The Hallowed Hunt

by Yasmine Galenorn

  “That’s right before Cassie Longtooth vanished.” I frowned. “This has to be her—what’s her description?”

  “I can do you one better. Here’s her mug shot.” He brought up another window. The woman in the photograph had that lean shifter look, and she was barely five-four. She was also petite, and a bleach-bottle blonde.

  “Can you save that image and email it to Dana Longtooth, Samantha Trifor, and Amanda Skellig? Ask them if that’s who they talked to in the meetings. Don’t bother with Tim. He’s caused enough trouble already.”

  I turned to the others. “If she’s staying with her mother, then we have an address. Even if she’s not, we have somewhere to start. And a name, which helps a lot.”

  “Her mother, Jenna Shields, lives in the Briarcliff District, on Perkins Lane West.” Yutani texted us the name and address. “Finally, a break in at least one of our cases.”

  Herne glanced at the clock. “It’s almost five-thirty. Should we shelve this till tomorrow?” He didn’t sound like he wanted a “Yes” from any of us.

  “The sooner we talk to her, the sooner we can hunt down her daughter,” I said. “I vote for heading over there now. Should we call in advance?”

  “If we do and Natasha’s there, then we’ll chance losing her. I say we just drop in on them.” Herne grabbed his jacket. “Who’s with me?”

  I raised my hand, and Viktor. Yutani volunteered to stay at the office in case we needed him to look up anything. Talia and Angel decided to go home. Talia was trying to sort out the crap with her sister, and Angel was looking worn.

  Herne, Viktor, and I headed out to our cars. We’d meet up there, in case we needed more than one vehicle. I glanced up at the darkening sky as the rain pounded down around me. For once, it felt like we’d been given a gift. I just hoped we were in time to rescue Eleanor before Natasha heard the news reports.

  Chapter Eleven

  The drive up to the Briarcliff District through rush-hour traffic was ever so delightful, I thought. Right up there with getting teeth drilled and having somebody pound on you with a sledgehammer. Though maybe not so much the latter, given the way my bruises still ached from the bomber. I followed Herne, and Viktor was right behind me. As the rain drove down, flooding the gutters, I turned my windshield wipers up to high.

  But the thought that we might be able to find Eleanor raised my spirits. If we could find her and return her to Amanda, it would make the whole miserable week worth it.

  Finally, we were on Magnolia Boulevard, and then came to the turnoff onto West Raye Street. From there, we swung a circular path down to Perkins Lane and eased into the driveway of the waterfront property belonging to Jenna Shields. It was a small house, but expensive-looking, built onto the side of the hill. One of the problems with waterfront property in the Seattle area was the frequency with which houses tumbled down the hills, thanks to the frequent mudslides. An older BMW sat in the driveway, and the lights were on in the house, so somebody was home.

  “Did Yutani say if there was a father in the picture?” I asked after we parked on the side of the street and gathered by the driveway.

  “I don’t think he mentioned it,” Herne said. “Call him before we go in.”

  When Yutani picked up, I asked, “Hey, before we go in, is there a father in the picture? Natasha’s father? And what about the father of her baby? Of Rhiannon?”

  “Give me ten seconds and… Let’s see here.” Yutani paused, then said, “Jenna Shields is a widow. Her husband died while Natasha was in jail. They’re wolf shifters, and he ran a shipping business. It looks like he ended up in a major argument with one of his workers.”

  “He was killed?”

  “No, that night after he went home, he had a heart attack. He had high blood pressure, and had already had two bypass surgeries. He refused to retire or take care of his health and the stress of the argument got to him, it seems. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”

  “And Jenna hasn’t remarried?” Wolf shifters usually did at some point, when they were widowed.

  “Nope. She’s taken over the company and apparently she’s making a success of it.”

  “What about the father of Natasha’s child?” It seemed he would have had something to say about the death of his little girl.

  “Never hit the radar. Natasha got pregnant after she left home and ended up on the streets. She didn’t list the father on the birth certificate, and no one ever seems to have come forward.” Yutani cleared his throat. “Natasha scored extremely high on her college board exams, but it looks like she began to slide around then. Before she graduated from high school, she was already on the road to junkie-ville.”

  “Okay, thanks. That gives us some idea. You can’t tell if Mom has a boyfriend, do you?”

  “Does not look like it.”

  I thanked him and pocketed my phone. “This is most likely Jenna’s car. No husband—he died. No boyfriend that Yutani can find mention of. Natasha never listed the father of her child on the birth certificate, so it’s unlikely he’s in the picture.”

  “Let’s go.” Herne took the lead. We wound down the driveway toward the house, bracing ourselves against the steady rain. Beyond the tidy cottage, we could see the waves of the sound crashing against the beach below, the wind tossing foam high into the air. There was probably a trail down, but it couldn’t be seen from where we were standing, and by the very nature of these houses, it was mostly steep. While the views were gorgeous here, the access to the water wasn’t necessarily guaranteed or—if it existed—easy to navigate.

  Herne rang the bell and a moment later, a young woman wearing a black dress and a white apron answered the door.

  “May I help you?”

  “Is Ms. Shields at home? We need to talk to her.” Herne showed the girl his badge.

  “Please wait here. I’ll be right back.” She closed the door again and we heard a soft click as she locked it.

  I huddled under the eaves. “I hope she makes up her mind soon. What do we do if she won’t talk to us?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. We can always bring a cop back with us.”

  But the girl returned and ushered us in. The foyer was filled with potted plants, and the floor was a gray-veined marble. The walls were a muted gray, and all in all, it looked like an expensive place.

  “Ms. Shields is in the living room. Please allow me to take your coats.” She stood firm and I understood. We’d be dripping water on her floors if we wore our jackets into the living room.

  I shrugged out of mine and handed it to her, and Herne and Viktor did the same. The maid hung them in a coat closet, then led us through the foyer into the living room, where a massive bay window overlooked the sound. A door led out to a railed balcony, and from here, the storm was putting on quite a show.

  Jenna Shields didn’t look middle-aged—shifters wore their ages well—but she had that timeless quality that truly elegant women possess. She looked neither old nor young, dressed in a linen dress caught at the waist by a leather belt, and an infinity scarf was looped around her neck. It was, I wagered, a form of cashmere. Her hair was caught back in a chignon, and was blond streaked with a few strands of gray.

  She held out her hand, a gracious smile on her face. “How do you do? I’m Jenna Shields. Won’t you sit down? Amy, bring us some coffee, please.” In one smooth motion, she greeted us and then returned to her seat.

  “Ms. Shields, I’m Herne, and I’m with the Wild Hunt Agency. We’re investigating the disappearance of a little girl.” Herne motioned to me. “These are my associates, Ember Kearney and Viktor Krason.”

  “A missing child? And you think I can help?” Jenna looked puzzled.

  “Ms. Shields, where is your daughter?” Herne asked.

  “My daughter?” The blood seemed to drain out of her cheeks. “I don’t know.”

  “Were you aware that she was released from prison a few months ago?” I asked. There was almost no chance that Jenna co
uldn’t be aware, but I wanted to listen to her answer, to get an idea of her feelings about Natasha.

  Jenna sighed. “Yes, I know. She came back here after she was released, but then she insisted on moving on. I told her she didn’t have to. She could stay with me for as long as it took to get on her feet. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel like she had no place to go.” She paused, then said, “If you know my daughter was in jail, then you know why she was there. She’s clean now, she’s off the drugs and the booze. At least prison seemed to give her that much of a leg up on coping with her life.”

  “When did she leave?” Herne asked.

  She frowned, thinking. After a moment, she said, “Natasha came home on the second of July. She left on the ninth. I begged her to give herself more time. I was going to give her a job in the company—I own a shipping business. But she refused. I promised her that she could start fresh, but she wouldn’t listen.” Jenna’s lips scrunched up in that way lips do when you’re trying not to cry. She folded her hands across her stomach, staring at the coffee table.

  “We need you to tell us about Rhiannon,” I said. “We need to know what happened.”

  Jenna shivered as another bolt of lightning flashed outside the window. “You think she has something to do with that missing girl, don’t you? I heard the news reports.”

  Herne glanced at me, then nodded. “I’m sorry, but yes. And it’s not just this little girl who’s missing. There have been three murders over the past few months—three little girls, all blond and blue-eyed, all between two to three years old.”

  “No!” Jenna covered her hand with her mouth, letting out a soft cry. “Why would you think Natasha is involved?”

  “Ma’am, did your daughter attend AlkaNon meetings while she stayed here?” Viktor asked.

  Jenna nodded. “Yes, she did. Every night she could manage.”

  “Her little girl was blond and blue-eyed, wasn’t she?”

  Again, the nod. “Yes. Rhiannon died on May 22, eleven years ago.” She suddenly folded, slumping like a deflated balloon. “My daughter wasn’t arrested for murder. They couldn’t prove that she gave my grandbaby the crackalaine. But…I don’t know who else could have. Maybe one of her junkie friends. Maybe she did it. We’ll never know. And now you think she’s hurting other children? Why would she do that?”

  “Sometimes, something can act as a trigger. Can we see the room Natasha stayed in while she was here in July? Did she leave anything around—a diary or anything that might tell us anything?” I knew I was grasping at straws, but it seemed worth a shot.

  Jenna led us toward the back of the cottage, stopping in front of a door. “I kept her room the same, so when she was released she’d have something familiar to come home to.” She opened the door and stepped aside.

  As we entered the room, I was hit by the overwhelming color of pink and purple. The room looked like it had been decked out for a teenager, and it probably had been. Jenna probably hadn’t changed a thing since Natasha went to prison. The bed had a purple comforter on it, and there was a white desk in the corner. On the desk were several dolls and stuffed animals.

  “Were those hers?” Viktor asked.

  “No,” Jenna said. “Those were Rhiannon’s. I thought she might want them, so I kept them, along with a couple of the dresses that I bought my granddaughter. I’m surprised she didn’t take them with her.”

  I walked over to the stuffed animals and picked one up. “These were Rhiannon’s, you say?”

  “Yes.” There was something she wasn’t telling us. I could feel it hanging between us.

  “That may have been the trigger—seeing her daughter’s toys. Did Natasha ever talk about her?” I glanced over at Jenna, holding her gaze.

  After a moment, Jenna sank down on the bed, clutching a white unicorn plushy to her. “Yes, she did. But she seemed to think that Rhiannon was still alive. She kept talking about the ‘kidnapper’ who took her away and how she was going to find Rhiannon once she had a home of her own.”

  “And this didn’t strike you as odd?” Herne asked, scowling.

  “I… I was just happy to have her home. I didn’t want to stress her out, so I just ignored it. I never thought…is that what she’s doing?” Jenna asked, jumping to her feet. “Is she trying to find Rhiannon?”

  “How much do you think she remembers from around the time of Rhiannon’s death?” I asked. Jenna’s guess was probably on the mark, but anything we could find out to back up the guess might help us.

  “Probably not much. She was so strung out. I tried to drop by every day because I knew how dangerous it was for my granddaughter. She was a type 1 diabetic from birth and needed insulin on a daily basis. I had tried to win custody of her but the courts insisted she needed her mother. They didn’t do a home visit, didn’t check on Natasha’s drug use. They waved away our worries like we were just interfering grandparents.”

  “What about when Rhiannon vanished?” I asked.

  “We were all frantic, but Natasha couldn’t even remember where Rhiannon was. She said she had given Rhiannon her medicine. We searched and searched, and then a couple days later, my husband went down to the lake by our lake house, and he found Rhiannon by the shore, dead. She hadn’t been given her insulin, but an overdose of crackalaine.”

  “But your daughter wasn’t charged with murder?”

  Jenna shook her head, wiping her eyes. “My husband and I were sure that Jenna did it, but there was no actual proof. Natasha blamed her boyfriend, but he had disappeared a week before. The case went cold. The only way to get my daughter into rehab would be to get her locked up. So my husband and I pressed the courts and they finally charged my daughter with child neglect. She spent ten years in prison. I thought when she came out that things would be different. She’s been clean for years, and I thought she could make a new start.”

  “Except she wasn’t all right. And you had to know it. Even in the short time she stayed here, you had to know.” Herne opened the drawers of the desk, glancing through them. “Was this Rhiannon?” He held up a worn picture of a little girl in a straw hat.

  “Yes,” she said and nodded. “That was my granddaughter.”

  “Natasha must be trying to find her daughter. She must truly believe that somebody out there has Rhiannon, and she’s stealing her back. But then, the little girl doesn’t act like her daughter or call her ‘Mommy,’ and so she kills them, like she did Rhiannon, and goes after another.” I shuddered, the thought churning my stomach.

  Herne turned back to Jenna, his voice imperious. “Where could your daughter be now? We need your help. Three little girls are dead and another is in danger because of her. Natasha doesn’t have a handle on reality right now. We have to find her before she kills Eleanor, the little girl she most recently abducted.”

  Jenna frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “Where is this lake you were talking about? Do you still have a house there?” Viktor asked.

  “Lake Ballinger. And yes, I do have the house. I haven’t been there since May, though. I’ve been too busy.” She raised her head. “Do you think that my daughter’s there?”

  “We’ll find out. Can you give us a key? And what kind of car does Natasha have?” Herne stood.

  “Yes. Wait just a moment.” She crossed to a side table where her purse was. Taking a key off of a key chain, she handed it over to him. “The address is 23750 74th Avenue West.” She paused. “I gave her my late husband’s Lexus. If she is hurting those children…”

  “Three girls are dead. We’re trying to prevent the death of a fourth child now. If your daughter is responsible, we’ll do whatever we can to stop her,” Herne said.

  “Whatever you have to do,” Jenna said. “I don’t know why I thought that I could get my daughter back.” She hung her head. “I lost her when Rhiannon died. I just didn’t want to believe…”

  “That it was too late,” I said softly. “Hope can be a wonderful thing, but it can also blind us to the facts right
before our eyes.”

  “You’ll let me know?” she asked.

  “We’ll let you know,” Herne said, heading toward the door. We followed.

  Once we were back at our cars, Herne said, “Let’s go. The moment it dawns on Natasha that Eleanor isn’t her little girl, she’s going to get rid of her and try again.”

  We headed out toward Highway 99, joining the flow of traffic to the north. Lake Ballinger was thirteen miles north of Seattle. While the heart of rush hour was over, the drive was still slow, and it took us forty minutes given traffic.

  By the time we turned onto NE 205th Street, traffic had eased up, and we made good time to 74th Avenue, which was a two-lane street that ran along the lakeside properties. The road ran along the west side of the lake, and I watched Herne’s signals. He suddenly turned onto the side of the road, and I followed.

  He was out of the car and coming around the end when I parked behind him. Viktor joined us. “All right, the house is right down that drive. But we can’t let her see us coming, if she’s there.” He glanced around. The houses were at the front of the lots, their backyards extending out toward the lake. We were parked two houses down from our goal.

  “How do we approach, then? If she’s at the house with Eleanor, there’s no real chance to sneak up on her from the road.”

  “We can’t go around behind the house,” Viktor said. “Not without cutting through the neighbors’ yards.”

  I frowned, trying to think. When I had been a freelance investigator, I had cut through plenty of yards and went over the top of a number of houses. But it had just been me, and I could manage it without being noticed. I was certain Herne could too, but somebody Viktor’s size would have a hard time blending in.

  “So we wait till it’s fully dark. We don’t have that long to go,” I said.