Black Water

Author’s note: This novella takes place (in the JY timeline) after Blood Trade and before Black Arts.

I took the long, bumpy roads south of New Orleans to the backwaters of Louisiana, in Terrebonne Parish. I had been there recently with my business partners in Yellowrock Securities, Eli and Alex Younger. With us had been PsyLED special agent Rick LaFleur and his supernat team, Brute and Pea. We had been hired to track and kill a werewolf pack, which we had done. We left the place better off than when we found it.

Or so I’d thought.

Until I’d received a text from Harold, who owned the Sandlapper Guesthouse with his wife, Clara. We’d stayed with them partly because Harold was the uncle of my sorta-boyfriend, Rick. Harold’s text was to the point: Man w gun looking for you. Come quick. On the heels of the text had been the news coming from Chauvin, Louisiana, today—video of cops at a crime scene, near the Sandlapper.

The press hadn’t said much except that a rampage had occurred in Chauvin and news vans were on the way with more to follow soon in this “breaking news report.” Harold didn’t respond to my texts back. And Rick hadn’t replied to my texts asking for details. Harold and Clara were part of Rick’s extended family. He would know what had happened. And he wasn’t saying.

So here I was, riding Bitsa (built with bitsa this and bitsa that, from two rotted, rusted Harley bikes) down the horrible Louisiana roads and into danger—a man with a gun looking for me. Lately my enemies all had fangs, and most weres and vamps didn’t use guns. Humans used guns. I had no idea what human I had ticked off in Chauvin, but I was gifted that way—ticking off people. I had cleaned house, and someone wasn’t happy about it.

•   •   •

I pulled into the parking lot of the Sandlapper Guesthouse, on 56, south of Chauvin, and wheeled between sheriff deputy cars, a CSI van, and video news vans. The deputies looked relaxed and at ease, so they had been there awhile and had everything under control, but the news teams were still active. Crap. I was gonna get filmed, appear on TV news, and then I’d have to explain to my business partners why I’d come back here, alone, without the team. They needed time off. They were human; I wasn’t. And the last job, here in Chauvin, had been draining. But that argument wasn’t going to fly, and I knew it. I’d deal with that later. For now, I needed to get to Harold and Clara.

I cut off Bitsa, set the kick, bungeed my helmet to the back of the seat, stuck my hands in my pockets to appear nonthreatening to the sheriff’s deputies, and headed closer, wearing a friendly smile. I kept my face turned away from the news cameras, but if the media wanted to know who I was, they’d figure it out. There weren’t that many six-foot-tall, long-black-haired Cherokee females anywhere.

The county LEOs—law enforcement officers—studying me wore distinctly hostile faces, hands near gun butts, and I paused at the youngest cop, a redhead with freckles and bright eyes. Trying for innocent, I said, “Hey. What’s going on here?”

“You need to move along, miss,” the older one said, his hand sliding over his gun. The small strap that kept the weapon seated came unsnapped with a tiny click of sound. Somebody was in a mood. But I was smart enough not to say it.

Before I could reply, the wind shifted, and I smelled the sickly stench of old blood. Human. I came to a stop, mouth open, breathing in air over my tongue and the roof of my mouth, scenting as my Beast did, with a soft scree of sound. I took the place in more carefully, smelling the old blood, the fresher stink of injured humans, and the nitrocellulose of fired weapons. By the smells, Harold and Clara were on the premises, wounded. I wasn’t sure how that was possible. Cops usually made sure any injured people were taken to a hospital right away.

I couldn’t shake the feeling this was connected to my last job somehow.

The cops were looking at me strangely and I attempted a smile while I took another breath. A hint of magic tingled on my tongue, an old and weary magic. Crap. Where were Harold and Clara?

The mom-and-pop hotel was built on stilts to protect it from high tides and storm surge. The extra height gave every room fabulous water views, with fish-cleaning stations, parking, and rentable, fenced gear lockers/storage units underneath the hotel proper. Fishermen loved it. So had I. Harold and Clara lived on the far side. And there were other ways in, instead of through the cops.

Not waiting to get permission to enter—which I wasn’t going to get in any case—I lifted a hand in what might have been interpreted as a farewell gesture and headed back to Bitsa. I pushed the bike farther into the shadows under the hotel. And slid into the darkness. I pulled my cell. The unit was top-of-the-line, a communication device built for the military, to deflect bullets and work off anything—Internet towers, satellite, Wi-Fi, anything. It also let the Master of the City of New Orleans, Leo Pellissier, keep tabs on my whereabouts. Which reminded me that I hadn’t called to tell him I was coming here. My bad. Currently I had text messages waiting, most from the Kid. I sent back a quick K, not bothering to read them. Alex was wordy and I could digest them later. Unzipping my motorcycle jacket, I drew the nine-millimeter semiautomatic, slid the safety off, and chambered a round without looking. Muscle memory. Handy thing, that. It was an automatic reaction, probably a stupid one, since I’d just been seen by the cops, but I couldn’t make myself put the weapon away. Instead I added to it. With my left hand, I palmed a blade, a silver-plated, steel-edged throwing knife. Silver was poisonous to most supernatural creatures, and everything that might hurt me could bleed. The TV cameras hadn’t followed me. The deputies were shooting the breeze with a medic crew. I’d been forgotten. Good.

As I ascended the back stairs, I evaluated scents. Except for human blood, the acrid residue from fired weapons, and the salty taste of the Gulf of Mexico, nothing I smelled was familiar. Not were, not witch, not vamp, not anything I remembered smelling before, and my repertory of scents was vast, compared to humans’.

I made my way up the last step, as silent as the squeaky, weather-worn wood allowed. The smell got stronger, but oddly it made me relax. The gunfire had happened much earlier, and someone was cleaning up. I smelled bleach. Heard water sloshing. Heard soft cursing and softer laughter. It wasn’t happy laughter, but rather the kind of laughter humans made when they could either laugh or bust out crying. I recognized the voices of Clara and Harold. I chuffed out a relieved breath.

Inside my Beast relaxed. Humans not dead, she thought at me. I/we knew this.

I slid the small blade out of sight, into its thigh sheath, but thought better of holstering my sidearm. I didn’t want to be unarmed if the couple was under compulsion or had uninvited guests that the cops had missed. I followed the smells to their corner rooms and stopped just outside in the covered walkway. The light was against me. If I bobbed my head to peer in the windows, anyone inside would see me silhouetted against the bright afternoon sky. If there were still cops inside, they wouldn’t like the fact that I’d bypassed their crime scene tape. Weapon by my thigh in one hand, index finger along the slide, off the trigger, I made my way to the door, passing right in front of the windows. The glare obscured everything inside, but no one shot me. That was always a good thing. I tapped on the door and it opened almost instantly.

Harold’s welcoming gaze changed to surprise as it shifted from my face and down to my gun. I shrugged with what I hoped was a good-natured smile, sniffed to make sure there was no magical residue or compulsion on him—just in case—removed the round from the chamber, and holstered the weapon. The extra round went into a pocket.

“Flying carpet?” Harold asked, holding the door open.

“Um.” Which seemed like a perfectly acceptable response to the odd question.

“Thanks for getting here so fast,” he added.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure,” I said, entering the second-floor apartment. I was such a smooth talker.

Except for muscular arms, Harold was a round kinda guy. Round belly, round, bald head, round eyes, and round face, which now had horizontal lines across the forehead and vertical lines along the sides of his mouth. His face reminded me of a pop quiz in a geometry class in school.

The entry was divided by a counter with apparatus and paperwork for guests to sign in. Behind it was the couple’s living quarters. I breathed in the room’s smells and took in dainty, delicate Clara on her knees just inside the door, a bucket beside her giving off the stink of chlorine bleach and soap. She had a sponge in one hand, a small brush in the other, and relief on her face.

“Thank God you’re here,” Clara said.

Before we could get farther, my cell rang, an unknown number on it. I answered and said, “Yellowrock Securities.”

“Jane.”

Inside my Beast sat up and purred. “Ricky Bo, as I live and breathe. You must be calling from your office number.”

“Got it in one, darlin’.”

Instantly, inexplicably, I was irritated, mostly at the darlin’ but also because this couldn’t be good news. I was standing at a crime scene in his relatives’ home. Rick had to be wanting me to do him a favor. Again. Even though I had yet to be paid by Uncle Sam for the last one. I snarled, “What’s with the darlin’ stuff?”

“I . . . uh.” He stopped talking and then seemed to change, as if he put my mood in a box, sealed it up, and tossed it in the basement. If he had a basement. He turned on his business voice. Cop business. “I need a favor in Chauvin. A big favor.”

I blew out a breath and most of my irritation. He was a cop to his bones and a man loyal to his family, traits I liked. I couldn’t—shouldn’t—get upset when the behaviors resulting from his natural inclinations and his job worked against me. A wordless apology in my tone, I said, “I’m standing in front of Harold now.”

“Yeah? Why?” he asked, voice cautious.

“Because Harold texted me that a man with a gun wanted to see me. I figured that whatever happened could be related to my last job here, and if not, then I’d see what I could do to help your uncle. I’m nice that way.”

I could hear the smile back in his voice when he said, “Yes, you are. And what do you think about the crime?”

“No werewolf stink. No one dead.” I shrugged and punched the screen. “You’re on speakerphone. Local LEOs are gone. Press is still out front. Clara is cleaning up human blood.” I meandered as I talked and placed my finger over one of many holes in the front door, measuring. “There’s evidence of a shotgun being fired into the door.” I sniffed the hole and smelled fresh gunpowder and fresh wood. An interesting combo. “Shot came from inside; door was open at the time. Blood on the wall and floor inside. Crime scene tape, but no CSI around, which tells me there was a crime but it was unimportant, or the cops were too lazy to work it up, which doesn’t sound like your cousin, the sheriff.” I looked at Harold. “What happened?”

Harold said, “Let’s back up. The real crime took place up Highway 56. An inmate escaped Angola two days ago. John-Roy Wayne’s family was in Alexandria, and that’s where everyone figured he was heading. Instead he came here. From what the po-lice said, he had no reason to be in Chauvin, so the sheriff’s department wasn’t expecting any kind of trouble. Last night he took two young mothers hostage.”

I had heard about the prison break two days before, and about the massive manhunt that had followed. Angola State Prison was up near the top of the instep of the boot-shaped state, near the Mississippi border. The hellhole was for the hard-timers, the most violent prisoners in the state. Alexandria, Louisiana, was in the middle of the state, almost due north of Chauvin. Chauvin was the wrong corner of a triangle. I was doing lots of geometry today, but I was still confused and let that show on my face.

Harold walked to the sitting area and turned off the muted TV. He flopped on the couch and put his feet on the shabby-chic coffee table, with a small groan of relief. He looked exhausted, dark rings under his eyes. I hadn’t known about the kidnapping, which had probably happened just prior to my leaving New Orleans. But even if I’d known about it, I wouldn’t have put those events together with Chauvin and Harold and Clara. “They came here,” Harold said.

“We were checking in two fishermen,” Clara said, standing, holding one hand out to the side, indicating that I should join Harold in the sitting area. She moved to the sink, where she washed her hands, saying, “John-Roy Wayne busted in the door.”

“I was in back”—Harold thumbed at a doorless opening in the shadows of a hallway—“getting extra pillows and blankets. I heard Clara scream. Not a scream,” he corrected. “More a startled, scared yelp.”

“The man had a gun. He wanted money,” Clara said. I could hear the underlying fear in her voice, and smell the fear stink from her pores. She had been terrified. Still was, though her hands, drying on a towel, were steady and sure. “And he wanted to know where you were.”

“Me?” I had never even heard of John-Roy Wayne.

“Yeah, you,” Harold said. “He said, ‘Where’s the Cherokee bitch?’” He looked at his wife. “Sorry for the profanity, honey. Anyways, I grabbed my gun and came out here. Moved so fast that I hit the doorway.” Harold held up his right arm to reveal a bandage on the back, just below the elbow. “That’s my blood all over. Took us a while to get it to stop bleeding. The doc at the emergency room said I hit a small artery. At the time, I didn’t even notice. Anyways, Clara, she’s a smart one. She hit the deck when I came charging out. Everyone hit the floor, and I fired at John-Roy. He ran. My rounds hit the door, but I think I missed John-Roy. Anyways, he took off with wheels screeching.”

“In a stolen car.” Clara brought me a glass of iced tea with a wedge of lemon and indicated I should take a seat on the love seat, across from Harold, in the tiny sitting area, and I centered the cell on the table between us. It was all very domestic, considering the circumstances. I took the tea, sat, and sipped. Clara said, “The sheriff thinks he probably stole an airboat off the wharf a mile or so north. One’s been reported missing, and the stolen car was found there.”

Over the cell, Rick said, “CSI is on-site. There’s evidence the women were in the car.”

I didn’t want to ask what kind of evidence. I had a bad feeling about what they were going through. A real bad feeling.

“Anyways,” Harold said, which he said a lot, “the fishermen bailed. Haven’t seen them since. But their room is ready anytime they want to come back. Extra pillows and blankets waiting.” From the satisfied way he smiled, I assumed that the men had already paid for the room. Whether they used it or not was up to them.

“The police think he’ll head north along the waterways.” Clara handed me a linen tea napkin, like a cocktail napkin but classier. “They think he’ll likely end up back in Alexandria.”

Rick said, “I’d agree, except for the tiny mention of a Cherokee female. I did some checking. This hasn’t been released to the press, but the female werewolf you killed, Jane, was the prisoner’s little sister, Victoria Wayne.”

My heart fell. I had already begun to consider that, somehow, the crimes were related to me. I’d just gotten the whys of it all backward. Of course, I hadn’t killed the were-bitch, but I was the visible face of Yellowrock Securities. YS’s previous hunt for the “wild dogs” in the area had hit the news about three days after we left Chauvin. My photo, taken directly from the pages of YellowrockSecurities.com, had stared back at me for all of fifteen seconds on the news that night. No one had mentioned the presence of Rick and PsyLED, or the Younger brothers. Just me and the fact that I had stayed at the Sandlapper. Apparently I looked good on the small screen. My partners had made fun of me for days for being a movie star. I had figured that was the end of it. I’d figured wrong.

My fifteen seconds of fame was all it took for John-Roy to decide I’d killed his sister.

Rick went on, relentless in his cop voice, that toneless expression they use when they tell bad news. “The facts, ma’am. Just the facts,” courtesy of Joe Friday on Dragnet. “We had thought that the law enforcement roadblocks out of Angola forced him to steer south, but with Uncle Harold’s statement, I’ve revised that scenario. It’s only been a few days since John-Roy’s sister died, and it isn’t like he had Internet access in the state facility. He’s looking for you, and because of the media, he thinks you’re still in Chauvin.”

That made sense of a sort. “Go on.”

“According to the timeline we’ve developed, he took the women to make travel easier. Their families didn’t notice they were gone until night came and they didn’t come home. No one put two and two together for hours. No one was searching for an armed man traveling south with two females. And by then they were gone.”

“That’s not the only reason why he took the women,” I said softly.

“No. Probably not.” The cop tone was stronger now, harder, colder.

“And he’s got them down here in the swamps somewhere. Because he thinks, what?” I tried to think like an angry human. “His sister died in the area and the media posted it all over that I’d stayed here. So therefore Harold and Clara would know where I was?”

“That’s what we think.”

We. The cops. “Does he have survival skills? Weapons? Friends who might help?”

“Yeah. Also not released to the public. A pawnshop was broken into in Thibodaux,” Rick said. “Guns, ammo, and camping supplies were stolen. Some dehydrated meals. A first aid kit. And John-Roy has a former cell mate living in Galliano. Goes by the moniker Snake. Snake didn’t show up for work this morning. Lastly we just discovered two DBs in a gas station bathroom. We think it might be the work of our missing felon.”

DBs. Dead bodies. I said, “So we have two missing women, probably already traumatized. Two cons, maybe together, maybe not. All four human. And a lot of swamp. Why are you calling me?” I figured I knew, but I believed in laying my cards on the table, and I wanted that from my sorta-boyfriend.

“John-Roy and Snake are hunting for you. I think once John-Roy regroups and gains access to the Internet and other media, he’ll figure out that you live in New Orleans and he’ll head there. That needs not to happen.”

I realized what he meant. It was hunt for them out there, where there were fewer possibilities of collateral damage—meaning dead humans—or have them hunt me in the city, where someone unrelated to the case might get hurt. It was a no-brainer.

“The sheriff’s department might be willing for you to help track the guys.” He didn’t say it, but with his cousin Nadine being the sheriff, it was likely he had already broached the possibility. More of those tangled familial ties. “I’d send Brute to help you track, but I need him here.”

I snorted a laugh. That one I hadn’t expected. Rick’s werewolf partner and I mighta worked together okay for a while, and I was grateful that he saved my life and all, but he was a pain in the butt. “I got another idea who I can get to help.” Not that I’d tell Rick who. Some secrets should go to the grave. “You want to notify Nadine and tell her to keep her men from shooting me and my team?”

Sarge was related to Rick and Harold and Clara. He was also a lone wolf, a werewolf who ran and hunted alone beneath the full moon, and had done so for decades—sane—all of which was unheard of for werewolves. He was a grizzled war vet and pilot, and at the time I had felt pretty good about not telling the world about him. About not filling him full of silver rounds. I felt even smarter about it now. If he would help me.

“Yeah. Thanks, Jane,” Rick said, his voice softening.

“Why is this so important to you?” I asked. “Your job is hunting supernaturals. This isn’t your sister kidnapped. Your family wasn’t harmed except for a self-inflicted flesh wound. The culprits and victims are human. What’s PsyLED’s interest?”

“PsyLED could give a rat’s ass for this case,” Rick growled, his black big-cat sounding in his voice. “But all this came from our job down there. It’s unfinished business.”

That I understood perfectly. I nodded. “Okay. I’ll stay. I’ll track the escaped prisoner. And I’ll let the sheriff’s office handle hostage negotiation and taking prisoners unless I see a reason to do otherwise. And this one’s on me,” I added. “Like you said. It’s unfinished business. Get Nadine to send all pertinent info to my cell and e-mail.”

I ended the call and dialed the Kid, the electronic genius member of the firm. The Kid—given name Alex, and sometimes still called Stinky because of his occasional lack of personal hygiene—answered, “Jane. Where are you? Eli said we’re doing pizza tonight.”

I took a breath and prepared to accept the consequences of going off on my own. “You guys go ahead. I’m in Chauvin.”

I heard a faint click, a change in the ambient noise on the other end, and Eli, the weapons and tactics guy of the firm, said, “Why?” Never one to waste words, my partner.

“Unfinished business. The escaped Angola prisoner was brother to the were-bitch we took down. John-Roy Wayne picked up an old cell mate and they have two women, young mothers, hostage.”

“We’ll be there in four hours.” The connection ended.

“Well, crap,” I said, staring at the phone.

“They’re your brothers, dear,” Clara said, assuming. “Brothers are like that. They have to protect their sisters.”

I started to say that we weren’t family, but we were all three orphans. We lived together. We did sorta physically resemble each other: Eli and Alex were mixed race, and I was Cherokee, giving us all dark skin and hair. We were more than friends. Family. “Yes,” I said. “My brothers are pains in the neck. Okay if we take our old rooms?”

“I’ll get them aired out, dear,” Clara said.

I carried my empty tea glass to the sink and headed to the door. “I’ll be back. I’m heading out to talk to a pilot and borrow a dog.”

Without turning from the sink, where she was washing my glass, Clara said, “Tell Sarge and Chris and their great monster dog that we said hi.”

“Will do,” I said. And took off down the stairs, to wade through the newsies who were waiting for me, blocking both exits, microphones extended. I thought about ignoring them but realized that this might be the best way of keeping the escaped con in the area. I slowed and said, “I have a statement.” The cameras and reporters gathered around me like flies to beer. “I’m Jane Yellowrock. I’m in Chauvin. And I’m hunting John-Roy Wayne. You want me, Johnnie boy? Come and get me.” I climbed on Bitsa and took off, helmet still on the bike, my braid streaming in the wind.

One thing about riding a Harley. You can outpace a news van in no time flat.

•   •   •

Beyond a quick glance at the lush greenery, the kind only an earth witch can coax to grow in wintertime, I hadn’t paid much attention to Sarge’s place when Yellowrock Securities hired him to fly us to the kill sites of werewolf attacks. The house was an old tidewater, built on low stilts, with lattice covering the open space beneath. Sarge had been expecting us last time we came. Not so much now. The Vietnam War vet didn’t like most people, and he had the guns to make sure they stayed away.

I pulled into his drive, up to the house, and walked to the door. Knocking was superfluous after the noise of Bitsa, but it was also polite, and good manners had been part of the curriculum in the Christian children’s home where I was raised. I knocked. Sarge opened the door before I dropped my hand. He was holding a shotgun. At his side was PP, short for Pity Party. The part mastiff, part buffalo, part elephant growled at me, showing teeth. Freaking big teeth.

Beast padded to the front of my brain and glowered out at her. Beast chuffed, wanting to take the challenge PP offered. PP growled low, as if she detected a change in my scent, morphing into something dangerous. Most dogs could sense the big-cat of my Beast, my mountain lion, hiding deep inside. Or maybe Pity Party just didn’t like me.

I shoved Beast down and raised both hands in the universal gesture of peace, or maybe the universal gesture of I am not holding a gun. See? Don’t shoot. “Sarge,” I said, “I’m not here to cause you trouble. Or to tell anyone about your secret.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Partly because I need answers to a couple of questions.”

“I’ve never turned anyone. Not once. Ain’t interested in making a pack. Never was. I got what I want. And I’ll defend it to my last dying breath. That about cover it?”

I chuckled and said, “That covers the questions part of why I’m here.”

“What’s the other part? I got lunch waiting.” PP growled again, this time deeper. And Sarge still had the gun leveled at my chest.

“I need a partner and the necessary equipment to help me track down an escaped inmate and another ex-con who took two women prisoner. They took off into the countryside. Waterside. Whatever you call this swamp. The men are violent, armed, have survival equipment and skills. And they’ll kill us as soon as look at us.”

“Long as it ain’t something dangerous, then,” he said, laconic, a twinkle in his eyes. Sarge broke open his shotgun and draped it across an arm, pushing open the door. “Come on in. I reckon we got a lot to talk about. Let her in, PP. And go get Christabel. Tell her we got company.”

The dog was gonna tell someone they had company? Huh.

PP padded away, her claws clicking on the floor. Inside, the house was decorated in French country, with lots of wood and crockery and copper pots hanging near the AGA stove. There were white quartz countertops and dark green walls with weathered gray cabinets. And flowers everywhere, in vases, in pitchers, stemless blooms floating in shallow bowls. Over the floral fragrances, I could smell Italian sausage simmering on the AGA and pasta and fresh bread and aromatic cheeses. My mouth watered. And it made me feel guilty, to think of my stomach while two young women were being . . . I shook my head to make the images go away.

“Sit a spell,” Sarge said as we entered a great room with matching leather couch, love seat, and recliner, upholstered ottomans, and a beautiful wall-hanging over the fireplace, made of different lengths and colors of horsehair, an image suggestive of the black water swamp and the sky under moonlight. “Hope you’re hungry. My wife will insist you join us.” He didn’t sound too happy about it, and placed the shotgun on a small side table instead of putting it away. I took that as a sign to be very careful. Sarge dropped into the recliner in the corner, house wall at his back, windows and doors in his line of sight, and shotgun about a quarter second from his hand.

“I don’t have time to eat,” I said. “I don’t have time to visit. I just need to know if you’ll help me.”

“Sit,” he said again, this time pointing to the chair that put my back to everything important. I wanted to sock him to make him listen to me, but I took a seat catercorner to him, not the one he’d wanted me to take. It wasn’t the best seat in the house from a defensive standpoint, but it was second-best. Somehow my chair choice made a point for me; Sarge chuckled. “So, what do you want me to do for you?” he asked.

“I was hoping you and PP might join me.” He didn’t appear to be opposed to the idea, so I took a quick breath and added, “Both on leashes.”

Sarge didn’t shoot me. He didn’t move at all. I heard ticking, slow and sonorous, and saw the pendulum of a grandfather clock swaying off to my right. The ticking seemed to echo through the house. My palms started to sweat. I didn’t want to fight a werewolf in any form, especially not one with a shotgun close to hand. Weres are fast.

Then Sarge started to chuckle and I unclenched my fists. “You hear that, Christabel? This skinny little thing wants to put a leash on me.”

“It worked for me,” a breathy voice said.

I turned my head, only slightly, and took in the woman standing next to the clock. She was slight, model-thin, like a size zero, with waist-length hair in calico-cat patterns, patches of white and silver, black and brown, blond and reds. I envied her dye job. If it was a dye job. I sniffed. She smelled of trees. Oak, pine, sycamore, sourwood, and sweet gum. She wasn’t human. I wasn’t even sure she was mammalian. I didn’t know how long she’d been there, and that bothered me. I didn’t smell witchy magics on the air, but then, the trees, garlic, and spices were strong enough to mask most any other scent. “Come,” she said to both of us. “Let us break bread.”

Sarge came up out of the recliner like a bullet and I jerked. He laughed again, and I knew the wolf leap had been to push my buttons. I rose from the chair, coming to my feet closer than was polite in human terms. He didn’t back down. I didn’t either. And this close, I could smell the were-stink on him. A low growl came from my other side, reminding me that PP would love to join in a fight.

“Do not toy with the u’tlun’ta, my love,” Christabel chided. “Even if you tree her, she may bite.”

“I’m not a liver eater,” I said, stung.

Christabel shrugged, hands folded at her waist, her hair moving in the air current of the heating vent as she replied, “It is only a matter of time.”

This woman knew what I was. And knew of the curse that clung to my kind, to eventually go insane and start eating people. I forced my breathing to remain steady, calmed my heart rate. I was too close to them to win any kind of fight with the werewolf/husband/protector, his part-mammoth dog, and his wife, the nonhuman whatever-she-was. And Christabel might have some answers to questions about my magic and heritage.

Sarge extended an arm like a refined waiter and said, “After you, my ladies.”

I followed Christabel to the kitchen, Sarge and PP on my heels. I tried real hard not to sweat or let my breathing speed at the thought of them behind me. I didn’t succeed. I heard Sarge pant once, in delight or hunger or both.

They indicated a chair, and since it had a decent wall behind it, I took it. “There are women in trouble. Mothers,” I repeated as I sat, to shove my urgency deeper into them, like a needle under a fingernail. Sarge sat at the table and toasted first his wife, then PP, sitting on the floor, her head at Sarge’s elbow, then me, and sipped his wine. “You’d only need to be leashed in front of cops,” I said.

“After lunch,” Sarge said again.

I barely contained a growl and picked up my fork. I stopped before I shoved it into the pasta. Neither of them had started eating. This was a test? Holding my fork in the air, I sniffed, searching for what was wrong. And then it hit me. They were waiting for grace. I wanted to stab Sarge with the fork, but I laid it on the table and lowered my head. But I didn’t close my eyes.

Christabel closed hers and said, “May the all-knowing and all-seeing, the creator gods of the first Word, bless our repasts and our day. We give thanks for life and all that is green, for all water and all rain, for all fish in the seas, for all plants that grow. For sun and moon and earth and sky. We pray for peace among all beings.”

Sarge said, “Father, bless this day, this food, this house, this wife, and this hunt. May the blood of my enemies stain my teeth this day.”

He was going on the hunt. And he wanted to eat people. All righty, then, I thought.

A beat too late, I realized they were waiting for me to pray aloud, round-robin-style. Which I hadn’t done since I’d left the children’s home. In fact, I hadn’t prayed in, well . . . a while. More guilt wormed beneath my skin and sucked out my spirit, like a leech, attached to my soul. “Ah maaaan,” I sighed, knowing this was another test. I was gonna have to pray. Aloud. In front of people who didn’t believe anything I did.

Thinking how I might contribute, aware that prayers revealed more about the pray-er than the deity prayed to. Looking back and forth between them, I dredged up the memory of a childhood course about the names of God, and mentally added to it, the way The People, the Cherokee, spoke when they talked to God.

I said, “Um. To El Roi, the God Who Sees Me, I pray. See this food. I am grateful. See this house. Bless it and keep it safe. See this couple. Bless this union. And see the men I hunt. May they be found and given over to the mercies of”—I stumbled my way through—“Elohei-Mishpat, the God of Justice. May Jehovah Sabaoth, the Lord of Armies, give them into my hand in battle. El Roi, see the women the evil ones have stolen. El Rechem, God the Merciful, keep them safe.”

“Jewish?” Sarge asked, open curiosity on his face as he stuffed a forkful of sausage into his mouth.

“Christian.”

“I don’t like Christians.”

“Most of us aren’t likable. But then most people aren’t very likable either, and Christians are people.”

“Huh. You hear that, Christabel? This u’tlun’ta is a philosopher.”

“Not an u’tlun’ta, and not a philosopher,” I said, following Sarge’s lead and taking a bite of the sausage, which burst into flavor so intense I thought my head might explode. “As a child, I was trained as a War Woman of The People.”

“It is a worthy calling for an u’tlun’ta. These women the prisoner took,” Christabel said, not waiting for me to deny it. “They are your family?”

“Wouldn’t know them from Eve’s house cat,” I said.

“Eve kept several house cats.” Christabel sipped her wine and ate a piece of pasta as I watched. Her teeth were not the blunt teeth of a primate or an herbivore, but the pointed teeth of a predator. “Her favorite was a tawny Abyssinian named Lilith.”

“Uh-huh.” I shoved in a bite, chewed, swallowed, sipped, swallowed, shoved in another bite. It was delicious. It was decadent. It was also taking too long. I shoved in another bite, watching them.

“If you do not have . . . relation to them . . .” Christabel stopped and started over. “If you do not have a relationship with them, why do you wish to hunt for them and kill their enemies? Humans die often in this place. The digested meat and gnawed bones of many humans lie in the muck at the bottom of the bayous, channels, ditches, and lakes. This is a place of death.” She swirled pasta on her fork, stabbed a sausage, and inserted it into her mouth—which opened wider than it should have. I tamped down on the urge to shudder, but she smiled as if she saw it anyway.

“The young of humans are important to the sane among us,” I said, which said a lot and nothing, so I added, “And the females are as well.”

Christabel laughed, a sound more akin to hollow wood wind chimes than true laughter. “You speak lies, u’tlun’ta. I have watched human males rape and kill their young and their women for longer than you can imagine.”

“Yeah?” I put down my fork. It landed with a small clink on the china plate. “My grandmother and I hunted down and killed the men who raped my mother. It was slow and painful and it took a long, long time.”

Christabel laughed again, this time clapping her hands. Her hair floated around her like gossamer strands of silk, fine as spiderweb, fine as the fluffy down of baby birds. “I like this one,” she said to Sarge. “Hunt with her. And bring me the scalps of the ones you kill.”

“Fine,” Sarge said, “I can do that,” as if it was Christabel’s decision that counted. As if, had she said, offhand, Kill this woman, he would have stood up and strangled me. “Lemme get my guns and change. We can meet at the dock and take my airboat. You’ll need to move that hog. I don’t want anyone to think Christabel’s here with company.” While he was gone, I helped Christabel clear the table. She prattled the whole time about recipes. I made noises of agreement and didn’t tell her I don’t cook.

•   •   •

It was on my way out that I got a closer look at the wall hanging, the one I’d thought was made of horsehair. It wasn’t horse. It was human hair. And Christabel had told her pet werewolf to bring her scalps. Something told me the command wasn’t metaphorical. Holy crap. One of the nonhuman beings I’d eaten dinner with was an artist with death. I closed the door, mounted Bitsa, and tightened the bungees that held my helmet in place on the back wheel fender. Looking at the sky, I muttered, “I’ll bargain most anything you want to not have to go back in there again. Just sayin’.”

No one answered. I didn’t really expect him to.

PP left the house, strapped into an overcoat-sized harness like a service dog, but this harness didn’t have pockets filled with the TV remote, phone, pencils, paper, and things a disabled person might need. This harness was strapped with weapons.

PP was wearing several handguns and what looked like a Mossberg shotgun on her far side, a Sterlingworth twelve gauge on the side closest. And knives. Lots of them. Her pockets were full of gear. Nothing fancy, nothing Eli would bring along, just guns to hunt with. I liked.

The harness was a good design. I heard no clanking when she trotted up, and PP carried her leash in her mouth. When she reached my bike, she sat and looked at me, waiting, then turned and looked to the back of the house, at the black water, trying to tell me where I was supposed to be.

I gunned Bitsa and followed PP around back, aware that if the bizarre couple wanted to kill me and hide the evidence, I was giving them ample opportunity. And my hair was really long. Christabel could probably do wonders with it.

I wheeled Bitsa beneath the extended overhang of an outbuilding, in the shade and out of any possible rain, checked my weapons, holstered up, added a few extra mags of ammo and a bag of turkey jerky, and joined PP at the shoreline. Sarge’s plane was . . . moored, I guessed, at the dock, and on the other side of it, an airboat had been pulled up onshore. I hadn’t noticed the boat the last time we were here, but then, my attention had been on the thought of flying. Which I hated.

PP’s head turned back to the house at the same instant that I smelled werewolf. I managed not to draw on my host, and also to pivot slowly instead of whirling, but it was a near thing. I had thought Sarge had meant he was going to change clothes to start this hunt, but he had taken me literally when I said he’d be leashed. A big gray wolf sat on the back deck staring at me with eyes the color of rainbow moonstone. Christabel’s hand was on his head, petting his ears as if he were a dog. Whatever magic had hidden his scent, it was gone now, with him in wolf form.

Previously I had seen Sarge in his wolf form only at a distance, in poor lighting. Seen closer, his coat was silver, each hair black-tipped, black legs and tail, a silver brow with a black stop and a black stripe that ran down his nose. He nudged Christabel, who knelt and strapped him into a harness like PP’s, but his was looser and had a strap up the tail, which would keep the harness in place while in dog form but allow him to change to human form while wearing it.

Once he was harnessed, Sarge picked a leash up in his mouth and carried it to me. As he left her, Christabel caught my gaze and held it with hers. She grinned, her mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth. I nodded once. I understood. If I didn’t bring her family back unharmed, she’d find me, kill me, eat me, and take my scalp for her trophy wall. Though maybe not in that order.

Sarge stopped at my feet and moved his eyes from me to the airboat. I untied the rope and put my back into getting the boat offshore, into the water. When the bow was still on sand, Sarge whuffed and I stood straight, arching my back to loosen the muscles. Sarge and PP leaped into the boat and I followed. There were seat belt–like harnesses suitable for big dogs on the front bench seat, and seat belts for humans on the upper seat. The key was in the ignition. A storage trunk ran the width of the johnboat, just in front of the prop. There was plenty of gasoline in the tanks, and the steering mechanism was the same as another I’d driven, a stick that controlled the rudders. In moments, I had the canines belted in, and we were practically flying toward the last known location of the escaped prisoner and his two hostages, the roar of the airboat deafening. There would be no sneaking up on anyone in an airboat.

•   •   •

Sheriff Nadine LaFleur was onshore, with haphazardly parked cruisers, a crime scene van, and local law enforcement behind her. Lots of cops and deputies, male, female, all races, dressed in a mélange of uniform styles, street clothes, and business attire designating their branches of law enforcement. The gang’s all here, I thought. Media vans were in the distance with telephoto lenses, trying to see what was going on.

I beached the boat near the small pier off Highway 56, known to the locals as Little Caillou Road, Nadine’s eyes checking out the canines. She ignored PP, as if she’d seen the dog before, but the wolf was a different matter. Nadine wasn’t happy to see him.

As the noise of the airboat abated, law enforcement types spread out, all armed, most carrying shotguns in addition to their sidearms, two with sniper rifles. Every single one of them turned a weapon in our direction.

I did my best to look innocent, but the black leather jacket, vamp-killers strapped to my thighs, and bulges of more weapons beneath my clothes didn’t help. Sarge made a barking sound and grinned at the humans like a frisky pup. PP took her cues from him and sat up, barking, looking as pretty as a buffalo dog can.

“Don’t tease the humans, Fido,” I said. Sarge’s mouth snapped shut and the look he gave me was not playful. “What?” I murmured, for his ears only. “You want me to call you Sarge?” I could see all sorts of things flicker through the wolf’s eyes before he vocalized softly and ducked his head. I’d made my point. I smoothed my wind-tangled hair, keeping my hands visible, tucking the ends into my braid as Nadine approached. The stocky, dark-haired woman was frowning, the stink of hatred and fear in her wake. The cops didn’t like werewolves. Which was okay by me. I didn’t like them either.

I studied the group as they advanced on the airboat. There were dogs and multijurisdictional vehicles and boats and gear. The LEOs were preparing to start a search and rescue, an SAR, for John-Roy and the kidnapped women, but they hadn’t left yet, which was good. Their passage would mess up the air currents and any scents the wind might carry. We were just in time. Ducky.

“What is that?” Nadine jerked her chin at Sarge.

“Sarge loaned me PP, and the wolf came by boat.” Which was not a lie. Go, me.

“Sarge is always willing to loan his dog. That wasn’t my question. Where did you get the werewolf and why don’t I just shoot him where he sits?” One of the snipers raised his rifle and took a bead on Sarge.

“Fido’s people-friendly, won’t bite, and has the best nose in the business. He knows what and who we’re looking for, and because he has a human intelligence coupled with the nose of a hunting predator, and because it isn’t the full moon, he’s our best bet for success. Between the two canines, we hope to find the bad guys, call you to come take them in, and rescue the women.” I looked at the snipers and said, “And if you have standard ammo, not silver, nothing short of an elephant gun will kill him. And then you’ll have a fast-healing, pissed-off werewolf on your hands.”

“Stand down,” Nadine said to her men. To me she said, “Why? What do you get out of it? You think you’re responsible because you killed John-Roy Wayne’s werewolf sister Victoria?” Nadine was brutally direct. I liked that in a woman.

“Not me. But yeah. My team. A job for which I have yet to be paid,” I added. Nadine responded with a frown, so I finished in a soft voice meant just for her and not the men behind her. “This is a freebie. Now, you gonna let my friends here sniff the stolen car you got cordoned off over there and let us get on the water, or are you just gonna stand here wasting my time?”

Nadine’s eyebrows shot up, she snorted, and she stepped away from the boat. “Let the trackers at the vehicle, y’all,” she called out. “Let’s see what the werewolf and PP can do.”

I released the canines from their seat belt harnesses and snapped on the leashes, made of strong, durable, nylon flex, and jumped from the bow to the hard-packed ground. The cops opened a wedge of space, like a gauntlet, for us to pass through. The huge critters at my sides, we walked through the cops to the car. It was sitting at an angle across the faded parking lines, all four doors open. Inside it was a mess, paper food wrappers, a stuffed animal that looked as if it had spent a year in a city dump, clothes, pillows, and blankets. My sense of smell was much better than a human’s, and I leaned in with the canines, pulling the air over my tongue with a scree of sound. The car smelled of fast food, fear, blood, and semen.

Fury lit in my gut, flashing through me like a wildfire. Sarge swiveled his head to me and growled at the stink and what it might mean. “Yeah,” I said softly to him. Since Crime Scene was finished with the vehicle, I crawled inside and followed my nose until I found the place where the stink came from. It was on the back of the front seat, and beside it was a smear of blood.

“Fido, smell this. See if the blood belongs to the same man.” Sarge wriggled up beside me, far closer than I really wanted the werewolf, and placed his nose near the blood. He gave two quick sniffs and backed away, a canine grin on his face. “She hurt him, didn’t she?”

Sarge chuffed and growled, dipping his head in agreement. The women had been hurt too, though, and the stink of fear and pain was strong in the car.

Louder, without turning my head, I said, “Somebody was beaten in the car. Fido can smell it.” Nadine cursed. I was aware that her men had gathered in a tight circle around us, but their commingled scent was less antagonistic than it had been.

“Was everyone alive when they left the car?” I asked Sarge. He nodded once. “Two women?” He nodded. “How many men?” He dipped his head twice. I looked around, wondering how the other guy got here.

“You got any more vehicles unaccounted for here?” I asked Nadine. “Because John-Roy Wayne probably already had male company when he took off.” Nadine cursed again and sent her men to check vehicle tags. I said softly, “You got the scent?” Sarge whuffed. “Let’s go, then. We’re gonna move real casual, back toward the boat, and soon as we get settled, we’re gonna blow outta here. We’re not gonna be slowed down by cops trying to keep up. We’re not waiting for them to get the SAR team ready and give out little radios and coordinate a plan. Understood?”

Sarge tilted his head at me and licked his chops.

•   •   •

Fifteen minutes later my cell buzzed in my pocket. We were far enough away that I couldn’t see the shore, and there had been no pursuit, so I killed the motor, leaving the airboat gliding across the water. I popped the cell and ignored the files on John-Roy, sent to me by Nadine, because I recognized the number from earlier. I said, “Ricky Bo. Yes. No. Yes. And I will.”

“What?” he asked, thoroughly confused, which was what I’d intended.

“Yes, I left your cousin on the shore with the slow, disorganized cops. No, I won’t go back. Yes, we have a scent. And I’ll be careful.”

There was a short silence on the other end and then Rick said, “Good. But you left one question unanswered. Where’d you get a werewolf to hunt with?”

“Yeah, that was the only curious part of the plan, wasn’t it? You do know that Leo had some weres prisoner once. And you do know that there are werewolf packs in the U.S. And you do know that some wolves are sane. I happened to find me one, and he was willing to help. He came to Chauvin, changed into his wolf, and let me leash him. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.” I ended the call, scanned John-Roy’s criminal history file sent to me by Nadine, sent my partners a text, turned off the cell, and removed the battery.

“You still got the scent?” I asked Sarge. He nodded and faced in the direction he wanted me to go, nose into the wind. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

•   •   •

It took hours. It took numerous times starting and stopping, backtracking, weaving through glade, swamp, muck, and mud as the air currents wove, splintered, and dissipated. It took Sarge and PP getting off the boat and padding across marshy land, through head-high scrub. It took an hour sitting on a wet bank as the temperature dropped and a lightning storm raged over us, the metal boat pulled up and tied to a stunted tree. It took hours in the unexpected cold and rain for us to get an idea of where the stolen airboat had gone. The law enforcement helicopter that had buzzed us several times early on was a distraction, but the storm chased it away.

We made it far north of Lake Boudreaux before Sarge bumped my knee with his nose and stared hard at shore. I pulled in, beaching the airboat on a muddy bank, tangled with roots. On the still air I smelled fire and beef cooking over coals. The sun was going, and a mist was rising off the water as icy air moved in. We were running out of time.

“I take it this is as far as we can go in the boat?” I asked. Sarge nodded once and nosed my cell phone. “You want me to make a call for you?” He looked away, indicating I was stupid. Staring at the fancy, bulletproof device, I said, “If I turn it on, they can find us.” Sarge dropped his head to his chest in agreement, lay down, and put his head on his paws. “Fine. Whatever you want.” I inserted the battery and booted it up. “Now what?”

He just stared at me, then tapped the floor of the airboat twice. I tried to remember all the stuff that the device could do, and combined with the tapped paw, I asked if he wanted our GPS. When he looked interested, I pulled up our current location. It took a few questions and more than a few interpretative decisions on my part, but eventually I pulled up a satellite map of our location.

Not far from us, according to the sat map, was a small island with a fancy house on stilts. Except for a narrow beach and a boat dock, the island was surrounded by water like a moat, with a narrow ring of an islet circling protectively outside the moat. The house could be reached by boat or helo; both methods would give advance notice of our arrival. Parachute landing might go unnoticed. Or wings, if I wanted to go in as a bird and then change back to human—to fight weaponless and naked. Not.

I studied the sat photos. The water between the island and the circling islet was gated on two sides, with only the one area of the island open to the surrounding water, where we could manage a frontal attack. “Now, why would an escaped con head to a house in the middle of nowhere? Unless he was killing two birds with one stone?” I hadn’t really studied the file sent to me by Nadine. I opened and skimmed it again, finally finding a summary of John-Roy Wayne’s arrest history. The guy had been going for a world record in violence.

The info from my partners was more helpful. It contained a list of people who might assist John-Roy, and another list of people he might want to kill just for funsies. “Go, Alex,” I said to myself. “You get pizza for all this.” I thought about the info and about the house not far ahead, on stilts.

“Sarge? Do you know who lives in that well-secured house?” He nodded, his eyes suddenly tight on me. It was unnerving to be looked at with such intensity by any predator, but a werewolf was in a category by himself. I stifled my shudder and assured myself it was only the cold and the damp that lent me a chill. I was lying, but it made me feel better. I said, “If I read a list of names, can you tell me if any of them live here?”

Sarge nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving me. I started with the people John-Roy might want to kill. The wolf made no reaction to any of the names, but when I started on the list of people John-Roy would like to hang with, I got a response. Elvis Clyde McPhatter Lamont. I texted the name to Alex, along with the location of the island house. Moments later, Eli texted back, Kid says Elvis is bad news. Get close. Pick landing site. Keep cell on. I drop in 1900. Eli had already figured out he needed to parachute. He was close. Go, Rangers!

Alex sent me an arrest photograph of Elvis Lamont and a list of his priors, which included kidnapping and running a forced sex-slave ring. The tat on his neck would make him easy to recognize. It was an oversized penis. I shared all this with Sarge, showing him the sat maps, and finished with, “My partner will be here at seven o’clock. We need to be on that island by then. He’ll use my cell as a homing beacon to jump in.

“It’s gonna be miserable by seven,” I continued. “I suggest we move close to the island, and then hunker. Which sounds like a cold winter swim.” Sarge tilted his head, whuffed with laughter, and tugged on the seat harness. When I released him, Sarge picked up a paddle in his teeth and dropped it at my feet, then leaped over the seats to the storage chest at the base of the propeller cage. Inside was an inflatable two-person raft.

“Oh,” I said. “Soooo much better.” We’d be crowded, but we wouldn’t have to swim. PP, who had closed her eyes for a nap, whuffed at me. I texted our plan to the guys and spread open the tiny raft, plugged it into the airboat’s battery, and hit the AUTOINFLATE button. I had paddled an inflatable raft before, and in short order, we were on board, though sitting low in the water with so many bodies. It took a bit of practice to remember how to navigate with a single paddle, but I managed, and we moved through the sluggish mist and the remains of the storm.

Water plinked onto water between drenchings—when water drummed onto water. It was cold and miserable. And it was helpful. No one would see us unless they had low-light or infrared-light devices, and even then they wouldn’t be able to tell what the odd-shaped bundle was. But it was slow going, and even with my Beast to warm me, it was cold.

Rain running down my neck worsened my chill. Rain wasn’t good for riding leathers, unless I got a chance to dry and clean my jacket right away, and that wasn’t happening. Stupid thoughts to keep the ones that mattered at bay. The island, isolated, secure, was a perfect location to break in new women to the forced sex trade. The two kidnapped women, already brutalized, were probably going to be sold for cash.

My mother had been raped by two men, the same ones who killed my father. I had evened the score. The heat of vengeance spread through me at the memories, and while I tamped down on them, I also let them warm me. I could use this anger.

•   •   •

After nearly two hours we got close to the house. The light of day had dulled down to mostly nothing, the sunset smothered by clouds, the water hidden by fog. I wished I had Eli’s cool tech devices to see through the fog if there were people patrolling with guns, but I’d have to go on canine noses and skinwalker senses. The house windows blazed with light, haloing the mist. Something bumped the bottom of the boat. Sarge growled, low and full of menace. “Gators?” I whispered. Sarge’s eyes swept the water around us, but eventually he went silent. And I paddled on. It was too cold for gators. I hoped.

My cell buzzed. I opened the titanium case to see the text. Airborne. Where land?

Hoping I was right, I texted back, 170 ft due N my position. Which, if he timed it perfectly, would put him in back of the house. If he missed, he’d be on the house.

Long minutes later my cell buzzed. The text said, Ten minutes. Hit shore. Take front door. Careful. Gators in water around house.

“Well, that’s just ducky,” I said.

•   •   •

Eight minutes later, we had maneuvered between slivers of islands, past a dock where three boats had been moored—boats now floating free, thanks to a sharp knife severing the mooring lines, moving slowly into the water of the channel. No one was getting off the island tonight. In the pitch dark, we beached on the one small muddy shore not protected by gators fenced into a moat. Two airboats were moored there. Smoke and voices filtered through the mist, the fog making it hard to tell where they came from. The canines were staring at one airboat and the shore, nostrils flaring. Even in human form, I could smell the prisoners, the kidnapped women. We had the right place. I slipped from the raft and removed the keys from the other airboats and, after a moment’s hesitation, unhooked the gas lines from the motors.

“Sarge?” I whispered. “They might have nighttime vision equipment. They might have guns. Or we could be wrong and our target’s not here.” Sarge snorted, telling me the women were here, and so was John-Roy. “You and PP be careful.”

Sarge grunted and he and PP, still laden with weapons, leaped off the boat and moved into fog-filled shadows. I felt a tingle of magic on my skin that told me Sarge had started to change back into human form. I just hoped he’d brought clothes with him, and grinned at the thought of the war vet attacking naked. It was my only grin of the day, and it faded fast.

•   •   •

I checked my cell. My time was up. I drew a vamp-killer and a nine mil, the metal dry and warm from contact with my body. Weapons to my sides, the blade held back against my forearm, steel handle in a steady grip, I walked toward the house. For the first time in my career, for the first time since I’d killed my father’s murderers, I was deliberately hunting humans.

My nose was little use in the fog, but I pulled on Beast’s better vision, and the night smoothed out into grays and silvers and greens. The form of a man appeared in front of me, my nose telling me he wasn’t one of mine, though he was facing the house. I walked up to him and bonked him on the head. He fell silently. I searched him quick and came up with a small subgun and a walkie-talkie. They made nice splashes in the water.

I met no one else outside. The house was a two-story mansion on pylons. This close, I could smell people. Humans, lots of them, came and went all the time, but for now, the numbers were few. The night went silent, the voices I had been hearing stopped. I tried the door. I texted Eli: Unlocked.

Instantly I got back Go.

I opened the door and stepped inside, into the shadow of a fake ficus tree. Warmth and sensory overload hit me simultaneously, and I looked around, first for people—none—and then for cameras. None also. Which was smart in a way. If you were doing something illegal, you needed to make sure nothing was filmed or recorded. Of course, if you were under attack, the lack of cameras was stupid.

I took a breath. The air reeked of cigars, expensive liquor, pain, fear, sex, and blood. And young females. Beast slammed into me. Kits! she thought at me. Hurting.

She wanted to run straight for the scent, but I clamped down on her. Stealth, I thought at her. Beast snarled but held still. I stepped to the side and took in the foyer. Cypress-wood floors, rugs, smoking lounge to my right, bar to my left. Large-screen TVs in each room. A game room was ahead, with pool tables, dartboard, comfy chairs. I moved cautiously into it. And found a stage with a brass pole. No people. Stairs going up and the stink of fear coming down.

A moment later, Eli appeared from the shadows at the back of the house, wearing night camo and loaded for war. He was carrying a pistol with a suppressor screwed on the end, legal in Louisiana. He could fire and the sound, while still loud, was unlikely to carry far. He held up three fingers to indicate how many he had taken down outside, then one finger to show how many he had taken down inside. There was no stink of gunfire or blood, suggesting that he had used nonlethal methods, just as I had. I extended one finger, then used it to point up the stairs. I mouthed, Prison.

My partner’s mouth turned down. He mouthed what I thought might have been No mercy, and he moved up the stairs. I followed. I was halfway up when I heard a woman scream.

Eli ducked right, toward the sound, moving fast in a bent-kneed run. I covered him, seeing a wide hallway running left and right, doors along it, and floor-to-ceiling windows at each, two recliners in front of each window. Which was odd. Until I looked in the closest one and saw a man curled up on a large, four-poster bed, facing away from the glass. Asleep. There were chains on the bedposts and bruises on the young man’s back.

Movement caught my eye and a human-shaped Sarge appeared, coming from the end of the hallway. He carried a shotgun and wore black cotton pants and a T-shirt, his hairy feet bare. PP trotted by his side. There was blood on her muzzle. Sarge began to check all the rooms on the far end of the hall, the scent of his anger strong.

Satisfied that he had my back, I slipped from room to room up to Eli. The recliners in front of the window on the end room both held incapacitated bodies, their heads at odd angles. Not breathing. Very dead. One of them was John-Roy’s cell pal. The other I didn’t know. Sarge had been at work.

Inside the room were two men and two women. The show the men had been watching was ugly. Real ugly. Eli opened the door and said softly, “John-Roy.” When the man rose, a gun in his meaty hand, the barrel moving toward the door, Eli fired, the sound not much louder than a dictionary dropped flat from shoulder height. John-Roy fell, screaming, a hole in his abdomen. Eli’s next two shots hit the back wall; suppressors made hitting a target at any distance problematic. The second man grabbed a woman and backed from the bed, holding her as a shield.

Eli raced inside. Fast as a big-cat, I followed and centered the sight of my nine mil on the standing man’s forehead. I didn’t recognize him except for the tattoo of the penis. This was Elvis Clyde McPhatter Lamont, king of the forced sex trade. He wore gold on his wrists and hanging around his neck, but otherwise he was naked, holding a woman, also naked, bleeding, and bruised. But not broken. She looked enraged, her eyes telling me she was ready for anything. Elvis pulled her to the wall.

On the floor, one hand pressing on his belly wound, John-Roy was looking at me. He yelled, “You!” and turned the gun toward me. TV shows where the bad guy always drops his gun are stupid. In real life, it doesn’t happen all that often. Eli shot him, again in the abdomen, off center. Not a miss, a deliberate target. Eli wanted him alive.

I laughed, the sound a register lower than my human voice. It carried menace, fury, and delight, and it was all Beast. From behind me, PP leaped into the room, straight to the woman still on the bed. The huge dog lay down next to her, protecting. Ignoring the man and his hostage, Eli secured the room.

Behind me, Sarge walked in, the grizzled man taking in everything. He closed the door behind him, the sound soft and final. “Son,” Sarge said to Elvis, “I can’t allow you to get away with this. You let the lady go and I’ll let you die easy. You keep her, and I’ll make sure you die slow.” Which sounded pretty generous to me.

But Elvis disagreed. A door I hadn’t noticed opened behind him and before I could react, he was gone. Sarge leaped across the room, a distance a human couldn’t have covered. Sarge rammed into the door as it closed, splintering wood and revealing a steel core. He bellowed.

I ran out of the room and down the stairs, catching a glimpse of Eli dragging John-Roy by the hair. There was no way off the island tonight, in the fog, except by boat. There hadn’t been a land-based boathouse on the sat map—which could have been sadly out-of-date—but I was trusting that it was up-to-date and that the men had arrived in the boats that had been tied to the docks. I raced that way, out of the house, into the black fog of night. Beast, still close to the front of my mind, guided me, her balance assisting mine, her vision lighting the night world. I let her take over.

Can smell nothing new, no female-prisoner smell, no man-predator stink, she thought.

As I reached shore, the lights in the house went out. All of them. “That’s because we got out in front of him,” I murmured, certain. “We’re between him and his getaway boat.” I dropped to a crouch and faced the house.

He came from my right, the woman silent, stumbling, her breath shaking. I heard her take a breath and start to scream, the faint hiss followed by a thump and the sound of a falling body. The reek of fresh blood was strong on the air. One pair of running footsteps came toward me. He’d hurt her to keep her quiet, and then had to leave her when he’d been too harsh. Which just made my job easier. When he appeared out of the fog, I rose fast. And let him rush onto my blade. It caught him low in the abdomen, and I yanked the blade up, severing everything in its path. Hot blood gushed over my hand, and still I lifted the blade, tilting it to the right so it would miss his aorta and his heart. He went limp, and I let him fall, taking my blade with him.

Around me the heavens opened and a deluge fell. The lights came back on in the house, showing me not much of anything but shadows and a dying man at my feet. Sarge strode up, picked up my prisoner, and flipped the body into his own airboat. PP jumped up beside him, tongue lolling. “Keys,” Sarge demanded.

I tossed them to him and moments later, the airboat vanished into the mist, the powerful prop roaring. Eli came from my left, through the rain, carrying the woman Elvis had dropped. “I need to get her inside, into a safe place. She doesn’t need to wake up with a man near her,” he said. “Call this in. Get medic and the law.”

“Yeah,” I said, trudging back to the hell house. “Sarge took Elvis. What happened to John-Roy?”

“He ran off into the night,” Eli said. “I heard a splash. I think he fell into the moat.”

I thought about that for a moment. A gut-shot man accidently falling into a moat full of gators. Maybe they’d eat him. Maybe he’d drown first. Maybe not. “Good,” I said.

•   •   •

The rest of the night was chaos. Nadine and a sheriff from the parish to the north vied for jurisdictional control of the scene, and the FBI showed, kicking them both out because of the human trafficking. Eli and I were allowed to leave at ten the next morning, free to go after long interrogations. Sarge met us at the shore in his airboat. Together we went back to Chauvin. The media circus onshore was unimaginable, but they ignored us, looking like locals with nothing to say, the reporters too busy trying to hire, bribe, or buy a way to the island in the middle of the black water.

•   •   •

A month later, I got a package in the mail. It was my vamp-killer, smelling of cleansers and oil, the blade freshly honed. There was no note. No explanation. I didn’t need one. The blade was explanation enough.