Bare Bones (25 page)

I hoped so, because Russell was my last chance to find these guys.

I
DECIDED TO
go for the battered military look, since I’d be sporting a less-than-figure-flattering flak jacket. I found an old pair of cargo pants in the back of my closet that had seen better days. There were unidentifiable stains in streaks and splotches along the sides, and several holes scattered throughout. A huge bleach stain decorated my left ass cheek. They were perfect.

As was the threadbare, long-sleeve, Charlottesville Cheetah Run 10k shirt I wore under the vest—faded blue with a series of silhouetted big cats running across my chest. I completed my look with a canvas belt full of grommets, and biker boots. The only concession to my mission was the neat braid I’d bundled up in a granny bun against the nape of my neck, out of the way of grasping hands if I wound up grappling with a foe. I also kept the earrings to tiny, not-grabbable studs. With two nephews and a niece I’d learned the pain of having hoop earrings yanked from my ears.

No jewelry besides that. I stuffed Tremelay’s Sig in a pocket of the cargo pants, wincing as it banged heavy against my thigh. Hopefully they didn’t pat us down, or have metal detectors. If so, I was relying on Tremelay to get me in the door.

As I left I strapped on my sword, praying that the look-away spell would let me carry it within the club. Nothing I’d read said anything about swords being effective on skinwalkers, but this was my Templar weapon—my
consecrated
Templar weapon. I felt naked when I was without it.

It was weird driving my car with the pistol pulling at my right pants leg and the flak jacket adding an addition twenty-five pounds to my weight. I needed to start running with extra weights to get used to it. Actually I needed to start running again. Outside of the LARPs and the occasional sword practice in my apartment, I was becoming woefully out of shape. I couldn’t afford a gym membership, but there was no reason I couldn’t do push-ups, planks, and sit-ups in my apartment. Or run a couple miles per day with a backpack full of rocks or something.

The band was in an old service station nestled under a highway overpass. The convenience mart area had been demolished to make one open space with the four garage bays. The counter had become a tiny bar with no seating and a limited variety of beer in tubs of ice. There was no line, no doorman, no bouncer, only a girl with half a dozen facial piercings snagging the five dollar entrance fee and packing us in like sardines.

“You can’t bring that in.” She pointed at my sword. Others behind me looked at my back, perplexed. Drat this look-away spell. It worked ninety percent of the time, but there was always the occasion when someone saw me walking around with a huge bastard sword strapped to my back.

I grudgingly trotted back to my car and stashed it in the trunk, making sure I activated the spell that would deliver a painful electric shock to anyone who tried to pop the trunk. Thankfully the woman collecting money didn’t notice the pistol nearly pulling my cargo pants off my hips, so at least I had one weapon in case things went really bad.

The temperature in the garage was to the point where I was regretting the flak jacket. Sweat pooled under my braided bun and ran down my back. I wasn’t the only one perspiring. The dancers in the bay areas were soaking wet as they jumped around to the canned music. The band would start soon, if they started on time, that is. I was assuming at these informal venues, promptness wasn’t exactly necessary.

Not that I could even see if the band was setting up. People were wedged in tight, making it difficult to navigate around. It was like trying to make my way through a maze. I looked at each person I passed, thankful that the crowded club meant I could at least get a close look at people. With the dim lighting and flashing strobe effects, it would have been impossible to recognize anyone at a distance.

“Aria.” I hand touched my shoulder.

I jumped, my heart racing as I spun around. Russell looked completely out of place in the garage packed with teenagers, but then again, I’m sure I did, too.

“See anything?” I asked.

He nodded. “I do see a spirit, but it’s insubstantial and hovering around the stage. I’m going to try to get closer and see if he, or she, will communicate with me, but it’s a long shot. When they’re blurry and gray there’s no distinct features to recognize. And ones that won’t fully materialize usually lack the presence to do more than float aimlessly around.”

A long shot was the only shot we had. “Thanks. Let me know if you can get anything out of it, anything at all.”

Russell edged his way slowly through the packed crowd, reaching the corner of the stage just as a group of kids started wheeling amps into place and taping cables to the floor. One picked up a guitar, moving it from the side to front and center, placing it on a stand and plugging it in. Russell’s eyes followed, focusing slightly to the right of the guitar.

The guitar? Or the roadie? Judging from Russell’s reaction, I was guessing the ghost was somewhat attached to either one.

Just as the band was beginning their warm-up, I spotted Tremelay, working the room as I had been doing. I had to laugh at how incongruous he seemed, a middle-aged man among all these young people. It wasn’t just his age, though. Tremelay walked like a cop. He might as well have had a sign stapled to his forehead that announced he was police. I was rethinking the benefit of his presence here. If the skinwalkers were at all nervous, they’d vanish the moment they saw him.

Although teens were generally cocky and overconfident. They’d managed to hitchhike their way to Baltimore from South Carolina. They’d killed at least seven people without any repercussions. There was a good chance that at this point they felt invincible.

So I ignored Tremelay and made my way to the stage, catching Russell’s eye as I approached. The canned music dropped in volume, and sound checks began, the voices echoing loudly in the room in between stretches of silence. The crowd buzzed in the background, kids literally hopping in excitement.

“I can’t quite make out what the spirit looks like, but he says his name is Travis Dawson,” Russell told me, leaning close to be heard without shouting. “He’s quite agitated that someone else is taking his place leading his band.”

The shapeshifter. I looked down at the crude band advertisement on my phone and saw that Travis Dawson was indeed the lead guitarist and singer of the band. This might be a local group playing in abandoned buildings, but judging from the packed room they had a significant following. I could see where a spirit would be upset, losing not only his young life, but the band he’d fronted. It was one thing to be dead, another to watch an imposter in your skin take your place before an adoring group of teens.

The crowd erupted as the band took the stage. Travis looked just like the ad picture. The tall lanky guy with a fuzzy poof of black hair tuned his guitar, intent on adjusting the instrument and the mic. I watched, fascinated at how well the imposter had assumed Travis’ identity. It was like he loved playing this instrument, like playing in this band was the highlight of his life. My resolve wavered with indecision. What if Russell was wrong? Nothing in the ease and confidence of this guy sent up red flags or gave me any indication that he wasn’t exactly who he was supposed to be.

“Are you sure?” I asked Russell, pointing at the lead singer.

The necromancer watched intently as Travis draped the guitar strap over his head, settling the instrument on his hip. “Yes. The ghost is very agitated and trying to take the guitar from him. He’s becoming more distinct and I can definitely see the resemblance.”

Time to trust a ghost and a necromancer over my own eyes and intuition.

I thanked Russell and watched him make his way through the crowd. I didn’t blame him for wanting to leave before the band started. This was hardly his kind of music, and honestly he stood out. So did Tremelay and I, but one less out of place individual improved our chances of catching the skinwalkers before they got wind of us and vanished.

The band started playing to the screams of the crowd. A mosh pit formed and I backed away, keeping an eye on Travis as I also tried to look for Tremelay. I doubted the skinwalker was going anywhere until the end of the concert. I couldn’t see him walking out on this unless he felt his life was in danger. And I had no intention of confronting him until I could get him alone, or after the concert when the crowd had left and there were less civilians to get caught in any crossfire. Just because he knew magic didn’t mean the guy didn’t have a gun in his pocket as I did. No sense in getting a bunch of kids shot just because I couldn’t be patient.

I finally found Tremelay and nodded to him, jerking my head toward the stage and mouthing “Travis.” He nodded back and edged to the other side, so we were flanking the band. I assumed the other skinwalker was here, too, but Russell hadn’t seen any more than the one ghost. If the second skinwalker wasn’t posing as Bradley or Gary, then we wouldn’t recognize him. Which would make it all the more dangerous to confront Travis. His accomplice could be anyone in the band, or even in the crowd. I was even beginning to be paranoid about the pierced woman collecting money at the door.

I knew the exact moment when Travis spotted the detective. He hit a wrong note, his eyes narrowing as he focused into the crowd, then he plastered a stiff smile on his face and continued to play. After a few sets, the band took a break and the canned music took over. Travis scanned the crowd and I tried to make myself look like I was with the group of teenagers behind me, turning my back on the stage and hoping I was unrecognizable from this angle.

When I turned around, I couldn’t see Tremelay anywhere. Or Travis. I had a moment of panic trying to remember where I’d last seen the detective, and headed in that direction. The mosh pit had disbanded with the break in the live music, but the crowd was still thick and I wasn’t tall enough to see over a good number of these kids. Tremelay was nowhere to be found at the far corner of the stage, but I did see a door half-hidden by the stack of amps. It looked to be to a rear storeroom, and was partially open. I edged forward cautiously and peered in to see duffle bags and spare equipment.

There were no exit doors, no windows, and no band members. I made my way into the room and looked at the duffle bags, open with articles of clothing spilling out, and at the coats draped over cheap metal chairs. This was where the band changed and got ready, but where were they? Smoke breaks? Most everyone in the crowd was vaping, catching their nicotine fix in a way that didn’t violate Maryland’s tobacco in public places prohibition. Not that the concert goers probably cared judging from the scent of cannabis and the open exchange of pills going on.

Rabid Rabbit was an industrial band, gritty and old school. No doubt they were smoking the real thing—joints included—out back behind the garage. Now was the time to dig through Travis Dawson’s stuff and see if there was anything here to indicate which skinwalker had assumed his identity. The first few bags held only clothing and an assortment of porn mags. I was ready to dismiss the last bag as clothing-only until I pulled out a handful of pictures. It was odd to find actual photos when most everyone stored images electronically. There was a worn and tattered picture of a man and woman smiling down at a small boy holding a puppy. Another of what seemed to be the same boy riding a tricycle while the woman cheered on. And another of the boy, the man behind him helping him hold a baseball bat. I went to put them back and saw one more, tucked against the side of the duffle bag. It was a boy and a girl—Brian Huang’s children. Did this mean Lawton King was in Travis Dawson’s skin? Or that he was posing as another member of the band?

I shoved the pictures back into the bag and turned to go, nearly having a heart attack as I saw someone standing just inside of the door. I hadn’t heard him, and he’d managed to slip in without disrupting the flashing light from the garage bay.

He closed the door behind him with a firm click. Even in the dim light I recognized Travis Dawson.

W
HAT ARE YOU
doing in here?”

I recognized the tenor of those smooth words. He wasn’t sure if I was a crazed groupie looking for souvenirs, or if I was a crazed groupie here to offer myself up as a notch on one of their bedposts. I was just surprised that even with the dim storeroom lighting he hadn’t recognized me.

Which meant he was probably not the skinwalker who had been impersonating Huang, the one whose pictures I’d just been pawing through, the one who I’d suspected was Lawton King.
That
skinwalker would have known me on sight. The other one, Gary Jarvett, had only met me the once while he was impersonating Bradley Lewis.

I wasn’t sure which option was better. Lawton seemed a scared boy who just wanted to go home. Gary…well, he’d been creepy as Bradley Lewis and judging from what the picker had said, he was the violent leader of the three. And he was the one blocking my exit. My hand snaked down toward the heavy pistol in my pocket. His eyes narrowed, dropping to follow the motion.

Shit. Think fast or draw and shoot. And I really didn’t want to discharge a firearm in a crowded building where nothing but a thin plywood wall separated us from the main concert area.

“You’re Travis Dawson,” I said breathlessly, feeling like a total idiot. “I just wanted a souvenir. A T-shirt or something. I’m sorry. I’ll leave now.”

I jabbed a finger against the sewing needle I’d stashed in the cuff of my sleeve. With a quick word under my breath, I’d activated the rebound spell. All I needed now was for him to cast something to freeze or incapacitate me, and I’d have him.

Instead Travis advanced, still blocking my path to the door. “You look familiar. Older than the usual crowd here. Didn’t I see you at the Midnight Visitor concert the other night?”

Double shit. I moved toward him, figuring I could dart around and toward the door if needed. I had the rebound spell in place, and was pretty sure I could take him if he got physical. Whatever he was originally, Travis Dawson wasn’t muscular. A good elbow to the diaphragm or fist to the nose would do it.