Roadkill (30 page)

Suddenly all the enjoyment of my calendar lust disappeared. He was right. They didn’t get it. I hadn’t gotten it either. I’d thought he’d done it for the right reason. He was a healer. Saving the world was what he did, one person at a time. I thought taking out Suyolak would put him closer to a balance again and help him see that curing me couldn’t be the end all and be all of his existence. He was a healer and that meant he belonged to everyone who needed him; not only to me. True, I’d come to regret the decision once I saw what Suyolak was capable of and wished we’d never come to be part of this. Family protecting family and the hell with the world; that’s what I thought.

That was also Rafferty’s point of view exactly. Hypocrite, me.

But it still wasn’t right—stealing life force, no matter if it was tainted—not for a healer. I was turning my cousin into something that years ago he would’ve killed in a heartbeat. But there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Nothing. I took the current calendar, swimsuit issue, grabbed it in my jaws, and tossed it aside in frustration. Cal caught it. “Whoa! Not enough tits for you? Need six more per model?”

He was in a better mood now, somewhat better; it was a subtle sniff of a difference, but I was Wolf enough to catch it. He and Delilah had come to a wary sort of trust, or so it seemed. I wasn’t poking my nose into it. After all, I had
calendars
to occupy me, not the real thing like some half-Auphe bastards.

Not fair. No, that wasn’t fair. Putting that on him, when I was really upset with myself. I pulled in a breath and released it, letting some of the anger go. It wasn’t Cal’s fault.

Although, I noticed, despite the mood change, he seemed twitchy too, which distracted me from my own problems. Tapping fingers on his knee. Unloading and reloading his gun. Playing with his knives. Changing positions often. Fingering the bracelet around his wrist. Except it wasn’t a bracelet. They were mala beads for Buddhist meditation. I’d dated a Buddhist girl in college, not Wolf, but I hadn’t planned on marrying her, and I wasn’t prejudiced like most of my kind. I’d dated a lot of human girls. They were sweet and if they were jealous, they didn’t threaten to castrate you with their teeth. You couldn’t say the same about the she-Wolves you brought home to meet Mom and Dad.

This girl had been nice, with coppery hair, cheerful blue eyes, and penny-bright freckles across the top of her pale breasts. And clothes on or off, she always wore her mala beads. I knew Niko wore two or three of the bracelets as well, but unlike his brother, Cal definitely didn’t come across as the Zen kind. But he was going through the motions, fingers moving from one bead to the next while his lips framed soundless words—his mantra, because I sure couldn’t see him praying. He wasn’t the praying type. Niko was watching him and, unlike his brother, he wasn’t happy, eyes dark over his hawkish nose. I could sample it in his scent as well. He was watching Cal . . . closely . . . and when Cal caught that look, he settled down, dropping his hands into his lap and the calendar onto the floor. “It’s okay, Cyrano,” he said with an assurance I wasn’t buying.
What
exactly was okay? Or not okay? I didn’t think this was about what had happened to Robin. It smelled darker. Much darker.

I was about to get on the laptop and ask Rafferty what was up. If it was what we’d suspected, smelled—that Cal was more Auphe now than he had been last time we’d seen him. But that was pointless. What else could it be? I didn’t need Rafferty to verify what both our noses had told us. But life decided we got a nice close shot of it anyway.

Something else showed us in brilliant, unforgettable detail that Cal might be less human than my werewolf cousin and I.

The Ördögs.

We hadn’t been back on the Lincoln for even thirty measly miles when we saw it. A black truck.
The
black truck. I didn’t need the ring of my cell phone from Abelia-Roo still following us in the pink RV of the queen of con artists to tell me that. I could smell the graveyard must creeping in despite the air-conditioning. So could Catcher. And Rafferty? I imagined he could smell
and
sense Suyolak. Half a mile behind him . . . it . . . and where were my explosive rounds when I needed them?

It wasn’t a semi, but it was big enough to haul a coffin or two and more than several minions . . . ex-minions. Minions usually always ended up as ex, deceased, or late and not necessarily great. These guys had gotten their pink slip with a nice side order of cholera, and while that didn’t taste as bad as hominy or the dreaded brussels sprout, it still couldn’t have gone down too well. Read a fucking comic, for God’s sake. Watch a superhero movie and you’d know that when your boss is powerful enough and motivated enough to destroy the world, you’d have to wonder: what good are you to him in the long run? Pensions are going to be scarce.

“It’s him,” Rafferty and I said, not exactly in harmony, but it was as close as echoes came.

“Pull up beside him,” Niko ordered.

Robin gave him one of those incredulous glances that he was so good at. “On the Lincoln? Are you going to jump across and cling to the metal door like a ninja refrigerator magnet? Or is Cal going to shoot the driver? Neither of which, I’m sure, will draw any attention of the cars around us.” He shook his head. “Blonds. They do try, but . . .” He tapped a finger against his temple.

Niko leaned closer to Robin, something the puck would’ve normally liked, and bit off one arctic word at a time. “Pull . . . up . . . beside . . . him.” My brother wasn’t happy about Suyolak and was worried about me—not that he should’ve been, and he was not in the mood for making things more difficult than they had to be. If shooting the truck driver on the Lincoln was our best opportunity, he’d take it.

“Fine, fine. Hold your no doubt pristinely organic urine.” Robin moved into the fast lane and the car up next to the truck. The windows were tinted in the cab, not as black as the paint job, but enough that I couldn’t make out who was driving or inside of the cab, especially as I was on the far side of a wolf and healer. While I would’ve liked to have seen the inside so I could’ve made a little hop in there, I didn’t need to see the driver. It was a man, a stupid and desperate man, and it didn’t matter what he looked like or what his name was or even why he was doing this. It only mattered we took him out before he let loose something that could potentially eradicate life on the planet and, worse yet, do it just for shits and giggles.

“I smell something else,” Rafferty said as he studied the truck through his window.

“Me too,” I responded. It was sharp and musky, mixed with old and new blood. It was the scent of an animal, only much stronger, and not one I’d ever come across. “But I don’t have a damn clue what it is.”

Catcher was growling softly, but that was his only comment, which meant he didn’t know either. “All right then. Suyolak’s picked up some new friends. He, like me, is a popular guy,” Goodfellow said as he kept pace with the truck as it began to speed up. “Are we going to ride along until he invites us to a playdate with him and his entire tea party? Or are we going to do something productive?”

“All my plans are productive,” Nik said, holding a hand over the seat. “Cal, your SIG Sauer.”

That was the backup I’d been wearing when the other car had gotten torched. Niko was in the passenger seat. He had the better shot. “Why not the Desert Eagle?” I asked as I passed over the pistol—a 9mm SIG Sauer 226 X-Five tactical model—double action. I hadn’t quite gotten a hard-on reading the description in the gun catalogue, but it’d been close. It was a great gun—accurate and good for those who shoot to kill, not just shoot to play.

“Because I didn’t feel the need to spend a good chunk of my teen years measuring my penis. I prefer accuracy over size.” He accepted the grip of the gun. “Although I do have both.”

“Brag, brag, brag. Just shoot the son of a bitch.” But he hadn’t waited for my encouragement. He’d already aimed through the glass, not taking the time to roll down the window. But Suyolak’s driver, the Seattle professor—I’d seen the license plate for verification—must’ve yanked the wheel and the truck was off on an exit that was too damn convenient to be true, so much so that not only the world had to be against us, but the universe as well.

Goodfellow veered across the lane, cutting off Abelia’s RV, which spun in a quick one-eighty and ended up off the road. I saw a shaking fist out one window, so I wasn’t too worried. Then again it could’ve rolled over and tossed her through the air like a hundred- year-old Frisbee and I wouldn’t have been wasting an iota of concern. We made the exit and that was the important thing.

The town was something- ville, something-burg. I didn’t catch the full name and that was fine. All these little towns were beginning to blur together into one big four-way stop-ville—like when we were kids. From town to town, school to school, liquor store to liquor store, and eventually jail to jail. Bribing a bum old enough to post bond on your mother was always a fun time. The stars, the clean air when we weren’t driving through clouds of pollen, the green, the quiet . . . It was missed, but as for the rest, I appreciated New York with new eyes. There were no Sophia memories there. There were Auphe memories, but also ones of victory over the Auphe. It was home and I was more than ready to kick this guy’s ass and get back there.

“Never send a samurai to do a street punk’s job,” I grumbled, slamming into the door as Robin treated the exit like a snowless slalom and he was shooting for the Olympics. “Don’t lose them.”

“Lose them? I was a charioteer in
Ben-Hur
. A car is nothing compared to four recently gelded and consequently highly pissy horses.” He maneuvered around a slow-chugging Toyota and a slightly faster-moving, rusted-out pickup truck with a ruthless speed that would’ve had a New York cabbie bawling like a baby. The black truck missed them both as well. Maybe it wasn’t a Seattle professor, but Charlton Heston behind the wheel.

It was not the best moment to pass the sheriff, but pass him we did. He was going in the opposite direction as we followed the truck at high speed. The department car slammed on its brakes, turned, and was after us for about fifteen seconds. Then it slowed, slowed further, and gradually veered off the road. He might not have shot the sheriff, but Suyolak had done something to him, and to the deputy too if he was with him—something probably permanent and considerably worse than what was in the song. And again I wondered—if he could do that with weak coffin seals, what would he be able to do if he did get out of that coffin?

I didn’t want to put it to the test, with Rafferty on our side or not.

“Shoot the tires,” I suggested.

“No.” Nik had checked the SIG to make sure one was in the pipe. Where was the trust? “Let’s see where he goes. Hopefully it will be someplace a little less conspicuous and less lethal to the local bystanders.” It truly was another four-way stop-ville as I said, but there were two gas stations and a tiny pizza place, or what passed for pizza in Utah. There were people—only a handful, but it was a handful that didn’t have to die because of Suyolak if we confronted him and whatever else was in that truck farther out.

“The salt of the earth, these people,” Robin said with a cheer that made me wonder how many times in his long life he’d chased after death with a smile and an immaculate wardrobe. “Ever made love to a Utah woman? Or man? They actually do taste like salt. I don’t know if it’s the salt flats or the air, but they’re like the very best potato chips. You can’t eat just one.”

“Does he ever shut up? Damn it,
ever
?” Rafferty looked close to desperate behind Niko’s seat.

“Whatever. You’ve spent two days with him. Try the past three years of your life. Or is it four? It’s too traumatizing to remember.” I hit the door again as we turned right. “And maybe you should concentrate on why Suyolak isn’t trying to do to us what he did to the cops back there.”

“He is.” Rafferty’s face was drawn now that I bothered to take the time to notice, his knuckles white where he clenched the seat beneath him to stay upright during the rough ride. “Just consider me your force field of cold, flu, and goddamn plague repellant and try not to distract me.” He closed his eyes, the better to concentrate, I hoped. I didn’t have a desire to have my body try to drown itself again. “Particularly you, Goodfellow.”

Robin had already opened his mouth for another comment. I didn’t have to see him to know that. I only had to know him. He kept quiet, though. I didn’t know what diseases pucks could catch, if any, and I knew they were resistant to poison, but he had a heart the same as the rest of us. And it could stop the same as the rest of ours. He could lose his life. The following silence was a sign of the high premium he put on that life. He might be a trickster, but he was up- front with his priorities and

I respected that.

I respected his driving even more as we took another turn. I didn’t think we took it on two wheels, but there was no way we took it on all four. I knew it the same as I knew Rafferty was keeping Suyolak from inserting invisible fingers into our brains, our blood, our bones, and contaminating them with his touch. I wouldn’t call it faith; I’d call it fact, the fact that we were still alive. That made Goodfellow one helluva driver and Rafferty one helluva healer. It also made me tired of sitting on the sideline. That’s not who I was, not what I did.

So instead I took a chance, one stupid, reckless chance. It was also one I was lucky to survive, but I didn’t care. I didn’t think “lucky” at the time, because it was what I was supposed to do, and who I was supposed to
be
, and it felt so damn good that I couldn’t have not done it if I’d tried.

Being unable to not do something is a bad sign that should make you think, and think hard, but I didn’t. Not then.

Because I was free.

I couldn’t make a gate inside the car, but I could build it around myself, and I did. Between one breath and the next, I was on the hood of the truck. I snared one hand on the rim of the windshield wiper well and pulled the Eagle with the other. I felt exhilaration as the wind hit me, as I saw a glimpse of a pale face and silver hair behind the glass, and most of all as I started to pull the trigger. The feeling didn’t disappear as the truck slid in a circle to leave the road, and I slid myself. I lost my grip and flew through the air. It could’ve been nasty, that fall.