Demon Accords 10: Rogues (4 page)

After a second, Lisa turned back to the men, noticing their attention.  A moment later, the big dog’s head turned back as well.

“Okay, down this trail, right?  Can you let me go first?” Lisa asked, moving forward even as she spoke.

Buck glanced at Shorty and then waved her onward.  She slipped past them with nimble steps that took her quickly into the woods.  Suddenly, the group of armed men found themselves having to hustle to catch up.  Despite their longer strides, she moved with a fluid grace that was deceptively fast.

Lisa ignored the others behind her, all of her exceptional senses trained on the woods around her.  She could smell the blood ahead and the taint of something else, a scent that was very familiar to her.  A male werewolf had marked trees somewhere up ahead, the urine smell strong.

She came upon the stand and took in the scene quickly, the clotted blood sprayed over half the clearing, the air almost overpowering with the scent of torn bowel, rank urine, and rotting blood.  After a moment, she moved off to the right side of the clearing just as the men came up behind her.

“He stalked in here and waited, staying downwind,” she said, studying the brushy area behind the stand.

“How did you know to go there?” Warden Sounder asked, suspicious.

“Just told you. I know predators. The wind comes from the west and northwest.  Mammalian predators almost always stalk into the wind.  Ground is too hard for tracks, but I see little wisps of brown fur on that pinecone.  You might want to collect that,” she suggested to Sergeant Thompson.  “Just so, you know… when you turn that over to a lab and it won’t classify as a known species, it’ll automatically get bumped up to the feds and
they
will classify it as werewolf.  Then you’ll have either FBI or DOAA or both.”

“DOAA?” Buck asked.

“Directorate of Anomalous Activity… federal monster hunters,” she answered.

“How can you be certain it’s a werewolf?” Warden Sounder asked, a little exasperated.  His dog, Brady, sat next to him, nose sniffing and ears listening nervously.

Because I can smell it,
she thought.

“Because it stalked this man, tore him apart with excessive force, and didn’t eat him.  Because I can see indents in the ground where it dug its claws in to leap, and the pattern is canine—four claws, symmetrical structure.  Yet the spread of the claws is bigger than your hand, so not a regular wolf.  Much bigger then any wild wolf,” she said. “And over there, in that big spray of blood, you can see where four big paws blocked the spray.  Look at the distance between all four paws.  What’s that—seven feet from front to back, three, maybe three-and-a-half side-to-side straddle?”

“Ah, your narrative is off,” Buck Thompson said.

She frowned at him.  He spoke before she could dispute him.  “Autopsy indicates the heart is missing.  So it may have, in fact, eaten
part
of him,” he said.

Oh no,
she thought.

“What?” Shorty asked, alarmed at the look on her face.

“That’s bad. Killing a human is very bad.  Eating one is an abomination.  Immediate death sentence. Who was the victim?” she asked.

“Wait—death sentence?  What are you talking about?” Buck asked, not liking talk of executions.

“Weres and vampires have always been among us.  They police themselves, always have.  Mainly it was to avoid detection.  But now the cat is out of the bag and their leadership is worried about incidents.  That’s to be avoided at all costs.  The history of predators who prey on humans has not been very kind to those predators. That’s why there are so many fewer lions, tigers, bears, and wolves than there used to be. The only ones to get away without extermination have been either humans themselves, domestic dogs, or supernaturals who have, until recently, managed to stay hidden.  Stirring up base fears will only lead to witch hunts,” she said, mentally cringing as she said the last two words.

“You’re saying that other werewolves will kill this one for hunting and eating a human?” Shorty asked.

“Pretty much.  A newly turned were might kill a human in a fit of rage or loss of control.  That’s bad.  But it looks to me like this one stalked the hunter and then ate his heart.  That’s a dominance thing. That’s rogue. Who was this hunter?” she asked again.

“Morris Alcombe the Fourth,” Buck said. “His family used to own the paper mill in town.  After his father died two years ago, Morris sold the mill to a big paper company that promptly shut it down.”

“And destroyed the local economy in the process.  Morris wasn’t a popular guy, was he?” Lisa asked.

“The current story is that he was mauled to death by a bear.  The locals want to give the bear a medal,” Buck said.

“How does a girl… er… woman who lives in New York City know so much about werewolves and their laws?” Sounder asked.

“Where do you think weres live, Warden?  Out here in the great wilderness?” she asked, speaking again before he could answer.  “Granted, it’s a great place for them to run, but werewolves spend at least eighty-five percent or more of their lives as humans.  That means jobs, houses, schools, and society.  Werewolves organize in packs.  A single werewolf could possibly stand it up here, but they’re generally extremely social, maybe more so than regular humans.  So packs need economies that work.  The biggest pack in North America lives in New York City.”

“You’re saying they live in cities for jobs?” Sounder asked.

“Is that so hard to imagine?  They’re doctors, lawyers, teachers, construction workers, business owners, store clerks,” she said.

“And just what job do you have that you know so much about them?” Sounder asked.

She’d known that question would be coming.  After running a half-dozen lies, partial lies, and fabrications through her head on the drive up, she’d decided on the simple truth.

“I work for the Demidova Corporation,” she said.

They all looked at her: the three guides, the warden, and the sheriff’s deputy, who paused in the act of tweezering the pinecone into an evidence bag.

“What do you do for
them
?” Olson asked.

“I fix problems, and you gentlemen, have a serious problem.  This isn’t a mauling—this is a murder.  Somebody killed Mr. Alcombe with calculated intent and ate his heart.”

They got back to the hunting camp just after dark.  The men had become noticeably anxious as the sun went down, but Lisa stayed calm.  Brady, the police dog, took his cue from her rather than his warden partner.

“Do you have any open rooms in the lodge I can rent?” Lisa asked Shorty.

“What?” both he and Buck asked at almost the same time.

“I need a place to stay and I didn’t see any motels on the way in or out of town.  Plus, this is close to the murder scene.  You serve meals too, right?”

“Well, ah,” Shorty began, looking to the deputy, who simply shrugged.  “Yeah, got rooms.  Cabins are all booked.  We do breakfast and dinner and offer a bag lunch.”

“Works for me,” she said, heading for her Jeep.  Buck followed.

“You can’t go running around the crime scene unescorted and unarmed like you did tonight,” he said.

She had followed the werewolf’s trail out of the deer stand and then disappeared into the thick Maine woods for a solid fifteen minutes, which had left all the men sullen and anxious.

Opening the back of the Jeep, she pulled a duffle bag and a short nylon case from inside.  “First, Sergeant Thompson, I’m far safer out there than any of you.  I know all about werewolves… you don’t.  I went into the wind.  The dog, Brady, would have alerted if anything had been out there.  Second, who says I’m unarmed?” she asked, hefting the gun case.  “Speaking of which, you packing silver ammo in that Sig Sauer and your Mossberg 930?” she asked before he could answer her first question.

“Yes,” he answered, frowning.

“What about Shorty and the others?”

“Shorty makes his own silver buckshot,” he admitted, a bit grudgingly.

“Does he?  Resourceful,” she said.  “So if there’s nothing else, I’m going to check out my room and get ready for dinner.”

“What kind of plan do you have for tomorrow?” he asked.

“Two parts.  I’d like to follow the werewolf’s trail a bit tomorrow morning, and then I think we need to look at your incident reports for the last few months, particularly at the times of the full moon.  See if anything pops out.”

“Tonight is the last night of the full moon, or does it have to be the night of absolute full?” he asked.

“New weres
have
to change at full moon.  Primarily the fullest night, but usually the night before that and the night after as well.  But Sergeant, weres don’t need a full moon to transform.  Once they’ve had their first one, they can do it at will.  Also, they are a lot stronger and faster than normal humans, even in normal form.”

“That’s just great.  How much stronger?” he asked.

“Regular handcuffs aren’t much use.  Lock one in the back of a patrol car and you’ll be needing at least one new rear door.”

“Bellini never mentioned that,” he said.

“That’s because regular cops don’t arrest weres. Or if they do, the weres know not to resist.”

“You can’t tell me that none of them resist?” he asked.

“Not if they want to keep living.  Their Pack will ensure that.  But sometimes one will slip a cog or their mental train never went all the way around the track to begin with.  Those become rogues.  They’re a danger to everybody and everything.  Those get put down… fast.”

“Who puts them down?” he asked, frowning.  “You?”

“Anyone who can.  I haven’t.  Put down a lot of other stuff, but not a were.”

“And Demidova Corp has a lot of interaction with werewolves?  Enough that you’re an expert?” he asked.

She shouldered her bag, carrying the short case in her other hand.  “As I said, werewolves need jobs.  Demidova has great jobs.”

“So you work with werewolves
and
vampires?” he asked, tone slightly incredulous.  “Anything else?  Zombies maybe?”

“Hmm, you’d be amazed at the folks I work with,” she said with a smile.  “Have a good night, Sergeant.  Go home to your wife and daughter.”

“How’d you know I have a wife and daughter?” he asked, suspicious, like maybe she had psychic powers or something.

“I saw a picture on the corner of your desk.  It’s visible from the front door, you know,” she said.

“Oh, right.  Well, good night.  I’ll be around by eight,” he said, unlocking his truck.

Lisa headed to the lodge.  The main door opened into a hallway with a large coat, boot, and gear room immediately off the left, racks hung with enough smelly camouflage for a small army. Across the hall, two pairs of washers and dryers occupied the room on the right.  The rest of the short hallway led into a main room, floored with wide pine planks and walled with tongue and groove knotty pine. It took up the whole back of the building. A big stone fireplace, large enough to roast a small pig, crackled with flame on the left end of the room, beat-up couches and chairs arranged around it.  An old rear projector, large-screen television and satellite receiver occupied the back corner nearest the fireplace, with additional seating in front of it.  It appeared that NFL football was currently playing. Two men lay back in La-Z-Boy recliners, watching the game.

A short bar occupied much of the back wall, complete with two beer taps and a rack of liquor bottles.  A staircase, with railings made of bent and finished twigs and branches, climbed the rest of the back wall, rising from the middle of the room to the upper right corner, where a balcony started to encircle the end of the room.

Four big round dining tables were placed at the right end of the room, and as she moved further into the room, she could see a big rectangular pass-through window into a commercial-sized kitchen.

Three men, lodge guests based on their relaxed demeanor and casual dress, were playing cards at one of the dining tables, a mix of beer and highball glasses around them, and a small, middle-aged woman bustled about the kitchen.  Shorty appeared at the top of the stairs as everyone else stopped what they were doing and turned to look at Lisa.

Two of the card players had salt-and-pepper hair, looking to be in their fifties or sixties.  The third was younger, maybe late thirties, with a handsome face and slicked-back black hair.  The two by the television fell somewhere in between, maybe mid-forties to early fifties.  All five studied her like a prime steak newly presented on the butcher’s counter.

“Lisa, if you wanna come up here, I got your room ready,” Shorty’s gruff voice said into the silence, causing a few eyebrows to raise and a couple of glances to be exchanged between the other guests.

She met each of their gazes, letting her eyes slide over theirs without pause as she headed across the floor toward the staircase. First rule of dealing with predators, four-legged or two, was to not look like prey.

She turned her attention on her host as she climbed to the second floor.  He glanced around the room below and behind her before coming back to hers.  He shifted from foot to foot, nervous, until his attention locked onto the case in her right hand.

“We, ah, normally rack all our guns downstairs,” he said, starting off firmly but ending with uncertainty.

“This one needs to stay with me, Mr. Kane,” she said.

“Ah, it’s Shorty or John,” he corrected, a little absently as he visibly twitched, looking decidedly undecided.  “Ah, that’s not our usual hunter policy.”

“I’m not your usual hunter.  My quarry could be in the building, looking to hunt me back,” she replied.

He went pale, his weather-darkened skin turning almost white.

“You mean…” he asked.

“Could be one of your guests,” she said.

He froze, eyes large.  “Wouldn’t you know?” he asked.

“Maybe. I think it very unlikely right now, but I don’t take chances,” she said, bending the truth a bit.  “Rogues are very dangerous.”

He blinked at her and she could see him realize something, the flicker of a thought passing across his expression.  Then he nodded.  “Right.  Come this way,” he said, turning on his heel and leading her around the balcony.  There were seven numbered doors spaced around the L-shaped balcony, two on the end by the staircase and five down the length of the room.  Hers was number four, which put her over the kitchen. 

The room was decorated in mountain rustic, with Native American pattern rugs over more wide pine planking, antique snowshoes on one paneled wall, a painting of a moose in a lake on another, a log frame bed with a red and black Pendleton blanket and green flannel pillows, a matching log chair and ottoman, and most importantly, in her estimation, a door leading to its own bathroom.

“They don’t all have their own facilities, but I didn’t think you’d want to be sharing the common shower room,” Shorty said, one hand shifting his black watch cap enough to scratch underneath it.

“Which I completely appreciate,” she said with a smile. 

He nodded, looking a little nervous.  “Dinner is at six-thirty tonight.  Nothing fancy.  Roast beef, potatoes, carrots, and rolls.  With gravy.   But we do have strawberry-rhubarb pie for dissert,” he said.

“Sounds great,” she said, meaning it as she set down her duffle and propped the gun case against the wall near the bed.

“Ah, I was wondering… how should I introduce you to our hunters?” he asked.

He’d mentioned that they were all on edge from the slaughter of one of their own.  On the one hand, telling them she was a werewolf expert might keep them from hitting on her, although, in her experience, almost nothing stopped the male drive for conquest.  On the other, it might drive Shorty’s hunters away, hurting his business, and he had been very decent to her so far.

“You can tell them I’m a carnivore expert from Columbia University,” she said.

“What if they Google you?” he asked.

“You have Wi-fi?”

“Yes, and satellite TV.  The password is trophy,” he said.

She glanced at her phone.  It was somehow already signed into the lodge’s network.  She wasn’t surprised.  Technology, a previously unreliable companion, seemed to be totally on her side lately.  Ever since certain events of early summer. She had more then a few suspicions as to why.

“You know what?  Let’s just take our chances.  I have a feeling it’ll be alright,” she said.  Might be an interesting test, and if the hunters called her bluff, she’d just tell them the truth.

He looked at her, unconvinced, then shook his head.  “You’re probably right.  They’re going to want to tell you all about themselves anyway.  Prepare yourself for some world class bulls… ah, bragging,” he said, flushing slightly.

“Shorty, my dad was an Airborne Ranger and my uncle is a state trooper.  You have no chance of shocking
me
with your language,” she said.

“Right.  Still, it doesn’t seem hardly right.  You settle in and I’ll see you at dinner,” he said, backing out of the room and pulling the door shut.