Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1)

by Vicki Stiefel

  stayed cool. Sure I did. Right.

  Its head came even with my chest, the breeze ruffling long fur the color of new-fallen snow. Eyes like ancient gold coins. Magnetic. Otherworldly.

  There are no wild wolves in New England. None.

  Terror leeched onto my skin, into my blood. I hadn’t factored in a huge wolf when I’d geared up that morning. My gun would damage it, sure. But unless I could make a kill shot… Oh, hell.

  I didn’t want to kill a wolf.

  My damned heart did the conga, my breath—clouds of fear—mist in the cold.

  The wolf didn’t growl, didn’t bare its teeth.

  I bit my lips. What the frig!

  Juiced with adrenaline, I calmed my heart, corralled my fear, cast my senses outward.

  The wolf’s vibe—I caught no malice or hunger. Only waiting.

  His golden eyes held mine. He didn’t move closer, just stood there, a cool silence.

  I’d once stumbled on a black bear in the woods. I’d made lots of noise, and it had lumbered off.

  A bear was not a wolf.

  I backed away from the wolf, slowly, carefully, and he mirrored my movements, like in a dance.

  I couldn’t take my eyes from him. Nor, apparently, he from me.

  I lost time. Seconds? Minutes?

  Sounds became muffled, as if a shroud lay across the cemetery, the wood, the animals.

  I stopped, as did he, and I cast my senses.

  Waiting. Dread. Fear.

  The wolf’s nose twitched, and his eyes slid to the right.

  Mine followed.

  A presence, just beyond the heavy screen of trees. Not the same as the wolf. Nothing at all like the wolf.

  Cloying. Hungry. Evil.

  Rotted geraniums and cat urine. I’d smelled it before. At Dave’s abattoir.

  Smoke swirled around the trunks of trees to coalesce by the path’s edge. It glistened, syrupy now, wove forward, and as it undulated, it darkened from grungy white to gunmetal gray.

  I stumbled back, and the lupine closed on me, my eyes bouncing from him to the thing that slimed closer and closer.

  Was the wolf part of that thing or… No.

  My mind hamstered around in a vain attempt to process.

  If this was magic, I didn’t like it one bit.

  I kept backing up, knowing that thing meant me harm.

  Warm breath on my thigh. I bumped into the wolf. “Shit!”

  He glided around me, brushing my jeans, halted before me and sat, cool, calm, his muzzle pointed straight at the slime.

  The ooze paused. Drew closer. A large clump differentiated into a woman’s face—high-cheekboned, deep-set eyes closed, gray skin mottled as if with shiny burns, a full-lipped mouth tilted upward as if in bliss. A plain red circlet on her crown pulsed, banded around her bound and tendriled hair as it lengthened and grew, undulating and moving of its own accord. The snaking coils solidified further—a chittering sound filling the air. They dropped to the ground, then rose, opening red cobra-like hoods, eyes black and bulbous, black forked tongues flicking, tasting.

  The chittering stopped.

  That couldn’t be good. I whooshed out a breath. Holy moly, what the hell was that thing?

  My mind fogged, and I swayed, stumbled forward.

  The wolf’s head shot around and snapped at my legs.

  Shocked to my senses, I froze, then oh-so slowly slid out my gun, leaned down for the Bowie knife in my boot. Even if my hands trembled, just a bit, the gun in my left hand, knife in my right, grounded me.

  The nest of hooded cobrathings slithered closer, but slowly, as if breeching a resistant barrier.

  Bullets and cold steel might do nothing to the creature, but they felt so good.

  I aimed my gun at the woman’s head and fired. The bullet pierced her forehead, but left no mark. Shit.

  The cobrathings hissed. Their red hoods began to pulse like malignant hearts, their heads swayed and tongues flicked, jaws yawning to reveal one immense dripping fang.

  Oh, gods. I staggered, found my balance, and moved into a crouched stance.

  On my left, a cobrathing shot forward, fast, prepared to strike. Reflexively, I slashed out with my knife.

  The head fell, separating from its snaky body, and yellow pus splattered onto my hand, bubbling and burning so bad, my eyes watered. Foam erupted from the headless stalk as it continued to sway, obscenely alive, until it finally plopped to the ground, where it compressed and retreated, sucked back into the woman’s head.

  Golly. One down, a bazillion to go. That was all I could conjure, when what I really wanted was a one-way ticket out of Oz.

  More eyes, behind me. I stole a glance. Five more white wolves crouched, fur bristled, eyes agleam.

  The immense wolf in front of me raised his head and howled.

  The others joined in. A chorus. A battle cry.

  Whoopdedo, I liked it!

  The cobrathings paused, and the wolves charged.

  Screw this; here we go. I ran forward, too, slashing, cutting, shooting my Glock, biting with my knife at those cobrathings, over and over and over. Burns on my hands, my cheeks, my scalp. My adrenaline-fueled cocktail of fear and fury didn’t give a shit.

  Growls and yips and screams.

  Cut, slash, rip, rend. Blood, pus, and clumps of flesh coated the earth. I slipped, fell, came face-to-face with a hooded cobrathing pulsing death.

  The wolf leader ripped the head off that sucker and tossed it.

  I punched to my feet and began again.

  An eon later, a roar deafened me, one of pain and petulance and hatred.

  Time stopped. Sound. Sight. Scent. The Void.

  Flux, an ebb, a flow, then pain burst through my body, endless, eternal, until a brush of warmth, of fur brought me back. Panting, bent in half, hands on knees, I raised my head. I was covered in blood and pus and the scarlet of my burns.

  The ooze, the cobrathings, the woman, gone. Vanished.

  Six white wolves faced me in a semicircle, chests heaving, coats dappled in red blood and yellow pus. They raised their muzzles and howled in triumph.

  I howled, too. Hell, yeah!

  I gasped another breath. Another.

  The wolves’ howls expanded, the rhythm building to a mighty crescendo. They ceased.

  At the edge of the wood, movement. I raised my knife and gun. All I saw were luminous amber eyes that wove between the lustrous white of the trees.

  Five of the wolves turned and padded toward the eyes into the wood, soon hidden by the ice-coated trees.

  Relief jellied my legs, but I held my stance.

  The magnificent wolf who’d never left my side, muzzle wide, teeth and fang gleaming with blood, peered up at me.

  I dared stroke his massive head.

  “Thank you.” Gratitude knotted my throat. “Thank you so damned much. I wish you could talk.”

  He yipped, and I’d swear it was a laugh, then he nudged me down the path to where the vegetation thinned and, in the distance, a couple walked hand in hand, heads close in conversation.

  The wolf’s gold eyes again captured mine, as if he wished to impart prophecies I couldn’t grasp.

  He blinked, then bounded off after his pack.

  Somehow I managed to stagger down the path, past the handholding couple, chatting, all gestures and smiles, toward people and cars and skyscrapers. As I walked, the pain eased, the blood faded and disappeared, as did the yellowed pus, and my burns smoothed to pink, then to normal-looking flesh. My clothes, again pristine.

  On putty legs, I made it to a granite bench beside a small birch. I swiped off the snow and lowered myself to the seat.

  I hugged my knees, teeth chattering, body shaking, tried to stop my tremors. My mind faltered, struggling to process what had just happened.

  A shadow, the one from days ago at the house. Again, someone was watching me. I grasped my knife, my gun, unfurled my mind, and surfed a gentle wave deeper inside the shadow. Walls slammed me back
ward.

  Snap. Gone.

  Time passed, the cold—a numbing companion.

  A crunch behind me. Weapons up, I pivoted.

  “Promise I won’t bite,” Larrimer said, hands up, palms out.

  I replaced my gun, slipped my knife into its sheath.

  A frown. He slid off his sunglasses and sat beside me on the bench. “Are you hurt?”

  When I shook my head, black spots swam in front of me.

  He slid an arm around my shoulder, muscled and hard, and pulled me close. I stiffened.

  “Sshhh,” he said.

  Comfort. Concern. I’d be churlish to refuse. I wanted this, so I relaxed, absorbed his warmth, his reality. He held me, and for eons we sat there, the beat of his heart a mantra of calm.

  “Were you attacked?” he finally said. “Clea?”

  I sloughed out a breath, got it together. “I’m okay.” I pushed away, examined my clothes, my hands.

  Nope, not a thing. I even checked my knife. Clean.

  Another form of fear stabbed me. Had I just lived some kind of freakish mental episode?

  No, it was real. Wasn’t it?

  Later. I’d deal with it later.

  Larrimer’s brow furrowed.

  “Something scared me,” I said, aching to tell him everything, knowing he’d think I was nuts. “That’s all. How did you find me?”

  “You’re easy to spot.” He smiled. “You okay to walk?”

  I nodded, tucked my hands into my jacket pockets. “You’re early.”

  “Briefing done.”

  “The golden eagles?”

  He shook his head.

  Again, he wore no gloves. I’d knit him a pair of mitts.

  We circled a frozen pond.

  “You’ve been crying,” he said.

  Juan. A lifetime ago. “Um, the ME, my friend, he’s dying.”

  “You feel too much,” he said. Cold. Dark.

  “I’d rather that than too little.”

  “Feelings cloud thought.”

  A gust of wind. Icy. Alive. I was alive. I grinned. “Hell yeah. Like a shot of Jim Beam Black.”

  He barked out a laugh. “I prefer Blanton’s Original, myself.”

  A flurry of wings, and a hawk burst from the trees. Hunting.

  After long moments, he said, “What happened?” He stopped and raised a hand to my shoulder. “Something happened. Tell me.”

  I shook my head.

  He peered down at me, the dying sun carving his face. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  Those eyes. A blue flame. I wanted to stand on tiptoe and taste those lips. But even on tiptoe, I couldn’t reach them. He’d have to bend down, and I sensed the man before me seldom did that. Would he bend for me?

  “You’re cold,” he said. “I would warm you.” He started to remove his jacket.

  Oh, he would, this man I barely knew. But no doubt I’d get little more than the physical. “No need. I’m warm enough. Let’s go. I have stuff to do.”

  insisted on driving—I needed to be in control of something, anything—and I made him belt up. He slept, slouched in the seat, again taking up more room than any person had a right to. I refused to think about the woods, the wolves, the glowing eyes, and especially that snaky thing that tried to end me. Damn, she made Medusa look like a garter snake.

  I focused on the road, the tarmac, the potholes, the reality. Yeah, right. Like I knew what reality was anymore.

  Cars and trucks jammed Route Two, and we varoomed around the Fresh Pond circle and over the bridge. We soon passed Belmont’s immense Mormon temple, then through Lexington and round the Concord circle, toward home.

  A niggle distracted me. It grew, and I glanced at the speedometer. I was hitting eighty-plus. I slowed to seventy-five, but whatever gripped me, remained. Lulu? Had someone gotten to Lulu?

  “I Shot the Sheriff” fractured my thoughts. Larrimer answered his phone, and a few terse words later he ended the call, then pecked out a number and put the phone to his ear. When he disconnected, he turned to me.

  “She’s fine,” he said, his tone mellow. “The girl.”

  How…? But I didn’t care about the how. “Thanks.”

  “It was your face,” he said. “All scrunched up. And your driving. Christ, you’re scary.”

  “A thrill a minute.” I glanced at him, a tad annoyed at how well he read me. But I felt better. “The call you took?”

  “Headquarters. Some place called Bronze Printing. They’re the ones who printed the invitation. We’ll pay them a visit in the a.m.”

  Good thing he said “we.”

  Lulu and Bernadette were fine, excepting Bernadette’s newest accessory—a turban. A black tapestried one. It sure complemented the derringer at her hip. Oy. She was turning into the eccentric grandmother I never had.

  After I’d tucked in all the critters, we chowed down on Bernadette’s divine dinner. Then again, given my day, PB-and-J would have tasted extra special.

  Later, I stretched out in bed, massaging my aching muscles with Bag Balm. Good enough for a cow’s udder, good enough for me.

  The Storybook called.

  Not gonna think about that woman’s face and slimy cobrathings crawling over me. Nope, not.

  Hell. If this was magic, it should be prettier. And if that thing was after me, what else was?

  I shivered.

  No thinking. Forbidden.

  I read the Storybook again. And again. Until sleep took me.

  Dammit, people were yapping in the kitchen, waking me and interrupting a perfectly yummy dream. My phone read 3:00 a.m. Who the hell… Just in case, I slipped my hand around my Glock and padded into the darkened hall.

  The voices—Bernadette’s and Larrimer’s. Bizarre.

  I tiptoed down the steps, avoiding the creaky places, to the third up from the main floor, and peeked through the railing.

  Yup, there they were, sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, sipping what looked like bourbon and chatting away. I’d seen stranger things, but not by much.

  “You realize what’s going on, don’t you, sonny boy?” Bernadette said.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Lady.”

  She snickered. “You don’t know.”

  A rumble, low in his throat. “I do not.”

  She picked up her glass, swirled the liquid around, took a long swallow. “Ahhh. Well then, if whoever you’re really working for didn’t tell you, I will.”

  Larrimer waited with that perfect stillness of his.

  “What’s inside you.” Bernadette pointed a long finger at his chest, her tone deadly serious. “The same thing’s inside her.”

  His lips twitched. “Lungs? A heart?”

  She pressed her hands to the table and straightened her spine. “You know, you understand, so don’t play games.”

  “Not a game, Lady,” he said, his voice molten granite. “You have no idea what’s inside me.”

  She leaned back, took another swig. “Bah, of course I do. Some of it, at least. Do you think I don’t hear the song, too?”

  The boil of Larrimer’s fury nearly knocked me backward.

  The song, Bernadette had said. The melody I’d shared with Larrimer when we’d first met. Not possible. I’d never reacted to Bernadette like that.

  She waved a hand. “Calme-toi. I hear it, yours, Clea’s, but they don’t echo within me. My type is quite different from yours and hers.”

  His brow furrowed. “Type?”

  “Type, um, subspecies or family. Merde! I don’t have the words.”

  He tipped back his glass, polished off his drink and pressed his hands to the table, as if to get up.

  “Not yet.” She waggled a finger. “This, you must understand. Your very essence is growing her abilities. And hers are growing yours.”

  His face tightened, his cheekbones stark in harsh relief. “I would know if that were happening.”

  Bernadette downed the last of the bourbon and stood, looking down at Larrime
r’s now grim face. “Would you?”

  I squeezed the baluster. Questions like bees buzzed my mind. They wanted me excluded from their conversation. Now wasn’t the time to ask, but what mattered was why? I flew up the stairs on what Dave called “silent feet.”

  At eight the next morning, the world looked normal, if Larrimer inhaling steak and eggs and waffles constituted normal. Had I imagined that tête-à-tête in the middle of the night? No, no I did not.

  I toyed with my waffle as I watched his single-minded food focus clear the piled-high dish.

  I’d bet he’d be like that with sex, too.

  “That man knows how to make coffee,” Bernadette said, pulling me back to reality. “Lotta fuss, since you’re the only one who drinks it.”

  “Um, Larrimer…” I said, near-bursting to ask him and Bernadette about their conversation. I knew Bernadette would tell me nothing. But Larrimer might. I’d frame my words with care.

  Lulu wandered in. Damn. I stuffed the questions down deep, along with the urge to tell Larrimer about yesterday’s cobrathings.

  I needed to think, to understand. It was like I was in a dingy drifting further and further from reality’s shore.

  Larrimer finished smearing jam on his English muffin, looked up, and I became his singular focus. “You started to ask…?”

  I speared another waffle. “Pass the maple syrup, please.”

  Soon after, Bernadette and Lulu took off, and when I emerged from my shower, I found Larrimer gone, too. He returned that afternoon, and we drove to the putative breadcrumb that might lead us to Dave’s killers and the endangered species traffickers, Bronze Printing in Fantin, a small town just north of Hembrook.

  When we left the car, he leaned in, close to my ear. “Looks like you survived the thug’s two-day deadline.”

  I grinned, fake as a stripper’s smile. “Looks like. How about I take point?” I asked as we entered the small brick-and-wood building. “Fish and Wildlife strikes fear in the hearts of few.” Of course, Larrimer could strike fear in the heart of anyone he chose. But I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  He half-smiled back. “I’m the one with the warrant.”

  “True. But I’m the one with the interrogation cred.”

  He held up a finger. “Point.” Then he did his faux laconic lean against the far wall, giving him a view of the entire place.