Wolves and the River of Stone (2 page)

“Damn, I love this mug,” Foster said.

I glanced at his black-and-white butterfly wings, drooping over the edge of the steaming cup, and grimaced as we rumbled down the cobblestone street. “I will never be able to drink out of that again.”

I heard a splash as Foster said, “You don’t know the half of it. The other night Aideen–”

My eyes widened and I hurried to say, “Stop, stop now, for god’s sake. How do we get to Carter’s again?”

Foster laughed and sighed as he sank down to his chin. “Just take Fifth Street north. He’s a few lights up. It’s not far.”

We left the cobblestone streets of Saint Charles and pulled onto blessedly modern asphalt. The scenery changed quickly from old world brick construction to not-quite-so old suburbia. In fact, the thought of a werewolf lurking in the area seemed asinine. It seemed even more so as I stood on the curb and stared at Carter’s house five minutes later. “You sure this is the right place?”

“Oh yeah, check out the welcome mat.”

I crossed over the white picket fence, passed the pristine lawn, and started up the tulip-lined walk to Carter’s front door. The welcome mat, in front of the small white house with black shutters and a black door, was a cartoon wolf’s head with the tag line,
“My, what big teeth you have.”
I stared at Foster for a minute as he squeezed the last bits of moisture out of the bottom of his wings and wrinkled his nose.

“He’s definitely here. I could smell him from Cleveland.”

A deep, rumbling laugh rattled the door a second before it opened to reveal an average man with sandy blond hair. “And I could hear the annoying squeak of a fairy in my yard over the stereo.” I looked down on Carter—although being six foot five, I look down on most people—and guessed he was no more than five eight or nine. He had a light beard covering a strong chin. His eyes were profound, with a huge sunburst iris rimmed in black. His voice was deep as hell and just as intimidating.

Foster grinned and fluttered up to Carter’s shoulder. “Hey Carter, this is Damian. I think you met him once at his shop on Main Street, The Double D?”

“It’s good to see you again, Damian.” Carter extended his hand and nonchalantly crushed every bone in mine.

“You too, Carter,” I said, though I honestly couldn’t remember his face.

“So what brings you two here?”

“We’re in a rush and need to get to Hallsville. Damian still hasn’t sprung for a GPS and his master’s been taken by her old lover and is probably in deep shit at this point.” Foster revealed all this in the span of one second.

I blinked and Carter nodded.

“You could have called me.”

“Oh, but I don’t have your number,” Foster said.

Carter smiled a gentle smile. “Don’t worry about it. You and your friends are always welcome. It may be wise to make sure it’s not a full house in the future.” He looked up at me. “Sorry to hear about Zola.”

He stood aside and opened the door a little wider for us as we crossed into the werewolf’s den. I was trying to be wary of the wolf, but I already liked him.

Carter’s home was quaint, with a large dining room off to the right of the entry way. Judging by the glimpses I caught of the small living room and bedroom, the dining room was by far the largest room. I eyed the flat television mounted on the wall of the living room with a passing interest. The walls themselves were a subtle green color with white crown molding and beige furniture.

The only thing in the house that wasn’t immaculate was the hardwood floor. There were about a bajillion scrapes and gouges all across it. Apparently werewolves were really good at distressing wood. I caught a glimpse of myself in the entry way mirror, mud caked along the sleeve of my black bomber jacket and jeans. There was even some brown mixed into my black hair, causing it to stick out at odd angles over my left ear. My eyes looked tired, dim gray lights perched over the sharp edges of my cheekbones. I stroked the point of my chin and more mud flaked off. Watching it fall, I realized I had mud all over my shoes too. I sighed, pulled my shoes off, and set them outside while Carter just smiled.

Carter’s wife really threw me for a loop as she came around the half wall of the kitchen and thrust a platter of crispy rice squares under my nose.

“Glorious, glorious rice squares!” Foster said as he pounced on the platter.

Carter laughed as bits of cereal pattered onto the floor and said, “This is my wife, Maggie.”

She was a petite woman with platinum blonde hair and green wolf eyes. She looked almost fragile next to Carter, and I had a hard time registering the fact she could shift and tear my arms off if she felt like it. I smiled and nodded at Maggie and said, “Thanks” as I picked up a square of marshmallow-and-puffed-rice goodness.

“You are welcome in our home, until I say otherwise, necromancer.” Her smile had all the warmth of a dynamite plunger.

My teeth stopped halfway through the rice square and my eyebrows rose as I looked at Maggie again. Her smile warmed a bit, so I nodded and finished biting a piece off the rice square. I glanced at Carter and he was glaring at his wife. I hid a smile behind a cough.

“These are fantastic!” I said as I shook the rice square in the air.

“Let’s get your map,” Carter said, his voice utterly flat.

Maggie smiled sweetly as we walked past her, through the living room, down a short hallway and into a den. The furniture was all leather and dark wood. The far wall held two huge barrister bookcases, stretching from floor to ceiling and wall-to-wall, with about four inches of space between them.

“I grew up in rural Missouri,” Carter said as he reached in and pulled out one of the leather tomes. “I know the state better than most. I keep a few maps around just in case.” He set the tome on the desk with a thump and cracked it open to reveal dozens of pockets stuffed with a mass of maps.

“Just in case?” I asked.

“Wow,” Foster said. “You have maps for the whole country in there?”

“Just Missouri,” Carter said as he thumbed through a few leaflets. “I used to get lost when I was a kid. I started picking up maps.” He glanced at the bookcases. “It may have gotten a bit out of hand.” He pulled out a small rectangle of folded paper. “Here we go. It’s a little old, but it has the church on it.” He unfolded the map as he spoke and laid it across the desk. “You know how to get to Columbia?”

I nodded. It was a straight shot out Highway 70.

“Good, once you’re there, take 63 North. You’ll see an exit for Hallsville just a couple miles down the road.” His finger traced the route as he spoke. “From there you should be able to follow the dead.”

“What?” I said.

“It’s an old battlefield and there’s a decent-sized graveyard by the church.”

“Battlefield ...” I started and my face hardened in anger. “Civil War battlefield?”

Carter nodded and watched me with narrowed eyes.

“That’s why Philip has her there, Foster. Something’s there. One of the artifacts, a Guardian, something.”

“I don’t like Zola’s taste in men,” Foster said.

I laughed, but it was empty. “Can we borrow this, Carter?”

“Of course, of course. It shows you the lay of the land pretty well, should help you plan an approach,” he said as he folded the map up and handed it over.

“You want to come with us?” Foster said.

Carter shook his head. “I can’t be involved in a fight between necromancers. It would cause too much tension in the pack. I am sorry.”

Foster nodded without remark.

“Thank you, Carter,” I said. “We have to go.”

He walked us to the door and saw us out. We didn’t see Maggie, but she’d left a small bundle of crispy rice squares on Vicky’s front seat for us, with a note that said, “Good luck. We’re always watching.” I shivered.

“She’s, uh, kind of creepy, Damian.” Foster bit into another chunk of marshmallow as we traveled down Fifth Street to Highway 70.

“Yeah, I noticed. What was that all about?”

“She’s probably caught up in the old ways.”

“Old ways?” I glanced at Foster and he was staring at me with his eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Aideen told you all about werewolves. Did you not listen to her at
all?”

“Sure I did. I just don’t remember that part.”

Foster snorted and it sounded like the puff of a nasal spray as we pulled onto the highway. “Yeah, you were so smashed you slept with Mary and let her munch on you.”

Actually we’d gone out drinking with my sister Sam, Vik, Foster, Aideen, and a couple of girls from the vampire Pit. The Pit is Sam’s vampire family. Fairies generally stay far away from vampires, but Aideen and Foster had grown fond of Vik, and were even tolerant of Sam’s Pit, in general. Sometime in the evening, or early morning, Aideen had regaled me with the rich history of the Wolves of War. The night was fuzzy as hell, but I do vaguely remember doing things that ought not be done with the beautiful, irritating, and undead Mary, and waking up with vampire bites in the morning. Apparently necromancers are a tasty snack.

I glanced out the driver’s window in a failing effort to hide a grin as little flashes of the night came back to me. Vampires can get a little intoxicated by drinking alcohol, but drinking blood from an intoxicated human will get them flat drunk.

I scratched my head and looked at Foster. He was practically vibrating from all the sugar he’d been eating. “You were saying?”

“I was saying, werewolves used to kill necromancers on sight.”

“Bah, what’s new? Everyone used to kill necromancers on sight.”

“Yes,” Foster said, dragging the word out like he was talking to a toddler, “but werewolves are stuck in the past, bound to tradition even more so than some religious zealots.”

My smile faltered a little as Foster’s words hit home. Vicky bounced as I failed to dodge a pothole. “So some of them may want to dismember me on general principle?”

“Thoroughly, and violently.”

“Awesome,” I muttered.

I
t turned out Hallsville wasn’t all that far from us, but I was ready to pull out a flyswatter by the time we reached the area. Foster had shoveled down almost half of a crispy rice square and was flitting around the car like a gerbil on crack. I choked the steering wheel and steeled myself against my impulse to swat.

I ground my teeth and growled, “Why don’t you sit down, Foster?” He responded, but his words blurred together so fast, and at such a high pitch, I couldn’t make sense out of them. I sighed as I rolled down the window, threw out the crispy rice square remnants, and opened the console to reveal my fairy emergency kit. It consisted of a small plastic cup and a flask of Bushmills Irish Whiskey. I poured out a tiny measure and said, “Drink it, or you’re going out the window next.”

A swooping blur diminished the thimble-sized puddle of whiskey to nothing in a few seconds. Moments later, Foster was laid out on the dashboard with a ridiculous grin on his face. He drummed his fingers in a slow rhythm on the sword pommel slung across his hip and dragged his words out with a sigh. “Oh, yeah, that’s good.”

I feigned shock, raising my eyebrows. “Holy crap, you speak English!”

“For crispy rice squares, I’ll do worse than that.” He winked and pretended to shoot me with his thumb and index finger.

“God help us.” I turned my head to hide a smile as I pulled off Highway 63. The tree line crept up close to the road as we continued north.

“So what’s the deal with Carter? Are all the werewolves as nice as he is? You know, except for the whole killing necromancers thing?”

Foster stared at me for a minute, as if waiting for a punch line. “You bloody wish they were all like him. Most of them are like twenty four hour ‘roid rage.”

I shook my head. “No way, come on. You’ve got to be exaggerating. Carter seems laid back and in control.”

“No shit, genius.” Foster laughed. “Carter’s the Alpha around here. His presence has to be calming to the rest of the pack or they’d wipe themselves out, not to mention everyone else.”

I glanced at Foster as he jumped off the dashboard and down to the console. I squinted as the sun flashed off his golden armor. “You’re not kidding, are you?” I said.

“No, I’m not,” he said as he pulled his sword from its sheath.

“He’s a werewolf. He’s an Alpha. And he has a white picket fence.” I shook my head and laughed.

Foster didn’t respond. He stared out the windshield and then turned to look at me. “Do you feel it?”

My eyes flicked to the surrounding woods. “Yes.” I’d felt it for a while. The horror and anxiety was building around us as we grew closer to the battlefield—it was as if I was diving to the bottom of a deep pool. The dead pushed on the edges of my aura like several feet of water. There was something else out there besides the fallen soldiers. It felt wrong, and angry. “We’re close. Do you feel the ...” I paused, searching for the right word, “darkness?”

Foster’s mouth flattened into a grim line and he nodded sharply. “Let’s pull off the road. Hide the car.”

I slowed, the tires crunching on the gravel shoulder, and watched Foster for a moment before I nodded. His gaze never broke from the small rise to the east. We’d been on Mount Zion Church Road for a few minutes when we pulled into an abandoned filling station with real, live gasohol pumps. I parked Vicky behind the rickety structure, grabbed my staff and my focus, and we struck out across the small road.