Wrong Side Of Dead (23 page)

“Not a problem. We’ll drop you off. Take Sandburg and Carly to watch your back. Paul, Stone, and I are going to meet with James Reilly.”

Sally’s Coffee Shop was a familiar, somewhat popular place for the Hunters who used to patrol in Mercy’s Lot. One of the few greasy spoons brave enough to stay open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, it was a good place to hit for a cheap plate of food and decent coffee. The patrons minded their own business, and the waitresses did the same.

Reilly was already waiting in a back booth, leisurely eating a plate of syrup-laden pancakes. He looked like someone’s underpaid, overworked office manager in a rumpled suit and tie. He had flyaway curly hair and a simple, guileless charm that made me want to like him. He quirked an eyebrow at our numbers, then slid over to make room.

I sat next to him, more for my own amusement than
anything else. He’d been shocked as hell to learn my story, and the expression on his face was about the only enjoyable thing in my day so far. Baylor and Paul slid in across from us, and a waitress promptly appeared with mugs of coffee.

“You folks need menus?” she asked.

“They’ll have the pancakes,” Reilly said. “The pancakes are excellent here.”

“That sounds fine,” Baylor said.

The waitress nodded, then wandered off. I dumped sugar into my mug of coffee, unsure if I’d be able to do more than stare at my pancakes. I was hungry, but my stomach was tied up in so many worried knots that getting food into it would be an exercise in nausea control.

“When it rains, it downpours, wouldn’t you agree?” Reilly asked.

“I’d say that’s an understatement.”

Reilly nodded, then pushed his half-finished plate aside. He produced a manila folder from the booth seat and handed it over the table to Baylor. “I’ve been chatting up a young lady in Animal Control about recent sightings of wild animals in the city. Wolves, in particular, and we may have a pattern.”

Baylor withdrew a map of the city—easy enough to identify, even upside down, because of the way the Anjean and Black rivers intersected in the center to create one south-flowing river. A cluster of highlighter marks singled out one particular neighborhood, and it wasn’t Mercy’s Lot, which was traditionally where the majority of paranormal shit went down.

“Uptown?” Paul said. His face scrunched up. “Seriously?”

Reilly nodded. “It’s possible that wolf sightings in other areas were simply not reported, since odd occurrences are not abnormal in certain neighborhoods. But there have been sixteen separate reports of large, nondomestic dogs
resembling wolves roaming wild through Uptown in the last three months. Forty-six over the last two years.”

Uptown was the upscale business district of the city, home to a modern art museum, the Fourth Street Library, several large banks, expensive condos, office buildings, medical centers, restaurants that served food portions the size of silver dollars, and our state university satellite campus.

The same fucking campus where Walter Thackery taught until five years ago, when his wife was turned into a Halfie and he began his long trek toward crazy.

“Are you shitting me?” I said.

Baylor scrutinized the map. “The university?”

“He’s hiding them in plain sight. He probably assumed we’d never think him dumb enough to go back to his old stomping grounds.”

“He was obviously right,” Reilly said.

“So the other Lupa are living somewhere on or around the campus?” Baylor asked.

“That’s certainly one interpretation.”

“How else would you interpret it?”

“He could want you on that side of town when he does something elsewhere.”

“No.” I shook my head, positive this wasn’t just some long con on Thackery’s part. “These sightings took place over the last two years, long before everything started coming undone. He’s damned smart, but even he couldn’t have thought two years ahead.”

“You think the wolves are there,” Baylor said.

“I think they live somewhere in the direct vicinity of the university, yes. Doesn’t mean that’s where Thackery is, though.”

“Because that would be too easy,” Paul deadpanned.

The waitress returned and plopped down three plates of pancakes, each topped with a mound of melting butter and whipped cream on the side. I stared at mine,
debating the intelligence of testing a bite or two. Baylor reached for one of the syrup pitchers and poured blue goo all over his.

“They look like kids, not old enough for college so they can’t be living in the dorms.” I punctuated the thought by ripping a piece of butter-free pancake off the mound. “What else is close by?”

Paul took the map and squinted at the streets of Uptown. “Couple of condominiums, a neighborhood of historic homes, and two apartment complexes are all within a few blocks.”

“Apartments and condos offer less security, more visibility. The historic neighborhood is a good place to start. Trees, backyards, things like that.” I popped the piece of fried batter into my mouth. It was moderately sweet, done as well as a pancake could be, and went down easily. Not bad.

“I thought you might say that.” Reilly tapped the pages remaining in the manila folder. “I did some digging on your behalf. Two of the homes are registered landmarks, one is a highly regarded bed and breakfast, and eighteen of them haven’t changed family hands in decades. Twelve are possibilities.”

I grabbed the pages and shuffled through the lists of addresses. Some had photos, printed in black and white, and all had been on the market in the last six years. “I don’t suppose we could be lucky enough that Thackery took out a mortgage in his own name.”

“Unfortunately not. No leases, either.”

“This is a good head start, though. Thank you.”

Reilly smiled over the rim of his coffee mug. “You’re welcome, Ms. Stone.”

Twelve houses didn’t seem like a lot to investigate at first. After twenty minutes sitting in the van listening to Autumn and Sandburg pretending to be a lost couple looking for grandma’s house, I was ready to climb out of my skin. Even Baylor, normally the picture of burly calm, seemed agitated by the slow going and lack of results.

We’d picked up Sandburg, Autumn, and Carly after they followed the Lupa scent trail from the vacant lot to eight blocks away where it ended in a public parking lot with no video surveillance. A dead end, and Phin still hadn’t seen movement on the construction site. So we had Autumn and Sandburg and their heightened senses of smell walking around the historic residential district of Uptown, which they both declared carried the faint odors of Lupa and money.

The money I could agree with. The stained glass windows in some of those homes probably cost more than I’d have made in six months with the Triads (which wasn’t a lot to begin with, but still …).

“House number seven,” Autumn said, obviously bored even over the earbud she wore. “You do the talking this time.”

Sandburg muttered something unintelligible. The van was parked a block away under a majestic old oak tree, idling quietly while they did their thing. Our next stop
was several blocks farther, if this house didn’t turn up anything useful. We had about forty-five minutes until I had to leave to meet the gremlin across town.

I shifted in the hard bucket seat. Two squirrels darted into the street, ran in circles, and then dashed up a nearby tree.

A doorbell gonged faintly. Hinges squealed.

“Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you this early,” Sandburg said, affecting a perfect (and hilarious) southern accent. “Um, my girlfriend and I were looking for 756 Cherryvale Lane. An old roommate of mine is getting married, but I don’t think you’re him.”

“Oh, no, dear,” replied someone who could only be an elderly woman. “This is 756 Cherryvale Court. I don’t know where Cherryvale Lane is.”

“Well, drat.”

“Should have known, honey,” Autumn piped in, playing along with the accent. “You told me Walter had a bunch of younger brothers, and my goodness, your house is beautiful. I can’t imagine a bunch of teenage boys tearing around in there.”

“No, no, we haven’t had boys in this house for many years,” the old lady said. “Our grandchildren live with their parents in Europe. We don’t get to see them but once every few years.”

Autumn cooed sympathy. “That’s terrible.”

“Yes, but my James and I get along just fine. We have some neighborhood boys who tend the yard and fix what needs fixing.”

I sat up a little straighter, my full attention on the cell phone spilling out the conversation. Even Paul and Carly shifted forward between the seats.

“That’s wonderful,” Autumn said. “It’s so nice when children help out their neighbors.”

“Oh, no, deary, they are young men, the lot of them.
Should be in high school, but one told me they’re taught at home. Good boys, very polite.”

“It’s good they live close by.”

“Yes, somewhere close. I never did get their street, but one of them always seems to know when we need help. Good boys, especially that Danny. He’s the oldest of the bunch.”

Danny. I thought of Wolf Boy, the one who’d been working so closely with Thackery last month. The one I’d killed at Boot Camp. Logic suggested he was the oldest, to have been Thackery’s right hand.

“Well, thank you so much for your time, ma’am,” Sandburg said. “We’re sorry to have bothered you so early.”

“Posh, I was awake. Can’t sleep past the sun at my age. You two kids be safe, you hear? Some strange things happening in this city lately.”

I snickered.

“Take care,” Autumn said.

The door creaked shut. Several long moments passed, punctuated by the faint sounds of breathing.

“Well, that was actually useful,” Sandburg said. “Teenage boys who are all homeschooled, and live close by.”

“Thanks for the recap,” Baylor said. “What about scent?”

“Nothing fresh that we can follow. And ‘nearby’ could be this street or several streets in any direction.”

“There was no way to acquire further information without arousing her suspicion, I think,” Autumn said. “More direct questions would have seemed strange.”

“No, you did good,” Baylor replied.

“That’s sweet, boss.”

He rolled his eyes. “Keep going with the list while I text an update to Astrid. Maybe change the story this time—”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re looking for a neighbor who a friend said does good yard work, I got it.”

I liked Autumn. She thought fast and improvised well.

“Which one’s next?” Sandburg asked.

“787 Cherryvale,” I said. “Next block over.”

“Awesome. Let’s—do you smell that?”

Baylor fumbled his phone.

“It’s coming from over there,” Autumn said, to the sound of loud footsteps.

“Do not engage,” Baylor said.

“Look out!”

The phone line exploded with snarls, grunts, and shouts. Baylor yanked the gearshift down and slammed his foot on the gas. A car honked as he cut it off. I gripped the dash with both hands, adrenaline kicking my heartbeat up a notch. Phin’s knife was tucked carefully between my thigh and the seat, and as soon as Baylor slammed to a halt I grabbed it and bolted out of the van.

A waist-high, untrimmed hedge bordered the property of a house that had once been expensive but now simply looked tired. The eaves were cracked, the paint was peeling, the front walk stones were uneven and broken. It was one of the few unmaintained homes I’d seen in the neighborhood, and its wild lawn was the sight of a standoff. Autumn was on the ground, both hands clutching her bleeding throat, gasping for breath. A black wolf the size of a small horse had Sandburg by the back of the neck, teeth sunk in deep enough to draw blood. A flex of his jaw, and the Lupa would break Sandburg’s spine.

The Lupa snarled, and I stumbled to a halt halfway between them and Autumn. I felt, more than saw, Baylor, Paul, and Carly draw up behind me. For one brief, irrational moment, I had visions of Autumn and Sandburg in the infirmary, as sick and feverish as Wyatt. But then I remembered that they weren’t human—they were Therian, just like the Lupa. The infection wouldn’t affect them.

“You boys are just a bucket of trouble, aren’t you?” I said. Insects buzzed around us, a soft accompaniment to Autumn’s ragged breathing. “Danny says hello.”

He snarled again, louder. Sandburg’s eyes bulged, and his fingers dug into the grass. A loud whistle cut the quiet, bouncing off the homes around us, making the origin of the sound impossible to detect. The black Lupa dropped Sandburg and sprinted toward the back of the yard.

I gave chase, trusting the others to stay behind and tend to our wounded. Blackie charged through the tall grass of the front yard, past the aging house, and into the even taller grass of the backyard. I ran as fast as I could, little bursts of energy keeping me from feeling the instant burn in my legs. Someone was behind me, and I didn’t waste time or strength by looking over my shoulder.

Blackie sailed over the rear hedge and into another yard. I’d never run hurdles, but I didn’t stop or slow down. Just pushed off and hoped I didn’t break a bone on the landing. My foot caught the edge of the hedge, and I tumbled to the grass. Came up in a roll, left arm and ribs sore from the fall, and kept going. Miraculously, I hadn’t cut myself with the knife. A shout from behind told me that my companion hadn’t fared much better than I had.

Blackie veered left, crossing the new backyard at a diagonal. I kept my focus on him, so I missed who screamed and didn’t much care. I was chasing a full-grown werewolf through an historic neighborhood in broad daylight, with an ancient Coni weapon in my hand. Explaining it away to civilians was not on my To Do list. I just didn’t want to lose the damned Lupa.

And he was quickly putting distance between us.

A fence loomed ahead of him, this one solid wood and at least five feet high. I could scramble over, but I’d lose precious seconds doing so. Blackie galloped full-steam at the fence.

Shit, shit, shit …

He shifted hard right at the last moment and took off toward the front yard. I skidded a little, but had a wider angle to turn. My lungs burned, and my legs felt like
jelly from the hard run. Up ahead in the street was an idling work van, plain white, its side door open. A pale face peered out from the dark square. Waiting.