Weremones (15 page)

“Better quit while you’re ahead,” she warned.

“Yeah.” Matthew backed up a couple of steps, indecision filling his posture with the words he still wanted to speak. “Mom?”

“What?”

“What about dinner Saturday?”

“You are welcome to go.”

“But ….”

Her hands bunched on her hips. Diana clenched her jaw as she fought the urge to scream, or throw anything, out of sheer exasperation at the male species in general.

“I. Am. Not. Going. To. That. Woman’s. House. Is that clear?”

“But, Mom,” Matthew’s voice rose in a whine.

“And that is final.” She slapped the counter hard enough to leave stinging prickles in her palm.

Matthew turned, leaving the kitchen with lagging, disappointed steps.

———

Adam shoved a piece of toast into his mouth
. Alone at last.
Everyone was at school and out of his hair. No more questions about Diana Ridley. No more bickering.

There was only a man, his newspaper, and blessed peace and quiet.

He flipped the page of his morning paper. A gulp of scalding coffee made him juggle both the cup and the paper. He nearly had the cup on the table when the phone rang, jolting him into sloshing the burning liquid on his hand.

Cursing, Adam rose to answer the damned thing. He shook his hand to cool the burning sensation as he picked up the handset.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Weis, this is Jared Morgan.”

The dorky cowboy?

“I’m from Animal Control. We met the other day at the house your people are building.”

“Yeah?”

He wondered if the guy was calling to have his office space wallpapered in genuine nyogahyde and longhorns mounted on the computer monitor to go with his dorky cowboy image.

“I have something here that the county Pater Canis should have a look at.”

That got his attention.

“What have you got human?”

Morgan’s laugh was biting.

“I don’t know if I’ve been insulted or not, wolf. What I do have, is another dead, and I want to know if it’s one of yours.”

Adam glanced at his watch. He was late for work. Very late.

“Where do you want to meet?” Adam’s voice lowered into a growl. “And remember, if you betray me, I’ll have you for lunch.”

It was a scary threat to make to a human, but an unrealistic one. Wolven didn’t eat the meat of anything that walked upright and carried on a conversation. But he would, and could, rip out the throat of his enemy and enjoy the taste of the blood filling his mouth. Every last rich drop.

“I’m not stupid, wolf. Meet me at the old Drury place on county road fourtwenty.”

“Which place would be the old Drury place?” Adam wanted to know.

Morgan laughed.

“I forget you aren’t a local. It’s a rock house with shutters that sits back in a pasture. The gate is open, so drive on up. You can’t miss it. It’s the only rock house on four-twenty.”

Adam hung up and dialed Mack’s number. He quickly relayed the conversation, wondering all the while why he felt compelled to do so. He really needed to stop involving Mack in pack business if he wasn’t going to change him.

“I’ve got you covered.” Mack replied. “Holler if you need me. I’ll keep my cell handy.”

On a whim, Adam swung by the high school. His pack sense told him that everyone was safe, if a little bored. Except for Diana Ridley. His psychic female was agitated, but not in danger. Her inner turmoil, he suspected, had to do with them and their … relationship?

He hoped it was him. She needed her safe little world shook up. And he was just the one to do it.

The old Drury place was further down the county road than Adam figured. The road, like most in the area, twisted and turned back on itself so many times that he felt certain a normal human would have been hopelessly lost. The mailbox said Lamott.

Adam bumped his way over the cattle guard. Huge brown cows with liquid eyes watched him drive up to the house then bent to graze. They looked tasty rather than intimidating, though he’d never seen one so close. Morgan had been right in naming him a city boy.

Adam parked under a tree shading the bare area designated for vehicles. A white truck with a cage mounted in the back and a dark blue dually with six wheel openings were pulled in close together. Two tires in the front and four pair in the back.

A restored cherry-red, nineteen sixty-nine Ford sat in all its regal glory a little apart from the two trucks. Adam chose a space on the far side of the red Ford, giving the vehicle the space it was due. He eyeballed the truck, nearly having to wipe drool from his chin, as he walked up the path to the porch.

Two black men ambled out of the house. Despite the warmth of the day, they’d dressed in western hats, long sleeves, worn blue jeans and boots, worn. The screen door banged shut behind them.

They eyed Adam up and down, taking in his hair pulled back into a short ponytail, the Carhart work shirt, faded jeans, and lace up work boots that was his usual uniform for work.

He must have passed judgment since the men relaxed into the rolling gait of cattlemen and horsemen. They met him halfway.

“Hey.”

The first man, taller and heavier than his partner, turned his head to spit a long brown stream into the grass beside the path. His shirt was a blue plaid. Pearl snaps gleamed in the sunshine.

The other man, all angles, nodded his greeting. He wore blue denim, the monochrome color broken by a gold and silver palm sized belt buckle featuring a steer head inside the state of Texas.

“You the one Morgan called ‘bout the wolf?” The first man extended his hand.

Hard work had taken a toll. Small pink-and-white scars scattered over the back of his hand, blemishes in dark leather. Dry skin gave the man’s knuckles a grayish color.

“Name’s Cherif. This here’s my brother Yule.”

Adam nodded accepting the hand for the due it was. All over the country, men shook hands in greeting, women, too. But where men worked hard, depending on the land to survive, the handshake became more. Around here it was a meeting of equals and respect. The worst insult a man could dole out was a refusal to shake hands.

“You sure it’s a wolf?” Adam asked.

Cherif grinned around the wad tucked into his cheek. Yule’s black eyes seemed to twinkle with laughter without him making a sound.

“Yeah. We’re sure. Critter’s too big for a coyote. An’ Yule looked it up on the Internet. ‘Sides that, his girlfriend is a vet. C’mon. We’ll walk you around back to Morgan. That way you can meet T without him trying to chew your leg off.”

The two cowboys led the way around the rock house and past several large prefabricated, padlocked storage buildings.

A large Rottweiler bounded up like a small tank, barking and snarling. T, Adam guessed, stood for Terminator. The dog stopped suddenly, getting a good whiff of Adam’s scent, then trotted up to his feet. He bent and extended a hand for the dog to sniff, which it did in slobbery dog fashion. The dog gave Adam’s hand a last lick before rolling onto his back.

“Never seen ‘im do that before.”

Yule scratched the short mat of hair under his hat while Adam crouched to give the dog a belly scratch in reward. When finished, the dog rolled back to his feet and gave a full body shake powerful enough to unsteady his feet.

Adam was impressed. It looked like it felt good. Sometimes you needed a good shake.

The dog led the way to a stand of trees far behind the house.

“It was the buzzards that clued us in,” Cherif began as if there had been no break in their conversation. “Didn’t want T getting into anything dead and causing another vet bill.”

Both men were of the quiet sort, not needing to break the silence with conversation until warranted. Adam liked that in a man. It was a rare thing and spoke of confidence that few had.

Jared Morgan strode out of the trees. He had his hat in his hand, allowing the wind to blow his hair into a light brown haystack.

“Hey.” Morgan stuck out his hand in greeting. “I thought you would never get here.”

Adam shook hands. He let go to give a short wave to Cherif and Yule as the humans turned around to head back to the house. A piercing whistle from Yule called T, the dog, to his side. Adam fell into step behind Morgan, following him through the field that served as a backyard, to a stand of trees.

The mangled body of the wolf was difficult to see until he was nearly upon it. The smell however, he’d caught as soon as he’d left his truck, faint, under the scents of cow, feed, motor oils and fuels, dog, chicken, and the thousands of other scents from a working ranch or farm.

His nose efficiently caught them all while his brain automatically catalogued them for reference. As they’d walked around the house to the trees, the scent became stronger until it was overpowering. Death. Violent death. And the ghastly decomposition.

The body was ripped and torn where buzzards had feasted. The heat was already starting to cook the carcass, despite the shade. Ants made a trail back to their hill, carrying food for their queen.

Whoever the wolf had been, he’d died hog-tied, his throat slashed wide open with a knife. There’d been no dignity, no fight, just an execution and a place to dump the remains.

Adam wished he’d known the wolf. No, he amended that. He didn’t want the responsibility that knowing the dead wolf would entail. He had plenty of responsibility for two or three people already.

He walked away from the carnage, hoping to find the killer’s trail before the odor burned into his sensitive nose. He imagined that he’d be catching whiffs of road kill until the sensory image faded.

He sneezed a couple times to clear his nose and walked away, following a couple of trails that led away from the dead wolf. The first was a plain rabbit trail that doubled back. He inhaled, filling his nose with another, clean, live scent.

The next was human. He found several human scent trails around the area. He followed each one until he was satisfied, then walked back to Morgan, who’d opted to take his own breather from the stench of death.

“What do you want done with the body?” Morgan’s tone was respectful. With Adam’s nose on overdrive he took notice of the other man’s scent and moved closer. Its mystery prodded him to investigate.

“What did you do with the other one?”

There was definitely something
other
about the man, but in a different way than the psychic humans he was used to dealing with.

“Cremated her and buried the ashes in a holy place.” A glint of amusement shone in Morgan’s eyes.

“You’re subtle, wolf. But not enough.” He lifted his arm under Adam’s nose.

“Here. But if you get too friendly, I’m out of here.”

Adam took the man’s arm and pressed his nose to the fabric of his shirt. He breathed deep. He would have liked to lick the salt from the skin to see if the taste matched up to what he smelled, but figured that might fall under the too friendly rule.

There it was, elusive, wild,
exotic
. A scent that made his blood tingle with possibility. He let Morgan’s arm go, feeling as though the answer was barely out of reach.

“What are you?”

Morgan watched him, still amused. Adam was too curious to be aggravated. He should probably be focusing on the wolf, but the sucker was dead and Morgan was a live mystery.

“An American. As mixed blood as any other.”

The answer didn’t satisfy his question, but no other appeared to be forthcoming, so Adam let it drop. He had the scent memorized for later reference. If he came across it again, he’d identify it and solve Morgan’s mystery heritage.

“Did I tell you that Cherif and Yule are my cousins?” There was laughter in Morgan’s tone.

Adam stared, startled. Pale skinned Morgan was not human.

Morgan grinned, pleased at thoroughly confusing Adam.

“Very distant cousins. But the connection is there.”

“Do Cherif and Yule know?”

“Very good, wolf.” Morgan’s grin faded a bit. “I didn’t expect you to pick up on that. I think we’ll stop my game for now and focus on the one that guy lost.” He nodded in the direction of the dead wolf.

“You said you buried the other one in a holy place. A cemetery?” The answer was too obvious and Morgan shook his head as expected.

“No. But the spot is sacred and protected. You don’t have to worry about wizards and their ilk digging her up for spell components.”

Something told Adam that in this, Morgan could be trusted.

“Do the same with this one then.” Adam glanced at the heavy toolbox that sat nearby and the black plastic folded square sitting atop. “I’ll help you bag him up.”

In the end, Morgan refused his help to bag up the stray, or haul him out. Morgan mentioned cleansing the area. Since Adam sensed that the cleansing could only be done with him out of the way, he left.

There were other things he could do for the dead mystery wolf and Lynn Garner.

Adam phoned Mack and called it a sick day—on account of someone very sick messing around in his territory.

In his office, he logged on to the Canis website and researched missing wolven.

He paid special attention to any wolven thinking of relocating, say to Anderson County.

Other than Tamara Linden, there were no inquiries. He finished the last of the negotiations with the Canis of Tamara’s pack. She’d be arriving as soon as she found a job assisting one of the local dentists.

He picked up a telephone with caller ID. Then, Adam decided to track down his one live connection to the dead wolves. Grady Dobbs.

At eight-thirty, Adam began the search for Grady Dobbs in Old Towne, next to the downtown area. The area was a quaint couple of blocks that gave the illusion of an isolated old western saloon and mercantile.

Across the street there was a steakhouse and a series of shops so decked out in plants that the natural camouflage made the coffee, antique, and souvenir shops nearly invisible.

Adam’s destination was the old saloon style bar and game room. Country and western music played, loud enough to be pleasing to the two-stepping cowboys and girls, but not loud enough to disturb the houses a few blocks over.