by an unseen sculptor. His leg was in much worse condition, but not as bad as it had been a short while ago. “Things are different. Do you know of a Skinner named Jonah Lancroft?”
“The Mind Singer spoke of him,” Lyssa said. “For a while I thought I’d only dreamt that name. Is he real?”
“He was, but I lost track of him over sixty years ago. Lancroft was a creator. He made things to help the Skinner cause, and it’s possible he came up with a way to hide his scent from us. There are groups of Skinners meeting in Philadelphia right now. Loose talk among them mentions Lancroft’s name and that he was the one behind the Mud Flu. It’s also said that he was killed by his own kind.”
“Does Lancroft have a way to complete our conversion into Full Bloods?” Lyssa asked.
Always quick to pounce on an opportunity, Liam jumped in with, “If anyone would have such a thing, it would have been him.”
“Their intent is to kill us, not help us become more powerful. The reason I asked about Lancroft is that he was rumored to have created a way to inhibit our ability to heal. The Skinners must rely on antiquated methods of harming us, but we’ve still been able to heal after surviving a fight with them.”
“Well,” Liam said as he turned the right side of his face toward the others, “more or less.”
“Liam’s eye may well heal if given enough time,” Randolph said. “Anyone who has seen the Mind Singer knows that some of his wounds never did.”
“Got his neck snapped somewhere along the line,” Liam said. “Something like that should have either killed poor Henry before he became one of us or cleared up after his first change.”
“He was a Full Blood, wasn’t he?” Max asked. “Wasn’t that enough to sustain him?”
Randolph sighed and turned his back on the others as if he’d either become fascinated by the rugged landscape or bored with the company he was forced to keep. “I’ve had my neck broken a few times. It’s not pleasant but it’s also not fatal for us.”
“I been hung,” Liam said with the same tone he might use if comparing his story to the ones told by a bunch of drunken fishermen. “Rope burns are just as bad as the bone gettin’ snapped.”
Continuing as though Liam hadn’t opened his mouth, Randolph said, “Henry’s neck was broken while he was held in Lancroft Reformatory. I’ve been through the ruins of that place and found nothing but a single intriguing scent. Years later I’d assumed whatever advances Lancroft had made were either lost after the place became a Half Breed den or taken when it was cleaned out by the Skinners. This new discovery in Philadelphia has unearthed more than Lancroft’s research. Much more. The place is swarming with Skinners. They’re anxious and expecting to be attacked. Fortunately, all five of us have advantages that go beyond brute strength or speed.”
“Perhaps we could talk to them,” Max said. “Some of them are more open to reason than others. After working with them in KC, they may still trust us.”
“Talk will come later.” Shifting his eyes to the other Full Blood, Randolph said, “They think Liam’s dead. Or, they would have if he hadn’t been intent on sending childish taunts to them.”
Liam curled his lip into something between a snarl and a disgusted sneer.
“And I’ve had words with them myself,” Randolph continued.
“Right,” Liam grunted. “We both know how well that turned out.”
Randolph’s face twitched. More specifically, the muscles that ran beneath the jagged scar tissue on his cheek flinched as if he could still feel the Blood Blade sliver that had put it there. “You Mongrels have proven to be an asset. You fight well and can prove valuable in the times that are to come. We cannot allow Lancroft’s creations to be freely distributed. When this current turmoil among them settles, we can cripple their efforts before they even know they’re in danger.”
“They’re always in danger,” Liam said. “Even the dumbest animals would know that by now.”
Focusing on a point to the east, Randolph said, “Yes, but some dangers cut deeper than others.”
Chapter Four
“Who the hell are these guys?” Cole asked as yet another batch of new arrivals walked into the basement through the glowing curtain of beads. The Dryads called the room a Skipping Temple because it could be used as a waypoint to shuttle someone to a further spot like a stone skipping across the top of a lake. Ever since Lancroft had been killed, nobody was skipping much farther than his basement.
Since the Skinners didn’t have membership cards, they identified themselves by holding out their hands to show the distinctive scars on their palms made by the thorns in their weapons. Those scars were more than just conversation pieces. Elements from the varnish that made the weapons powerful enough to combat supernatural creatures mingled with a Skinner’s blood, tainting it with traces of the Nymar and shapeshifter components within the mixture. Cole learned firsthand that the scars itched in the presence of Nymar, burned when shapeshifters were in the vicinity, and made his hands cramp when a heavy rain was on the way. That last part could have been a product of his age but he preferred to blame the scars.
Paige sifted through a pile of weapons stored in an old locker that looked as if it had been pulled out of a bus stop. Holding a wooden stake in one hand and a rusted cleaver in the other, she only glanced up long enough to take a quick look and reply, “I dunno who they are. Why don’t you ask them?”
“It’s three in the morning. How much longer do I have to meet and greet these people?”
“Stop whining, Cole. We were here when all the Lancroft shit hit the fan, so we’re the ones everyone’ll want to talk to.”
“Rico and Daniels were here too,” Cole whined. “How’d they get out of this?”
“Daniels is tweaking that ink. Ever since you put it through a successful field test, he’s been all giddy about it. As far as Rico goes, if you want to drag him back here by the ear, be my guest.”
The new arrivals almost got past Cole before he realized he hadn’t seen all of their hands. When he tried to get a look to confirm the other ones, he felt the itch in his palms grow into a bone-deep irritation. With so many Nymar and shapeshifter spare parts rattling around in that basement, his scars had been acting up since he arrived. But there was no mistaking when he was that close to a live vampire.
“Son of a bitch!” Cole shouted as he instinctively reached for the spear strapped to his back. “Nymar!”
Two of the four new arrivals sighed and nodded while holding their unscathed hands out to show they were empty. One was a tall man with a scalp that was shaved clean. A long brushy beard hung well past his chin and split in two separate directions toward the bottom. Now that Cole was closer, he could see the black markings of Nymar tendrils just under the man’s skin that led all the way to a spore attached to his heart, which caused his bloodsucking tendencies. The tendrils formed different patterns within each Nymar, and his were collected in thick clumps around the base of his neck like a collar that stretched up toward his ears in a dark, slowly swaying wave. He was almost Cole’s height but shrank a little as his shoulders slumped with tired resignation.
“Well, Bobby?” the other Nymar snapped. She was an inch taller than the bald one, but wasn’t talking to him. Staring daggers at the Skinner directly in front of her, she asked, “Aren’t you going to say something?”
The Skinner on the receiving end of her glare was slightly taller than average and thin as a rail. Simple rumpled clothes hung off a lean frame, and impatience filled his reddened eyes. Scratching burnt orange hair with callused hands, he wheeled around and replied, “I will if you give me a chance!” Turning around to face front again, he asked, “Is this the Lancroft house? In Philly?”
“No,” Cole replied. “It’s some other stop along the Spirit Bead Expressway. Of course it’s the Lancroft house!”
“No need to get lippy. That’s Paul,” he said while pointing to the bald Nymar. Nodding to the woman, he said, “And that’s Trudy.”
Dropping her angry grimace, Trudy extended a hand marked by dark tendrils on her wrists that tapered out and became lighter while maintaining a visible presence all the way to her fingertips. “Call me Tru.”
“Great,” Cole said. “You saved me a syllable when I ask my next question. Why are you here, Tru?”
“They’re with us,” Bobby replied.
“What about him?”
Until Cole nodded in his direction, the fourth member of the mixed party seemed content to blend with the background. Considering the background was a curtain of beads crackling with mystic natural force, blending in
