Street Spells: Seven Urban Fantasy Shorts

by Aimee Easterling

  “No reason to name livestock,” the rancher answered gruffly. “I know who’s who without names.”

  Still, his hand fell to the doe’s head, rough nails artfully scratching just the right locations to soothe the new mother as he sang her praises in words more effusive than he probably meant them to be. “This girl here is the herd’s best milker,” he explained proudly. “Her daughters are prize winners. I sell her sons for a pretty penny as breeding bucks.”

  I smiled, seeing no reason to gainsay him. Joe wouldn’t name his livestock...but he could clearly tell each one apart and valued their lives as well as their financial worth.

  So I left them there, animal husbander and his charges. Washed my hands, wiped dirty feet in dewy grass, then slipped back into my tent to sleep.

  And when I woke the next morning, I was more relaxed than I’d been in ages. The world outside my tent was foggy and perfect, spring grass soft against my feet. I needed to pee, but I didn’t head toward the outhouse the rancher had pointed out earlier. I wanted to take a gander at the newborn twins instead.

  Baby goats, I knew, were extremely precocious. So I fully expected to see bouncing kidlets the instant I walked through the kidding-stall door.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t make it that far. Instead, when I slipped inside the barn proper, what met my eyes was carnage. Blood sprayed across the walls, corpses on the ground, nothing left alive.

  And right smack dab in the middle of everything, a clear footprint. Oval-shaped and obviously canine, with nail imprints at the end of each toe pad.

  Joe’s goats had been systematically slaughtered, and the culprit could be nothing other than a wolf.

  Chapter 4

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I told my boss over the phone an hour later. “Wolves don’t slaughter without eating. A four-footed animal couldn’t do all that damage then leave and close the door.”

  “Give the guy his kill permit,” Charlotte countered. “We’re not paid enough to deal with psychopaths. Chances are, Mr. Smithfield won’t even be able to track down a wolf during the permitted week.”

  Usually I would have agreed with her. The animals I studied were rare and elusive. They were far more afraid of people than we were of them.

  Still, I’d studied the map and 257’s den was only a mile and a half from this rancher’s barn as the crow flies. My favorite wolf and her mate were busy raising four beautiful puppies. I wasn’t willing to risk an angry goat-keeper tracking down the family unit and slaughtering each member as they slept.

  “I need you to...” my boss started. But the sound of tires on gravel gave me an excuse to cut her off before she could shut the entire operation down.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I interrupted. “I’ll get back to you later this afternoon.” Then I ended the call...but I didn’t turn off the phone.

  Instead, I poked up my email, opened the address book, and found the entry I’d switched from device to device for sixteen years without once drafting a message to send out.

  Or, okay, so that last part’s a lie. During weak moments in the wee hours, I’d written up several potential missives. Had asked whether my memories were cockeyed or whether, perhaps, Chase really was finding a new home for himself and his pack mates.

  I hadn’t sent a single email though. So I didn’t expect the kid from the club to remember me, or for his email address to be viable so many years after the fact.

  Still, instinct told me to contact him. And, science or no science, when my subconscious nudged I obeyed.

  “This is Sienna—aka Angel,” I started, typing awkwardly with my index finger rather than with two thumbs as an adept might do. I’d never really gotten the hang of texting, preferred my computer for emails. But I hadn’t bothered to pack the larger device when I came to check out Joe’s ranch, so awkward phone screens it was.

  “There are strange things happening at the goat farm I’m staying on,” I continued. “Animals slaughtered but not eaten. Corpses in strange locations. All mixed up with the print of a wolf. Any advice would be greatly appreciated.” Then, after a moment of consideration, I typed in the rancher’s address.

  The slam of a truck door prevented me from reading over my message a second time. Voices outside the barn reminded me that what I chose to do today needed to assuage the rage of a rancher far too grounded to believe in fairy tales.

  So I didn’t try to ferret out why I was emailing someone who existed only in my daydreams. The message would bounce, I figured, and then I’d finally know that werewolves didn’t exist.

  I couldn’t bear the inevitable error message, though. Not after waking this morning to an ocean of blood and devastation.

  So I slipped the phone into my pocket without waiting for an answer. Pulled on my hiking boots. Went to help the rancher and his neighbor clean out the charnel house that had previously been an airy and well-lit goat barn.

  “SOMETIMES CUTTING YOUR losses isn’t a failure.” The neighbor was young and handsome...and something about him rubbed me entirely the wrong way. Maybe it was the fact that Roman was well aware of his own studliness, or maybe it was how he never quite managed to pull his weight as we heaved goat bodies onto the tailgate of the rancher’s pickup truck.

  I mean, my height was a mere five feet four inches. Why was I the one getting the wobbly heads halfway up the truck bed while the neighbor’s tail ends always ended up teetering precariously over the edge? No wonder the cleanup job had taken all morning rather than a mere fraction of that time period. No wonder the rancher and I were both smeared in blood...while the neighbor was relentlessly pristine.

  I tucked another set of rigid hind legs onto the growing pile of bodies then turned to see how Joe would react to such an incendiary statement. I had a feeling he wasn’t a fan of giving up.

  Sure enough, the rancher’s voice was deeply dangerous when he growled out an answer. “My daddy and granddaddy ran this ranch for as long as I can remember. Most of the stock got out safely. I can still make this operation work.”

  He was right too. When I’d first walked through the carnage this morning, I saw no signs of life and assumed every animal on the farm had fallen beneath the fangs of the midnight marauder. But, in actuality, only half a dozen goats had been slaughtered, each one a castrated male—a wether—representing a loss of short-term capital without cutting into the much-touted bloodlines that made this ranch a long-term financial success.

  And the newborn twins? They, their mother, and most of their herd mates were happily out on pasture, skittish but healthy as best we could tell.

  Which begged the question—how had two wobbly-legged youngsters snuck past a latched stall door and a closed barn door while whatever invaded was tearing wethers limb from limb?

  “My offer’s still open,” the neighbor countered, loosening his hold on the buck we were supposed to be heaving into the pickup five seconds before the corpse achieved its goal. I staggered, strained, and barely managed to work my end in before the whole thing slid groundward. “I’ll even go as high as a thousand an acre,” Roman continued. “I know you owe on this farm. It’d be a shame if the bank took it back and sold the place off to a stranger.”

  If werewolves were real, this neighbor would definitely have been the culprit. Because a thousand an acre was chicken scratch compared to what Joe’s land was really worth. I narrowed my eyes, then lost track of the current puzzle as a low-slung convertible turned off the highway and began winding up the long driveway leading toward where we three stood.

  I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the imminent intrusion either. “You expecting someone?” Roman asked. Then his nostrils flared and his voice hardened. “Check your stock,” he flung back over one shoulder while striding toward the four-wheeler he’d parked at the edge of the barn. “And call me if you need me. Kill permit or no kill permit, I’ll help you protect this ranch.”

  Chapter 5

  Roman zipped back down the trail toward his own farm without waiting for an answer
. And instead of scratching my head at his abrupt exit, I understood immediately why Joe’s neighbor had chosen against greeting this particular set of guests.

  Because the car entirely unsuited for rural living slid to a halt five feet from the side of the rancher’s pickup while the receding growl of the neighbor’s four-wheeler was still loud in my ears. Two front doors opened in unison then two tall men stepped out of the convertible, their bodies so large it was hard to believe they’d both fit inside such a small space.

  The passenger was entirely unfamiliar and I wasted little time assessing him. After all, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the driver, whose identity was unmistakable despite the sixteen years since I’d seen him last.

  Chase had bulked up in the interim, had grown into muscles that once existed as mere hints draped across teenage gawkiness. His sandy hair was a little too long for the office, but his slick blazer suggested a white-collar job.

  This was a man confident in his own body rather than a half-formed teenager unsure where to look within a strip club. The sweetness of Chase’s face, however, remained just as I remembered it, as did my impulse to lean forward and breathe in his air.

  Clear blue eyes met mine across the hood of the vehicle, Chase’s nostrils flaring as he took in the pile of death and destruction filling the bed of the pickup truck. But my knight in shining armor didn’t remark upon the carnage. Instead, he reached out to offer up his hand.

  It was a clasp of greeting rather than a handshake. More like closing a circuit and turning on a blinding electric light. The formerly gray morning brightened around us while bird song exploded into existence. There might have even been cartoon bluebirds frolicking around my head.

  “Thanks for emailing, Sienna,” my long-ago rescuer greeted me, as if it hadn’t been a decade and a half since we’d seen each other last.

  The faintest hint of incipient wrinkles at the corners of Chase’s eyes tightened into a smile so warm I wanted to shuck off my coat to better bask in the sunbeam. “Thanks for coming,” I answered. And for the first time in forever, I once again believed in fairy tales.

  UNFORTUNATELY, EVEN the best daydream eventually gives way to reality. “Mmm, dinner,” Chase’s companion growled, padding over to the pickup without bothering to greet either me or Joe. The guy angled his body so only I saw the way he scraped up a trail of dried blood with his thumbnail then popped it into his mouth to savor the coppery tang.

  So, definitely a werewolf. And not one I wanted to have at my back either.

  But before I could comment upon the stranger’s lack of humanity, Joe was turning toward me, his disinterest in uninvited guests proving him a rancher to the core. “The kill permit,” he demanded, Roman’s parting comment having reminded him of a request I’d hoped was water over the dam.

  “Do you really think that’s the solution...?” I started, only to be interrupted by Chase.

  “How much for that small one over in the corner?” my one-time-savior interjected, pointing at a red-spotted wether that had only reached half of its adult bulk before being slaughtered in the night.

  And even though Joe castrated his excess males and raised them for the meat market, I could tell that his rancher sentiments were a little shaken when the nameless shifter added, “Yes, that one definitely smells the best.”

  “Smells?” Joe started, but then he shook his head and turned back to me. “If you need evidence, you’ve got evidence. My goats were killed by a wolf. Do I have to call your supervisor to make you do your job?”

  Now I was the one wincing. Charlotte had outright ordered me to grant this guy his kill permit and high-tail it out of here. She’d been about to send me off on another assignment when I hung up on her. So I was definitely walking on thin ice at work....

  “Look,” I started. And this time I was glad when Chase nudged me aside so his companion could reach over into the pickup’s bed. Between them, they got hold of the dead animal’s hindquarters then dragged the wether out, heaving it up to drape across the nameless shifter’s neck.

  The goat-carrier was so intensely focused upon his burden that I expected him to start drooling. There was definitely a spark of predatory hunger in his eyes.

  Meanwhile, Chase acted a hair more human as he bartered with the rancher using not-so-well-chosen words. “Two hundred,” the shifter offered. “I would have given you more if you’d gutted it earlier, but stomach acids will already be spoiling the meat.”

  Despite myself, I eased backwards away from the pair of them. When I was nineteen, being saved by a werewolf had seemed romantic. Now, I wasn’t so sure I liked walking on the wild side.

  “These goats were killed by a wild animal,” Joe started gruffly. He was clearly a man of honor, choosing not to foist off unsafe meat on city slickers despite needing the influx of cash.

  “Not a problem,” Chase answered, drawing out his wallet and removing two crisp hundreds. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Oo-kay,” the rancher started.

  But then his eyes slid sideways to the pasture and his muscles tensed visibly. I only realized Joe was counting goat heads when he whipped out his cell phone, tapped on Roman’s image, placed a call.

  “You were right,” Joe growled without preamble. “There was even more damage. I’m down two kids.”

  Chapter 6

  “I can’t believe I wrote out the kill permit,” I berated myself, wiping dust out of my eyes as Joe’s pickup disappeared down the driveway with five rather than six dead goats in the back. The rancher had accepted Chase’s money, but that financial buffer clearly wasn’t sufficient to prevent him from demanding legal paperwork then heading to Roman’s to begin a wolf hunt. 257’s future was looking less and less bright.

  “Irrelevant,” the nameless shifter answered, the cock of his head suggesting he meant the single word to be soothing rather than as abrasive as it initially came across. Like most of the guy’s attempts at appearing human, though, the effort didn’t really work.

  “This is Wolf Young,” Chase interjected, the human-style introduction sitting strangely upon a werewolf who looked one hunger pang away from gnawing on the dead goat still draped across his shoulders. I tried to offer up a smile of greeting, but was pretty sure the effort just made me look like I’d swallowed a bug.

  “Wolfie to my friends,” the latter corrected. He eyed me consideringly, shrugged, then started back toward their vehicle without another word. It was a rental, pristine and perfect. And even though I’m not a car aficionado, I winced as the seeping wether landed on the plush back seat.

  The exchange had left me vaguely nauseated, and at the same time uncertain whether I was meant to call Chase’s friend “Wolfie” or “Wolf.” Which, I guessed, was irrelevant. Because if I wasn’t much mistaken, my favorite wolf’s lair was located in the exact same direction that Joe’s pickup had headed toward....

  “Hey, where are you going?” Chase’s hand landed on my forearm as I turned toward my vehicle, the warm weight sliding back off one second later as if he’d reminded himself that humans don’t grab onto each other the way werewolves might. The contact, though fleeting, woke something deep inside me. Filled my nostrils with the ozone-rich remembrance of a dark alley and an event that had left me wanting to leap and sing.

  It’s just physical attraction, I berated myself, pushing past Chase as I headed toward my own vehicle. The GPS I’d tossed amidst a pile of other gear in the back seat would determine whether my guessed geography was accurate. Ah, here we go.

  I pulled up the map of the area, noted once again how close 257’s lair was to the spot in which I was currently located. Roman’s house stood even closer, though. And, when I toggled on the property-boundary layer, I wished my memory hadn’t been so correct.

  Because the pups I’d observed yesterday were located on state land, of course—I wouldn’t have trespassed while on duty. But Roman’s property line lay no more than fifty feet distant. And what werewolf wouldn’t be aware of other predators de
nning so close to his home turf?

  “TURN HERE,” I TOLD Chase as we approached the locked access road that promised to bring us closer to 257’s lair than Joe and Roman could drive. It hadn’t seemed worth arguing about whose car we were taking earlier, especially when being a passenger meant I could send my boss a quick text message that might eventually cover my butt. Now, though, I second-guessed a ride in the convertible as Chase turned so abruptly the dead goat behind me slid over into Wolf’s—Wolfie’s?—lap with a solid thunk.

  My eyes met his in the rear-view mirror, the werewolf’s mouth widening slightly as blood dribbled down his chin. Had he been snacking while we were riding? Would we disembark and find goat blood soaking his clothes and arms?

  Suddenly, the inside of the car felt infinitely confining, my door flying open before Chase had pulled to a complete stop. Fingers fumbled with the heavy key ring as they searched for the right sliver of metal. And once the lock clicked open and the gate arm swung sideways, it was all I could do to force my feet to carry me back to the car and belt myself in.

  “Straight?” Chased asked as I worked on slowing my breathing. If werewolves could sense distress the way wild animals could, I didn’t want to feed the blood lust of the shifter in the back seat.

  “Yes, straight,” I told him, trying not to wish I’d run for my life while I had the opportunity. But Chase was a good driver, I could say that much about him. Despite the low undercarriage of the convertible, we only scraped bottom once as he dodged potholes and zipped down a road that was really not suitable for two-wheel-drive vehicles. I could feel us gaining on Roman with every mile that passed....