2 Blood Trail (35 page)

Together, they crashed to the ground.

For one brief instant, Mark Williams had been pleased to see the shape that dropped out of the loft. He’d called the creature’s reactions correctly right down the line. Except he hadn’t thought about the loft or realized exactly what he’d be facing.

More terrified than he’d ever been in his life, he fought like a man possessed. He’d once seen a German shepherd kill a gopher by grabbing the back of its neck and crushing the spine. That wasn’t going to happen to him. He felt claws tear through his thin shirt and into his skin, hot breath on his ear, and managed to twist around and shove one forearm between the beast’s open jaws while his other hand groped frantically around on the floor for the fallen gun.

Storm tossed back his head, releasing the arm, and dove forward for the suddenly exposed throat.

Mark saw death approaching. Then he saw it pause.

Shit, man. I can’t just rip out some guy’s throat! What am I doing?
Abruptly, the blood lust was gone.

With his legs up under the belly of the beast, Mark heaved.

Completely disoriented, Storm hit the ground with a heavy thud and scrambled to regain his feet. The floor moved under his left rear paw. Steel jaws closed.

The snap, the yelp of pain and fear combined, brought Mark slowly to his knees. He smiled as he saw the russet wolf struggling against the trap, twisting and snarling in a panicked effort to get free. His smile broadened as the struggles grew weaker and creature finally lay panting on the floor.

No! Please, no!
He couldn’t change. Not while his foot remained held in the trap.
It hurts. Oh, God, it
hurts. He could smell his own blood, his own terror.
I can’t breathe! It hurts.

Dimly, Storm knew the trap was the lesser danger. That the human approaching, teeth showing, was far, far more deadly. He whined and his front paws scrabbled against the ground but he couldn’t seem to rise. His head suddenly become too heavy to lift.

“Got you now, you son of a bitch.” The poison had been guaranteed. Mark was pleased to see he’d got his money’s worth. Wincing, he reached over his shoulder and his hand came away red. Staying carefully out of range, just in case, he spat on the floor by the creature’s face. “I hope it hurts like hell.”

Maybe . . . if I howl
. . .
they’ll hear me. . . .

Then the convulsions started and it was too late.

“. . . I don’t know! He’s been acting so strangely lately!”

Stuart and Nadine exchanged glances over Rose’s head. Nadine opened her mouth to speak but her mate’s expression caused her to close it again. Now was not the time for explanations.

“Rose.” Celluci came out of the office and walked quickly across the kitchen, until he could gaze directly into the girl’s face. “This is important. Besides the family, Vicki, Mr. Fitzroy, and myself, who did Peter talk with today?”

He knows something,
Henry thought.
I should never have let him take that call.

Rose frowned. “Well, he talked to the mechanic at the garage, Dr. Dixon, Dr. Levin—the one who took over from Dr. Dixon, she was at his house for a while—um, Mrs. Von Thorne, next door to Dr. Dixon, and somebody driving by up on the road, but I didn’t see who.”

“Did you see the car?”

“Yeah. It was black, mostly, with gold trim and fake gold spokes on the wheels.” Her nose wrinkled. “A real poser’s car.” Then her expression changed again as she read Celluci’s reaction. “That’s the one you were waiting for, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?” She stepped toward him, teeth bared. “Where’s Peter? What’s happened to my brother?”

“I think,” Stuart said flatly, coming around from behind his niece, “you’d better tell us what you know.”

Only Henry had some idea of the conflict Celluci was going through and he had no sympathy for it. The question of law versus justice could have only one answer. He watched the muscles on Celluci’s back tense and heard his heartbeat quicken.

Everything in Celluci’s training said he leave them with an ambiguous answer and take care of this himself. If werewolves expected to be treated like the rest of society, within the law, then they couldn’t act outside the law. And if the only way he could do his duty was to fight his way out of this house. . . . his hands curled into fists.

A low growl began to build in Stuart’s throat.

And Rose’s.

And Nadine’s.

Henry stepped forward. He’d had enough.

Then Daniel began to whimper. He threw himself on his mother’s legs and buried his face in her skirt. “Peter’s gonna get killed!” The fabric did little to muffle the howl of a six-year-old child who only understood one small part of what was going on.

Celluci looked down at Daniel, who seemed to have an uncanny knack for bringing the focus back to the important matters, then over at Rose. “Can’t you let me take care of this?” he asked softly.

She shook her head, panic beginning to build. “You don’t understand.”

“You
can’t
understand,” Nadine added, clutching at Daniel so tightly he squirmed in her grasp.

Celluci saw the pain in the older woman’s eyes, pain that cut and twisted and would continue far longer than anyone should be forced to endure. His decision might possibly keep that pain from Rose.

“Carl Biehn was an Olympic marksman. His nephew, Mark Williams, drives a black and gold jeep.”

Rose’s eyes widened. “If he was talking to Peter this afternoon . . .” She whirled, her sundress hit the floor, and Cloud streaked out of the kitchen and into the night.

“Rose, no!” Unencumbered by the need to change, Henry raced after her before Stuart, still caught in challenge with Celluci, began to react.

Jesus Christ! Nobody moves that fast!
Celluci grabbed Stuart’s arm as Henry disappeared into the night. “Wait!” he barked. “I need you to show me the way to Carl Biehn’s farm.”

“Let me go, human!”

“Damn it, Stuart, the man’s got guns. He’s taken Henry out once already! Charging in will only get everyone shot. We can get there before them in my car.”

“Don’t count on it.” Stuart laughed but the sound held no humor. “And this is our hunt. You have no right to be there.”

“Take him, Stuart!” Nadine’s tone left no room for her mate to argue. “Think of after.”

The male wer snarled but after an instant he yanked his arm free of Celluci’s hold and started for the door. “Come on, then.”

After?
Celluci wondered as the two of them charged across the lawn.
Mary, Mother of God, they want me there to explain the body.
. . .

 

“What is taking him so long!” Vicki shoved at her glasses and turned away from the living room window. With the sun down she could see nothing past her reflection on the glass but that didn’t stop her from pacing the length of the room and back then peering out into the darkness again.

“He has to come all the way from Adelaide and Dundas,” Bertie pointed out. “It’s going to take him a few minutes.”

“I
know
that!” She sighed and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I had no right to snap at you. It’s just that . . . well, if it wasn’t for my damned eyes, I’d be driving myself. I’d be halfway there by now!”

Bertie pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. “You don’t trust your partner to deal with it?”

“Celluci’s not a partner, he’s a friend. I don’t have a partner. Exactly.” And although Henry could be counted on to keep Celluci from doing anything stupid, who would save Peter, or watch the wer, or grab the murdering bastard—Vicki always saw him with Mark Williams’ face, convinced that he had been the reason for the deaths even if he hadn’t pulled the trigger—and . . . and then what? “I
have
to be there! How can I
know
it’s justice if I’m not there?”

Realizing that some questions weren’t meant to be answered, Bertie wisely kept silent. Questions of her own would have to wait.

“Damn it, I told him it was an emergency!” Vicki whirled back to the window and squinted into the night. “Where is he?” With an hour left in the shift, and Colin already back in the station, it hadn’t been hard for Vicki to convince the duty sergeant to release him for a family emergency. “Why the. . . There!” Headlights turned up the driveway.

Vicki snatched up her bag and ran for the door, shouting back over her shoulder, “Don’t talk about this to anyone. I’ll be in touch.”

Outside, and effectively blind, she aimed for the headlights and narrowly missed being run down by one of London’s old blue and white police cars. She grabbed for the rear door as it screeched to a stop and threw herself into the back seat.

Barry slammed the car into reverse and laid rubber back down the length of the driveway while Colin twisted around and snarled, “What the hell is going on?”

Vicki pushed her glasses back into place and clutched at the seat as the car took a corner on two wheels.

“Carl Biehn was an Olympic marksman by way of Korea and the marines.”

“That grasseater?”

“He may be,” Vicki snapped, “but his nephew. . .”

“Was charged with fraud in ‘86, possession of stolen goods in ’88, and accessory to murder nine months ago,” Barry broke in. “No convictions. Got off on a technicality all three times. I ran him this afternoon.”

“And the emergency,” Colin growled, teeth bared.

“Peter’s missing.”

 

Grasses and weeds whipped at his legs; trees flickered past in the periphery of his sight, unreal shadow images barely seen before they were gone; the barrier of a fence became no barrier at all as he vaulted the wire net and landed still running. Henry had always known that the wer were capable of incredible bursts of speed but he never knew how fast until that night. Making no effort to elude him, Cloud merely raced toward her twin, not far ahead but far enough that he feared he could never catch her.

With her moonlight-silvered shape remaining so horribly just out of reach, Henry would have traded his immortal life for the ability to shapechange given to his kind by tradition. All else being equal, four legs were faster and more sure than two.

All else, therefore, could not be equal.

He hadn’t run like this in many years, and he threw all he was into the effort to close the gap. This was a race he had to win, for if one couldn’t be saved, the other had to be.

 

Spraying dirt and gravel in a great fan-shaped tail, Celluci fought the car through the turn at the end of the lane without losing speed. The suspension bottomed out as they drove into and out of a massive pothole and the oil pan shrieked a protest as it dragged across a protruding rock. The constant machine gun staccato of stones thrown up against the undercarriage of the car made conversation impossible.

Stuart kept up a continuous deep-throated growl.

Over it all, Celluci kept hearing the voice of memory.

He very much feared he was about to get his answer and he prayed Vicki would arrive too late to be a part of it.

 

By the time Cloud reached the open door of the barn, Henry ran right at her tail. Another step, maybe two and he could stop her, just barely in time.

Then Cloud caught the scent of her twin and, snarling, sprang forward.

As her feet left the packed dirt, Henry saw with horror where she’d land. Saw the false floor. Saw the steel jaws beneath. With all he had left, he threw himself at her in a desperate flying tackle.

He knew as he grabbed her that it wasn’t going to be quite enough so he twisted and shielded the struggling wer with his body as they hit the floor and rolled.

Two traps sprang shut, one closing impotently on a few silver-white hairs, the other cheated entirely of a prize.

From the floor, Henry took in a kaleidoscope of images—the russet body lying motionless on the table, the mortal standing over it, covered neck to knees with a canvas apron, the slender knife gleaming dully in the lamplight—and by the time he rose to a crouch, one arm still holding the panting Cloud, he knew. Anger, red and hot, surged through him.

Then Cloud squirmed free and attacked.

For the second time that night Mark Williams looked death in the face; only this time, he knew it wouldn’t pause. He screamed and fell back against the table, felt hot breath against his throat and the kiss of one ivory fang then suddenly, nothing. Self preservation took over and without stopping to think, he grabbed for the shotgun.

Henry fought with Cloud, fought with his own blood lust.
She’s a seventeen-year-old girl, barely more than a child. She must not be allowed to kill
. The wer no longer lived apart from humans and their values. What point victory now if she spent the rest of her life with that kind of a stain on her soul? Over and over, as she tried to tear herself out of his grip, he said the only words he knew would get through to her.

“He’s still alive, Cloud. Storm is still alive.”

Finally she stilled, whimpered once, then turned toward the table, muzzle raised to catch her brother’s scent. A second whimper turned to a howl.

With her attention now fixed on Storm rather than death, Henry stood. “Stay where you are,” he commanded and Cloud dropped to the floor, trembling with the need to get to her twin but unable to disobey. As he lifted his head, he came face-to-face with both barrels of the shotgun.

“So, he’s still alive, is he?” Both the gun and the laugh were shaky. “I couldn’t feel a heartbeat. You sure?”

Henry could hear the slow and labored beating of Storm’s heart, could feel the blood struggling to keep moving through passages constricted by poison. He allowed his own blood lust to rise. “I know life,” he said, stepping forward. “And I know death.”