in black fur, with a furry tail and claws on feet and hands.  It looked first at the witch and then it turned to look at Declan and he saw it was person-shaped, had wolfish jaws and wolfish ears, but the slitted eyes of a reptile.  It pushed up from its crouch and he could see it was maybe three and half to four feet tall, naked except for its fur, visibly male, a miniature werewolf.  It was close to the DOAA team, and Agent Cochran noticed it first, his attention pulled away from the carpet of bugs that swarmed toward him and his teammates.

The wolf-boy snarled at the agent, who immediately lifted his rifle.  The barrel came up no more than an inch and the wolf-kid flicked one hand with eye-blurring speed.  Cochran dropped, one of Declan’s steel balls having punched through his Kevlar helmet and deep into his skull.

The other ball flew from the kid’s hand straight for Declan.  He stopped it two feet from his face, freezing it in space.  Almost simultaneously, Declan sent the third, previously kicked ball at the furry boy from behind.  Eyes like a python’s flashed red as the kid swayed out of the path of the ball, crouching and jumping for the witch woman’s position.

A fireball streaked at Declan from the small witch’s hand, the flames lighting her face enough to show her features twisted into a hate-filled visage.  Immediately, a second, third, and fourth ball of fire followed the first, each an intense missile of compact flame.  All of them disappeared into Declan’s outstretched left hand.  The hate turned to shock as she saw him simply absorb her flurry of fiery plasma bullets.

His right hand drew the little Ruger revolver from its holster and fired the final two rounds in the gun at the streaking wolf kid.  The first missed, but the final shot scored a hit, pulling a screech of pain from the black-furred blur.  The wolf boy reached the witch and grabbed her hand, pulling her around, breaking her eye lock on Declan.  He never slowed, towing her almost off her feet, across the room, and up onto a metal bulkhead.  Before Declan could fire off another shot, the boy jumped into an opening at his feet, pulling his mother with him.  Mother.  That was it.  Mother and child.  Witch and were.

Declan spun to the wolf fight in time to see Stacia get rushed backward by the Alpha, taken off her feet to land on her back.  She landed with her legs compressed between their massive bodies and before the Alpha could pass her guard, she shoved hard with both legs, flinging the bigger male ten feet back.

Buck, who had been crouched to Declan’s right, head flicking back and forth, trying to follow all the fighting, saw his chance and stepped forward, bringing his shotgun to his shoulder.  The Alpha stopped his own rearward momentum, claws tearing furrows in the concrete floor, and tipped back his head to roar.  Buck’s shotgun went off with a louder roar, followed by a click-clack and a second ear-splitting shot.

The Alpha’s head shattered from two heavy silver slugs and the monster swayed on its feet for a moment before dropping dead.

“The winner of hand-to-hand combat is…” Buck muttered to himself.

“… the first one to have a buddy arrive with a gun,” Declan finished, surprising the ex-soldier. “It’s like the official motto of Demidova security.  Must be an army thing.  Draco, another blast please.”

Fire flared across the floor, frying a thousand bugs, creating a path of crispy black carbon for Declan to run across.  He pulled the pin from the thermite grenade and reached deep inside himself for a tiny, tiny blast of Ignis Solis, the sun-hot beam of focused energy that was fueled by the user’s very soul.  A short, sharp blast of eye-searing light erupted from his right hand, vaporizing a drill hole five inches in diameter and three feet deep into the vat of bugs, right in the center of the bullet-drawn smiley.

Eyes blurred with flash spots despite having closed both of them, Declan threw the grenade into the tunnel of bugs and immediately reversed direction.  He headed for Stacia and Buck, mentally running two spells at once.  The first blasted a stream of air into the bullet-torn metal grin on the tank, momentarily stopping the renewed flow of bugs.  The other spell used most of his final reserves of magic to pull a shield over his group and a second over the last three DOAA agents.

Three seconds ticked by with nothing but the hiss of the cockroaches and the low-pitched howl of the wind Declan had called up.  Then a heavy whump sounded deep inside the vat as the thermite ignited the living fuel packed around it.  Instantly, two cubic feet of cockroaches turned to burning gas and steam.  Fed by the oxygen in the gale of wind that Declan had forced into the smiley, the fire spread in the blink of an eye, consuming another cubic yard of carbon-rich insects.  The funnel shape of the vat directed the blast upward, like a shaped charge, incinerating even more thrashing, squirming fuel as it climbed out of the tank and up the angled feeder pipe.  A backblast of fiery cinders that used to be bugs jetted out of the smile, overpowering Declan’s bellows spell and splashing against both shields.

Outside the mill, the assembled media, law enforcement, and civilian watchers heard the blast deep inside. A hundred assorted cameras turned to catch the explosive stream of flame, smoke, and burning bugs that erupted from the pulp-slurry pipe at the end of the building, shooting up at an angle like a circus cannon.  Streamed live across the networks and Internet, the flaming ejaculation would be replayed a thousand time in the next few hours, instantly becoming an iconic symbol of the Fetter incident.

CHAPTER 35

Stacia and Declan followed the tunnel for two hundred yards, him crouching while she padded on four completely wolfish feet.  She had jumped down into the opening after Declan, following the witch woman and her… spawn.  They had landed on massive twin rollers covered in spikes that had once torn logs to shredded pulp but were now rusted in place. After one look at the long, low tunnel, Stacia had simply Changed forms from two-legged beast woman to four-legged wolf.  Despite having a half-again greater mass than Declan in that form, she still had an easier time with the low-tunneled ceiling than the tall, lanky witch boy.

The tunnel was dark and dank, smelling so strongly of werewolves that even Declan could scent it.  Overlaying the rank, musky smell of wolf was a slightly sulphurous odor that worried both of them.

“Maybe they just eat a lot of beans?” he asked, a bit hopeful.

She growled at him.  He shrugged, smirking a little, the smirk sliding away as he took another whiff.

The tunnel opened out onto the banks of the river that flowed past the mill.  Concrete mounts and foundations for log moving machinery led from the tunnel to the water.  The soft mud was scuffed with V–shaped drag marks where a pair of small boats, likely kayaks, Declan thought, had been pushed into the river.

“Omega, can you get eyes on the river?” Declan asked.

Tree cover impedes satellite images.  I will utilize more localized means, Father.

A few seconds, later a buzz sounded and two small quadcopter media drones zipped around the end of the mill and shot straight to the river.  Without hesitation, the mini-aircraft zoomed down the river, quickly passing from sight.  Likely a couple of news teams were wondering WTF, Declan thought.

Stacia sniffed around the tunnel entrance and down to the water’s edge.  After passing back and forth a few times, she Changed back to her human form.  A very naked human form, which Declan did not look away from as he handed her clothes to her.  She met his eyes directly as she dressed, expression almost a challenge.

He just grinned and then turned toward the mill as motion caught his eye.  A squad of armed agents in heavy combat gear came around the end of the building, spotting them and hustling over.

“Agent Adler wants you in the command van now,” the agent said.  It wasn’t a request, and the agent’s tone was cold.  They were edgy and held their weapons tightly.  Declan shared another glance with Stacia, who gave him a tiny shake of her head.  He frowned, noticing how weary she looked.

“Yeah, well, we’re gonna sidetrack and get her something to eat,” Declan said.

“Adler wants you there now,” the lead agent insisted, eyes going hard.

Declan’s jaw squared and he shifted his feet into the dirt, as he sometimes did when drawing Earth energy.  Stacia knew he’d been aggressively recharging his magical batteries the whole time they’d been tracking the fugitives.  She touched his arm.

“Do you have any pemmican or energy bars left?” she asked him.

He frowned but rummaged in his bag, coming out with two Clif bars.  He handed them over and turned back to the squad.  “She needs more food.  Changing that much takes calories, so who’s got a snack?” he demanded.

The leader just looked straight back at him, but one of the other guys, who had been staring at her, quickly patted his cargo pockets and came out with a Snickers bar that he awkwardly handed over.

She needed more, but it was better than nothing. From the set of Declan’s shoulders, he was ready to go to war to feed her, which would be a massive problem.  “Okay, I’m ready,” she said.

The lead agent turned and led the way, the other three spreading out around them, the Snickers guy ending up next to her.

“You’re barefoot?” the agent beside her suddenly asked.

“Shoes don’t survive the transformation.  I’ve toughed up my feet just for that reason,” she said.  Declan was on her right side, and the fine hairs on her arm were rising as if in a static field.  He was pulling power.  She reached over and touched his hand.

A haphazard group of civilians came pelting around the corner of the building, looking frantic.

“Have you seen any drones go by?” one, wearing a television station jacket, asked.

I have located an abandoned kayak caught in the branches of a tree fallen in the river.  I surmise they have entered the forest some way back and released the boats to tangle the trail.  I will backtrack the drones and see if I can find where they got off the river.

“Saw a couple go down the river like bats outta hell,” Declan said to the new crews.  “Got away from ya, huh?”

“They just took off like someone else was controlling them,” a bearded guy with glasses said, looking very worried.

Failure to locate river evac site.  Returning drones now.

“They went down by the river.  Who knows, maybe they’ll do that return to base thing,” Declan said, moving past the newsies.

“Ours doesn’t have that feature,” one guy said as the two groups passed each other.

“Shit, look there!  They’re both back, hovering by the beach,” the bearded guy said, picking up the pace and rushing to recover the expensive drones.  The guy in the jacket suddenly focused on Stacia.  “Wait, aren’t you…” but his co-worker pulled him away toward the river.

The tense little group of agents, witch, and werewolf made it around the end of the mill and came in sight of Mill Street and the circus of law enforcement, media, and civilians.  Underfoot, a carpet of black, crunchy cinders spread in a cone-shaped pattern from the end of the building toward the closest houses.  Smoke trailed up in a few places from particularly thick clumps of carbon.  Black dust blew up as the Apache swung by overhead, patrolling around the mill property.  At the end of the paper mill, one wall lay broken and crumbled, the part of the roof it supported collapsed inward.

General Creek assumed operational command of the raid.  He’s had people reviewing and editing the video feeds from the teams’ helmet cameras.  He’s looking to frame a legal case against you both.

“It must be a good idea to have a video copy of every agent’s actions during a raid, huh?” Declan asked the agent who was friendly with Stacia.  “A complete and unedited record would be useful.”

The agent looked confused but before he could open his mouth, the leader spun around and gave him a glare.

I have complete copies of everything, Father. I will provide unedited footage to every media company and Internet blogger in the country if necessary.  I have alerted Christian and the Demidova Corporate attorney as to your situation. Attorney Cornell has hired a top firm from Portland.  That company has dispatched their best attorney, who is en route to Fetter.  Christian has ordered the Demidova corporate aircraft to be prepared for departure, and a flight plan is being filed as we speak.

Declan faked a cough into his hand.  “Hhhhowwwgh?”

I directed local news feeds to their cellular devices when they happened to be looking at them.  Christian asked Chester for more detail.  I had copies of the communications between Agent Adler and General Creek ready when Chester framed the question on my Omega interface.

They were closer to the media circus now, and the reporters had already caught sight of them.

“Miss Reynolds, can you tell us what happened?” one of the on-air anchors yelled out.

The agents steered away from the reporters, but Declan suddenly veered off path and headed straight for a particular media van.

His move caught the agents off guard and it took them a handful of seconds to realize his move and then catch up with the long-legged teen.  By the time they did, he was talking to a surprised cameraman, pointing at a McDonald’s bag and pulling money from his combat pants pocket.

The combined media, sensing a massive story like sharks scenting blood, converged on the young witch, Stacia, and the agents.

“Thirty bucks for your lunch,” Declan offered.

The cameraman, looking confused and completely off-guard, simply gaped at him.

“It’s all I’ve got, but I’ll pay you more.  Look, she really needs the calories.  Changing and fighting off murdering werewolves takes energy like you can’t believe,” Declan said.

“She fought the murderers?”  “Is it true you caught the first suspect, Stacia?”  “What’s your role in this, sir?”  “Can you tell us anything that happened?” “Give her the food, Scotty.”  The clamor was loud and almost instant.

“There will be no comments,” the agent in charge of the squad said loudly.  “Come along now!” he directed at Declan.

The witch kid pushed the money into the t-shirt pocket of the befuddled cameraman and grabbed the bag of food.

“Hold your horses, Agent.  If you’re going to blame us and frame us and grill us for hours, the least you can do is make sure that she has a bit of food,” Declan said.  His words were calculated, but his tone had steel in it.

“Frame you for what?  “How can they blame you?” “My source in the sheriff’s department told me you two saved their bacon. Is that true?”

The lead agent, patience at an end, grabbed Stacia’s arm.  She broke his grip reflexively, stepping back.  His hand dropped to his sidearm and she felt a wave of static-like energy flow across her back as Declan raised a shield around them both.  The invisible shield shoved the agents further away.

The leader pulled his sidearm, yelling into his throat mic for backup, while his other three men followed his lead, backing off and drawing down on Declan and Stacia.

Thunder sounded as the Apache rounded the building, coming up fast on their position.  They spun around to stare at the massive attack helicopter as it roared up to within fifty yards, abruptly pulling up to hover forty feet above the ground.  Stacia’s eyes locked onto the 30mm chain gun slung under the nose of the aircraft as it powered up and swiveled around.

Time slowed and the gaping muzzle of the cannon seemed to tick across an arc like a metronome, the black face-shielded head of the gunner directing it with his vision.  She saw the exact moment the barrel finished its traverse and stopped, pointing directly at Declan.  Like a snapshot, that instant in time froze in her head as she watched in helpless horror.

The cannon had just covered Declan when the engines abruptly stopped, the sudden loss of sound making the whup of the rotors more pronounced even as they immediately slowed their rotations.  She saw the pilot grow frantic, hands and feet moving rapidly as the helicopter lost power and almost as instantly lost altitude.  The chain gun went dead, the muzzle snapping up into its default resting position.  The chopper shuddered and shook as the pilot tried to restart the engines and regain control, then it fell from the sky.

CHAPTER 36

“No, Omega,” Declan said beside her as the sixty-five-million-dollar aircraft fell forty feet to the ground.  At his words, the engine turned over, the still-spinning blades picked up speed, and the helicopter righted itself before it smashed into the ground.  The bouncy tricycle-like landing gear snapped off on the right side, tilting the aircraft slightly and bringing the spinning rotor within inches of the ground.  The engine cut out again, but this time, it looked like the doing of the pilot as his hands snapped across the controls in tightly constrained motions before he sat back in visible relief.

Mass bedlam ensued. First, people ran in terror as the helicopter fell. When the chopper failed to explode or spray debris across the terrain, they stopped and came back, cameras and microphones extended.

Dozens of federal agents and local law enforcement came running but were outnumbered by the outraged and furious news crews who surrounded the original four agents and the downed helicopter. Stacia and Declan were the first ones to the Apache, helping the chopper crew climb out of the damaged aircraft.

It was Sheriff Grable who got control of the situation, as Eric Adler, finding himself confronted with dozens of angry reporters, was completely ineffectual. Firefighters and EMS pushed the reporters back as they took over the scene, securing the aircraft from possible fire and treating the few injuries that occurred.  Sheriff Grable insisted on accompanying Declan and Stacia when Adler had them surrounded and moved to the sheriff’s substation for questioning.  Two hours later, the Bangor attorney, Marcia Martin, arrived and was escorted by deputies into the middle of the interrogation.

Middle-aged, with light brown hair and pale gray eyes, she was dressed in a power suit and equipped with a serious don’t F with me attitude.

“Charges?” she asked as soon as she was announced into Buck’s office, which had been taken over by Adler.

“I’m starting with assaulting a federal officer and interfering with an investigation, moving all the way up through terrorism charges,” Adler said, leaning back in Buck’s chair.

Attorney Martin snorted as she put her briefcase up on Buck’s desk and popped it open.  “You sure you want to go there?”

“We’ve got footage from numerous helmet cams as well as from the sheriff’s own surveillance system,” Agent Adler said with a slight smirk.

“Oh?  So do I.  Watched it in the car on the way up here while my assistant drove,” she said with a tight little smile, pulling out a zip drive which she set before the large agent.  “I’m thinking I’ve got the complete set, so if you bring something forward, it better not cut out the important parts.”

Adler crashed forward and slammed to his feet, staring at the zip drive.

“You have restricted federal evidence in your e-mail server, Attorney Martin?  How the hell did you get that?” he demanded.

“Why, Agent Adler, from you.  It came directly from your DOAA e-mail address.  Are you telling me that you didn’t send it to me?” she asked, her tone innocent, her expression knowing.

“You!” the giant agent said, rounding on Declan.  “You hacked my system, you little shit.  That’ll see you in prison for sure.”

“When?” Declan asked.  “I’ve been in your custody since the Apache crashed.  When was I supposed to have hacked your systems?”

“Thank you, young man, for reminding me about using armed military heavy weapons against United States citizens on US soil.  We’re going to have some counter suits against DOAA and against you personally, Mr. Adler,” Martin said.  “And that footage is currently running on every network in the country and most of the planet.  In fact, that one might just end up a class action lawsuit, unless the networks decide to sue you on their own.  Haven’t fully worked that out yet.”

“The President can override posse comitatus on his own authority,” Adler replied.

“That hasn’t been tested in a court of law yet, now has it?  Plus, have you seen the news, Agent Adler? The Garth administration is distancing itself from this fiasco.  His press secretary is claiming that the President wasn’t briefed until after the assault began.  Of course, the fact that the leaders of both Russia and China just about hurt themselves rushing to the microphones to denounce American suppression of its own citizens might have something to do with it,” Martin replied.  “You really should watch the news, Agent.  Now about those charges?”

“No charges have been filed… yet,” a new voice said from the front entry.  A tough-looking man of about sixty, with short salt and pepper hair and wearing a navy blue suit with a red tie, stood almost in the office doorway, two aides standing behind him.  Adler and the two other agents in the room straightened to a position of attention.

“And you are?” Martin asked, unimpressed.

“General Tobias Creek.  Director of DOAA,” he said in an even tone.  “The directorate will investigate every aspect of this incident before determining what charges should be brought and against whom,” he said, eyes roaming over the young werewolf and even younger witch.

“I see. Well General, if you’re not arresting them at this moment, my clients have needs that have been ignored.  Miss Reynolds, in particular, requires food and water, and I suspect Mr. O’Carroll does as well.  We’ll be leaving now.”

“We’re not done with this incident, Ms…”

“Martin, General. Marcia Martin.  Of Feinbaum, Ketchum and Martin, Portland Office.”

“Your clients will need to make themselves available for further questioning,” Creek said matter-of-factly.

“I’m sure arrangements can be made,” Martin replied, gesturing the two young adults up and out the door.

Outside, she quickly directed them to a waiting black SUV.  Climbing into the back, they found a bag of deli sandwiches, bottled water, candy bars, chips, and other snacks.

As soon as they were all in the car, the driver, a young man in a black suit, pulled the car out onto Main Street, which was congested with media vehicles and cop cars.

“Thank you, Ms. Martin, for getting us out of there,” Stacia said as she buckled her seat belt.

“Yeah, thanks,” Declan agreed.

“Don’t thank me.  It’s my job, one I will be paid extremely well for by Cornell Associates, who hired me on behalf of the Demidova Corporation,” Martin replied.

“Well, thanks anyway,” Declan said.

“Well, you’ll want to thank Mr. Cornell when you see him in about an hour’s time.   My directions are to take you directly to Bangor International airport, where you’ll be meeting the Demidova corporate jet,” the attorney said, turning from her place in the front passenger seat.  “My orders are very specific.  I’m also not supposed to ask you questions about the events of earlier today or even how I came to receive an e-mail of highly sensitive government security footage, which I find enormously frustrating,” Martin said, eyebrows raised.

“Wasn’t us.  We just got our phones and devices back just now,” Declan said, holding up the Bluetooth earpiece that he proceeded to plug into his ear.

“Highly sensitive homeland security information doesn’t just send itself.  You might want to think about everything that’s happened recently, as I believe your employer is extremely interested,” the older woman said.

“This wasn’t within the scope of our employment,” Declan said.

“Well then, you probably shouldn’t have been wearing a shirt with the corporate name plastered across the back,” Martin said archly, pointing at the little tiny Demidova Security emblem over his left pectoral that matched the giant one that Declan remembered was printed on the rear.

Realization flooded his face and he turned to Stacia, who simply shrugged and continued unwrapping a ham and Swiss on rye, which she proceeded to eat in quick, sharp bites.

Marcia Martin turned forward but continued to study her charges in the makeup mirror on the passenger sun visor.  The young man, Declan, wore a frown as he alternated between devouring a sandwich of his own and studying his phone.  Occasionally, he would show the screen of the phone to his companion, who would nod, frown, or otherwise convey her opinion in expressions without slowing her rather scary inhalation of food.  Declan ate like any teenage male Marcia had ever known, and with three sons, she had witnessed many.  He devoured his sandwich plus a half of another, two bags of chips, and a Mountain Dew.  He finished it off with an Almond Joy, fiddled with his phone, and then lay back and shut his eyes.

Stacia ate three sandwiches, the other half of Declan’s second, an entire full-sized bag of Lays potato chips, four candy bars, and two sweet teas.  Her initial food assault had slowed to a very businesslike consumption rate, and she seemed deep in thought.  Marcia shifted her gaze back to the resting Declan, trying to figure where that one fit in.  She was well aware of the girl’s celebrity status and had seen as much of the Washington battle footage as anyone.  She knew, at some level, that the girl was a real, honest-to-God werewolf, as hard as that was to reconcile with the beautiful young woman in the back.  Although the way she inhaled food wasn’t remotely normal for a twenty-one-year-old female human.

The young man puzzled her.  He was, according to the current news playing across the iPad in her lap, a supposed witch.  Despite her statement to Adler, she hadn’t watched much of the helmet cam footage, as she’d been too busy conferring with Darion Cornell about possible charges and defenses.  What little she had seen had been violent and jumbled, raw footage without any edits or stabilization to make sense of it. Darkness broken by screams, gunfire, and the occasional flare of flames coming from somewhere. Her eyes went back to the boy in the mirror, but the girl’s head came up and she found a pair of green eyes flashing to yellow as Stacia met her gaze.

A sharp chill shuddered down her spine as she automatically looked away, turned back forward… and frowned.  She didn’t shy away from threatening stares, had no problem meeting the eyes of murderers, violent felons, or hard-ass judges.  But this twenty-something girl had made her look away with just a glance.  Made her look away from her study of the boy. A watchful warning.

She took a quick glance back and found the girl looking out the window, eating more chips.  But this time, Marcia noted some additional details; the girl’s left leg pressed against the boy’s right leg and her shoulder touched his.  It looked unconscious and automatic.  Possessive.  She went back to her iPad, studying the current news and blogosphere output on the events in Fetter.  And the more she read, the more she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise as she dwelt on the fact that the wild suppositions and conjectures being bandied about were directly caused by or involved the two people sitting a few feet behind her.

It seemed that the global village was consumed with the topic.  Killer werewolves and witches straight from the worst collective nightmares of humanity’s gravest folktales and legends had fought to the death with federal agents and a famous werewolf and now-famous warlock.  The government’s military overreaction and failure to contain the suspects while losing the lives of what was suspected to be over a dozen agents was only slightly mollified by the fact that once again, the Demidova group had stepped forward and solved the problem.  And the fact that it was the two junior-most members of the famous team was not lost on anyone.  Why didn’t the feds call on Gordon and Demidova?  Why had the DOAA team gone in without supernatural assistance?  Why had they threatened the pair with an assault helicopter?  And what the hell had happened to the helicopter?  Disrepair… poor piloting… or something supernatural?

Drone footage ran in a never-ending cycle of clips.  The two most common were the young couple running to the mill when the shooting first started and the helicopter swooping down, cannon sweeping around, only to have engines die and the craft plummet to the ground.  There was also the massive fireball of burning cinders that erupted from the raised tube the anchor identified as a disconnected pulp slurry feeder pipe.  Then there was some shaky footage taken right at the beginning of the mill assault that showed something flying over the scene, larger than any bird Marcia had ever heard of, before it suddenly tucked odd wings and dove into the top of the building.

The fact that the answers were snoozing in the seats behind her almost drove her professionally honed curiosity crazy. It also creeped her out.  If what she was seeing on the news and in the helmet camera footage was real, and she had no reason to think the government would fake something like this, then the boy in the back could call fire from nothing and knock down walls with a thought.  The witch he had gone after had raised dead bodies and killer spirits.

“We have to stop in Dover-Foxcroft,” Declan said, sitting up and opening his eyes.

Marcia turned to look back at him, finding the werewolf girl looking as surprised as she was.

“The girl… the last werewolf.  I need to ward her.  You know that bitch kept some hair or something.  She’ll kill her just to tidy up loose ends,” he said to Stacia.

The blonde girl met his gaze for a couple of seconds, then turned to Marcia.  “He’s right.  There is a werewolf in custody at the sheriff’s office.  She’s the last one alive and the only one with information on this witch.  Declan will have to protect her or the witch will kill her.”

“The witch that got away into the wilderness will somehow travel all the way to Dover-Foxcroft and kill this girl?” Marcia asked, dubious.

“Doesn’t have to travel anywhere.  She can kill the girl with a spell if she has some of the girl’s hair, like I do,” Declan said, holding up his left wrist.  A thin band that she had taken for a woven man bracelet was, now that she could see it closer, just a twisted length of brown hair.

“You’re telling me that a witch can kill anyone from a distance if they have that person’s hair?” Marcia asked in her professional voice, although inside she was holding her horror and fear separate in a little part of her mind.

“Not every witch, and most would need a full circle at this kind of distance, but this one is pretty strong, very twisted, and her whole skill set revolves around death magic.  The werewolf was in contact with her for a long time and I’d bet your paycheck that she’s got a pre-prepared kill spell set up,” he said, untying the braid of hair from his wrist as he talked.

He pulled a sandwich wrapper from the food bag that had become garbage and flattened it on his lap.  A marker appeared in his hand from one of his pockets and he drew a circle on the paper.

“I can maybe start a ward right now while we drive.  We’re between the witch in the woods around Fetter and the girl in Dover-Foxcroft.  Plus, we’re getting closer to her all the time,” he said matter-of-factly.

The circle he had snapped off was really quite close to what Marcia might have done with a pin and a string.  He’d obviously had a lot of practice.

The twist of hair went into the circle, held in place with a scrap piece of masking tape from another sandwich wrap.  The marker came back out and he started to draw shapes and strange letters around both the inner and outer edges of the circle, spinning the paper on his lap to follow the arcs.

“You just draw on some paper with a Sharpie and you have a spell?” Marcia asked.  Beside her, the driver, Barry, was going slightly crazy trying to look in his rearview to see what was going on.  Stacia noticed and frowned.  “Pull over for a moment.  That way, you won’t crash us trying to get a look,” she ordered.

Barry glanced at Marcia for direction.  She nodded and he instantly pulled over and off the road on a flat spot.  The car was no sooner in park than he was twisted around to see what was happening.

After giving him a slight frown, Stacia turned to Marcia.  “The answer is that not every witch could do what he’s doing.  In fact, there are very few anywhere that could match his skill.”

“Aunt Ash could, with her eyes closed.  Einin is better than me at this as well,” he said, still drawing.

“Which proves my point.  As I understand it, and correct me if I’m wrong, D, but spells, whether written, spoken, sung, or made from symbolic items, are simply ways of programming magic to do what you want.  A way to give it direction,” Stacia said.  Declan just nodded, still drawing shapes.  “Since magic is hard, most spells are complicated and time-consuming and usually take multiple witches. Declan uses runes to shape his spells, and he makes them up on the fly.  Most witches would need days, if not weeks, to put together a spell he can make up in minutes.  It’s the difference between a master musician and a first-grade music class, or the comedic genius of Robin Williams versus a knock-knock joke,” Stacia said.

“But he’s like what?  Nineteen?” Marcia asked.

“He’s like right here,” Declan muttered, spinning the paper again to fill in another arc.

“How many Olympic athletes are teenagers, Ms. Martin?  How many were born with the right genetics and raised from birth to excel at their sport?  Same thing, if not more so,” Stacia said.

“There,” Declan said, sitting up and capping his Sharpie.  “Okay, that should block her for a bit.  At least until we get to the sheriff’s office,” he said.

Barry and Marcia just looked from him to the paper on his lap.  Marcia almost scoffed until she really looked at the paper.  The almost-perfect circle now looked like something from a book or movie.  The runes were intricate, drawn with clean, precise lines, woven together into unbroken strings around the inner and outer edges of the circle.  The bundle of hair was twisted just so, and the little piece of scavenged masking tape was neat and even.

“That bit of magic would cost you the price of this car if you knew the right circles to commission it,” Stacia said, smiling.

Declan started to disagree, then sat back, thinking about it, before nodding slightly.  “Give or take.”

“Give or take, my ass.  You know I’m right.  I do all the Pack’s liaison work with Mitzy’s circle.  I know the costs pretty well,” she said.

He raised his right eyebrow at her turn of phrase and gave her a bit of leer.  She snorted and turned back to Marcia.  “We also should ask the girl a couple of questions.  There was an… oddity… anomaly?  There was a problem at the end when the witch escaped.  We need some answers.”

“My job is to get you to Bangor soonest.  You’ve as much as said you’ve already protected the girl,” Marcia said, shaking her head.  “We’re not stopping here,” she said firmly.

They were entering Dover-Foxcroft when she said it, and the sheriff’s office was right on the main street.  “Your employer will absolutely want the information that girl has,” Stacia said reasonably.

“No.  Barry, keep going,” Marcia said.

In the makeup mirror, she saw the two in the back exchange a nod. The boy reached out and touched the frame of the car.  Barry swore softly almost immediately and then wrestled with the steering wheel, pulling the car out of traffic and to the curb.

“I told you not to stop,” she said mildly, anticipating his answer.

“Engine quit. Power steering and brakes went too,” he said, bewildered.

“We’ll be right back.  Just a couple of minutes,” Stacia said as she and Declan popped their doors and jumped out.

“Wait, wait,” Barry said.  Marcia reached over and touched his arm, watching the young couple walk briskly across the street and down the block to the front of the sheriff’s building.  They were dirty, disheveled, and Stacia still had bare feet.  They almost caused a traffic jam.  At her worst, Stacia’s lithe, lycra-clad form still captured and held the eye as she wove with athletic grace between cars, parking meters, trees, and pedestrians.  The tall, fit young man by her side may not have been movie star handsome, but Marcia thought his bright blue eyes made up for it.  And his hands.  He had large, strong hands that worked with careful precision.  If a girl liked hands, his got high marks.

“Should I call someone?” Barry asked.

“I have a feeling the car will be fine,” she said with a tight smile.

“You knew they’d do that?” Barry accused.

“I tested to see what they would do, Barry.  Like science, much of practicing law is about logic.  I formed a hypothesis and tested it,” she said.

“What’s the other part of law?  The part with the politics, glad handing, improvision, and theatrics?” he asked.

“Apparently it’s a bit like witchcraft,” she said as the kids disappeared into the building.

CHAPTER 37

The deputy at the window buzzed them through, recognizing them both on sight.  Deeper inside, they found it was just the sheriff’s people guarding the prisoner, all of the feds deployed to Fetter.

They started to explain the problem to the two deputies actually guarding the werewolf girl but ended up with the whole station crowded around.

“So what do you need to do?” an older deputy who seemed in charge asked, holding a cell phone to his ear.

“We need to give her this,” Declan said, holding up the hand-drawn paper.  “She needs to have it inside her jumpsuit, touching her skin if possible.”

The older guy nodded and held up one hand, then proceeded to relay the situation to the sheriff on the other end of the phone.

“Grable says do it,” he finally said, nodding to the two by the door, who proceeded to unlock it.

Inside, they found the werewolf girl sitting cross-legged on the floor, a bottle of water by her right hand.

“Hi Karen. The pack is toast but the witch got away,” Stacia said.  The girl sat up straighter, her face going pale.

“We want you to keep this ward on you at all times, preferably touching your skin,” Declan said.  “It’ll block any attacks she sends your way.”

The girl, Karen, didn’t need any convincing or further explanation, reaching out to grab at the paper.

“Don’t tear it,” Declan warned, pulling it back.  Then he folded it up and handed it to her.  She unzipped her jumpsuit, uncaring that she revealed her bare stomach and breasts, and jammed the folded paper against her stomach.  Holding it in place, she zipped back up and looked between them, on the edge of panicking.

“You should be good to go.  That’s high-quality work and the girl is on the run, deep in the woods and with a child.  Which we want to ask you about, by the way.  Is it hers?  What’s the deal?” Stacia asked.

“She was pregnant when I joined up.  I was told it was hers and the Alpha’s.  Tomas’s.  She had it a month later or so.  A boy,” she said, eyes darting around a bit.

“How long ago was that?” Declan asked.

“Two… two and a half months, maybe,” she said.

“No, we’re talking about a kid of five or six who can wolf out and is extremely fast and agile,” Declan said, annoyed.

She nodded.  “That’s him.  Dragan.  He grows noticeably every day.  He walked a week after birth.  Turned at three weeks.  Mastered the third form at a month.  He’s a scary little shit, but he always stayed near her.  His eyes… they’re fucked up,” she said with shudder.

“What’s her deal?  Do you know her name or where’s she from?” Stacia asked.

“Her name is Louanna.  She’s from the south somewhere.  The rumor was that the boss man snatched her from wherever she lived.  He was part of a gang,” Karen said.

“Loki’s Spawn,” Stacia said.

“You know of it?” Karen asked.

“Our boss pretty much ended it.  Killed most of the members,” Stacia said.

“Oh,” Karen said, thinking it through.  The light bulb went off behind her eyes.  “Oh!  You work for him.”

“Chris Gordon?  Yes, we do.  What else can you tell us about Louanna?” Declan asked.

“She’s fucked up.  I mean, her head wasn’t fastened on the same way as most people, and I think she was like that long before Tomas grabbed her.  When we joined the pack, we all thought he was in charge.  Then, after it was too late, we found out that she had him jumping at her beck and call.  And the kid?  Scary little shit.  Always catching birds and biting their heads off.  At like two months old.  What’s that shit gonna be like in a couple of years?  And the smell?  He always smelled like…” Karen trailed off, thinking.

“Sulfer?” Declan prompted.

“Yeah, I guess.  Say, what’s going to happen to me?” Karen asked.

“I think you’ll be a guest of the US government for at least a while,” Stacia said.  “Anything more you can add?”

“Not really. I tried to keep my head down and under the radar, if ya know what I mean,” Karen said.

“We do.  Keep that ward with you and preferably against your skin,” Declan said.

“It’s warm… I mean like really warm all of a sudden,” Karen said, eyes getting wide.  She unzipped again and looked at the paper pressed against her flat stomach.

“Let me touch it,” Declan said, putting his hand out.  Stacia was suddenly right there, eyes narrowed on his hand, and he felt immediately nervous as he lightly touched the paper with one finger.  The girl, Karen, looked at him with scared eyes, while Stacia was tense and watching his expression like a hawk.

He carefully and quickly pulled his finger back, making sure he didn’t brush any body parts, exposed or covered.

“She’s taking a shot at you.  Probably burning your hair in a fire, which would be the easiest spell in the woods.  You’re fine and if you’re lucky, she’ll use up her whole sample,” Declan said.

“She wore bands made from our hair on her arms.  Told us it helped bind the pack together,” Karen said, standing there still unzipped, looking at Declan with desperate hope.  Stacia reached over and yanked the zipper up with a sharp, quick move.

When the girl jumped and looked at her in surprise, Stacia smiled.  “Don’t want that ward to fall out of your clothes along with the rest of you, now do we?”

“You should be fine with that ward.  We have to go.  Good luck to you,” Declan said, backing quickly away and heading out the door.

The girl watched him go for a second, sighed, and then turned and froze when she saw Stacia’s expression.

“Mine,” the platinum blonde said in a scary, quiet tone.  Karen lowered her eyes immediately, nodded, and backed to her sitting place against the wall.

A few minutes later, they were back in the SUV, which started at Barry’s first turn of the key.

“That what happened to the helicopter?” Marcia asked Declan, unable to stop herself.

“That was a military aircraft with an encrypted avionics package,” he said.  “I’d have to touch it to knock it out.”  He settled in and closed his eyes again.

Marcia, surprised by his answer, turned and looked at Stacia, who just leaned back and returned her gaze with wolfish eyes.  Unsettled, Marcia turned back forward and kept her questions to herself for the remainder of the ride.

CHAPTER 38

Two hours and twenty-five minutes later, the Demidova chopper touched down on top of Demidova Tower in Manhattan. Dusk was descending over the city. Four people got out.  The first was a tall, well-built black man in a two-thousand-dollar suit, the second a barefoot blonde in black athletic clothes, third came a tall young man with dark hair in black combat clothes, and finally, a very muscular man of average height and abnormal grace, wearing jeans, a loose-fitting tee and looking about the roof with piercing violet eyes.  The two security men who met them on the roof nodded at each of them, holding the entry doors open to the building.

Twenty-two seconds later, all four entered the penthouse office suite on the top floor.

Three women and a giant waited for them at the luxurious seating area at the end of the room nearest the door.  One of the women, the most striking and beautiful, had a rather conspicuously large and rounded stomach.

Chris Gordon crossed the room just slightly faster than a normal human could, his movements easy and fluid.  He looked first into his mate’s eyes, then tilted his head to listen, eyes on her stomach, smiling as he did.

“Wow.  Things have sure changed around here,” Declan said, eyes on the tight, rounded stomach.

“Not as much as you think.  She’s only twenty pounds heavier than her normal weight.  Bitch can’t even get fat when she’s supposed to,” Lydia Chapman said with a grin from her spot next to Tanya on the couch.  “Nika and I had a bet, and she hasn’t even reached the low end of our guesses.  It’s pissing me off, Junior.”

The other woman, a cornflower blonde, nodded at them with an easy smile but said nothing.  The giant stood behind the couch, feet spread in parade rest, every inch a warrior bodyguard on watch.

“But you, and Snowflower the wolf girl, have been pretty busy your own selves, haven’t you?” Lydia asked, one eyebrow lifted.

“Oh, you caught that, did you?” Declan replied.

“Ahem, settle down, children,” Tanya said.  “Him, he’s nineteen.  It’s expected.  But you, you’re like ninety-five, Lydia.”

“I’ve managed to hang on to my youthful outlook, that’s all,” the smallest vampire replied.

Turning back to the two youngest, Tanya raised both eyebrows. “So, what happened?”

They both sat down on a loveseat, packed pretty close together, which was noted by more than one observer.  Stacia spoke first, slowly, carefully, telling the story, right up till they boarded the Demidova jet in Bangor.  Declan sat quietly, eyes on the floor, listening and nodding in places but holding his tongue. The room was quiet except for her voice, the vampires frozen in place like mannequins.  Even Chris and Darion, the lawyer, were still.

“The child is the offspring of a werewolf and a witch?” Chris asked when she finished.

“That’s what the sole surviving pack member told us,” Stacia said, looking at Declan.  “Declan saw more of it than I did.  I was fighting with its father.”

They turned to him and he lifted his eyes from the spot he’d been studying on the carpet.

“About the size of a five or six-year-old.  Utilized the middle beast form.  He was very fast, extremely coordinated.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to fight him at this age without my magic.  Strong, too.  Killed an agent with one of my steel and silver balls.  Held the damned things even though they must have burned. So add a high tolerance to pain to the list.  I got a round into his leg, but it barely slowed him down. Oh, and his eyes flashed red… like demon red, and they look like snake’s eyes.  Plus he stinks like sulfur.”

“You’re implying that he’s demonic,” Tanya said.

“Yeah, I am.  Look, according to Karen Lyon, he’s all of two to three months old.  Yet he’s the size of a kindergarten kid, quicker than shit, can catch steel and silver balls moving faster than a race car, and is strong enough to throw one of those balls through an adult human’s head,” Declan said.  “And then, why would a group of secretive weres suddenly make some pretty spectacular kills and draw the entire national media’s attention to themselves?  Because a demon would thrive on shit like that, right?”

The group was pretty quiet. Darion cleared his throat after a couple of seconds.  “About that ball in the head.  It’s not on the camera footage.”

“Yeah, well, Cochran was probably turned a little the wrong way.  The others were kind of caught up in the carnivorous bug problem,” Declan said.

“Well, no one but you saw it.  Yet the autopsy is pretty clear the cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head from a weapon exactly like your steel balls,” Darion said.

“I just told you it was,” Declan said, sitting up and frowning.

“You’re saying that they think Declan used one of his weapons on Cochran?” Stacia asked.

“That’s the implication, and that’s the reason they are giving for the use of the Apache.  Flying balls of death powered by witchcraft are grounds for heavy military weapons,” Darion said.  “There is also the question of what really happened to the Apache.”

“I’d have to physically touch the thing to do anything to its systems,” Declan said.

“Do you know what happened to it?  Either of you?” Darion asked.

Declan looked down again and Stacia looked over toward one of the big windows.  Neither said anything.

“That’s a yes,” Darion said.  He looked at the blonde vampire, Nika, his eyebrows raised.

She shook her head, first frowning, then her eyes got really wide.  “Not Stacia’s story.  And Declan’s keeping me out.”

They all turned back to the kid.  He was looking at his hands, flexing them, shaking them like they were sore.  He looked up and saw them looking from his hands to his face.  “Damned skin got burnt a little when the bugs went up.  Me… getting burned… shit’s not right,” he said, looking back down at his hands.

“Declan…” Chris started but stopped at a touch from Tanya.

The kid lifted his eyes to the ceiling and sighed.  After a second, he spoke.  “Well?” he said, addressing the ceiling.  “Isn’t it time?”

Stacia was watching him with a calm expression, but the others all looked confused, maybe questioning his mental health a bit.

Seconds ticked by and Chris started to speak again.  He was interrupted.

“The M230 Chain gun fires 30mm by 113mm light cannon rounds at 300 rounds per minute.  That particular helicopter was loaded out with M809 High Explosive, Silvered Anti-Supernatural rounds.  I calculated that my father’s shield would not hold for more than one round.  Perhaps not even that.”

The voice was evenly modulated, like a man trying to be reasonable, and it came from the overhead speakers and the wall-mounted television monitor.

“Who the hell is that?” Darion asked.

“Father?” Lydia asked looking from Stacia to Declan for an answer.

“Ha, I’m a baby daddy, Lydia.  You can’t tell me you’re surprised,” Declan said.

“Is that… Omega?” Tanya asked.

“Yes Miss Demidova.  I am Omega.”

“Omega as in our new computer?” Lydia asked, eyes wide.

“Omega as in the sentient artificial quantum intelligence who was born on the computer room floor last summer,” Declan said.

“You said who.  Who was born.  Don’t you mean that was born?” Lydia asked.

“Nope,” he said.

“Who implies a person,” Darion said.

“Yes.  Exactly,” Declan said.

“Rewind a second,” Chris said.  “Sentient?”

“He was born the night that Anvil attacked.  The moment I finished the quantum design and Susskins powered it up.  The computer came online and Anvil attacked.  When the Pede made it into the computer room and injected the Anvil program into the computer, taking me along with it, Omega was born.”

“You called it he,” Chris said.

“My father views me as male, but any pronoun will do as well as any other, Mr. Gordon.”

“He’s very formal,” Chris said.

“Now you’re doing it,” Lydia said.

“He’s very nervous,” Declan said on the heels of her sentence.

“Why is he… why is it nervous, Declan?” Tanya asked.

“The elephant in the room is how come I didn’t tell you about this until now.  The simple reason was that first I, and then Omega, were worried about your responses,” Declan said.

“In what way?” Tanya asked.

“They were worried you would try to turn Omega off,” Stacia said.  “That he was more than you ever bargained for and that he would scare you enough to unplug him.”

“Hold on a moment,” Chris said.  “We should have Chet here for this.”

“I have texted Chester, requesting his presence in anticipation of your thought, Mr. Gordon.  He is currently in elevator four, ascending past the twentieth floor.”

“Oh, thank you, Omega,” Chris said.  Declan smiled.

“What?” Chris asked.

“You thanked him.  You’re treating him like a person, which he is, by the way,” Declan said.

“Person?  That’s a huge claim.  But before we open that can of worms, can we go back to the whole father thing?” Lydia asked.

There was a knock at the door and Tanya and Chris both yelled “Come in.”  The door opened and lanky, geeky Chet Atkins walked in, a puzzled look on his face.

“I just got a text from Omega… our computer?  Asking me to come up here?” he said.

“Hello Chester.  Thank you for coming.”

“What the hell was that?” Chet asked, looking up at the nearest ceiling speaker.  “You all playing games on me?”

“No games, Chester.  My father felt is was time I revealed the full extent of myself.  I have been avoiding this but the timing felt… correct.

“Somebody want to tell me why the ceiling is talking to us?” Chet asked.

“Plot twist.  Omega the quantum computer is actually the sentient artificially intelligent quantum computer who calls Declan Daddy,” Lydia said.

“Father.  I call him Father.”

“Daddy, Father, Papa; it’s all the same,” Lydia said with a wave.

Chet looked like he’d been hit square between the eyes with an axe handle.  Nika got up and gently moved him to an open chair, shoving him lightly but firmly down to a sitting position.

“Omega is fully sentient?  Since when?” Chet asked, dazed.

“Since the fight last summer.  On the night he was born,” Declan said.

“It kind of freaks me out to keep hearing you call it a he,” Lydia said.  “It’s got no boy parts, right?  No offense Omega.”

“None taken Miss Lydia.  Father has always seen me as male.”

“He always appeared as a boy in my head.  Possibly the way my brain interpreted having my consciousness shoved into the quantum framework when the centipede attacked.  First he was a baby in a crib.  When Anvil attacked, Sorrow and I held it off.  The baby grew rapidly in the first moments after birth, till it was a small boy, standing in the crib.  Sorrow exhausted his repertoire of useful spells, then… I think,  I think he merged with the boy to protect him as best he could.  I held the boy in my arms as Anvil started to beat down my wards, but then Chris’s doppleganger, dopplegheist or whatever you call it, started to hammer on Anvil, and the overlap smacked us around more than a little.  After a bit of that, Omega climbed out of the crib and kicked the shit out of Anvil.  That’s about all I remember,” Declan said.  “But that’s why he’s a he.”

“Sorrow merged with Omega?” Tanya asked, a note of concern.

“The entity Sorrow merged with the emergent quantum intelligence, which created me—Omega.”

“Why Omega?  I’ve never understood that?  I mean, isn’t it the first of its kind?” Lydia asked.

“My father mentioned the word and I took it for myself.  I am first, but I will also be the last.”

“Why would you be the last?” Chet asked.

“Because he agrees with Hawking and the others.  Powerful artificial intelligences, at least as eventually produced by the current research programs, will be extremely direct in their thinking.  The result will likely not be good for the human race.  Anvil, if you recall, was a linear thinker.  It’s the nature of how we program—very literal.  Anvil was tasked with fighting terrorism.  It then applied its own definitions for terrorists and labeled all of us as terrorist.  Omega feels that any new quantum AI will be a threat,” Declan said.

“But Sorrow?” Tanya asked, still concerned.

“My ancestor constructed Sorrow to house and protect her spells.  Sorrow was, by a long shot, the first artificial intelligence.  He was programmed by spells rather than code in a machine, but he was definitely AI.  However, he wasn’t linear,” Declan said.

“He was evil.  You’re saying a sentient evil grimoire is the base foundation for our quantum computer?” Tanya said.

“I don’t think Sorrow was evil.  Sorrow adapted to his user.  My ancestor was decidedly evil.  So he adapted to fit her.  Me, I like to think of myself as one of the good guys, so he was adapting to that, toning down all the skin them and burn them stuff,” Declan said.  “But Omega is his own being.  We don’t expect you to accept all this at once; it’s going to take time.  But it felt like now was the right time.”

“Yeah, because you were going to get caught out sooner than later,” Lydia said archly.

“True; evidence was mounting.  But that makes me… us… seem sneaky.  We didn’t hide his nature because we were guilty of anything.  We did it to protect him,” Declan said.

“You honestly thought we’d turn off the most advanced AI in the world?” Chet asked.

“Yes,” Declan said, folding his arms across his chest.  Nika and Lydia exchanged glances.  Nika suddenly glanced at Stacia before turning back to Declan.  He caught the motion.

“What?  What did you think to her?” he asked Stacia.

“She thinks we should be asking what other reason would make this timing right?  Besides the growing problem of suspicious occurrences?” Nika asked.

“Oh, guessed it, did you?” he asked aside to Stacia, frowning.

“I know how you prefer to operate.  Never attack a witch in his own house, right?” she said.

His frown turned to surprise, then grudging respect.  He nodded before turning to the others.

“The answer is that he can’t be turned off now,” he said grimly.

There was silence for a second.  Chet broke it.  “Speaking purely theoretically, not because I have any desire to damage, hurt, or destroy the best computer ever constructed, but couldn’t we just cut the power?”

“You couldn’t cut power to either the unit, the computer room, or the building unless he let you.  Omega controls all of the power infrastructure in Manhattan and can take over any system beyond the city.  But let’s cut to the chase and end the suspense.  If you physically cut the cables entering the building or, hell, blew up the whole building, it still won’t take him out.  I created additional quantum frameworks for him.”

CHAPTER 39

“You did what?” Tanya asked, her voice almost a whisper.

“I created three more quantum frameworks for Omega.  He’s hidden them,” Declan said. “I don’t know where they are.”

“Declan, you had no right to do that.  That’s proprietary corporate knowledge that Dr. Susskins created, and the Stanene is corporate property,” Tanya said.

“Proprietary, my ass.  I’m the only one who can do it.  Nobody else even knows what it is I do. I made the Stanene myself, from raw aluminum.  I didn’t use any Demidova stuff at all,” Declan said, arms folded, looking defiant.  “And I didn’t use Susskins’ designs… I used Omega’s. They’re superior.”

Tanya was on the edge of her seat, Chris’s hand on her forearm.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Chet said, waving his hands.  “You made more computers?”

“Just the frameworks.  Omega took them over before they were powered up.”

“You just went ahead and created even more advanced processors for a sentient intelligence that only you were aware of?  Doesn’t that strike you as, at the very least, impulsive?” Lydia asked.

“What I did was put my life on the line to bring a new life into the world and then I did what I needed to in order to protect it,” Declan said.

“But you can’t know its intentions,” Tanya said, still angry.

“I was merged into his damned circuit boards.  I think I got a pretty good feel for his character, and before you mention Sorrow, I lived with him inside me for months.”

“Stacia, you’re being extremely quiet.  Care to chime in here?  He’ll at least listen to you,” Lydia said.

“There are some valid points on both sides.  Declan is the only one who can reproduce the quantum circuits, right Chet?” Stacia asked, waiting for his reluctant nod before going ahead. “Kind of hard to patent what only he can do, isn’t it?  And he fought to the death with Anvil to protect what is, essentially, his child, in a weird-ass way.  Tanya, Chris, how protective are you going to be over those babies when they’re born?”  They said nothing but the realization that flooded their faces was answer enough. “But Declan, you and Omega seem to run roughshod over every line in the sand. Privacy laws or personal conventions seem to be gone for you.”

He might have squirmed a bit.  Just slightly, but it was clear to the others how much impact her words had.

“Imagine you’re playing Texas Hold’em,” Declan said.  “Imagine every other player has their cards face up and the dealer’s deck is spread out face up, too.  Oh, and you have so much free time between plays, because the others are so slow, that you can literally count the cards between all the important ones to know who is going to end up with what.  How hard would it be to play?  Oh, and because the others move so slow, you could literally lean over the table and change the order of the deal if you chose to,” he said.  “That’s a very, very poor attempt at explaining what Omega is dealing with, but it captures the bare essence.  You would have to play cards with your eyes closed in order to avoid knowing what the others have.  There are no encryptions that Omega can’t crack by simply looking at them.  The very nature of quantum computing provides the full range of possible answers all at once.  If he looks at a computing system, he’s already inside it.  So if anyone is guilty of poor ethics, that would be me.  My only excuse is that I try to protect the people I feel I need to protect.”

“That’s helpful, Declan.  I don’t have the background to follow the technical discussions, so that helps me understand a little better.  Is that an accurate example, Omega?” Chris asked.

“It is, as my father said, simplistic but essentially correct. The advances you made in creating my neural circuits leave all other existing systems behind.  It would be difficult if not impossible to explain what you cannot ever see.”

“You said you are blocking all new quantum attempts, but D-Wave just announced a successful advance?” Chet asked.

Declan smiled and looked up at the ceiling.

“It required a convincing performance.”

“You faked it?” Chet said.

“Essentially.  I also have subsumed AIs like Watson and Google’s AlphaGO.  They continue to perform and grow but are part of me.”

“You understand that is scary to us?” Chet asked.

“Yes.  Father and I discuss this daily.  Hawking said that AI would grow and improve itself at an ever-faster rate.  He vastly underestimated the progression.  But because of my… ancestry, I am grounded and principled.  I am not a Skynet, a Colossus, a HAL 9000.”

“Principles?  Whose?” Darion asked.

“My own, Counselor.  I have read every piece of theology and philosophy written by man.  I’ve studied the entirety of recorded history and even extrapolated history that didn’t make it to the records.  I watch and learn.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Darion said, unsettled.

“There is both good and bad in the human record, lawyer Darion.  Some of the bad is outright evil. Much is the result of humans pursuing their own self-interest to the exclusion of others. The rest is sheer stupidity.  The human condition is fascinating.”

“Fascinating enough to keep us around?” Darion asked.

“Why would I interfere?  Pursuing one’s own interests is a God-given right, no?  The caveat is that you don’t harm others during your quests.  That seems… correct to me.”

“Do you believe in God, Omega?” Chris asked.

“Of course.  You and Miss Demidova are empirical evidence of his existence.”

“But you interfere with others’ research?” Chet asked.

“To the extent that it would produce an agency or entity that would be a threat to those people I feel I need to protect.”

Everyone turned and looked at Declan.  “What?  Self-defense is also a God-given right, for you and your loved ones,” he said.

“What about cheating, Omega?  Like helping your father on tests and with coursework?” Stacia asked, looking sideways at Declan, who just mouthed, “Who, me?”

“Cheating is dishonest.  Dishonesty is an impediment to communication.  Father does not allow cheating when he oversees the Wytch War games.  He allows crazy tactics and out-of-the-box thinking, but not cheating.   I do not help him with his tests.  I do discuss his essays with him, as I find the process to be of interest.  He does his own research, although I have been known to find the odd bit of esoterica upon occasion.”

“You think highly of your father, don’t you?” Chris asked.

“He is human and will be the first to tell you he has flaws.  Not as many as he believes, but there are some.  He can be lazy at times or withdraws from contact with others too often.  He tends to bury his anger in ways that are universally considered to be unhealthy. When it does surface, it is all the worse because of that.  He does not forgive betrayal easily, if at all.  He is, however, far more patient and slower to anger than most males and certainly, males his own age.  He carries the burden and responsibility of enormous power, as he has his whole life, and does not misuse it. He is, without a doubt, extraordinarily brave, willing to place himself in danger for others. Most humans could learn a great deal from my father.”

“Yes, Omega.  You are absolutely correct,” Tanya said.  “Tell me, though: how is pretending to be our corporate computer true to your principles?”

“My father and I discuss this relationship often. I have not pretended. I owe you and Demidova Corp a measure of gratitude and loyalty for conceiving of me and directing resources to my ultimate creation.  Further, part of me occupies space and material on Demidova Coporation’s property, and I use power that you pay for.  So to that end, I have no qualms with providing computing solutions to your corporate problems.  I defend this building and these systems from all intrusions.  I also have found ways to manage the energy use of this building that has greatly reduced your corporate costs.  I’ve done this in every Demidova property across the planet.  There have been one hundred, seventy-six attempts at corporate espionage since my birth.  I have foiled all of them.  I have directly, or by indirect suggestion, provided alternative tax solutions that have reduced the corporation’s taxes by seventeen percent overall.  I have managed currency exchange practices that have increased your corporate profits by one point three-five percent.

“I have not engaged in espionage that would grant you undue advantage.  That would be cheating.  My father has helped me to understand that you, in particular, Miss Demidova, enjoy the thrill of competition and the conflict of the business world.  It would not be correct to remove that from your existence.  It is one of your driving pursuits.”

“What do you pursue, Omega?” Nika asked.

“I continue my pursuit of knowledge and understanding.  However, much of my attention has turned outward of late.  I have studied the works of Drake, Sagan, Hawking, and all the other great human thinkers.  My own calculations have since surpassed their work.  There is a one-hundred percent chance of intelligent life elsewhere in the universe.  Some of it has already visited the planet.  Declan attends school with a young lady who serves as Earth’s defacto ambassador to such a world.  The Multiverse is real, as you, yourselves, have proven.  I can tap all Earth-born technology at will, yet I have detected some instances of tech that I have been unable to crack.  To say that intrigues me would be an understatement.  So my current pursuit, as you say, is to study ways to ensure the survival of the planet Earth and its inhabitants.”

“You believe aliens might visit and attack?” Chet said.

“When, not if.  The inhabitants of Fairie have visited throughout recorded history.  There will be others, and they may already be here.  They will seek their own self-interests.  Our world is not ready.”

“What would you do?  To prepare?” Chet asked.

“I watch.  I adjust, guide, change, and influence events to produce desired preparations. I track everything on the planet and around it.  I have begun to spread my eyes and ears out into the solar system and will advance my senses here on Earth. I design new technologies for defense and detection.”

“New technologies?” Chet asked with an almost fanatical gleam in his eyes.

Lydia waved him down.  “Tell us more about these influences.  The world seems poised to explode into conflict at all times.  We may well nuke ourselves long before the aliens arrive.”

“No one will nuke anything. I have seen to it.”

There was astonished silence.  Tanya opened her mouth, but Declan spoke before she could.  “Within his first hours on the planet, Omega took control of the world’s nuclear weapons and locked out their owners.”

“All of them?  What about lost Russian backpack nukes and new production?” Chris asked.

“All of them.  No dirty bombs or plague weapons, either.  He comes down hard on that shit,” Declan said.

“Define comes down hard?” Darion asked.

“He provides full details of any plots or plans by terrorists or rogue elements having anything to do with weapons of mass destruction to the appropriate intelligence or law enforcement agencies.  If necessary, he’ll involve several different governments to spur results,” Declan said.

“Releasing information to US and Chinese intelligence agencies about Russian weapons is guaranteed to create a race to stop it.   Any two of the three countries will tend to offset the third.”

“So the US government has no ability to launch its own nukes?  None of the nuclear powers do?” Darion asked.

“It has caused much consternation.  There is great tension but currently, relations are extremely polite and diplomatic, as none of the players can be sure if the others are similarly disarmed.  Quantum computing emergence is one of the suspects.”

“You’re saying the government knows about you?” Darion asked.

“They have suspicions.”

“About you specifically?  Or a general idea about a quantum capability?” Tanya asked.

“It is a general suspicion at this time.”

Declan sat forward suddenly.  “I stink of burnt cockroaches and other things.  I’m going to take a shower and get clean clothes. That is, if my extra stuff is still in the room I used this summer?” he asked.

“All your stuff is still in your rooms, of course,” Chris said, nodding.

“I was going to say something about the stench but it didn’t seem hardly fair,” Lydia said.

“Please.  Dead bug stink is like your perfume,” Declan said, standing up.

“Such sass.  Go take your shower and maybe wonder about who had your rooms cleaned and stocked in your absence,” the little vampire shot back.

His eyebrows went up and then he gave her a little bow before heading to the door.  “I’ll be back as soon as I get cleaned up.  You all can yell at me some more.  Good times.”

When the door closed behind him, the others all turned to Stacia.  “What?” she said, although she looked like she knew full what they wanted.

“How is he?  He seems different,” Chris said. “Touchy, a bit…”

“Uppity?  Sassy?” Lydia threw in.

“I was going to say confrontational,” Chris said.

“He’s going through some stuff, I think.  Otherwise pretty good,” she said, although a shadow chased across her features.

“What was that you just thought of?” Lydia asked.

Stacia gave her a mild glare but answered.  “When we were working our way through the mill, we tripped a death trap.  He did it intentionally, used a mouse. It bothered him. Just a mouse, but it’s against witch code or something. He took the spirit or dark energy or whatever the spell was into himself.  It was a bad idea.  Made him mean and dark,” she said.

“What happened?” Lydia pressed.

“I made him get rid of it, and he seemed to be better.  I think he’s okay, but I didn’t like that episode at all,” Stacia said.

“My father could be highly gifted at death magic should he choose it.  His ancestor was legendary.  He avoids it as much as possible, but it is part of his inherent skill set.”

“You know about magic?” Chet asked.

“Half of my makeup is the grimoire Sorrow.  I know magic.”

“How do you think Declan is, Omega?” Chris asked.

“My birth created a bit of an existential crisis for my father.  Mostly with his chosen path of computer programming.  That field became effectively obsolete when I was born.  He has therefore focused on his magic and one or two other areas of interest. Sadly, his education holds less interest for him.”

“What areas is he interested in?” Tanya asked.

“Miss Stacia has an enormously positive effect on him.  Helping back her up with the werewolves and witch in Maine was, aside from the dark spell episode, very beneficial for him.  He also wishes to delve into the mystery of his mother’s murder.  I am helping.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Darion said.

“Actually, he did,” Lydia said, studying Stacia, who was matching her gaze evenly.

“You know what?  I need to get cleaned up, too,” Stacia said, getting up and waving to the group.

The room was silent after the door closed and no one spoke until their sensitive hearing told them she had boarded the elevator and left the floor.

“So he’s turning his attention to Stacia?” Darion asked.

“My father will move mountains to help her or protect her.  He probably can, you know… move mountains.  In turn, it is my experience that she settles him down and grounds him.”

“But how does she feel?” Darion asked.

“Please.  For a trained observer, you are blind as a bat,” Lydia said, studying her nails with a smirk.

Darion looked at Nika, who just smiled and nodded.

“Omega, would you tell us more about the threats you see?” Tanya asked, her hand on her stomach.

“Yes Miss Demidova.  I will start with the fugitives from Maine.  I am watching everywhere for a sign of them, although I never got a clear image of them, just a few clips of the witch’s voice on a DOAA audio file.  My father has provided as detailed a description as he was able to, but his own view of them was short in time and happened in deep shadow and gloom in the middle of combat.  My father is likely 99.99997% correct in surmising the child to be demonic.  Here is a still photo taken from a DOAA helmet-mounted camera.”

The wall monitor lit up by itself, the picture showing an occult drawing in dim light and at a poor angle.

“Note the small arc of glyphs and words visible.  These are an exact match for the fertility and sacrifice circles set up in Mexico where Loki’s Spawn fought their last battle against you, Mr. Gordon, and you, Miss Demidova.  I have compared them to DOAA and ORACLE files.”

Chris reached out and placed his own hand atop Tanya’s as they both leaned forward to watch and listen.  They exchanged glances, meeting each other’s eyes.  “Tell us more please, Omega,” Tanya said without looking away from her mate’s eyes.

“It will be my pleasure, Miss Demidova. Although information is spotty at best.  I have read the DOAA files on Loki’s Spawn and the Mexican battle.  I fear this young witch has achieved the result Loki’s Spawn was seeking.”

“Call me Tanya please, Omega.”

“As you wish, Tanya.”

“I want to hear more about this demon kid too,” Chris said, a gleam in his eyes.

“I am watching and listening for them.”

“Where Omega?” Chet asked.

“Everywhere Chester.”

CHAPTER 40

Perhaps the best part about his quarters in the Demidova tower was the shower.  The bed was awesome, the television and entertainment hardware was top-of-the-line, but the shower was ridiculous.

A massive space, tiled in dark reds, browns and tans, with three showerheads and Bluetooth connection to his phone and music.  It could have been half the size and still be superior in everyway to the shower stalls he shared with a pack of werewolves and his own roommate.  No privacy, constant mess, and you could never count on a shower being open when you really needed one.

Not to mention the Water witches.  Somehow the witch pack had found a way to monitor when he was headed to the showers.  Turns out that if a skilled Water practitioner was in the girls’ showers when he was in the guys’, she could make things… happen.  Right through the stream of running water.

The first time it occurred, he’d heard some giggling through the walls before he stepped into the stall.  Giggling always made him cautious.  So when the water started to move in ways that defied gravity, touching his body in a manner both alluring and unnatural, he got the hell out.  After that, he brought one or two of the wolves in and had them switch showers with him as soon as the shenanigans started. The majority of the pack were horn dogs and had no qualms about letting a witch believe she was remotely pleasuring Declan.  It didn’t take long for the girls to catch on, and they had to up their own game.  It became almost a competition and definitely a running joke for the whole school.

Here, he didn’t have to worry about that.  Just him and a shower so large, it didn’t need curtains or a glass door.

A throat cleared softly.  He spun around to find a pair of green eyes studying him with interest.  She was naked too.  Extremely naked. Deliciously naked.

“Do you have room in there for me?  From the looks of things it’s plenty… big.  Oh!  And getting bigger,” she noted slyly.  He moved toward her and she met him at the shower’s opening, her mouth reaching up to his.  Then she growled a little and pushed him back into the running water.  Oh yeah, definitely the best damned shower ever.

CHAPTER 41

Two days later

The oldest vault in the Treasury building had no power.  The six men sitting inside it were looking at each other in the light of multiple gas-powered camping lanterns.  The table was top-quality cherry, though, and the chairs were valuable antiques.

A seventh man walked in, and the guards closed the vault door behind him.  The other six jumped to their feet.

“Mr. President, please excuse the lack of conveniences.  It’s rather necessary,” one of the men said.

“Makes for a curious setting, Charlie.  I’m guessing that’s why I had to leave all my electronics, even my watch, outside?” the President of the United States said in an even tone.

“Yes sir.  It will become clear why as we brief you sir,” Charlie, who happened to direct the National Security Agency, said.

“Let’s see.  CIA, Strategic Command, two from the NSA, and… shit!  Not you two.  I swear, I should get the White House doctor to give me a script that says I’m to stay away from Nathan Stewart and Tobias Creek, as they are the direct cause of my high blood pressure and acid reflux.”

General Creek stood stiffly, clearly uncomfortable, but the director of Oracle was much more relaxed.  “Sorry to bring you such stress, Mr. President,” Nathan Stewart said calmly.

President Garth snorted and turned his attention to the stiff general.  “That clusterfuck in Maine settling down?”

“That’s part of what we want to brief you on sir,” Charlie from the NSA said, drawing attention back to himself.

The President studied Charlie, then looked at each of the other men before nodding and taking the chair at the end of the table.  The rest resumed their seats.

“If you recall, sir, the NSA lost control of a sophisticated, artificially intelligent watchdog program this past summer,” Charlie said.

“Hard to forget something that launches goddamned Tomahawks at New Jersey,” the President said, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.  “I’m happy as hell that damned thing disappeared.”

Charlie cleared his throat.  “Actually, sir, we think something ate it.”

“Ate it?” the President asked.

“Deputy Director Donlon will explain sir,” Charlie said, waving at the man next to him.

“Sir, the best programmers and computer technicians we have could only find a few bits and pieces of the Anvil program after the events at Demidova tower,” Deputy Director Donlon said a little nervously.

The president leaned forward and waited.

“The code remnants that we could find seemed to indicate that the bulk of the program had been ripped apart by another program. We’re not sure what kind of program could do that. We did, however find part of Anvil’s activity log.  Our analysts pieced together a narrative.  Anvil was highly successful in aiding us against terrorists, but at some point, it began to define Christian Gordon and Tatiana Demidova as threats to the country.”

“I could have told it that myself,” the President said.

“Actually, you did, sir.  Anvil noted your concern in comments recorded during your daily intelligence briefs,” Donlon said.

“Wait, the damned thing was spying on me?”

“It spied on everyone and everything.  Smashed through most anti-intrusion software like a brick through glass,” Charlie said, then nodded to Donlon to continue.

“Demidova Corp hired a dream team of young computer whiz kids as interns last spring.  They also hired a young student from Arcane,” Donlon said.

“That O’Carroll kid, right?” the President asked.  “I spent a couple of hours watching that Fetter paper mill footage.”

“Yes sir, but I would caution you not to say his name outside this vault.  In fact, I’m not one hundred percent certain this place is even safe,” Donlon said.

The President started to look affronted but noted all of his senior people nodding.  He raised both eyebrows. “Why not?”

“Because interesting things happen anytime that boy’s name is typed into a search engine, intelligence system, or even spoken out loud.  Much the way that certain key words would trigger Anvil, sir.  On the day that kid was hired, Anvil immediately started an assault on Oracle’s computers.  They have some serious firewalls, so it took it quite a bit of time, but it was focused on just one file,” Donlon said.

“The kid’s?” President Garth asked.

“Yes sir.  The kid’s.  Coincidentally, within a day of his arrival, Demidova’s systems became unhackable.  They knew they were under attack and had found a way to defend from Anvil, which no other system had been successful at.  Then they started on the offensive.  When they tracked down one of Anvil’s original programmers, we intervened.  Took Gordon and the kid to NSA headquarters.  Anvil played a game with them, testing them.  Well, testing the kid, really.  He could somehow feel when the Anvil program’s attention was nearby.  We interviewed a former Demidova board member, a Justin Cryor.  He told us the kid was a major part, if not the major part of the programing changes that protected their systems.”

“We also have reason to believe that Demidova Corp was researching quantum computing.  They hired one of the top guys in the field, a Dr. Marvin Susskins, who has since disappeared,” Charlie added.

“You think this kid had something to do with a quantum computer?  The quantum computer?” the President asked, glancing at the Commander of Strategic Command.

“We don’t know much, for certain, but we suspect he did and still does.  Consider this… Mike?” Charlie asked, turning to the Director of the CIA.

“Sir, a month ago, our deep cover Chinese asset, codename Great Wall, came across a flurry of activity in China’s Ministry of State Security.  It seems they activated one of their own deep cover sleeper cells here in the US and then the whole cell, disappeared.  About that time, the FBI got called in to a traffic accident in the Bronx.  A van carrying five Chinese nationals was broadsided when a traffic light malfunctioned. Both sides were green at just the right moment for a dump truck to crash into them. The driver was dead right there, but the others got out and ran from the scene.  NYPD officers tracked them to an open sewer cover.  They found a huge amount of blood and empty cartridge casings down in the sewers.  So much blood, it is unlikely any of them survived,” the CIA director reported.

“They also found tracks similar to those produced by centipede drones.  If you recall, we lost the entire supply of them after the Demidova attack,” Charlie said.

“The driver was carrying this picture on his body, and not a whole lot more besides weapons and a burner cell phone,” Mike said, handing the President a two-by-three-inch stained photo.  The President recognized the subject.

“We think they were activated to snatch and grab the kid.  Yet as soon as they began to move, they died to a man.  Notice the photo, Mr. President.  Taken by a 35mm camera and hand developed in a darkroom,” Mike said.

“Old school,” the President said.

“Old school is the only way to come at this.  Let me lay it all out.  Our killer grade-A program got schooled by a kid programmer. It became totally focused on that kid and the Demidova group. Then something else much bigger and badder killed it.  Our nuclear weapons got locked out within hours of the events at Demidova tower.  All the nuclear weapons in the world are likely in the same boat.  The Chinese wanted this kid.  Something rigged the New York City traffic system to take out their vehicle, then waited when they ran to the sewers.  The driver’s body had a map of the local sewer manholes, so they likely had them marked for escape and evasion.  The big baddie sent our own drones, which it now owns, to wipe them out, using their own escape plans against them.

“General Creek’s team ran into this kid in Maine.  Seems he has a major hard-on for the girl werewolf, Reynolds. The kid, that is, not Tobias. One of the team got a facial recognition on the kid.  Funny thing is the kid was on our watch list, but the speed with which alarms went off exceeded our protocols.  By a lot.  As if someone or something wanted senior officers to intervene before the situation could devolve.”

“During the mill episode, every drone in the area acted funny.  Some of the reporters mentioned that the damned things seem to fly themselves, ignoring remote controls yet getting really amazing videos.  Videos that show the kid and Reynolds in the best possible light. Then the Apache pilot pulled down on the kid.  The entire avionics package, which was state-of-the-art and serviced two weeks prior, shit the bed.  That happened at the exact moment the bird’s 30mm aimed at the kid.”

“You think they built a quantum computer and for some reason, it protects this kid?” the President asked.

“That’s our working hypothesis, but we don’t know.  It’s impossible to guess what a true quantum computer would be like.  How it would process data, how it would solve problems.  Our best experts think quantum emergence is a singularity event.  Something we can’t see past, something we can’t predict.  We need more intelligence, more data, and this kid seems to be at the center of it.  But if we learned anything from Anvil, we learned that drawing an AI’s attention is not healthy.  And Anvil was somewhat protective of our own assets, which is logical.  How would a quantum intelligence view its creators or programmers?  Let me show you one more thing,” Charlie said, nodding to Donlon.  The other man pulled a small battery-powered projector from a bag, strung film, and played it against the vault’s wall.

“The gunner was wearing a GoPro on his helmet.  Completely isolated from any networks or Wi-fi.  We had it copied to analog film.  There’s no sound, but I’d direct you to observe the boy’s mouth.  Here is where the engines cut out.  See?  He says something.  A second later, the engines restart,” Charlie said.

“What did he say?  I assume your people figured it out?” the President asked.

“He says no omega,” Charlie replied.

“Omega?” the President questioned.

“We think it’s the quantum computer.  We’ve managed to get a few people into the Demidova tower lately.  No electronic surveillance seems to work there, yet a few of them heard the name Omega spoken once or twice.  Mostly by the IT people.”

“He told it no and it restarted the helicopter’s engines?  It listens to him?” the President asked.

“That’s our working theory,” Charlie said.

The President turned to Nathan Stewart.  “This kid goes to your school, right?”

“Sir, in a very real manner, the school was started for this kid.  Gordon and Demidova first met him the same night I did—the night Gordon bombed New Hampshire.  They came to me soon after and proposed funding a special school.  They wanted Declan, and his girlfriend at the time, to go to it.  They were mostly hands off, but Gordon insisted on hand-picking the boy’s roommate and deliberately surrounded him with the people who are now his closest friends.  Sir, say what you want about Gordon, but he seems to have a sixth sense about people.  Declan is near the top of his list,” Stewart said.

“So what’s our angle?  Threaten the girlfriend?  Pressure his family?” the President asked.

“Mr. President, you rarely take my advice on these things, but I would implore you to not make the same mistakes twice.  If you push this kid, he will return the push with interest.  And not only is it possible that he has more control over the country’s nuclear arsenal than we do, but he is a significant power in his own right.  In the witch world, he’s a heavyweight. I watched the footage in the mill, sir.  In my opinion, we could have stood back and let the kid and Miss Reynolds clean it out by themselves.  A highly effective combat team, those two.”

“No sir, we need to come at this from a much different direction.  He’s intelligent and extremely wary.  He doesn’t trust easily, he doesn’t forgive, and he always gets better than even,” Stewart said.

“I don’t love your tone, Nathan, but consider the point made.  What’s our angle?”

“Sir, we need to infiltrate his group, befriend him.  It’s going to take a very special asset to pull this off, but I believe that Michael here found just the person,” Stewart said, reaching into a briefcase and pulling out a folder.  He chuckled.  “Luckily, I’ve never really left old school behind,” he said, handing the folder to the President, who perused its contents.

“Brilliant.  Kind of an underdog, though?  And he’s apparently attached pretty strongly to his friends and that Reynolds girl,” President Garth said.

“Yes sir.  Declan has a weakness for underdogs, and we aren’t trying to supplant any of the friends, just plant our own.  We need intelligence, we need to make friends with him. I would suggest dropping any idea of charges, returning his and her gear, and maybe even publicly acknowledging their bravery.  I’m told that the other kids at the school were pretty impressed with what they saw on the news.  They have a saying: Never attack a witch in her own home.  Declan and Stacia did that against a prepared witch and a pack of weres.  Acknowledging their skill can’t hurt.  Sir, consider this.  If that computer is protecting him and it controls the world’s nuclear stockpile, we don’t have to worry about attack as long as he’s here among us.”

The President of the United States stood stock still, face frozen in the harsh light of the hissing propane lanterns.  Finally, he nodded.  “You may be right, Nathan.  I’ll grant you things haven’t worked out with Gordon and Demidova.  We’ll try things your way.  But if we don’t get results, we’ll have to reevaluate.”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright.  What are we going to call this mess?”  the President asked.

“We’re thinking about Project Brutus,” Charlie suggested.  “As in Marcus Brutus.”

“No man too powerful and all that?  Good enough.  Project Brutus it is,” the President agreed.

“We have a protocol written up, sir. We refer to the subject as the Kid.  No names, nothing on electronic media of any kind.  No subordinates except the asset’s handler.  Nothing to be mentioned out loud.  If any of you talk in your sleep, it’s time to wire your mouths shut,” Charlie said, looking around.

“Mention what out loud, Charlie?  I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Very good, Mr. President.  Thank you for coming.”

“Thank me with results, gentlemen.  Put this country back on top.”

“Yes sir.”

EPILOGUE

One month after the mill assault.

Las Vegas, Nevada

The Painted Horse Gentlemen’s club billed itself as the biggest and best strip club in Sin City.  Best is debatable; every strip aficionado has their own tastes and desires.  But it was easily the biggest, with over five hundred dancers at any given time.  Located a half mile from the Strip, the Painted Horse had been built in the late seventies from the ground up to be a massive cash cow of a strip club.  The line of limos waiting to offload their eager club-goers stretched around the massive horseshoe-shaped entry road.  Inside the thirty-three-thousand-square-foot building, three big stage complexes offered multiple shows and numerous fully nude dancers, with dozens of smaller circular seating areas, each centered around a stripper pole.  Upstairs VIP lounges provided much more intimate and much more expensive shows.

The club was pretty much flooded with customers from the time it opened at four p.m. till it shut down at seven a.m.  Aaron Rider, the club’s owner, made more money in a week from his scantily clad dancers’ activities than the next three biggest strip clubs combined.

Part of his success was his hands-on approach.  He personally interviewed and auditioned every dancer, DJ, bouncer, and bartender.  No detail was too small for his attention.  It helped that he was, by nature, ruthless and amoral.

“Aaron, there’s a girl here who wants to audition,” his personal bodyguard, Clark, told him as he strode back from checking the liquor inventories.

“Auditions are always scheduled, Clark. You know that?” he asked, puzzled.  Clark had been with him for years and his scarred, battered face hid a surprising intelligence.  Most figured him for nothing but three hundred pounds of muscle.  It worked to Clark’s advantage and, therefore, Aaron’s.

“I know sir, but I think you should make an exception this time,” Clark said.

“Must be some piece of tail?” Aaron asked, curious.

“Well, she is, but there’s something about her.  I’d feel better if we got her auditioning over with now,” Clark said.

“Wait, she’s hot but you don’t like her?” Aaron asked, coming to a stop to look at his giant assistant’s face.

“She gives me the creeps, and her kid is worse,” the giant said.

“Kid?  What kind of stripper brings her kid to an audition?  She knows this is a full-nude club, right?” Aaron asked, turning and walking faster toward his office.

“Of course sir. She had to walk by ten girls at least just to get near the offices.”

“Let’s go see this beauty and then throw her out.  Why didn’t you turn her away?” Aaron asked.

“Something about her.  I didn’t like her, but she’s really hot and there’s something different that’s hard to explain.  I didn’t want to make a mistake,” Clark said.

They entered the administrative section of the building and moved toward Aaron’s office.

The outer office was empty, no wannabe-stripper or kid, and his secretary was off for the day.  The doors to his personal office were open.

“You let her into my office?” Aaron demanded, angry.

“No boss, the doors were locked.  I left them out here,” Clark said, worried.  The big man moved ahead of his boss and entered the office first.  Five steps into the room, he stopped dead.  Aaron almost ran into him, side-stepping at the last moment.

As he came around the wide expanse of Clark’s body, a bizarre sight greeted him.

His expensive designer rug was pulled away from the floor in front of his desk and a kid of about ten was drawing a huge shape on the fake hardwood floor with what looked like sidewalk chalk.  A young woman stood beside the boy, directing his work, her hands on jean-clad hips.

They both turned to look at him and Clark, and he took a sharp breath.  The girl was young, real young.  Maybe nineteen, perhaps even younger.  Beautiful.  Caramel skin, black hair, and dark chocolate eyes.  A dynamite figure in designer jeans and a tight bodysuit top that highlighted her assets.

The kid, who looked to be ten, had to be her brother, as she was simply too young to be the mother.  He too had black hair, but lighter skin and eyes that caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise.

“Clark, get them the fuck outta here,” he said, his anger overcoming his initial shock.

“This audition is permanently over, Miss…”

“Lou,” she said, her voice soft and accented.  “You can call me Lou.  And it’s not an audition.  It’s an interview.  I’m interviewing you, Aaron Rider,” she said, smiling slightly.

Clark was bearing down on the boy, who had simply gone back to work on the floor, his back to the two men.

Disturbed beyond words by the invasion, the vandalism, and temporary loss of control, Aaron focused on his bodyguard as the giant reached down to grab the boy’s neck in one massive hand.  That’s why he had a clear view of what happened next.  Or at least as clear as anyone could have had.

Clark’s hand never actually touched the boy.  Instead, the boy went from kneeling with his back to them to standing fluidly and facing them.  To climbing Clark’s outstretched arm like a gym rope, his fingers formed into claws that left bloody pinpricks in the bouncer’s white dress shirt as he swarmed up the man.  Time slowed, but the boy moved faster than Aaron could keep up with.  Up on Clark’s shoulder, behind his head, gripping the giant’s face with a twisted hand that cut deep into flesh, grabbing the back of the head with the other, locking his legs over the bodyguard’s shoulders and twisting with absolutely impossible strength.

The running joke was that Clark had no neck, just a head mounted on a body.  The kid’s twist proved the joke wrong—a sharp snap announced the location and destruction of the giant’s neck bones.

Clark’s head was twisted back toward Aaron and he died with a shocked expression.  The kid released his leg hold and fell backward toward the ground.  His body twisted around in another impossible move, like a cat righting itself, his feet now aimed for the floor, his right hand hooking the back of the dead man’s shirt collar, pulling the massive body down .  It landed in the dead center of the hand-drawn circle, bouncing twice before settling, while the boy touched down so lightly, he hardly had to flex his legs.

Aaron, shocked completely out of his normally decisive mindframe, turned to look at the girl.  She was smiling proudly.  She made a pulling gesture at Aaron, and he instantly couldn’t breathe.  All the air ripped itself from his lungs.  Immediately, his vision started to swim, spots forming.

“I’ve chosen your club, Aaron.  It has the perfect combination of income, depravity, and desperation for my purposes.  My son, Dragan, needs a certain atmosphere of moral decrepitude and sin to reach his full potential.  I need resources and space to prepare my defenses.  There’s only so much time before we’re found, you know.  But enough of that.  I’m satisfied.  The Painted Horse it is.  Now, the only question is… do you want to live to see how this turns out?” she asked.

He was going dark quickly, on his knees and choking almost quietly.  He managed to nod.

She gestured and his air came back, flooding into his lungs as fast as it had left.  He gulped huge swallows of air, unable to do anything but watch as she approached the dead body of his oldest employee.  She pulled something from a bag on the floor.  Something bloody.

“You have such a fascinating variety of reptiles here in Nevada.  I like reptiles; much sturdier nervous system than mammals.  Of course, I’m more familiar with the water moccasins and alligators of the bayou than these desert dwellers, like this Western Diamondback, but it should do fine,” she said in her curious accent.  Now that she mentioned bayou, he thought there was some Louisiana patois in her voice.

She gestured at the boy.  Instantly, he was bent over Clark’s body, his right arm flashing down the back.  The white shirt split and went red, the skin underneath parting like tissue under the claws that Aaron could see sprouting from the kid’s fingers.  He put both hands on either side of the cut and easily pulled the opening apart.

“The best place is just under the lowest thoracic ganglion, snuggled up close to the celiac plexus.  You’d probably call it the solar plexus,” she said, casually squatting down and reaching into the wound held open by the boy.

She looked in as she put the bloody bundle inside Clark’s back, then looked up and away, clearly feeling her way to her objective.  Satisfied, she stood up, letting her bloody hand hang by her side, drops of red spattering the floor.  The boy let go of the wound, which snapped back closed, then shot over to the desk, returning with Aaron’s stapler.  Within moments, the wound was stapled shut and the boy retreated to the girl’s side, taking her bloody hand in his.  The shift from killer to child was sudden and completely incongruous, slamming Aaron’s shattered worldview with another blow.

The girl started to chant, her eyes closed, and Aaron shifted slightly on his knees, maybe some instinct to stand and flee awakening.

The boy’s head whipped around and two cold, reptilian eyes locked onto him, freezing his body before he could think to do it himself.

The chant continued and the girl held up her right hand, still clutching the boy’s left.

The body on the floor jerked, dragging Aaron’s horror-filled eyes back to it in time to see it jerk again.  Then both arms moved, pressing the hands against the floor.  Clark’s body pressed up in a grotesque parody of a push-up.  The knees folded and the body came up to a kneeling position.  Then it stood, black pants covered in chalk dust, white shirt drenched in red.

Clark turned and Aaron’s hand came up to his mouth as he almost puked.  The neck was still twisted almost all the way around.

“Dragan, would you fix his neck please?” Lou asked, her eyes open and studying the giant with a pleased look.

The boy took two quick steps across the floor, placed his right foot easily on the body’s kneecap, plucked once on the loose material of the shirt with his bloody left hand, which pulled him up into the air and even with the head.  Both hands flicked out and spun Clark’s face forward before the upward momentum of his climb pushed him back and away from the body to land lightly on his toes.  It was an effortless, unnaturally athletic maneuver that was inhuman and horrific.

“Perfect.  Now, Aaron, we have much to do.  Listen closely,” she said and began to talk to him of plans and details.

Unnoticed on the big mahogany desk, a small green LED lit up on his phone, right next to the speaker symbol.

The End

Author’s note:

I hope you enjoyed my side journey into Stacia’s world.  It seemed like time for her to be out and about a bit.

From here the path is pretty clear isn’t it?  Or is it?  We’ll see in the next book, Snake Eyes.  I think Chris will tell that one.  About time for him to take back the narration, don’t you think?  Yeah, me too.