hundred, a sizable minority of whom were members of the local werewolf pack.
This part of the state was pockmarked with mining ghost towns. Tamarack wasn’t dead yet, but it had much of the same atmosphere. Old street signs marked overgrown side streets that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades. Many of the houses on the edge of town looked ready to collapse in the next strong breeze. An entire block had been overrun by apple trees. I spotted a pair of teenagers smoking cigarettes and watching us from a two-story house, balanced on the roof beside a gaping hole where a maple had smashed through the rafters.
At the heart of town, a gas station with a single pump, a small grocery and hunting supply store, and a Baptist church shared the intersection with the town’s lone traffic light. I turned off the main road and drove another half mile to the schoolhouse. A yellow pickup truck was parked in the lot, and I spotted an older-looking man leaning against the tailgate, chewing a toothpick. I relaxed slightly when I spied Lena’s black-and-green Honda motorcycle behind the truck. A pair of matching helmets hung from the back.
I held a hand to Smudge so he could climb onto my shoulder, then popped the trunk. I retrieved a copper- riveted satchel of oiled brown leather that looked like something Indiana Jones might carry. Which, if I was honest, was the main reason I had bought it. The strap dug a groove into my shoulder, weighed down by every book I had been able to stuff inside.
“Isaac Vainio. You took your sweet old time getting here.”
I slammed the trunk and turned to greet the werewolf. “Jeff DeYoung. Was it you who found the body, then?”
“Nah, that was Helen.” He spat the toothpick onto the blacktop. “You’re looking pretty good. We heard about that mess in Detroit earlier this summer. They say old man Gutenberg himself had to help chase those vampires back into their holes.”
“They don’t know the half of it,” I said. Jeff had one of the thickest Yooper accents of anyone I knew, transforming every “the” into “da,” and “those” into “doze.”
“And you can’t share the other half, right?” He clapped me on my shoulder—the one without the fire- spider—then pulled me into a quick hug and inhaled sharply. I didn’t want to know how much he learned about me in that one sniff. I did the same, breathing in the faint sweat-and-tobacco smell of his hair and jacket.
“I’m afraid not.” He looked much as he had the last time I saw him, a year or so back. The same worn-out orange hunting jacket hung loosely over his eye-gougingly bright green-and-gold Hawaiian shirt. Jeff was a stick of a man, all wrinkled skin and age spots. Gold-framed bifocals dug into his bulbous nose. He and his wife Helen were the first werewolves I had ever met. They had left the wild to settle down in Tamarack, and while they still chased the occasional rabbit, most of their meat these days came from a store.
“Helen took Doctor Shah and the dryad back about fifteen minutes ago,” said Jeff. “They smell like you. How long have you all been sleeping together?”
“We’re not
“But not you and the doctor? Huh. Seems like that would be easier, logistically speaking.”
“Logistics aren’t everything.” I swatted a mosquito on my left index finger. The little bloodsuckers usually stayed away from Smudge, which was another reason I liked to keep him around, but a hot, wet summer had left us with a thicker crop of mosquitoes than usual, and they were hungry. “We haven’t got all of the kinks worked out yet.”
Jeff smirked. “You never struck me as a man of many kinks. Sounds like this girl’s been good for you.”
Typical werewolf mindset. In the words of a former friend, “Weres will jump into bed with anything on two legs and a few with four.” An exaggeration, but one with plenty of underlying truth.
Nobody knew where the first Lykanthropos naturalis had come from, though the dominant theory involved a magical experiment gone wrong sometime in the fifth or sixth century. Others believed lycanthropy had been a deliberate curse, punishment for some unknown but unforgivable crime.
These days, creatures who had evolved or come into existence “naturally” were outnumbered by those born from books. I doubted even Gutenberg could have foreseen that consequence of his new school of magic. The first book-born creature I ever encountered was a sparkler, a middle-aged woman with thinning hair who had accidentally reached into a popular vampire novel and managed to infect herself with the vampire’s venom.
The Porters carefully cataloged each new vampire species, but the werewolves offered more of a challenge. Unlike most vampires, werewolves could interbreed. As a result, instead of a hundred or more distinct species, you got a single race with a broad spectrum of abilities. Some could shapeshift at will; others were slaves to the moon. One werewolf might be severely allergic to silver, while his brother merely suffered from lactose intolerance.
As a general rule, it was safe to assume they were faster and stronger, with sharper senses than any human. And of course, depending on his genetics, Jeff might have anywhere from two to eight nipples under that shirt. Not that I had ever gotten up the nerve to ask. He would have been happy to show me, I’m sure. Werewolves were notoriously open about physical matters.
“Being with Lena has been…educational,” I admitted.
Jeff laughed, but thankfully didn’t press me for details. We hiked through the woods behind the school, following an old trail around a marsh until we reached an overgrown road. Knee-high weeds were well on their way to reclaiming the broken gray pavement. From there, we walked uphill for roughly ten minutes, passing old driveways and gutted, too-regular pits in the earth where houses had once stood.
“I thought you were done with fieldwork,” Jeff commented. Despite his age, he wasn’t even winded.
“Gutenberg and Pallas moved me to research.” I wiped my forehead and the back of my neck, then swatted another mosquito that was trying to bite through my jeans. “But we’re short-staffed in the Midwest right now, and I did a couple of papers on wendigos during my training.”
A chain-link fence at the top of the hill blocked a steep drop-off. Lena Greenwood, Nidhi Shah, and Helen DeYoung stood staring down at something on the other side of the fence. Nidhi was snapping pictures with a digital camera.
“You take the scenic route or something?” Helen asked without looking.
“Why, you miss me?” Jeff joined them at the fence, pausing briefly to give his wife’s backside a quick squeeze before peering down.
“It’s ugly.” Lena broke away from the others to greet me with a kiss. As always, the feel of her body pressing against mine set off a cascade of physical and emotional responses: desire, excitement, amazement that she had chosen me, conflict over the circumstances of that choice, and awkwardness at knowing her other lover was standing six feet away, deliberately not watching.
Short and heavyset, with large eyes and dark lips, Lena didn’t look like someone who could go toe-to-toe with a pissed-off vampire and walk away without a scratch. Her skin was the rich brown of oiled oak. A single black braid hung to the middle of her back. Cutoff jeans emphasized the curves of her hips. She was barefoot, her toes curling into the dirt with each step. A pair of curved wooden swords—Japanese bokken—were thrust through her belt.
If I were to pick a single word for what attracted me to Lena, it would be her passion. Not merely physical, but for everything she did. She threw herself into life with no reservations, never holding back. She possessed a fearlessness few humans ever matched.
Nidhi Shah coughed softly. “We were getting ready to try to retrieve the body.”
Judging from her outfit, Nidhi had come straight from her office. She wore a teal shirt with iridescent buttons, black slacks, and Converse high-tops. The sneakers were her formal black pair. When it came to footwear, Nidhi refused to let fashion trump comfort and practicality.
She was in her mid-thirties, older in appearance than Lena by a good five years. Her hair was pinned back, revealing a blue tattoo on her temple. The Gujarati characters for
I stepped toward the fence. “Do we know who it was?”
Helen shook her head. One hand rested on the semiautomatic pistol holstered on her left hip, her only visible sign of nervousness. “I don’t recognize the scent of either the victim or the man who dumped him.”
“You’re sure it was a man?” asked Nidhi.
