Frostbitten (22 page)

“Nah. It was all generic stuff. I only wanted this.” He handed me the bag. Inside was Dan’s jacket, washed denim with leather trim and a shearling lining.

“Nice, but it looks a little small for you.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Okay,” I said. “I give up. What did you want with his jacket?”

“It’s not his. It’s Dennis’s.”

“Dennis?”

“I smelled him on it when I was checking Podrova for ID. So I took it. No mutt is being buried in Dennis’s coat.”

I pulled it from the bag. “This isn’t Dennis’s. First, I saw his coat in the cabin—a plain, Sears catalogue parka. All his clothing was department store and that—” I pointed to the jacket. “—might have come from a catalogue, but if so, it was from one of those fancy collegiate stores. It’s a young man’s jacket. Dennis was trying to recapture his wolf, not his youth.”

“Well, it smells like Dennis. Like he wore it.”

He motioned for me to sniff the inside. I did and Dennis’s scent was indeed there, as if he’d pulled it on once or twice, but under the mutt’s more recent smell was another, deeper one embedded in the fabric. The real owner. And when I caught a whiff of that, I swore.

A smile creased Clay’s eyes. “Admitting you’re wrong, darling?”

“Not about that. Something bigger. At Dennis’s place, I smelled another werewolf. A family member. I presumed it was Joey, but having now smelled Joey and smelling this, I was wrong. This coat be longed to a werewolf and it belonged to a Stillwell. But not Dennis and not Joey.”

It was Clay’s turn to curse, taking the jacket, inhaling deeper and cursing again.

“We need to talk to Joey,” I said.

* * * *

I’d already needed to talk to him—about this “deal” with the mutts and his lie about not encountering them. And now this: the existence, or former existence, of a Stillwell that Jeremy knew nothing about.

But this wasn’t the sort of conversation we could have in Joey’s office. We’d need to waylay him as he left work, and hope he didn’t decide to put in too much overtime.

It was only midafternoon, meaning we couldn’t talk to Joey for a few hours. That was fine, because right now, neither of us was in the mood for that conversation. We were tired and hungry and sore, and all we wanted was to crash in our hotel room… which was a problem.

“Already taken care of,” Clay said. “I called Jeremy when we first split up. He’ll have something booked for us by now.”

First, though, we had to retrieve our stuff. My steps slowed as we entered the lobby, certain I could pick up the faint smell of Travis Tesler, my stomach knotting at the thought of going up there, smelling him, smelling what he’d done.

“Take a seat,” Clay said, waving at the armchairs in the middle of the lobby. “Call the kids.”

I hesitated.

“Plenty of people around,” he said. “It’s safe.”

“That’s not what I meant. I should help—”

“Sit.”

When he started walking away, I called him back and leaned in closer to whisper, “My clothes. The ones he…”

“In the nearest trash, along with anything he so much as touched.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, if you have to walk around naked for a few days, I’m not complaining.”

I managed a smile, then picked a seat with my back to the manned counter, facing the doors. I couldn’t imagine Tesler sneaking up on me here, but I felt better being careful. Then I called home.

I talked to Kate first. I started by reassuring her that we were coming home as soon as possible, fending off the problems Jeremy had with her earlier. It worked.

She told me about her day, specifically dinner yesterday after Jeremy had left for New York, when Jaime made them pancakes, which were good, but she hadn’t done it quite right, because it wasn’t breakfast so they weren’t in their pajamas and Jaime had forgotten the blueberries, but no, Kate didn’t want me to tell Jaime where the blueberries were because she wanted to save them until we got home, and as soon as we got home, we had to have our special pancake breakfast with blueberries and ham, and we had to be in our pajamas, and we had to pretend there wouldn’t be enough for Daddy and smack his hand when he tried to steal ham from the frying pan, and then he had to carry me out of the room and lock the door and…

It was a silly little ritual. The kind three-year-olds love, one that keeps evolving and every step must be performed every time and it’s just as hilarious the tenth time as the first.

When Clay came down, I started to stand, but he motioned that he’d check us out and I should keep talking. I still passed him the phone and hurried off before he could argue. I wasn’t the only one who could use the grounding of our daughter’s chatter. As I walked away, I heard her saying, “And Jaime made us pancakes, but she…” and I smiled.

“Now this is more like it,” Clay said as we walked into our new hotel room.

I tossed my suitcase in the corner and headed for the room service menu. Clay snatched it first.

“Excuse me,” I said. “You’re supposed to be reading Dennis’s notes, remember? I believe that was an order.”

“My stomach exercises its power of veto. Food first, work later.”

* * * *

An hour later, his stomach full, Clay was propped up at the head of the bed, reading Dennis’s notes aloud and adding lecture bits as he went. I was curled up with the pillows beside him, eyes closed as I listened. Dennis’s notes were mostly about other shapeshifter myths, ones Clay already knew. There was the Bajang from Malaysia, a dwarfish human that can transform into a polecat. Or the Grecian Striga, a witch that shifts into a screech owl. Or West African leopard men, the offspring of humans and leopard gods, who can take on the form of a cat. Go to Bali and you’ll find the Leyak, black-magic practitioners who change into animals at night. The Scots have their Selkies, seals who can change into human. Brazilians have Encantado, humans who shift into animals, particularly dolphins. And that’s only the beginning.

The most popular shape-shifting form, though, is canine. Maybe that’s proof that humans are, in some way, aware of us. But canines are also the animal they’re most familiar with, from the companion dog to the predatory wolf. Canines work beside humans, live with humans and have, for centuries, competed with them, for both food and territory. Is it any wonder that when people imagine the animal shape of their dreams and nightmares, it’s the dog, the fox, the jackal, the wolf?

In almost any culture that has canines, you’ll find tales of hybrids or shifters. The Flemish have the monstrous black doglike Kludde, the Japanese have the raccoon-dog shifting Tanuki and the fox-shifting Kitsune, Ethiopia has the wolf-dog Crocotta, North American Natives have their coyote and wolf shifting skin-walkers.

Clay knew all of them, but as he read, he infused every scrap of well-trodden myth with the excitement and passion of a new discovery. This was another part of Clay. The father, the lover, the enforcer and the professor. Four sides entwining into a whole—simple yet complex, fascinating and infuriating.

I propped myself on one elbow and leaned over to look at him, my hair grazing the notes in his hand.

“I love you,” I said.

He swiped my hair away. “You interrupted my lecture for that? Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“I hate you.”

“Know that, too. Keeps things interesting. Now where was I?”

“Pompously expounding on the arcane minutiae of shape-shifting lore.”

“Been doing that for the last hour. Question is: which bit of minutiae was I expounding on?”

I lifted the notes to his nose.

“Ah, the
tlahuelpuchi
. Actually, more a vampire myth than shapeshifter—”

“Similar to the
nagual
,” I said, “but differing in both the variety of transformation and the transmission of the power. A
nagual
shifts into recognizable animal form and is believed to learn the craft, while the
tlahuelpuchi
curse is inherited and the cursed being shifts into a bestial form, often resembling a bird, such as a vulture or that over looked horror movie possibility—the dreaded were-turkey.”

“You know it so well? You give the lecture.”

“God forbid. The podium is yours, Dr. Danvers.”

He put an arm around me, pulled me against his side and carried on.

* * * *

We watched Joey head for his car, a baby Mercedes that I was sure had never ventured past the city limits. He had his head down, frowning as he searched his pocket for his keys. He pulled them out, pointed the fob and saw Clay and me blocking the way.

Joey stopped so suddenly his loafers squeaked on the damp asphalt. “I said I didn’t want to—”

Clay threw the denim jacket on the car hood.

Joey winced as the buttons scraped the paint.

“Recognize it?” Clay said.

“Looks like something you’d wear, so I’m guessing—”

“It belongs to a Stillwell.”

“My father? Not exactly his style.”

“It’s not your father’s and it’s not yours. But it smells like you. Your kin. Want to know where I got it?” Clay didn’t wait for an answer. “Off a mutt. One of the three who killed your father. Can you tell me why he’d be wearing it? Or who it belonged to?”

“Why don’t you ask the guy who had it?” Joey frowned. “No, I suppose you can’t do that, since he’s probably no longer among the living. That’s the problem with torturing and killing mutts, isn’t it? You work so hard to get your answers, and sometimes they die on you first.”

Joey’s eyes lit up like Jeremy’s when he hit the bull’s-eye on a seemingly impossible target. But Clay just stood there, as if waiting for the punch line.

After a moment of awkward silence, Joey said, “I’m right, aren’t I? You tortured him. Killed him.”

“Yeah.”

Again, Joey waited for a reaction—chagrin, embarrassment, shame. Again, Clay waited for him to get to the point.

“Did you use a chainsaw?” Joey said. “I seem to recall you like chainsaws.”

“There wasn’t a power outlet.” Clay turned to me. “That’s what I want for Father’s Day, darling. A gas-powered chainsaw.”

That flush crept across Joey’s face, his eyes hardening. “You know what you are, Clay?”

“No idea, but I’m sure you’d love to tell me.”

“Yes, we interrogated the mutt,” I cut in. “We were trying to figure out what happened to your father, three dead men and three missing women. And yes, Clay tortured him until he admitted they’d tortured and killed your dad, killed at least one of the men, raped and presumably killed the girls. So what did you do with your day, Joseph? Write a catchy jingle?”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“No,” Clay said quietly. “I guess I don’t.”

Joey jiggled his keys, as if deciding whether to try shouldering past Clay. After a moment, he pocketed them. “What do you want?”

“I’ve already asked: who does this jacket belong to?”

“I have no idea.”

“Can I guess?” I said. “You and your dad had a falling out. Was that because another son showed up on his doorstep?”

“I’m a little old to be jealous of my daddy’s attention.”

“I didn’t say you were, but you might be miffed with him for being careless and bringing another werewolf into the world, something I don’t think you’d approve of.”

“If my father did, I know nothing about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Clay moved aside to let him into the car. He waited until Joey’s hand was on the door, then asked, his voice low again, “Did you call them this morning, Joey?”

“Call who?”

“The mutts. They paid a visit to our hotel after I talked to you.”

Joey turned, meeting Clay’s eyes. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that.”

“But you do have their number, right?” I said. “It’s part of your deal with them.”

“Deal?” He turned to me. “What deal?”

Clay told him what Dan Podrova said.

“Well, that mutt’s a liar,” Joey said. “Big shock there. That’s another problem with torturing someone—eventually they hit the point where they’ll say anything to make you stop. No, I don’t have a deal with a pack of thugs and I didn’t send them to your hotel room. Now take your wife, Clay, and go home.”

“We’ll leave as soon as I’m done talking to you.”

“I mean, go
home
. Back to Stonehaven. There’s nothing here you need to concern yourself with. Take your pretty wife, go back to your Alpha dad and your kids, whom I’m sure are just damned adorable. That’s your life. This is mine. Now leave me alone.”

* * * *

We left him alone. For now. But we knew he was lying. Was he colluding with a gang of gun-runners, hoping to make us leave before we poked our nose in too deep? Clay didn’t think so, but he had to consider the possibility, and we had to keep doing what Joey didn’t seem to want us to do—digging for the truth.

Lynn Nygard lived in a neighborhood in west Anchorage, one with winding lanes and thick trees, sparsely dotted with eclectic homes that ranged from cottages to sprawling McMansions. Hers was one of the smallest homes—a tiny A-frame chalet. I’d called her again after we’d confronted Joey, and she’d said to come right over. Clay drove me, but stayed in the truck.