Raven Cursed

a spew of tobacco, and patted the wad of leaves deeper into his jaw with an index finger. He wiped it on his jeans and kept talking. “Part fanghead, part something else.” He was talking about a liver-eater, and I’d only ever seen or heard of one, but it was a good guess. The damage made by meat-eating predators was often similar. “Vamp and magic and shit.” He added, “Maybe it’s that woman who come back from there.”

“I don’t think Jane Yellowrock mauled three people and left them to die, then killed three more and ate them,” Grizzard said.

“Okay, then—that leaves fangheads,” the shorter man said firmly. “Never trust something that wants to eat you or drink you dry.” Which sounded like good advice to me.

“Put in a call to Yellowrock,” Grizzard said. “Let’s get her take on this. If it’s the same kind of creature she killed in New Orleans, that makes her the resident expert.” He didn’t sound happy. And Deputy Sam Orson didn’t look happy when he pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

I sighed. This was not gonna be fun. Before my phone could ring, I stepped from behind the tree and walked closer, deliberately stepping on branch when I was halfway there. Grizzard looked up. My cell rang. I answered as I entered the area. “Yellowrock.”

The deputy looked at me, looked at his phone, and disconnected. I lifted a hand. Closed my phone. “Sheriff. Sam.” I nodded to the woman, “Betty.” I didn’t know the others but included them in my general greeting, “Morning.”

“And you’re here why?” Grizzard said. Trust Grizzard to go for bad-cop attitude first thing. Maybe he did it with everyone. Maybe he saved it just for me.

“I saw the tracks yesterday in Hartford,” I said, dropping into the short simple sentences of cops on a crime scene or soldiers on an Op. “I was wondering if the same things attacked here. Wondered if I could help. You were just calling me, right, Sam? Sheriff?” I lifted the cell, which showed a dropped call from this area code.

Sam gave a half smile. We had lifted a few beers the night of Brax’s funeral. More than a few, actually. He had gotten totally wasted. My skinwalker metabolism hadn’t let me find that kind of release, but I had done my best to keep up with him. Then I drove him home in his own car and helped his girlfriend get him into bed. I hadn’t seen him since. He was now wearing a wedding ring and ten extra pounds. “Yeah,” Sam said. “Good to see you, Yellowrock.”

“You got pics of tracks?” I asked.

Grizzard jerked his head to the side, a command for me to come on over. With that simple gesture, I was accepted into the search group. My breathing settled and my shoulders relaxed. It was good to be home. I tucked my thumbs in my jeans pockets, leaving my fingers dangling while Grizzard punched some keys on the laptop. A photo covered the screen, a close-up shot of a paw print. I set my spread hand on the table top. “About that wide?” I asked.

“Near enough,” Grizzard said. He hit a key and another shot appeared, this one with a ruler beside it. A small test to see if I really knew what I was talking about or was just blowing smoke. “Same thing that you killed in Louisiana? Half vamp?” I shook my head no. “Same thing that attacked that couple yesterday?”

“Likely,” I said. “Werewolf.” The cops around me shifted. Two put their hands on their gun butts, cop reaction. “There were two wolves at that site. They were trying to turn the girl. The man got in the way. You saw the mug shots, already, I take it.”

Grizzard sighed. Betty said, “So it’s true? They’ll turn into werewolves?” Unspoken was the worry that anyone who fought the weres could suffer an injury and go furry at the next full moon. Cops sign up for the danger, but some risks make even the best of them uneasy.

“No.” I pulled my phone and scrolled through the text messages that came in during the night. “I asked the New Orleans vamps for a healer. Aaaaaand”—I spotted one from Bruiser, clicked on it, and interpreted the text —“a Mercy Blade is coming in tonight from Charlotte. Her name is Gertruda,” which might be German or might be a typo.

“What. Some fanghead is gonna bleed the kid? Not gonna happen,” the tobacco chewer said. He shifted his weapon in its holster and spat again.

I took note where not to step. “She’s not a vamp.” Which was the truth as far as it went. Mercy Blades were anzus, feathered birdlike creatures once worshipped as storm gods, now hiding among humans and vamps, under layers of glamours. I didn’t tell them that part. They didn’t ask. This should be interesting. “I was bitten by werewolves once. A Mercy Blade got to me in time and healed me of the taint.”

“Yeah?” Grizzard looked me over as if looking for dog ears and a tail. “Is she gonna stay a while?” he asked. Meaning would others have access to her services. The people bitten at the crime scene below. Cops in the future.

I texted a short line into the phone. “I’m requesting an extended stay until the weres are brought down.” I pocketed the cell and changed topics. “Back to the tracks. Was there another track, a weird one, maybe on top of the were-paw tracks? Like it was stalking them?”

The group exchanged looks that excluded me. Grizzard said, “Can you describe them?”

“Pen?” He placed one in my hand and slid a scrap of paper to me. I was no artist but I could draw grindy tracks. Most any moderately talented three-year-old could. I sketched in the three-toed tracks, the middle longer than the others, claws like sickles. I could tell by the way the small group froze up that the tracks had been found at the crime scene.

“It’s from a creature called a grindylow,” I said. “Ugly little green thing about four feet tall. It hunts weres that break were-law. If we can find it, we might learn something from it.” And I might be able to convince the little creature to join forces with me. Didn’t tell them that either. I couldn’t lie worth a dang, but lying by omission? I was learning to do that real well.

“We’re not releasing that to the public,” Grizzard instructed.

“Fine by me. The press is plastering my name and likeness all over the airwaves. They aren’t my best pals.” I thought I had worked my way into their good graces and so I took a shot. “Can I see the site?”

Grizzard nodded to Sam. “Orson, take her on down.”

Relief poured through me. “One last suggestion,” I said. “Weres are really hard to kill. Silvershot may not kill them any faster than regular ammo, but silver will hurt them. Bad. If they suffer a wound—say silvershot double-oughts—I don’t think they can change form to heal until the silver is surgically removed, forcing them to stay in the form they were in when injured. Left in them long enough, it’ll poison their bloodstream. If you want, I got a local guy who hand-loads my rounds with silver fléchettes. I killed several in New Orleans with them.”

“You’ve killed these things?”

“Yeah.” I looked into the trees, down the slope. They had nearly killed me, but I left that out too. Lying was getting easier. I waited for some guilt but nothing happened. It was Sunday morning; I should be getting ready for church instead of lying to cops. Yeah. I was going to hell.

“Name? Cost?” Grizzard barked.

I gave him the name and contact info for the guy who hand-loaded my rounds. “I can’t tell you the cost. That’s dependent on the market value of silver, the amount of silver he uses in the fléchettes, a whole bunch of factors.”

“Okay. Take her down. Don’t fuck up my crime scene, Yellowrock.”

“You’re such a softie.”

Before he could reply, Sam grabbed my elbow and pulled me away. “You never did know when to shut your mouth,” he growled.

I looked down at him and grinned. “You can’t hold your liquor.”

Sam Orson did a little eye-roll-blow-out-breath thing and pulled me down the hill. On the breeze I smelled blood. Dead meat. Human.

CHAPTER SEVEN Vigilante Law’s Got No Place in My County