"I've eaten. So you're looking for someone to write your story for you, Ms. Michaels? Crib from my article? Save yourself the legwork?"
"Um, no... as I said, I only have a few questions, ones that will launch my own investigation. And, of course, anything I discover, I'll share with you."
"Your own investigation?"
I sensed her hackles rising. "For my own article. For my own newspapers. I've already been to the general area where the deaths occurred, but..." I forced a smile. "It's a lot bigger country than I'm used to. If I had a better idea where the--"
"Everything I can tell you is in my articles. I presume you've read them?"
"Yes." Wanna quiz me?
She stepped back and did an openly critical assessment of me. "How old are you, Ms. Michaels?"
"I'm not fresh out of college, if that's what--"
"Married, I see. Kids?"
"Two," I said carefully.
"Little ones, I suppose?"
"Yes, but--"
"An outdoors type?" she said, taking in my boots and jacket.
"You could say that."
"Anchorage is an outdoorsman's dream. A full-service city minutes away from a wilderness filled with lakes, rivers, mountains, glaciers..."
"It is pretty amazing," I said.
"Warmer than you thought, too, I bet. No mounds of snow or sub-zero temperatures..."
"Having experienced sub-zero, it's a very pleasant surprise."
I smiled, but her expression didn't change. What was with the tourism spiel? Was she going to try selling me timeshares?
She continued. "Good city. All the amenities. The great outdoors in its full glory at your doorstep. The perfect place for a young family to relocate."
"Relocate?"
"But first, you need a job."
"Job? I don't need--"
"You're not in the building five minutes and you're already shaking hands with the editor. I bet you think that's all it takes, don't you? A backwater place like Anchorage, there can't be any real journalists here. Probably all housewives, churning out articles before the kiddies come home from school. You can just show up, the perky Canadian girl--"
"Perky?"
"--and you think a spot will open up for you. A good spot. Maybe my spot."
"Um, no. I'm sure Anchorage is a great place to live, but I've already got a life--someplace else. I'm here to talk about the wolf kills."
"I'm sure you are. And I have nothing to say about them that isn't in my articles."
She walked away.
GARTH HAILED ME as I reached the doors.
"Did Mallory give you anything useful?"
I made a noncommittal noise.
"I might have another story for you," he continued. "I've been covering the disappearances of young women."
"Oh?"
"We've had three vanish in the last few months. It might make an interesting article for your readers back home."
Sadly, even in Canada, three missing girls wasn't news. It should be. Believe me, I know that, and I can rail against it all I want, but unless they're three teens from good families, even the police pay little attention. When I'd been in Winnipeg this winter, enjoying their twenty-below temperatures, I'd been researching a series on missing and murdered local women. The police had almost twenty cases of unsolved sex-worker deaths in as many years. Many of the victims were young, many Native Canadians, and all prostitutes.
One of my reasons for doing the articles was that Jeremy had sent me there to check out potential werewolf activity. Young sex-trade workers and street girls were the preferred prey of werewolves, who know how little attention will be paid to the deaths. It turned out that a few of those deaths had been a mutt. But it would be odd to have a man-eater in Anchorage mixing vanished young women with men left lying in the open.
"Were the girls from Anchorage?" I asked.
"One was. Two were from Native communities farther inland. Why don't we go grab a bite to eat and discuss it?"
"I'd love to, but I'm supposed to meet my husband for lunch."
His gaze dropped to my hand. "Oh, right. Sure. Well, if you decide to run the story, call me."
He headed back into the offices without giving me his last name, card or any way to "call him." I reached the exterior doors this time before he hailed me again. He walked over, looking chagrined, as if realizing how it must look, taking off once he discovered I was married.
"About Mallory's story," he said. "The wolves. There's someone else you could talk to. A local woman who knows more about the case than anyone, including Mallory."
"Oh?"
He waved for me to step outside. It had started drizzling. We ducked under an overhang.
"Her name's Lynn Nygard," he continued. "She works for the state police. Mallory used her as a source, but I know she didn't give Mallory everything." Garth lowered his voice. "Mallory can rub people the wrong way."
Really? Huh. "Will Ms. Nygard talk to me?"
"Oh, sure. There's just one thing. Lynn has this theory about the deaths and it would, uh, help if you didn't... discourage it."
"Theory?"
He waved to a coworker stepping out for a cigarette, then lowered his voice. "She thinks they were killed by some kind of Inuit shape-shifter. There's a name for them--I can't remember it. You don't have to say you believe in them, just..."
"Don't laugh when she mentions it?"
"Exactly. If she warms to you, you can also ask about the missing girls. She has a theory on that, too."
"Alien abductions?"
He laughed. "Met a few Lynns in your time, have you?"
"I have. You said she works for the police?"
"They tolerate her eccentricities because she's the best damned crime-scene photographer and sketch artist in Alaska. Of course, according to her, that's because she's the reincarnation of Leonardo da Vinci."
"Ah."
"Yes, she loves that paranormal shit, but obsession can be good if you're looking for the best source of detailed information. You'll find Lynn in the phone book." He spelled her last name as I wrote it down, then gave me his card and offered, genuinely it seemed, to help if he could.
I CALLED CLAY from the SUV.
"How'd it go at the paper?" he asked.
"She called me perky."
"Ouch."
I told him about Mallory Hirsch. After he said a few choice words about that, I explained the lead on Lynn Nygard. "I called her place. No answer. I'm going to swing by there on my way, then grab lunch."
I MADE IT three blocks before Clay called.
"Change course, darling," he said.
"Did Reese show up?"
"Yeah. And we've got a situation."
SITUATION
I WAS STILL ten feet from Reese's hotel room when I smelled blood. I slowed, my stomach giving a reflexive clench.
Yes, I hadn't wanted Reese hurt, but if he gave Clay any trouble, fists would fly and blood would flow. That was a given. There was a time when I'd convinced myself that Clay liked hurting people, because that fit the way I wanted to see him. But I'd always known it wasn't the truth. For Clay, beating a recalcitrant mutt was like brushing his teeth. It wasn't something he liked or disliked--he was just doing what needed to be done. A swift beating helped stop the spread of respect-decay, the kind that led to strikes against the Pack and its Alpha.
That's why Clay and I made such a good team. I played good cop and no one thought it a sign of weakness because, well, I was a woman, so naturally I'd be the soft touch. When a mutt wouldn't listen to me, he had to deal with Clay's fists. The mediator and the enforcer. It worked fine until half the team wasn't around.
So as I approached the door, I rubbed my face, erasing any sign that said I regretted anything Clay had done to Reese.
"Door's open," Clay called.
I found him pacing inside, cell phone at his ear. Reese sat on the edge of the bed, with a bloody towel around his right hand.
"I didn't do it," Clay s
aid.
I motioned to the phone.
"Jeremy," he said. Getting medical advice, I presumed.
"What happened?" I asked Reese.
He glanced down at his towel-wrapped hand, as if startled to see it. His pupils were dilated and he blinked hard, having trouble focusing on his hand, still holding it up and staring. I glanced at Clay, but he'd turned his back to me as Jeremy gave instructions.
When I took Reese's hand, he didn't resist. His skin above the towel was clammy, despite the warm room. I slowly unraveled the towel until I saw his hand, and winced. Two finger joints of his ring finger and the last joint of his pinkie had been cut off.
"I didn't do it," Clay said.
"Feel the need to make that perfectly clear, do you?" I said.
He grunted and tossed the phone onto the bed.
"What happened?" I asked.
"No idea. I haven't gotten that far. Jeremy says we need to get him stitched up. We can get the details after."
CLAY RETRIEVED MY bag--with my first-aid kit--from the car. He had one in his luggage, too. Jeremy would sooner let us travel without clothing than forget emergency medical supplies.
I got Reese's hand cleaned, stitched and bandaged while Clay played nurse, taking away the dirty cloths and getting new ones. As for how he lost his fingers, Reese was staying mum. It seemed more shock than reticence, though, so Clay and I tried to distract him by discussing the latest injuries in our lives--our kids' fall.
"Logan wouldn't talk," I said. "But I finally got Kate to admit what happened, which was exactly what we thought."
"They jumped because they'd seen us doing it."
I explained to Reese. "Our kids have realized that our days don't end after they go to bed. We go for walks in the forest, we talk by the fire, the food comes out..."
"Especially the food," Clay said.
"Naturally they felt left out and kept getting up. Rather than turn bedtime into a battleground, we started going to bed at the same time, then sneaking downstairs or outside."
"Only they heard us if we went downstairs," Clay said.
"Being so young, they shouldn't have secondary powers. We aren't even sure they're werewolves--one or both or... it's complicated. Anyway, at this age, we don't know whether they have enhanced hearing or we're just louder than we think we are. But we thought we were safe, avoiding the stairs and jumping out our bedroom window. Apparently not."
"They tried it?" Reese said, his first words since I'd come in. "Are they okay?"
"One sprained ankle, one sprained wrist and one very guilt-stricken parent."
"Two," Clay said. "We're going to have to come up with another solution."
"Other than tying them to their beds?"
"That'll be option two."
I cut off the bandage. "I know, we should probably just clamp down--bedtime is bedtime--but I was thinking of a compromise. We'll let them stay up until eleven two nights and we'll go to bed early, and the rest of the week, they're down at the normal time. If they don't settle, then we get tough--no special late nights."
"That might work."
"I hope so. Or it'll be time to invest in bars for the windows."
I stood and stretched my legs. Reese had followed our conversation with equal parts interest and bewilderment, and now he just looked confused. He'd heard stories about us--any mutt who's been in the United States more than a month has. Tales of Clayton Danvers, child werewolf turned vicious psychopath, who at seventeen chopped up a trespassing mutt and passed out photos of it. Then he bit some poor girl in Toronto, made her his mate, imprisoned her with him at Stonehaven, forced her to bear his children, and dragged her along on his assignments as Pack enforcer, so she could--I don't know--wash his socks and serve him breakfast in bed, I guess.
There were truths in this, as in all mythology. The child werewolf. The axe-job and photos. The bite. But it was all vastly more complicated than any mutt's urban-legend version allowed. Now, seeing us together, hearing us talking, we seemed like a normal couple... or as normal as any couple who knew how to field-dress severed fingers.
"So," Clay said as he repacked my medical bag. "Your hand. Mutt do that?"
Reese flinched at the word. Some do, taking it as derogatory. Others wear it as a badge of honor. Most don't care, the word having long since lost its bite, a label no different from "Pack wolf." But seeing Reese's reaction, I quickly said, "Another werewolf, I take it?"
He nodded. "I was in the museum this morning. The art and history one on Seventh Street."
He explained that he'd gone, pulled by a mild interest in history coupled with the conviction that if any werewolf had followed him to Alaska, a museum would be the last place we'd look.
For Liam and Ramon, I was sure that was true. These were two guys who'd have trouble spelling museum. For Clay, though, there was no city attraction he was more likely to be found at. But I didn't mention that.
Reese's logic, while sound, didn't help him. He was found there, by two mutts who'd introduced themselves as Travis and Dan. They'd crossed his trail a couple of blocks away and followed it to check him out, as any werewolf would upon scenting another in the same city.
They seemed relieved to find he was just a kid--in our world twenty years old is still "just a kid"--meaning he'd have little fighting experience and no reputation. They were fine with Reese being in Alaska--temporarily, they hoped. He was no threat to them and as long as he stayed out of trouble, he was welcome to visit. They even gave him some advice on cheap motels, good buffets, safe places to run...
Friendly enough without being overly hospitable, which struck the right balance for a kid who'd already been burned. In the course of the conversation, Travis noticed Reese's class ring. He asked about the insignia. Reese let him take a closer look.
"Travis was checking it out, holding the end of my fingers. That's when it happened, so fast I didn't see the knife until..." He paled at the memory. "If I hadn't yanked back right then, he would have taken both fingers right off. I ran. I shoved my hand in my pocket and I ran as fast as I could. I could hear them coming after me. So I raced past this guard--an old guy. By the time he got up and yelled at me, I was out the door, but it made Travis and Dan pull back. There was a cab right out front. I got in and came here. I--I guess they wanted the ring, but it wasn't anything special. Just a high school ring."
"It wasn't about the ring," Clay said. "It was a warning. Get off our territory."
"Then why not just tell me to? Why act all nice, then--" He lifted his hand. "Do this?"
"How do you feel?" Clay asked.
Reese's face darkened. "How the hell do you think I feel? I lost my fucking fingers."
"Scared? Confused?"
"Hell, yes."
"And what were you going to do after you got it cleaned up? Tell the desk clerk you'll be staying a few more days, extending your Alaskan vacation?"
"Fuck no. I would have been on the first plane--" He stopped and nodded. "That's the point, isn't it?"
"Strike hard and fast, catch you off guard and scare the crap out of you. Lot more effective than giving a friendly warning and hoping you don't stab them in the back."
I asked about the mutts. He gave me a description. Travis was "huge." At least six foot four and buff. The rest of him hadn't left much of an impression--brown hair, he thought, neither long nor short. No idea what color his eyes were. No distinguishing marks.
Travis's size had blinded Reese not only to what he looked like, but to his companion. All he could say about Dan was two things. First, he was smaller. Second, he was Russian--he'd spoken little, but when he did, it was with a heavy accent. Oh, and while Travis's English was perfect and had an American accent, he'd had a few exchanges with Dan in Russian.
They didn't match anyone from my dossiers. Between Dan's accent and Travis's Russian, I guessed they'd been living abroad.
"We'll go back to the museum," I said to Clay. "I doubt they're hanging around, but I want to check the scents.
Chances are these are the same guys we smelled in the woods."
"Hope so," Clay said.
I agreed. Multiple groups of werewolves in the Anchorage area was more than I cared to contemplate. Our simple trip had already become far too complicated.
"I'll take you there," Reese said. "I can show you where I was attacked."
"Just tell us where to look, and we'll pick up the scents. They're probably gone, but they could be staking it out, and you've already gotten hurt."
"And that's why I want to go back." He flushed. "I ran away."
"You'd just lost two fingers. Running away was the right thing to do."
Reese glanced at Clay. I knew better than to hope he'd back me up just to make the kid feel better. Reese probably knew that, too, which is why he ignored my reassurances and looked to Clay.
"If the guy's as big as you said, then, yeah, nothing wrong with running," he said. "But if you think you're going back now, hoping for payback? With us to watch your back and jump in if you can't handle it?"
Reese flushed again, deeper now. "I didn't mean--"
"No, I'm sure you didn't. But you didn't think it through either. If we meet up with these mutts, we can't be looking over our shoulders, keeping an eye on an injured kid itching for revenge. Elena came to Alaska to save your ass. I'm not letting you get killed now, making her feel bad."
I cleared my throat and shot him a look that said, really, this should not be the reason he didn't want Reese dead. But one glance at Reese told me that, if anything, he was relieved by Clay's honesty.
"All right then," Reese said. "I'll tell you whatever you need, then I'll hit the road."
I shook my head. "While Clay's right--you do need to leave Alaska--I'd like you to stay with a Pack member until we finish here."
"I appreciate the offer, but that's not necessary."
"Actually, it is. You're injured and you're still in danger--"
"I'll be fine," he said.
"As fine as Yuli Etxeberria?"
"Who?"
"The last guy Liam and Ramon blamed for their man-eating. He was a few years older than you and a recent immigrant. Lost some fingers, too. In his case, the whole hand--postmortem. Liam and Ramon mailed it to us. That's what I've been trying to tell you. They've done it before, and blamed another kid, and if you stick around, you'll be their next scapegoat."
"So you just wanted to warn me?"
"And see what you know about Liam and Ramon," Clay said. "Get your help finding them and proving they're man-eaters."