Bitten 2 (13 page)

If Whitlow’s house had been a portrait of normality, her neighbor’s was something straight out of the drug-induced dreams of Salvador Dali. Rather than a couch and coffee table, the living room was dominated by a giant bird’s nest made from branches as thick around as my forearm, many of them sporting bright green leaves. Feathers that would have easily stretched from my elbow to my wrist lined the center of the nest along with a mixture of fabric scraps and what looked like the contents of half a dozen feather pillows. Interspersed between it all was a variety of shiny objects, ranging from crumpled soda cans to shards of broken mirrors and a pawn shop’s worth of costume jewelry. It looked like a magpie’s nest blown up to fifty times its normal size.

The only piece of furniture in the room was a sun-faded velveteen armchair in front of the large bay window overlooking the street. The fabric was threadbare, and in several places the stuffing and springs poked through. Glancing back down at my host’s talon-tipped feet it wasn’t hard to guess why.

Where the walls weren’t covered in framed photographs, peeling blue and yellow wallpaper hung in ragged ribbons, while dust bunnies as big as pit bulls had set up colonies in the corners of the room. Combined with the overriding staleness of the air, the dilapidated look of the room created an aura of neglect that almost made me feel sorry for the old harpy. All traces of concern disappeared seconds later when she propelled herself up to perch on the edge of the giant nest, a rain of small feathers fluttering down to the ground from beneath her housedress.

I’m sure she does
just
fine.

“So... how long have you lived here?”

“Why do you want to know?” she asked, narrowing amber eyes in suspicion.

“Just curious,” I hastened to reply, one hand absently moving to cover the soft flesh of my stomach.

Making a small sound that could have been a sign of doubt or simply a clearing of her throat, she resettled her feet, appearing to move unseen appendages beneath her housedress. Turning my eyes to the photographs covering the walls, I found myself drawn to a faded black and white picture in a thick wooden frame. I felt my brows arch in surprise as my jaw dropped.

“Is that... Olaf Sorrenson?” I asked, squinting at the grainy picture of the Wyoming pack master who had been the leading proponent of supernatural equal rights in the 1950s and ’60s.

The picture showed Sorrenson surrounded by a group of smiling men and women at some kind of rally, all of them dwarfed by the large were whose broad smile shone through his bushy beard. The skyline of DC stretched out behind them, crowded with hundreds, if not thousands, of people gathered around the reflecting pool at the National Mall.

Sorrenson had one massive arm looped around the shoulders of a tall, slender woman with dark straight hair past her waist and a brilliant smile. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“What? Oh yes, that’s Olaf,” my host said, bobbing up and down like a parrot. “That was the summer of ’56... or was it ’58?” she muttered, more to herself than me.

I couldn’t help flinching when she clambered down from her perch, talons clacking on the floor as she came towards me in a hobbling gait. Peering at the picture, something in her face softened and her gaze grew distant as memories swam up to the surface.

“He was so handsome,” she said in a dreamy voice, reaching out a wrinkled hand that had been twisted by age to stroke the glass above his face. “Had a laugh like a bass drum and snored like a bear.”

“You knew him then?” I asked, trying to avoid the question of just how she knew what his snores sounded like.

“You could say that,” she replied, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening as a girlish smile took over her face, transforming her for a moment from the stooped, white-haired old lady into the beautiful young woman tucked beneath Sorrenson’s tree trunk arm.

“Holy crap! You’re Janice Everett, aren’t you?”

Her eyes remained on the picture where her finger traced the outline of Sorrenson’s face, but I caught the shallow bob of her head.

The name Janice Everett was almost as much of a household name as Sorrenson’s. She’d protested and rallied alongside him for nearly twenty years before he died in what had been labeled “friendly fire” during a rally-turned-riot. Anyone who had even half a brain cell knew that silver bullets weren’t standard issue for police back then, but the circumstances of his death were quickly glossed over with promises for reform. Forty years later, we were still waiting for many of those promises to come to fruition.

In the years following Sorrenson’s death, Everett had sought to continue his work, lambasting Washington for ignoring the disparity of rights between mundanes and supes. Ridicule and near constant threats of violence had turned the effervescent young woman—who, like Sorrenson, believed in peaceful protest—into a vigilante freedom fighter. There had been rumors for years that she was responsible for the destruction of several “mundane-only” businesses throughout the United States.

“But everyone thinks you’re...” I began, letting my words trail away. Creepy as she was, even I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the entire world thought she was dead, and that she’d been relegated to the pages of a history book.

“Dead?” she asked, pulling her gaze away from the picture of her youth to pin me with unblinking hawkish eyes.

“Well, yeah. The books all say you died in the bombing of the Akron Municipal Building.”

Everett shook her head and let out a rasping sigh. “It wasn’t a bombing, it was a broken gas main, and an unfortunate coincidence.”

“Don’t you care that you’re blamed for all those deaths? Or that no one knows you’re alive?”

Her bony shoulders rose in a shrug, sending another cascade of feathers to pepper the floor at her feet. “Someone had to be blamed for such a senseless loss of life. It’s just as well that they blamed a ghost.”

“But you’re not dead,” I insisted, unsure why I was filled with the sudden need to see a glimmer of vibrancy in her face. Perhaps I’d seen so much death and sadness in my own life, and after witnessing Whitlow’s heartbreak, couldn’t bear to see someone else so ravaged by loss.

“More’s the pity,” she murmured, turning away and shuffling back towards her nest.

It struck me then, like a fist in the center of my chest, knocking the wind from me and bringing moisture to my eyes: she’d lost her life’s love and was heartbreakingly alone. I’d been eager to get the hell out of there moments before, and now I found myself sinking down to the edge of the arm chair and asking, “What was he like?”

A small glimmer of hope swelled in my chest when I saw the sweetness of memories bloom on her face again, erasing the ravages of time to reveal the dark haired beauty who still lived deep inside.

“He was such a majestic man, full of conviction and strength. But he was gentle, too, and so kind.”

* * *

“I’ll be back to visit soon,” I promised, waving goodbye to Everett and stepping back out into the cold.

Sparing a glance for the sun sliding ever closer to the distant horizon, I thought I just might be able to make it home before dark. I’d lingered longer than intended with the harpy, but was glad for the time I’d spent with her, listening to her tales of a youth spent fighting against injustice. She’d had no answers about who may have attacked Kensington, but the hours spent in her company had not been a total waste. I left her filled to the gills with weak tea, but also with a renewed surety that I’d figure out who had been attacking vamps, and that I’d make them pay.

I’m definitely bringing my own cookies next time though,
I thought, grimacing at the stale aftertaste of the cookies she’d dug out of the back of a cupboard.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

RELIEF FLOODED THROUGH me as I rounded the last curve in the road leading down to my cabin, the dwindling sunlight bathing it in warm light, gilding the drifts of snow on the roof. I was always glad to return to my mountain hideaway after a trip down into the bustling noise and stink of Denver, but after spending the afternoon with Whitlow and Everett, my homecoming was that much sweeter. Listening to them talk about the loss of their loved ones had reminded me of my own losses over the years. All I wanted to do now was curl up in front of the fire with Loki and a bag of cookies I’d squirreled away in the cabinet over the fridge.

Unfortunately, my relief to be home was short lived.

A thread of unease wove its way into my consciousness as I slid down out of the SUV and was greeted by silence. No chirping birds, no squirrels cussing at each other as they hopped from branch to branch; even the pine trees stood as silent sentinels, the a
ir
devoid of their constant susurration. Every instinct in my body told me to climb back into the car and drive away, but curiosity, ever a cruel mistress, called me forward.

Looking around, I caught sight of an odd, pale shape on my doormat. In the shadows cast by the overhang above my front door, I couldn’t tell what it was from beside the SUV, but dismissed it as a beat up package.

Probably just something I ordered online and forgot about. Again.

Moving closer, I had one gut-wrenching moment when I thought the lump on the doorstep was Loki. Stumbling forward, fear and dread warring with fury, I breathed a sigh of relief as I grew closer and saw that the shape was larger than my lazy cat and lacked the dark tips of his ears and paws.

The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach remained, however. It wasn’t Loki, but there was still some other creature lying broken and bloody on my doorstep.

Inching closer, I struggled to make out what kind of animal it was and recognized it as a coyote, probably close to a year old. Dread sent a shiver down my spine as if my veins had been filled with ice water. Whatever had happened to the poor thing hadn’t been an accident, and it was entirely possible that the perpetrator was still somewhere close, perhaps even watching me. It took a supreme effort of will to ignore the itch between my shoulder blades and stay where I was instead of running into the house and bolting the door behind me.

I stood slowly and cast my gaze around the surrounding trees, looking for an unwelcome presence as much with my ears and nose as with my eyes. My heart gave a panicked thump when I thought I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke, a scent I had come to associate with my number one fan, former Agent Harry Johnson. Before I could pinpoint its origin, it was gone. Redoubling my efforts, I was both relieved and disappointed when I couldn’t detect anything out of the ordinary. Whoever had left the coyote hadn’t stuck around to see my reaction. I wasn’t sure if that set me at ease or not.

Stepping over the body, I went into the house to change into some sweat pants, an old t-shirt, and grab a pair of rubber gloves. I sure as hell wasn’t picking up a mysterious dead body bare-handed, and I knew all too well how hard it was to wash out blood stains. It wouldn’t do to return Alyssa’s shirt with a bunch of conspicuous stains. Loki met me at the door, emitting a welcoming trill that melted into a loud hiss when he spied the present on the doormat.

“Stay inside, buddy,” I instructed, already making a beeline for my bedroom.

My warning turned out to be unnecessary—after giving the body one more investigative sniff, he shot after me like a rocket. Bounding into the room, he jumped up onto the end of my bed and proceeded to regale me with his vocal abilities. I had no idea what he was trying to tell me, but whatever it was, he considered it to be of great importance.

“Chill out, Loki. I’m gonna take care of it,” I assured him, stopping beside the bed long enough to scratch the downy fur behind his ears. Usually his sweet spot, I was surprised when he ducked out from under my hand and continued to berate me.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you pissed I didn’t come home last night? I’m sorry, buddy. It was really late, so I crashed at Alyssa’s. Though as weird of an experience as
that
was, I’d have preferred being home,” I said, shuddering as I recalled Marvin and his penetrating stare.

My words seemed to calm him for the moment and he ceased his insistent yowls long enough for me to fetch a pair of rubber gloves and a trash bag from under the kitchen sink. Sticking close to my heels he trailed me through the house, acting as my loyal defender, until I opened the front door again. At that point he parked his furry ass inside the doorway and watched me kneel next to the bloody body. He didn’t freak out again, but he didn’t look happy either.

Picking up the limp corpse, its head hung at an awkward angle, I was momentarily distracted by a blood smeared envelope fluttering down to the ground. I went still, barely even daring to breathe as I stared down at the envelope, looking innocuous except for the stark splash of scarlet. My heart went from breaking to hammering against my ribs in a split-second.

Ah shit. That’s not gonna say anything good.

The presence of the note changed the situation from some sick and twisted prank to something more sinister. Fighting against the panic taking root in the center of my chest, I had the wherewithal to set the body down on the front step and backed away. I’d watched enough episodes of CSI to know not to touch the letter.