Werewolf, I thought, feeling all the joy leach out of me. I had helped decimate the pack of werewolves that had invaded Louisiana, killing almost the entire pack to save Rick from them. Instantly I remembered the sound of gunfire, the sight of wolves falling and dying, their howls and screams of fury and pain.
My team and I had saved Rick, but he’d nearly died. And saving him had left him scars, not the least of which were the spelled tattoos the alpha wolf-bitch had tried to eat from his arm and shoulder. She had mangled the tattoos badly, and messed up the magic spelled into them, which now kept him from turning into his werecat black leopard form on the full moon. He had been tortured. Raped. Abused beyond sanity, yet he had survived. Rick was tougher than nails, which was not something I had expected when I met the pretty boy on my first day in New Orleans.
His tone in the safety zone of cop-speak, he went on. “The attacks started in Alexandria, and at first seemed to follow a trail leading south, along I-49.” The location and trail indicated that there could be a connection between the decimated werewolf pack and the pack of so-called wild dogs. Wild dogs didn’t follow highways. Werewolves might. “Recently the attacks have been centered near Chauvin, which is two hours from New Orleans and south of Houma. And I’m stuck farther north for the next few days.”
I thought about that. Centering in one location meant that they had chosen hunting ground and claimed territory. However many there were now, they were likely getting ready to expand their numbers—build a big pack. And two hours was within the distance I could safely travel from New Orleans. Long story, but I was bound to the MOC, the chief fanghead. Only he didn’t know it. The job Rick offered was doable. And I was bored. . . .
Carefully, trying to keep from hurting him, I said, “So. Okay. I’m to rule out . . . um . . . werewolves. That’s the job, and you’re too far away, and that’s why you aren’t doing it. So what about the danger and the pay? I’m still listening.”
“We need you to ride around, talk to the sheriff and the local law, see what you can sniff out.” He meant in animal form but wasn’t saying that over a phone. He added more slowly, “Inspect both the crime scene pictures and the scenes themselves. I’ve seen the pics, but you might see things I missed.”
Gruesome. The pics would be gruesome. But my other half, my Beast, wouldn’t be bothered by them. She liked to hunt, kill, and eat her dinner raw and still kicking. And she knew something about pack hunters and how they ate. Pack, she murmured deep inside. Hate pack hunters.
“Yeah,” I said to both of them. “So what else?” With cops there was always more.
“The sheriff asked me personally to look into this.” It took a second to make sense of the sheriff calling a special agent with PsyLED.
“And the sheriff is . . .”
He had the grace to sound embarrassed, even if only mildly. “Related. I have family there.”
“Reeeeeally?” I said, trying for droll but probably just managing sarcasm. “Old home week?” Rick ignored the tone and plowed on. “Uncles and aunts, my first cousin Nadine, the sheriff of the parish, a good number of other first, second, and third cousins. One second cousin who has a single-engine plane if you need to scout. LaFleur kids in the local schools. Some in diapers and day care. A few in nursing homes up in Houma and Terrebonne. A first cousin who has a hotel south of Chauvin who’ll donate rooms.” In other words a large extended family, people he cared for. “If you take the job, I’ll let them know you’re coming. They’ll help any way they can.”
“Uh-huh.” This sounded too easy. Had to be a catch. “How many people are whispering the word werewolf?” When Rick didn’t reply, I said, “And heading into the swamps and woods with torches and shotguns. And forming mobs with pitchforks and priests.”
Rick chuckled, but it didn’t sound amused. “It isn’t that bad. Yet.”
I put it together and shook my head. My words wry, I said, “Your cuz the sheriff called you and pleaded her case, and you pushed all the paperwork through to keep the family populace happy.”
“To keep Mama happy, actually.”
“Ouch.” Southern women were tough as nails. New Orleans women were that and more. Rick’s mama was a charming New Orleans woman, graceful, gentle, and delicate. She was also determined, strong-willed, and manipulative—scary good at getting her way. The whole barbed-wire fist in a velvet glove, or maybe pearls, pink pumps, and a horsewhip, or, worse, crinolines, debutants, and shotguns. Take your pick, that was his mother. I’d spent a week or so getting to know his family when Rick and I first started hanging out. His mama scared me.
“How many do we think there are?” I hedged. “Werewolves.” Not mamas. Fortunately there was only one of those.
“Maybe three. From the pictures and paw prints. One or two small, and one . . . big. Real big. I don’t want to say more because I want you to draw your own conclusions.
“You’re not to take them on,” he said. “That’s not the job. All we want is for you to rule out or confirm weres. Then, if you have time, see if you can determine a general direction or location. I’m thinking a day. Two max. And PsyLED will pick up expenses and pay a stipend and—”
“I have a contract for this stuff,” I interrupted. “I’ll fax it to you. We can dicker. But there will be a contract, and liability will be covered by Uncle Sam. Flat fee and all expenses. And Leo has to vet it.” Leo was my boss, but he didn’t really have to approve the job. It was entirely up to me. But I wanted all my bases covered if I was going to accept a contract with PsyLED.
I could hear the smile in Rick’s voice when he gave me a fax number. “I’ll push it up the hierarchy and get back to you A-sap. Thanks, darlin’.” The call ended.
Darlin’? Where had that come from?
I walked back into the house. In the living room, Alex was bent over a bunch of screens, incorporating all of them into one, huge, touch-screen computer that would eventually cover an entire wall, his straggly hair hanging in tight curls, hiding his face. Alex was the tech guy for our security company, also known as the Kid for various reasons.
His brother Eli was standing in front of the wide-screen TV, a forty-five-pound hunk of iron disguised as a hand weight in his left hand. He was watching the news—CNN, NBC, and Fox in three corners of the screen, and a local station on the fourth, as he did reps. Ten reps with each arm, his dark skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, his muscles bunching and relaxing, his workout clothes sweaty and sticking to him. He’d been at it awhile and he looked good. Eli was a totally buff former Ranger who ate only healthy food in healthy portions, and who exercised and trained daily. Like all day. As if Uncle Sam’s army might call him back any minute to fight a war, and he wanted to be ready. Eli didn’t have a nickname. Yet. Or maybe never. Some people just didn’t need one.
“You looking at my butt, babe?” Eli asked, without turning around.
“I’m not your babe. But it’s a nice butt,” I said. Without raising his eyes, Alex made a gagging sound. Eli tilted his head to me, giving me his version of a wide grin—lips moving a fraction of an inch, a hint of his pearly whites. Expressionwise, Eli was a minimalist all the way. “It is,” I said.
“Babe, I know my butt is good. Real good. But I’m taken. Keep the eyes off my butt.”
I grinned at him and cocked out a hip, waggling the cell at him. “Yeah, I know. No poaching on Syl’s territory. But I could take her, you know. I could.” Sylvia Turpin was his hunny-bunny, and also the sheriff of Natchez, Mississippi.
“Chick fight,” the Kid muttered, and I could hear the laughter in his voice. I decided to stop the teasing before we all started trying to outsnark each other.
“YS might have a job,” I said. YS came out Wizeass, which was our current nickname for our security company, more formally known as Yellowrock Securities. I let my grin widen. “With PsyLED.”
“No sh—way,” the Kid said, lifting his head, his eyes bugging out. Eli went still, his left arm frozen midcurl.
I raised my eyebrows. “You lost count, didn’t you?”
Eli frowned. “That was just cruel, babe. Cruel.”
I laughed. “Yeah, now your arms will be all lopsided. When you finish pumping up and showering, we can talk about the job. Meanwhile, Kid, e-mail Rick LaFleur our standard short-term, hunting-only, no-termination contract, and the liability one and—” I waved my empty hand in the air to suggest my uncertainty—“something to cover us having to kill supernats to protect the human populace in any life threatening, emergency, crisis, legal mumbo-jumbo situation. And whatever else you think we need.” The Kid had taken over the company paperwork and instituted files and files worth—various contracts, disclaimers, exclusions, standard expenses, and even a rider list (things the customer had to provide for us to do a job) all in legalese. Reams of the stuff. Ten times what I used to have as a one-woman company. He was a teenaged mutant ninja geek, and he was worth his weight in gold, even at today’s rates. I rattled off the fax number. Eli headed upstairs to shower, muttering under his breath about cruel women.
I got my old laptop and did a sat-map search for Chauvin, Louisiana. It was an odd little place by mountain standards, mostly a lot of water, a lot of swampy ground, a lot of weird canals going everywhere and nowhere, and most of them looking unused, some flatland along Highway 56, and less lining Highway 55. The city stretched out along the two parallel roads, hugging them like lifelines, which they probably were, during hurricane season.
Chauvin was in Terrebonne Parish, the sheriff’s office in Houma, north of Chauvin. So far as I could tell, Chauvin had no independent police and depended on the sheriff for law enforcement. There was no public airport closer than New Orleans, no hospital in Chauvin, and most of the parish social life seemed to take place in Houma. So I’d start out there. Assuming I took the job.