Moon Stalked

by Aimee Easterling

  Slim kept ranting, but I’d already turned away. Grabbing change off the dresser, I left our prisoner in Bastion’s capable hands and pounded down the steps I’d recently padded up. Two quarters in the dispenser later, I had the local news at my fingertips.

  There, on the front page, was Jimmy’s mugshot. “Local man found dead,” I read aloud, not looking where I was going as I returned more slowly to our motel room.

  The news was old, dating back to two nights prior...shortly after Jimmy and I had tussled and he’d slipped through Slim’s fingers. Jimmy had died of blunt trauma to the back of his head, his body then dumped at the end of a long driveway. The family who owned the house was out of town on vacation, so it had taken nearly twenty-four hours before a deliveryman made the trek and found a corpse on their perfectly manicured lawn.

  Obviously, I hadn’t killed good old Jimmy. But something cold radiated out of my belly anyway.

  Was it a coincidence that two people had touched my pelt over the course of twenty-four hours and both had ended up dead in short order? A coincidence that I’d felt pain in the relevant portions of my own anatomy the moment each person was killed?

  Was it just random chance that someone was using Bastion’s pelt at the same time and in the same town where deaths were cropping up with woelfin overtones? Somehow, I suspected it was not.

  Slim was hunting a murderer. I was hunting a thief. And my gut told me those two people were one and the same.

  Chapter 10

  “You’re really Fliesbynight?” Slim craned his neck to speak to Bastion over one shoulder as we sliced through his zip tie.

  My cousin shrugged, handing back the older man’s gun. “I prefer Bastion in the real world.”

  For once, his internet celebrity was working in our favor. Without it, I wouldn’t have dreamed of releasing someone who’d just accused me of murder.

  But the two had interacted extensively on the forum. Bastion vouched for Slim’s sanity. And, for his part, Slim seemed willing to at least listen to my proposed deal.

  Not just because of Bastion either. Slim was one of those bounty hunters working solo. His partner had retired. He hadn’t trained anyone worth working with. Most gigs were two-person jobs, so the contracts he landed were measly and few.

  Bastion and I were at the opposite end of the success spectrum. Thanks to my cousin’s gift with words, tales of our exploits had become a staple on the Bounty Hunter’s Forum. We were offered so many gigs we could pick and choose.

  And that’s what I dangled in front of Slim. Bastion would write up a story like the ones that had made us famous, but with Slim as the protagonist. The act might just turbocharge the middle-aged man’s career.

  In exchange—“I need twenty-four hours.” I tried to look damsel-in-distressy, wincing when a lash rolled under and got caught against an eye already irritated from the contacts I’d ditched halfway through the previous evening.

  Okay, that wasn’t working. Instead, I backpedaled, rationalizing the necessity of a buffer period. “Give me one day to figure out what’s going on. To find Jimmy English’s killer.”

  “And if I get arrested in the meantime?” Slim was starstruck by Bastion’s offer, but he was still a businessman.

  “Then you’ll have a confession letter on hand for insurance.” I, rather than Bastion, was the one who put pen to paper to make good on this promise. Writing to Slim as if he were a confidant, I apologized for hoodwinking him, for letting him think Jimmy had escaped while I hung back, for dragging the bond jumper into my car and pushing him out....

  I looked up from my foray into fiction. “Where did Jimmy die?”

  “Hold on.” Justice had been poring over the newspaper while Slim and I negotiated. Now, his nostrils flared as he found the answer. “He was found two blocks over from the Smythewhite residence.”

  Our gazes met and locked. Just as I’d suspected, both deaths tied together not only through me but also through Bastion’s stolen pelt....

  This wasn’t the time to scratch that investigative itch however. Instead, I finished my story. Told how Jimmy’s head had struck the pavement. How I left him there to bleed out alone.

  “Envelope?” I barely had to ask before Bastion was handing over more paper products. My favorite cousin had pen pals all across the country who exchanged old-fashioned missives. He said the tangible approach made them feel more connected. Whatever the reason, I was glad that I didn’t have to hunt down a post office to come up with a stamp.

  “There’s a mailbox on the corner,” I told Slim. “We’ll walk there together. Drop this in. You’ll get it tomorrow. So the worst you’d have to deal with is one night in jail.”

  And the worst I’d have to deal with would be begging my sister to sweet-talk the mailman so we could regain the letter. No wonder Slim eyed me distrustfully.

  Except the flaw he brought up wasn’t the most relevant one. “Why,” he asked, “would a murderer write a letter like that to me?”

  “Because she thinks you’re hot.” Grace’s gaze poured across him like sunshine in winter. His chest puffed back out, but for an entirely different reason this time.

  Her task complete, my twin twitched her fingers in a come-hither gesture, not for Slim but for my benefit. Obediently, I handed the envelope over...

  ...And Grace turned it into a love letter. Puckered up her lips and kissed the back to create a heart-shaped lipstick stain.

  “Now are you convinced?” I eyed Slim, trying to decide whether he’d run to the closest police station the moment we released him.

  “Twenty-four hours,” he answered.

  Not 100% convinced then.

  Still, I’d take whatever I could get.

  OF COURSE, SLEUTHING around Jimmy English’s death was secondary to stealing back Bastion’s pelt. My cousin’s abrupt return to health coupled with Mrs. Smythewhite’s supposed connection to our mother was an unmissable opportunity. Could we perhaps parlay that into an invitation, allowing Bastion to take an unchaperoned turn through their fortress of a house?

  To that end, Grace gussied us up as rapidly as possible, then we piled in the car to head for the Smythewhite residence. Unfortunately, we didn’t make it even halfway there before Bastion’s face turned blotchy and sallow. “I need to....”

  Justice barely managed to pull the car over before his ailing twin was retching in the storm gutter. Grace held his shoulders. Justice and I exchanged a glance consisting of equal parts misery and frustration.

  “It’s time,” I said quietly, bringing back up the option I’d presented to the group—and that had been roundly rejected—a few minutes earlier. The Smythewhite mansion had proven impenetrable when I tried to break in two nights earlier, and it had been too full of strangers to search properly during the benefit party last night. With Bastion declining again and unable to pinpoint his pelt the easy way, we needed to send in someone who could spend serious time tearing the Smythewhite residence apart.

  The obvious person was me. And a want ad in the back of the newspaper had suggested a long-term way to insinuate myself into the Smythewhite family.

  Justice, unfortunately, was adamantly opposed to the notion of denning with murderers and thieves. “You think that’s wise? You don’t think that’s just asking to have your wolfsfell stolen also?”

  “Four days, Justice. It’s been four days since this started.”

  Four out of seven. Eighty-odd hours of Bastion’s life remaining.

  Neither of us missed the fact that I hadn’t answered his question. What I planned wasn’t wise. But Bastion had so little time remaining....

  No wonder Justice ceded my point even though his fingers whitened as they reopened the door and helped his twin back inside the vehicle. “Straight there?”

  “No. We’ll swing by the motel first. These clothes were great for visiting, but they won’t work for a job interview.”

  I glanced in the rear-view mirror, fully expecting a snarky response from my twin. After all,
my wardrobe never lived up to her standards.

  But Grace was instead bowing down over the fetal form of Bastion. Her fingers ran through his curls like a wolf tongue licking her pup back to health.

  I winced. He looked even worse now. His brow was sweaty. His whole body was shaking.

  “Take my pelt.” I started to hand it over, but Grace raised a finger to her lips to silence me.

  Justice translated. “Save it. We might need the boost to get him up the stairs at the motel.”

  I hated this. Hated being unable to fix my cousin. Hated being on the outside looking in on a family that neither wanted nor needed my help.

  Hated what I saw ten minutes later when we slowed at the approach to the motel parking lot. Luggage—our luggage—squatting on the concrete walkway that joined all of the second-story rooms together. Who had been inside our rented den and why had they left our possessions sitting out in the sun to be stolen...?

  “Keep driving.” My order was louder than it should have been. Bastion groaned. I could feel my twin dishing out the evil eye behind me.

  But Justice obeyed. Whipped the car into an alley just as I caught sight of a familiar face behind the wheel of a vehicle heading in the opposite direction.

  What was Luke doing cruising past our motel? Had he been responsible for our eviction? Or was he hunting the “werewolf” who’d fled from him during last night’s thunderstorm?

  Not that it mattered. Whether our eviction was due to Luke’s string-pulling, to Slim changing his mind about calling the cops, or to an overdrawn credit card, we were now homeless. We couldn’t risk gathering our gear when anyone might be waiting for us in that parking lot.

  Which meant I’d be heading to a job interview dressed like an heiress. And there wouldn’t be an opportunity later for my wolf energy to perk up Bastion’s ailing strength.

  This time when I handed my pelt back to Grace, she didn’t protest. This time, she merely wrapped up our dying cousin in my recently shed skin.

  Chapter 11

  “I told you to get the ad in this morning’s paper no matter what that required.” The floor trembled with the depth of Mr. Smythewhite’s anger. “If they had to reprint the entire edition, I was willing to cover the cost. What’s the holdup?”

  I halted outside the door to his study. I’d been pointed in this direction when I entered the residence, but I wasn’t about to butt in on a conversation that had clipboard lady rocking back on her heels. Instead, I let the pair argue while I swayed in the hall outside the study, struggling to regain my strength.

  “I understand, Mr. Smythewhite.” Clipboard lady’s back was ramrod straight and tendons stood out on either side of her neck. But her voice remained low and well modulated. “We paid the newspaper well and your piece did indeed appear in the classified section....”

  “Classified.” A fist pounded against the same desk I’d rifled through twelve hours earlier. Glass rattled. Papers fluttered to the floor. “My son’s need for protection is news not a want ad....”

  “We placed a full-page request,” clipboard lady interjected. “But it takes time....”

  “And the temp agency?”

  “It takes time,” clipboard lady repeated. “I’ll follow up with....”

  Which is when I lost the thread of their conversation. Because something told me I was no longer alone in the hallway. Something hot and cold running up my spine.

  I turned, knowing who I’d find behind me. Eyebrows raised, he looked me over.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  I nodded once. “Applying for a job, Luke?”

  “Somebody’s got to ward off those zombie giraffes.”

  LUKE WAS HERE TO WIN the same job I needed...and yet there was a strange sort of comfort in seeing him again. “You might as well go home. I’ll be the one herding undead zoo animals,” I started, only to be interrupted by a syrupy voice from further down the hall.

  “Sweetie, look! We have applicants.”

  Mrs. Smythewhite had crept up behind us while Luke and I were trading barbed comments. She of the many furs in storage and the fictional relationship with my dead mother. The lady of the house would be a major force in deciding who landed the guard position. I pasted on a smile that made Luke chuckle.

  “Constipated?” he murmured just low enough so only I could hear him.

  “At least I don’t have a stick up my....”

  “Come on in.” Mrs. Smythewhite’s smile glossed over me and latched onto Luke. No wonder when he was as perfectly turned out as he’d been the previous evening. He stalked into the study as graceful as a dancer. I somehow managed to trip over the rug.

  “Careful.”

  I could have sworn Luke was looking the other way one moment earlier. But his hand was on my arm before I managed to face plant. His body shielded mine, guided me upright. In reaction, I shivered, as much from his touch as from the aftermath of giving Bastion my strength.

  “Your eyes look different.” Luke’s brows lowered. Crinkled together. “What’s wrong?”

  We were opponents, and yet he was concerned for me. I shook my head, more to tell him now wasn’t the time than to deny my obvious weakness and the fact I was wearing colored contacts. “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.” The expletive, for some reason, made me giggle. It was just so wrong coming out of Luke’s perfect lips.

  “Do you want to share your amusement with the rest of the room?” Clipboard lady pressed between us. She clearly recognized us from last night, and like anyone possessing a grain of salt to stir into her oatmeal, our appearance here this morning was making her suspicious.

  Luke’s huge donation still hung heavy on her memory, however. Which meant Clipboard lady’s razor-blade gaze skimmed over him and cut into me.

  Well, two could play at that game. Ignoring the woman, who was obviously an underling, I gathered my shredded dignity and strode straight for Mr. Smythewhite. If I couldn’t win over the women, I’d go straight for the decider.

  “Honor Warren,” I introduced myself, thrusting a hand across the desk toward him. “I’m here to keep your son safe.”

  WHEN FACED WITH A POTENTIAL handshake, businessmen have no alternative other than reciprocation. And Mr. Smythewhite was definitely a businessman. He rose, took my hand, displayed the precisely appropriate level of strength.

  “Please tell me about my duties,” I continued, giving him no chance to remember Luke’s presence.

  I expected my opponent to take offense at my underhanded tactics. But Luke was busy selecting the best seat where he could face both Mr. and Mrs. Smythewhite equally. Tweaking the crease straight in his trousers, he leaned back and crossed his legs.

  “Yes, please tell us all about Clarence.” Luke’s request was aimed at Mrs. Smythewhite. His use of the boy’s name was carefully calculated to soften the maternal heart.

  And it worked, darn him. Mrs. Smythewhite leaned forward, cutting me out of the conversation as she launched into a long refrain that could have been summed up in two sentences.

  Clarence had leukemia. His parents intended to hire someone to double as his tutor and his keeper.

  So that blood on the floor hadn’t been the result of a run-of-the-mill nosebleed. For a moment, I was lost in honest concern.

  To be so sick so young was heart-rending. Still...Clarence had months of treatment ahead of him ending in a slim chance of survival. Bastion had only three and a half days left with no resolution other than regaining his pelt or succumbing to inevitable death.

  In other words, I needed to ace this job interview. So I interjected myself into what had turned into a two-way conversation between Luke and Mrs. Smythewhite. “You’re concerned because of the murder at last night’s party.”

  “No.” Mr. Smythewhite had let his wife lead the interview until now, retreating behind his desk and flipping through an endless pile of papers. I got the distinct impression he’d been browbeaten into hiring a bodyguard for Clarence. That he and his wife weren
’t on the same page when it came to the matter, despite his earlier bluster about the newspaper ad.

  “No?” I cocked my head, offering sympathy in the softness of my shoulders. Luke had already wrapped Mrs. Smythewhite around his finger. If I wanted this job—and I needed it more than wanted it—then the husband was my only in.

  “That was an unfortunate accident.”

  I disagreed, but I nodded anyway. “And Clarence...?”

  “Is dying.” Mr. Smythewhite’s abrupt words slapped us all equally. “I don’t want him to collapse in public. Your job will be to keep him occupied at home.”

  Chapter 12

  “He isn’t dying, Richard.”

  “You, my dear, are in denial.”

  “He’s been better lately. He won’t heal if you don’t believe in him.”

  “He won’t heal if the cancer eats him from the inside out.”

  The marital conflict exploded around us. Clipboard lady slunk out the door, murmuring something about cleaners needing supervision. Which left me and Luke, knee-to-knee, staring into each other’s eyes.

  After a long moment of silence, he skipped past previously shelved topics and stated the obvious. “They’re only going to hire one of us.”

  He was right. And that someone was going to be me.

  To that end, I filled my mental eye with the image of Bastion as he’d been this morning. Full of enthusiasm. Vibrant. Alive.

  “The job is mine.”

  I tried to stare Luke down, but he just shook his head. “You’re not here for a job. You need a ‘physical item.’”

  His air quotes were wince worthy. But, I nodded anyway. There was no point in denying it. “And...?”

  “And I intend to be here for Clarence.”

  Again, something about him softened and sharpened at the same moment. This was Luke’s weakness.