“Something’s got him really agitated.”
Derek grimaced and adjusted the knife on his hip. During his time with the Pack, he’d always worn gray sweats, but since he had formally separated from Atlanta’s shapeshifters, he’d adjusted to city life. Jeans, dark T-shirts, and work boots became his uniform. His once-beautiful face would never be the same and he worked hard on maintaining a perpetually grumpy, stoic, lone-wolf persona, but the old Derek was coming out more and more. Occasionally he would say something, and everyone would laugh.
I wasn’t in a laughing mood now. Anything that got Thanatos agitated was bad. I’d known him for almost ten years now. He’d lost his cool a few times, like when he punched a black volhv straight in the face over his sword being stolen. But this was on a different level entirely. This was frantic.
“I don’t like it,” Derek stated, his tone flat.
“Do you think the universe cares?”
“No, but I still don’t like it. Did he say where we’re going?”
“Serenbe.” I steered around a pothole.
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a small settlement southwest of Atlanta. It used to be a pretentious wealthy neighborhood and called itself an ‘urban village.’”
Derek blinked at me. “What the hell is an urban village?”
“It’s a cute architecturally planned subdivision in some picturesque woods for people with too much money. The type who would build a million-dollar house, refer to it as a ‘cottage,’ stroll outside to be one with nature, and then drive half a mile to buy a ten-dollar cup of special coffee.”
Derek rolled his eyes.
“In the last couple of decades, all the rich people moved back into the city for safety, and now there’s a farming community there. Mostly the houses sit on five acres or so, and it’s all gardens and orchards. It’s nice. We went there for the peach festival in June.”
“Without me.”
I gave him my hard look. “You were invited. As I recall, you had ‘something to take care of’ and decided to do that instead.”
“It must’ve been important.”
“Have you thought about investing in a cape? As much time as you spend running around the city righting wrongs, it would come in handy.”
“Not a cape guy.”
The Jeep rolled over the waves made in the pavement by thick roots, probably from one of the tall oaks flanking the road. Before the Shift, this trip would’ve taken us roughly half an hour. Now we were almost two hours into it. We drove down I-85, which with all the traffic and problems took us about ninety minutes, and were now weaving our way west on South Fulton Parkway.
“He’s landing,” Derek announced.
“Oh goody.”
Ahead, Teddy Jo swooped down. For a moment he hung silhouetted against the bright sky, his black wings open wide, his feet only a few yards above the road, a dark angel born in a time when people left blood as an offering to buy their dearly departed safe passage to the afterlife.
“Show-off,” Derek murmured.
“Green doesn’t look good on you.”
Teddy Jo lowered himself onto the road. His wings folded and vanished into a puff of black smoke.
“Do you know what he is when he’s flying?” Derek asked.
“No, enlighten me.”
Derek smiled. It was a very small smile, baring only an edge of a fang. “He’s a nice big target. You can shoot him right out of the sky. Where is he going to hide? He’s six feet tall and has a wingspan the size of a small airplane.” Derek chuckled quietly.
You could take the wolf out of the woods, but he would always be a wolf.
I parked by Teddy Jo and opened the door. A blast of sound from the enchanted water engine assaulted my ears.
“Leave it running,” Teddy Jo screamed over the noise.
I grabbed my backpack and stepped out of the Jeep. Derek exited on the other side, moving with fluid grace. We took a right onto a side road and followed Teddy Jo, leaving the snarling Jeep behind.
The trees overshadowed the road. Normally the woods were quiet, but this was the summer of the seventeen-year cicada brood. Every seventeen years, the cicadas emerged in massive numbers and sang. The chorus was so loud, it screened all normal forest noises, distorting birdsong and squirrel chittering into odd alarming sounds.
A hastily erected sign by the side of the road announced, STAY OUT BY ORDER OF THE FULTON COUNTY SHERIFF.
Underneath was written, COY PARKER, YOU CROSS THIS LINE AGAIN, I’LL SHOOT YOU MYSELF. SHERIFF WATKINS.
“Who’s Coy Parker?”
“Local daredevil kid. I had a chat with him. He didn’t see anything.”
Something about the way Teddy Jo said that told me Coy Parker wasn’t about to poke his nose into this mess again.
“Why didn’t they post guards?” Derek asked.
“They’re stretched too thin,” Teddy Jo said. “They’ve got five people for the whole county. And there isn’t much to guard.”
“What’s all this about?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” Teddy Jo said.
The road curved to the right and brought us to a long street. Driveways peeled away from the road, each leading to a house on about a five-acre lot. Tall fences flanked the houses, some wood, some metal, topped with razor wire. Here and there a wrought iron fence allowed for a glimpse of a garden. With transportation chains disrupted by the Shift, a lot of people turned to gardening. Small farms like this sprang up all around Atlanta, sometimes in the city, but more often just on the outskirts.
It was quiet. Too quiet. This time of day, there should have been normal life noises: kids screaming and laughing, dogs barking, enchanted water engines growling. The whole street was steeped in silence, except for the horny cicadas singing up a storm. It was creepy.
Derek inhaled and crouched low to the ground.
“What is it?” I asked.
His upper lip trembled. “I don’t know.”
“Pick a house,” Teddy Jo said, his face devoid of all expression.
I turned down the nearest driveway. Derek took off down the street at what for him was an easy run and for most people would’ve been an impossible sprint. A wolf could smell its prey from almost two miles away. A shapeshifter during its lifetime cataloged thousands of scent signatures. If Derek wanted to track something, I wouldn’t stand in his way.
I scrutinized the house. Bars on the windows. Solid walls. A good post-Shift home: secure, defensible, no-nonsense. A narrow crack separated the edge of the solid blue door from the doorframe. Unlocked. I pushed it with my fingertips, and the door swung open on well-oiled hinges. The stench of rotting food wrapped around me. I stepped inside. Teddy Jo followed.
The house had an open floor plan, with the kitchen off to the left and a living room space to the right. On the far left, behind the kitchen and the island, a table stood with the remnants of someone’s breakfast on it. I moved closer. A glass bottle of maple syrup and plates with what might have been waffles covered with fuzz.
No proverbial signs of struggle. No blood, no bullet holes, no claw marks. Just an empty house. A street of empty houses. My stomach sank.
“Are all the rest like this?”
Teddy Jo nodded. He stayed at the entrance to the room, as if not wanting to enter the space. There was something disturbing about it, as if the air itself were solid and still. This was a dead house. I didn’t know how I knew it, but I felt it. Its people had died, and the heart of the home had died with them.
“How many?”
“The whole subdivision. Fifty houses. Two hundred and three people. Families.”
Damn.
What could do this? Had something compelled them to abandon their breakfast and simply walk out? A number of creatures could put humans under their control, most of them water-b
ased. A Brazilian encantado could probably enchant an entire family. A strong human mage with a focus in telepathy might be able to keep four people under and make them obey his commands. Let’s say someone walked these people out of their house. Then what?
Outside I took a deep breath. Derek sauntered over.
“How are you involved in this?” I asked.
“I was called,” Teddy Jo said.
Ah. A Greek family had prayed to him, probably offered a sacrifice. In the old days it would’ve been a slave. Now it had probably been a deer or a cow.
“I drank the blood,” he said.
A pact had been made. He’d accepted their offering, and that obligated him to do something in return.
“What did they want?”
His voice was hollow. “They asked if their son was dead. He was supposed to get married on Saturday. He and his fiancée didn’t show. They became worried and came to check on them on Sunday. They found this. The family called the sheriffs. They are coming today to process the scene. That’s why we had to get here before they did.”
“What about their son?” Derek asked.
“Alek Katsaros is dead,” Teddy Jo said. “But I can’t return his remains to his family.”
“Why?” This was what he did. If a human of his faith or of Greek descent died, Thanatos would know exactly where his body fell.
“I’ll explain on the way.”
“Before we go,” Derek said, “there’s something I need you to see.”
I followed him to the back. A furry brown body lay behind the wrought iron fence. A shaft thrust out of the dead dog’s eye.
“Almost everyone had dogs,” Derek said. “They’re all like that. One shot, one kill.”
Shooting with a bow and arrow was an acquired skill that required a lot of practice. Shooting a dog with an arrow through the eye from a distance large enough that the dog didn’t freak out at the sight or scent of a stranger was just about impossible. It would have to be a one-of-a-kind virtuoso shot. Andrea, my best friend, could do it, but I didn’t know of anyone else who could.
I went back inside and let myself into the backyard. Neat rows of strawberry bushes with the last berries of the season dark red, past the point of picking. A little wooden wagon with a doll inside. My heart squeezed itself into a tight, painful ball. There used to be young children here.
Derek hopped the six-foot fence—razor wire and all—like it was nothing and landed next to me. His gaze snagged on the doll. A pale-yellow fire rolled over his eyes.
I crouched by the dog, a big shaggy mutt with a lab’s goofy face. Flies buzzed around the body, swarming on the blood seeping through the wound and the shaft in his left orbit.
It was an arrow, not a crossbow bolt, with a wooden shaft and fletched with pale-gray feathers. Old school. Arrows weren’t bullets. Their trajectory was a lot more arched. The arrow would rise a few inches, then fall, and considering the dog’s reaction time, the shooter had to be around . . . thirty-five yards away. Give or take.
I turned. Behind me a large oak spread its branches just outside the fence.
Derek followed my gaze, took a running start across the garden, jumped, and bounced into the oak branches. He came back a moment later.
“Human,” he said. “And something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
The hair on his arms was standing up. Whatever it was, it didn’t smell right.
“What kind of scent is it?”
He shook his head. “The wrong kind of scent. Never smelled it before.”
Not good.
I glanced at Teddy Jo. “Do you have more to show me?”
“Follow me.”
We left the subdivision behind and got back to the Jeep. Teddy Jo got into the passenger seat. “Keep going down the parkway.”
I did.
The archers killed the dogs first. That was the most likely scenario. Unless they just hated dogs for some odd reason, it was done to keep the animals from barking. That put a hole into my mind-control theory. A creature or a human with the ability to subdue the will of others probably wouldn’t have bothered with dogs.
A kitsune might’ve made sense in an odd way. People disagreed on whether kitsune were actual magic animals, fox-spirits, or shapeshifters, but everyone agreed kitsune were trouble. They originated in Japan, and the older they got, the stronger their powers grew. They could weave illusions and influence dreams, and they hated dogs. But kitsune were physically foxes, with that unmistakable scent even in human form.
“Did you smell any foxes?” I asked.
“No,” Derek said.
Scratch that theory.
Ahead a road cut through a low hill to the right, ending in the parkway.
“Turn here,” Teddy Jo said.
I made the turn. The Jeep rolled over the old road, careening over the bumps. Ahead a huge building squatted, pale and windowless. A hole gaped in the roof.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Old Walmart distribution center.”
Derek jerked his door open and leaped out of the Jeep. I slammed on the brakes. He bent over the side of the road and retched.
“Are you okay?” I yelled.
“Stench,” he ground out, and retched again.
I shut off the Jeep. The sudden quiet was deafening. I didn’t smell anything out of the ordinary.
Quiet. Where the hell were the cicadas?
Derek came back to the Jeep. I tossed him a rag to wipe his mouth.
“This way.” Teddy Jo started up the road toward the warehouse.
We caught up with him. He pulled a small tub of VapoRub from his pocket and held it out to me.
“You’ll need it.”
I smeared some under my nose and gave it back. Teddy Jo offered it to Derek, who shook his head.
About twenty feet from the warehouse, the reek washed over me: oily, nasty, tinged with sulfur, the stench of something rotting and awful. It cut through the VapoRub like the ointment wasn’t even there. I almost clamped my hand over my mouth.
“Fuck.” Derek stopped to dry heave.
Teddy Jo’s face was made of stone.
We kept going. The stench was impossible now. Every breath I took was like inhaling poison.
We rounded the building. A glossy puddle spread in front of us, large enough to be a pond. Translucent, grayish beige, it flooded the entire back parking lot. Some sort of liquid . . . No, not liquid. Jellied like a layer of agar, and where the sun hit it just right, making it glow slightly, chunks of something solid darkened it.
I knelt by it.
What the hell was I looking at? Something long and stringy . . .
It hit me.
I spun around and ran. I made it five yards before the vomit tore out of me. At least I got far enough away to not contaminate the scene. I retched everything out and then dry heaved for another minute or two. Finally, the spasms died.
I turned. From this point I could still see it, a clump within the solid gel. Human scalp, the brown hair braided and tied with a pink scrunchie. The kind a child might wear.
The thin mask that made Teddy Jo human tore. Wings burst out of his shoulders, and when he opened his mouth, I glimpsed fangs. His voice made me want to curl into a ball. It was suffused with old magic and filled with raw, terrible grief.
“Somewhere in there is Alek Katsaros and Lisa Winley. His future wife. I can feel him, but he’s spread through the whole of it. I cannot bring him back to his family. He is lost. They are all lost in this mass grave.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He turned to me, his eyes completely black. “I can tell the cause of death at a glance. It is who I am. But I do not understand this. What is this?”
Derek’s face was terrible. “Is this vomit? Did
something eat them all and regurgitate?”
I had a sick feeling I knew exactly what it was. I walked along the perimeter of the puddle. It looked about two feet deep at its center, settled into a pothole in the uneven parking lot that had sunk in due to rain and neglect. It took me four tries to circle the puddle, mostly because I had to stop and dry heave. I peered at the clumps of hair and loose gobs of flesh.
I’d witnessed plenty of violence and gore, but this was on another level. This was very high on the list of things I wished I had never seen. My chest hurt just from looking at it. I swallowed bile.
“What are you looking for?” Thanatos asked me in his arcane voice.
“It’s what I’m not finding. Bones.”
He stared at the gel. A muscle in his face jerked. He opened his mouth and screamed. It was not any sound a human could make, a cutting shriek, part eagle, part dying horse, part nothing I had ever heard.
Derek spun to me, a question on his face.
“It’s not the vomit of some monster,” I told him. “Someone boiled them.”
Derek recoiled.
I could barely speak. “They boiled them until their flesh fell off, extracted the bones, then dumped the broth here. And whatever they put into that liquid is either magic or poison. There are no flies and no maggots. There are no insects around it, period. I don’t hear a single cicada. All of those people and their children are in that.”
Derek squeezed his hands into fists. A ragged snarl tore out of him. “Who? Why?”
“That’s what we’ll have to find out.” And when I found them, they would wish they had been boiled instead.
CHAPTER
2
I DROVE BACK to the subdivision. The phone in the first house worked, and I dialed Biohazard’s number with Luther’s extension from memory. I could’ve just reported the whole thing to the front desk, but this was bad enough that I had to cut through the red tape.
The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
Come on, Luther.
The line clicked. “What?” Luther’s irritated voice said.
“It’s me.”
“Whatever it is, Unclean One, I don’t have time for it. I have important wizarding to do—”
Magic Triumphs (Kate Daniels) Page 2
