Morgan sat in the front passenger seat of the SUV, next to her mother. Joshua was strapped into his car seat in the back, sleeping. Morgan envied her brother’s ability to fall asleep anywhere. It would be great to unplug and escape reality whenever you wanted.
Sylvia had one hand on the wheel of the vehicle, and she held her phone with the other. She was upset and driving too fast, but Morgan wasn’t going to say anything. She didn’t want to become the focus of her mother’s anger—any more than she already was, that is.
“Yes, I’m sure it was one of them.” Pause. “Because I could smell it on them! Just because there haven’t been any around here since we were kids doesn’t mean anything. They’re here now!”
Sylvia listened for several moments, brow furrowed and lips tight. Finally, she said, “I understand.” Then she ended the call and dropped the phone. She didn’t slow down. If anything, she sped up a little more. She kept her gaze fixed on the road ahead as she spoke.
“Be thankful I didn’t tell your father that I caught you talking with one of them. You were close to the boy long enough to get his stink all over you, so if you don’t want your father detecting it later, you’d better take a long, extremely thorough shower when we get home. I’ll take your clothes out back and burn them.”
At first Morgan thought she hadn’t heard right. “Burn my clothes?”
“I’d have to use too much bleach to get the carrion-eater’s stink out, and that would end up ruining them. Easier to just burn them.”
“Mom, aren’t you being a little too…” She wanted to say dramatic, but she knew that would only anger her mother, and she might end up getting cuffed on the face for mouthing off. The claw wounds would heal eventually, sure, but better not to get hit in the first place.
“Cautious?” she finished.
Sylvia shot her a sideways look and then surprised her by laughing.
“Jakkals aren’t a threat, dear. They aren’t as strong and fast as we are, and since they’re carrion-eaters, they don’t compete with us for food. There’s nothing they can do to harm a strong pack like ours.”
After Greg and his mother had left the store, Sylvia had refused to answer Morgan’s questions. Now it seemed Sylvia was willing to talk, and Morgan wanted to take advantage of it.
“What’s wrong with jakkals?” she asked. “If they can’t hurt us, why can’t we just ignore them?”
“Because Bridge Valley is our territory. Your father’s people have lived here for generations. We can’t permit another pack to come to town, no matter what they are. It’s also a practical matter. The more supernatural beings living in one area, the greater the chance that they’ll start attracting unwanted attention.”
“You mean hunters.”
Sylvia nodded. “Do you remember that family of ghouls that moved into the old house on Market Street a few years ago? Remember what happened?”
How could she forget? A hunter had come to town, tracking the ghouls. Dad and her two brothers went out one night, and by the next morning both the hunter and the ghouls were dead. The house had been burnt to the ground along with all the bodies, including the hunter’s.
“Jakkals are worse than ghouls,” Sylvia said. “As loathsome as ghouls are, they at least serve an important function. They’re like the garbage collectors of the monster world. But jakkals are a perversion of the natural—” She paused, smiled a little. “Or should I say unnatural order? Ghouls feed on death, but jakkals worship it. They carry it within them, like a disease. They’re disgusting, and the world would be a better place if their entire species was rendered extinct.”
Morgan had never heard her mother talk this way before. The anger, the sheer venom in her voice… It was clear that Sylvia hated jakkals with all of her being. She hated Greg without even knowing him. But then, Morgan didn’t know Greg either, not really. They’d only spoken briefly before their mothers had freaked out. But she’d felt a connection. She didn’t believe in love at first sight or anything like that. That sort of thing only happened in movies. But she did believe in listening to her instincts, and her instincts told her that Greg was a good person, and he could be trusted. Did her mother’s instincts tell her something different? Or was she so blinded by her hatred that she refused to listen to them?
Sylvia continued. “If for some reason we ever run into that boy again—or any of his pack—do not allow them to get close enough to attack you.”
Morgan was confused. “I thought you said they were harmless.”
“They are… in general. Just do as I say, please?”
“All right.”
Morgan thought of Greg’s kind face. She couldn’t imagine him being dangerous. The idea seemed laughable. But she didn’t look dangerous, did she? None of her family did.
“What did Dad say when you told him about the jakkals?”
At first Morgan thought that Sylvia wasn’t going to answer her, but then she said, “He’s going to see if he can find the jakkals’ den and ask them politely to leave our territory.”
Morgan thought her dad’s idea of politely was apt to be a bit more confrontational than hers. She hoped a fight wouldn’t break out. She didn’t want anyone getting hurt. Especially Greg.
“He told me something else.” Sylvia’s tone was less angry now. More worried. “A pair of FBI agents showed up asking questions about Clay Fuller’s death. And earlier, a writer from out of town tried to interview him about Clay, but your dad turned him down.”
Morgan had a cold, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Hunters?” she asked softly.
“Maybe. We’ll have to be on guard for the next few days.” She shook her head in disgust. “Jakkals and now hunters. How much do you want to bet the carrion-eaters led them here?”
Morgan couldn’t take any more. “You’re being racist, Mom.”
Sylvia turned to look at Morgan for a moment, then looked forward again.
“I’m not racist,” she said. “I’m a monster.”
As they drove on in silence, Morgan wondered if the two conditions were mutually exclusive.
After a bit, Sylvia said, “At least we won’t have to worry about Amos Boyd blabbing to the media anymore.” Her mouth twisted into a cruel smile, and Morgan could see a hint of fangs.
“What do you mean?” Morgan asked, afraid of the answer.
“Never you mind,” Sylvia said. “And don’t tell your father I said that.”
Sylvia continued smiling as she pried a small shred of meat from between her too-sharp teeth.
Morgan caught the scent of human flesh and shuddered. She didn’t want to know what that was about. She turned away from her mother, gazed out the window, and thought.
She’d only just met Greg, and they’d spent less than five minutes speaking, but she felt a connection to him. She wanted to see him again, but more than that, she wanted to protect him from her dad— and her mom, who in many ways was just as dangerous as he was, if not more so. But Morgan had no idea what she could do. Her family—her pack—operated by a strict hierarchy, and she was dead last in the pecking order. Not counting Joshua, of course. She was expected to obey her father, mother, and older brothers in all things. If she continued to insist her family could find a way to live alongside the jakkals, she would be punished. But she had to do something, and soon, if she was to have any hope of saving Greg and his family from hers. She would text him a warning as soon as she was alone, but she didn’t know if it would be enough. She didn’t know if anything would be enough.
* * *
When Alan ended the call with Sylvia he was so furious he wanted to punch a hole in his office wall. He restrained himself, though. No one else in the Sheriff’s Department was a werewolf, and he’d have a hard time explaining how he could punch all the way through the wall with a single blow and not damage his hand. He ran his tongue over his teeth to check them. They were halfway sharp, and he concentrated until they became human again.
First some writer tried to get an interview with him, then a pair of supposed FBI agents show up asking questions, and to top it all off, there were jakkals in his town. This was not shaping up to be one of his better days on the job.
Before he could do anything else, his phone rang. The display identified the caller as Melody Diaz. He really didn’t want to talk with her right now, but even in a small town, it didn’t pay to irritate the press.
“Hey, Melody. How are you doing?”
She didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I’m calling to see if you have anything new on Clay Fuller’s murder.”
He frowned. “Why? You’ve already covered the story. I don’t—” He broke off. “A couple FBI agents came to see me today. They didn’t happen to drop by your office, did they?”
“Look, I understand reporters want to protect their sources and all that, but if you want me to scratch your back, you’ve got to scratch mine.”
Melody sighed. “Fine. Yeah, the agents paid me a visit, along with that true-crime writer you wouldn’t talk to. The agents asked some questions about Clay Fuller’s death, and then they left. The writer did too, shortly after. I had a feeling the three knew each other, so I stuck my head out the door in time to see them go into The Whistle Stop.”
She went on to tell him about sneaking into the bar to spy on them, how they’d left together in an Impala—“An old one, a real classic”—and that she was in her own vehicle right now, tailing them.
“I think they’re heading over to Amos Boyd’s house to question him, and I want in. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know. And don’t bother telling me to keep my nose out of it. We both know that’s not going to happen.”
She ended the call before Alan could say anything more.
He let out a growl of frustration as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. The Crowder family had lived in Bridge Valley for generations, and in all that time, they’d managed to hide more or less in plain sight. At first, they’d lived peacefully, subsisting on animal hearts. But eventually they realized that it was a mistake to deny the more savage aspects of their werewolf heritage. And so the Hunt was instituted. Once a month, the Crowders would abduct someone who wouldn’t be missed, turn them loose in the woods, and then the fun would begin. At the end of the Hunt the human would be killed and their heart shared among the family members. No one got more than a taste, but it was enough to satisfy their needs. Barely.
But as technology became an increasing part of people’s lives, tracking missing persons became easier. So Alan—a young man at the time—had decided to join the Sheriff’s Department where he could not only better conceal his family’s… recreational activities, but he had access to people who no one would ever miss. People like Clay Fuller. Alan quickly rose to the position of Sheriff—after all, he was his pack’s leader, and humans responded to his commanding nature just like werewolves did—and he’d held the job ever since. Things had worked out well enough, and while there’d been a few bumps here and there, the road had been smooth for the most part.
Until the night when the Hunt had gone wrong. Alan had never expected Fuller to make it so far. They played with him too long. They could’ve brought him down much earlier, but prolonging the Hunt was part of the fun. Unfortunately, Fuller had reached the road, and then Amos had driven up while Sylvia and their twin sons were finishing off Fuller. It was something of a miracle that they’d been able to keep themselves from killing Amos as well. Fuller was a low-life drug dealer, but Amos was well known in town and would be missed if he were to disappear.
Alan wasn’t sure what good talking to Amos would do the three men. Amos had already told his story to the media, and while urban-legend enthusiasts had been speculating wildly about his tale online, no serious media outlets believed him. Alan doubted Amos could tell them anything more, but there was a possibility they might be able to get Amos to remember some new details.
And Melody was tailing the three men too. What if she learned something she shouldn’t?
He was tempted to drive out to Amos’s place and confront the agents and the writer and, if necessary, take them out. Melody too, if it came to that. He didn’t like the odds, though. It would be three on one, and while he was still strong and in his prime, if the men were hunters—as he was beginning to suspect—there was a good chance they’d be armed with silver. The man in him knew it would be wiser to wait for a better opportunity to confront the hunters, but the wolf in him demanded he go to Amos’s now. His pack was threatened, and that threat had to be eliminated.
But then, the hunters weren’t the only problem his pack had to deal with at the moment.
When he was growing up, his pack had dealt with jakkals, and he hated the filth as much as his wife did. He would go to the grocery, catch the scent—although the thought of inhaling a jakkal’s stench sickened him—and track them from there. And if he lost the trail, he’d search abandoned places that were falling to ruin. Jakkals were creatures of death, and according to the stories, they chose to lair in desolate, lifeless places. A cemetery would have too many visitors, so it would likely be something else. One way or another, he’d find them soon enough.
He didn’t want to face the jakkals alone. Not that he was afraid of them. They were smaller and weaker than werewolves—at least in terms of physical strength. But he had no idea how big their pack was, and if the legends were true, they did possess one formidable weapon. He needed backup, and he couldn’t ask his human deputies for help. That left him only one choice. Well, two, actually.
He took out his phone once more and called Stuart. His son answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Dad.”
Alan didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Is your brother with you?”
“Yeah. We’re just hanging around the station. What’s up?”
Stuart and Spencer Crowder were twins in their early twenties, working as firefighters for Bridge Valley Fire and Rescue. It was useful to have members of the pack working in another area of local government, but they knew the pack came first.
“Tell the chief you and your brother have a family emergency and need to leave. Don’t worry: nothing’s wrong. But I need your help for a couple hours.”
“No problem. Want us to meet you at the station?”
“No,” Alan said. He bared teeth once again grown sharp. “At the grocery.”