Supernatural Fresh Meat (17 page)

Bobby turned in the driver’s seat and met her eyes. His voice was compassionate. “There’s nothing you can do here. I know what this feels like.”

She crossed her arms. “Hell. Okay. Let’s go.”

Marta directed Bobby to a nearby gas station and Sam cleaned his head wound in the bathroom, wiping the blood from his face, neck, and hands as best he could. He removed his blood-splattered jacket. When he looked presentable, he emerged, getting back in the van. She told Bobby to turn down a few side streets and they ended up in front of a beautiful Victorian two-story house. A girl in her early teens sat on a porch swing, reading a book. She looked up as they parked.

“Aunt Marta?” she asked, standing up. “What happened?”

Marta did look bad, covered in soot and sweat. “The Nest caught on fire. But no one was hurt, honey.”

“Oh no! Will they be able to put it out?”

“We’re hoping.”

Her niece rushed to her and hugged her. “I’m so sorry.”

Marta turned to Bobby and Sam. “This is my niece, Aggie.”

Sam shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. Sam.”

Bobby grinned, shaking her hand, too. “And I’m Bobby.”

“Nice to meet you.” She looked shell-shocked. “Are you sure there’s nothing we can do?”

Marta shook her head. “The fire department’s working on it now. We just have to wait.”

“I’ll get iced tea for everyone,” Aggie offered, and they all entered the house.

When she turned her back and walked away, Marta made a zipping motion across her lips and whispered, “Remember!
Nada!”

Sam and Bobby nodded their understanding.

After Sam washed the grime off his face and hands properly with hot water and soap, he walked into the living room, where iced tea in tall, sweating glasses awaited. Aggie sat on the couch, bare feet tucked up under her. She was engrossed once again in the book.

“What are you reading?” Sam asked.

“This book for school. I was kind of dreading it at first, but it’s actually really good. It’s called
Fahrenheit 451.”

Sam couldn’t help smiling. “That’s a great book.”

“Yeah, it really is, isn’t it? Kind of creepy, though. It’s supposed to be about some future dystopia, but it kind of feels like this could happen now.”

Bobby and Marta entered the room, and Sam could actually see their skin now all the soot was scrubbed away.

Marta lifted one of the iced-tea glasses and drained half of it in one go. She turned to Aggie. “We’ve got some stuff to do in the art studio. You going to be okay out here?”

Aggie nodded. “Sure.”

Bobby cleared his throat. “Did you see anyone prowling around tonight?”

Marta stomped on his foot, trying to make it look like an accident.

Aggie looked alarmed. “What?”

“It’s just that… the restaurant might have been arson. We want to be careful, that’s all.”

“No, I didn’t see anyone. But now I’m totally freaked out.”

Sam was quick to step in. “It’ll be okay. It might not have been arson at all. Bobby’s just a little paranoid.”

Aggie pursed her lips together. “Okay.”

Marta kissed the top of her head and motioned Sam and Bobby to follow her into the back of the house. At the rear of the property stood an artist’s studio with a locking door. Marta loved to make ceramics in her spare time, when she had any. She invited them into the room. A potter’s wheel stood in one corner, and shelves lined the walls, stacked with vases and saucers. Most hadn’t been glazed yet. Another door led to the back yard.

Sam regarded them appreciatively. “These are good.”

“Thanks. Maybe one day I’ll be able to finish one.” She turned to Bobby as he entered. “Lock the door.”

Against one wall stood a desk, and she moved to it, clearing it off. “We can work here.”

“This is perfect,” Bobby said. “Thanks again.”

“I’ll go get the stuff,” Sam offered, and left through the back door of the studio. As he stepped out into the cool of the night, Sam felt eyes watching him. He didn’t like this. The whole thing didn’t feel right. His gut told him that this was the eye of the storm, and that he had to stay vigilant.

TWENTY-FIVE

Dean started awake, unable to breathe. He panicked, opening his eyes wide, but seeing only white. Jerking upright, he flailed in his sleeping bag. Wet seeped through him. He twisted his arms and legs free and realized he was completely buried under a thick layer of snow. Wiping it from his face, he got his bearings. He was in the clearing where they’d made camp, and a serious storm had moved in. A fresh blanket of powdery snow covered everything. The dim glow of dawn illuminated the east.

Dean looked around for Jason, but didn’t see him. He got up, walking to where Jason’s bag had been. He felt around underneath the snow. A lump at the base of a tree proved to be Jason’s backpack.

Dean retrieved the concoction from his sleeping bag and walked around the clearing, looking for tracks. He didn’t find any. Wherever Jason had gone, he’d done it a while ago.

He searched in a widening spiral, finding the tracks of a deer and a rabbit, but no shoe prints.

“Jason!” he shouted.

He listened to the ensuing silence.

Snow continued to fall, and it was cold now. Dean’s breath frosted in the air, which felt like it was in the mid-twenties. He moved around in greater and greater circles, radiating outward from their camp. There was no sign of Jason.

Finally he stopped, listening to the heavy silence. The snow-laden forest was eerily still. Not a bird. Not even the wind. Dean waited, but didn’t hear anything. Jason had either walked away earlier in the night, or something had taken him.

Dean was beginning to feel really cold. He was grateful for his rain gear, which at least kept him dry. He unpacked his thicker coat and put it on under his rain parka. The snow kept falling, getting deeper and deeper, and his feet were starting to go numb. He’d waited in the clearing, making sure that Jason hadn’t just gone off to do some reconnaissance, but he hadn’t come back. Dean noticed that his food, water bottle, map, and compass were still in his pack.

How could Dean have slept through Jason being taken? He knew the thing was fast and quiet, but he felt wide open, thinking the aswang had been in the camp, seizing someone only feet away from him.

Dean decided to do a wider patrol, and donned his pack, rolling up his bedding and covering it with a rainproof bag.

He headed out, keeping the bottle with the spice concoction close at hand. He’d hiked about a mile, moving in greater and greater circles, when he found a trail of blood in the snow. It led deeper into the forest, away from the trails. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cell phone. He’d check in with Bobby and Sam and then follow the trail, try to get Jason back.

He pressed the power button, but his phone wouldn’t turn on. He tried again and again, but it was dead. The cold had sucked the juice right out of the battery. Dean dug a pair of gloves out of his pack and a woolly hat and donned them.

He had his phone charger, but the nearest place he could think of that had juice was his car, and he couldn’t go back there now. He had to find Jason. If there was a chance the hunter was still alive, Dean had to take it.

He followed the trail of blood in the snow. Indistinct impressions ran alongside the blood, prints filled in by the fresh snow. Dean couldn’t tell if they were Jason’s boot prints or not. Not enough detail remained. The bleeding grew thicker and penetrated deeper. Jason—if it was Jason and not another hiker—was losing a lot of blood. As Dean walked on, the snow continued to fall. Soon he was stepping in snow up to mid-calf. His feet were even colder now. White was starting to cover the blood trail, and Dean picked up his pace, trying to catch up before the trail vanished altogether. He walked on, sinking deeper and deeper. The snow fell on and on, soon laying down two feet on the ground. Dean sank up to his knees. The slogging was exhausting. At times he lost the blood trail, having to walk fifty feet or more before he found it again.

The third time he lost sight of it and found it again, he realized something strange. No matter how densely the trees clustered, how many logs he had to step over or boulders he had to walk around, the blood trail remained perfectly straight. It was easy to pick it up again when he lost sight of it because he only had to move forward in the same direction. It didn’t deviate at all.

Dean stopped. He wondered with a sudden chill whether he might not be following a wounded person, but something dripping blood, like a sack of meat. The footprints alongside the blood were indistinct, filled in with fresh snow until they were rounded and shallow. He had no way of knowing if he were following Jason’s boots or a creature’s clawed feet. Dean might be walking himself right into the aswang’s lair.

He pulled out his cell phone again, hoping that the warmth of his pocket might have revived the battery. He pressed the power button, but nothing happened. By now Bobby and Sam would be worried he hadn’t checked in.

Dean stared ahead at the blood trail, which was quickly vanishing beneath the falling snow. Going forward might mean a trap, but if it was Jason being dragged on by something, he could still be alive. Dean had to reach him. He’d stay low, keep to the trees for cover, and see where the blood trail led.

TWENTY-SIX

Sam sat in Marta’s office, feeling bleary-eyed. They had worked through the night to finish the incantation. For the fifth time, he pulled out his cell and dialed Dean, but it went straight to voicemail. “Dean still isn’t answering. It’s been more than twelve hours.”

Bobby glanced up from the preparation for the incantation. “That’s not good.”

“How much longer will this take?”

Bobby looked to Marta, who started grinding spices and adding them to a mixture in the mortar.

She glanced around, judging their progress. “I think we’re just about ready to start the incantation.”

“Could be his battery died,” Bobby suggested.

“I hope that’s all it is.”

Marta sorted things into different piles. “Okay. This looks good. We just need to coat the whip with the right spices and cast the spell to enchant the whip.”

Between finding all the ingredients in the maze of the shop, fighting the vampires, and preparing the incantation, they’d spent far more time there than they had intended. It was costing them precious time while Dean was out there without them, and Sam was anxious to get back. “What can I do to help?”

Marta laid out some cinnamon, cardamom, vinegar, and salt, along with the ajowan, galangal, screw pine, tamarind, wattle seed, kokum, kaffir lime, and lovage that Sam had brought. She told Sam to roll the whip in it until it was absorbed. Then she fashioned the stingray barb to the whip while Bobby finished the preparations for the incantation.

Sam drew symbols on the floor of her back room and lit candles at the cardinal points. When the whip was ready, they placed it in a large brass bowl in the center of the symbol. Marta stepped before it and began the incantation, reading Latin out of the old book compiled by the eighteenth-century missionary. When she was finished, she threw some powder into the brass pot and flames engulfed the whip. It simmered and blackened, releasing a fragrant mix of spices into the air. When the flames died down, Marta reached into the brass bowl and extracted the whip. “It’s ready.”

Sam took the weapon from her. “Great! Thank you so much.”

Bobby stood up, grabbing his jean jacket off the back of his chair. “We hate to do magic and run…”

Marta waved him off. “I understand. Get back out there.”

She walked over to Bobby, hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. Then she hugged Sam. “You two be careful.”

“Always are,” Bobby lied, smiling at her.

“And let me know what happens, if the whip works.”

He nodded to her, touching the rim of his well-used baseball hat, and met Sam at the door. “Really sorry about your place.”

She waved him off dismissively. “Been meaning to update the kitchen there, anyway.”

“We really do appreciate this,” Sam said, feeling a little rude for rushing out as soon as they got what they wanted, especially after her place had been set on fire. But they had to leave.