Dark Moon Wolf

by Sarah E Stevens

  ****

  Sheila and I must have met our capacity for stress and worry, because we tacitly avoided talking about anything involving the mafia, murder, Werewolves, or Witches during our shopping jaunt. We went back to the large store where Sheila had shopped the night before to pick up her supplies for dreamwalking. We chatted for a few minutes about Sheila’s latest dating exploits—Bryan was already history—and dropped a couple of quarters in the slot machines. Yes, the store had slot machines. Only in Vegas. Sheila complained good-naturedly about some of her summer session students, who had apparently registered for her classes thinking Rhetoric and Persuasion meant an excuse to argue. She often complained about teaching, but it didn’t fool me: she thrived in the classroom.

  I laughed nearly uncontrollably at Sheila’s story of a seventeen-year-old student hitting on her—he’d thought it was a turn-on to unbutton his shirt while asking if she was a “cougar”—when my phone rang.

  I grabbed it from my pocket, then relaxed as I saw my mom calling.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said and waved Sheila to silence. She proceeded to dance around, making funny faces, and causing Carson to scream with laughter, almost as disruptive as a crying fit. I didn’t mind, though, because after a short and stilted conversation with my mom, I made my excuses and hang up.

  Nonetheless, my happy-go-lucky mood had been disrupted by the juxtaposition of my mother asking normal parental questions while I continued subterfuge and pretended I wasn’t stalking the mafia around Las Vegas and my bloodline didn’t somehow contain Were ancestry.

  We paid for our purchases and walked out to the car. I was still in deep thought and Sheila sensitive to my mood—or lost in thought of her own.

  As we drove down the street back toward the hotel, I saw something that made me pull over quickly and stop the car.

  “What are we doing?” Sheila asked.

  “A library,” I said, already opening my door. “Let’s just go in for a few minutes and see what kind of information we can dig up on the Las Vegas mafia.”

  Sheila unbuckled Carson and followed me dubiously.

  “Sheila.” I looked at my friend in exasperation. “We might learn something helpful.”

  Within five minutes, I had Sheila parked in front of a computer scrolling down webpages about the Vegas mafia as I hurried to grab a few books off the shelves. Carson happily waved a little slip of scrap paper around, which was fine with me as long as he didn’t try to eat it.

  While I perused a short stack of books, Sheila kept up a running—whispered—commentary about what she found on the internet.

  “Wow, look at this, an abstract of a paper about women in the mafia: ‘Wom/in: Gender Difference in the Mafia.’ Huh, it analyzes a few movies, one of which takes place in Las Vegas…”

  “Sheila. Focus. We’re not researching for a conference paper, you know.”

  “Right,” she said, but she continued skimming the article.

  I flipped through my own finds: Casinos, Money-Laundering, and The Mafia, Rise and Fall of the Lansky Family, and The Stardust: From Mob to Money-Maker. It didn’t take long before I’d gleaned the salient points.

  “Well.” I pushed back from the table and plucked Carson from Sheila’s lap. “According to the FBI, there’s much less mafia activity in Las Vegas since 1994 or so. At least, the last big roundups they discuss were in the 1980s, when they arrested a number of family heads in the Midwest—Cleveland, Chicago, Milwaukee, Kansas City—affiliated with the crime in Vegas. Whatever’s going on now seems more underground, not like the good old days of mob-operated casinos and money-laundering.”

  “So what does that tell us?” Sheila asked.

  “Well, if the mafia is low key, then it’s improbable they have the police completely in their pocket. Meaning we don’t have to worry about police investigating the…murder…of that guy last night and tracing it to us. It’s also interesting so many of the mafia families are national. I never thought about mob families from places like Milwaukee being involved in the scene here.”

  Sheila nodded. “Did you find anything about the Japanese mafia? The Yakusa?”

  “Nope. Nothing. Looks like, if anything, we’re dealing with plain old homegrown organized crime.”

  I frowned as a thought occurred to me. “It seems odd the mafia would be quiescent since the mid-1990s, when Las Vegas used to be such a profitable base.”

  I met Sheila’s eyes. “Maybe this,” I gestured vaguely, “is part of a new power play by one of the families.”

  Sheila nodded, slowly, and we filed back to the car.

  ****

  I must admit my body tensed as we approached the motel. I tried not to imagine all the things that could have gone wrong while we were away. We didn’t even have a chance to knock on the door, because Eliza opened it as we approached.

  “Super Were senses strike again?” I joked in relief.

  “You know it, human.” Eliza grinned. She continued in a near-whisper, “Tim’s back and taking a power nap.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Should we go into the…other room?” The murder room? The bloody room?

  Sheila seemed to share my thoughts. “Actually, Eliza, how about Jules and I go pick up some sandwiches for lunch? Then we can check into our new hotel and I can get to work.”

  “Hey, Eliza,” I said, “how strong is Tim, anyway? I’ve been meaning to ask for a while.”

  She shrugged. “Strong enough. Waxing moon, mid-range for that. Not as strong as me, of course.”

  Of course. Sheila smiled at her in shared kinship. I tried not to roll my eyes at either of my supernaturally-oh-so-powerful friends.

  We dilly-dallied during the lunch errand, trying to give Tim enough time to recuperate, and returned with a box full of sandwiches, chips, and pickles. Tim sat up as we entered the room.

  “Do I smell roast turkey?” he asked, through a slight yawn. He looked a bit worse for the wear, his baby-face droopy with fatigue.

  “Sure thing, handsome,” said Sheila, plopping the box of sandwiches down on the bed. “We got turkey, ham, and roast beef. Take your pick.”

  Diving into the food, Tim emerged with a foot-long turkey sub, a bag of cheddar-flavored chips, and a soda. He barely waited to unwrap the food before biting into it.

  “What, no rabbits last night?” Eliza took her own sandwich.

  Huh? Oh. More wolf jokes.

  Tim didn’t dignify her with a response, but tore another mouthful off his sub. Sheila watched him and I had a hard time reading her expression. Perhaps, incredulity regarding his lack of table manners? Or maybe she just wondered how the night’s exploits went, because she proceeded to ask, “Did everything go okay? Car and body disposed of?”

  Tim nodded, then swallowed before speaking, “Yes. I took them about twenty miles out of town, into an area with multiple gulches—dry gulches at this time of year.”

  “And you ran back twenty miles?” Sheila’s eyes remained fixed on him. He glanced at her and nodded with a shrug.

  As Tim finished his food and then some, and the rest of us ate our sandwiches, we filled him in on the rest of the day’s plans.

  “So,” I said. “I guess the next question is: where should we stay? Do you know of any other decent motels?” I directed the question to Tim.

  “Actually,” and Tim smiled with a rakish grin completely at odds with his normal expression, “we’re moving to the Bellagio.”

  As the three of us stared at him blankly, he explained his logic. First, as an upscale, tourist hotel on the Strip, the Bellagio was the opposite of the places we’d stayed up to this point, which might throw our enemies off the scent. Uh, literally. Second, we needed to stay somewhere where a casual scenting of our group wouldn’t automatically scream, “Here are the council investigators.” If we stayed at the Bellagio, anyone noticing us would naturally assume we were there to enjoy Las Vegas, not to hunt rogue Weres and the mafia. Third, the Bellagio was the type of high-class hotel where we could come and g
o as we pleased without worrying about bellboys or others gossiping about us. We’d be just one more group of tourists at the casino and, after all, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

  I must admit the idea of staying someplace like the Bellagio greatly appealed to me. Aside from the monetary aspect of things. But when I brought up the issue of money, Tim waved his hand and said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll expense it.”

  I looked at him askance. “Even for us? Even though the council doesn’t even know we’re helping with the investigation?”

  He nodded and I decided not to question him any further. Hell, it was the Bellagio.

  ****

  So, that’s how our mongrel group of two Werewolves, a Witch, a human, and a Were pup in the midst of throwing a I’m-too-tired-but-I-don’t-want-to-nap fit ended up checking into the Bellagio. Tim booked us into two adjoining suites, under assumed names of course. To call the Bellagio a “hotel”—or any other word applicable to our previous rooms—was to confuse filet mignon with ground chuck. From the time we drove up to the entrance and viewed the famous dancing fountains, to the time I gawked at the marble entryway, the huge Chihuly blown-glass flowers on the ceiling, and the sweeping interior staircases, to the time I threw open the door to the first suite, I felt like I stepped farther and farther into a fairytale. In a totally different way than finding out about Werewolves.

  “Wow,” I said, profound as usual. Our suite—the one for me and Eliza—had two bedrooms and a large living room complete with leather couches, entertainment system, and a fully-equipped kitchenette. The bathroom, practically as big as the living room, contained a huge sunken tub and a separate glassed-in shower with slate walls. And about ten million huge, soft, white towels that, I swear, smelled slightly of cinnamon. In terms of square footage, it probably put my little house in Jacksonville to shame.

  A door in the living room—a beautiful door partially concealed by all sorts of moldings—led to the suite next door and so I knocked. Sheila opened the other side and quirked her mouth to one side.

  “Jules,” she said, “do stop drooling and pretend you’ve stayed in classy hotels before.” She raised her eyebrows in mockery.

  “Ha, ha. Anyway, are you sure you’ll be all right staying in the other suite with,” I lowered my voice, “Tim?”

  “There are two bedrooms, you know,” Sheila said, with a teasing note in her voice.

  “That’s not what I mean—”

  “I know. But, seriously, at this point I think we have to trust him. If he were out to betray us, he could have done it several times by now. Instead, he’s been nothing but helpful.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.”

  “So,” Sheila shifted tone yet again, “time for me to work.”

  ****

  Carson conked out for a nap almost instantaneously, so I left the adjoining door open and gathered with the others in the second suite. Sheila knelt on the floor to set out the items we bought earlier on our shopping jaunt. She commandeered a glass coffee table as her workspace and, so far, had created a circle of stubby white candles. In the center of the circle, she set the same metal bowl she’d used last night and filled it halfway with mineral water.

  Sheila set about tearing the petals off the potted geranium we’d bought. Its white and pink varicolored flowers looked very pretty as Sheila dropped them into the water. Our Witch next took a coil of copper wire, heavy gauge we’d bought at the hardware store, and laid it in a circle surrounding her candles. She crossed the ends of the wire carefully and joined them with a quick twist of her wrist. Next to her setup, she carefully placed five safety pins.

  I snorted. Since one of the pins was for Carson, Sheila had been adamant we buy those childproof ones with the plastic tops shaped like animals. When I questioned her choice, she’d replied haughtily her spells would work on anything. We just needed a focus to attach to ourselves.

  “Okay, folks.” Sheila pulled her hair back and tucked it behind her ears. “This won’t be much of a show, but I do need to focus so your silence is appreciated.”

  The rest of us settled back comfortably and waited. Sheila struck a match and lit the candles, starting at the twelve o’clock position and moving clockwise until all six were lit. Then she picked up a wooden chopstick and stirred the mixture of geranium petals and water. Three times clockwise, one time counterclockwise. Over and over, she repeated the pattern until I lost track of the repetitions. Then she set down the chopstick—outside her copper circle, of course—and leaned forward to blow. Instead of blowing on the water itself, as she had last night, she blew forcefully from the center of the circle out, several times in various directions. She blew well above the candles, of course, so although their flames danced slightly, none guttered. She tilted her head back and blew three times toward the ceiling. Then, she laid her hands on either side of the copper circle, like a set of parenthesis. She closed her eyes and the room was perfectly silent for several minutes. I looked at Tim and Eliza, watching this performance with equal fascination. Eliza caught my gaze and smiled, moving her shoulders as if to say, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Sheila sat back, eyes open but still intent upon her geranium stew. Daintily and with seriousness that utterly belied the ridiculous look of the safety pins, she picked up each pin, turned it in her fingers, and dropped it into the water. Picking up the chopstick, she stirred again, this time starting with a counter-clockwise motion and ending with clockwise. After doing this a number of times—again, I lost track—she put down the chopstick and blew out her candles, starting with the last lit and proceeding to the twelve o’clock position.

  “There,” she announced, relaxing back on her heels. “Now, each of you needs to pick up your own safety pin from the water. Try to touch only the pin you take. Here, I’ll go first.” She deftly reached into the water and snagged a safety pin with a big, white sheep on the end. “Don’t dry it off, let it air dry.”

  Eliza went next, peering into the bowl and picking a pin that sported a brown dog’s head. Tim followed suit and ended up with a pink pig. My safety pin had a Holstein cow—actually, it looked a lot like Carson’s car seat cover. One yellow ducky pin remained in the bowl and I queried, “So, Carson needs to pick up his own pin?”

  Sheila frowned. “Well, yes. Or at least, that would be best.”

  “What if he spills the whole thing, does it matter?” I frowned at the bowl dubiously.

  “Well…” Sheila pursed her lips. “I forgot about the four-month-old factor. Since you’re his mother and you share blood and body, it will probably be okay for you to take it for him. That’s better than the bowl spilling, anyway. I need to dump the petals and water into the earth.”

  “Into the earth? Are you kidding?” I said. “We’re in Vegas, on the Strip. There’s probably not a square foot of non-concrete-covered dirt within blocks of us.”

  “Not so,” Sheila said, triumphantly. “There’s a botanical garden right here in the Bellagio.”

  Geez. Only in Vegas.

  For the safety of the ritual bowl, I pulled Carson’s pin carefully from the water. I didn’t pin it on myself, per Sheila’s instructions, but after it dried, I put it in my pocket to pin onto Carson’s outfit as soon as he woke up. I pinned my own cow on to the underside of my shirt, near my neck.

  “Hey, Sheila, how exactly does this work, anyway? In what way will it protect us? Repel bullets, make us invisible?” I asked.

  Sheila rolled her eyes. “It’s subtle, not something as dramatic as that. Mostly, it’ll serve to distract the eye or attention of anyone wishing you harm. The charm may interfere with their aim, if they shoot at you, but it certainly won’t actually repel a bullet. It will also increase your…I guess you’d say your ability to attract good luck, which can definitely be useful in a dangerous encounter.”

  “Huh.” The little safety pin didn’t look capable of doing any of that. Frankly, I’d rather have a force field that stopped bullets, but I guess you take what you can
get.

  Eliza looked at her little pin with more respect and attached it to herself, as did Tim.

  “Well,” Sheila picked up her bowl, “I think I’ll go and empty this in the botanical gardens. Jules, do you want to come with me?”

  I hesitated for a moment, thinking of Carson, but realized Eliza and Tim could watch him just as well as I—actually, probably better. I wanted to see the rest of the Bellagio. Besides, maybe I’d drop a quarter or two into the slot machines; test this little safety pin’s luck.

  Sheila and I set off for the gardens, with strict instructions for one of the Weres to call my cell phone if Carson woke up or if anything else happened. Frankly, we all felt equal parts exhaustion after our rough night and impatience to do something, to take action that would allow us to find Kayleigh. We had agreed, however, that without any other clues, we’d never find Kayleigh by driving around randomly. Waiting for Sheila to talk to her tonight was our best recourse.

  The gardens were beautiful. If I’d been trying to dispose of some magical water in such a place, I probably would have skulked in with the bowl hidden and tried to empty it behind a tree or something. Because of my attempt at surreptitiousness, I would probably have been confronted by some employee of the Bellagio and thrown out of the hotel. Sheila, on the other hand, waltzed into the gardens with the bowl held front and center, dazzled everyone with her smile, and then held the bowl up high before slowly, dramatically pouring out its contents. Her performance garnered confused looks, a few smiles, and even applause from one attractive man who then moved in quickly to chat her up. She talked to him for a few minutes, tossed her hair back and laughed at some not-so-clever joke, and then took her leave with a squeeze of his arm and a wink. A master of friendly rejection that was our Sheila.