Halfway Bitten (4 page)

I overheard people talking while I was getting coffee at the Sip-N-Save, and a sliver of cold crawled up my spine as I realized that Gran had been right.

They found a body. To be more specific, the police discovered a man at the dock behind the canoe rental place on the western side of the lake, and something about the hushed tones of the men chatting at the store told me it had been bad. The clerk, Clint, was a young guy who’d been behind me in school by three years. We weren’t pals, but we were friendly, so I asked him what was up.

“County cops were in here with a couple suits from the state. They were pretty tight-lipped, but I got something outta them. You know Edward, the guy that bought the gun store last year?”

I nodded. Edward was impossible to miss. He was a Texas transplant; a big dude who everybody liked, loud and brash and friendly to a fault. He owned a canoe rental spot, too, mainly because his divorce cost him dearly and two jobs was better than one. His ex-wife lived one lake up, and he’d moved here to be closer to his kids. I knew they were young, and a pang of hurt stung me as I wondered what would happen to them. I’d had a family for my entire life, but those kids’ daily existence had just been changed forever.

I looked at Clint with a shimmer of tears in my eyes, and he said, “I know. It sucks.”

“What makes you say it was bad?” I asked, pulling myself together.

“Do you know what ex . . . exsang—something? It was this word one the cops used, and his face—he looked like he was going to be sick, and the dude was no kid,” Clint said, waving his frustration at being stymied by the unfamiliar word.

“Exsanguinated?” I asked, hoping I was
really
wrong.

Clint brightened, but only slightly. He knew trouble regardless of how many syllables it had. “Yeah, that’s it. What’s it mean?”

I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach and knew I was going to the boat dock. I had to see. Clint’s open, honest face looked at me, and I couldn’t bring myself to lie. As I turned from the counter, I told him, “It means all the blood was drained from his body.” Then I pushed through the glass door into the morning air, my thoughts of Edward and the unseen creature I knew I was going to kill.

In ten minutes I was at the dock where Edward had been found, and it was deserted. I walked onto the wooden planks with some trepidation; the aura of death hung in the air, and I felt like I was trespassing on a grave. The short dock was sun-bleached but in good repair, and a boathouse mounted on pontoons floated lazily in the water, tied off with heavy ropes on each corner. The door was closed and locked. No canoes were visible, but the small stand where Edward kept his rental forms and credit card machine was still out, hidden under a happy yellow umbrella that was at least six feet across.

I like quiet, but the dock was silent, save some modest creaking from errant waves that lapped at the bumpers dangling along the edges. The unnerving stillness made me jumpy, but several deep breaths and a personal admonition got my head in the right place. Green algae colored the white, tubular bumpers with a vivid slash of life. Trees crowded the shore less than ten feet on either side of the path that led to the dock, and I couldn’t hear any ambient noise from the more populous side of the lake. Instinctively, I let charms drop between my fingers and placed a spell on my tongue. The smell of blood whispered to my senses, and I looked down at the boards just past the stand.

It always shocked me to realize how little blood can make such an enormous puddle. I knew Edward had been a big man, but I swore that every drop of the ten pints of blood in an average human was splashed across the wood of that dock. Rust-colored sprays wandered across the boathouse wall, and there was even a staccato pattern of arterial blood on the underside of that ridiculously-cheerful umbrella. Other than the wildly dispersed blood, there was no evidence of the man who’d been killed. I felt a chill of reality muscle in on my own desire for a clinical examination of the crime scene, even though I’m far from any kind of investigator.

I stepped back into the sun, leaving the now unfriendly confines of the boathouse shadow. Peering up into the glare of the afternoon sun, I thought about Edward. I’m five feet tall, and he was easily a foot taller than me; more likely fifteen inches. I tried to decrypt the signs of what had transpired on that dock, and came up with nothing. There was no ripped fabric, or a kicked in door. No helpful smears of blood or scrawled messages. Nothing. Although I was only guessing, it seemed to be rather orderly, at least to my eyes. All of my experience with death involved creatures who share little in common with a robust man from Texas; therefore, I knew not to apply my own prejudices to what I thought I should be seeing.

Okay, Carlie. Go low and slow,
I told myself, and began looking around at levels even lower than my already diminutive height. Who knew what could be missed by people looking at a scene where all of the gore was up high? I examined every inch of the dock, stepping around one of those enormous wooden spools that rope or wire are sold on. It was covered on one end in fish scales. That must be where the lucky customers cleaned their trout, or bullhead, or whatever.

I stopped. The spool was on its side. I leaned over, verified that one end was used as a bait and cleaning table, and then looked at the other. The wood was clean and relatively unblemished. I grunted with effort to tip the spool upright, and noticed a circle on the dock next to the boathouse. The damp outline where it had been sitting for most of the season was dark, but drying in the sun. The spool hadn’t been moved for long; the circular outline was still moist to the touch, and a little fishy. The spool weighed at least a hundred pounds, so it hadn’t moved without a lot of help. I put my hand on the rim of the top and began a counterclockwise examination of the surface. It was a predictable pastiche of knife cuts and odd scratches, just as I expected.

Except for the claw marks. I knew they were claw marks because I have a giant cat, and I live in the mountains, and I know what animals do to wood when they get angry. The gouges were bright scars in the heavy pine; there were eight in all, with the hint of a ninth. They were too big to be a raccoon, but far too small for a bear. I stared at the spool, now standing upright, and thought about something that only a short girl would know. Without a thought, I stepped up onto the spool and looked down from my newfound vantage point. If Edward had been there, I would have simply stepped off and been on his back like a demonic papoose, but I knew that was wrong. Whoever had stood on that spool leaped off with enormous force, tearing into the wood and hitting Edward with enough impact that it made a big, strong guy disoriented enough to be murdered like a lamb without even fighting back—unless—I looked at the wall, noting small shadows in the angled sunlight.

They were impact craters. More specifically, knuckle marks. Edward must have swung
hard
at something and missed; probably several times, judging by dents in the soft wood of the shiplap siding. He not only fought back, but it had gone on long enough for him to throw a series of haymakers that might have killed a normal human being. I leaned into the wall again in order to put my eyes at a better angle. The divots from his fists weren’t deep, but by getting close. I could see most of them.

As I hovered inches from the warm wood, a light touch brushed my cheek, and I damned near fell off the spool. After the requisite hysterical I-stepped-in-a-spiderweb dance, I slowed my spastic gyrations to a stop and did the only logical thing. I looked around to see if anyone had seen me freak out, and then I began to look for the spider. I turned and peered at the boathouse wall, which was now glowing with the full radiance of a summer sun.

No spider. No web. Not even a place for there to
be
a web, but there was still something glinting like a nearly-invisible dancing ribbon. I reached out and plucked two long hairs from a nail that extended out a quarter inch or so; they’d hung up after being pinched between the rusted head and a sliver of pale wood. The hair was indeterminate color, two feet long, and silken. My breath caught in that perfect hiccup of rage that only hits you in traffic or at the driver’s license bureau; I could feel my cheeks go pink in a flash.

Short girl problems take all forms, and I knew one particular short girl who had both claws and long hair. She also had a reason to kill. I felt a spell sizzle in my throat and bit it back with righteous fury. My feet hit the deck and I was running, charms in hand and blood in my eyes. I was going to find Anna.

And I was going to kill her, no matter what.

My small feet were punishing the trail when an incongruous series of chimes interrupted my righteous fury.

Gran was calling.

I drew up, panting, and pulled my phone out. “Hullo?” To my credit, it was less than a gasp, but I knew she would ask what I’d been doing.

There was an uncomfortable silence, in which I could her breathing judgment into the phone receiver. Old phones are optimal for imparting all manner of insults, especially when you know you’re guilty. I was feeling somewhat put upon before she even spoke a word.

“Dear, may I ask what you’re doing that would involve you being winded? Is there a bear nearby? Perhaps a rogue wolverine, or one of those aggressive squirrels with whom you seem to have an everlasting confrontation?” Gran’s voice was pleasant, making her inquiry all the more maddening.

“That squirrel had it coming. He knew I was saving that pumpkin!” It had not been a proud moment, because I not only argued with a rodent, but lost. Badly.

“Indeed. So, a bear?” Gran fell silent while I caught my breath.

“Uh, no. Not exactly. You know Edward? Texas Edward?” I elaborated.

“Mmm. I take it there’s bad news?” Gran asked, her voice grim.

“He’s dead. I just left there, and I think—
”

“You were embroiled in rage that has no basis in evidence, and went off to commit a crime against mankind because of a moment of pique?” Gran’s words oozed amazement. She really knew how to deliver a guilt bomb without raising her voice in the slightest; it was a skill I found both admirable and irritating. Especially when she was right.

Like now.

“Well, when you put it that way, I sound . . . I don’t know—” I struggled to find a term that didn’t fully illuminate my guilt.

“Like one of those squirrels, but without a tail? Chittering and angry, and about to go do something wholly inadvisable?” Gran offered, helpfully.

I let a gusty sigh whoosh past my lips in a flutter. It was most unladylike, but no one was around. “Yes. Sort of—well, exactly like that. I have good reason, though.”

“Do tell.” The invitation was pleasant. The commanding tone was unspoken, but understood.

“The crime scene, Gran. It was awful.” I let the memory rush back in a tide of red loops where Edward’s blood had wildly declared his last act, and my eyes began to mist.

“Tell me more, Carlie,” Gran said, and this time her direction was gentle.

“There was a sort of table knocked over. I stood on it to . . . I don’t know, get an angle, and found some long hairs stuck in the wooden siding of the boathouse. Long, silky hairs.” I sighed, feeling the anger leave me hollow and a bit tired. “It’s Anna, I know it. So.” I left the conclusion hanging. Gran knew my feelings about Anna. She understood my need to protect what I had with Wulfric.

Gran said nothing, compelling me to fill the silence with more of my own conclusions.

“I was heading to the rock where I met her, on the loop trail that skirts the first ridge above town,” I admitted.

“And you thought that screaming distance was the best place to commit a capital offense against a single mother who would love nothing more than to see you dead, hopefully before she or her pack cold shift into their primal forms and overwhelm your power with brute force?” Gran asked, archly.

“Yeah. Well, in retrospect, I kind of wish I hadn’t started running.” I was bitterly disappointed in myself. Gran’s tone wasn’t helping, even if she was right.

“Carlie, how close are you to the place where Anna met you before?” Gran asked. Her tone was neutral.

“Close. About a hundred yards, give or take.” I looked around, assessing the territory. I knew the loop trial well, and my estimate seemed spot on.

“Then we can assume that any shifter will have heard you by now, so you can do away with any pretense of stalking. If you won’t turn and come home, may I suggest, at the very least, that you walk there calmly and announce your presence?” Gran asked, and I realized she was right. I was actually too far from town to make a run for it if Anna’s pack decided to surround me.

My error came home to roost with the weight of the first afternoon shadows, and I knew that I’d better clear my head. I needed a quiet mind. “Gran, I’m too close to leave. I have to focus.”

There was silence on the line, then she said, “Sound. Prepare spells of sound. You’ll want confusion, not death. You cannot kill that woman, Carlie, no matter what you think has happened. Do you understand?”

I did. I’d been about to commit murder based on emotion and a lack of control. I’d reduced myself to an animal state by the abandonment of my familial magic. There would be time for shame later. I told Gran I loved her, hung up, and cleared my mind.

Noise and fury, but no death. I squared my shoulders, drew power into my mind, and let my feet move forward to the outpost where I knew Anna would be waiting.