are called as a group. They are elder beings that have gone unnoticed ever since humans stopped writing legends in favor of reporting simple facts.”
“Great,” Paige sighed. “More problems to deal with. Where have these guys been hiding?”
“The Mist Born hide from no one. They go where they please and do what they will. It is just not in their nature to interfere so blatantly in the affairs of humans. Well, it is not in most of their natures. I believe you know of a Mist Born that was captured by one of your founding fathers and recently released.”
“Kawosa,” Cole said, as if the name itself was a curse.
Taylor nodded. “The First Deceiver has always enjoyed toying with your kind. That is why he appears in so many of your legends. The natives of this country know him as Coyote. Some of your early religious texts depict him as a serpent, but they may have confused him with another.”
Paige chuckled. “You mean like the serpent that tempted Eve with the forbidden apple?”
Taylor nodded again. One time, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Neither he nor any of his kind are interested in your religions. They simply . . . are. Human storytellers put the rest of the pieces together.”
“We already know about Kawosa,” Cole said. “Do you know of another one like him that may help us?”
“You want to manipulate the Torva’ox,” Taylor continued. “Since you already have a Jekhibar and know well enough to seek out your Amriany brethren, then you are close enough to be given a name.” She closed her eyes and slowly shifted the angle of her head as if hearing a distant song or feeling a lover’s touch beneath the flimsy material wrapped around her flawless body. Finally, she said, “Chuna.”
“That’s his name?” Paige asked.
“Chuna isn’t a him. Chuna isn’t a her.”
“Can you tell us where to find Chuna?”
The Dryad turned and walked farther into the club, speaking in a voice that required the Skinners to follow her if they wanted to hear what she had to say. “I can tell you you’re headed in the right direction. Chuna was last seen in the Amriany regions. I don’t know a lot more than that.”
“Then we’re back to needing a ride to Hungary.”
“I can’t send you from here,” Taylor said, “but I can get you to the Hub.”
“What’s the Hub?” Cole asked.
Taylor patted his cheek and spoke in a voice that was perfectly suited to the sparkling lips that breathed life into every word. “The Hub is where it’s at, baby.”
Chapter Fifteen
It had been the better part of a day since Adderson lost most of his unit on the outskirts of the city. He’d already joined up with the surviving forces of Ravens One through Three and set up a base camp inside an electronics store with metal shutters over the windows. The werewolves had caused more hardship than the recession and taken a similar toll on local businesses. The shelves had nothing on them but dust, and the storerooms were partially filled with empty boxes. Even so, there was still power flowing through the nearby mains, which one of the IRD techs was able to splice and divert into the store’s back room.
It was early morning by the time Adderson stretched his back and worked the kinks from his legs. He made his way to the soldier hunched over the dented metal case containing enough equipment to hack local wireless networks and use them to send and receive encrypted messages. Adderson ignored all the other miniaturized displays as he extended a hand to the squat young Marine with the headset wrapped over his ears. The Marine handed over an earpiece along with a quick warning. “Wasn’t able to raise Command, sir. Got patched straight through to one of the other field units, though.”
“This is Adderson,” he said as soon as the earpiece was fitted in place.
“There’s significant movement southeast of your position.”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“Sergeant Tate, sir.”
The voice wasn’t what Adderson had been expecting. It was almost as tired as his, several years younger, and female. “Where did you get this intel?”
“We’re entrenched in Carthage, Texas, tracking the shifters via satellite.”
“You’re able to keep a fix on them?”
“Upgraded the positioning systems yesterday morning,” she said with a faint hint of relief in her voice. “Got them online about three hours ago. They’re still not quick enough to track the Class Ones, but we can keep a closer eye on the larger packs. There’s three of those headed your way.”
“How many are with you there?”
“Just me, a private, and a sniper. We’ve got a Humvee with a mounted .50 cal but don’t want to gun the engine until it’s time to abandon this position.”
“Are there any Class Twos there to keep you company?”
“For now, no sir. But there’s no way of knowing how many more are on their way.”
“Abandon your position and rendezvous with us in Shreveport,” Adderson said.
“Where in Shreveport, sir?”
After giving her the coordinates, Adderson told her, “Come to us ASAP. Monitor the Delta frequency once you get within range, and if you hear me issue the command to break formation, turn around and head for a safer position. Until then use that .50 cal to chop up as many of those things as you can. Focus on the Class Twos.”
“We’ve heard about sightings of at least one Class One shifter in the area, sir.”
“You heard the command. Focus on thinning out those packs. If you find any wounded, all Priority Cleanup Protocols are in effect.”
There was a longer pause before Tate gave another tired affirmative. After that, Adderson signaled for the connection to be cut and handed back the earpiece.
No matter what he’d seen since the beasts came in from the woods, he felt sickest when enforcing the Cleanup Protocols. Every instinct he had was to either help the wounded or find a way to move them to where they could be helped. Those instincts had to be squelched after the first wave of police officers were attacked and turned in Kansas City. There had been rumors about werewolves before then, but most of them relied on whatever was cranked out of Hollywood or fairy tales. For a man who’d been polishing his boots since the third grade, that sort of thing simply didn’t cut it. Adderson was a military man brought up by military men. Even his grandmother had done her part by serving as a gunnery instructor in World War Two. His uncle had been in ’Nam and used to get drunk and brag how his skin was the same color as his jungle fatigues. All of them held one solid belief where battlefield ethics were concerned: nobody was supposed to be left behind.
Cleanup Protocols mandated that those attacked by any class of shifter couldn’t be allowed to change into one of them. Plenty of the medics and lab coats still wanted to do their research, but when times got bad, the protocols stated very plainly that no chances should be taken. The wounded were put down. No exceptions. Adderson hated that order, and he hated himself for giving it, but there just wasn’t anything else to be done.
Looking out between the cold wooden slats nailed in place over the electronic store’s front door, he watched the shadows pull away to reveal an empty street. If he squinted hard enough, he could make out the scratches left behind by a pack of shifters. Their claws had dug into the concrete and spilled blood that dried into cold, dark stains on the curbs and sidewalks. The sounds of panting, barking, and scraping reached his ears. They came from the other side of the window, and as he closed his eyes to savor one last moment of morning sun brushing his face, he could tell the sounds were getting closer.
“Do you have any details on where the survivors are taking shelter?” he asked.
The Marine at the keyboard searched a few files and said, “There are a few local postings about a gym a few blocks away. Other than that, it’s just the usual scattered basements patrolled by Neighborhood Watch.”
“Send some men to that gym.”
“Should they be ready for cleanup?”
“Only if absolutely necessary. The shifters may try to sniff them out. Rather than move any survivors into the
