I tried to tell him this wasn’t right, that my wounds were doing something to me, making me feel like I was fading away. I thought about the barely visible fingerprints on Bertrand Lautrec’s chest. Had whatever killed him and the others infected them? Would I die only to get up again with a taste for living flesh?
“Hurry!” Dmitri yelled at Sunny, and I felt him shake me. “Come on, Luna. Come on . . .”
I tried to tell him to stop, but I didn’t have the breath. Priorities, Luna. “Sunny . . . ,” I croaked.
She dropped the phone and came to me, grabbing my hand. “I’m right here, Luna. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I squeezed in return, feeling the prickle of my Path magick between our palms. “Sorry . . . ,” I breathed, and then let the magick in.
Everything exploded into a cacophony of senses. My ears picked up the sound of triplet heartbeats, the waves outside, even far-off sirens in the aftermath of the earthquake. I could smell and taste everything, and my vision cleared and almost blinded me as I stared up into the lamp hanging in the center of the ceiling.
I fought and pushed against the thing the monsters had put inside me, feeling it in my blood like threads of black oil on clear water, and with a fierce ripping sound, my stitches broke free as my wounds finally began to close.
Dmitri tore my palm from Sunny’s, and she sat back hard, shivering and pale.
“Gods!” Dmitri said. “Luna, are you all right?”
“Sunny?” I said in return. The magick I’d Pathed from her started to fade and I could hear and see again without overloading myself.
“I’m okay,” she said faintly. “You?”
“Yeah.” I sat up and shook my head, pushing my hair out of my eyes. “Yeah, I think I’m all right now.”
“That’s really interesting,” Sunny said, pulling herself to her feet using the wall. She trembled when she stood up, and I looked at the floor, guilty.
“How’s that?” Dmitri demanded. “She blacks out and then almost kills you.”
“I did not,” I protested. “I only Pathed a little bit. And I said I was sorry first.”
“No, your wounds,” said Sunny. “It’s like you were infected. Like a were.” She pressed her hands over her eyes. “Look, truth be told, I don’t know that the Wendigo can’t infect you, Luna. I only have the texts to go on, and the most recent is still two hundred years old.” She looked at Dmitri. “You have more information than I do.”
“I already told you, I never dealt with them,” Dmitri snarled. “And I have even less reason to now.”
Sunny put her hands on her hips, the spots in her white cheeks like flames. “Dmitri Sandovsky, I am not a police officer and I have no desire to be, but even I can spot a liar. Luna almost died, so you better give up what you know before I do something really medieval to you.”
I grinned, despite feeling like I was falling off the edge of the world.
“Bright lady, save me from your women,” Dmitri muttered. “Look, all I know is the guy’s name. Lucas Kennuka. He runs the clan that lives out on the interstate. They stay out of the city, we stay off their land, and I fucking like it that way.” He snarled at Sunny. “That good enough?”
“Perfectly adequate,” she said with a sincere smile. I patted Dmitri on the knee.
“Thanks, sweetie.” I stood, and my dizziness receded. I felt good—strong, even. It was as good a time as any to go see the monsters.
CHAPTER 14
I drove toward the Sierra Fuego range as the sun set behind me, making long shadows along the road like the teeth of a giant. The turnoff for the fireworks stand was obscured by blackberry vines and scrub, and the wooden sign had faded and fallen on its side.
The track that led up to the settlement was rutted as a broken rib cage and I winced each time the Fairlane’s undercarriage scraped on the earth.
The road—if you could call it that, even charitably—ended at a collection of trailers that looked like they’d been thrown down in no particular order by Dorothy’s tornado, and a few log houses with broken windows and moss-covered roofs.
Nobody was in evidence, but I parked the Fairlane next to a ’57 Chevy pickup that was so shiny and new looking I felt ashamed to stand next to my own car, with its cracked windshield and layer of earthquake dust.
“Hello?” I called. A few birds shrieked from the forest, old and much larger than anything the humans, or Wendigo, had managed to put up.
I sniffed deeply and got smoke, both wood and tobacco. The scent of an outhouse or a leaky septic tank. Something meaty and spicy that made my nose twitch. I realized I was almost unbearably hungry.
“Hello!” I shouted again. “Anyone here? I’d like to speak to you!”
Silence, as crystal as the small stream that tripped down the hill beyond the trailers. I unsnapped my holster, just in case, and walked a few yards past the tumbledown cabins, looking for life signs. It was spooky around there, in a Camp Crystal Lake sort of way, but it hardly looked like the lair of a zombie-making, mass-murdering crazy.
I walked on, finding small trails cut through the brush, and let the case facts turn over in my mind. Someone who was not Gerard Duvivier was killing weres, for no apparent reason except their bloodlines. And whoever had killed the weres also had the power to turn them into . . . what?
There were no answers, but I stopped caring when I came to a clearing and saw what was scribed in the bare earth.
Pine needles had been swept aside and three working circles were drawn, unevenly, in the baked dirt. They weren’t pretty, but they were powerful. I thought about the charm with its raw, crude magick. I unfolded the small pocketknife attachment from my key chain and pricked my finger, squeezing a droplet of blood into the closest circle.
Nothing happened. My heart started to beat again. “I’m getting crazy,” I muttered. Just because someone in the Wendigo was having a half-assed go at magick did not make this in any way connected to what was happening in the city.
Right. If only I could believe myself.
From beyond the trees, I heard a steady thunkthunk-thunk, and the tinny screech of music filtered through crackling speakers. I touched my gun, and started up the small footpath.
The music got louder, as did the sound, and I remembered the movie where the policewoman finds the guy in the wood chipper.
“Hello?” I said once more, rather more softly than I would have liked.
I rounded a bend in the trail, my heart hammering, and came upon a lone man, his back turned. He was wearing a dusty white T-shirt and torn jeans, long black hair clipped back with a leather thong. Thankfully, he at least looked human.
He was also wielding an ax and listening to Golden Earring at an earsplitting volume. I reached out and turned the dial down. “Excuse me.”
He spun, the ax coming up in a defensive stance, and his nostrils flared when he saw me.
“Hi,” I said, holding up my hands. “I come in peace.”
He snorted, not lowering the ax. “You’re trespassing.”
“Considering that this land belongs to the federal government, so are you.”
That made him stop for a second. I kept my eyes on the ax blade, trying to focus on the silver cutting edge and not the guy’s face, which wasn’t hard to look at by any stretch. He had an action-hero jaw, but full lips and a narrow nose that gave him a fey, liquid quality in his features. His hazel eyes were cold as they flicked over me and back to my face in the most clinical of ways. I’d seen that look before, from suspects deciding whether or not they could beat the crap out of me and escape.
“You from the government?” he said finally.
“No,” I said cautiously. “Nocturne City.”
His jaw twitched, but he turned around and went back to chopping. “What did you want to talk about?”
“I was hoping to speak to Lucas Kennuka. I heard he was the person in charge of your . . . commune.” The most inoffensive descriptor of the place, and I always went for courtesy over accuracy
when speaking to a guy holding an ax.
“Well, lucky you.” He threw the split logs into the massive pile that filled up most of the clearing and stuck the ax into the chopping block. “I’m Lucas.”
“Luna Wilder,” I said. I watched him closely in the eyes and gauged the grip of his hand when he shook the one I offered. His gaze warmed up, but never flinched, and his grip was firm and hot from the friction on the ax handle.
“I can’t say it’s good to meet you, since I don’t know what you want,” said Lucas. He picked up a red plaid buttondown and put it on over his T-shirt, concealing his slim, ropy torso under the baggy flannel.
“Aren’t you hot?” I said, and then swallowed when he looked at me with his head cocked to one side. A little smile bent the corners of his mouth.
“No,” he said finally. “I tend to be a little cold-blooded.” He started back down the path toward the settlement. “So you know that we’re squatting here. You after money? You a reporter, looking for a story?”
“I’m not either of those,” I said, feeling the small nervous knot in my stomach grow to Gordian proportions. “I . . . I came here because I needed to talk to the Wendigo. About four murders in the city.” Almost sheepishly, knowing it could be the last dumb thing I ever did, I drew out my badge. “I’m a police officer.”
Lucas examined my credentials and grunted. “Fair enough. You look legit. I’m that double-wide with the geraniums. Go on in.” He ushered me ahead in a gentlemanly manner, holding the screen door open.
The scent of cold metal warned me, but too late. I heard the sound of a shotgun racking and the barrel pressed a long, icy kiss against my temple.
“Now,” said Lucas, shutting and locking the door behind me. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell us why you’re really here?”
“Us?” I asked, trying to stall him into some sort of expository monologue so I could kick the person holding the shotgun and wrestle it away.
Lucas struck a match and lit a kerosene lamp. Three other faces popped out of the darkness, holding weapons to a man.
None of them were the ones who had taken me. “Hey, look,” I said. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, it’s not like that.”
“You’re a were who’s trespassed on our territory. You’re a fucking cop. You’re out here to pin four murders on us,” said Lucas from my shoulder. I felt his breath on my neck, and my stomach dropped. “What should I be thinking, Luna?”
I turned on him. He was still wearing that smug expression, grinning a little bit now, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“How long have you known I’m a were?”
“Since you were about a hundred feet away from me on the trail,” he said. “We have a treaty. You broke it. That gives me the right to kill you and leave your body for the crows.” He snapped his fingers and two revolvers joined the shotgun leveled at my head.
“You don’t want to do this,” I warned, pushing against the phase as the were boiled up out of my unconscious in the face of rival creatures. Pinpoints of blood sprouted from my palms as my clenched fingers grew claws.
Lucas growled as he stepped into me. “No, sweetheart. This is what I want to do more than anything right now.”
“Well,” I said, never breaking eye contact with him. “Then I’m very sorry to disappoint you.”
I ducked left and went around his skinny frame. Lucas was my height and build, but he was solid muscle and looked like it would take a hurricane to knock him over. It also made him slower than me, and I had my Glock against his neck and my off hand clamped across his chest before he could react. “Back the fuck up,” I snarled at the three men with guns.
Lucas tensed under me, then relaxed. “Do as she says.”
“Kennhuhke . . . ,” one of them started.
“Now!” Lucas bellowed, with nearly enough force to shake me lose. The man ducked his head and the guns went down.
“What now?” Lucas asked me. “You’re trapped in a ten-by-ten space with no way out and a hostage who outweighs you by eighty pounds. You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.”
“Stop calling me sweetheart,” I said. “It’s very condescending. And I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to talk to you like reasonable people. Wendigo. Whatever.”
“We’re way beyond that,” said Lucas. “You violated the treaty. You have no rights.”
“I don’t know about any gods-damn treaty!” I yelled in his ear. He flinched, grunting. His sweat smelled like water condensed on the outside of a steam pipe. “I’m not from any pack. Not the Serpent Eye, not the Redbacks, no one. You guys are the ones who snatched me and tried to kill me!”
“What?” Lucas demanded. “Hex me, you do jabber on. None of that makes any sense.”
“Talking crazy,” agreed one of the other men.
“All right!” I shouted over the agreement. “I’m gonna let go. Are you gonna be polite?” I asked Lucas.
He snorted. “I’m never polite, sweetheart. Let go of me at your own risk.”
I lowered the Glock and pushed Lucas away from me. He spun, fist cocking back, and hit me. My head snapped around, but I dropped my shoulder and punched him in return, a fast front jab directed at his face. More of a reflex action than anything. Blood fountained out of Lucas’s nose.
The guns came up again. “No!” he said sharply, massaging an old bump on the bridge of his nose. I hadn’t broken it—I’d pulled my punch. Just a polite rejoinder. We examined each other, our breath ragged. “Put ’em away.” Lucas grinned at his buddies, and at me, looking happier than a man with a bleeding nose had any right to. “We understand each other.”
I put the Glock back into holster, a pinch of trust that I hoped wasn’t misplaced. “Are we cool?” I asked. My jaw throbbed a bit, but nothing had shaken loose.
Lucas looked me over, head-to-foot, and I felt heat all over my skin this time. He was sizing me up, now, for something other than a fight or a feeding. “You’re Insoli?” he said, jabbing his finger at me. “Not here on behalf of any pack?”
“We’ve been over this,” I said, the grip of the Glock damp and sticky under my hand. “No pack. Just me.”
“Okay,” said Lucas. “I’m willing to buy that you don’t know about the treaty. But what’s this about us kidnapping you?”
“You sons of bitches threw me into the back of a van and released me for one of your buddies to feed on,” I said. “And you’ve done it to four weres before me, who then got back up and tried to do me in all over again. Am I wrong?”
“Well, yeah,” said Lucas, releasing his ponytail and retying it. “No one has hired me to kidnap you or kill anyone, and we don’t freelance. The Kennuka clan edicts are strict in that respect.” He looked at the biggest shotgun goon. “How does it go, Danny?”
“No Wendigo shall spill blood upon the pregnant earth without just cause and the seals of office, or payment in silver,” Danny recited in a monotone. Lucas looked back to me, satisfied.
“No one breaks the rules. My great-great-grandpappy wrote them down and he was a scary son of a bitch. As am I. My men don’t go rogue.”
“Look, I know it was a Wendigo,” I said. “I got the claw marks and hallucinations to prove it.”
Lucas rubbed his chin. “I’m not saying it wasn’t a Wendigo, but it wasn’t one of mine. We stay out of the city limits without a pack contract, and you stay the fuck off our land, period.”
“Outsourcing,” I muttered. “How progressive.”
“We aren’t the only Wendigo in these parts,” said Lucas. “The ones snatching weres are probably a wild clan. They don’t obey our laws.”
“Animals,” put in one of the other men, in the same tone Dmitri had used.
“So these wild Wendigo . . . you wouldn’t, say, know any of them . . . ,” I started.
“Look,” Lucas said. “This is not a topic that I can cover in five minutes. Why don’t you stay for dinner and I’ll tell you anything you want to know?”
“Am
I going to get another shotgun held to my head?” I asked.
Lucas laughed, cracking a real smile for the first time. It softened all the planes of his face and made him actually look human. “Only if you refuse to eat my world-famous chili.”
Danny caught his shoulder. “Lucas. Chektah mescht tah . . . ”
Lucas hissed, a sound that made my teeth grate sideways. The other Wendigo whimpered and backed away, heads down. “That’s what I thought,” Lucas said mildly. “My home, my rules. Luna, follow me.”
We crossed the packed dirt to a small Airstream trailer wafting a scent that put my taste buds into orgasmic overdrive. Lucas went around to the rear of the trailer and fussed with the hoses on a small propane tank. “Nothing in this damn place works right for more than a day,” he said by way of explanation, pulling out a small bone-handled knife and cutting a section of the propane line away.
“Sounds like my life,” I muttered.
Lucas reattached the line and opened the valves. “Better,” he said. “Come in and get washed up.”
Lucas ushered me ahead of him again, and I tensed, growling. “Relax,” he told me. “I was raised to be polite, whether or not I’m planning to hold someone at gun-point.”
“I thought you were never polite,” I told him.
Lucas winked at me. “I can be persuaded.”
“My knight in shining armor,” I said, stepping into his trailer. A sense of overwhelming order greeted me. The place was tiny but immaculate, a threadbare sofa covered by a bright afghan. The walls were papered with a geometric ’60s vintage print mostly covered with photographs. A record player and a nook with a tiny card table and chairs took up the rest of the space.
“Please sit down, Luna. Would you like some iced tea while we wait for the corn tortillas to bake?”
My stomach howled at me and I said, “Yes, please.”
Lucas disappeared into the kitchen, beaded curtain clacking in his wake, and I heard ice cubes hitting glass and smelled the tang of lemon.
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