Doomsday Can Wait (9 page)

"How long was I in there?" I demanded.

Summer shrugged, her expression sheepish. "I fell asleep. Figured you'd wake me when you got back."

Huh. I guess fairies did need to sleep.

"Lucky I wasn't depending on you to save my ass."

"Lucky," she agreed, her voice perfectly level so I just knew she was being sarcastic.

I left by car, she left by air; and ten hours later, I-94 spilled me into Chicago. I'd managed to discover, through judicious use of my cell phone, that Chicago's fireworks were held on the third of July and shot off at Navy Pier. Which was both good news and bad news.

Good news in that I should have time to stop the luc-eres from running free if I could find the appropriate suburb in—

I glanced at my watch. "Three hours."

Bad news—I still wasn't sure where they were and my knowledge of the Chicago area was mighty slim despite having lived less than a hundred miles north of the city for most of my life.

While a lot of Milwaukeeans made the trip to Chicago regularly to shop, to eat, to go to concerts and plays, I'd been content with my own city on the lake. I'd never traveled much until lately. In the past month I'd visited more states than I'd visited before in my life.

Now that I was here, and I knew I wasn't too late, some of the panicky edge faded. I'd arrived too late in Hardeyville, and I still relived what had happened there in the darkest part of the night.

I found it hard to accept that some things were meant to happen, some people were meant to die, and there was nothing I, or anyone else in the federation, could do about it.

That I'd been able to stop the werewolves in Hardeyville from moving on to the next town on their hit parade of horrors was small consolation to the dead who still danced through my dreams.

I'd run through every phone number on Jimmy's list. No one answered. I hadn't expected them to. The seers were in hiding, which meant they weren't going to pick up at any of their numbers or hang around their known locations. If they did, they were just asking for it.

So I'd also stopped at a wireless-ready Starbucks and sent a blanket e-mail informing the remaining seers of all the latest Doomsday developments and ordering them to check in via the Internet until further notice.

I wasn't sure how many of them were going to be able to access their accounts "underground," but I had to try. In truth, Jimmy's list was probably as useless to me right now as Jimmy was.

I assumed that each seer was still in touch somehow with all their DKs, continuing to give them assignments and thwarting the Nephilim's plans as best they could with their decimated forces. Just because we'd put chaos on hold didn't mean the demons weren't still out there doing their demon dance.

My phone rang as I stopped to get a map. I snatched it up, hoping that one of the seers had decided to take a chance and return my call. No such luck.

"Sawyer's not here," Summer said, not bothering with hello any more than I had.

The weight on my chest lightened. "Jimmy?"

"Not here, either."

For an instant, I believed one of my problems was solved, until I thought about it for more than a second. The weight dropped back with a thud that left me gasping.

"What's wrong?" Summer asked. "I'll just wait for Jimmy to show and then—"

"They might have gone into the mountains." Silence followed my statement. "Summer?"

"I'm here." Her voice was faint. She understood what going into the mountains with Sawyer meant. The last time I had, I'd definitely been sorry.

The mountains were sacred. They were considered magic. Sawyer practiced a lot of magic, most of it black.

Though the mountains were part of the Dinetah, the ancient land of the Navajo, in truth they belonged to Sawyer, and he pretty much did whatever the hell he wanted to in them. He'd certainly done me. No telling what he might take it into his head to do to Jimmy— especially if Jimmy asked him to.

"Find him," I ordered. I wasn't sure which man I was talking about. Right now, either one would do.

"I will."

It felt strange to be working with Summer. Stranger still to realize that she was the one I trusted most in this world to do what needed to be done.

Summer was Jimmy's best bet for survival, because no matter how I felt about him, I had other responsibilities, and if those responsibilities would be better served by killing him, I'd do it. I had before.

"Come across anything out of the ordinary?" she asked.

"Not yet."

"If you see a wolf, you should probably shoot it."

"You think?"

"With a flaming arrow," she reminded me.

Where was I going to get flaming arrows so close to a holiday?

"I have supplies in my trunk," Summer said.

Sometimes I swore she could read minds, though she denied it.

"What kind of supplies?"

"You haven't looked?"

"I've been a little busy."

"Make sure no one else is around when you open it. You could get arrested."

"Terrific." If I'd gotten stopped for speeding, which had been a distinct possibility since I'd hauled ass all night, I cringed to think what the cop would have seen if he or she had decided to pop the trunk.

I'd have wound up in jail since I didn't have the ability to shoot magic "forget me" dust from my fingertips like Summer did. That lack was becoming more and more annoying as time passed, but I still wasn't willing to sleep with Summer's fairy friend to get it. Not yet anyway. Who knows what I'd have to do eventually.

"Do the luceres change back into humans when the sun comes up?" I asked. Regular werewolves did.

"They don't have to," she said. "Luceres are ruled by a spell and not the moon. They can stay in wolf form as long as they want."

Which meant I could keep hunting once dawn broke, if they cooperated and remained wolves. However, I doubted the luceres would continue to run around with ears and no tail once they knew I was in town and capable of killing them.

Sure, I could probably identify most of the luceres since I'd seen their human faces in my vision, but shooting people—even if they weren't people—with burning arrows tended to make
me
seem like the psychotic murderer. Go figure. Better to finish this business tonight.

After filling the tank, I pulled the Impala around the back of the station to a grassy area, which I assumed was used to give any pets a chance to relieve themselves. Right now it was deserted, so I opened the trunk and found all sorts of goodies.

Rifles, shotguns, pistols, and ammunition for each one. Swords and knives in a vast array of metallic shades—silver, gold, bronze, and copper. But the best find of all was a crossbow.

I lifted it gently, almost reverently. A crossbow was more accurate than a compound bow, which was why, in Wisconsin anyway, only disabled hunters or those over sixty-five years old could get a permit to hunt with them. Combine a crossbow with a fit young man and deer didn't have a sporting chance. I didn't think they had much of a chance anyway, but no one had asked me.

I wasn't sure what the rules were on crossbows in Illinois, but it didn't matter. Owning a crossbow wasn't illegal, only hunting without a permit for one was. And since I was hunting people who'd turned into wolves ... well, if anyone caught me, I'd have more problems than my lack of a license.

Next to the crossbow lay a quiver of strangely made arrows—they appeared wrapped in white linen—and several bottles filled with clear liquid.

I took a whiff and nearly choked. "Gasoline."

Sheesh. I was lucky no one had rear-ended me.

Considering Jimmy drove a Hummer with a similar cache of weaponry, I had to think all DKs were similarly decked out.

I shut the trunk, then climbed inside the car and made a wide turn until the skyline of Chicago became visible. Closing my eyes, I recalled my vision. To have seen the Sears Tower and the fireworks at Navy Pier in the way that I'd seen them, the luceres had to have been—

"Right around here." I tapped the map.

Many Chicago suburbs were upper middle class and similar to the place I'd seen in my vision. I had little choice but to drive around and hope something struck a familiar chord. In a tiny hamlet called Lake Vista something did.

The sun was falling fast, darkness only an hour away at most. The panic had returned, pulsing behind my eyes like the low drone of flies on a hot summer day.

Lake Vista wasn't truly a suburb, more of a development—a huge one—situated outside all the other city limits. I had a feeling they'd applied, or would apply soon, for a charter to create the village of Lake Vista.

If they lived long enough.

I toured the streets—up, down, crosswise—and at last I saw the building where the luceres had "become."

Not wanting to be too obvious, to scare them off, if that were possible, I parked a block away and strolled in that direction. From the side of the building, I could see the city skyline in the distance. When I turned and glanced back toward Lake Vista, the array of houses, driveways, bikes, and trikes made me shiver.

This was the place.

A quick glance inside revealed an empty building. A small sign named it lake vista community center.

Since I needed to move on before someone became suspicious, I headed for the Impala. The suburb seemed nearly deserted, many of the families no doubt headed for the lakefront and the spectacular fireworks display.

Those who'd decided to forgo the crowds, whether from exhaustion, too many children, or a genuine dislike of fireworks, had either gone to bed or were watching television in the darkened houses where blue-white lights flickered against the windows.

I saw the luceres' plan. Wipe out the ones who'd stayed home, then lie in wait for those who'd gone away. It was a good plan—if you were a pack of evil half-demons bent on murder.

Sliding behind the wheel of the Impala, I scanned the area for a place I could lie in wait myself. Lake Vista had a view of the lake on one side, hence the name. But on the backside lay an anomaly, a great towering grove of trees—as out of place here as the wolves would be.

We didn't call people from Illinois flatlanders for fun. Well, actually it was fun, but Illinois was also really, really flat. Until you got to the Mississippi.

We weren't anywhere near the Mississippi.

Illinois had once been prairie; in a lot of areas it still was. Farms surrounded by cornfields, silos, and massive electrical poles were the only structures with any height for miles once you left Chicago behind.

In Chicago there were plenty of skyscrapers, and even some bluffs near the lake, but there weren't too many trees. I wondered where in hell these had come from.

Suddenly I understood why the luceres had picked Lake Vista for their massacre. They could run into those woods as wolves if they needed to, then pop out the other side as human beings.

I made my way around to a dirt track that led into the tree cover. The Impala rocked on the rough terrain, and the carriage scraped against dirt, even as dry grass whispered against the bumpers.

I made it to the trees, slid the Impala between two of them, and the shadows closed around us with a near audible sigh. The dying sun flickered through the lush, swaying leaves and light danced across the windshield.

Behind me civilization loomed—suburb, city, freeway upon freeway—but in front of me lay a seemingly endless forest. Sure, if I kept going I'd hit another suburb or a highway that led to one. But right now I could see nothing but trees, not a flash of a car, not the faint grayish-white wash of cement. There could be anything out there.

"Even the big bad wolf." I laughed, but the sound was forced. I'd seen the big bad wolf. He did not wear Gramma's nightdress, nightcap, or glasses. He wore nothing but fur, and then he killed you.

I reconnoitered the area, searching for the best place to stand so that my shots would not be sent wide by low-hanging branches, but I could still remain far enough in the shadows so no one would see me if they happened to glance out of their windows. Once I found such a location, I doused the arrows with gasoline and built a pile so they'd be easy to reload.

All I had left to do was wait. I listened for the wind, thrilled to discover it had died, almost as if it were waiting, too.

I had no warning—not a shuffle of feet against the earth, not a whisper of a breath, but suddenly that invisible target on my back burned. Slowly, I turned.

In the depths of the trees, where the light had faded and the shadows ruled, a single pair of eyes flared. Too short to be human, too soon to be a lucere, nevertheless, I knew a wolf when I saw one.

Only that single set of eyes; was this a scout? Did the luceres plan to enter Lake Vista through the woods as I'd feared? I didn't want to shoot what appeared to be people with burning arrows, but I would if I had to.

However, my arrows were on the ground and so was the unloaded crossbow. I could make a grab for them, but I doubted I'd be able to get off a shot before the wolf was on me.

My Glock was in the car, useless against the luceres, but my knife rested in a sheath at my waist. I put my palm on the hilt. The weapon might at least slow the beast down.

The wolf snorted—not anger, more like amusement— and I stilled.

"Come into the light," I murmured, and when it did, I lowered my hand. "Sawyer."

I should have known.

CHAPTER 10

“What are you doing here?" I demanded.

The black wolf stepped completely out of the shadows. He looked just like a wolf—huge head, long legs, teeth and tail. I could never mistake him for a werewolf—he wasn't large enough and his shadow, when there was one, reflected only his animal form.

Sawyer was a skinwalker—both witch and shape-shifter—a powerful medicine man who walked a fine line between good and evil. He'd been cast out by the Navajo, who were very wiggy about the supernatural.

Sometimes one of his people tried to kill him. They never succeeded—it was damn near impossible to kill a skinwalker—which only added to his spooky-ass legend.