Supernatural--Children of Anubis

by Tim Waggoner

  “So what do we do?” Marta said. “We’ve always managed to avoid werewolves in the past, but now…” she trailed off.

  “We have to move again,” Kayla said. “As soon as possible.”

  Erin nodded, backing her sister up.

  “That’s not possible,” Nathan said. “At least not right away. We can’t risk moving Anubis until the Rite of Renewal is carried out successfully. Until then, he’ll be too weak.”

  Marta frowned and looked at Greg. “I thought you performed the rite earlier today.”

  Greg felt his face burn with embarrassment, and he covered his sore wrist. “I tried, but something went wrong. It didn’t work.”

  Kayla and Erin grinned at him, as if to say, We knew you couldn’t do it.

  Muriel saw the girls’ reaction. “Don’t be so quick to judge,” she said. “I seem to recall that when you were first learning to conduct the rite that one of you dropped the amaranthine before it could be given to Anubis.”

  The grin vanished from Erin’s face.

  “And the other sneezed in the middle of speaking the holy words and had to start the entire rite over.”

  Kayla’s grin fell away.

  Greg tried not to smile. It seemed his failure to conduct the Rite of Renewal properly had an unintended—but welcome—side effect.

  He knew it was crazy for him to feel anything for Morgan. So they’d spoken for a few minutes in the grocery store. So what? It didn’t—couldn’t—mean anything. But that he felt something for her was undeniable. They might belong to different species, but both jakkals and werewolves possessed strong animal instincts. Was it possible that on some level, one so deep neither of them was fully aware of it, they had recognized each other as… what? A potential match?

  But how could he explain this to his family? There was no way they could understand. Tradition dictated that jakkals form close bonds—friendships, marriages—with their own kind and no others. It was important for the continued survival of their people. At least, that’s what his parents and grandparents had always told him. He’d accepted this without question, until the moment he’d set eyes on Morgan. Now he wanted to know what was so bad about being close to someone different.

  “Why do werewolves hate us?” Greg asked.

  Everyone in the family turned to look at him. None of them spoke right away, so he went on.

  “They eat the hearts of freshly killed prey, while we eat the hearts of the dead. It’s not like we compete for food.”

  His family members exchanged glances. Muriel was the first to speak. “We honor the lives of those who provide us sustenance by waiting until after they die to take their hearts.”

  “By then, their souls have passed on to the afterlife,” Nathan said. “They do not feel the pain and fear of being killed for their hearts.”

  “It’s more civilized that way,” Marta said.

  Erin wrinkled her nose. “Plus, fresh meat is disgusting.”

  Kayla nodded. “It must be seasoned by time for it to taste any good.”

  Greg frowned. “So werewolves hate us because—”

  “They’re animals,” Efren said. “Purebloods may believe they’re masters of the wolf that dwells within them, but it’s a delusion born of arrogance. They can no more control themselves than a wild beast running loose in the forest.”

  The others nodded.

  “They resent us for being able to live in perfect harmony with our animal aspect,” Muriel said. “We have succeeded where they have failed.” She spoke these last words more than a little smugly, Greg thought.

  He failed to see the logic in his family’s explanation. As near as he could tell, werewolves and jakkals hated each other simply because they did. No reason to it at all. He knew better than to point this out to his family, though. They wouldn’t listen.

  Marta turned the conversation to other matters. “How soon can the Rite of Renewal be attempted again, Father? Either by you or Mother this time?”

  She gave Greg an apologetic glance. He knew his mother didn’t mean her question as a rebuke to him, but her words stung nevertheless.

  Nathan thought for a moment, then he looked at Muriel. “Twenty-four hours after the last attempt?” he asked.

  She considered. “At least. And it would be best to wait until the moon shines strong.”

  Kayla frowned. “I thought the rite could take place day or night, as long as it’s within the three days of the full moon’s cycle.”

  “Normally, that is true,” Nathan said. “But given that we do not know for certain what went wrong the last time the rite was attempted—” He avoided looking at Greg as he said this “—we should do everything in our power to ensure it succeeds the next time. The magic is stronger during the full moon.”

  None of the family challenged this, so it was settled. They would have to wait until tomorrow night. All they had to do was hold out until then, and they could—

  Greg’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he felt a surge of excitement. Morgan had texted him! It had to be her. The only other people who had his number were his family. He headed toward the bathroom, leaving them still talking over plans. Once the bathroom door was closed, he read the message. When he did, he felt a cold twist in his stomach.

  My dad knows about you and your family. PLEASE be careful. M.

  His family had been right. The werewolves were coming. He could only hope they could complete the Rite of Renewal before that happened. Because if they couldn’t, they’d only have two choices left. Fight—

  —or die.

  TWELVE

  The sun was beginning to set by the time Sam, Dean, and Garth reached Amos Boyd’s house. Dean pulled the Impala up the driveway. Autumn leaves still clung to the branches overhanging the driveway, and Sam thought the place must be absolutely gorgeous in spring and summer.

  Garth must have been thinking along similar lines. He peered through the windshield and said, “Man, this is a perfect place for a lycanthrope to live. A couple miles outside of town, no close neighbors, woods right out your back door. You could run naked and howl at the moon, and no one would bother you.”

  Sam and Dean looked at him.

  “Not that I’d run around naked and howl. That would be weird, right?” Garth finished with an embarrassed laugh.

  “Hey, we don’t judge,” Dean said. “Whatever floats your furry boat.”

  The house soon came into view. Sam half-expected to see that Amos lived in a rustic cabin, but it was a regular ranch-style house—red brick, black shutters, black roof—just like any number of houses you’d find in town. The difference was this one was in a nicer location.

  Amos’s pickup was parked in the driveway, and Dean pulled the Impala in behind it. The three men got out of the car and paused to take in their surroundings, which in Garth’s case meant inhaling the area’s scents, and in Sam and Dean’s, meant loading their pistols with silver. In their line of work, it paid to be cautious.

  “Dudes, I’m picking up some blood scent,” Garth said. “We need to be careful. More careful than usual, I mean.” Garth had tucked a revolver loaded with silver bullets into his jacket pocket in case they ran into any werewolves of the non-friendly variety. His brow was furrowed, and his lips were pressed into a tight line, almost as if he was fighting a headache. Even though the bullets were housed in the gun and separated from his body by his jacket, they were still close enough to his skin to hurt. Sam was struck by how quietly and unassumingly brave Garth was. He carried a metal that was literally poison to him in his jacket pocket, and he did so without comment or complaint, like a true hunter.

  When they reached the front door, Dean knocked. There was no immediate answer, so he knocked again. Still no response.

  Dean gave Garth a look. “Maybe he’s out running naked in the woods.”

  Garth frowned. “You think he’s a lycanthrope?”

  “You said this was the perfect place for a fuzz-face to live,” Dean said.

  “He wa
s the first person on the scene of Clay Fuller’s murder,” Sam said. “Maybe he did it and tried to cover it up.”

  “By saying that other lycanthropes did it?” Garth said. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Maybe he’s got some werewolf enemies he wants to frame,” Dean said.

  “There’s an easy way to settle this.” Garth moved past Dean and leaned his face close to the doorknob. He inhaled and then straightened once more. “There’s no lycanthrope scent on the knob, just one-hundred percent human. One person, too. A male, in his sixties. Has to be Amos, right? The scent’s not all that fresh. The last time he touched the knob was several hours ago.” Garth hooked a thumb in the direction of the pickup. “And when we walked passed his truck, I could smell that it hasn’t been driven for the same amount of time. So he should be home.”

  Dean raised an eyebrow. “That sniffer of yours comes in handy.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty awesome,” Garth said. “But it has its downsides, too. I can’t go within a dozen yards of a gas station restroom, for instance.”

  “Can you smell anything through the door?” Sam asked.

  Garth shrugged. “I can try. Depends on how tight the seal is.”

  This time he leaned his face close to the door’s edge and started sniffing in and out rapidly, sounding like an over-excited dog. After a few seconds, he pulled back so violently that both Sam and Dean reached for their pistols reflexively.

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  “There’s blood inside,” Garth said. “A lot of it.” His voice sounded rough, not quite a growl, but close to it.

  Dean stepped back to the door and tried the knob. It was locked, and Sam took hold of Garth’s arm and gently pulled him back to give Dean some room. Dean reared back and kicked the door open. It swung inward, and Sam and Dean drew their weapons. Garth, however, did not draw his. His teeth were gritted and his hands were clenched into fists. Sam understood that he was fighting not to change again.

  There were two types of Purebloods. Those born that way, and those who become werewolves after being bitten by a Pureblood. Garth had become a werewolf by the latter method, and while Purebloods like him retained their human intelligence when they transformed, the same as any other Pureblood, they had more difficulty controlling their animalistic urges.

  “Maybe it would be better if you stayed outside,” Sam suggested.

  “Yeah,” Dean said. “Maybe you can case the property, see what you can smell out here.”

  Sam thought that Garth might protest, but instead he let out a defeated sigh. “‘Sometimes the best way to attack is to retreat,’” he said.

  “Another morsel from The Way of the Fang?” Dean asked.

  Garth nodded.

  Sam felt sorry for their friend, but there was no time to commiserate with him. He and Dean had work to do.

  Dean entered the house first, and Sam followed close behind. They raised their pistols into firing position and moved through the house, checking the living room, dining room, the kitchen, the hall, bathroom, and the bedrooms. There were spots of blood in the hall, and the linen closet door was open, but it was empty, not even any shelves, which was strange. The window in the master bedroom had been broken, and there was blood on the carpet next to the bed. Dean knelt, touched his fingers to the crimson spot, and then smeared blood between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Not quite dry.” Dean wiped his fingers on a clean patch of carpet and then stood. “Whatever happened here took place a few hours ago, at most.”

  “Which is when Garth said Amos got home,” Sam said.

  Dean nodded.

  They left the bedroom and made their way down the hall once more. They checked the garage, but other than some lawn equipment—rakes, a push mower, and the like—and a workbench with numerous tools hanging on the wall above it, the garage was empty. They went back into the house and conferred.

  There was a door in the kitchen, which they assumed led to a basement. They hadn’t checked it in their initial sweep of the house, but now they returned to it. The door wasn’t locked, and Dean opened it easily. The brothers, even with their limited human sense of smell, could detect the coppery odor of blood once the door was open. Neither of them was a stranger to murder scenes, and the blood smell told Sam that they weren’t going to find Amos Boyd alive. Still, he called out, “FBI! Mr. Boyd, are you down there?”

  Silence.

  The basement light was off, so Dean switched it on and the two brothers descended a set of wooden stairs. What they saw when they reached the bottom was enough to shock even them. Blood was everywhere—on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and splattered onto the various objects Amos had kept stored down here. There was so much blood that it was hard to believe it had all come from a single person. At first Sam didn’t see Amos, but then he realized that was because the man had been ripped to pieces and scattered throughout the basement. A head lay on the far side of the basement on the floor, half hidden by the corner of a cardboard box. The face was covered with blood, rendering the features difficult to make out, but Sam had no doubt they were looking upon the savaged remains of Amos Boyd. He also knew that once the parts had been collected and catalogued, the man’s heart would be missing.

  The brothers lowered their weapons. There was no threat here, not anymore.

  “One werewolf did all this?” Dean asked.

  “Maybe three. That’s how many Amos claimed to have seen.”

  “Guess they wanted to make sure he couldn’t tell his story anymore.”

  “They succeeded,” Sam said.

  There were tracks all over the floor, as well as bloody handprints on the walls and on some of the stored objects. Both sets of prints showed their owners had sported claws. There had been no tracks upstairs, and there were none on the basement steps. A moment later, Sam understood why. He’d been so overwhelmed by the scene of carnage before him that he hadn’t noticed one of the basement windows had been broken. The killers had left by that route.

  “We should call the sheriff,” Sam said.

  Dean shook his head. “Let’s wait and see what we’re dealing with first.”

  Sam agreed. He was about to ask his brother what they should do next when he heard Garth call out from somewhere on the first floor.

  “Guys? You need to get up here. Now.”

  Sam and Dean exchanged a look and then ran up the stairs.

  * * *

  Garth stood in the kitchen next to Melody Diaz, holding onto her wrist as if she was his prisoner. An expression of fierce concentration was on his face, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. The smell of blood and ravaged flesh must have been overwhelming for him, and he was fighting to keep from transforming in front of Melody. So far, he was succeeding, but Sam didn’t know how long he could keep this up.

  “I found her outside. She was checking out the broken bedroom window.”

  Garth’s voice was low and rough, but still human. Mostly.

  “Let me go, damn it!” Melody struggled to pull away from Garth, but his grip was too tight.

  “She parked on the road,” he continued. “I could see her car through the trees.”

  “I have just as much right to be here as you do,” Melody said. “Maybe more, since I live in this town, and it’s my job to keep its residents informed.”

  Dean gave Sam a look, the expression on his face saying, Seriously? Sam shrugged and then turned to Melody.

  “You’re interfering with a federal investigation,” he said. “We could have you arrested if we wanted.”

  “If you’re really FBI, then what’s his deal?” Melody yanked her wrist free of Garth’s grip. Sam saw that Garth’s fingernails were slightly larger than normal and pointed. He hoped Melody wouldn’t notice.

  Sam thought fast. “He’s a federal agent as well. Undercover. Sometimes we work a case from multiple angles to see what we can turn up.”

  She looked dubiously at Garth, as if she were having a difficult time im
agining him as an agent, but then she said, “I guess that makes sense.”

  Sam felt relieved. If their cover story hadn’t held, they would’ve been forced to tell Melody the truth about who they were and what they did. And that conversation never went smoothly.

  “So what did you find?” Melody asked.

  Sam tried to think of a suitable lie, but before he could come up with one, Dean said, “We found Amos. He’s down in the basement. All over the basement, actually.”

  It took a couple seconds for the meaning of Dean’s words to sink in, but when they did, Melody’s eyes widened in shock and she put a hand to her mouth. “He’s dead?” she asked.

  “And in about a dozen pieces,” Dean said. “Like Humpty Dumpty, only without the shell.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Her face paled and her breathing became erratic. Sam feared she might faint, and he hurried forward, intending to catch her, but she waved him away.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I’m not used to covering violent crimes, and to have a pair of murders take place in town so close to each other… Well, let’s just say I find it a little overwhelming.”

  “If you’ve got a queasy stomach, I’d stay out of the basement,” Dean said. He took his phone from his pocket and said, “We need to alert the local authorities. Get some crime scene techs and the coroner out here.”

  “Agreed,” Sam said.

  Dean nodded and stepped into the living room, where Sam knew he’d only pretend to make the call. For now, they didn’t want the sheriff or his deputies coming to the scene until they’d finished with it.

  “Is it really that bad down there?” Melody asked.

  Sam nodded.

  “How can you ask such a question?” Garth said. “Even you should be able to smell the death in this house.”

  The intensity with which he spoke prompted Melody to take a couple of steps away from him.

  “Why don’t you go back outside and continue your search of the perimeter, Agent, um, Thrash?” Sam said.