In Spirit and Truth (In Spiritu Et Veritate Series)

by Reed, Zoe

  It took a second for my eyes to fully adjust to the illuminated room, and what I saw wasn’t at all what I’d expected. All of the blankets had been pulled off the bed except for the white fitted sheet that hugged the mattress. Neatly arranged on the bed were four large stacks of hundred dollar bills, a duffle bag full of clothes and three giant sized pill bottles, one of which was half empty. Next to the alarm clock a forty-five millimeter pistol occupied the nightstand, an extra clip sitting readily beside it. The medium sized table next to the TV set was littered with empty beer and hard liquor bottles and an ashtray full of cigarette butts.

  The scene before me succeeded in settling my nerves slightly. I had faith in the Pack’s Alpha, but this confirmed that the guy we were after was to be taken seriously. Eli didn’t send Michael on assignments just for fun.

  Snapping until he finally got my attention off the bed and gun, Michael pointed at the closed bathroom door, motioning for me to check it. As I turned I saw him pick up the gun and drop it into the duffle bag, starting to clear the room. Pressing my back against the wall as I’d seen in police movies, I placed my hand on the door handle and turned, throwing the door open. When nobody came charging out at me I reached around the door and flicked the light switch, flooding the bathroom with light.

  Based on the main room I wasn’t surprised by the small bags of drugs and other paraphernalia on the sink counter, but I couldn’t comprehend how a werewolf could function and control Changes if he was intoxicated. That had been one of the first things I’d been told going in to my teenage years, that excess amounts of alcohol and any amount of drugs was off limits. But when I noticed a lacy red bra draped over the side of the bathtub, I understood. The drugs weren’t for Stephen. They were to entice entertainment.

  When I exited the bathroom I saw Michael pull a two-inch flashlight from his pocket. “Here,” he said, tossing it to me. “We need to clean this place up, but turn the lights back off in case he shows up. Throw anything you find into the duffle bag.”

  Doing as he told me, I returned to the light switch and flipped it down. I clicked on the small flashlight my brother had given me and followed its path of illumination back into the bathroom. Then I gripped the end of it in my teeth so I could use both hands for a fast cleanup. The first things I grabbed were the three small bags of drugs in one hand, and I carefully picked up a syringe in the other. After returning from throwing those into the duffle bag on the bed, I used the end of a toothbrush I found on the counter to move the lingerie into the bag. With a quick but careful flash of the light around the bathroom I did a final check for anything I could have missed, but all was clear.

  When I got to where Michael was standing at the nightstand, he had finished throwing away all the bottles and had put everything else into the duffle bag. Now he held his light in his mouth, shining it down on a piece of paper as he scribbled out a note.

  “I’ve got the perfect thing for you ladies,” a slurred but loud voice followed by giggling came from about fifty yards outside the door, and both mine and Michael’s heads jerked toward the sound.

  We couldn’t be sure if it was Stephen, but the voices were getting closer. Michael hurriedly finished scribbling the note that read ‘For checkout. Thanks for the service’, and threw two of the hundred dollar bills down next to it. He threw the duffle bag over his shoulder and motioned for me to follow him to the door.

  “He’s going to smell us,” I whispered as quietly as possible. With the shortening distance of the voices my heart began to hammer in my chest.

  Michael nodded but continued standing near the door. As the voices neared about ten feet from the room he placed his hand on the handle. At five feet the female voices continued chattering excitedly, but the footsteps had stopped. It was Stephen. It had to be. Tension rang through the air as he clearly stood in front of his room, fearing opening the door to find the source of the unfamiliar werewolves’ scents on the other side.

  Michael solved the problem for him and whipped open the door. In the split second it took both him and me to exit the room, Stephen shoved both of his female companions at us as a distraction and took off sprinting in the other direction. Prepared for it, Michael sidestepped the woman and hurried after Stephen, but I mistakenly caught the other confused woman by the shoulders, steadying her before I went around and losing a few valuable strides.

  By that time Michael and Stephen were already across the hotel parking lot, and heading fast for the nightclub on the adjacent property. I took off as fast as I could after them. Ahead I could see that Michael was still carrying the duffle bag, and as he ran it flopped up and down, hitting him in the back. While it wasn’t heavy, it was awkward, and was already slowing him down. The pair a hundred yards ahead of me was almost at the rear of the nightclub, and a couple seconds later when they reached it I saw Michael throw the bag into a dumpster. At that point Stephen was twenty yards ahead of him and began veering off to the right, toward a vacant plot of land behind the club.

  Far enough behind that I could cut him off if I made a straight line toward the far corner of the empty lot I kicked it into high gear, running as fast as my long legs could carry me. I was getting closer, running diagonally across the large patch of land as Stephen cut sideways through it. He didn’t see me coming which, when I caught up to him what I anticipated would be fifteen seconds later, would work to my advantage. I scanned the area in front of me, Michael had lost traction behind Stephen and now ran a good thirty yards behind him, but this was working out perfectly.

  I was closing in, only fifteen yards now. Ten. I could smell him on the breeze. Five yards. Another second later I pushed as hard as I could off the ground, leading with my shoulder, and plowed into Stephen, knocking him to the ground. His body was harder than it looked, and I fell to the dirt on impact while he tumbled away from me. At the same time we both sprang up from the ground, and while I made a move to tackle him again he whipped his hand around from behind him. A dark sparkle of familiar black metal gleamed in the moonlight, and a deafening bang sounded through the night with a flash of light.

  At the same time Stephen got his shot off Michael caught up, ramming hard into him and knocking his aim off so his shot just missed me. Stephen’s grip on his spare gun wasn’t as sturdy as his feet on the ground, so while the impact of Michael’s hit simply sent him skidding through the dirt, the gun flew out of his hand. While Stephen took off in the direction he was heading in the first place, Michael hesitated and turned worried eyes to me.

  “I’m fine, let’s go!” I shouted and took off past my brother in pursuit of the werewolf. I watched Stephen jump over a low cement wall and veer left onto the bridge that led over the freeway. “He’s heading for the strip!”

  In a burst of speed I knew could have only come from rage Michael flew past me, that same glint of metal in his hand. I pushed my limbs past their limit in an attempt to match his pace and keep up, but he was running faster than I’d ever seen him go before. In seconds he had run to be within ten yards of Stephen. As he continued sprinting he lifted his arm, taking aim at the man in front of him. Another shot rang through the dark, followed by a pain-shrilled snarl.

  Michael slowed and shoved the gun into the back of his pants as a pair of headlights shone over the opposite side of the bridge. Stephen now sat against the wall that lined the road, panting in pain from the bullet wound through the back of his hip. After giving him a hurried pat down to check him for any more weapons, Michael hoisted him onto his feet, throwing one of Stephen’s arms around his shoulders. In what looked like a friendly embrace he began walking with Stephen back toward me, purposefully stumbling and giving a drunken wave to the car that passed by.

  Once the car was out of sight he took Stephen’s arm off his shoulder and shoved the injured werewolf so he was limping a foot ahead. I would have worried about Stephen running or trying to make a final desperate attack at Michael, but each step looked excruciating. The back of his shirt and black pants already shined, s
oaked with blood all the way down to his ankle. I took stride beside Michael as we followed Stephen back in the direction we came.

  I could barely see the grip of the gun still sticking out of the back of Michael’s pants, and just the sight of it gave me the chills. In my experience, nothing good ever occurred when there was a gun involved. Even just a minute before this I’d been shot at, and probably would have been killed if Michael hadn’t caught up quick enough. But did that mean that Stephen deserved to die? It’s not your decision Camille. Stop thinking about it.

  As we followed close behind Stephen, he glanced back at us. “Are you going to make me walk the whole way?” He waited for an answer, but Michael simply clenched his jaw in silence. “You going to make me dig my own grave too?” he chuckled to himself as if his situation was amusing, and as he turned to walk backward a pained wince betrayed his look of defiance. “At this rate I’m going to bleed to death before we get there. Then you’re going to be stuck carrying a dead body anyway.”

  Still Michael kept silent, even going so far as to shake his head at me so I knew not to engage him. Instead of turning around and continuing, Stephen kept walking backwards, only now he carefully studied Michael.

  “You know, you look really familiar,” he said thoughtfully, and after a pause he chuckled again. “That’s right. You’re one of them werewolf kids from California. What about you sweetheart?” He turned his gaze on me, looking me up and down.

  At this point Michael glared at him. “You’re awfully talkative for a dead man. Why don’t you turn around and start saying your prayers?”

  “Oh, defensive.” Stephen laughed, harder this time as he smirked at me. “Must be family.” With another glare from Michael, Stephen turned around, still snickering to himself. “Shame, shame. Karma is a bitch.”

  Karma’s a bitch? I passed a questioning glance at Michael, but he just shrugged and made a circle at his head with his finger, mouthing the word ‘crazy’. Despite Michael’s disinterest, the phrase made me terribly uneasy. Most mutts knew about the Pack, but the Pack lived in Oregon. So how did Stephen know we were from California?

  By now Stephen was limping terribly, each step barely successful, and the blood had soaked through his shoe, leaving a red boot print behind. I couldn’t imagine how bad it had to hurt, or if he was scared. If he was starting to regret all the mistakes he made in his life and all he wanted was a second chance. But I couldn’t let myself think like that.

  Michael had said Stephen’s body count was up to six. Did he consider his victims’ lives before he took it from them? Probably not. He’d even tried to kill me without the slightest hesitation. And who created this guy? He had to be bitten. Almost all born werewolves had the paternal guidance and the sense to stay out of trouble, mostly because they knew the consequences otherwise.

  “I’m going to pass out.” Stephen’s voice had lost its defiance and it came out weak and strained, and he spoke without turning around.

  “You’ll make it to the car. Keep walking.” Even though Stephen wasn’t looking, Michael crossed his arms over his chest in resolve.

  “I’m bleeding to death, asshole. You’re going to kill me anyway. Just get it over with.” Now that I paid more attention, Stephen’s breathing was soft and shallow. He couldn’t run. Couldn’t fight. He was giving up. “Please.”

  Michael stopped walking and glanced around to see where we were. By the look in his eyes I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Whether he cared enough to put the dying werewolf out of his misery. Was this ethical? Why did Michael have to bring me with him?

  “Camille, do you remember the dumpster I threw the duffel bag in?” Michael asked me and I looked around. To my surprise we’d already passed the hotel and stood across the street from the warehouse the truck was parked behind. I nodded my head. “Can you go get it? Take the gun out and leave it in the dumpster, make sure you don’t get any prints on it.” I turned to head off back to the hotel but he stopped me and pulled the second gun from his waist. “Wait, this one too.”

  Hesitantly, I took the pistol from him, surprised by its weight. It felt large and awkward in my hands, like I held death itself. As I turned away again I made sure I kept my fingers far away from the trigger lest I should press it on accident. I even went so far as to squint for the safety switch, and turned it on with an uneasy click.

  The walk to the dumpster was a short one, and when I got there I found the duffle bag sitting right on top. Before pulling it out I rubbed the grip of the gun I was holding in my shirt to wipe off any fingerprints, and then gently tossed it in. I did the same with the other one after I pulled the duffle bag out, and then started back toward the truck.

  Being away from Michael and Stephen, my nose had been reaccustomed to fresh air. However, now that I was back on our exact path I could smell the blood footprints that led to the truck. I didn’t know whether or not Stephen had made it to the truck. Or whether or not Michael had given in to the dying werewolf’s final plea, but I tried my best not to think about it. Even as I reached the truck and Michael was waiting in the driver’s seat with Stephen nowhere to be found, I told myself I didn’t want to know. Though, by the fact that the cover was now secured over the bed it was hard not to speculate.

  I climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door without speaking, staring through the windshield. Michael put the shifter into drive to start our next task and looked over at me, observing for a minute before saying anything. “You okay?”

  I nodded, but out of the corner of my eye I could see he was still watching me, and I knew he didn’t buy it. “Don’t you ever feel guilty?”

  “Guilty,” he repeated, glancing down thoughtfully. “No.” Then he looked over at me, scanning the tired and weary look on my face. “Cami, you got to ask yourself how many more humans he would have killed. And after that, how long until he exposed the rest of us.” His gaze refocused out the windshield, and he sighed before speaking again. “You can’t let yourself feel guilty for doing what needs to be done.”

  Not knowing what exactly to say I simply nodded. Trying to take his advice, I pushed everything from my mind and leaned my head against the window. Then I let my eyes flutter closed and tried to sleep. I didn’t know how far into the empty desert Michael would drive until he was satisfied that no one would find the evidence. Or how he would go about getting rid of that evidence. All I knew was that I was ready for this night to be over. Ready to be back home. Ready to visit Kyla so I could start to feel normal again. But there was something I just couldn’t get out of my head.

  Karma is a bitch.

  I glanced at the clock on my nightstand and ended up staring at it for the next minute. It had finally rolled around to Thursday, and since I’d been feeling better I thought I should start on the essay that was due Friday morning. After six hours of working on it nonstop I was looking for any excuse to take a break I could get, eventually resorting to staring blankly at the time. As I stared at the clock my cell phone started buzzing on the bed next to me.

  Excited, assuming it was Camille about to come over and rescue me from my boredom, I zealously picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Hey babe.” With the deep voice that greeted me came a slight pang of disappointment, which I immediately scolded myself for. I hadn’t heard from my boyfriend in the two weeks since I’d moved away – I should be happy to talk to him.

  “Aaron, hey,” I answered, moving my laptop to the floor and lying down on my back.

  “How are you? I miss you.” Even though I’d been adjusting so well to the move, the way Aaron’s deep, relaxed voice came through the phone made me somewhat homesick. Especially since I’d been alone most of the last week while I’d been sick.

  I took a minute to describe the new people I’d met and explain that I had the flu the past week. After a quick reply of ‘Oh that sucks’, Aaron went into a fifteen-minute update about all the football games and parties he’d been attending. I couldn’t deny that the feeling of homesickne
ss grew a bit at his apathetic answer. So, half-listening in my own attempt at apathy, I sighed as I put him on speakerphone and silently fiddled with my guitar. I was unable to recall if the conversations we had in the past had always been so one-sided or if he just had a lot to tell me. It had to be the latter since I hadn’t spoken with him in a while.

  Once the background noise of his chatter subsided I responded with a generic, “That sounds like a lot of fun I’m missing,” and put the phone back to my ear. “When is your flight out here? It’s soon right?”

  “I’m glad you asked. It’s in a couple weeks I think,” he answered excitedly. Then I heard the shuffling of papers, and knew he was looking for his flight schedule on the always-cluttered desk in his bedroom. “Okay, my plane will be getting there in two weeks, on Friday morning. And I’ll just be there for the weekend, so we have to make the most of it,” he told me suggestively.

  I fake-laughed for lack of a better response. We’d been intimate when I lived in Texas, and while I would admit it was never my favorite pastime, I was always able to get slightly interested. But what did he want me to say? While I felt I missed him on an emotional level, and I’d admit it was a surface emotion, he seemed only concerned with the sex he wasn’t getting. So, annoyed with Aaron for being a typical teenage boy and with myself for being over-critical I ended the conversation, making a mental note of his flight date so I wouldn’t forget to pick him up from the airport.

  As I sat up, a shout from downstairs informed me that dinner was ready. Stomach growling I threw my phone back on the bed and scurried to the door. When I got to the dining room not seconds later and saw a huge grilled steak sitting on my plate, I folded my hands and thanked God my appetite had returned.

  Immediately after my uncle had said grace I ferociously dug in, my mom laughing as she passed around a small basket of bread. “Someone’s feeling better.”

  “Much.” I grinned, grabbed a bread roll, and then passed the basket to Scott, who was on the other side of me.