by L. A. Banks
A retinue of burly MPs met their chopper as it landed at the New Orleans NAS. There’d been no way to talk over the helicopter din, and she certainly didn’t want to express anything private to Doc in front of the unknown pilot. She and Doc hadn’t said two words to each other during the entire flight, but then again, what was there to say?
Sasha climbed into the jeep with Doc at her side and held on until the vehicle came to a halt at the base’s administration building. She knew the drill, had been through enough come-to-Jesus meetings with the brass to know how to defuse a potentially volatile situation . . . she just wished she knew how to defuse her heart so she could start breathing again.
On automatic pilot her body moved through the military courtesies and sign-in procedures that would allow her an audience with the newly installed general. What a day to have to meet a new commander.
As she and Doc stepped into the Situation Room, a tall, burly blond in his midfifties greeted them formally. His blue eyes looked haunted.
“General Westford, Xavier Holland, Paranormal Containment Unit’s geneticist.”
“Sir. Captain Sasha Trudeau,” she said, announcing herself after Doc had made his own introduction and everyone had shaken hands.
“Thank you both for what you do,” the general said, walking away from them and returning to the long, polished mahogany table, which held several files. He didn’t sit, just picked up the files and then flung them down the table away from him in clear disgust.
“I don’t mind telling you folks that this whole supernatural business is keeping me up at night. I mean, what’s the world coming to? Spooks jumping up from graves and we’ve gotta be politically correct and call ’em demons, Vampires, and Zombies. Mad dogs killing good folk—and we’ve gotta make a species distinction between Werewolves, proper, and the demon-infected variety? If you ask me, I wanna just call the boys in from the Joint Readiness Center at Fort Polk, along with the fly boys from Barksdale AFB’s Second Bomb Wing and their Mighty Eighth, and just leave a smokin’ black hole in every cemetery here to Texas.”
“Unadvisable, sir,” Sasha said calmly, but completely understanding where the beleaguered man was coming from. “That could set off a chain reaction of retaliation against humans.”
“You mean I might get my face ripped off, like Donald Wilkerson did . . . I read the reports,” General Westford said, his eyes as hard as his voice.
“Affirmative, sir,” Sasha said, needing this new cowboy to quickly understand what he was dealing with.
“Your suggestion, then? Before we open up the teleconference to the Joint Chiefs, I need to get this off my chest.” The general dragged his fingers through his stubbly crew cut. “What are we gonna tell that boy’s mama and daddy who’ve gotta close his casket to put him in the ground? You know? This ain’t natural. I don’t care that the spin doctors are working with local authorities and the media has been poised to keep down panic. I’ve got personal questions keeping me up at night, Captain. For me, it’s a question of, how does the US military allow a predator to eat a goddamned student in America and call ourselves on point? What if this is the first of many? I want this contained, Captain! Whatever this thing is, I want it hunted down and wiped off the map. Do you know how hard it was to do public awareness damage control after the war that broke out in the streets of New Orleans? How in God’s name are we gonna keep the lid on this whole thing if creatures are now eating civilians alive?”
The general’s questions and impassioned rant carved at her conscience. She knew the man didn’t want a real answer any more than she was prepared to give one right now. He had to vent; she wished she could, too, but her rank didn’t allow her that option in front of a five-star.
A kid had lost his life on her watch, and possibly by a predator that she didn’t put down when she’d had a chance. A silver slug should have gone in the target’s skull. Instead she’d willingly disarmed before him . . . had thrown her gun on the sofa and had gotten down on her hands and knees for him. She wanted to close her eyes and disappear right where she was standing.
The room grew suddenly too small as the general continued to rant and she kept her eyes straight ahead. She couldn’t even risk a glimpse at Doc right now. Guilt lacerated her, ripped at the medals she wore, and cut away at her epaulets. How could she have been so blind . . . so stupid?
“I can’t help but think—all right, serial killers, that’s the province of local cops, the FBI, whoever,” the general said, barely having taken a breath. He then began to pace and talk with his hands, his emotions getting the better of him. “Drug dealers and international politics, the CIA, Washington who’s who, FBI, and Interpol can have at it. Defending our borders, that’s our job. Putting things aright if it’s a threat to the American way of life—I’m honored to be in uniform. We are Homeland Security, no matter what anybody else says, or whatever layers of cockamamie bureaucracy they throw at us. We’re the ones with our faces in the mud and our asses in the foxholes, not the suits. But this supernatural crap . . . In all my born days . . .” He shook his head and allowed his words to trail off as he stared at Sasha and Doc for answers.
“Sir,” Sasha said without hesitation. “This is a new day, a new beast, a new threat. The US military, especially Delta Force, always rises to the occasion.”
CHAPTER 6
He didn’t understand. As he stood on the edge of his Shadow pack’s territory, low, resonant growls met him. Hunter sniffed the air, scenting for any additional danger as well as allowing his own wolf signature to coat his palate. He bore the scent of a true Shadow Wolf. There was no demon contagion in it. He’d shown himself fully in the center of a pool of sunlight. Yet his border guards had not followed the howling command to stand down and greet him as a returning member from the hunt.
Confusion blistered his mind as he watched Bear Shadow step out of a stand of trees bearing attack canines, practically foaming at the mouth. The huge amber wolf was crouched low, stalking forward in a threatening stance, and then stopped to begin barking. His longtime friend Crow Shadow was at Bear Shadow’s side, two huge wolves clearly ready for mortal combat if he so much as flinched. Hunter could also feel the presence of snarling wolves behind him. He remained stock-still and then shape-shifted into his more vulnerable human form, hoping that would demonstrate his intent for peace.
Rapid angry barks were his pack’s initial response before they finally settled down enough to take their man forms.
“Bear, Crow . . . brothers . . . what—”
“There’s been a human death!” Bear Shadow said, cutting Hunter off, his voice trembling with rage and disappointment.
“Where?” Hunter shouted back across the clearing, not liking the tone of the statement, which had the unmistakable ring of accusation.
“In New Orleans,” Crow Shadow said, swallowing hard. “A boy. A student. Eaten and left for the flies in a Dumpster behind the Elf’s tavern.”
“They say you argued with him, brother,” Bear Shadow said, his voice quavering with emotion. He lifted his chin as a shotgun whirred toward him from behind a stand of trees. He caught it with one hand.
Hunter didn’t move. He understood immediately and remained very, very still. Horror threaded through him: The blackouts. The blood. Sasha!
Several clicks of pump shotguns engaging and the definitive scent of silver filled the air as pack brothers slowly stepped out of the shadows armed and extremely dangerous. A UCE tribunal would be called, evidence presented. Things had to follow protocol to avoid an all-out wolf hunt, as long as he went willingly and quietly. They had to ensure he was taken into custody, and he would allow them to do that to save the countless Shadows and innocent Werewolves who would be slaughtered if the Vampires could call for an open season on his kind once again. But more importantly, if he’d hurt Sasha, it would all be moot. He’d put a silver shell in his own temple.
Grim expressions stared back at Hunter as his gaze tore around the group for any sign that he hadn’t
committed his worst nightmare.
“Where’s Sasha?” he finally shouted, unable to hold his panic in check any longer.
“As the North American Shadow Wolf Clan chief enforcer,” Bear Shadow said in an authoritative tone now devoid of all emotion, “it is hereby my prime directive to take you into custody, dead or alive, until further notice. So says the ruling body of the United Counsel of Entities.”
Pandemonium had broken out among the PCU team members the moment Sasha and Doc left the lab. Woods kicked over two chairs and then stormed off, bereft; Fisher was out the door behind him, headed to get heavy artillery from the safe-house stash. Winters was still sitting in the same spot staring at his monitors in disbelief. Bradley was already gone, headed who knew where—probably just needing fresh air before the team actually saw him break down and cry.
Although heartbreak claimed her, Clarissa kept moving. Getting a blood sample from Doc now would be tricky, but there were several ways to gather DNA evidence.
Clarissa moved to the microscope Doc had been using and casually collected his coffee cup. She then went to the sink as though washing it out and gathered up his white lab coat. The collar might offer up a strand or two of hair.
They sat side by side in silence on the way back to Tulane. Hurt radiated off Doc’s skin in painful waves so acutely that she could almost see them form in the air. What could she possibly tell this man to make it all right? What the hell could she tell herself, for that matter? But she knew the discussion was inevitable, and as soon as they left the helipad and returned to the building, they’d have it out in Doc’s new temporary office away from the prying ears of the team. Oh, yes, they would argue, but in secretive, whispering bursts of emotion to keep anyone else from overhearing, especially the few top staff members who had been panicked, then deputized into preternatural service during the supernatural crisis last month.
Sasha watched her mentor take long, weary strides before her. His posture was rigid and tall with pride and righteous indignation. Yet sheer disappointment slowed his normally swift stride. Xavier Holland walked like a man going to his own execution after spending years waiting to hear the final verdict. The man looked tired, spent; deep creases in his ebony face replaced the character etchings time had dutifully left. His camel and charcoal tweed jacket now seemed too large for his thin frame, just as his charcoal pants seemed to hang from him in a way she’d never noticed before.
Doc never turned around to face her as they entered his office. He just allowed the door to bang against the stop and began to loosen his university rep tie. She watched him blot perspiration from his brow with the back of his forearm before he removed his jacket and carefully hung it up, and then opened the top button on his button-down white oxford shirt.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly once she’d clicked the door shut behind her. She knew it wasn’t nearly enough, but it was the truth.
Doc looked up at her as he sat down heavily on the edge of his desk and closed his eyes. “Why, Sasha? Why didn’t you tell me he was getting worse?”
“I thought you could tell from his increased dosages.”
Doc opened his eyes, the anguish in them halting her breath.
“I never increased his dosages. I would have told you if I had. Someone very skillfully came in here and replaced our unspent vials with sugar water. I didn’t notice there were any missing until I’d received a call this morning about the boy and went into the locked refrigerators to remove several vials to take with me on location. That’s when I saw that the serum had been tampered with . . . it was too thin, not viscous enough. I was looking at it under a scope when you arrived, trying to figure out who . . . but you just confirmed my worst fear. If he had extra doses, there was only one way for him to obtain that, and it would be to steal it from this facility.”
Sasha closed her eyes and hugged herself.
“I’m sorry, sweet pea,” Doc said in a gravelly voice.
His term of endearment from when she was a child and he’d cared for her wet her lashes. “So am I,” she whispered.
“This goes beyond my technical ability . . . I tried for years to break the code and I failed. Damn!” Doc hurled a thick medical text off his desk across the room and stood, smoothing a palm over his thinning hair. “I don’t know where I went wrong, what other factors I could have overlooked—the anti-toxin is supposed to work like snakebite antivenin . . . using a little of the toxic substance to allow the victim to build an immunity against it. Why isn’t his body fighting it, Sasha? Why?” Doc shouted, opening his arms toward her as though she had the critical scientific answer.
But the plea in his voice drew her as if she did. Sasha crossed the room and hugged him, needing Doc to do what he always did—to make it all right because he was hers. Wide old hands rubbed her back as she held in a sob.
“If I cure him, it doesn’t change what he’s probably done . . . why save him to be executed? Let him go out as a wolf—let his pack take him down while he’s running free. I don’t know what else to do, honey. We can’t cage him in the penal system.”
“Oh, God . . .” Her voice broke and she bit her lip. “I just want to know for sure, even though . . .”
“The evidence is damning. The meds were gone and he had them. What else is there to know? Even if there’s more than one beast left over from the last outbreak, I don’t know if I can cure Hunter this time, Sasha,” Doc said into her hair, his breath damp with unspent tears.
“I know . . . neither can I.”
Shogun sat at the long table in the private dining area of The Fair Lady, listening to the chaotic comments zinging among alarmed Fae citizenry, his Werewolf Clan captains, and disgruntled Mythics. Dana’s possessive hold on his arm—as though she were a queen being presented at court—made him snarl and stand. Lei, as expected, was on his flank in a flash.
“You must make a decision quickly,” Lei urged.
“We must do a thorough investigation,” Shogun said loud enough to quiet the caucus before him. “Our peace with the Shadow Clans is tenuous. To accuse one of theirs of murdering and cannibalizing a human without fair evidence would always leave a stain of doubt, and where there are doubts, there is mistrust—which leads to war.”
“We have evidence,” the Elf Dugan said, slamming a spent hypodermic needle on the table in front of Shogun with a meaty hand. His normally ruddy face was now a deeper shade of crimson, and agitation had puffed his barrel chest up so much that he looked like he might explode. “He’s been shooting up with the stuff! Could be the same thing that the Vamps were tradin’ and the rogue Shadows that had followed Dexter were taking. My Pixie cleaning crews found it in their room. That bad business all came out of his local pack . . . who’s to say he wasn’t caught up in it. Has ’appened to more genteel types than the likes of him.”
“I saw him charge his mate—was ballistic when he came through the doors of the B and B,” a Brownie shouted from the back of the room. “Was crazed.”
“That doesn’t make a man guilty of murder,” said a deep Werewolf voice from the crowd. “Just makes him all wolf—especially if you saw the babe he was with.”
Werewolf laughter rang out. Shogun growled to again quiet the rowdy group and then rounded on the table, not wanting to be reminded of the incident.
“Max Hunter did argue with that poor boy,” a fire-eyed Phoenix server said, the edges of her long red hair beginning to smolder.
“Yessss,” a sensual Dragon dancer said with a hiss. She swayed as she talked, placing her delicate hands on her hips, mesmerizing the crowd with her jewel-green eyes. “The young waiter triggered his mood, then Max Hunter became very upset that his pack brother interrupted a hunt.” She gave Dana a purposeful glance. “His own beta enforcer challenged him for a female and the big Shadow gave in . . . but stalked off, clearly unhappy about it. That’s when his mate cornered him and they left together after a fight. They went into the alley . . . into the shadows. Who knows what could have transssspired t
here if they were on drugs?”
“But we can’t jump to conclusions,” Ethan said, trying to play peacemaker as the establishment’s owner. He inserted his short, round frame between the verbal combatants and smoothed down the spikes of brown hair on his head, which rimmed a large bald spot. “People, if we disintegrate as allies here, the Vampire Cartel will come back, and come back with a vengeance. As soon as it gets dark, they’ll send their own investigators . . . after their disgrace at the UCE they’ll be calling for an all-out wolf hunt!”
The Fae in the room fell silent along with the Werewolves.
“If they call for an open wolf hunt,” Ethan said, glancing around as he pressed his point, “then anyone who voted against the Vampires at the UCE Conference will no longer be protected. The Werewolf Clans will have to defend themselves and watch their backs against the Vampires, as will the Shadow Wolves . . . and the old bad blood between the Wolf Clans could erupt again if there are any accidental deaths. What will happen to us?” Ethan shook his head. “I have children . . . a wife. I say we wait and allow the Shadow Wolves due process and we assist, in a positive manner only, in the investigation.”
“Maybe old Ethan is right,” Dugan piped up, quickly swaying the Fae vote.
“Word on the air from the Woodland Fairies is the Shadows have sent a hunting party after him using their best trackers,” a Fae archer said, materializing a silver-tipped arrow in his grip. “We can send our archers through the network of trees in his home region. We can bring him down a mile off without incident. If we have a body, that should appease the Vamps.”
