by Debra Dunbar
“No. It’s my car.”
“So, if you have to flee back to your home land, am I allowed to drive it then? Or do I have to let it sit and rot wherever you left it last? You’d rather some redneck with plumber’s butt hoist your car onto a flat bed or drag it down the road on a hook to the impound lot than allow me to drive it?”
I thought for a moment. “Well, maybe then,” I said, grudgingly. “But not now. You can’t drive it now. Or in the foreseeable future.”
Wyatt glared at me. This was clearly an issue he would continue to address. I realized that I’d probably eventually have to let him drive my car sometime or he’d harp on it forever. Not now though. Maybe after we’d had sex.
The pair left to run their errands and I was alone in the no–tell motel room. I’d looked at the map and directions on Wyatt’s tablet, and he’d set it up on my cell phone so I could use the GPS feature to get there and back if I took a detour. I sat for a moment to prepare myself and bring back up the angel’s DNA and energy signature. It was like waving a dirty sock in front of a Bloodhound. I focused and a great anticipation grabbed me. I hoped the angel marked his victims prior to the kill. Scouted out their homes, watched them to see their habits, planned his moves. I had so much on him, if he so much as coughed on a twig I’d notice.
I locked the door, with an actual key no less, and headed out. Thankfully the light rain had stopped, although the humidity would have me just as soaked in thirty minutes. I jogged down the busy four lane commercial route trying to look like I was just out for some exercise. Six blocks, then a left. Two more blocks then a right. The tightly packed houses started to spread apart with more sizable yards, then separated by fields of corn or soybean. A mile down and I turned onto a winding hilly country road that didn’t seem wide enough for two modern cars to pass. Heck, two Suburbans would have to four wheel it, especially with no shoulder on the road. Little clusters of three or four modern houses broke the expanses of crops, hay fields, and cattle pasture. I listened carefully for cars. They’d never be able to see me with the hills and curves in the road until they were almost on me. Jumping out of the way into a muddy ditch or barbed wire would have been my only option on a few stretches.
I quickly realized that running in blue jeans was a horrible idea. They clung to me in the wet heat and the seams were rubbing and chafing. Thankfully I’d worn a supportive bra and a pair of old running shoes, or the situation would have been dire. Still, I was seriously contemplating taking the damned jeans off and running in my underwear. The road was pretty deserted this time of day. I considered it, but decided I’d rather suffer than draw attention to myself when I was on a hunt. That’s all I needed was some country boy trying to get lucky with streaker girl.
I was only a hundred yards from the house when the sky opened up and sheets of rain poured down on me. Fuck, could this get any worse? The jeans were like two hundred pounds of wet sandpaper at this point, and my running shoes squelched water with every stride. This was hell. Not that medieval painting of horned dudes gnawing on limbs and fucking asses. Wet jeans were far worse than chewed up limbs and a sore rectum. I knew this for a fact.
I looked up at the house through the haze of grey rain and wet hair. It was set back from the road down a long driveway. Two story, colonial style with shutters on the windows and vinyl siding. No trees, no deck or patio, no front porch, no landscaping bushes, no cover at all. Just a straight shot until you reached the house where there was a small detached garage and a prefab shed. Couldn’t anybody have planted any trees? Or a nice stone fence? Or a privet hedge?
I pretended to tie my shoe and thought for a second. That’s when I saw it. There was a drainage ditch running along the driveway about two feet out. It was about two feet wide and eighteen inches deep. This was going to suck big time. Staying bent over, I slithered into the ditch. The downpour was not kind to me. The ditch wasn’t full enough of water to splash my way up, but it was wet enough to create a good two inches of mud at the bottom. Where was that rock hard Maryland red clay when you needed it? Did it just stop as you crossed the Pennsylvania border?
I did my best imitation of an army crawl through that muddy ditch. I got to say that, although crawling about twenty yards through mud and rain was physically exerting and dirty business, it wasn’t anywhere near as painful as jogging in soaking wet jeans. By the time I reached the end of the ditch at the side of the garage, I was unrecognizable. I couldn’t even tell the color of my pants or shirt under the brown sludge. I carefully looked up out of the ditch and didn’t see anyone around the house or garage. There were no cars or trucks anywhere, and this guy supposedly lived alone. He was probably at work in a nice warm dry office with all the good people of the world. I was the only fool out here, crawling through the mud in a downpour.
The roof stuck slightly out from the side of the two–car garage and I plastered my sludge–covered ass against the wall, gaining a bit of a reprieve from the rain. Not like I could get any wetter. Wiping my muddy hands on my equally muddy pants proved ineffectual, so I tried wiping them on the side of the garage instead. It didn’t help.
I wasn’t having any luck sensing Althean, or even Gregory. With Gregory, I only had a dim energy signature. It would be a huge long shot to pick anything up from him, but Althean I should have been able to sense. So either this place wasn’t a target in the immediate future, or he didn’t do planning or reconnaissance whatsoever before moving in for the kill. I didn’t think he was quite that insane, since he’d managed to get away with this so far and a lack of planning will get you caught pretty fast. Still, I thought it might be best to get a closer look in case he was trickier than I thought. I checked around the shed area first and found nothing but an old riding mower and some lawn tools. The backyard revealed that a neighbor’s cat occasionally came over to prowl and pee on the sand of the horseshoe pits. That had to piss a werewolf off to no end.
I looped around between the garage and the house. There was simply no cover at all around this place. It looked like a divine hand had plopped a house and outbuildings smack down in the middle of a mowed hay field. If the angel came here, he’d need to be ballsy enough to stride right up the driveway in full view. There had to be an easier target. One with less risk. I wanted to be thorough before I ruled this place out though. Since no one was home, I walked around the house peering in windows where I could. It was a typical house. Decent furniture in a living room, a pile of mail on the dining room table, comfortable looking sofa and a wood stove in the TV room. The yard sloped a bit and the kitchen windows in the back of the house were a too high for me to see through. I hooked my hands on the sill and carefully pushed my weight up to stand on an outdoor faucet. The kitchen had a couple of dishes on the counter, a coffee cup on the breakfast table, newspapers piled on a chair.
I managed to ease off the faucet without slipping, but before I could congratulate myself, my other foot sank deep and firmly into sucking mud and I went down on my rear. Well, it wasn’t like I could get any more muddy. That was when I heard the familiar click of the safety on a gun. I sat very still.
“Keep your hands where I can see them and stand up slowly.”
That was truly easier said than done. Like a game of Twister, I rotated at the waist and onto my hands and knees. The mud retained its firm hold on my shoe and that foot was stuck at an odd angle. I looked up and through my dripping hair I saw a man. A man holding a shotgun. The gun looked like the one Wyatt had back in his gun safe. The guy was in his early thirties, lean and muscled with tan work boots, and a sleeveless shirt advertising a high school sports team. The brim of his baseball cap shaded his face from my view, but I could see a well trimmed short beard decorating his jawline.
“My foot is stuck.” I told him.
“Well, pull it out, but keep your hands on the ground,” he said unsympathetically.
I braced my weight on my hands and other foot and pulled. And twisted. Finally I tried rocking back and forth and the foot slowly
came free. I stood, careful to keep my hands where shotgun guy could see them. He looked me over.
“Who are you and why are you prowling around my house?” The rain had slowed thankfully and he no longer had to shout to be heard above the racket.
“Samantha Martin. I was out for a jog and was just trying to get some shelter from the rain until it stopped.” I so wanted to push my wet and muddy hair out of my face, but I really didn’t want to get shot. Especially at this range.
“In jeans? And getting out of the rain involves dragging yourself to the house in a muddy ditch rather than walking up the driveway like a normal person? And instead of standing under the garage roof, you sneak around the buildings and look in my windows?” Suspicious kind of guy. He looked ready to shoot first and finish with the questions later. Actually, he looked rather scared. Strange for him to be scared, him a fit werewolf with a gun and me a soaking wet middle aged woman with no visible weapon. There was a good reason for him to be scared, but he wasn’t supposed to know about it.
“Is this not the first time you’ve had someone prowling around your house recently?”
The guy looked at me a moment. “Hold still.”
I held very still while he reached down, grabbed the hose nozzle and proceeded to spray me down. It was pretty humiliating to stand there with my hands in the air while some guy with a shotgun blasted me with water. It was uncomfortable too. The water was icy cold and it stung with the force of a fire hose.
“Turn around slowly,” he told me.
I complied and had the further humiliation of having my ass sprayed off.
I turned around to face him again while he looked. At least the blast of water had pushed my hair back out of my face. I did my best to look harmless. It was easier than usual since I was soaking wet.
“There were some murders up in York late yesterday night,” he said slowly. “They are part of a series of murders, so I’m a bit careful.”
There is no way he should have known about that couple. It wasn’t common knowledge, and there hadn’t even been enough time for the gossip mill to get going. I wondered if he’d been part of the local cleanup crew who discovered the bodies. The tape had been too grainy to easily recognize faces, and I still couldn’t see this guy clearly with the brim of his cap so low.
“Do you have reason to believe you may be a target?” I asked trying to give him a significant look. One of us was just going to have to come out and say it soon because all this dancing around was not good for my patience.
“Are you an angel?” There, shotgun guy did it for me. I liked him more and more.
There were all sorts of witty comebacks and innuendos I really wanted to make to a question like that, but I decided to keep with the straight talk program.
“No, I’m the one who’s going to kill the angel.”
He pushed the brim of the cap up and looked at me in astonishment. Okay, I didn’t exactly look impressive right at that moment, but his disbelief was a bit insulting.
“You’re the demon?”
So not only did this guy know about the murders, and the angel, but he knew I’d been contracted to save their asses. This was a guy I wanted to talk to.
“Have you had anyone nosing around your place but me? Any reason to suspect you might be a target? We think someone in the area might be, but if you could help us pin it down then we might be able to kill this thing.”
He looked undecided about whether to lower the shotgun or not. “How do I know you’re not an angel?”
Again, I had to bite my tongue. Oh, this was such an opportunity for smart comments. Instead I shrugged. “What do I need to do to prove it to you? I could find the cat that’s been peeing in your horseshoe pit and dismember it with my bare hands. Or we could have wild muddy sex here in your yard. I can’t see an angel doing that.”
Shotgun guy’s lips twitched. “You’re not of my species. That would be against the rules.”
I grinned. “I’m all about breaking the rules.”
He grinned back. “Me too actually, but I’ll decline your offer for now.” He lowered the shotgun and stuck out his hand. “I’m Craig Stottlemeyer.”
Craig was my new best friend. He invited me in, allowed me to drip mud and water all over his kitchen floor, wrapped me in a huge soft towel and gave me a hot mug of tea. I was happy to see his place wasn’t pristine. He had a stack of dirty dishes in the sink and piles of papers and old mail scattered around. My tea mug advertised some temporary labor agency and the handle had been crazy glued back on at some point. After meeting Candy and seeing that house in York, I was beginning to think all werewolves were OCD neat freaks. What a relief.
Craig was also easy to look at. And look I did as soon as he took the hat off. His neat brown beard matched his ultra–short clippered hair. He had high cheekbones in a thin face accented with an equally sharp nose. The severity of his features was softened by a generous splash of freckles. His eyes twinkled, too. I had no doubt he could dispatch anything that threatened his person or his home, but he looked like he’d do it with good humor and a sparkling smile. He was a cute guy to be a bachelor. I assumed that werewolves had difficulty finding suitable partners since they had to restrict themselves to their own species. In the cities it might be easier, but I could imagine it was slim pickings out here.
We sat at his kitchen table and talked. Craig was well informed of the danger he and other local werewolves were in. From what he’d gathered, the angel liked to strike in people’s dwellings when they were alone, which usually equated to night time. There had been a couple of instances when the werewolf target worked a night shift, or was home during the day and they had been killed at that time. Craig was usually at work during the day, but he’d taken off the next few days to prepare a defense. He had hid his cars down the road at a neighbor’s and snuck back quietly staying in a deer blind a good two acres away in the tree line at the edge of his property. There, he ate beef jerky and kept an eye on his house with binoculars. It must have really sucked with the heat and the rain we’d just had. That was really roughing it.
“I figured the freak would sneak around first and plan his attack. I’ve got a good nose, and I’m a good hunter so I can stay alert in a deer blind for two days with binoculars glued to my eyes. I haven’t seen anyone but you since I began at six this morning. I came straight here after we left the Randolph’s house in York. They wanted me to help with cleanup, but I used work as an excuse. I’ll be in a good bit of trouble with my pack leader when they find out, but protecting myself is more important than cleaning blood off a carpet.”
I agreed. “You got a map? There are some other places around here that are potential targets and I wondered if I pointed out their location and gave you their names you could tell me anything you knew about them and their properties. Anything. The more information the better.”
Craig got out an old fashioned map of Gettysburg and circled in red all the werewolf residences he knew. Having some local knowledge was priceless. I dotted the ones Wyatt had indicated were in his predictive line.
“These are the houses he may target, according to our analysis.”
Craig noted his place, then traced a finger over. “This is the Smythe place. They’re in Hawaii for two weeks. They just left Monday.”
Lucky them.
“This one is Robinson. He’s a long distance trucker. He’s expected back tomorrow night or the day after tomorrow. Took a truckload of appliances out to a regional warehouse in Iowa.”
Could be Robinson then. That would buy us some time. Or it could be Craig.
“That leaves you,” I told him. I felt like I was on one of those dramas where the surgeon tells a man he has an inoperable brain tumor. You have a malignant angel. It will kill you in three days or less.
Craig raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as if considering his funeral options. “Or, it could be Mrs. Staley.” He dotted the map in a spot between his place and Robinson’s.
I looked a
t the dot. “According to the master database there isn’t a werewolf living there.”
Craig gave me a significant look. Ah. Ms. Staley was off the grid. “If she’s been able to avoid registration and/or death, then how do you know about her? How does anyone know about her?” I asked.
I watched him take a sip of his tea and look worriedly out the kitchen window. “Sometimes you fake a death, or don’t record a birth. It’s easy to get human identities and the angel that is in charge of the werewolves doesn’t pay much attention to the humans. They are really stupid about most technology, too. It’s very difficult though. You can’t live as a werewolf. You can’t socialize with them, hunt with them, you can’t even think of letting your wolf out during the moon. It’s a life cut off from your culture, your people, even a part of yourself. You live as a human. You can’t mate with a human because it goes against millennia of teaching and culture, but you can’t mate with a registered wolf and not blow your cover. There are no records of you as a werewolf. Even the local wolves don’t know who you are in case one is tortured or there is a snitch. There are only a few hundred in the world who live like this, but it’s important to the freedom and future of our species to have a handful off the radar, just in case.
“Ms. Staley does my taxes. She lives alone. Never mated, never had kids. She’s in her mid–sixties. She hasn’t changed form in almost twenty years. If she hadn’t told me in a fit of loneliness one day I would have never known. She doesn’t even smell like a wolf anymore.”
Craig looked at me, his eyes no longer twinkling. “That’s a horrible way to live your life. Of course, I don’t know if ours is much better tiptoeing around, minding our P’s and Q’s and hoping our friends don’t find our body in the kitchen one day with angel wings on our forehead.”
I agreed, but I didn’t see how my killing one angel was going to help their case in the long run. I didn’t get how the humans got to run amok, breeding like rabbits, taxing the natural resources and driving themselves closer and closer to extinction with their folly, but others like the werewolves were hammered with impossible rules and unnatural restrictions. Maybe just to strike out once would be enough. They’d have the satisfaction of knowing they didn’t go gently into that good night.
