Blood Recall

by Connie Suttle

  "How did he die?" I asked, trying not to distract Winkler.

  "Looks like another werewolf. Boss wants you to go sniff around the scene. We can go to the bank afterward."

  "All right," I agreed. "Has he eaten anything?"

  "Earlier."

  "Good. We don't need a starving, angry wolf on our hands."

  "You got that right."

  "Come on, boss. No sense putting this off. Let's get in the truck and drive," Trajan said.

  "Fine." Winkler strode toward the door like he was ready to hunt. I didn't blame him—I suspected that the theft and this murder were connected, and I needed to get to the bottom of it fast.

  It takes at least three hours to get to Austin, especially when you're driving at excessive speed and get pulled over by the Texas Highway Patrol as a result.

  "I am not getting you out of this ticket with compulsion," I reached into the front seat and poked Winkler in the ribs. "If you'd only gone five miles over the limit, he'd probably let you go. Twenty is a bit much. You're not totally indestructible, you know. If you wanted to get there faster, maybe the jet would have been a better idea."

  "Your license and insurance verification, Mr. Winkler," the THP trooper was back, handing documents through the open driver's side window. "I understand a friend died, but you need to arrive in one piece." The trooper handed the ticket book to Winkler for his signature. "Slow it down, okay?" He tore off the ticket and handed it to Winkler while Winkler fumed silently.

  "Jet's being worked on," Trajan mumbled from the passenger seat. "Can't fly for another day or two."

  "Oh. I get the driving thing, now."

  "Shut up, both of you," Winkler growled before putting the SUV in gear and pulling onto the road during a brief lull in busy, I-35 traffic.

  "This is where we found him," Elliott Barnard's ranch foreman, also a werewolf, indicated the bloody patch of grass near a barbed-wire fence on Barnard Ranch's eastern edge. Tire tracks were nearby—from the police investigation and whomever had committed the crime, I assumed.

  With only a near-full moon hanging overhead to light the scene, Winkler and Trajan were busy sniffing, while I studied everything the crime scene had to offer.

  "Two werewolves," Trajan growled as I opened my mouth to say the same thing. "And a vamp," he growled louder, also before I could say it.

  What Trajan didn't know, however, was who that particular vampire was. I'd scented him at least twice before.

  "Ivan Baikov," I strode to Winkler's side and linked my fingers with his absently. "A really old, really Russian vampire. He didn't do the killing, but he was here."

  Winkler's fingers tightened on mine as he turned dark eyes to me. A deep frown marred his features—no, he wasn't upset at the unexpected physical contact—he liked that part. What he was upset about was a vamp being here to backup two werewolf murderers.

  "Know anything about the wolves?" he asked softly.

  "No, honey. I've never scented them before, but I'll know 'em if I smell 'em again."

  "Good. I'm counting on it."

  "Tire tracks lead to the county road through that gate, over there," the foreman pointed out. "We've already sent trackers, but there's nothing to track once they pulled onto that road. It's just another truck mixed with hundreds of others."

  "No description of the truck?" Trajan asked.

  "Nothing. We didn't find Elliott until he didn't come home—he liked to roam the property alone, sometimes. We never worried about it, either, until now. Nobody's going out alone from now on."

  "I need to make some calls," Winkler rumbled before pulling me toward his SUV. Trajan followed, after thanking the foreman and telling him we'd be in touch.

  Winkler didn't say who he intended to call, but Tony's department was probably on that list.

  "Call Bill Jennings," I whispered when Winkler opened the back door and waited for me to get comfortable before buckling me in.

  "I'll call Bill," he growled. "I heard Hancock is out of the country, anyway." He shut my door before climbing into the passenger seat—I was glad he'd decided to let Trajan drive us to the bank.

  Trajan ended up parking the SUV two blocks from the bank, so nobody would be suspicious. He'd wait in the truck while I misted Winkler into the vault where his safe deposit box was located.

  I gathered Winkler into my mist and we were on our way to the bank, zooming invisibly through doors and past security cameras and alarm systems, until we flew straight through the vault door.

  Three vampires were here, I informed Winkler as I stuffed both of us as mist inside his safe deposit box. I could feel his agitation—he couldn't answer me in the here and now, but I read his emotions easily. I don't recognize any of them, I added, before pulling out of the cramped space and hauling him out of the bank.

  Cameras were recording everything in that vault, and I sure as hell didn't want to appear on anybody's digital recordings.

  "What the hell?" Winkler growled aloud the moment he materialized on the SUV's front passenger seat.

  "Three vamps. I don't know 'em. There are cameras recording everything in there, fur butt," I snapped the moment I materialized in the back seat.

  "Fuck." Winkler buried his face in his hands. "Is there any way you can contact the ah, Council, to find out if they know of any visiting vamps in the area?"

  "I'm not going to do anything of the sort. Send a message to Wlodek through Charles. Tell them about your friend being murdered, and explain that a vampire was on the scene. If these two things aren't connected, I'll drink wheat-grass juice instead of blood."

  "Fine. What about doing an investigation on our own?" he demanded, dropping his hands. "If I talk to the Council, they'll send somebody if they don't have information."

  "Now you're thinking," I said. "Let me handle this for now—at least the vamp part, while you concentrate on the wolf part of it. Together, we should be able to come up with something, if somebody doesn't start making demands soon."

  "You think I'm about to be blackmailed?"

  "I think it's a good possibility."

  "Damn."

  DFW Airport, Dallas, Texas

  Ilya Kuznetsov

  Baikov's vampir is out of the country—B. I read the text message as I walked through the airport toward baggage claim.

  Bespalov never spelled out his name, and only used the most secure channels to communicate with me. He held an office in the government, and kept me apprised on a great many things, including the decisions made at high levels concerning the intended annexation of Ukraine.

  "Hmmph." I pocketed my phone and stepped onto the escalator leading to the train that would shuttle me to the baggage area. Baikov's vampir—a member of the Klyki. That one was also named Baikov. I imagined that this fanged one had a distant, familial connection to the current General Baikov somewhere, but the human one was bad enough. He was the type to slice your throat open and laugh while you struggled to breathe or scream.

  I'd never had contact with the vampir version. Who knew which might be worse? In most cases, the Klyki didn't work with their human counterparts; too many things could go wrong. I was thankful for that small piece of wisdom—it kept them from killing me and vice-versa.

  Vampires could die in the sun—werewolves could die if shot enough times from close range. I didn't care which would be required; I was prepared to do it—even if it meant my death afterward.

  Half an hour later, I left the airport in a rental car and drove toward a local post office. I'd asked an undercover associate at the Russian Embassy to mail two rifles to me and I needed to pick them up. The handguns he sent would arrive at my newly-rented condo the following day, through a different carrier service. "I love the U.S. and their fascination with guns," I said softly, turning a corner when the light flashed green. Being able to mail them through one carrier or another made my life so much easier. Ammunition would arrive by a third carrier, sent by the same associate.

  After retrieving my package at the pos
t office, I'd spend the rest of the day researching William Winkler and his business, Winkler Security. He was the target for the Klyki, unless I was very much mistaken.

  Lissa

  "Yes, I can cook, what do you want?" I asked as Winkler and Trajan followed me into my current home away from home.

  "Chicken and dumplings?" Trajan pleaded.

  "It's a good thing I bought a rotisserie chicken, or I'd have to say no," I said. "This way, the chicken is already cooked and all I have to do is throw it in the pot—after pulling the chicken off the bone."

  "All right," Trajan grinned. I turned on the kitchen light and went straight to the huge, state-of-the-art fridge while Winkler helped himself to the wine and beer fridge under the counter. Who knew there was anything in there? My Larentii were much better than I was at this sort of thing.

  He and Trajan went through a six-pack of Dos Equis while I cooked chicken and dumplings. Winkler offered me a beer. I offered him an appendectomy. We both declined.

  They tore into the food the moment it was cool enough to eat, and ate the entire pot of chicken and dumplings I'd made.

  "Kellee insulted the cook, and now we're having to make do by either ordering out, eating out or conscripting anybody in the house who knows how to cook," Trajan explained when he finished his last bowl and sat back, rubbing his stomach.

  "No surprise," I shook my head and started cleaning the kitchen. Kellee, what I remembered of her, anyway, was a bitch with a capital B. Thank goodness her kids turned out okay, but she hadn't raised them. Winkler did. "What's on the agenda for tomorrow?" I asked Winkler.

  "Elliott's funeral is in three days—two days after the full moon, actually, so there are arrangements to be made to take care of his widow. Elliott was the Packmaster for the Austin Pack, so there are complications. Debra doesn't want to stay in Austin after somebody else takes over; she wants to go to her brother's in Abilene."

  "In other words, she doesn't want anything to do with the Second in the Austin Pack?" I asked as sweetly as I could.

  "Well, uh, that may be an understatement, and Weldon may have to get involved. She's done her duty and had three kids rather than the required two, so I figure she can do whatever she wants—if she can manage to get out of town without Mick coercing her to stay."

  "I take it he's not mated?" I frowned at Winkler. I'd forgotten how much I hated werewolf politics.

  "Never has been," Trajan explained. "He's not the best, oh, how to put this—husband material."

  "In other words, he's a misogynistic asshole, you mean?"

  "Well, as Elliott's Second, he's the new Packmaster of the Austin Pack by default, and Weldon wants the transition to go smoothly," Winkler coughed into his hand.

  "I am not protecting some asshole from a challenge," I snapped. "Been there, got the T-shirt. So done with that."

  "There may be like, uh, three challengers," Trajan sounded uncomfortable.

  "Who's the best choice?" My hands were now on my hips while I stared down two werewolves who were nearly comatose from eating a huge pot of chicken and dumplings.

  "The youngest, but he may not be able to take on Mick, and then the other two. That's three fights in a row, and it won't be easy."

  "Can't he wait until last?"

  "Probably not a good idea," Winkler shook his head. "The one who takes Mick down will likely have the support of the pack behind him, and the new challengers, unless they also have substantial support, may go down under a new Second's loving jaws. The young one will have to prove himself to the pack, so they'll stand back and watch what happens."

  "I need to upgrade my distaste for werewolf politics," I grumped.

  "Still don't want to act as Gabe's Second—if I can convince him?"

  "I'm trying to stay under the radar, remember?" I said. I thought about whacking Winkler with the dishtowel in my hand, but thought better of it.

  "Well, let's see how things go. He may not want to make a challenge anyway," Winkler waved a hand, dismissing the idea.

  "How old is he?" I asked.

  "Twenty-seven," Winkler shrugged.

  "Right." In werewolf speak, that meant he hadn't been out of diapers long. Didn't mean much to me—some were born old; others never reached maturity. "Last name?" I asked, just for the record.

  "Billings."

  Gabe Billings. Billings. Where had I heard that name before?

  Oh, yeah.

  "Is he related to Benjamin Billings?"

  "Cousin, once removed," Winkler shrugged. "How do you know about Ben?"

  "Just a casual conversation, that's all."

  While I was doing a mental dance to placate Winkler, I was searching through future history, to see whether Joshua Billings, a werewolf I'd meet in roughly three centuries, was connected to Gabriel Billings.

  He was—Gabe would become Josh's great-great-grandfather—if he lived.

  "Will you let me know if Gabe decides to take on Mick in the first round?" I asked Winkler.

  "Sure, but I thought you didn't want to be involved."

  "Call it a feeling," I hunched my shoulders.

  "I'll let you know."

  "Thanks."

  "Gabe's a good kid," Trajan interjected.

  "Yeah. I have that feeling about him, too."

  Somehow, in the timeline I'd lived before, Elliott hadn't been killed. At least not like this—he should have died later—twenty years later, actually, when Gabe challenged him.

  But that was then. Something had changed, just as Bree said, and now I was here to keep the timeline from drifting too far off center to make a recovery. Fates of lives and worlds often hung in the balance.

  Rather than hunting down Ivan Baikov immediately, as I felt I should, I had another wrench in the works to deal with—in the form of a young challenger for Packmaster of the Austin Pack.

  Fuck.

  "Tell me about this Russian vampire," Winkler said, changing the subject.

  "I didn't like him before he made an offer to Wlodek," I said. "Something felt off about him and he gave me the heebie-jeebies."

  "An offer?" Trajan was curious.

  "They auction female vampires off to the highest bidder—if their sires don't have them locked up already," Winkler growled.

  "Not much different from female werewolves," Trajan pointed out judiciously. Winkler turned a louder growl toward his Second.

  "Honey, don't get your tail all fuzzed up," I told him. Everybody knew he'd picked someone different for his sister—she'd just decided to go against that decision on her own. I'd taken three bullets in the back for it, too, to protect her and her newly-married werewolf husband.

  Just as Winkler would pick the wrong werewolf for his daughter in two decades, only someone else would prevent that blunder from happening. Winkler didn't have the best track record at matchmaking, but I didn't bother telling him that.

  "I'll check in with Gabe," Trajan yawned and lifted long arms over his head to stretch. "Gotta sleep now, though. Full moon tomorrow night."

  Uh-oh. Full moons saw plenty of challenges in the werewolf world. Things might be moving faster than I anticipated with the Austin Pack.

  Kent, England

  Wlodek

  "Message from Dalroy, Honored One," Charles set a copy of an e-mail on my desk.

  "Is it important?"

  "He thinks it is. The Austin Packmaster was murdered yesterday, and the rumor is that two werewolves killed Elliott Barnard, while a vampire supervised."

  I'd been toying with my gold pen while Charles spoke, disregarding the page lying on my desk. Until he'd said a vampire was rumored to have supervised the killing of a werewolf.

  We didn't need a call from Weldon Harper while we were in the middle of attempting to trace Xenides' movements. We also didn't need the peace achieved between werewolves and vampires to be threatened again—we needed their assistance with Xenides. Word that a vampire was now interfering in werewolf politics and pack leadership could lead us in the wrong direction agai
n.

  If Lissa were here, I'd send her and Gavin immediately. She wasn't; she was in a place none of us could reach—by design. If Xenides managed to get his hands on her, we were all finished, vampires and werewolves alike.

  "Put Dalroy and Rhett on this immediately. I want to know whether this rumor is true, and if so, I wish to know which vampire has chosen to place us in so much jeopardy. Kill the miscreant, if there is proof. I want information the moment it comes in from now on."

  "In the States, the full moon is only hours away, Honored One. Should a vampire become involved in the succession in that pack as well," Charles didn't finish his train of thought, as I'd raised my hand to stop him.

  "Understood. Have them investigate this matter immediately. I want proof, and I want that vampire dead if proof is found. If I discover that this one is in league with Xenides, you know how dangerous that could be."

  "I'll inform Dalroy now, sir."

  Charles swept out of my study without lifting even a slip of paper off my desk. I often wondered how he did that. Had Xenides made a play on a smaller stage, intent on turning small ripples into massive waves?

  We didn't need another race war, and this could be the beginning. Lifting my private cell phone from a drawer, I dialed Merrill's number.

  "Yes?" His cultured voice indicated he knew who was calling. "We have trouble," I told him. "A vampire may have ordered the murder of the Austin, Texas, Packmaster. Word from Dalroy is that two werewolves accomplished the deed, under a vampire's supervision. I dislike this possibility very much."

  "Have Dalroy and Rhett been assigned to this? You know the full moon is coming for those wolves, and a challenge will be made, no doubt. Interference in pack leadership will not be well-received by Weldon Harper."

  "I've already reached that conclusion, and yes, this has become Dalroy and Rhett's sole assignment—to get to the bottom of it quickly. If we need to send others, I'll attempt to find someone, as all my Enforcers and Assassins are looking for Xenides."

  "You think Xenides may be connected to this, don't you?"

  "I think it's possible."

  "This isn't good," Merrill whispered, knowing I'd hear him anyway. "Will you keep me informed?"