Cold Spell

by E. A. Copen

  Jackie hesitated, so he explained, “It’s the only place in the house where the others won’t hear. If you want to talk in private, this is where we do it.”

  She strode past him without any further resistance.

  Nic looked up and down the hallway for any sign of Bo. He should’ve been there, too. Maybe the old man was still fuming. Yes, it would be best if the two of them stayed apart for a while, just until things calmed down. Nic entered the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  “Lucky you should have a sword and spear on-hand,” Jackie said.

  When Nic turned around, he found her admiring a photograph on his dresser. The picture was an old black and white, an older man in the foreground, the carcass of a Bowhead whale in the background. “My grandfather on my mother’s side,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “He had no idea the white man taking this picture would use it in a campaign to restrict whaling rights some years later. Glad he died before that actually happened.”

  “Do you still do it?” She looked up from the framed photograph in her hands. “I can’t imagine it’s still necessary with all the modern commodities.”

  “In the summer, yes. Maybe not necessary in the survival sense, but it’s part of the culture here. It’s as essential to being an Inuit from Barrow as howling at the moon is to being a werewolf.”

  “The spear and the sword you used earlier, they for that kind of thing?”

  “Well, it was a harpoon and a knife, but yeah.”

  “One hell of a knife,” she muttered.

  “Used for cutting through whale blubber, so it’s got to be.” He took the photo from her and held it in his hands, trying to imagine what it must’ve been like for his grandfather.

  Back then, it wasn’t a cultural event. They didn’t have environmentalists writing death threats to the village elders every spring. No news crews came north to televise how they cut up the whale and distributed its parts equally among the people. Then, it was survival. Without the whales, people would’ve died. They used every part, even the bones and fat. Now, they only took in one or two whales a year, and that was getting harder and harder to do. With the way the world was changing, eventually even the whale hunt would be a distant memory, the people who practiced it absorbed into so-called civilized southern society with no connection to the land that made them.

  Nic placed the photograph back on the dresser. “There’s a big festival in June. Songs, dances, a blanket toss.”

  “Blanket toss?” Amusement colored Jackie’s voice. “What in the world is that?”

  “You take seal skins all stitched together and stretch them out.” He smoothed his hands over air, demonstrating. “Tie them off on poles. People jump on it like a trampoline. Used to be, they’d toss people from it, but too many kids were getting hurt. Guess that’s changed, too.” He turned to face her. “You should come back in the summer. You’ve come to Barrow at a bad time. This darkness, it’s not really the best the top of the world has to offer. Come back for Nalukataq—the whaling festival—and when we have daylight all night. It really is much better.”

  “I’d love to see it someday.”

  She sounded sad. Was it something he’d said? Better change the topic.

  Nic cleared his throat. “So what did you find when you went chasing after that thing?”

  Jackie told him about how the blood trail had ended, and that she suspected the monster had help. For a moment, Nic considered that it might’ve been Justice who drove up and picked up whoever the monster was. He had been in the area. If he did, there’d be blood in Justice’s ATV and he’d be able to scent it the next day. That meant paying another trip to Justice’s shop and poking around, which he wasn’t looking forward to.

  “Also, you should know that Tara wasn’t in the shed.”

  The final sentence of her story jerked him out of thought. “What? How?”

  Jackie shrugged. “Someone let her out. Someone who knows how to cover their scent.”

  Justice. There was no doubt that Justice and Tara were doing something together. He had an inkling that Justice had taken advantage of Tara in her grief-stricken state. Maybe Justice had her convinced that he was a weak alpha, that he’d let David die. It made sense. But then why had Justice tried to smooth things over with him? It was clear he still wanted back in the pack. Why set Tara against him?

  “We need to find Tara, and I have a feeling we should start the search by talking to Justice.” Nic crossed the room to retrieve his cell phone from the bed stand and dialed Justice’s number. He was going to put an end to this here and now.

  Justice picked up on the third ring. “Nic? Why the hell you calling me? Everything okay?”

  “Where’s Tara?”

  “How should I know?” Justice shot back, his voice clear. “Last time I saw her was yesterday afternoon, like I said. I ain’t seen her since.”

  It was hard to tell if he was lying over the phone or not.

  “Nic, what’s going on?”

  He debated telling Justice he’d be right over to check his place out, and if he found Tara there, Justice was going to wish he hadn’t. But Jackie put a hand on Nic’s arm. The contact sent a new wave of desire coursing through him as he suddenly remembered seeing her without her clothes on. Dammit, now was not the time to get distracted.

  She held her hand out, gesturing to the phone.

  Nic passed it to her without question.

  “Justice, this is Jackie Wheeler.”

  Justice hesitated a moment before answering. “Good to know you’re doing well.”

  “This is your only chance to come clean,” Jackie said, her voice sharp. “I know you’re involved in what’s going on. I don’t know how, but when I find out—if I find out without any help from you—you can bet things will not go in your favor. I don’t want anyone else to die. That includes you. Draw this out, make me work for the information I need, and I won’t be able to guarantee anything.”

  “You think you can scare me?” There was the nasty side of Justice Nic had seen when Bryce bested him to become Nic’s second. “I’m not scared of you, or Bo.”

  “That slight change in pitch in your voice says otherwise,” Jackie said, sporting a slight smile.

  Nic’s wolf approved of the way she called him out. He would’ve liked to see Justice’s face then. He was probably pale, pacing back and forth.

  “I don’t know where she is! And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you anyway. I tried to help you people. Tried to be friendly. Yet you still think it’s all my fault. Why? Because I’m not one of you? Blame the outsider, right? Well, screw you. Good luck finding whatever’s killing your pack, and good luck getting whatever you need to survive up here. None of you are welcome in the store anymore.” He hung up.

  Jackie pulled the phone away from her ear and frowned at it. “That could’ve gone better.”

  “Could’ve gone worse, too.” Nic took the phone back. “He can’t ban us from the store. If he tries to actually enforce that, we’ll take it up with the city council. Since he’s got no reason to other than that he’s pissed, it won’t stand.”

  “Sorry to have made things harder for you in the short term.” She tucked her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and avoided looking at him. Whatever she was about to say next, Nic already knew he wouldn’t like it. “In the meantime, Bo and I feel it would be best if we stayed elsewhere. We’re going to go get rooms at the hotel as soon as they open. Should lessen the tensions between us and your pack.”

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  Jackie’s eyebrows shot up.

  He’d sounded too desperate to keep her there, dammit. That wasn’t what he meant. “I mean, if you go, you won’t be here if that thing comes back. You could miss out on an opportunity to catch it. Plus, as much as it pains me to admit it, I owe Bo a debt. He did defend Mandy. I made a mistake. I deserved getting knocked around a bit. I should know better than anyone not to touch an injured wolf.”

  “Hmm.�
�� Jackie pressed her fingers to the side of his jaw where Bo’s fist had made contact.

  He pulled away. “Ow. Just because I deserved it doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.”

  “Pain means you’ll remember it next time.” She smiled, and it made his heart pound harder in his ears. “The monster will too, you know. You took its arm. Provided it doesn’t die of blood loss—which doesn’t seem likely, considering the amount of blood I found—then it’ll be back for more than just feeding. It’ll want vengeance, Nic. You need to be careful. You also need to sleep.”

  Nic nodded and cast a longing glance at the bed. When was the last time he’d slept? “Can’t,” he said with a sigh. “I can post guards on watch downstairs, and someone with Mandy, but no one’s going to sit and watch me. Not when it’s my job to watch them.”

  “They need their alpha functional. I need you functional so you can help tomorrow.” Jackie jerked her chin toward the bed. “Sleep, Nic. I’ve got a few hours to kill. I’ll keep watch for you.”

  He hesitated. It really was the perfect solution. No one in the pack would question it. Even Bo wouldn’t make a big deal out of it, not if he was genuinely interested in keeping the peace and doing his job. But in his mind, there were other things he’d rather be doing alone with Jackie in his room. Other things that required a lot more energy than he had. God, he did need sleep.

  “Okay, but only four hours. Then you wake me up.”

  “Deal,” she said and pushed him toward the bed. “But your four hours start when you fall asleep, so you’d better get to it.”

  Nic dragged himself over to the bed and fell on it, not even bothering to pull back the comforter and blanket. It was warm enough in there, and the pillow was softer than he remembered. He yawned into it, watching as Jackie found a spot in the corner that gave her a prime view of the room. By the time she settled in, he was already asleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  B ryce was a talker and Bo didn’t care to talk. Not even the scowl on Bo’s face as they stood together keeping watch was enough to deter him, however. The boy chattered on about how one cut of meat was superior to another, how fresh garlic was so damn hard to get, and how his grandma had taught him everything he knew about cooking.

  Bo sat sullenly at the kitchen table, arms crossed, listening more to the wind outside than Bryce. The big man stood at the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal. It was five in the morning. Who the hell wanted to be awake at that hour, let alone eating oatmeal? And why the hell was it so damned hot in that kitchen? They were in the Arctic. It was supposed to be freezing.

  “You alright, man?” Bryce had turned away from the stove and held his wooden spoon raised, that ridiculous dish towel with the chef on it over his shoulder.

  “Never better.” Bo scratched absently at the wrap around his arm. Damn cut itched like hell. “Why?”

  “Your face is all red and you’re sweatin’ up a storm.”

  Bo touched the back of his hand to his forehead. He was sweating. Was it really that warm in there? Bryce wasn’t sweating like that, and he was standing directly over a steaming pot. “Probably just need to sleep. It’s been a stressful day.”

  Bryce turned back to the pot. “Mm-hm. I hear that.” He shook some salt into the pot. “It’s why I’m making this pot of oatmeal. Cook the stress away. What kind of stuff do you do to relax?”

  Bo grunted a non-committal response. He really didn’t want to talk to Bryce. Only reason he was in there instead of in the living room with Vince was because he liked Vince just a hair less than Bryce, but that was changing as time went on.

  “Come on, now,” Bryce continued. “You can play that tough guy act all you want, but underneath all that, you’re still a person, aren’t you? Or are you really a boogeyman like they say? A ghost?”

  Before Bo could answer, another voice intruded, and not one he recognized. The sound was so faint, he almost didn’t hear it at first. A whisper on the edge of his consciousness. He snapped his head to the left and eyed the doorway, expecting to find some of Nic’s wolves there, whispering to each other, but the doorway was empty. Bo narrowed his eyes. No way. He’d heard something there, hadn’t he? Maybe the lack of sleep was getting to him.

  If I’m going to be awake and have to talk, I might as well steer the conversation toward something useful. “So what is it between you and Justice?”

  The other man’s expression sobered, and he turned back to the oatmeal. “Homophobia. Justice isn’t the only one, I’ll add. This whole town hates me. Elders have tried to run me out of town twice. Sent me for conversion therapy as a kid.” He paused in his stirring a moment, as if struck by a memory. “It’s deep-seated here, a thing nobody wants to talk about. The Inuit aren’t kind to anybody they perceive as different. A hundred years ago, that meant people with magic. They feared the witches so much, they led them into the snowy wastelands on the premise of a hunt and everyone else left in the middle of the night. They left them there to die. That’s what happened to magic in Barrow. It’s what they’d have done with me, too, given half the chance.”

  Ah-ha. It made sense now. Justice, who had been Nic’s second, lost his spot fair and square to Bryce. But because Bryce was gay, and Justice couldn’t get past that, it got ugly. It wasn’t so uncommon, and was indicative of a larger, older problem among werewolves. Their kind was even slower to change than society at large. Sexism, racism, homophobia. All were alive and well inside werewolf culture.

  Once, about eight years ago, there was a gay werewolf who tried to start his own pack, advertising it as a LGBTQ-friendly pack. It lasted three weeks before another group of alphas came in and ran them all off. In the end, three werewolves had died before Bo even showed up. When he left, he left two more bodies behind, alphas who had come into break up the pack.

  Personally, Bo didn’t care one way or the other about what kinds of people did what with whom. To each their own, right? None of his damn business, not unless someone made it his business. Lou had been under increasing pressure to hand down some kind of equality order, demanding that discrimination of all kinds end. But Lou was old, very old, and very, very stubborn. Until someone made him see, he’d remain silent.

  People like Bryce were the ones made to suffer for that silence.

  “I see,” was all Bo could say.

  “I thought Nic would kick us both out and end it,” Bryce continued. “But he held out for me. I won the bout. If Justice wanted his spot back, he was welcome to challenge me for it. Justice and Foyle just decided to leave. Foyle wasn’t a problem, though. He left it well enough alone. Seems to like being a lone wolf, as far as anyone can tell. Not Justice though. No, he’s not happy unless he’s got someone looking up to him. Has to be at the top. The best.”

  Bryce went on, but Bo lost track of what he was saying. That voice was back, whispering somewhere over on his left side, and his arm itched worse than ever. Where was that whispering coming from? “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “That whispering.” Bo’s chair groaned as he pushed it out and stood, pacing to the corner near the door. That was definitely the source, but there was nothing there.

  “I don’t hear anything, but you’ve about got that bandage Donna put on there scratched clean off your arm.” Bryce pointed with the spoon.

  Bo looked down at his arm and found he’d torn away most of the bandage. The gash was still a good three or four inches long and wide open, showing pink muscle underneath. Blood oozed from the wound and soaked into the bandage. Donna had wanted him to get stitches, but he’d talked her out of it, insisting that he’d heal just fine. He was a werewolf, after all. And he should have. By now, the flesh should have knit itself back together. He shouldn’t be bleeding at all.

  He raised his arm to his nose to sniff and then quickly pulled it away, choking. It smelled like it’d been festering for a week, but that was impossible. Infection couldn’t have set in that quickly. It normally took one or two days. Then again, th
e thing they’d been fighting—Jackie called it a Mahaha—hadn’t been natural. Maybe wounds from the Mahaha’s claws didn’t heal normally. Either way, he needed to bandage it again.

  “There’s a first aid kit in the upstairs bathroom,” Bryce said. “Should be some bandages.”

  “I’m good. Hold down the fort while I’m upstairs.” Without waiting for a reply from Bryce, Bo wandered out of the kitchen, one hand clamped firmly over the bleeding wound.

  With every step, blood pounded through his temples. His ears rang. More sweat ran down the side of his face. He wiped it away, stopping to lean on the banister halfway up the stairs. Below, the world spun, making him woozy. Bo shook his head to clear it and dragged himself the rest of the way up the stairs and into the bathroom he shared with Jackie. For now. Tomorrow, he’d have his own bathroom, one that didn’t stink like her shampoo.

  He grabbed his trouble bag from beside the door. Early in his career, he’d learned it was convenient to have a small bag of essentials he could grab and go. Dried food, a small Mylar blanket, charcoal filter, change of clothes, first aid kit, and of course, duct tape. In the bathroom, he ran the arm under the tap, wincing as the white porcelain sink turned pink with blood. Rinsing out the wound seemed to make it bleed more, but he couldn’t risk infection. That done, he slapped a couple of gauze pads over the area and wrapped his forearm twice over with duct tape. A double dose of pain killers and some cool water on his face and he was ready to go.

  He’d be better after a good night’s sleep and some time away from annoying talkers who wanted to share their life’s story with him. Yeah, that was what he needed. Rest.

  Even though his watch shift wasn’t over for another half hour, Bo dragged himself to his bedroom instead of downstairs to finish the shift with Bryce. Bryce and Vince were on duty, and Aspen was probably awake too. They didn’t need him.

  His eyes closed as he hit the pillow. He was nearly asleep when it started again, the whispering. Bo put his pillow over his head to try and block out the sound, but it didn’t do any good. The voices only seemed to grow louder and louder until finally he could pick one out of the crowd.