by Tegan Maher
Table of Contents
Howling for Revenge
Author’s Note
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Thank You!
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Books by Tegan
About the Author
© 2018 Tegan Maher
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, by any means electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system currently in use or yet to be devised.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or institutions is entirely coincidental.
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Author’s Note
Before you start reading, I thought maybe a little clarification may be in order because I’ve gotten a few emails wondering about the linguistics and grammar.
First, thank you for giving me your time!
I use local dialect both in dialogue and in narrative. Noelle, Rae, Hunter, and crew are smart and/or educated, but still drop back to default dialect sometimes, as do most of us when we’re in casual situations.
Grammatical errors and use of slang are likely intentional (me and you vs. you and I, we was going vs. we were going etc.) You’ll even find some words that look flat-out made up, unless, of course, you’re from the South. ☺
That being said, typos are never intentional and if I’ve missed any, I apologize!
So please, I ask for a little latitude for the good folks of Keyhole Lake, especially Skeeter, Earl, and Bobbie Sue. I hope you enjoy the book—I’d love to hear what you think!
-Tegan
CHAPTER ONE
I JOGGED ALONG THE stream, reveling in that peaceful, early-morning stillness that only lasts until the rest of the world stirs. I picked up my pace a little as I followed the sun-dappled path around the tree line, enjoying the brush of the cool breeze along my skin as it dried the fine sheen of sweat from my body. The only sound beside the birdsong was my heart beating in tempo with the soft, steady thud of my sneakers against the asphalt.
I sucked in a lungful of air, inhaling the scents of the early morning. For now, the damp, earthy scent drifting from the stand of trees overshadowed the stench of humanity. Night-blooming jasmine sweetened the air, masking the lingering odors of fast-food wrappers and cheap perfumes. I slowed as I neared the end of the trail, then stopped, placing my hands on my knees as my heart rate slowed and my breathing returned to normal. As always, tendrils of regret wound through me at the thought of leaving the peace and getting back to the grind. I propped my foot against a picnic table and leaned into a stretch, feeling a little euphoric as I did so. The endorphins flooding my brain were more addictive than any drug, which is the main reason I ran daily, rain or shine, in either this form or my other.
Now would probably be a good time to introduce myself. My name is Cordelia Delphine Sloane, but please, for the love of God, call me Cori. The only person on the planet who uses my full name is the woman who was hateful enough to give it to me to begin with—my mother.
You'll meet her in a bit, but there's no need for me to be mean to you right off the bat. Oh, and I should probably mention that I'm a werewolf. Well, technically, I'm half werewolf and half witch, but we'll get to that in a bit, too.
Right now, the relevant 411 on me is that I'm the sheriff of our little berg - a small town called Castle's Bluff, in the great state of Georgia. Don't let the name fool you—we have neither a castle nor a bluff. We have a nice lake, though.
Back in the early 1800s, a vampire by the name of Sean Castle won the property that the town sits on in a poker game by bluffing on a pair of deuces. He built the town, then had to move away thirty years or so later when people began questioning how he managed to stay so young looking.
As I lifted my arm and grabbed my elbow to stretch my bicep, the faint sound of voices caught my attention. I cocked my head; there were never that many people in the park this early.
I turned toward the direction of the voices and my good mood was replaced with a sense of dread. A quarter of a mile or so away, on the road on the other side of the trees, red and blue lights flashed from several police cars. Uniformed bodies stepped with care through the brush and into the edge of the forested area that separated the road from the running trail.
Torn between irritation and a sense of duty, I heaved a sigh. Of course, the tranquility was too good to last. I took one last longing look at the quiet spot behind me, then finished my stretch and trotted toward the bustle of activity to see what was causing such a commotion.
I approached a yellow police line and looked around. The county's meager police department was out in force: four of the five police cruisers surrounded the area, forming a loose circle around the scene. An ambulance sat along the edge of the road with its rear doors open and ready to go. The paramedics slouched on the back bumper with their arms crossed, watching, but not participating in the action.
The white coroner's van was backed up on the same side of the road facing the opposite direction, which explained why the paramedics weren't doing anything.
I lifted the police tape and stepped under it, nodding to a lanky deputy named Stan Lee. Yeah, I feel sorry for him, too. There was no need to flash my credentials; I was his boss. Well, that and we'd gone to grade school together.
I was nearly to the circle of cops and crime scene techs before I caught a glimpse of a delicate hand lying in the grass about ten feet from the side of the road, its glossy red fingernail polish gleaming in stark relief against the dull, gray skin of the fingers.
As I made my way closer to the scene, I saw that the hand was attached to the body of a woman that lay crumpled about ten feet from the edge of the road, her platinum hair covering her face.
Sam Cassidy, a seasoned deputy with forty-five years under his belt, waved me over. He used his body to shield me, which worked fairly well considering he was six-four and built like a tank.
I'd known him since I was a kid and even though I was his boss, he still saw me as a little girl if things got real. Of course, until the murders, "getting real" usually involved
a drunk tourist getting handsy when I'd have to haul him out of the Hook, our local dive bar. Even with—or more likely because of—the confluence of supernatural beings in Castle's Bluff, things like that just didn't happen.
I squared my shoulders and strode the final few feet to stand beside him, a frown creasing my brow. I opened my senses and caught the faint scent of a strange werewolf along with all of the other scents that I'd come to expect in this type of situation.
The coroner, Colleen Bennett, and her team were finishing up and I would doubtless have the gory details in hi-def waiting in my email when I got back to the office. Murders, or any violent crime for that matter, were so rare that Colleen served as both coroner and lead CSI. She was more than qualified and willing, so it was a win for us.
I gestured toward the body, taking only a cursory glance as the two ambulance guys loaded the body bag onto the gurney.
"Same as the last?" I asked Sam.
"Identical. Looks like another animal attack, honey. Same tracks as last time are gathered around the body—some sort of dog or wolf. A big one." He paused for a few seconds. "We gotta find what's doing this, Cori. What was done to that poor girl ... nobody deserves that."
His voice was tired and his thick salt-and-pepper hair was standing on end. I knew he'd been running his fingers through it like he did anytime he was frustrated.
He gestured toward my running clothes. "I got this handled if you want to go home and change or something."
I gave him a wry half-smile. "I will, but first I wanna take a look at the scene before everything gets trampled worse than it has. See you back at the station in an hour?"
Sam nodded. "See ya then, kiddo."
Despite his use of pet names, Sam respected my position as sheriff. As a matter of fact, he's the one who pushed for it when others urged him to step into the role instead. He said he likes fishing too much to listen to old ladies bicker over parking tickets. To be fair, that's definitely a time-suck.
I noted the slight hitch in his step as he walked back to his cruiser. He brushed off his aches and pains, but I worried about him. At 65, he was healthier than a lot of people in their early 50s, but still.
I picked my way to the body, careful not to step on any tracks or get in the way of the photographer. Huge, dog-like paw prints surrounded the body, so numerous that they overlapped each other. I pinched my lips together as I bent down to study them; the prints confirmed what I already knew: it was a werewolf, and a big one.
Some of the impressions pushed deep into the mud, indicated that the wolf had been dragging something, which corresponded with the wider drag marks that were presumably left by the woman's feet. Others were less pronounced, as if the beast had been just standing or walking around the area.
It was as if he didn't care if he got caught, which was a problem on a number of levels. He had to know the pack wouldn't tolerate this, and if we didn't get him, the Trackers would, and that was a hot mess that I wanted no part of. Ever.
The Trackers were an organization of humans who'd made it their mission to stamp out supernaturals—shifters to be exact, but only because they didn't know about the others—way back before packs cracked down on literal crimes against humanity. They were small but lethal, and I didn't want them anywhere near my town.
So, I needed to find this wolf and deal with him before we caught any outsider attention.
I closed my eyes and pulled a deep breath through my nose, trying to pick apart the different scents. I may as well have saved my breath. Just like with the other victims, all I could discern was that it was definitely the same single male werewolf that had committed the other crimes. I opened my eyes and looked around one last time before getting up.
The wind blew and movement caught the corner of my eye. There was a small, broken limb to the left, and a tuft of black fur clung to it.
"Cori?" somebody said from behind me. My heart stuttered at the familiar voice, even though I hadn't heard it in nearly ten years.
I paused as a tangled rat's nest of competing emotions writhed in my stomach. I mentally wadded them up and shoved them to the back of my mind. That was a therapy session or twelve for another time.
I willed my heart to slow before I pushed to my feet and turned to face the only man I'd ever really loved. Because, you know, I didn't have enough to deal with right then. I schooled my face into a friendly yet detached expression.
He looked good. The years had chiseled the round edges of youth into the sharper angles that came with maturity. His hair was lighter, pushing toward a sandy blond, and his skin was a deep bronze that came from a life lived outdoors. I struggled not to look at muscles that were straining through the t-shirt he was wearing.
"Zach! How long's it been?" As if I didn't know. I stepped under the police tape and stood before him.
He was smiling, but his eyes looked wary. "Ten years."
I nodded, doing my best to fake nonchalance as my heart tried to beat its way out of my ribcage. "That's sounds about right. What are you doing here?"
He studied my face for a couple seconds, then said, "I have a friend here who told me about the animal attack, so I came down to see if I could help. I'd just arrived in town when I heard there'd been another woman killed by a large canine."
I confirmed what he'd heard; it wasn't like it hadn't already made the gossip circuit, anyway. "Wolf I think, but I won't know for sure until the coroner sends me her report. At this point, I can't confirm that they're related until I hear from her."
He'd said he came to see if we need some help. What did that mean? Though he tried to hide it, he was scanning scene. I don't know why, but I twisted a finger behind my back, bending the light around the tuft to make it invisible.
Clearing my throat, I said, "So, are you some kind of vengeful hunter and you're here to offer to help us track this thing and kill it, or are you actually a reporter looking for a story? Because to be honest, if it's the latter, my office has nothing to say to you that we haven't already said to the others."
Zach chuckled. "Not exactly as cut and dried as the former, and definitely not as nosy or predatory as the latter. I just came to help." He leaned toward me and handed me a business card.
A shiver ran up my arm when our fingers touched and my mouth went dry. The smell of sunshine, fresh-cut wood, and clean laundry floated toward me and I just wanted to lean in and inhale him. I gave myself a mental shake and glanced down at the card:
Zach McClure
Licensed Wildlife Control Specialist
HIS PHONE NUMBER WAS listed below it, along with his federal license number. I slid my hand down my face. Having a "specialist" who thought he was dealing with a standard animal was so not what I needed right now. "So you think we should bring in outside help?"
Zach frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "As a matter of fact, I do. And you don't actually bring me in. I hold a license to do this and am only notifying you as a courtesy."
Really now? Despite the urge to tell him exactly what he could do with his license and courtesy, I shifted my weight, trying to find a diplomatic way to discourage him. I didn't need anyone poking around in this when I hadn't figured it out yet. It was both a safety and a security risk. A rogue werewolf going around killing people in my territory was my responsibility.
I handed the card back. "I really don't think the answer is sending hunters out into the forest to track and shoot anything until we know for sure what we're dealing with. My people and I are on this, and I have faith that we'll have it resolved shortly."
Apparently, my shot at diplomacy missed the mark because he got snippy. "I'm not exactly an amateur in cases like this. I've dealt with animals that would keep you inside at night if you knew they were out there. Keep the card." He pushed it back into my hand before he turned on his heel and stomped away without looking back.
I sighed. I hadn't won any points with him, but I couldn't let him run around thinking I was okay with him traipsing into my woods with a
loaded weapon, especially consider I WAS one of those animals that would keep people up at night. If he thought I was being rude or condescending, then so be it.
My mission was critical. I had to catch a murderous werewolf before he could kill anybody else or out our kind. If that meant hurting some feelings, well, suck it up, Buttercup. There wasn't much I could do about it.
CHAPTER TWO
THE DAY WAS AN ABSOLUTE nightmare and I was relieved when I pulled up to the farmhouse I shared with my best friend, Kat. I gathered up some file folders, my purse, and some takeout as I climbed out of my Jeep and nudged the door shut with my hip.
I tried to grasp the peace that just the sight of the wide porch with its swing and hanging baskets usually brought me, but it eluded me. Instead, pictures of both women filled my head.
As promised, I'd gotten the pictures and preliminary report from the coroner. They just confirmed what we all already knew—it was likely the same creature that killed the others.
I pushed the door to my house open with my foot, juggling my latte and keys in one hand and balancing a stack of files in the other. The smell coming from the box of Chinese takeout I had clenched by its handle between my teeth smelled so good I was drooling.
Chaos, our black and white marble fox, bumped my legs, then stood on her hind legs with her nose in the air when she smelled the food. I nearly tripped over her as I pushed the door shut with my hip.
"Knock it off!" I grumbled. "You'll get some, assuming you don't kill me first." She hopped onto the back of the couch, her shiny eyes never leaving the takeout box. "Kat!" I called around my dinner as I kicked the door shut and toed off my shoes.
Kat, or Katarina Bellarosi, was my roommate and best friend. She also happened to be a vampire, and tended bar at a hole-in-the-wall dive bar called the Rusty Hook. Olive-skinned, leggy, and exotic, she'd look graceful falling down a flight of stairs, not that she ever would. I suppose when you live in the same body for three hundred years, you pretty much master the moving parts.
