Harvest Hunting (13 page)

“Well, it’s shocking, but I think it suits you.”

Just then Shamas knocked on the door. The clerk was behind him, and I took him to the side and reassured him that everything would be fine while Sharah and Shamas loaded Camille onto the stretcher. By the time we were ready to rumble, the clerk had offered me a free night, if I came in later. I had the feeling he was hoping to be included in that stay, so I politely declined.

We headed to the parking lot, where we lifted the stretcher into the medic unit. As I stared at the closing doors, it hit me that Camille might really be in trouble. A bubble of tears caught in my throat, and I swung into my Jeep and started the engine. If this was how the Samhain season was starting, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see any more of it.

 

 

At the FH-CSI, of course I ran into Chase first thing. It couldn’t happen any other way, with my luck. He stood beside me as Sharah wheeled Camille into one of the examining rooms and put his arm around my shoulders. I wanted to lean into his embrace so badly it hurt, but I kept myself upright. No more relying on him, blood brother or not. It was time I stood on my own two feet.

“She’ll be okay. Trust me,” he whispered.

“Yeah. Well, I don’t know what you’re offering for a guarantee, but I sure as hell hope you’re right.” I told him what happened.

“So Amber’s been missing—”

“About twenty-four hours or so now. Luke is frantic, and things aren’t looking good.” I crossed my arms and stared at the doors that were closed on my sister. “If there was one magical trap, there were probably others that we didn’t find. One could have knocked out Amber like it did Camille.”

Chase jotted down a few notes. “While it’s not SOP to process a missing person report on a Supe for forty-eight hours, I’ll have Shamas get on this today.”

Tired and heart sore, I flashed him a soft smile. “Thanks. That’s the best news I’ve had in ages.” I sucked in a deep breath and stared at the door to Camille’s room, waiting for some news—any news.

“Come on, I’ll buy you a glass of milk.” Chase motioned toward the lunchroom.

I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “I want to wait here—”

“It could be awhile. Come on. Remember—we’re . . . buddies?”

That stung. It stung hard and deep, even though I knew he didn’t mean it to. He was trying, in his own clumsy way, to comfort me. We headed toward the lunchroom, where he plugged a dollar in the vending machine and handed me a carton of milk. Another dollar, and he handed me a package of Cheetos.

We sat at one of the tables. The room was comfortable; Chase made sure his employees felt at home, that was for sure. A cot in the corner offered a place for a quick nap in case one of the officers was required to stick around on call.

Chase opened the refrigerator and pulled out a sack lunch. I watched as he emptied it on the table in front of him. Bologna sandwich, pudding cup, an apple . . . He bit into the sandwich while I munched on the Cheetos. He’d been right—my stomach rumbled, and I realized I was starving.

“You think she’ll be okay?” I finally managed to ask.

“You know Sharah can work wonders. Camille will be fine. I know it,” he said, but he didn’t sound so sure. He pulled out his notebook. “Let me make certain I have all the details right before I send Shamas out hunting for . . . Amber, is it? Amber Johanson?”

I nodded and ran through the events again. After I finished, Chase stared at the page, then nodded. “Let me get this over to his desk right now—and let me get a photocopy of that picture. I’ll be back in a moment.” As he stood up, Sharah entered the room.

“Delilah, you can come with me now. Camille’s going to be okay, though she’s still a little out of it.”

Chase touched me lightly on the arm. “I’ll meet you in there.”

Sharah led me back to the medical unit and through the doors leading to the ER. Along the way, she shook her head. “She’s awake, but the spell wreaked havoc with her magical senses. She should be okay, but that was one heck of a jolt she got.”

“What the hell was it? Do you know yet? Even getting near the residue made me dizzy.”

Camille was sitting, propped up in a bed, and Sharah was right; she looked out of it. She was breathing rapidly and shivering even under the blanket, and her eyes were darker and narrowed, like those of a frightened cat’s.

Chase came through the doors and handed me back the photo. He took one look at Camille and said, “Crap,” as he pushed past us and strode over to her. “I’ve seen you take some nasty bumps, but I’ve never seen you look like this.”

Sharah slid onto a stool and flipped open the chart. “That’s because she was so disoriented, she couldn’t even open her eyes until a few minutes ago. Once we figured out what was wrong, we gave her a drug to counter the effects of the magic. Apparently she was conscious the entire time. Camille—try to say something now.”

“I . . . I . . . wh-wh-what the fuck happ—. . . happened?” Her teeth were chattering, as if she was freezing.

“What did happen? I know whatever it was almost knocked me for a loop when I started over to see if she was okay.” I frowned, hoping that whatever it was wouldn’t have any long-term effects.

“One of our techs figured out the trap. Think ecstasy or roofies, only magical. Geared toward
werewolves
in specific. Though any Were will react to it,” Sharah added, looking at me. “Which is why you felt so disoriented even near the remains.”

I mulled this over. “If I was a werewolf . . .”

She nodded slowly. “If you were a werewolf, you would have been done in by a mere whiff. Camille reacted the way she did because, although she’s not a Were, she’s a witch, and her magic is incompatible with the effects of this magic. But a werewolf like your friend Amber . . . she’d be immediately pliable and under control if she caught a whiff or two of this crap.”

“Well, hell.” I frowned. “Who created this spell? Could a werewolf have done it? Or, I guess the question is,
would
a werewolf have done it?”

Sharah’s lips tightened. She motioned to Chase to shut the door. After he’d done so, she flipped through her notes. “A werewolf would have to be a sociopath to do something like this. Seriously. The ingredients that make up that spell compound—the gas that burst out—contain some heavy-duty dark magic. And not like Camille’s death magic, not dark in that way. We’re talking sorcery here.”

“Oh, my gods. What are you trying to say?” I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach I wasn’t going to want to hear what she had to say.

“I’m saying that the person who created this is a sadist. Has to be. I had Mallen analyze it, and he was just as shocked as I was to see the results.”

“What’s it contain?” Camille managed to push herself to a full sitting position. She looked like she was starting to snap out of it.

Sharah’s face was drawn, and she paled even further. “This is bad, guys. The herbs—not so much, but the other ingredients needed to give it a punch are pretty gruesome. Valerian, marijuana, chamomile, and grain alcohol . . . all standard for a controlling gas—and a couple of them dangerous enough on their own. But then we found desiccated scent gland extract from a male alpha lycanthrope added to the mix.
And
powdered pituitary gland—also from an alpha werewolf. Male, because of the amount and the trace smell. Mallen said he’s seen this sort of thing before. I’m going to bring him in and have him explain it to you.”

She disappeared out the door, and I looked over at Chase, who shook his head. “I don’t know what it means, either,” he said.

Pale and shaky, Camille forced herself to sit up and slide her feet over the edge of the bed, clinging to the side rails. “I know what it takes to make that crap. I’ve heard of it, though it’s not allowed in most covens or coteries.”

“Wouldn’t we have heard about it being used around Seattle?” I asked.

“I’m not so sure. But—”

Sharah entered the room again, followed by Mallen. She nodded for him to go ahead. “Go for it.”

Mallen gave us a brief smile, then launched into an explanation. “What we’re dealing with here is known by several terms. Wolf Briar, for one, and on the streets it goes by the nickname ‘hair of the wolf.’ As Sharah said, it’s a combination of herbs and desiccated adrenal glands and the powdered pituitary glands of an alpha werewolf.”

“They’d have to be killed, wouldn’t they, to extract those glands?” I was beginning to understand the underlying issue.

“Oh yes, but there’s more. Not only are they killed and dissected to retrieve the glands, but they’re enraged before death to heighten the flow of adrenaline and testosterone.” Mallen, an elf, was probably far older than we were, but he barely looked old enough to shave. When he spoke, his presence was quietly commanding.

Chase looked confused. “What does that mean?”

“It means that most of these cases involve imprisoning male werewolves, goading them into fight-or-flight stances, and then murdering them. Most likely involves torture, as well.” Mallen had a look of faint distaste on his face. Elves were good at keeping their emotions close. That look alone told me he was upset.

Camille let out a little snarl. “Fucking pervs. But how can they possibly be capturing enough alpha males? Wouldn’t somebody notice?”

A question we’d all been thinking, by the nods Sharah and Chase gave her. But Mallen shook his head.

“Here’s where it gets even worse. Some sorcerers—and usually sorcerers are the ones who conjure this evil mess—have devised ways to force a beta male into temporary alpha status. Nobody notices the lone werewolf who vanishes, or the raggle-taggle whipping boy of the Pack who suddenly disappears. Happens all the time—low wolf on the ladder strikes out to make a life on his own rather than get shoved around. Most of the lycanthrope Packs are hierarchal to a bureaucratic degree. And most are highly patriarchal. You catch one of these betas, feed him enough steroids, and boom, you have a forced alpha male.”

I sucked on my bottom lip, thinking. “How long does the Wolf Briar last? Does it travel well?”

Mallen shook his head. “No, this is one of the brews that you have to use right away, in order to preserve the energy of the glands.”

“So, for example, someone couldn’t bring it all the way from Arizona and be sure it will still work?” If Rice had stooped to using Wolf Briar, knowing what its ingredients were, then he’d most likely have brought it with him.

“No. My guess? Locally made in the past few days. There’s probably a dead werewolf body hanging around somewhere. If you can find the corpse, you’ll find he’s been dissected.”

Camille winced. “People are extremely good at getting rid of bodies when it suits their needs, and we can be sure that this won’t be the first time the sorcerer in question has stooped to making it. These potions are tricky and take many years to learn how to craft. We’re going to be looking for someone skilled. A necromancer wouldn’t bother with this crap. But a
sorcerer
, seeing the chance for good money . . .”

“Magic shop?” I asked. “We should start dropping in around town trying to find someone who fits the bill.”

“Right.” She nodded. “But skip the neo-pagan FBH shops. They wouldn’t have the know-how or skill, though perhaps a strega might. But the sorcerers—they’re another matter. And we can’t rule out that it might be someone from OW or from the Sub Realms.”

“Meanwhile, where is Amber?” I turned back to Mallen. “Just what will Wolf Briar do to a female werewolf? And a pregnant one, at that?”

“Make her pliable. What it does to any non-alpha male and any female is amp up the innate reflex to obey authority that werewolves are born with.”

I glanced at Camille. “So we can be sure that the Wolf Briar made Amber passively obey whoever kidnapped her. You know, Rice might have used it to avoid creating a scene.”

Camille paused before gingerly trying to stand up. She dropped back on the bed. “Fuck, this stuff is bad. We need to establish whether Rice is still in Arizona. Of course, he could be working through someone else, but I think it would behoove us to find out where he is. He may be abusive, and he might want Amber back, but would a werewolf really chance challenging the Pack leader by using something so anathema to his race?”

“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” With that thought, I let out a long sigh. “You think you’re ready to head home for now? We need Menolly’s input, and maybe the boys have found out something about the sixth spirit seal.”

Camille nodded, turning to Sharah. “Am I cleared to go?”

Sharah checked her over once more, quickly. “You look okay. Call me if you have any signs of a relapse. Meanwhile—a lot of fresh air and water to get the residual Wolf Briar out of your system, and you rest tonight.
No gallivanting around
.”

Chase promised to stay in contact, and we headed out to my Jeep. As I helped Camille into the passenger side from the wheelchair—Sharah wouldn’t let her walk to the car—she winced and rubbed her temples.

“Headache?” I lightly massaged her neck, and she sucked in a deep breath, then slowly let it out again.

“Yeah, aftereffects. Sharah warned me I might have a few periods of dizziness and that I could use a good solid night of sleep.”

“We’ll make sure you get it.” I swung into the driver’s seat and fastened my seat belt. Frowning, I shook my head. “This sucks. This all sucks. I wish we could just chuck it all and go home to Otherworld and settle down on a farm and I could raise rabbits and animals, and you could worship the Moon Mother, and Menolly could . . . well . . . she could do whatever she wanted to do.”

“Do you really wish that, though?” Camille asked. “Would you truly change things with the Autumn Lord if you had the chance? I’m a priestess now, I’m going to have to start training with Morgaine, and I’m pledging myself to Aeval’s court, which will most likely make Father boot me out of the family. But . . . I wouldn’t trade it for a cozy cottage and a flower garden. Those things would be nice, but I don’t think I’d turn back the clock, except for Shadow Wing. I’d really rather not be fighting him and his cronies.”