Harvest Hunting (21 page)

“And?”

“Just this: I wonder if Van and Jaycee have anything to do with coyote shifters. I don’t know enough about them to know if they’re all like the ones I met when I was in the service, but . . .”

“But it’s a good thought to check up on,” I finished for him.

Camille cleared her throat. “We know not all of them are like that. Marion isn’t. But . . . we can ask her about others in the area, if there’s any connection between the shop and the shifters.”

“We’ll have to be delicate about it,” Menolly said. “And being so, it’s not a chore for me—I’m too blunt. Camille, tomorrow you and Delilah can take a trip over to the café and check it out. You think you’d be up for that?”

“Sure. I’ll be fine. Really.” She yawned, and I could tell she was about ready to faint from exhaustion and shock. “I should be good to go then. But for now, I just want to sleep. If anything happens tonight while you guys are checking out the two Weres, let me know. I’ll come help if you need—”

“You will not leave this house tonight.” Iris motioned to Smoky, who tossed Camille’s afghan over his shoulder. “Smoky, get her back up to bed.”

As the dragon gathered Camille up in his arms and headed toward the stairs, Trillian followed with a tea tray. Morio turned to me before heading after them. “You need us, the three of us will come help, but if you want your sister to be okay by tomorrow, she needs a full night’s sleep. The Wolf Briar really disrupted her system. More than you think.”

“It’s not just the Wolf Briar.” Menolly frowned. “Iris, you go with them. Ask her what Trenyth had to say. But be gentle, or I’ll rip out your throats.”

I glanced at Morio. “Do you think the Wolf Briar might have done permanent damage? Sharah said it should be out of her system by tomorrow.”

“Sharah’s an excellent medic, but she doesn’t work with magic. Not like Camille and myself.” Morio’s expression was grave. “I have the feeling Camille’s spells may be a little more off-kilter than usual for the next few days. I’m hoping no permanent damage was done, but knowing for sure is a matter of wait and see.” He scooted past the table and vanished up the stairs.

“I hope to hell he’s wrong and that it’s out of her system for good by tomorrow. But you can bet the news from our
beloved father
won’t be.” Menolly slowly descended to the floor, looking grim. “Shit like this Wolf Briar hurts the entire Supe Community, not just the intended targets. So, you ready? Let’s go check out your Weres. I don’t want to spend all night on a wild-goose chase. Nerissa and I get so little time together that we want to make the most of every minute.”

I grabbed my coat and glanced at the stairs. “I think we should leave the terrible trio with Camille. She needs all the support she can get. Vanzir—Roz? One of you willing to come with?”

Vanzir leapt up. “I will. Roz, you stay and see Wilbur home.” He grabbed a heavy denim jacket and followed us out to my Jeep. I insisted on driving. Menolly’s Jag was actually fairly uncomfortable for me since I was so tall, and while sports cars seemed like fun toys, it wasn’t up to the actual work my Jeep could do.

Menolly rode shotgun; Vanzir climbed in the back. As we headed out into the storm, I wondered how many rain-soaked nights we’d crept into the dark, knowing we were headed into danger, chipping away at the edge of our luck. One of these days it wasn’t going to hold.

We’d already lost so much, but there was so much, much more that could crumble beneath our feet. Every step was a question mark. Every move—a domino. And all we could do was make the best decision we could at the time and hope that the entire house of cards didn’t come fluttering down around our shoulders.

Menolly grumbled about having to take my Jeep, but I told her to stuff it. Vanzir laughed from the backseat. We headed toward Doug Smith’s house—which was located up on Queen Anne Hill, one of the highest hills in Seattle. The neighborhood was somewhat upscale, and I realized that I was surprised a werewolf would have a house there. So much for my own prejudices.

While I drove, peering through the streaming rain that was making my windshield wipers work overtime, Menolly told Vanzir what Trenyth had wanted. Vanzir remained silent for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“I know you love your father, but that’s a shitty thing to do. Ten to one, if he’s banging the Queen like you say, she convinced him to play along with it.” He leaned forward, peering between the front seats. “Camille and I don’t have much in common, but she’s all right. And she’s doing what she needs to be doing. Chances are your daddy just doesn’t like the fact that she married Trillian, and when the Queen offered him a good excuse to slam the situation, he ran with it.”

What he said made sense. Hell, I’d been thinking the same thing myself for the past hour or so. “I guess we could ask Grandmother Coyote what to do.”

Menolly let out a sharp hiss. “Camille already owes Grandmother Coyote payment from last time she talked to her. Remember? The Hag told her that a sacrifice had already begun. Maybe that’s what this is.”

“I don’t think so. I think it was Henry’s death, to be honest, but I’d never mention my suspicions to Camille. I wouldn’t want her to feel responsible.” I swerved to avoid a dog that darted out in the street and, since there were no oncoming cars for now, switched to brights until we got into the city proper.

“She already feels responsible. I don’t think she’ll ever get over feeling guilty for the old guy’s death. But you two hens are overlooking the most important point. The important thing isn’t what
started
this mess but
how to deal with it
. Are you going to stand with her, or are you going to let them run over her?” Vanzir slapped the back of the seat behind Menolly. “Either of you bother to let your father know how you really feel about this?”

I darted a quick glance at Menolly, who looked rather nonplussed. And it took a great deal for Menolly to look nonplussed. “We sent messages back to him with Trenyth . . .”

“Messages? Like,
Gee, Daddy, I don’t like what you did to my sister?
You two are such a piece of work. How can you be so deadly, so beautiful, and such wimps at the same time? Hah.” Vanzir leaned back, crossing his arms, and shook his head. I glanced in the mirror, and he gave me that arched-eyebrow look that says
gotcha
.

“He’s right,” I said after a minute.

“Yes, but I wasn’t going to let him know for a while. Allow me a shred of dignity.” Menolly let out a sigh—purely for effect.

Must be nice at times, I thought, to be able to avoid inhaling in the perfume department or the laundry soap aisle. Shaking my head, I brought my mind back to the subject at hand.

“So, are we going to fire up the Whispering Mirror and give Father hell?” I asked softly.

Whistling softly, she nodded. “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

Vanzir laughed gently from the backseat.

 

 

As I parked along the street, I had a creepy feeling. Doug’s house was a two-story monstrosity with small windows dot-ting the surface. No lights burned from within, and the yard looked overgrown, even for this time of year. The only light came from the lamp on the front of the house, illuminating the porch steps. Or rather, the stone slab landing that passed for a porch.

As we climbed out of the car, a set of broken stone steps led up to the yard, which sloped up to the house. I glanced at the mailbox on the curb. It was partially ajar, and when I yanked it open, mail spilled out. Frowning, I gathered the letters back up, glanced at the name on them—Doug Smith, so yes, we were in the right place—and shoved the bundle back in the box.

Leaves in burnished shades of copper and brown and yellow littered the overgrown weed patch that passed for a lawn. The walkway itself was cracked, foliage growing through the patches to further push apart the stone path. Ferns and low-growing evergreens ringed the house, nestled beneath the windows and walls.

The house was old, weathered and wind-worn. The paint peeled from the sides, chips as big as my hand missing. The windows opened in, and screens had been nailed over them rather than properly set into place. The front door was located up yet another steep set of stone steps—I counted fourteen of them. An ironwork rail guarded both sides, and I was cautious not to touch it as we climbed the narrow stairs to the landing. The last thing I needed was a nasty burn.

I paused, then pressed the doorbell. We could hear the chimes sounding from within. After a moment with no answer, I pressed the bell again, and pounded on the door. Nada.

Glancing at Menolly, I pulled out my pack of lockpicks. Very few people knew I owned them, but they came in handy, and after being locked in a room by a harpy while a shop-keeper got killed, I’d quietly reassured myself I’d never be stuck in a room again. At least not one with easy-open locks. A moment later, I heard a faint
click
. I turned the knob, and the door swung ajar.

Quietly, I pushed the door open and sidled in, listening for any sound, looking for any movement. But the house felt cold and empty. I motioned for Menolly and Vanzir to follow me. Menolly shut the door behind her.

The hallway was tiled, but the tiles were worn, as was the paint on the walls. This place was badly in need of fixing up. I edged forward, motioning for them to be quiet. A peek into the darkened living room showed that it was as empty as it seemed.

Vanzir tapped me on the arm and, in the lowest of whispers, said, “Maybe he’s asleep?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Menolly, why don’t you head upstairs and check it out—you’re quieter than both of us combined.”

As she slipped past me, silent and moving like a shadow, I found myself hoping that Doug Smith would be in his bedroom. Best scenario: He’d wake up and freak out that we were in his house. I’d rather face that than think about potential alternatives.

I motioned to Vanzir. “Quietly—very quietly—check out the living room. I’m heading through there.” I nodded to an opening that led into what looked like a large kitchen-dining area. The walls had a stucco texture, and from the décor, I’d say that the house was stuck back in the sixties or perhaps the early seventies.

As I crossed into what was, indeed, the kitchen, I scanned the room. Nobody there. In the dim light filtering in from the backyard where a floodlight shone over the alley, I could see a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, encrusted with dried food. Flies buzzed around the plates.

Curious, I glanced in the fridge. Several open containers on the shelves proved what I thought I’d find. It was impossible to tell what the food had been; a flourishing colony of mold covered the tops of whatever the leftovers had been. A cantaloupe rested on one shelf, falling apart. I shut the door. Menolly wasn’t going to find anybody upstairs. That much I knew. Wherever he was, Doug Smith hadn’t been home in quite awhile.

Vanzir poked his head through the archway. “Nothing. Menolly’s checking out the basement. I think I found the site of a scuffle, but it’s hard to tell without turning on the lights.”

“Hold on till she gets back. I don’t think she’s going to find anybody or anything down there.” I spotted a roll of paper towels and tore one off, wiping my hands on it. Even touching the dishes in the sink had left me feeling dirty.

Just then, Menolly returned. “Nobody in the house.”

“Thanks.” I flipped on the light, flooding the room. The kitchen looked worse than I imagined, pots and pans and dishes filling the sink and drain board. A cutting board with a rotten tomato and stinking meat sat on the counter. It looked like someone had been in the middle of fixing dinner when they were suddenly interrupted.

“Go find the light for the living room,” I told Vanzir.

We followed him in and, as a dim lamp illuminated the room, I saw what he’d been talking about. A desk sat in the corner, a rundown sofa faced a television, and a bookshelf, overflowing with books, rested against one of the walls. But the room was tidy, if a little threadbare. Except for a spot near the desk. One of the drawers had been yanked out and was upended on the floor, its contents spilling across the rug. A lamp had been knocked over, its bulb broken. And one corner of the desk was clear—with papers scattered around the floor.

I knelt near the mess. Brown spots spattered the beige rug. “Menolly, take a look at this. Ink or . . .”

She squatted beside me and leaned down, inhaling deeply. Her nostrils flared. “Blood. Those are drops of blood.”

“Crap.” As we looked farther, we found more of the splatters. “I guess we should call in Chase. This doesn’t look good.”

“He’s going to want to know why we’re in the house. Like it or not, we’re breaking and entering,” Vanzir said. “But . . . I guess we could say we were just worried. Checking up on the guy for a friend. Which is ultimately true. If Nerissa’s friend is worried about him . . .”

“Yeah. We may have committed B and E, but that doesn’t matter. Whatever happened here . . . so not good. I wonder if there are traces of Wolf Briar around. I can’t smell anything. Whatever happened took place a while ago.” I stood up and pulled out my cell phone. The FH-CSI headquarters was fourth on speed dial, right after Camille, Menolly, and home.