We’d always had a good relationship with the humans in Alaska, but word of these “rogues” had stretched beyond the state. News organizations and major outdoor/adventuring websites were warning people about shifter attacks.
It was bad enough that the humans we’d trusted in our own state would now eye us with uncertainty, but a world that hadn’t even known we existed would now be terrified of us. The humans here who’d coexisted peacefully with us would be put in the middle, needing to either defend us against the scared folks in the lower forty-eight whose only knowledge of shifters was what these videos showed, or placate the scared tourists by placing restrictions on us.
I foresaw shifter registries, regulations on where we were to live, times and dates that we’d be allowed to assume our animal forms. We’d have curfews, have to wear something that would easily identify us as shifters to any human who saw us. And with these videos, any attack on us would be easily justified as self-defense. It wasn’t just the pain of a bullet we’d need to fear, but death.
All the freedoms we’d had would be taken away in the name of human safety. Karl was wrong. We couldn’t afford to mind our own business and let it blow over, or to just avoid humans. I didn’t want to be forced out of my home and job, to have to choose between going off the grid and hiding in the wilderness or dealing with restrictions that were one step away from life in a cage.
We needed to find out who was responsible for this and stop them as well as repair our public image because Karl might be able to live like a wild man in isolation, but I couldn’t, and neither could most of the shifters in Alaska. We needed to fight this, and we needed to win.
Chapter Six
Sheriff Murray pulled me into his office and shut the door. “Please tell me you got that rogue bear.”
I nodded. “Yes. He’s dead. The official word was that this was a grizzly attack that killed the five scientists, right?”
Brent’s texts and those YouTube videos worried me. If people thought shifters were behind this last string of killings, then it would just add fuel to the fire of hysteria.
“Sabrina, no one in their right mind is going to think a wild grizzly killed five people, one of them armed with a rifle. The locals know it was a rogue, and up until recently they’ve trusted you shifters to take care of the, frankly, very few problems. But there were three wolves up north that attacked people, and now this grizzly kills five. Word is out—and I mean out beyond Alaska. People know, and they’re scared.”
“Those videos were carefully edited. We don’t shift that fast, ever.”
Sheriff Murray lifted his hands up. “Then what’s happening? Because people are scared, and it really looks like those werewolves were trying to kill those people.”
“They’re shot before they transform. Something on the bullets is causing a rapid shift. It kills us, and I think in some instances it’s causing shifters to go rogue, to attack,” I told him. “We’re not like this. You’ve grown up around shifters. We don’t attack people. We mind our own business and get along with the humans. We’ve lived peacefully among you for hundreds of years up here in Alaska, and I can count the number of rogue incidents on one hand.”
“Before this week, yes. But there’s been four reported incidents and five humans are dead, Sabrina.” He pulled out a piece of paper and showed it to me. “This is a phone call we got from some hiker claiming a grizzly attacked him. He shot it twice and it didn’t even flinch. Then he claims a wolf joined in the attack. He barely got away with his life.”
Oh that ungrateful jerk. “It was the rogue that attacked him, and I was the wolf. But I was defending him, putting myself between the hiker and the rogue. Karl and I distracted the rogue then killed him. The hiker got away unscathed because we—two shifters—were there to help him.”
“He wouldn’t have needed your help if there hadn’t been a rogue shifter attacking him,” the sheriff countered.
“There wouldn’t have been a rogue if he hadn’t been shot with a tainted bullet. It drove him mad. He was probably a normal guy before someone shot him. The people making and selling those bullets are the ones you should be afraid of, the ones you should be going after, not us.”
He scratched his beard and shook his head. “I like Brent. I’ve got a lot of respect for him, and the shifters I’ve met from his pack are good folk, but I can’t ignore this. Five people are dead. People are panicking.”
How could I convince him that the shifters weren’t to blame for any of this? “In May there was a group of human hunters up in Kenai with some kind of magic coated bullets that forced us to shift, blocked our ability to heal, and killed us. They were hunting us. They’d already killed a bear shifter and nearly killed two werewolves. I think whoever made those bullets and sold them is behind this. We took a bullet from that rogue bear, and it was tainted. Someone shot him and made him go rogue—made him crazy. And if we hadn’t killed him, he would have eventually died from what was on that bullet.”
I handed him the bullets, separating the two that the hiker had shot from the tainted one. The sheriff picked up each one, examined it and shook his head. He couldn’t tell the difference. I could feel the magic tainting the one bullet, but to the human, they were all the same.
“I don’t know, Sabrina. It sounds pretty farfetched. I can’t exactly defend you guys with a tale of magic bullets and some conspiracy theory of wizards or something out to kill shifters.”
Great. “The world believes there are elves migrating to live among us, that angels walk the earth, that there is a dragon in a museum in London and mermaids in the Great Lakes. The locals believe that there are interdimensional rifts opening that spit out manticores and drop bears and hydras. They’ll accept that shifters exist, but they won’t believe that someone has the motive and ability to create magic bullets capable of killing us or driving us into insane killers?”
“They can see all those other things, but this bullet.” He held it up to my face. “This bullet looks just like a regular bullet. If you can prove that someone is deliberately shooting shifters—and not in self-defense—then we can do something about it. Otherwise I need to do everything I can to protect human lives and keep everyone, tourists and locals alike, from panicking and taking the law into their own hands—for your safety as well as ours.”
The police were already scratching their heads over the appearance of other supernatural beings in the world. We didn’t have dragons or elves in Alaska, but I knew the humans were grappling with how to enforce the law when it came to beings that had magic, or breathed fire. We shifters had melded in with human society up here, but the police weren’t equipped to prosecute someone for making magic-coated bullets, even if I could prove to them they existed. The only way we’d get human cooperation on this is if we found proof of hunters shooting shifters while they were in human form. If we could show premeditated murder, then we might have a chance of regaining human trust.
“It’s not self-defense,” I told the sheriff. “It’s murder. I know there are some in Alaska who don’t really like us shifters and would be happy to buy bullets that could take us down and kill us. Someone is capitalizing on that and providing bullets that can kill shifters.”
He eyed me sympathetically. “There’s nothing illegal about manufacturing and selling bullets. You can’t prosecute someone for that. Most everyone is okay with you guys, but there’s always those crazies that see you as animals, or some kind of demon that deserves putting down. If someone threatens you, or tries to take a shot at you, then you need to file a report and not try to take care of it yourself. You shifters are entitled to the same protections as humans, but you can’t go taking law into your own hands.”
We’d ignored those crazy people who saw us as animals that needed to be put down, because up until recently there hadn’t been much they could do to hurt us. The laws prohibiting assault and murder covered us too, but the group of hunters in Kenai had been operating underground, taking the risk. And once we were in
animal form, it would be hard to press murder charges. If a hunter had a license, saw a bear, shot and killed a bear and claimed to not know it was a shifter, he’d probably go free.
And now, with videos on the internet of shifters attacking humans, with five dead from a rogue grizzly attack, I doubt any jury would believe our claims of magic bullets forcing us to shift. Self-defense, or a legal hunter claiming mistaken identity meant it would now be open season on killing shifters. And the real game changer was that evidently random people, including scientists, now had access to these magic-coated bullets that could kill us.
“I need to take the tainted bullet to someone who can analyze it,” I told the sheriff.
He hesitated. “We really need to tag these into evidence.”
I know he was still worried about us taking justice into our own hands. It was a valid concern. For the most part we played along with the rules of human society, but when it came to threats like this, we often colored outside the lines. I was pretty sure that neither Brent, nor Jake, the Swift River Pack Alpha, had reported those shifter hunters that they’d killed up in Kenai. Sometimes it was easier to just sweep it all into a crevasse than deal with the paperwork and questions of an investigation.
“I really need to compare this bullet with the ones used against shifters up in Kenai to see if there is a connection. And I’m also hoping that maybe we can find an antidote.”
His eyes lit up and he slid the bullets back toward me. “If you could find an antidote so that all these rogue attacks ended, then we’d have a much easier time going after whoever is targeting you guys.”
And if we could dig up enough on these guys that the police would know exactly who was targeting us, that would be even better. I hesitated a moment, wondering under what circumstances we’d feel that we needed to deliver our own justice. Brent had been raised with humans and it would take a lot for him to sanction taking the law into our own hands. If there was an immediate threat, if the police said their hands were tied and they could do nothing, then Brent might pull a discreet, select group of us to take care of these killers. Moira, the Denali Pack Alpha wouldn’t get involved unless they were specifically targeted, but Jake, the Swift River Pack Alpha, would support taking action. One of his had been shot and nearly killed, and Jake wasn’t the type of wolf to turn the other cheek.
I pocketed the bullets, shuddering at the feel of the tainted one. “I saw the videos with the attacking rogues, and like I said, I think they may have been shot off camera or that it was edited out. I believe that one of the five victims of this rogue shot the bear with this tainted bullet. Do you have their effects somewhere? Can I check and see if any of their bullets matches this one we dug out of the rogue?”
The sheriff scowled. “I’m not going to blame five scientists who lost their lives to this guy for shooting him. Like I said, selling bullets isn’t illegal. And defending yourself against an attacking animal, whether they’re a shifter or not, isn’t illegal either.”
I raised my hands. “I’m not blaming them. I’m just trying to find a connection. Maybe the rogue was shot with the tainted bullet before he even got to the campsite. Maybe one of the scientists is related to one of the shifter hunters and grabbed his bullets by mistake. I’m just trying to find a connection, if there is one.”
Although why would the shifter hunters have bullets that made shifters go rogue? It was suicidal. Instead of a head on their wall, they’d most likely wind up dead right next to the corpse of the shifter. And by the videos, someone was setting up the attack.
Was that it? Was someone selling the rogue bullets as kill bullets, catching the carnage on tape and driving the public into a panic? Although they’d need to be stealthy. If hunters found out they were being sold bullets that would end up with them dead in addition to the shifter, public opinion would shift.
“All the effects are down at the morgue with the bodies.” The sheriff gave me a narrow-eyed glare. “I’ll call down and get you in, but you’re to take nothing. Their families are making arrangements, and I don’t want to hear that so much as a sock is missing. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” I reached out and shook his hand.
Chapter Seven
The M.E. pulled another slab out of the freezer, eyeing me as she spoke. “This is the last one. All five healthy males. All injuries consistent with a large animal attack—bear from my experience. Death from blood loss and trauma from said injuries.”
I really didn’t want to look at these mauled human bodies, but needed to be thorough. If there was anything in the rogue’s attack that gave me a clue as to what happened, I’d take it. Unfortunately, I got an eye full of mutilated corpses and nothing else. The M.E. was right. They seemed to be nothing other than a large-animal attack. Bites. Claw marks. Defensive wounds. Hunting among shifters was quick and efficient with maximum consideration for preserving the meat. This was an attack fueled by rage. Overkill. An image flashed through my memory of Karl bashing the dead rogue’s body around the clearing. Yeah. Like that.
One of these humans had been in possession of a rifle. And yes, it had been recently fired. Judging from what was left in the magazine and the damage to the stock, one of the scientists had fought back, shooting at the rogue at least four times before the gun had been swiped from his hands. But Karl had only dug one bullet out of the bear shifter besides the two the hiker had shot. Had three bullets missed? Or had all four missed and the one that had turned the grizzly shifter rogue had been from another shooter?
There was more to this than a simple bear shifter gone rogue. Who’d attacked first? I couldn’t blame a shifter for defending himself, and there were the occasional idiots who panicked and unloaded on a bear who was just eating berries a little too close to their camp. I didn’t expect that sort of behavior from most people, but the world was filled with noobs, and it wouldn’t be the first time some poor shifter got an ass full of lead when she was just minding her own business.
Yeah. I still had the scars.
And then there was that bullet we’d dug out of the rogue. “Can I see their personal effects?” I asked the M.E. The .35 caliber .358 that I had in my pocket could have been fired by the Browning that one of the naturalists had fired, or whether it could have been fired by someone else.
The personal effects took up nearly an entire room. There was a neat pile of packed-up tents, coolers, foodstuff, and research equipment. Another pile held the bagged-and-tagged samples the naturalists had been studying along with several notebooks full of scribbled handwriting. In smaller piles were duffle bags.
“This was the guy that shot the rifle.” The woman pointed to a small pile of bags. I got down to work under her watchful eyes and sorted through clothing, toiletries, more notebooks and pens, and a box of .35 caliber, .358 bullets.
They were all normal bullets, without the magic coating, but further down in the smaller dufflebag I came across something the shape of a crayon box with five bullets and an empty slot. Gritting my teeth, I pulled each one out and examined it, comparing the smell, the feel, to the one in my pocket. This was it. Out of the bullets in the rifle, one had been tainted.
He’d bought them separately and they’d come in this plain brown cardboard container. And clearly they were expensive or he would have loaded all of them in the rifle.
One, just in case any attacking animal was a shifter. Three, so he wouldn’t waste all the expensive bullets on a wild bear. But where had they come from? This guy must have bought them specifically for this trip. And whoever was selling these bullets was complicit in the murders of not only the bear shifter in Kenai, but these five scientists. They had to be connected. Two different types of magical coating, but both affecting shifters, both in the same geographic area, and, I was willing to bet, both made by the same sorcerer and most likely sold by the same company.
“What was this guy’s name?” I asked. “And did he have anything on him as far as receipts?”
The M.E. flipped through a chart
on a nearby table. “Joseph Sebastian Floyd. Age thirty-five. Portland, Oregon.”
“Any idea what he did for a living?”
She shrugged. “I take care of the bodies. I don’t do the detective work. These guys were all scientists, but they were amateurs, not professionals. That’s all I know.”
“Did he have a wallet? Can I see what was in there?”
The M.E. looked like she was running out of patience with my questions, but nodded reluctantly. “Come on.” She led me to a safe, then sorted through tagged cell phones and wallets. “Here.”
It held about forty in cash, two credit cards, and a license. I quickly committed the address and birthdate to memory, then dug through the recesses of the leather billfold, pulling out a handful of receipts. One was from a stop-and-go near Ketchikan for junk food and fuel. Others were dining receipts, more junk food, and an outfitter. I pulled my cellphone out and with a questioning glance at the M.E. for permission, I snapped a picture of the receipt. I didn’t recognize the address, and the print out only showed the total, not the detail of what was bought, but at least it was a lead.
If I were lucky, this would be the place where Joseph Floyd had bought the tainted bullets. If I were lucky.
I left the morgue and glanced at the time. Then I typed in all I’d gleaned from the license and sent it plus the receipt picture to Brent along with a summary of what had happened. Did I have time to go hunt down this outfitter before they closed? And how late would that make me in getting to Karl’s? As much as I was looking forward to getting naked and sweaty with the bear shifter, his promise of dinner was the greater draw right now. Two days of beef jerky and summer sausage weren’t my idea of sustainable dining.
My phone beeped. Where are you? Brent asked.
Still in Ketchikan. Just left the morgue. Can you get Dustin to fly me back tomorrow?
My Paranormal Valentine: A Paranormal Romance Box Set Page 48
