The sarcasm, the humiliation, was too much. Evangelina felt blood boil inside. It felt different from when most people said it. True heat burned something inside her, near the base of her skull. The resulting dark gasses poured from her ear cavities and formed a dark corona, shrouding her entire head. She could still see . . . but what she saw looked different from before. What had been uncertain was now clear, and what had been clear was now dim.
She hissed and pushed off the tree trunk with her hindmost leg pair to assault the warrior.
This time, she used the next two legs forward to stop her trajectory the moment she saw her enemy begin to swing, the pair in front of those--her strongest--to spin her own body around in a shadowy flash, and the front two to swing.
The warrior was quick enough to recover and parry to the left, but the right landed across the chin, and Evangelina felt a thrill as the defender's head spun. She followed up with the four front legs--two to extend and twist the sword arm until the blade fell, one to catch the opponent behind the knees, and the last to push the chest downward and back.
"Unnh!"
Now the same four legs, all driving at the fallen defender's face.
"Arrrgh!"
Her mother's cry broke the spell, and the corona vanished. The aging woman had blood over her face, most of it streaming from her nose. Evangelina scuttled backward, falling over her own tail.
"Evangelina!"
It was Niffer's voice. She twirled and swallowed. It was Niffer! She had seen everything!
Evangelina scrambled to her feet, turned, and began to run. The corona reasserted itself, giving her incredible vision of her surroundings and making her reckless rush a navigable speed. The tree trunks and low branches whistled near her head, and her footsteps thundered in her own ears.
She stopped after a few minutes; and some hours later she returned home to find her mother was more embarrassed and wistful than injured or upset; and days after that the bruises faded from her mother's face; and when a couple of weeks had passed the two of them finally sparred again, each more ready for the other than before; and by six months afterward, Evangelina was sparring two, three, ten opponents at a time, until the entire camp, including the wolves--her whole world, really--was taking her on, and losing.
For some reason, she and Niffer never fought. Not even for fun, not even for practice.
CHAPTER 28
"Thanks for responding to our message."
"Whatever." Susan Elmsmith had a gravel whisper and tired face for thirtysomething. Her clothes were simple and faded, and she sat low in her seat. Two bony hands clutched a murky glass of iced tea.
Upon their arrival, she had not moved her backpack or jacket from the booth seat next to her, so Lue and Mercy had crammed themselves opposite her, while Art found a chair from a nearby table and positioned himself at the end of the table. Even from his position, he only really had a good look at her shoulders and head, both shrouded in dark curls that had lost their shine.
Mercy began. "My first impulse was to dig deeper, locate your address, and have federal agents pick you up. Detective McMahon pointed out that having you meet us, might generate quicker results."
Susan looked at the man Mercy had indicated. "You're McMahon?"
He nodded.
"Detective McMahon, are you aware of the nature of the federal agent you're collaborating with?"
He shrugged and smiled at Mercy. "She appears to have a very results-oriented nature. Our investigation is going well. We're learning a lot."
"How wonderful for you. Have you watched her kill anything yet?"
His eyes narrowed as he looked back at Susan. "No."
Mercy cleared her throat. "Susan, what have you been up to since Saint George's?"
The woman squinted, and a finger rose to twirl a dusty black curl. "Is that why you wanted to meet with me? To bring me back there?"
Lue put a hand on Mercy's shoulder and didn't let her shake it off. "No! As far as anyone beyond the three of us knows, this meeting has not happened. Frankly, from reviewing your file, the reason for your initial commitment is unclear."
"She knows."
Art turned to Mercy, who showed frank surprise.
After a few moments, the woman continued. "Special Agent Mercy March is a federal agent. But not just any kind of federal agent. She's the same type that brought me in the first time. They said I was making too much noise, that I needed someplace quiet. So they kept me quiet."
"Wow," Lue observed. "You sound really paranoid."
The worn-looking woman showed her teeth. "Who was it who said 'perfect paranoia is perfect awareness'? Someone was out to get me, Detective. And get me they did."
"Until you broke out," Art offered.
Her blue eyes settled on him. "Someone broke me out. You're not asking me anything you don't already know. Get to your point."
Lue cleared his throat. "What can you tell us about the woman who freed you?"
"How do you know she's a woman?"
"We have substantial audio recording, and limited video--"
A college-aged waiter with a blond crew cut approached the table. "Ma'am, it looks like the rest of your party is here. Can I interest you in our all-day super-day breakfast specials? Our omelet of the day--"
"I'll stick with the tea."
Lue held up a finger. "Egg white omelet, veggies only, two slices of wheat toast with no butter, and ice water."
"Very healthy." This earned Art a stuck-out tongue.
"You, sir?"
"Coffee. Bacon. Then more bacon."
"Ooookay. I'm guessing nothing in the coffee."
Lue groaned. "I can actually hear your cholesterol convening in your aorta."
"You cannot."
The waiter laughed, then paused his scribbling long enough to turn to Mercy. "And for you, ma'am?"
"Nothing for me, thanks." She turned back to the interview as the waiter darted off. "We know that Ms. Scales is tall, in her late teens or early twenties. Her hair is probably dark, unless she is using dye or a wig. She appears athletic."
"My, my. What a whole lot of nothing."
"Ms. Scales is dangerous," Mercy continued. "If you know where she is, it's in everyone's best interest for you to tell us so we can bring her in safely."
"I've noticed the police always think their best interest is everyone's best interest. Which is hilarious to me. Besides, I doubt she'd think it was in her best interest." Another sip of tea. "In fact, I'm pretty sure she knows her best interest would be if you'd all leave her alone and stop stalking her like criminals yourselves."
"Watch your mouth," Art snapped.
What happened next startled Lue and Mercy into reaching for their guns, though Art remained in his chair with hands folded. The woman's head snapped sharply to the right, she bared her teeth, and her fist came down two inches from his folded hand.
"You're a little young to be minding my manners, Muscles!"
Art stared at her, and she stared back. He could not shake the feeling that he had done something wrong here, but he resolved he'd be damned before backing down.
"Um, Art, do you want to go up front and check out their pie selection?" Lue suggested, leaving his gun in its holster.
"I'm fine here." He stared right through those blue irises, peering at what was beyond. It was she who looked away first.
"Next question."
"You have no idea where Ms. Scales is?" Mercy tried, lamely to Art's ears.
"I didn't say that."
"You won't reveal her location, then?"
"I didn't say I knew it to reveal."
"We don't have time for this . . . and I can't imagine you do," March said.
"Ms. Elmsmith." Lue tried a charming smile. Art had to admit: it felt like their best shot. "You agreed to meet with us. Surely you want to share something with us, or you would have refused in the first place."
This inspired a long sip of tea. "You have all three heard of dragons by now, I assume."
They nodded.
"And the Regiment."
Before Art could answer, Mercy frowned. "What does a regiment have to do with any of this?"
"The Regiment has everything to do with it. Far more than dragons."
"Oh, good. It would be a shame to worry just about dragons."
Elmsmith went on as if Lue hadn't spoken. "In fact, if the Regiment were not here in Minnesota, you would have no investigation at all. Ms. Scales would mean nothing to you. Susan Elmsmith would never have visited the Saint George's facility, which would still be standing. Like my hometown, and my father. Remove the Regiment, and you solve the problem."
Art remained passive and Mercy sighed, but Lue leaned in. "Tell us more about this Regiment."
"It's a specially trained cadre of soldiers--"
"You mean beaststalkers. We've heard of those. Gifted athletes with weapons training involving lots of swords and bows and dead dragons."
"Yes, but more so. There's schooling to become a beaststalker. Above and beyond that, a select few gain the notice of certain authorities. They enter the Regiment, and receive special preparation."
"Preparation for . . . ?"
Susan raised her tea at Mercy. "You're seriously not going to break in here and tell your colleagues what you are? What you do?"
Art watched Mercy carefully. The woman shrugged. "Ms. Elmsmith, I will gladly tell you and my colleagues what I am. I am a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. My office is in Minneapolis, which means I investigate federal crimes across a broad swath of the upper Midwest. My most recent case is a string of murders tied together with some circumstantial evidence. If you require my job description and/or salary, you can find it through the Freedom of Information Act . . ."
"Anyway," Susan said with a roll of her eyes. "Members of the Regiment don't just kill things as a hobby after they come home from their regular job. Killing things is their regular job. Regiment agents are specialists in search-and-destroy missions. They tend to be better armed than your traditional beaststalker. They're not afraid to use guns, even though it still seems counterintuitive to fight firebreathers with explosives, but what do I know? As Regiment ranks have grown, we've heard of some agents specializing less on destruction, and more in fields like infiltration, security, interrogation, or even public relations." She jerked her thumb at Mercy. "Maybe she's one of those PR gals."
Art saw Mercy flush. "Enough about the Regiment," he said. "Tell us about Evangeline Scales."
Susan gave him another look. "I imagine she's exactly where she wants to be. Somewhere you can't reach her, Detective McMahon. Somewhere being dragon is not a secret felony, where she can stretch her wings under a crescent moon, where she can hunt with the packs of newolves, where she can fall in love . . ."
Pushing back his chair, Art slapped the table. "I may look at those pies after all."
Lue held up a hand, distracted. "Hold on, Art. Ms. Elmsmith, you said a phrase in there . . . 'new wolves'?"
Susan looked tentative, as if she had slipped in giving more information than she had intended. "Newolves. One word. Sometimes we just call them 'wolves,' though it's easy to spot the differences."
"What is a . . . newolf, would that be singular?"
"Yes." She looked nervously at Mercy. "I'm not sure I should say any more about those."
Art hissed impatiently. "You obviously want to talk about them. Talk about them!"
Mercy rolled her eyes at Art. "I don't see how it's necessary to badger the woman about something as silly as wolves, Detective. Besides, if she doesn't want to share, I know enough to catch you and Lue up on the topic."
"Really?" Susan's eyes sparkled. "Educate them. I'd love to hear your take."
If Art was any judge, he would have guessed Mercy relished the chance both to contribute to the conversation, and keep Susan engaged. The topic was already boring to him, but he had no choice but to wait if he wanted breakfast.
"Newolves were once companions to dragons, though few now believe any exist. They used to live in and near a long-lost Minnesota town called Pinegrove, as well as several other dragon strongholds masquerading as 'real' towns."
"As opposed to holographic towns?" Susan asked politely, and was ignored.
"According to the few remaining beaststalkers who personally witnessed newolves--no one under sixty has ever reported seeing one, and not even those who have reported have any physical proof of their existence--these creatures had exceptional senses and reflexes, making them fine sentries."
"But what are they? Or were they?" Lue corrected himself, glancing at Art in apology for his interest.
Mercy shrugged. "As Ms. Elmsmith has suggested, they are most likely a type of wolf. Rumors abound: that newolf was a cross between a wolf and something bigger, like a bear; that newolf was rather like a werewolf, except the normal state was a wolf and only a crescent moon could bring out the human shape; that newolf is some sort of romantic myth based on two lovers who mated for life, despite the curses flung their way, including banishment to animal form; that newolf was a purposeful evolutionary experiment by dragons driven by godlike impulses; that newolf is really a shortened version of neo-wolf or neo-evolutionary wolf . . ."
"I've heard that one," Susan interrupted with a smile. "The neo-evolutionary thing. It formed part of my interrogations at Saint George's. You guys in the Regiment believe they can rapidly evolve, more quickly than anything has ever evolved, with significant mutations every one or two generations instead of the gradual process Darwin explains. They stand like humans, turn bulletproof, jump over cities . . . I love that explanation the best! It's a bird, it's a plane, it's a . . . newolf!"
Art slammed his coffee cup in disgust. "Enough! You're playing games with Special Agent March."
"And with Detective Vue; and with you, Detective McMahon," Susan said, stretching her arms over her head and yawning. "I know you're not going to bring me in. I know my capture and my escape was kept quiet, and any chance that my recapture might hit the press--and I assure you it would--can only complicate an investigation that is already confounding law enforcement. How are these dragons dying? you ask yourselves. Why does Evangelina Scales keep chasing them? Where are the missing ones going? All fascinating questions, and you all have better things to do with your time than process paperwork on poor little Susan Elmsmith, who's obviously not a dragon at all!
"So instead of wasting any more of your time," she continued, "I'll make the next step in your investigation easy for you: have an honest discussion with each other, about who you all really are."
They all looked at her, and at each other, each confused for different reasons.
"Look. Maybe none of you are as bad as I think you are. But I've seen a lot worse, going back to my teenaged years, from people I thought were good. Family, friends, authority figures. It all stemmed from dishonesty and keeping secrets. So hear me when I say: until you have the guts to admit the truth to each other, no other truth will find you."
She got up, dropped a couple of bucks next to her tea glass, and left. Art, Lue, and Mercy watched her go, unsure of what to say to each other next.
CHAPTER 29
It took a new crime later that day, for them to begin truly talking to each other again.
Lue had begun wheedling for something he called "second breakfast" when they caught the squeal.
"Got to be, got to be," Lue chanted when they heard the dispatcher. Not that there were many options in a small town at this time of the year--the small children tucked away in small schools, the older children out of town in big schools. Still, he understood why Lue's chanting sounded more hopeful than anything else.
Art responded by wrenching the wheel to the left to beat the light. But Mercy, driving her own car this time, beat him anyway--by three full car lengths.
All three of them were quickly out of their cars and up the sidewalk. Art spotted Evangelina immediately, and a second shape in the distance. He went for Evangelina, b
arking orders he wasn't sure anyone else would truly understand.
As Lue would tell them later, it was a nightmarish replay of the Snapdragon scene . . . time enough for a glimpse of a large black shape, time enough to realize they were seeing enormous black wings, time enough to realize no one was going to catch her, time enough to feel adrenaline shift to gloom.
Art didn't care. Though Lue's lanky shape remained a few steps behind Art's stout sprint, Mercy stayed panting but abreast. They raced up the driveway, passing a fire hydrant and kicking up a blizzard of fallen leaves. The black shape reached the warped pine fence lining two sides of the backyard, curled, flexed, and began to leap.
"Freeze!" Mercy shouted, but Art saved his breath now. He lunged . . . the black shape got even wider . . . and then he smashed against the cedar fence ringing the (presumably dead) victim's yard.
The world actually went away for a moment, then came wavering back along with Mercy's, "Art? You all right? Hold up, let him get a breath. Art?"
He sat up, shook his head, coughed. Lue and Mercy were looking at him with concern; worse, there were at least half a dozen others on the scene by now.
"Dammit, dammit!" Lue was saying . . . shouting, really. "This rerun is getting old, boys and girls!"
"Not exactly a rerun," Art said, still trying to focus. "Did anyone go after the other one?"
"What other one--another dragon?"
That would be a big "no, we didn't, Art." "Not a dragon. Not that shape, anyway. Fast human. Was about thirty yards ahead of Evangelina. Probably male. About six foot four, wearing dark pants and Windbreaker. Minnesota Twins baseball cap, turned backward." He rubbed his forehead. The wooden fence had cracked, but not broken. Fortunately no one seemed to think anything of it--or assumed it had been already cracked.
Mercy was still breathing hard but put up her gun. She made a motion and two patrol officers trotted past them and beyond the fence. "I doubt anyone can catch either of them now. We'll try. Geez, Art. You really committed on that jump."
Evangelina Page 13
