Chapter Four
I-45 stretched before me, a flat ribbon of asphalt bordered on both sides by short trees, mesquite, ash, and oak. The car sped forward, chomping down the miles. I always liked driving. My mother had too.
My father had been born in a time when a galloping horse was the top speed a man could attain. The moment he'd get into a car, he'd begin what my mother used to affectionately call the Gerard Show. At the start of the drive he'd sit perfectly still in the passenger seat, gripping the door with white-knuckled strength, his face a pale, rigid mask of grim determination, his eyes wide open. This lasted until we encountered traffic, at which point he would start pointing out cars and road hazards in this quiet emergency voice. He would close his eyes and brace himself when we switched lanes. If we had to come to a stop before a red light and another vehicle had gotten there before us, he would throw his hands in front of his face or sometimes in front of Mom's body, trying to shield her, when we came to a stop. One time we were on the road and a giant semi veered a little too close. He'd screamed, "Jesu, Helen, turn the horses!" and then spent the rest of the day being embarrassed about it.
I'd once had a teacher with a severe airplane anxiety. She'd told me that every time she stepped on a plane, she'd done so with a full expectation that she was going to die. She had made a folder with a skull and crossbones on it, which contained her will and life insurance policy and would make sure to leave it in plain view so her family wouldn't have to "scramble for information" in case of her death. My father, who was the bravest man I had ever known, had a similar mindset: every time he entered a vehicle, he did it with the expectation that he --or Mom and me, which was infinitely worse for him --wouldn't survive the trip. Every car ride was a near-death experience.
Despite all this, Mom did somehow teach him to drive. Very occasionally, when he absolutely had to, he would drive the car down a quiet street for a mile and a half to the grocery store and gas station. We weren't allowed to go with him because he refused to be responsible for our deaths. He never let it get faster than thirty-five miles per hour. When he returned, armed with groceries, he would park the vehicle in the driveway, get out, and lay on the grass, looking at the sky for about ten minutes. Sometimes I would come and lay with him. We'd look at the sky and the trees rustling above us and be happy we were alive.
I missed them both so badly. I would find them. Someone somewhere had to know something about them. One day that someone would walk into my inn, see the portrait of my parents on the wall, and I would see that knowledge on his or her face. And then I would find my parents.
My GPS came on and Darth Vader prompted me to take the next exit. Ten minutes later, after bearing left "to the dark side," I parked before a large house. It sat recessed from the street, behind tall, slender palms and acacias, and I could barely make out the peach stucco walls under terra-cotta tile roof. A winding stone path led across the grass toward the house.
I crossed the street and stopped before the walkway. Ghostly bugs skittered across my skin. The small hairs on my arms rose. I was on the edge of another inn's grounds.
I took a step forward. The magic rolled over me. I braced myself and stood still, waiting. If the innkeeper didn't want me to enter, he would let me know. My father was well regarded because before he'd become an innkeeper, he'd been a guest, and he had chosen to risk his life to help the owner of an inn. It had cost him centuries of incarceration and solitude. But he had his detractors as well. If I was lucky, Mr. Rodriguez wasn't one the latter.
Silence stretched. Birds chirped in the trees above me. A minute chugged by. Another. Long enough. Since nobody came to throw me out, I must be welcome.
I started down the path. The air smelled fresh and clean, with a hint of moisture. The path turned and I saw the source of the humidity: a shallow pond bending in natural curves in the center of a beautifully tiled courtyard. Orange-and-white koi moved ponderously through a foot of green water. Around the pond, plants thrived in bordered flower beds: bright red and yellow canna flowers with big leaves, small purple and scarlet clusters of verbena, and dandelion-gold stars of yellow bush daisy. Short palms and artfully pruned mesquite provided shade for aged wooden benches with wrought-iron frames. Beyond the courtyard curved the house, a two-story-high semicircle of arcades, shady balconies with ornate columns, arches, and wooden doorways.
Various traces of magic signatures slid past me, footprints of power left by dozens of guests. This was a thriving inn, frequented by many creatures of different talents. My parents' inn used to feel this way too: strong and vibrant. Alive. If this inn was a floodlight, Gertrude Hunt would be a flame in a lone lantern by comparison. That's okay, I promised myself. One day...
A man crouched by one of the flower beds, carefully digging at the soil with a hand rake. He looked to be in his late fifties, with silver in his dark hair and naturally bronze skin, weathered by time and the elements into deep wrinkles. A short, carefully trimmed beard hugged his jaw. A young woman stood next to him in a conservative blue dress and silvery pumps, her dark hair curled into a stylish updo. She was a couple of years older than me, but the look on her face was unmistakable. It was the look that any child past twelve would recognize and could perfectly duplicate. It said "I'm being chewed out by my parent. Again. Can you believe this?"
"...If I wanted to handle it myself, Isabella, I wouldn't have requested your help."
Oh no, not the patient-dad voice.
"The entire point of delegating a task is so one doesn't have to perform it himself."
Isabella sighed. "Yes, Father. You have a visitor."
"I'm perfectly aware of her, thank you." The man fixed me with sharp dark eyes. "May I help you?"
Coming here was probably a mistake. "My father once told me that I could ask a man here for advice."
"What was his name?"
"Brian Rodriguez."
The man nodded patiently. "I know what my name is. What was your father's name?"
"Gerard Demille."
The man studied me. "Gerard Demille? You're Gerard and Helen's daughter?"
I nodded.
He got up. "Thank you, Issy, that will be all."
Isabella sighed again. "Does this mean you're done lecturing me?"
"Yes. To answer your question, tell the ifrit that if they want the use of the formal dining room, we'll need something from their khan stating they will handle the expenses. That will quiet them right up." He pointed at the bench. "Please sit."
Isabella turned and went toward the house, shaking her head. I sat on the bench next to him.
"Dina Demille," Brian Rodriquez said. He had a deep, slightly raspy voice. "When I heard that you'd moved in to Gertrude Hunt, I thought you would come to visit me sooner."
"I wasn't sure I would be welcome."
"My dear, your father put his own life in jeopardy for the sake of an innkeeper's wife and children. You're very young, so you probably don't have enough experience to realize how rarely a guest risks himself for our sake. Gerard is a very brave man."
"He would say he is very foolish."
"He would. For all of his bluster and pretending to be a scoundrel, he was always a modest man. All innkeepers owe him a debt of gratitude, and your mother selflessly saved him from the eternity of imprisonment. As their daughter, you are always welcome at this inn. What made you doubt that?"
"You didn't answer my letter."
"What letter?"
"I sent you a letter after the incident. It was some years ago."
Mr. Rodriguez shook his head. "I never received it. What did you write?" He seemed completely genuine.
"I asked if you knew anything about their disappearance." A tiny, fragile hope fluttered its wings in my chest.
Mr. Rodriguez leaned forward. "In a word, no. People can and do disappear from time to time, but for an entire inn to simply vanish is unheard of. Your parents were well thought of. When the incident occurred, I checked into it and many others did, too. But our collective wisdom failed. We know nothing."
The hope died. I did my best to hide my disappointment.
"You must miss them," he said.
"I do." Every single day.
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you."
Mr. Rodriguez offered me a small smile. "So, what may I do for you, daughter of Gerard and Helen?"
I took out a photograph of the stalker and passed it to him.
Mr. Rodriguez stared at the photograph. Alarm flared in his eyes.
"A Ma'avi stalker. Nasty creatures, vindictive and cruel. Is the inn threatened?"
"Yes." Technically, it was threatened now that I had gotten myself involved. "The stalker began killing dogs, then escalated. I believe there is more than one of them. How did they get here?"
"The same as everyone else." Mr. Rodriguez studied the photograph. "The question is why and who brought them in. You've had no unusual guests?"
"Only Caldenia."
"Ahh, yes. Not many people would've taken her in. I imagine she pays well, but the trouble she brings can't possibly be worth the fee."
"It's wasn't the money," I told him. "Although it was welcome. The inn needed a guest."
Brian smiled. "Ahh. Your parents would be proud. People of your age don't always understand that simple truth: the inns require guests to flourish."
My parents had never turned away a guest, no matter how difficult they were to accommodate. It was simply the way they did things. I saw no reason to veer from that course.
Mr. Rodriguez tapped the photograph. "Years ago, when I was much younger, my parents sent me to the West Coast to take care of some private business. I stayed at the Blue Falls, a very specialized inn. It catered to high-risk guests. One of them was something called a dahaka. He was in the lobby when I came in and I had to wait for about five minutes until he finished his business. It was thirty years ago, and I remember it like it was yesterday. He wore armor, carried high-technology rifles, and had two stalkers sitting by his feet. Being in his presence was like being trapped in a cage with a vicious, hungry animal. I felt the menace. He emitted it like fire emits heat. His stalkers drooled at me. I saw the hunger in their eyes. To them I was prey. Food."
He shivered and shook his head. "The dahaka looked at me in passing as he went to his room. It felt like somebody dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. Every hair on my body stood up." He rubbed his forearm. "I was a young kid then, twenty. I had all these powers and I thought I was immortal. That was the moment when I realized I could die."
This didn't sound good. Not at all. "And he had stalkers with him?"
Mr. Rodriguez nodded. "Dahaka are a reclusive and very violent race. They pride themselves on their ability to kill, and they often employ other creatures the way our hunters employ dogs. Stalkers are some of their favorites."
I thought out loud. "But why would a dahaka be in Red Deer, Texas? There's nothing there. And if one of them was there, why wouldn't he come to the inn?"
"I don't know. But I can tell you there's one way to find out if you have a dahaka. They implant transmitters into their animals. If you have one, that stalker corpse has a transmitter somewhere in its flesh."
So I was facing a very violent creature armed with advanced weaponry and a pack of murderous beasts. How in the world would I even deal with it?
"I wish I could help," Mr. Rodriguez said.
"Thank you." We both knew he couldn't. He had his inn and I had mine. "I just wish the inn was stronger, that's all."
"Would you mind a bit of unsolicited advice?"
"I'll take all the advice I can get."
He turned and nodded at the inn. "Casa Feliz is a very busy place. We serve Dallas and Fort Worth and a good deal of Oklahoma. We have a reputable standing as a good place to stay for most guests. In essence, we are the Holiday Inn of our world."
Yes, his inn was doing well and mine wasn't. I was painfully aware of that fact. "I'm afraid I don't follow."
"When Gertrude Hunt was built all those years ago, it stood on a road crossing. But now the roads have moved on, the inn stood abandoned, and I would guess that even with proximity to Austin and Houston, you still don't get many visitors. My point is that there are different kinds of inns. Some inns are like Casa Feliz and cater to a wide variety of patrons. Some cater only to few, select customers. The guests with special needs. Don't fight your remote location --turn it to your advantage. If you succeed in that, you'll build a quiet reputation that will speak volumes. Your exclusivity could be an asset, the way it was for Blue Falls."
"Thank you." It was sound advice. I just had no idea how to follow it. "May I trouble you for an introduction to the Blue Falls innkeeper? Perhaps I could call him and ask him for more information about dahakas?"
Mr. Rodriguez shook his head. "I'm sorry, but Blue Falls was destroyed seventeen years ago. One of the guests went on a rampage and murdered the innkeeper and her family. A terrible tragedy."
Umm. So I could be just like that other innkeeper who'd died in a horrible way.
I rose off the bench. "Thank you so much for all your help. I must be going."
"You've driven a long way. Would you like some lunch?"
"No, thank you. I want to get back as soon as possible."
Mr. Rodriguez nodded. "I understand. If there is anything else I can do, don't hesitate to call. I'll help in any way I can."
I started down the path. Oh, shoot, Sean. "Mr. Rodriguez?"
"Yes?"
"Do you know why a particular werewolf would be much stronger than others?"
Mr. Rodriguez smiled and said in the patient voice he'd used with Isabella, "Have you consulted your Creature Guide?"
"I have. It doesn't mention anything relevant."
"Did you inherit it with the inn?"
"Yes. All my books and possessions disappeared with my parents."
Mr. Rodriguez nodded. "It's probably out of date. Before the werewolves blew themselves up, they bred a second generation of combat operatives to hold the gates against the Sun Horde while the population evacuated. They're just like the usual werewolves, except more: stronger, faster, harder to kill, more aggressive, more everything. They aren't too stable, but nobody worried about that at the time since they weren't expected to live. The funny thing is, their makers bred them to survive against overwhelming odds, holding the gates against superior firepower often by pure will, and then were extremely surprised when their creations refused to give up and die at the end. Most of the second generation did perish in the final blast, but several units made it through the gates. They are rare and other werewolves stay away from them. Some would say that they are ostracized or even shunned, others argue that we simply give them the distance and respect that their sacrifice and heroic combat performance demanded. It all depends on who you talk to. If you encounter one, I'd treat them with kid gloves. If they decide you're a threat, they react with sudden and extreme violence and they're very difficult to kill."
*** *** ***
I drove straight home. Of course, I hit a traffic jam on 45. A semi had overturned, clogging both lanes. The radio said no one was seriously hurt, but by the time I finally rolled into the garage, it was dark. The street was empty. Not a single leaf shivered on the old oak in the yard, its branches dripping midnight gloom onto the grass.
The house clanged at my approach, sliding the shutters and locks open. Beast shot out at my feet, dashed left, right, left, and overcome with excitement, zoomed around me in a circle, tucking her hind legs under her as she ran.
"I love you, too, you silly dog."
The doors opened and I stepped inside. The familiar smell of cinnamon floated around me, as the soft lamps came on one by one. I nodded at the portrait of my parents. The pressure that had accreted on my shoulders during the trip vanished. I was home.
I made a cup of coffee and sat in my chair in the lobby. Beast hopped onto my lap.
"Terminal, please."
The wall in front of me fractured, folded back on itself, and revealed the smooth surface of a screen.
"Audio."
Two long speakers emerged from the wall next to the screen.
"Camera footage since I've been gone."
The screen split into four different images. Cars. Two kids on bikes. Wind moving the oak branches. An older woman jogging past --I'd seen her before. She jogged by the house every afternoon, rain or shine. "Fast forward to activity."
The day turned into evening, rather than night. An image on the top left showed a dark figure at the edge of the inn. The timer said eleven twenty-two p.m.
"Enlarge."
The image expanded, taking over most of the screen. The inner camera took up the one third on the right. Sean Evans. He wore a gray T-shirt and loose jeans. He sniffed the air, turned, and looked straight at the camera. His eyes shone like two embers. Very deliberately he took a step forward onto the inn's grounds.
Just what I needed. I sat back and watched the video.
The recording from the inner camera produced a faint sound, a sigh, as the house creaked, preparing to defend itself.
Sean padded around the building, moving lightly on his toes.
On screen Beast dashed down the stairs and squeezed out through the dog door. The image of the outside expanded to cover the entire screen.
Beast paused on the porch for half a second, then sprinted, comically bounding down the stairs. She circled the house and stopped thirty feet from Sean.
He turned to her.
Beast bared little white teeth and barked.
"Look, dog, and I'm using the word dog loosely here. You and I aren't going to have a problem."
Beast barked again, pretending to lunge forward and backing up.
"Go away," Sean said. "Shoo. I don't want to hurt you."
He was sizing up the back door. He must've decided it was the easiest point of entry.
Beast barked again.
"Yeah, whatever." Sean took a step toward the house.
Beast growled. The undertone of her growl changed, gaining a vicious edge. Sean squinted at her.
Beast's long fur stood up like hackles on a cat. Claws slid from her feet. Her mouth gaped, wider and wider, as if her entire head had split in half. Four rows of fangs gleamed inside.
"What the hell...?" Sean backed away.
Beast jumped, covering ten feet in a single leap.
Sean grabbed a young oak branch and jerked it off the tree. Beast launched herself and he swung the branch like a bat, trying to knock her aside. With a sound somewhere between an upset wolverine and a pissed-off bobcat, Beast clamped on to the branch. Sean jerked it back and forth, trying to get her loose. Beast hung on and went airborne. Four rows of teeth crushed the wood --chomp-chomp-chomp --and Sean stumbled back, a stump of a branch in his hand.
Beast landed on her paws and bared her fangs. "Awwwwreeeeeoo!"
"Oh shit."
Sean spun around and ran to the nearest apple tree. Beast howled again and gave chase. He jumped and scrambled up the trunk and into the branches. Beast zoomed around the tree, barking her head off.
Sean braced his legs against the split in the trunk, looking comfortable. Beast sprinted around the trunk, circling it left, then right, in a black-and-white blur.
Sean bared his teeth and snarled. Even watching it on video, the hair on the back of my neck rose. It was the sound of a large, terrifying predator --hungry, savage, and confident --and it touched off some instinctual fear that made me glad to be inside my house with the lights on and doors locked.
A normal dog would've taken off. Beast barked at him, bouncing up and down in the grass.
"Can't climb, huh?" Sean asked in a deep, raspy voice. His eyes shone like two yellow moons. "Too bad."
Beast zoomed around the tree again, stopped, and bit the trunk.
"Quit it!"
She dashed away from the trunk, reversed on a dime, and bit the tree again. Wood chips littered the grass.
"I said quit it! I don't want to hurt you."
"Awwreeeeeeoo. Bark-bark-bark!" She bit the tree and chomped at the wood, spinning around the trunk like a whirlwind of teeth and fur. The tree shuddered.
Sean swore, plucked a small unripe apple from the tree, took aim, and dropped it on her head.
Beast howled in outrage.
He grabbed another apple and hurled it like a baseball. It hit the ground inches from her. She leaped back. A barrage of apples pounded the grass. Beast zigzagged like a running back with a football in his hands.
Sean leapt from the tree and sprinted in the opposite direction with inhuman speed. Beast gave chase, a streak of black and white. The camera turned as far as it could, tracking them to the edge of the property, but they vanished from view. A moment later Beast trotted back, climbed the steps, squirmed through the dog door, and collapsed on the rug, exhausted.
I cuddled her up. "Best dog ever."
Beast rubbed her face against my shirt and licked me.