Howling Legion (Skinners, Book 2) (22 page)

“Did you see the one about the suspected ritualistic slayings?” Stu asked. “That’s my favorite. What the hell did you stir up over there?”

“It’s been a busy night,” Cole said. When Paige rolled onto her side, he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Isn’t there some sort of damage control for something like this?”

“There’s never been anything like this. At least, not when I’ve been around to see it. A lot of pictures are making the rounds online, but so far there’s just as many people saying they’re fakes as there are who think the world’s coming to an end.”

Cole had just tapped to that section of the article. It took a few seconds to receive the pictures, but there were plenty to be found. Frame upon frame, collected from cell phones to pocket cameras, showed very blurry creatures moving like a swarm across streets and over open fields. For once, he was
grateful the Half Breeds could run so fast. “I just washed the stink off and there’s already pictures on the Internet,” he muttered.

“I know. One time I posted a request for strategy on a
Sniper Ranger
fan site and I got three replies by the time I got back from draining the weasel.”

“I knew you cheated on our death matches.”

“Not cheating. Strategy.”

“Have you posted any of these pics on the MEG site?” Cole asked.

“I’m…uhhh…not in control of everything that goes up on the site,” Stu fumbled.

“What about debunking?”

His laughter sounded almost as hesitant as his reply to the last question. “I suppose we could try to shoot a few holes in this stuff, but that might only draw more attention to it. Maybe we should just leave it alone. Do you know how many pictures of the Loch Ness monster were proven to be genuine? We’ve posted plenty of disembodied voices and footage of genuine spiritual activity. You’d think that would be considered pretty important, huh? Life after death and all that? Other planes of existence. Nah. Most folks just go on with what they know and ol’ Nessie drifts back down to the bottom of the lake.”

Cole had stopped listening. While flipping through the pictures from Kansas City, he picked out a few favorites. “How much longer will you be there?”

“Just another hour. I can barely stay awake as is. Abby will be here soon, though.”

“Does she like debunking?”

“Almost a little too much.”

“Good,” Cole said. “Then she’ll love what I’ll be sending your way.”

It was a nice house built on a quiet block in Overland Park, which was a pretty nice suburb of Kansas City. The neighborhood slept as the sun crested the horizon and paperboys made their deliveries. When one copy of the
Kansas City Star
slapped against this particular house, the impact knocked the door open an inch or two. It wasn’t enough for the delivery boy to notice, so he kept going, and the rest of the city went about its morning routine.

A man in a cheap suit walked down the sidewalk with his hands stuffed into his pockets. His eyes slowly absorbed everything around him and his nostrils flared as he got closer to the house with the door that was ajar. Upon reaching the porch, he sniffed the air, shook his head, scooped up the paper, and walked inside.

The entry was very tidy, apart from a shattered coffee mug on the floor of the entry way and streaks of blood smeared on the tile. More blood led up a carpeted staircase to the second floor, where the coppery smell was even worse. A television was on up there, but played the music from a DVD menu that hit the end of its loop and began again. Mr. Burkis tightened his grip on the newspaper he’d brought in from the front step and scowled at the upper end of the staircase. The corner of one nostril twitched and his eyes snapped toward the source of the new scent he’d picked up beneath the odor of not-so-fresh kills. Someone had just opened a fresh can of coffee.

“’Morning, Randolph,” chimed a voice from the kitchen.

Burkis seemed mildly uncomfortable to hear that name, but didn’t refute it. He stepped over a hutch that had been knocked over, crushing some of the fine china that had spilled from it as he walked into a rustic dining room. A mess of splintered chairs and broken glass lay scattered near an upended, solid oak table. A chunk of the kitchen counter had been broken off, leaving the rest of the adjoining room mostly intact. A skinny man dressed in a baggy gray sweat-suit stood in the kitchen. He held a can of coffee in one hand, pulled the top off, and sniffed the plastic circle. A narrow smile slid across his sunken features as he said, “I’ve grown to love coffee since crossin’ the pond. Care for a mug?”

Randolph narrowed his eyes and walked over to where the kitchen table had landed. He righted it with as much effort as someone might use to lift a box of cereal and slapped the newspaper down flat upon it. “What have you done, Liam?”

“Why, whatever do you mean?” the skinny man asked in a thick cockney accent.

Scanning the headlines for all of two seconds, Randolph slammed a finger down on a lower corner of the front page.
“This
is what I mean!”

Liam took the carafe from the coffee machine and filled it. Squinting as he scooped some grounds into a filter and put it all together in the machine, he asked, “Might you be referrin’ to the gas prices or the construction?”

Randolph didn’t move.

When Liam spoke again, his accent was smoother and more natural than it had been before. “They were bound to notice us sooner or later.”

“Especially since you’ve been running down the streets and howling at the moon like an idiot!”

“That’s fine talk comin’ from you, Randolph. What about the street wars you instigated back in New York?”

“I didn’t start those, and that was long before pictures and video could be spread so easily. For God’s sake, there’s hardly even a record of it! This,” he snarled, while pounding his fist against the newspaper, “is even worse than your incident in Whitechapel.”

Liam got the coffee brewing with the tap of a button and then glanced back at Randolph. “That was also over a hundred years ago. Besides, I’ve never been linked to those gutted whores.”

Cocking his head slightly, Randolph narrowed his eyes to a point where the other man couldn’t bear it.

Finally, Liam snarled, “All right, fine. I may have had a little something to do with the Whitechapel incident, but it wasn’t just me killing a bunch of women for no reason. Those uptight constables had the gall to try and run us out of London! Don’t you remember that?” Dark hair was plastered against his scalp and forehead in a way that would have seemed perfectly natural in the faded portrait of a banker from the eighteenth century. Even his facial structure seemed outdated. His bony shoulders and narrow limbs were built for old suits that hung in museums.

“Times are different now,” Randolph reminded him. “Even if they weren’t, what you’re doing is unacceptable.”

“Perhaps,” Liam said as he raised his eyebrows, “you could have kept things in line if you’d been here. I did invite you, but you’re so hard to find. I only recently learned the new name you’ve taken. Burkis, is it?”

The other nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Almost back to your roots, eh? I like it.”

Randolph snatched up the paper and practically rubbed Liam’s nose in it. “What do you hope to accomplish with this? You’re
purposely
creating Half Breeds?”

“Yes. They’re rather like machines. While I’m not altogether fond of machinery, it is nice to wind it all up and watch it go.”

“Don’t try to smooth this over with a bunch of prissy talk,” Randolph snarled. “Do you actually hope to accomplish anything with this or are you just making another spectacle?”

Liam took the newspaper away fast enough to leave a few shredded scraps in Randolph’s hand. After looking over the article, he let out an amused, snuffing breath. “Whoever wrote this is still blaming the deaths on dogs or criminals! There’s been bloodier months when human criminals fight amongst themselves. You should know that better than anyone.”

“Gang wars are started and fought by human gangs,” Randolph said. “People know how to react to that. When those wars are over, everyone goes back to their lives. This can’t possibly be forgotten so easily.”

While Randolph spoke, Liam rolled his eyes and walked back to check on the coffee. “You weren’t always such a stickler. In fact, didn’t I hear about a bunch of hunters being slaughtered in a cabin that just happened to be in your stomping grounds?”

“Those hunters were Skinners.”

“All of them?”

“No,” Randolph replied. “One was a Mongrel in possession of a Blood Blade that was meant to kill our kind. Skinners should know to stick to the leeches in their cities or the Half Breeds that slip through the cracks. As far as Mongrels are concerned, I kill as many as I can find. The one I chased away from that cabin won’t be a problem anytime soon.”

Liam leaned against the counter and ran his finger along the side of the heated pad beneath the coffee carafe. “Oh, I see. When you kill, it’s justified. Always against prey that should know better than to overstep your bounds. Didn’t you hear the truth that Henry broadcast to the rest of us? Haven’t you seen for yourself that the leeches don’t rule the cities as we’d always believed? How the hell did we fall for that rubbish anyway? Doesn’t that make you feel foolish?”

“I’ve lived in cities,” Randolph said. “The leeches and Skinners can have them.”

“Oh, sure. We get to live in parks or the little green patches of woodlands that the humans rope off like fucking zoos!” Liam roared. With every word, his voice swelled to fill more of the empty spaces within the house. “The days when we can live where we please are fading, Randolph Standing Bear. Just ask the Natives who gave you that name.”

“Our arrangement has worked just fine. We can’t—”

Slamming his fist down hard enough to shatter the countertop, Liam shouted, “There is
nothing
we can’t do! We are Full Bloods! The only reason we scampered into the forests while the humans built their cities was because we
allowed
it to happen! I warned you about the Skinners, Randolph. I
warned
you they would figure out new ways to poison and kill us, and look what’s happened! At least the Gypsies show some craftsmanship with their Blood Blades. The Skinners are grave robbers who prod us with sticks.”

“You can stuff your warnings,” Randolph said. “I’m the one that’s been thinning the Skinner herd while you’ve been out spilling blood for no good reason. If you truly wanted to help, you’d help me remove the thorns in our sides without creating more of them to deal with. What purpose could such public slaughter possibly serve?”

The fist that he’d used to break the counter now unfolded so Liam could gently sweep away some dust that had settled next to the coffee machine. He grabbed the carafe and poured the fresh brew into his mouth. Leaving his chin up and his eyes locked upon a spot on the wall, he swallowed and said, “They should fear us. This whole world would be much better if people had the good sense to fear. It’d be quieter at least.”

“What kind of manure is that?”

“Humans are arrogant. They strut about, flapping their gums, making their noise and tossing about idle threats because they’re not afraid anymore. I’m not even talking about a crippling fear of the dark. I’m talking about that bit of common sense that warns them against walking into dangerous places or provoking someone who might do them harm. You know what humans do when they make a mistake or bite off more than they can chew?” After swigging some more coffee, Liam said, “They sue. Some idiot spouts off, gets beaten for it, and they sue. Another moron ignores a sign, stumbles under a load of bricks, and they sue.

“If they see something greater than them, they need to challenge it. If something is sacred to one group, another group just has to knock it down to show their will is
more
sacred. When these damned fools find something dangerous, they seek it out just for the thrill of it! There used to be a time when creatures that stupid were wiped out through the good sense of a harsh natural order. We’re that natural order, Randolph.”

“And humans are the arrogant ones?” Randolph scoffed.

But Liam shook that off with ease. “When a species becomes too large, they are culled by predators or disease.
Humans hide behind machines and suck down drugs to combat disease. They’ve cheated their way through an existence that should have been ended hundreds of years ago. We’re the predators made to do the culling.”

Randolph straightened up to his full height, which put him several inches over Liam’s head. “All you want is to restore the natural order?” he said with sarcasm dripping from every word. “You’re so much nobler than I remembered.”

“At least I’m doing something, you self-righteous prick!” While Randolph’s tone had softened, Liam’s took on more of an edge. The longer Randolph looked at him with his wide eyes and friendly smile, the more Liam’s teeth crept down to form the start of rounded fangs. “The humans may be too fucking stupid to ever admit their place in the real pecking order, but the Skinners know all too well. What I’m doing here will bring those killers to us instead of allowing them to hide and plot and build in the dark just like their whole cowardly species has done for so goddamn long.”

“I’ve only smelled two of them throughout this whole state.”

“Which must mean there’s precious few of them left,” Liam pointed out. “When they’re gone, there’ll be that many less thorns in our sides. And after the events I’ve started, Skinners will gather here from across this continent and probably others. They’ll come looking for us, and if we can’t snuff them out, we truly do belong skulking in the woods.”

Randolph nodded slowly. “You’ve done some real culling, eh? If you’d killed even one of those two Skinners, you would have bragged about it by now. Instead, you’re wincing when you move and favoring one side over the other. Those arrogant humans probably just snuck in a lucky shot, right?”

Leaning to get a better look at the right side of Randolph’s face, Liam replied, “You’ve got no room to talk. That wound’s new and has the looks of one that will never heal. Blood Blade, I’d guess. With your rugged Celtic looks, I bet that just drives the girls crazy.”

Although Randolph didn’t move to touch the thick, jagged scar that ran from his right cheek down to his jaw, he twitched as if that part of his face was about to leap away from his skull.

“Who did that to you?” Liam asked. “Was it a little brunette with the tight ass or the fellow who looked ready to piss himself?” Liam waited for a second and then nodded. “They’re very creative, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if another one of their kind was somewhere scooping up our droppings to mix into some sort of potion.”

The expression on Randolph’s face would have been enough to force a lion back into a dark corner, but Liam only acknowledged it with a wary chuckle.

“You know it’s true, pretty boy.”

“I have the blade now,” Randolph growled. “That’s all that matters.”

Liam’s narrow features were made even sharper by the cruel grin that took them over. “Carried it away while it was embedded in your face, huh? Great plan, my friend. Since you’d probably like to get some more Skinner flesh under your nails, you can help me pick off the ones that did that to you. They flocked to this place thanks to me, and if there’s more of them anywhere nearby, they’ll come too.”

“So that’s your real reason for all of this?” Randolph asked. “Force the Skinners into a fight and bring me here to join you. What about that other stray you found?”

Drawing back as if preparing to defend his young, Liam said, “Henry is a Full Blood who knows more about our enemies than either of us.”

“He’s tainted by the Nymar.”

“Not anymore. The Skinners saw to that. They cut it out of him and killed it using a Blood Blade and some of their own witchcraft. It was quite a sight to see. Now that the leeches are out of him, Henry can focus the gift that vampire gave him.” Flashing a grin that was just a bit too wide, Liam proudly added, “He’s a Mind Singer. Unfocused, but the gift is in him.”

“And where is he?”

For the first time since he’d started the conversation, Liam faltered. He glanced toward a glass door that was mostly covered by a set of white vertical blinds as he replied, “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for weeks. He buggered off to find one of the Skinners that hurt him and I ain’t seen him since.
He’s still alive, though. We may not be able to sniff him out for whatever reason, but we know he’s alive.”