Playing Hooky (Paranormal Investigations)

by Rita J Webb

  Bare-chested even in this cold weather, the four musicians (three male and one female . . . yes, even the girl is bare-chested and jiggling nicely) dance on the small stage while still playing instruments and singing, drunker than anybody in the room, and when I look closely, I realize they’re not wearing brown pants but instead fur covers their legs.

  Legs that end in hooves.

  Three satyrs and a satyress.

  Thank goodness for ninth grade English lessons in Greek mythology. Most professors would likely be happy to know that satyresses prance around just as naked as their male counterparts.

  Emma smacks the back of my head. “It’s just boobs. Even I have a pair. No reason to stare so hard. Put your eyes back in your head.” She grabs my hand, leading me toward the bar . . . and positions me with my back to the stage.

  “But you’ve never shown me yours. Take your shirt off, and I’ll stare at yours instead.”

  “You did not just say that.”

  “Yeah, I think I did.”

  “Men.” She rolls her eyes.

  The bartender grabs a wet glass, flips it up in the air, catches it, and then swipes it with his towel before setting it upside down on a shelf. It all happened so fast, his hands blurred as they moved. Shaved head, he looks like a pirate with a patch over his eye and a scar running down his forehead, under his eye patch, and puckering up his cheek. Rings pierce his lips, eyebrows, and ears, and tattoos cover the every inch of exposed flesh on his neck and arms and chest.

  “What’s with the pink hair?”

  “An accident with a magician.”

  He nods. “No alcohol for minors.” He eyes me. “And no trouble from your kind. Here, we abide by the laws of both lands.”

  There it is again: my kind. What am I? I feel like a label is tattooed over my forehead, and everyone can see it but me.

  “I’m not a minor.” She winks at him. “Just one shot?”

  “No alcohol.”

  “We’re just looking for the Hunter,” I say.

  With a quirk of his eyebrow, the bartender nods at a table on the far side of the room where a man sits in the shadows, a Stetson low over his brow.

  I got a bad feeling about this.

  “You should stay here.”

  “I don’t think so. I never sit on the sidelines.” Her jaw juts out.

  That’s my girl, plunging into the craziest adventures by my side. She hasn’t changed much over the years. Tell her to stay safe and she’ll go in the opposite direction.

  That’s what I love about her.

  “All right, all right. But let’s be careful,” I say.

  He watches us navigate the room, his eyes calculating a hundred ways to kill us—me—and deciding if it’s worth the trouble. He looks like he has more of an arsenal on his body than a whole platoon in the army.

  She stops in front of his table, one hand on her hip, and dazzles him with her smile. “Can we sit with you?”

  He raises a bushy eyebrow. A beard filthier than Gruff’s—hard to believe that’s even possible—hides most of his face, and his coat is made from patches of fur in various shades of brown. His large frame doesn’t fit in the chair, and he dwarfs the table in front of him. The bottle in his hand looks like it will crush if he squeezes a fraction of an inch tighter.

  He curls his lip. “Don’t bother sitting down. I’m not working with you.”

  She pulls the chair out, sits down, and leans forward. “Please. We really need your help.”

  His image shimmers and wiggles before solidifying back into the grizzly old man again. For a moment, he seems taken aback. Then growling, he stands and leans over the table, towering over my girl. “Girlie, I could eat you for a snack.”

  “But you won’t,” she says.

  The entire room is silent for a long moment. The band stopped playing, and everyone watches us.

  “We have money,” I say.

  “The American dollar means nothing where I come from.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her. The fire in the pit of my stomach writhes and squirms in response to his threat to her, and I struggle to keep it in check.

  “What about gold?” I hold up a thick gold coin. I always have a pouch of gold from the chest my mom found with me.

  The man backs up and reaches a hand out, and I drop it in the open palm. He bites it, studies the emblem on it, and grunts. “Draconian gold is hard to come by.”

  I shrug, pretending I know what Draconian gold is. But now I have another clue to where I’m from. Maybe a country named Draconia? Or a reference to the dragon symbol on the tail’s side.

  Shit, I don’t know anything new. Just more questions.

  He pockets the gold. “Fifteen more pieces, all of this quality, but just as you ask me to track down a client, I have no qualms tracking you for somebody else. Gold is gold. I have no loyalties to you once we find this girl.”

  I pull out a bag and count out fifteen pieces.

  “Not wise to show your pouch.” Threat laces his words, and that squirming ball of fire in the pit of my stomach flares up and engulfs me.

  I can see nothing but his face flickering through the flames. Stepping forward, I grab the man by the throat before he can even reach for one of his weapons and slam him against the wall. Giant as he is, he weighs nothing in my hands.

  “No threat from me; I don’t steal from my customers . . . sir.” The Hunter lowers his eyes from mine, but he doesn’t bow his head. His hand twitches. The flame isn’t satisfied with his duplicity. He should be giving me his belly in submission.

  I show him my teeth.

  He looks me in the eyes and pales, dropping the knife he had hidden in his sleeve. He swiftly bows his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize who you were, sir. Your kind doesn’t often interact with humans, except the sorcerers, and you mask your scent well.”

  “Jason.” Emma touches my arm. “You can put him down now.”

  The flame subsides, sinking back down into the pit of my stomach. Whatever kind of monster I am, I make the monsters shiver in their boots.

  “Fine.” I drop him to the floor. Even though I am shorter, I somehow held him above the ground. “But if someone does come to you, asking you to track us, you won’t like what happens.”

  The man rises from the floor and drains the whiskey from his bottle in one swallow. He grabs the crossbow hanging on the back of his chair, and as we head for the door, a quiet buzz rises in the room behind us.

  Chapter 8

  ~ EMMA ~

  THE WIND WHIPS around us and nips at our skin with its icy breath. The sun, lying low in the horizon, casts a golden glow over the streets of Anchorage. We don’t have a lot of time left.

  Jason and I strap our skis back on while the Hunter stands with his back to us, sniffing the air.

  “Ready?” Jason asks.

  The Hunter rips his Stetson off, and his body shimmers, skin rippling over his face, fur spreading up his hands and arms, over a long snout. His clothes have mysteriously disappeared, save for a loin cloth and a torque around his neck, feather earrings in his pointed ears.

  White as the snow swirling around us, he stands nine feet tall, back legs shaped like a dog’s but ending in bird talons, and front legs shaped like a wolf’s. White wings, specked with brown feathers, fold in over his back. Sharp teeth protrude from his snarling lips, and he throws his head back, spreading his wings wide, and howls.

  Chills spread up my spine as the wolf-man plunges deeper into the network of alleyways in the city.

  “Try to keep up,” he snarls, then turns the corner, and hand in hand, Jason and I chase after. I slip on a patch of snow, and Jason steadies me with a tug of my arm.

  “A werewolf?” I ask Jason. “A bird-wolf? What is he?”

  “Taylon calls these animal hybrids chimera.”

  “I thought that was some weird combination of a lion, a goat, and a snake, and I thought it was supposed to be a girl.”

  “I’m just telling you what he said.”


  “Did the Hunter change shape?”

  “No, I think it’s a glamour. Like the fae have.”

  “How would you know that?” I ask.

  “Just a guess. When we were inside, he kinda shimmered like the door to Bailey’s did.”

  On silent feet, loping on all fours, the wolf races through the city, sometimes spreading his wings and banking around a corner. We turn down alley after alley until I’m lost in the labyrinth of shadows. The snow swallows the sound of our skis swishing on the snow behind him and blinds us from everything around us. Walls of thick white flakes surround me.

  Anchorage, in all its winter glory.

  My heart beats so hard, I think it will pound its way out of my chest. I pause, bending over with my hands on my knees, ski poles pointing behind me, and pant to catch my breath, the cold air burning my lungs. Maybe I really don’t want to find that siren after all.

  “Can’t. Stop. Now. We’re losing him.” Jason grabs a handful of my coat and drags me around another corner.

  We stop in front of an old factory, red brick crumbled into a pile of rubble on one side. A condemned sign, splattered with snow, clings to the six-foot chain link fence, with barbed wire spiraled at the top.

  Someone cut the fence high enough for us to sneak through. A few strands of curly, blond hair are snagged in the fence.

  The wolf stands on his bird talons and grabs the hair with his hand—not a paw, a HAND! with four digits and a thumb like me, each ending with a silver two-inch claw, sharp as a knife—and sniffs the hair.

  Part man, part wolf, part bird of some kind. And it all flows together into one seamless body.

  And he’s beautiful—white fur and feathers, rippling muscles across his human-like shoulders. And with that package, this was definitely not a she-monster.

  He sniffs the air and then turns his cold amber eyes on me. For a moment, his tongue lolls in a wolfish smile—as if he’d smelled my thoughts on the air and found them amusing—and then he turns back toward the fence and rips it apart with his claws.

  Note to self: Don’t think interesting thoughts when a wolf-man is around.

  And don’t ever get in the way of those claws.

  As we approach the big double doors, one crooked on its hinges, I can hear music . . . if you can call high-pitched squealing as music. I clamp my hands over my ears and glance over at Jason, a silly smile plastered on his face. He wobbles and drunkenly staggers inside.

  So much for scoping the place out and coming up with a plan.

  The Hunter shakes his head, growling, and then leaps into the building before disappearing into the shadows.

  I stand alone at the door and take a deep breath. I can’t even see a foot into the shadows, but the sound of that singing crawls along my skin, making me feel slimy, and drills into my ears. Every cell in my body screams to run the other way.

  Inside, some girl wants to kill a siren in order to control the emotions of the boy she’s got a crush on. To save both girl and boy plus the siren too, I have to go in there.

  But my feet refuse to budge.

  Somewhere in there, Jason is trapped by the siren’s song, and he needs my help. Gritting my teeth, I pick up one foot and take a step forward, just to do it again with the next foot.

  Following the sounds of the horrible music, I sneak up to an open door, light spilling into the hallway. The wolf, covered in dust and mud and blending into the shadows, crouches by the door; he glances at me and then away.

  I look inside. Jason sits at the feet of the siren and stares up at her as if she were an angel. She has long green hair that leaves her skin so pale, it almost looks see-through, and her green eyes are haunted.

  I see the pain in her eyes, and somehow, I know she cannot stop singing; without the magic in the collar to stop her voice, she must sing day and night. And the magic in her song rips her apart.

  “Jason? How did you . . . ? Where’s Emma?” My sister’s voice comes from the side of the room. I peer around the corner and see her standing in a dark doorway, a needle for drawing blood in one hand, an ancient leather bound book in the other.

  It all clicks. The blond hair on the fence. A girl with an angelic face and evil in her heart, the witch said. A girl who looked like me, except for the pink hair. Blond hair. Green eyes.

  My good little sister.

  Stealing sirens and killing them for their blood.

  Plotting to enslave Jason with a love potion.

  Sweet Angelina who never did anything wrong.

  Evil in her heart?

  This can’t be real. It’s all a nightmare.

  “Angelina?” I step out of my dark shadow and into the open room.

  She’s already stepped close to Jason, and her back is to me. She whips around, her face full of hate. “How did you get here?”

  I shrug. “We were exploring the city and heard the music. What are you doing here?”

  She raises a gun and points it at me. Our dad taught us both how to shoot. He’s a cop.

  I’m a better shot, but at this range, Angelina can still put a bullet in my heart. I put my hands up in the air to show I’m unarmed.

  “Angelina, I’m your sister. Why are you pointing a gun at me?”

  “I won’t let you stop me. You get everything and do nothing to earn it. You have no appreciation for Jason, not like I do. I deserve him. I’m the perfect one. You’re a slob. You grades suck. You barely get enough to pass and keep your scholarship. I’m the one who bakes him cookies. I’m the one who sends him cards for his birthday and Christmas and Valentine’s Day.” She flails the gun about as she talks, gesturing with her hands. “And all he does is moon over you, and you wear dirty clothes, no makeup, and your hair is a rat’s nest. Now I’m going to make him forget you.”

  “But he’ll never really love you,” I whisper. “Love is a choice. One you have to make every day. If you force him, he’ll just be a slave to your whim.”

  “Shut up. Shut up!” Tears pour down her face, and she uses the back of her hand holding the gun to wipe her face.

  With the gun pointed away from me, I leap forward, grab her hand, force the gun up, and pull the trigger until the gun is empty. A shower of debris rains down on us, and she shoves me away.

  I tackle her, and the air whooshes out of her as I land with my knee in her stomach. She groans and grabs my hair and yanks. A handful rips out in her hand. Ouch.

  I punch her in the gut, and she rakes her fingernails down my face. Geez, where did she learn to fight? Oh, she was the sweet one. I was the one who got suspended for fighting in the school gym. But I never put up with bullies.

  Flipping her over onto her stomach, I yank her right arm up behind her back. “Do you give?”

  “Stop. Please stop.”

  “Your gun is out of ammo, and I’ve proven I can overpower you. Let’s just go home and forget this ever happened.”

  “Of course.”

  I let her up and retrieve my backpack from where I dropped it before I lunged for the gun. Bending down, I rifle through the notebooks and paper until my hand closes around the thin iron band. I stand up—

  Something hits me over the back of the head.

  The room goes blurry. I’ve been hit. She hit me.

  Everything blackens for a split second.

  She hit me.

  Oh, I already thought that.

  I should do something. Fight back.

  She hit me. At least, I think so.

  The room tilts at odd angles, and my legs buckle underneath me. Then I black out for real.

  THE BACK OF my head is numb. Like I’m missing a piece of my brain. Something horrible happened, but I can’t remember what.

  “You always underestimate me. You think I am too delicate. Just because I didn’t go kayaking and climbing trees. Just because I thought frogs were slimy.”

  Huh? I can hear her words, but they make no sense. The individual words—frogs, delicate, slime—don’t combine into anything meaningful.r />
  I try to move, but my hands are trapped behind my back. Funny, I can’t move them.

  Wiggling, I feel something slide along my wrist as it digs into my skin.

  Oh, she tied me up.

  I’m tied up. I’m not quite sure what to do with that problem. I used to know and if I could just focus . . .

  Jason still sits at the siren’s feet, his face enraptured by her song. Ugh, when we get out of this, I will rub his nose into how I saved him.

  A wet nose nuzzles my hand, and something sharp—teeth? a knife?—scrapes the palm of my hand.

  Angelina stands near the siren and stabs the woman’s arm with a needle. The siren’s song turns to shrieks, and she writhes and squirms, trying to get away, but Angelina holds her arm tight.

  Maybe Angelina can’t fight, climb trees, or play in the mud, but at least studying to be a nurse—doing something real with her life—she can draw blood and manhandle patients.

  The ropes fall away from my wrists, and ignoring the pounding in my head, I dive and tumble across the floor—my gymnastics instructor would be proud—and, grabbing the collar, snap it around the siren’s neck. She disappears and the vial of blood clatters to the floor.

  Angelina raises her tiny gun again.

  “It’s empty,” I say.

  She presses the cold barrel against the thrumming at the back of my skull. “I reloaded.”

  “Okay, fine.” I have no way of knowing if she’s bluffing or not, and it’s not worth the risk of finding out.

  “Sit in that chair.”

  I sit. She stares at me. She can’t put the gun down to tie me up because then I’d fight her and run. She can’t do anything else until I’m tied up. I grin. Quite a quandary.

  She scowls at my smile.

  Jason, blinking, looks around blankly. “What happened? Where are we? Where did that beautiful music go?”

  “Sit down, Jason, or I shoot her.” She presses the cold metal of the gun against my head. A shiver runs down my back.