Frostbitten (24 page)

“Good point.”

“Whatever Dennis saw could have been this Ijiraat, either a humanoid creature or a shapeshifter. And whatever attacked you last night was definitely no bear. The Inuit say these Ijiraat have been here for generations and people have been reporting sightings for a hundred years. But only now does it start killing people? When a pack of mutt thugs rolls into town?”

“Well, I think Lynn was missing that bit of info.”

“Dennis must have seen something, and I agree there might actually be something out there. What I’m not buying is that the two—this creature and the killings—are connected. Except that if such a beast exists and this is its traditional territory, it’s not going to be too happy about werewolves turning it into a killing ground.”

“True. That might also explain why it didn’t like
us
being on its territory last night.” I unwrapped my burger and glanced at him. “We need to go back.”

Just because we promptly agreed to do something dangerous didn’t mean we weren’t aware of the danger. Waltzing into those woods hoping to lure the beast would be like strolling down to an African water hole dangling a steak and calling, “here kitty, kitty.”

We had some sense of what we were up against. It was bigger than us, stronger than us and maybe even a better hunter than us. The best way to fight an opponent with fangs and claws is to have your own. Either that, or bring along a really big gun.

To be honest, I couldn’t see how a gun would be that much of an advantage. Biting or swiping is a natural extension of fighting. A gun is big and unwieldy, and if you don’t get it up in time or don’t aim it right or it jams, you’re screwed. So I was sticking with what I knew.

But as we drove, I remembered that guy in Pittsburgh handing out cards for his wife and decided a Taser might be perfect for backup when we weren’t in wolf form.

Was I totally comfortable buying a weapon? No, but that had less to do with my belief system than with pride. I was a werewolf, damn it. I didn’t use weapons. But these days it wasn’t all about me. I wanted to live to see my kids grow up. So I bought the Taser. I’ll refrain from commenting on the process except to say that the leftist humanitarian in me was appalled, while the warrior in me, heading into battle, was happy that she didn’t need to fill out paperwork and wait six weeks for a license.

If we were attacked by the beast from last night, the Taser might not stop it, but it could slow it down enough to even the odds.

* * * *

As it turned out, we didn’t need a weapon. The forest continued its night symphony the whole time we were Changing, with only the usual cushion of silence around us, meaning we were the only predators within earshot.

I’ll admit I didn’t mind the excuse to return to these woods, and it wasn’t just the new species of birds and animals or the new expanses of land stretching to the horizon. This forest
felt
different. The moment I’d start to relax, I’d get that prickle at the back of my neck, warning me not to get too comfortable. Things here weren’t what I was used to and I couldn’t lower my guard.

It was different. And different is good.

* * * *

We’d changed beside the road where we’d parked the night before. Then we followed the trail toward Dennis’s cabin.

On the way, we found the spot where I’d been attacked. I’d hoped that in wolf form, with my better nose, I might be able to get more clues as to what exactly had ambushed us. But while I could still smell it, the musky odor was so overwhelming it was like trying to pick apart the components of cheap cologne. My nose and brain revolted and could only process the overall stink… and wanted nothing to do with it.

We managed to follow the beast’s trail for almost a mile. Then it dipped into a shallow, fast-running stream, as if the creature knew we’d try tracking it. We ran along the sides for another half mile, but we found no sign of where it had exited, and we gave up. As interesting as this mystery was, we had a more pressing agenda tonight.

At Dennis’s cabin, I Changed back while Clay stood guard. He’d offered to search instead, to save me the extra Changing. I won’t say it’s less painful for him—I have no way of judging that—but he’s been doing them from the age most kids learn to ride a bike. I’ve never known him to skip an opportunity because he’d prefer not to go through it.

But I had more searching experience and he had more guarding experience, so we stuck to our roles. The first thing I did was look for any evidence that Dennis had encountered the beast—a photo, a journal, anything. But I found nothing and soon began the real work of the night—figuring out how close Dan’s story of Dennis’s death was to the reality, while learning all I could about this mysterious younger Stillwell.

Now that I’d encountered both Tesler brothers and Dan, I could pick out their individual scents and re-create that night in the cabin. All three had been here. Travis Tesler’s and Podrova’s scents blanketed the spot where we’d found Dennis, meaning they both had been actively involved in his torture.

The bystander was Eddie Tesler, who seemed to have planted himself in a chair across the cabin and stayed there. That might suggest he disagreed with the torture, but beside the chair were a puzzle book and a pen, both reeking of Eddie’s scent. He’d used the time to do a couple of word-search puzzles instead.

I found evidence of another bystander. The chair beside Eddie’s smelled of werewolf, too, and was spattered with drops of blood from the younger Stillwell, whose jacket Dan had been wearing.

I followed the trails outside. Three werewolves had arrived—the Tesler brothers and Dan. Four had left, including young Stillwell. So Eddie hadn’t just been chilling out during the torture—he’d been guarding a hostage. Maybe this was why Joey pretended not to know who this younger relative was, and why he was so anxious for us to leave the mutts alone and go home.

I searched the cabin, looking for more signs of the young man. I found them in Dennis’s dresser. The top drawer was stuffed with clothes that didn’t belong to him. Most had been washed, but a few still bore the younger man’s scent. Further investigation turned up a toothbrush, a stack of comic books and a handheld game, all permeated with his smell. The game player had been etched with a name: Noah Albright. A few of the comics bore the same initials.

As I hunted, a story formed. Noah was Dennis’s late-in-life son, left with his mother until he reached puberty. Then Dennis had made contact, explaining the situation to the young man, easing him through his early Changes, which from his smell hadn’t been more than a year ago. The kid stayed with his mom but still spent time with his father, here at the cabin. Then, on one of those visits, the mutts had shown up.

Was that why Dennis was killed? The new pack came calling, his teenage son was here and the normally passive Dennis fought to defend him?

So where was the kid? Was he still alive? I hoped so, and I was sure Joey believed it—or was being led to believe it. But honestly? I doubted it.

* * * *

I changed back for the return trip. The evening was still quiet, but not unnaturally so. There’d been no sign of the beast. No signs of the werewolves. No sign of the wolves.

After three Changes in two days, my energy was flagging and my stomach was growling. I would have been fine waiting to grab something later, but as we passed an open field, Clay stopped me and swiveled his ears, telling me to listen.

The snow was deeper here, and I could hear scratching under it. Clay crouched, hindquarters waggling. He plunged through the snow, then swung back up, head and ruff piled with the white stuff and, in his jaws, a squealing mouse.

He tossed the mouse back to me. I caught it. By the time I’d eaten it, Clay had another. That one he kept, throwing his head back to gulp it down.

I raced forward and joined in. We tore through the clearing, no attempt to stalk and hunt, just plowing through the snow, scooping up mice, giving them one life-ending crunch, then swallowing them whole.

The mice could have run for cover, but most froze in panic, like villagers accustomed to stealthy snipers suddenly beset by rampaging berserkers. That made for easy pickings and we had a blast, seeing who could get the most.

Once I’d eaten my fill, I collapsed where I stood, my stomach gurgling happily. Clay strolled over and plunked down on top of me. I flipped him off and we tussled, but halfheartedly, too full and too tired.

I curled up against him. As I was tucking my frozen nose under my tail, I caught a whiff of werewolf scent on the wind. I stiffened. Travis Tesler’s image flashed through my mind and on its heels came a heart-gripping moment of panic before my brain processed the smell. It wasn’t one of Tesler’s pack.

Clay grunted and swung his muzzle to the left. I could see the faint outline of a dark wolf between the trees. I started to rise, but Clay butted my foreleg, telling me to lie back down. Obviously, he’d scented or spotted the werewolf already and decided he was no threat.

The mutt stayed where he was, just watching us, and when I peered at him, seeing the dark red fur and green eyes, I realized it was the one who’d been with the wolves the night before. Clay grunted again, telling me to relax. I curled into a ball against him. Soon the heat of his body and the steady beat of his heart lulled me toward dreamland.

I was drifting off when Clay tensed. Before I could open my eyes, he sprang to his feet, accidentally booting me in my bruised ribs as he scrambled up.

I twisted to see the mutt—barreling toward us, his lips pulled back in a snarl. As he charged, Clay stood his ground, his fur bristling, ears back, growl rippling through the clearing. The mutt kept coming. Then, at the last second, he veered around Clay and ran at me.

I braced myself and growled, but he never heard it. Clay lunged at him, a whirlwind of fur and snapping teeth. The mutt sheared out of Clay’s way and took off, snow flying in his wake as he plowed head long across the clearing, cutting a wide circle, only to head right back.

As the mutt ran at me. I braced for the hit. As with Clay, though, he checked himself at the last moment, then he snapped, catching my foreleg in a sharp bite. I dove at him, but he was already tearing off.

Again he started that wide circle, running full out and low to the ground. I glanced at Clay. Did this guy want a fight? Or a game of tag?

Clay lowered his head and snorted. Play was a rule-bound behavior with wolves. In a pack, it says “I trust you enough to let my guard down.” Maybe this mutt had seen us playing and was like the lonely kid at the playground, asking to join in. Clay was having none of that. Play was for his Pack brothers, not strangers.

Clay growled, telling the guy he was pissing him off. When he lowered his hindquarters to the ground again, the mutt charged. Clay lunged. The mutt ducked and zoomed out of the way, then came at him again.

With a roar, Clay sprang. When the mutt fell back, Clay kept coming, ready to give him a good trouncing, and clear up any misconceptions. I flew after Clay, grabbed him by the ruff and I yanked him back. He reared up, snarling and bucking to throw me off, but I held on and growled.

Once Clay realized I was serious, he stopped. As the mutt zoomed back and forth in front of us, I let go of Clay and surveyed the woods. He got the message—this guy was trying too hard to get us to chase him.

I hadn’t considered the possibility that this werewolf was part of Travis’s pack. A “not quite right in the head” mutt who fancied himself a wolf, preferring to run with them and leave the hard work to his buddies. But now he’d been called on to do his fair share.

As I paced to sample the night wind, I expected the mutt to distract us so we didn’t get a whiff of his pals lying in wait. Instead, he snorted, as if in satisfaction.

My nose picked up the faint smell of musk and I understood. I nudged Clay and pantomimed sniffing north. It took a moment, but he caught the scent, his fur instinctively rising. The beast.

When I passed the mutt, a sigh rippled his flanks, as if to say
Finally
. He tried to fall in step beside me, but Clay loped up and shouldered him back.

With the mutt at our heels, we headed deeper into the bush, moving south, away from the beast. Then I began circling in its direction.

When the mutt realized what I was doing, he nipped my rear leg. I wheeled and snapped. He growled and flicked his muzzle in the other direction. I grunted, shook my head and continued north.

Clay jostled me, saying, “I know you want to get a closer look, but be careful, okay?” I slowed to reassure him.

That
didn’t
reassure someone else, though. The mutt raced in front of me and spun in my path, snapping and snarling. I stopped and lowered my head, ears back, tail out, fur bristling as I matched him snarl for snarl.

Clay stepped aside to sample the air and peer into the darkness. Then he lunged, at me, knocking me into a tree, his grunted apology cut short as he grabbed the loose ruff around my neck and yanked me the other way.

I hesitated only long enough to get my footing… and to hear the crashing in the undergrowth.

We ran. When the noise behind us stopped and I tried to slow, the mutt nipped my heels. Clay fell behind. Once the mutt realized he’d lost one of his charges, he wheeled.