I tossed my suitcase in the corner and headed for the room service menu. Clay snatched it first.
"Excuse me," I said. "You're supposed to be reading Dennis's notes, remember? I believe that was an order."
"My stomach exercises its power of veto. Food first, work later."
AN HOUR LATER, his stomach full, Clay was propped up at the head of the bed, reading Dennis's notes aloud and adding lecture bits as he went. I was curled up with the pillows beside him, eyes closed as I listened.
Dennis's notes were mostly about other shape-shifter myths, ones Clay already knew. There was the Bajang from Malaysia, a dwarfish human that can transform into a polecat. Or the Grecian Striga, a witch that shifts into a screech owl. Or West African leopard men, the offspring of humans and leopard gods, who can take on the form of a cat. Go to Bali and you'll find the Leyak, black-magic practitioners who change into animals at night. The Scots have their Selkies, seals who can change into human. Brazilians have Encantado, humans who shift into animals, particularly dolphins. And that's only the beginning.
The most popular shape-shifting form, though, is canine. Maybe that's proof that humans are, in some way, aware of us. But canines are also the animal they're most familiar with, from the companion dog to the predatory wolf. Canines work beside humans, live with humans and have, for centuries, competed with them, for both food and territory. Is it any wonder that when people imagine the animal shape of their dreams and nightmares, it's the dog, the fox, the jackal, the wolf?
In almost any culture that has canines, you'll find tales of hybrids or shifters. The Flemish have the monstrous black doglike Kludde, the Japanese have the raccoon-dog shifting Tanuki and the fox shifting Kitsune, Ethiopia has the wolf-dog Crocotta, North American Natives have their coyote and wolf shifting skin-walkers.
Clay knew all of them, but as he read, he infused every scrap of well-trodden myth with the excitement and passion of a new discovery. This was another part of Clay. The father, the lover, the enforcer and the professor. Four sides entwining into a whole--simple yet complex, fascinating and infuriating.
I propped myself on one elbow and leaned over to look at him, my hair grazing the notes in his hand.
"I love you," I said.
He swiped my hair away. "You interrupted my lecture for that? Tell me something I don't already know."
"I hate you."
"Know that, too. Keeps things interesting. Now where was I?"
"Pompously expounding on the arcane minutiae of shape-shifting lore."
"Been doing that for the last hour. Question is: which bit of minutiae was I expounding on?"
I lifted the notes to his nose.
"Ah, the Tlahuelpuchi. Actually, more a vampire myth than shape-shifter--"
"Similar to the Nagual," I said, "but differing in both the variety of transformation and the transmission of the power. A Nagual shifts into recognizable animal form and is believed to learn the craft, while the Tlahuelpuchi curse is inherited and the cursed being shifts into a bestial form, often resembling a bird, such as a vulture or that overlooked horror movie possibility--the dreaded were-turkey." "You know it so well? You give the lecture."
"God forbid. The podium is yours, Dr. Danvers."
He put an arm around me, pulled me against his side and carried on.
WE WATCHED JOEY head for his car, a baby Mercedes that I was sure had never ventured past the city limits. He had his head down, frowning as he searched his pocket for his keys. He pulled them out, pointed the fob and saw Clay and me blocking the way.
Joey stopped so suddenly his loafers squeaked on the damp asphalt. "I said I didn't want to--"
Clay threw the denim jacket on the car hood.
Joey winced as the buttons scraped the paint.
"Recognize it?" Clay said.
"Looks like something you'd wear, so I'm guessing--"
"It belongs to a Stillwell."
"My father? Not exactly his style."
"It's not your father's and it's not yours. But it smells like you. Your kin. Want to know where I got it?" Clay didn't wait for an answer. "Off a mutt. One of the three who killed your father. Can you tell me why he'd be wearing it? Or who it belonged to?"
"Why don't you ask the guy who had it?" Joey frowned. "No, I suppose you can't do that, since he's probably no longer among the living. That's the problem with torturing and killing mutts, isn't it? You work so hard to get your answers, and sometimes they die on you first."
Joey's eyes lit up like Jeremy's when he hit the bull's-eye on a seemingly impossible target. But Clay just stood there, as if waiting for the punch line.
After a moment of awkward silence, Joey said, "I'm right, aren't I? You tortured him. Killed him."
"Yeah."
Again, Joey waited for a reaction--chagrin, embarrassment, shame. Again, Clay waited for him to get to the point.
"Did you use a chainsaw?" Joey said. "I seem to recall you like chainsaws."
"There wasn't a power outlet." Clay turned to me. "That's what I want for Father's Day, darling. A gas-powered chainsaw."
That flush crept across Joey's face, his eyes hardening. "You know what you are, Clay?"
"No idea, but I'm sure you'd love to tell me."
"Yes, we interrogated the mutt," I cut in. "We were trying to figure out what happened to your father, three dead men and three missing women. And yes, Clay tortured him until he admitted they'd tortured and killed your dad, killed at least one of the men, raped and presumably killed the girls. So what did you do with your day, Joseph? Write a catchy jingle?"
"You don't know anything about me."
"No," Clay said quietly. "I guess I don't."
Joey jiggled his keys, as if deciding whether to try shouldering past Clay. After a moment, he pocketed them. "What do you want?"
"I've already asked: who does this jacket belong to?"
"I have no idea."
"Can I guess?" I said. "You and your dad had a falling-out. Was that because another son showed up on his doorstep?"
"I'm a little old to be jealous of my daddy's attention."
"I didn't say you were, but you might be miffed with him for being careless and bringing another werewolf into the world, something I don't think you'd approve of."
"If my father did, I know nothing about it. Now, if you'll excuse me."
Clay moved aside to let him into the car. He waited until Joey's hand was on the door, then asked, his voice low again, "Did you call them this morning, Joey?"
"Call who?"
"The mutts. They paid a visit to our hotel after I talked to you."
Joey turned, meeting Clay's eyes. "I can't believe you'd ask me that."
"But you do have their number, right?" I said. "It's part of your deal with them."
"Deal?" He turned to me. "What deal?"
Clay told him what Dan Podrova said.
"Well, that mutt's a liar," Joey said. "Big shock there. That's another problem with torturing someone--eventually they hit the point where they'll say anything to make you stop. No, I don't have a deal with a pack of thugs and I didn't send them to your hotel room. Now take your wife, Clay, and go home."
"We'll leave as soon as I'm done talking to you."
"I mean, go home. Back to Stonehaven. There's nothing here you need to concern yourself with. Take your pretty wife, go back to your Alpha dad and your kids, whom I'm sure are just damned adorable. That's your life. This is mine. Now leave me alone."
WE LEFT HIM alone. For now. But we knew he was lying. Was he colluding with a gang of gun-runners, hoping to make us leave before we poked our nose in too deep? Clay didn't think so, but he had to consider the possibility, and we had to keep doing what Joey didn't seem to want us to do--digging for the truth.
FASCINATION
LYNN NYGARD LIVED in a neighborhood in west Anchorage, one with winding lanes and thick trees, sparsely dotted with eclectic homes that ranged from cottages to sprawling McMansions. Hers was one of the smallest ho
mes--a tiny A-frame chalet. I'd called her again after we'd confronted Joey, and she'd said to come right over. Clay drove me, but stayed in the truck.
I must admit that when someone said "paranormal enthusiast," I pictured a tiny, dimly lit apartment, smelling of canned stew, the walls covered in yellowed newspaper articles. It could be a stereotype. Or it could just be that I've met too many who conform to it.
The neighborhood and the house were not what I expected. Neither was Lynn Nygard. She looked like a school teacher--small and slender with sleek white hair. She ushered me in as she tried to wrap up a phone conversation, mouthing an apology to me and rolling her eyes.
"I haven't forgotten. I'm getting old, not senile. Now I have a guest..." A pause. "Yes, dear, I'll make all the arrangements." She waved me into the living room. "But right now..."
The person on the other end kept talking. A male voice. Judging by her tone, I was guessing a son.
"I really have to let you go, dear. There's a young woman here who wants to talk to me about the wolf kills." She widened her eyes. "Well, no, I didn't plan to mention my theory on the Ijiraat, but now that you mention it..."
A pause.
"No, that is an excellent idea. I'm so glad you brought it up."
Her eyes sparkled with mischief as her son's protests grew louder.
"Yes, dear, I promise to behave myself. But if something goes wrong, you will come visit me at the psychiatric hospital, won't you? Loosen the bindings on my straitjacket? Wipe the drool off my chin?"
She laughed at his reply, signed off, then turned to me.
"Do you have kids, Ms. Michaels?"
"Two."
"Well, eventually you reach the point where they aren't sure whether they're the children or the parents. One minute my son needs Mommy to arrange his wife's surprise party, the next he's trying to make sure I don't embarrass myself in front of strangers." She set down the cordless phone. "Coffee? Green tea? Red wine?"
I noticed an almost full wine glass on the kitchen counter behind her and said I'd have wine.
"So you work with Hope Adams?" she asked as she got down a glass.
"When she needs me. Otherwise, I freelance. Do you know Hope's work?"
"I'd be a poor paranormal fanatic if I didn't. With Weekly World News stopping tabloid production last year, True News--and Ms. Adams's column--is the only game in town for those of us who like the occasional vampire story with our daily doom and gloom. Not that Weekly World News was much competition. I stopped reading it back when they added a disclaimer that it was for entertainment only. Seemed like a license to give up even trying to uncover any truth."
She handed me a glass of wine. "Now, Ms. Adams? She's a professional. She doesn't take herself too seriously. After all--" She winked. "--we are talking about the paranormal, not world politics. But you get the feeling she really is looking for the truth. She strikes me as a young woman I could have a coffee with." She raised her glass to me and smiled. "Or a glass of wine."
The phone rang again. "The machine can get it," she said.
"No, go ahead."
It stopped ringing.
"Good. Now you wanted to know--"
The phone started again. She sighed and said she'd be just a moment.
I sipped my wine and turned to survey my surroundings. What I saw made me sputter, clapping my hand to my mouth before I sprayed my shirt. There, almost over my head, was a picture of me.
"Do you like wolves?"
I jumped. Lynn stood in the doorway.
"I didn't mean to startle you," she said. "I just asked if you liked wolves."
She pointed to the painting. It was me... as a wolf, in one of Jeremy's paintings. Nightfall, if I remembered right. It had been years since I'd seen this one. The public preferred Jeremy's more atmospheric pictures of wolves in city streets. This was the more natural style he liked better.
"It's a print," she said, as she sat. "I'd love an original, but I could never afford one. I must confess, wolves fascinate me, as they do many people these days."
"They are popular."
"From demonized to romanticized. No, my view of wolves is somewhat more realistic, I hope. True, they aren't the big bad beast of lore. But if I met one in the wild, I'd back away very slowly and get out of there as fast as I could."
"Not try to pet it?"
She laughed. "Exactly. But they do intrigue me more than other animals, which is why when those killings started, I took an interest--"
The phone rang.
Lynn sighed. "This time, I am letting the machine pick up." The answering machine clicked on, and we could hear that the caller was a young man who said he was in town on a logging contract and looking for a place to let.
"I'm getting a lot of interest," Lynn said when the message ended. "But not the sort I was hoping for."
"You're renting out a room?"
"Or two. My husband died a couple of years ago and I'm ready for some company. I was thinking of a stripper."
I can imagine my expression because she laughed. "That didn't come out right, did it? I meant I was hoping to rent rooms to girls on the exotic dance circuit. We get a lot of them through here and their living accommodations are less than ideal. I thought I could offer something nicer, more secure. A safe place to stay is hard to come by in that field."
"I heard a few girls have gone missing lately. They weren't strippers, though. At least, I didn't get that impression."
"No, they weren't. Not officially, that is. The first one was a part-time prostitute, though you won't see that in the articles. And rightly so, in my opinion. One whiff that those girls were less than saintly..."
"And they're dismissed as doped-up whores who took off with the first guy who promised them a new life in Seattle."
"Precisely. The second girl, now she was the type who should make headlines. Joy Sataa. An A student. Came from a fly-in community to attend college. But it's that 'fly-in community' part that moves her down the priority list."
"Native, as was the third girl, I think."
"Right again. Adine Aariak. Seventeen and living on the streets. Maybe turned a trick now and then, though no one on the police force recalls picking her up. Grew up with the three A's: alcohol, abuse and abandonment. She came to Anchorage hoping for a break, but we all know how that works out."
I sipped my wine, waiting for her to go on. When she didn't, I prompted her with "And you think... I heard something about aliens."
She grinned. "Ah, yes, my alien abduction theory." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "It's bullshit."
I laughed.
"I don't believe in aliens. Well, no, I do, but not in alien abduction. Can you really imagine a recognizable alien race traveling thousands of light-years to impregnate humans? I just like to get folks going. They expect me to come up with outlandish theories, so I do, then have a good chuckle as they humor me and pretend to play along. A monster did get those girls--but one with a very human face. Again, an old story, too often told." She drained half her glass of wine. "Enough of that. You came to talk about other crimes. The ones in the woods."
"You don't think wolves are responsible."
"I will admit it is possible, but I very strongly doubt it. I've taken photos of the sites and the bodies, and while there is evidence of wolf activity, there's no proof that a wolf actually killed or even participated in eating the corpses. A wolf in winter won't kill something and leave it for scavengers. They can't afford to. My guess is that they visited the site, took a look, and left it alone. Wolves don't kill people. They just don't."
"Wolf attacks are rare. Deaths are rare to the point of being unheard of."
She smiled. "Good, you've done your research, which means I can skip the lecture and jump straight to the good stuff. Do you know anything about Ijiraat?"
"Just that they're shape-shifters from Inuit mythology."
Lynn explained that Ijiraat were a lesser known type of shape-shifter, indigenous to the Arctic and the Inui
t. They were believed to be spirits of the land who could take on the form of any creature native to that land, from raven to wolf, and even human. As with most such myths, the Ijiraat were commonly believed to be evil, hell-bent on deceiving and destroying humans. Another branch of the myth, though, claimed they weren't inherently evil--just wild creatures that would, if threatened, defend themselves. One common thread in the stories was that the Ijiraat could influence memory. If you saw one, you'd forget all about it if you didn't tell someone else right away, which coincidentally explains why they aren't seen more often.
"Now, as with most legends, there are regional variations. The Inuit say that the type living here can only shift between three forms--human, bear and wolf. There's a rich history of sightings dating back over a hundred years, from tourists to weekend warriors to folks who only leave the woods when they absolutely have to."
She reached onto the table behind her to grab a folder, then handed it to me. I opened it to find a thick sheaf of typed pages.
"Those are all the accounts I've been able to find, both written and oral sources. I typed them all up into a database. You'll see notations on each account--a color and a number. The color indicates the reporting party's credibility. Green would be a group of trustworthy locals all reporting the same thing. Red would be a kid who admitted he was out in the woods drinking. Yellow is in the middle, and you have all kinds of variations in between. There's a legend on the first page. The numbers show how I rank how close the accounts are to the most common core story. Ten means it's dead on the money. One means it's so far off I only included it to be thorough."
"You definitely are thorough."
She laughed. "I might be a nut, but I'm the best organized nut around."
"Would I be able to borrow...?"
"Oh, that's a copy for you to take."
As I flipped through a few pages, I caught familiar phrases and felt a surreal sense of deja vu. Or maybe not so much deja vu as spooky coincidence. I'd seen some of these pages... just a couple of hours ago.
"Do you give out a lot of copies?" I asked.
"Not as often as I'm asked for them. I don't advertise my research--I bring my children enough grief as it is--but people find out about my interests, as you did. With most, I prefer not to encourage their fantasies. Give them these and they'd be scouring the countryside looking for proof and shooting anything that moves--and not with a camera."