Thinning the Herd

by Adrian Phoenix

  Hal glanced at the window beside the door. Fresh air poured in through the fist-sized hole in the glass while prism-colored light glittered from the shards in the carpet. Clever. Breaking the window in order to reach the dead bolt. Hal rubbed his chin. He’d have to remember that particular little trick.

  Hal swiveled around to see Nick Thomas sitting on a corner of his desk. Dressed in a well-made three-piece suit, the dark-haired detective met Hal’s gaze. Mediocre detective, Hal amended, but a damned fine yōkai. And standing behind him like a sunlit shadow—his sidekick, Galahad Jones.

  “Maybe I could interest you gents in something a little stronger?” Hal asked, leaning his catch pole against the desk. “Maybe some nonorganic whole milk, straight up, no ice?”

  “Cream for me,” Galahad murmured.

  “Sure, Hal,” Nick said. “Make mine a double.”

  Hal nodded. He stepped into the kitchenette and rummaged inside the mini fridge. “So why a break-in instead of making an appointment?” he asked, pouring milk into two paper cups and half-and-half into a third.

  “Bad shit going down,” Nick said.

  Returning to the office, Hal handed out the drinks. “Bad shit’s always going down. What makes this time so different?” He lifted his cup in a salute before tossing back half the contents. The milk poured cold and soothing down his throat to his belly. Nothing like nonorganic whole milk.

  “Someone’s snuffing fortune-tellers and framing yōkai to take the fall,” Nick said. He reached two fingers into his suit pocket and pulled out a card. He flipped it onto Hal’s desk.

  Hal eased into the chair behind his desk. He picked up the card. Tarot. Bloodstained. Munched on by sharp teeth. The Seven of Swords. He frowned. “Fortune-tellers? Hippies are getting whacked also—right outta their Birkies.” He lifted his gaze. Met Nick’s steady wolf-yellow stare. “Y’all got anything to do with that?”

  “Hippies? Hell, no.” Nick tossed back his milk. He glanced at his paper cup, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. “Now, that’s whole milk.”

  “Why would someone snuff fortune-tellers and blame yōkai?” Hal asked. He leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on his desk. “Have you considered the possibility that a yōkai is shit-canning psychics?”

  “What the hell are you saying?” Nick crumpled the paper cup in his hand.

  “What the hell do you think I’m saying?” Hal countered. “What the hell are you saying?”

  “That you both have a flair for the obvious,” a silky voice interjected.

  Hal and Nick blinked, then both turned to face Galahad. A white half-and-half mustache rimmed his upper lip. He licked the back of a hand and wiped it away. He purred low in his throat.

  “What’re you saying, Gally?” Nick asked. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Why would anyone murder a fortune-teller? Hmmm?” Galahad licked the back of his hand again and smoothed it through his gold-orange hair. Licked. Smoothed. Purred.

  “To keep the truth from getting out,” Hal said, slapping himself on the forehead.

  “Huh?” Nick looked from Hal to Galahad, then back to Hal.

  Hal nodded. “And the yōkai frame is actually a shifter frame—”

  “To reveal the existence of both yōkai and lycans,” Galahad finished. “Since I think you’re the only one-shape in Eugene who knows about us.”

  Hal shrugged. “Well, it’s kinda obvious when you catch-pole a wolf into a kennel at night and release a naked man come morning.” He wondered how many times the police had locked someone up during daylight hours only to find a bored-looking critter and a pile of clothes on the cell floor come evening.

  “Huh?” Nick repeated, desperation wrinkling his forehead.

  “It’s okay, Nick,” Galahad purred, patting the detective on the shoulder. He brushed lint from the suit.

  “What’s okay?” Nick questioned. “Huh? What’s okay?”

  Hal watched as Galahad dipped a hand into his pocket and tossed something across the floor, something that bounced and squeaked. Nick’s head swiveled. His eyes gleamed.

  “Look, a squirrel!” Galahad exclaimed. “Get it, Nick!”

  “I’m on it!” Nick cried, leaping across the room. Mad rubber squeaking followed.

  Galahad shrugged. “Sometimes it’s easier to distract him than to try to explain.”

  “So, how come you’re the sidekick?”

  SQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAK

  Galahad smiled a sharp-toothed smile. “Bad guys often overlook sidekicks.”

  Hal met the yōkai’s green gaze. “That’s where you’re wrong, Gally. Sidekicks are usually tortured and left for dead. To inspire the hero.”

  Galahad paled. His low purr stopped.

  “That’s why this dogcatcher works alone, my friend. The last thing I want is inspiration. You feel me?” Hal picked up his paper cup. Looked mournfully into its empty depths. “Another drink?”

  SQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAKASQUEAK

  Irritation flickered across Galahad’s face. “That’s enough, Nick.” Glancing at Hal, he nodded. “Make it a double, please.”

  SQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAKA—

  “NICK!”

  “Huh?”

  “Enough. Bring me the squirrel.” Galahad held out a hand.

  Nick shuffled over, hair hanging in his eyes, and slowly placed the saliva-slimed rubber squirrel in Galahad’s hand. Galahad, lips pursed, dropped the toy back into his pocket. Tugging a handkerchief from his back pocket, he wiped at his fingers.

  “What about you, Nick? You want another drink?”

  Nick nodded. “Sure. That’d be great.”

  As Hal walked back into the kitchenette, he pondered everything he’d been told. Dead fortune-tellers. Dead hippies. Shifters framed. Did everything connect? Or was it a series of coincidences? If not, who’d want to frame shifters? Who else might know of their existence?

  Most folks believed shape-shifters were mythical people who transformed into animals at night. They didn’t realize some animals, like Galahad and Nick, Shifted into people during the day. Two kinds of shifters existed, those ruled by the moon—lycans—and those ruled by the sun—yōkai.

  And neither were mythical. Both Shifted for one week out of each month, beginning with the first day/night of the full moon, when the moon in silvery fullness reflected the sun’s radiance.

  And last night? The first night of the full moon. So why, Hal wondered, had he been catch-poling werewolves all week? Was something out of sync? Off balance?

  Pouring double shots into three paper cups—a fresh one for Nick—Hal returned to the front room and handed out drinks. Nick tossed his back while Galahad lapped at his half-and-half. “So . . . who’d want to frame shifters?” Hal asked, reseating himself behind his desk.

  “Maybe another shifter,” Nick offered.

  Galahad paused in his lapping. He eyed his companion. “Why?”

  “Maybe it’s not a frame,” Hal said as an idea uncurled through his mind. “Maybe what we have here is a serial killer who happens to be a shifter as well.”

  “One with a taste for fortune-tellers?” Nick questioned.

  “And hippies,” Galahad murmured. “Ah, perhaps, Hal. You’re pretty smart for a one-shape.”

  “So, what do fortune-tellers and hippies have in common?” Nick pushed himself away from the desk and walked over to the open window. He sniffed the breeze.

  “Garish colors?” Galahad suggested. “Poor fashion sense? A lack of deodorant?”

  “How about the Saturday Market?” Hal said quietly. “Both groups sell goods and services at the Market. And with the Country Fair happening this weekend, our killer must be cruising the Market, hunting for victims, maybe even paying for readings. Getting a taste for it.”

  Galahad regarded Hal with what loo
ked suspiciously like respect. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. For a one-shape.”

  Hal tossed back his milk. “Thanks, but I prefer no-Shift to one-shape.”

  Galahad licked the back of his hand and wiped his face. He purred. Hal had a feeling that was his way of saying Whatever.

  “So do we stake out the Country Fair, then?” Nick asked. “See if we can catch our perp?”

  “Most definitely.” Hal rubbed his chin as he thought of ways the stakeout should be run. Then it hit him like a baseball bat to the gut. Heart pounding, mouth dry, he jolted to his feet.

  “Desdemona,” he gasped. His delicate midnight rose planned to sell her DIY Goth clothing at the Market. Surrounded by hippies and fortune-tellers.

  And stalked by a cold-blooded killer.

  3

  SAVING YOUR ASS

  Desdemona looked up when he walked into the store and Hal’s heart battered against his ribs. Her black-glossed lips stole his breath and her kohl-rimmed eyes kept his attention. Even when she rolled them. Especially when she rolled them. She pushed a lock of purple hair behind her ear. A fetching movement that revealed all the rings piercing the rim.

  She sighed, and Hal knew with every breath in his body that she yearned for him, just as he yearned for—burned for—her.

  Hal pushed his way through all the Goth kids cluttering the aisle. “You’re in danger,” he said in a low voice when he reached the counter.

  Desdemona rolled her eyes. “From you? I don’t think so, creep. I can handle you.”

  Hal’s pulse raced. Creep. Her pet name for him. He’d never tire of hearing her say it: Creep. The name and the sound of her voice, husky and low, blazed within his heart.

  An intense emotion lit her white face. Some might call it scorn, but Hal knew better. The emotion burning incandescent behind Desdemona’s blue eyes was admiration. And love.

  She fluttered her fingers; their glossy black nails enchanted him. “Get lost, creep.”

  Ah, more words of love and devotion from his luscious Desdemona. Hal smiled. “No, seriously. You’re in danger. There’s a shape-shifting serial killer working the Country Fair.”

  Desdemona stared at him. Her black lips parted, “Listen, fruitcake, if you keep bothering me, I’ll eviscerate you.”

  Fruitcake. A new term of endearment. And eviscerate. Little bon-mots of love spoken in code, since theirs was a forbidden relationship—Goth and non-Goth. She’d be shunned if her Goth friends discovered their union, and he could never do that to her—never.

  “Wait on selling your clothing line until after the killer is caught,” Hal whispered. He slid his hand along the counter’s worn surface. She pulled her hand away. Teasing. Enticing.

  “How do you know what I’m doing?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

  “How do I not?” he countered. He too could tease and entice.

  “You following me, jerkwad?”

  Hal sucked in a breath, nearly swooning with pleasure. The smell of her perfume, incense and smoke and cloves, filled his nostrils. Creep. Fruitcake. Jerkwad. No man could be luckier.

  “I think you’d better go,” Desdemona said. “If I catch you following me . . .” She drew a black-nailed finger across her throat.

  Hal backed up to the door, unable and unwilling to take his eyes off her lovely face. He blew her a kiss. “I’ll be guarding you.”

  “Guard this,” she replied, flipping up her middle finger.

  Laughing, Hal walked out of the store. Yet another gesture of love from his Desdemona Cohen. He couldn’t wait for the day when she asked for his name. But until then creep would do. And fruitcake. And jerkwad.

  Hal walked through the parking lot to the bus shelter. He had to get a little sleep, then meet up with Nick and Galahad. They had a killer to hunt.

  * * *

  Hal pulled the pickup into the Shari’s parking lot. He glanced at his Timex. Ten-oh-three in the p.m., baby. Time for a break and a meeting of the minds. Climbing out of the pickup, Hal locked it, then picked up his catch pole. He walked around to the back of the restaurant and plopped down onto the curb next to the Dumpsters, breathing through his mouth to avoid their gag-inducing fragrance.

  He nodded at the orange tabby licking its extended leg. Gold gleamed at its throat. “Hey, Gally,” he said. “Where’s Nick?”

  Galahad stopped preening, although his leg remained extended. His green gaze looked in the direction of the Dumpsters. A can clattered. Claws screeked against metal. Hal winced at the sound and clenched his teeth. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Sounded almost like a dentist’s drill.

  Galahad stared at him, leg still extended, eyes filled with street light.

  “I’m okay,” Hal said, managing a smile.

  Galahad resumed preening.

  A huge wolf leapt out of the Dumpster, landing easily on all four paws, a banana peel draped across its muzzle. Its black lips wrinkled back, revealing sharp, saliva-dripping fangs. A low growl rumbled up from its throat.

  Most definitely not Nick.

  “Yeah? Y’think?” Hal challenged, easing onto his feet. He tightened his grip on his catch pole. “Sounds to me like some full-of-itself lycan needs a whupping from a badass dogcatcher.”

  The wolf sprang.

  Hal spun, swinging the catch pole around, moving so fast, the pole was just a whistling blur of polished wood and steel. But the wolf zigged at the last second and the pole sliced through empty air.

  Whirling, pole extended, Hal danced across the parking lot, a deadly dervish of death. The lycan scrabbled to a stop, spun around, then chased after him. Snarling, saliva flying, eyes glowing with captured light.

  Hal waited, pole at his side, heart pounding. He hoped the lycan had underestimated him. His muscles flexed as the wolf bounded closer. Time downshifted into slow motion. His fingers twitched on the pole. The wolf’s front paws hit the pavement. Back paws. Launched. Hal’s heart thumpa-thumped. Adrenaline wound through his muscles, spring-coiled them. He bent his knees.

  The wolf charged straight at Hal, muzzle aimed for his exposed throat. The only thing Hal heard was the steady beat of his own heart. He stepped aside just as the lycan reached him. Fur brushed against sweat-damp flesh. Catch pole whistled over and down.

  KLOCK!

  The wolf hit the pavement hard and rolled tail over head like a tumbleweed. Hal pulled the catch pole back, thumped the end down against the concrete. The lycan stopped rolling, ass up, ears back, tongue lolling. After a moment it struggled to an upright position. It wobbled, shaky and disoriented, like a first-timer.

  “Want more?” Hal asked. He thumped the pole against the concrete again.

  Shaking its head, the lycan trotted away into the night.

  “The name’s Rupert,” Hal called after it. “Hal Rupert! Remember it!”

  Hal turned, looked at Galahad. The tabby extended his other leg. Hal arched an eyebrow. “Ya coulda said something.”

  Hal was pretty sure Galahad winked before resuming his preening. Damned cat.

  SQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAKA

  Sighing, Hal walked over to the Dumpster. The smell of rotting vegetables smacked him in the face. He held his breath and peeked into the crud-encrusted bin. Lambent eyes peered up at him from within the garbage.

  “Who the hell was your Dumpster buddy, Nick?” Hal asked, drawing in a breath and catching a good whiff of moldering lettuce and rancid meat. “Jesus!” Stumbling back from the trash bin, eyes watering. He fanned his hand in front of his face. “Did something die in there? Shit!”

  “Mew.”

  Hal shot a glance at Galahad. “You’re kidding me.” The tabby met his gaze, held it for a heartbeat, then licked his paw and smoothed it over his face. Hal rubbed his chin. “Holy crap.”

  Sucking in a deep breath of clean air and holding it, Hal walked bac
k to the Dumpster and looked inside. Nick looked up at him. The thing hanging from his jaws wasn’t rubber. And it wasn’t a squirrel. And it sure as hell wasn’t squeaking.

  “Gibe me dat,” Hal said, pinching his nostrils shut. “Gibe it to me.”

  Nick hurled the thing at Hal with a toss of his head. Hal ducked and the hand sailed past to hit the concrete with a wet, fleshy thud. He hunkered down and poked it with his catch pole. Bloodied. A little discolored. Somewhat fresh.

  “We’ve got another freakin’ murder, boys,” Hal said, standing.

  From the Dumpster: SQUEAKA! Then the scrabble of claws against metal. Nick bounded out of the Dumpster, rubber squirrel held in his jaws. He trotted across the pavement, claws clicking against the concrete, and dropped the squirrel in front of Galahad. An abbreviated squeee escaped it. Nick stood there, panting, tongue lolling, yellow eyes fixed on Galahad.

  Hal could almost hear Nick’s thought: THROW IT THROW IT THROWIT!

  Hal tapped his foot against the blacktop as Galahad ignored both the squirrel squeaka and Nick, and continued his grooming. “Some time tonight, guys,” Hal finally said. “I gotta get back to work. Who was your Dumpster buddy, Nick?”

  Nick shook his head, the movement rippling through his entire body. He lifted his muzzle, pointing it at the star-studded summer sky, and whoo-whooed for several moments.

  Hal stroked his chin. “Uh-huh. So he was already in there.” He glanced at the Dumpster. “Question is—was he the killer or just another lycan cavorting in trash?”

  “WHOOOOOOOoooooOOOOOooOOOOOO!”

  Hal arched an eyebrow. “Yeah?” Filling his lungs up with fresh air, he leaned over the Dumpster and stirred through the trash with his catch pole. He could just imagine the caption for this particular photo op: Local—no, wait; make that—National hero Hal Rupert closes in on a ruthless killer with clues found in restaurant Dumpster!

  A glimmer of color amongst all the gray and green rot caught Hal’s attention. A tarot card, just like Nick had said. Hal leaned in and plucked out the card, then hurriedly rejoined Galahad and Nick at the curb.