No one spoke for a long tense moment. Then Jessie put a hand on his arm. “Of course, Sergeant. Emotions are running high right now. Thank you for reminding us that we cannot let our guard down,” she said graciously. “We rely on you to keep the peace between our two worlds, and our trust is well-founded.”
Two worlds. Human and Changeling. Until very recently, Zoey had known of only one. Funny how fast things could change. . . .
“I've got the Pack divided into groups, searching for Bernie,” Jessie said to Connor. “Right now we're going to join them, but we'll be back later to help you bury your animals. Take care of Zoey.”
“Thanks, Jess. I will.”
Bill put a huge tattooed arm around Connor's shoulders. “Jim Neely was a good man, but no one knew it till you came along. You made his last years some of the best, mate.”
Connor couldn't say anything to that, only nodded.
Zoey watched Bill and Jessie walk away. “How many Pack members are out there?” She squeezed Connor's hand, seeking to distract him from his sadness.
He blinked like a man waking up. “Twenty now. Jessie and Bill will make twenty out there.”
“They'll have to work fast,” said Fitzpatrick. “I can't keep the Fish and Game guys busy forever. Luckily their helicopter is over in the next district doing a moose count today, but they booked it for daybreak tomorrow if the rain holds off. I figure we have till then to find Bernie, before it's too dangerous for us to be in wolfen form out there.” He nodded toward the open land. “They'll be shooting every wolf they spot, just to be sure.”
“Can't we stop them?” asked Zoey.
Connor shook his head. “They have no choice, not with two men dead. It's a matter of public safety now. Not only will it be hell on the wolf population, but it's going to make it difficult to be a Changeling in this region for a long time to come. Maybe years.”
“Right now, we've got other things to take care of. Did Neely have any family?” asked Fitzpatrick.
“No, there was no one. He'sâhe wasâa widower, no children. No siblings living,” said Connor. “We were his family, these last few years. Do you need me to identify him?”
“No, that's not necessary. He'd been in enough scrapes back in his drinking days that we can officially identify him with fingerprints.”
“I'd like to see him just the same.”
The sergeant nodded. “You'll get a chance to do that after he's been taken to the morgue.”
“I'm his friend. I'll do it now,” said Connor.
“Procedureâ“ Fitz began, then stopped. “Hang procedure. Over here.” He led the way around the side of the house.
The group passed the blueberry bushes. RCMP officers with latex gloves were pulling the limp bodies of dead dogs from the patch and laying them out on the grass, where two Fish and Wildlife officers were examining them.
Connor looked over at Zoey. “You okay?”
She nodded and ran a nervous hand through her hair, wondering if any of them would ever be all right again. “I've already seen this.” And she had. But despite the ugly previews her psychic abilities gave her, the real thing was always worse.
A pair of officers was standing with Dr. Lowen Miller beside a bed of purple monkshood. Through her research of werewolves, Zoey had learned that these flowers were also known as wolfsbane because they were supposed to repel shapeshifters. It certainly hadn't worked here. Most of the flowers had been crushed and in the center of the plants was a glaring yellow tarp. It seemed far too bright for the tragedy it covered.
To her surprise, the gruff doctor walked to Connor at once and put a hand on his shoulder, patting him like a child. Lowen guided him over to the flower bed and dismissed the officers.
“But sirâ” began one.
The doctor glared. “Take a hike, son.”
The officers left.
Lowen knelt at one end of the tarp, holding a corner, watching for Connor's nod that he was ready. The tarp was peeled back. Zoey didn't look at what lay beneath it. What she did see was Connor's face, stricken suddenly as if by a physical blow. Then his eyes closed in pain and grief.
“Goddammit, Jim,” he said quietly to the dead man. “This shouldn't have happened to you.”
Lowen straightened the tarp and stood up. “I have some tests to do, but I think he had a heart attack. He may have been gone before the first blow landed, Connor.”
Zoey stared at the tarp and nodded. She could see it in her head, just as the doctor described. “He saw the wolf, and he died. He didn't even have time to be scared. The wolf was surprised andâand disappointed.” Suddenly she was aware of both Connor and Lowen staring at her. Unbidden, she heard words from her past, the names that had both labeled and dismissed her.
The Weird Kid. Creepy Girl. Freakazoid.
Felt the sting of them again, even as she shoved them back into whatever mental closet they'd fallen out of.
She turned and walked off, heading for the front of the house, wanting to get away from the death and destruction. But there was no escape. Many of the vehicles had gone, most of the people associated with them as well, giving her a clear view of the entire farmyard. Hapless creatures large and small lay scattered as far as the eye could see. From here, she could identify the largest shapes by their colorâthe great shaggy heap that was certainly the Highland bull, the dappled gray hide of one of the horses, a pair of big pink sows. Her heart bled at the immense sadness of the scene, but she knew it must be worse for Connor.
“Thanks for that.” His voice behind her made her jump. Before she could recover, his powerful arms simply slid around her and gathered her back against him.
“Thanks for what?”
“It helps, knowing that Jim didn't feel what that bastard did to him, that he was already gone. Bernie's still responsible but at least Jim didn't suffer.”
Connor took a great shuddering breath and Zoey squirmed, wanting to hold him but his grip was so tight that she couldn't turn around. She had to settle for nuzzling and kissing the arm closest to her, placing her hands over his.
“I wish I'd been able to do more, see more,” she said, her voice tight with tears. “I wish I'd seen this in advance so we could have stopped it.”
He turned her around then, cupped her face in his huge hands. “Don't do that to yourself. It's bad enough that I feel that way, don't you go there too.”
“I'm already there, dammit!” She burst into hot, angry tears then. “I've been there for years now. Always too late, too damn late to do any good at all. You and Jessie keep saying this ability is a gift, but I don't see it that way. It's a horrible thing to have, and I wish it didn't exist. All it does is leave me standing over the dead. Helpless.”
Chapter Twenty-four
T
he coroner's van pulled away with its sad burden, followed by the RCMP cruisers. Connor watched them go without seeing them, without seeing anything. He felt like he was underwater. Everything was distorted through a watery lens and he was moving in slow motion, pushing against the current along the bottom of a cold river.
Every living thing on the farm had been chased down and slaughtered, from the herd of cattle in the pasture to the smaller animals that ranged free around the yard. Blood seemed to be everywhere, soaking into the hard clay, splattering the fence rails and feeders, even splashed against the walls of the white barn like garish paint. Still, he'd made a thorough check of every animal, from the biggest draft horse to the smallest cat. He'd known they were dead before he touched them. But he'd needed to touch them. And each one reinforced both his anger and his decision. White hot fury hardened his resolve to diamond.
Bernard Gervais had run rampant long enough. He had to be stopped, permanently. For Jim Neely and for Al Menzie, for every victim known and unknown. For those intended to become victims, like Zoey. And for all the helpless and innocent creatures.
Connor stood and scanned the surrounding land. The forest, the fields, the coulees dropping away to the river valley. He surveyed them until gradually a silvery thread appeared before his eyes.
Farsight
had come to his aid at last.
He had Bernie's trail.
Â
Zoey paced the house, rubbing her arms as if she was cold. In truth, she didn't know what she was. She couldn't seem to feel much, except anxiety for Connor. He'd asked for some time alone in the farmyard, and she could certainly understand that. She was tired and knew she should be hungry, but although she warmed up some soup, she couldn't bring herself to eat it. Nor could she sit down and rest. Her mind and heart were with the man she loved. And so she kept returning to the living room to watch Connor through the windows. She'd seen him kneel by every last animal, saw him touch each and every one. Was he saying good-bye? Praying for them? What did Changelings do? Whatever their custom, she thought of her own loss when Fester died, and thought how much worse this must be for the gifted veterinarian. His heart was already sore from the loss of his human friend. But the animals had been his friends too. She remembered the night she first walked through the farmyard with Connor, remembered how he had introduced her to each animal that lived there. They were all individuals to him. And they obviously adored him, couldn't get close enough to him.
Oh Jesus
âshe suddenly remembered Lila and the puppies.
Her
puppy. She dashed out the front door, but paused at the top of the steps when she spotted movement on the far side of Connor's truck. Connor himself emerged from the backseat, pulling something with him. Then in a blurred motion almost too fast to follow, he spun away.
He Changed. He must have. Because in the next instant all she could see was a massive black and silver blur moving between the trees.
And then it was gone.
“Wait,” she mouthed although Connor was no longer in sight. Something was niggling at the corners of her awareness, something huge and dark. Suddenly her physical sight was overwhelmed by her inner sight.
She was flying high overhead, eagle-like, following a wide river. The water was turbulent, swollen with rain and debris. Trees were gouged from the banks and carried along in the torrent. As she watched, she noticed several places where the hillsides had given way and slid into the river. One spot in particular drew her attention, about four miles downstream from the first. Where the toe of raw earth met the river, an enormous tree lay on its side, its roots half-buried in the slide and half in the air, its broken crown nearly submerged in the river, spanning a third of the way across the wild, churning water.
The tree was important. She
had
to get there. It was important, as necessary as breathing.
She dove toward itâ
âand found herself on the ground at the foot of the stairs, staring at an empty vodka bottle that was wedged under the bottom step.
Zoey eased herself to her feet, brushing off her clothes. She'd have bruises, no doubt, but that wasn't bad considering she'd tumbled down six or seven stairs. It was the vision that bothered her. What the hell did it mean?
She paced and swore repeatedly in pure frustration at the strange gift that had set her apart, made her different, disrupted her career and her life. Why the hell couldn't it work the way it did in television shows? Often she received nothing, no hint at all of what was to come. Other times, she'd been led to scenes after the event had already taken place. Sometimes she just received incomprehensible clues, like these. A landslide, a flooded river, a fallen tree . . . She sank to the bottom step and willed her brain to work through the puzzle. The river in her vision had been very wide and the coulees that flanked it were a signature of the Peace River, the same river she could see in the far distance as a glimmering thread. But it gained its name from its serene surface. Sure, the calmness was deceivingâthe Peace actually boasted a strong, swift currentâbut it was hardly the raging floodwaters she'd seen in the psychic vision.
Or was it?
She glanced at the lowering sky. It hadn't rained here yet, but she knew that it was still raining heavily in the mountains and foothills. The dam had been forced to release more water. How long did it take for all that extra water to travel a couple hundred miles or so along the winding river? Zoey held her head in both hands in an effort to focus, to discern the meaning of the images she'd seen. Why was it so important? What was it she needed to do? Did any of it have to do with Bernie or was it just a distraction?
Connor had headed into the forest that flanked the farmyard on the south. The river was west. If there was a connection, she couldn't feel it. She got to her feet again and as she turned to begin pacing, her foot brushed the vodka bottle. A sudden tingle went through her as if she'd touched a tiny electric current. Puzzled, she knelt and reached for the bottleâand as her hand closed around it, thoughts and images burst into her brain. Not so much an epiphany as an
explosion
in her head.
Zoey lost her balance and fell backward onto the grass, overwhelmed. She knew without a doubt that Bernard Gervais had touched the glass, had wrapped his fingers around it. And she suddenly knew something more, something new. Because he had touched this object, she could
use it
to enhance and direct her gift! In the past, in the city, her growing psychic ability had led her to places and events by thought alone. Never had she intentionally or inadvertently touched anything associated with a crime scene. And so she'd never known, never even thought or imagined, where her talent truly lay.
Please, please, please.
Zoey held the bottle in both hands, clutched it close to her, tried to open herself up to her gift.
Show me. Tell me.
It did.
With horrifying clarity, she could see exactly what her vision had meant. Bernie was near the river, lying in wait. Connor was going after Bernie.
And neither would survive.
Â
The faint silvery thread of
farsight
led into the woods and straight into the shallow stream. Connor found himself racing along the streambed, driving the cold water into plumes around him. Miles later, his psychic guideline had not altered. Bernie had clearly used the little creek as a personal pathway. How long, how far, Connor couldn't begin to guess, but it didn't matter. The water didn't slow him in the least. An adult wolf was a perfect running machine, able to cover fifty to sixty miles in a day. A Changeling, twice that distance. An angry Changeling, maybe more.
The psychic trail led Connor to where the land dropped away into the river valley in runneled cliffs and coulees of sandstone and clay. The saddleback wolf trotted along the tops of the cliffs on silent feet, keeping to the cover of trees and brush. His
farsight
had subsided, but he didn't need its help anymore. Bernie had left the water's camouflage and Connor could sift the rogue's scent easily from the air. Knew he was close by.
Without warning, an enormous grizzled shape crashed through the bushes and broadsided the saddleback wolf. Connor simply rolled beneath the force and regained his feet, launching himself straight at his attacker's throat.
The creature twisted and leapt aside, Connor's jaws closing just shy of the vulnerable throat. Instead he got a mouthful of the gray ruff. He used his momentum to pivot, scoring a long ragged gash along Bernie's ribs.
At least he thought it was Bernie. Changelings were naturally larger and more powerful than ordinary wolves, and Connor was one of the largest in the Pack. Yet this incarnation of Bernie outweighed him easily. Only the color of the creature's hide and the madness in its eyes identified it as once having been Bernard Gervais.
Connor dodged and wheeled as the monstrous rogue charged him again and again with snapping jaws and deep-throated snarls. He delivered quick slashes of his own, then leapt barely out of reach as the beast whirled on him. The battle became a blur of savage growls and lunging forms. Droplets of spittle and blood flew from gnashing teeth. The rogue wolf was pure killer instinct, all fang and claw, muscle and teeth. His madness had lent him unnatural strength and speed. Connor left off trying to get to the throat and instead sliced at the rogue's legs at every opening. If he was lucky, he might be able to slow Bernie down, disable him. But each time, Bernie managed to shake him offâoften twisting away from Connor's jaws like quicksilverâand delivered vicious bites of his own.
Despite Connor's best efforts, the rogue gained ground, backing the saddleback wolf onto a narrow promontory of land that fell away steeply on three sides to the river valley below. Connor was bleeding from many deep wounds while Bernie's injuries seemed few and shallow by comparison. Determined, Connor made another try for Bernie's throat and found himself abruptly slammed away by a paw that felt more like a fence post. He landed hard near the edge of the cliff, raked with deep parallel gashes over two, maybe three, cracked ribs.
Apparently satisfied that he had his enemy both cornered and subdued, Bernie backed away and sat down at the root of the outcropping, effectively blocking any hope of exit. The rogue was barely breathing hard although his opponent's sides were heaving. Still, Connor got to his feet quickly, braced for another attack. And recoiled in pure shock as he got his first clear look at his enemy.
The only wolflike features Bernie had left were his ears, which looked out of place perched on top of his widened skull. His lips drew away from powerful jaws with multiple rows of long needle-like teeth. His skeleton had shifted, broadened, to support muscle that would have been out-sized on a Kodiak bear. In fact, he looked like a grizzly on steroids, complete with a massive hump of muscle over the shoulders. His front feet, braced in front of him, revealed additional toes with wickedly hooked claws. As Connor watched, the rogue's hide seemed to move, almost as if live things snaked and bunched beneath the skin. As if his body were still in flux, still changing.
Like the upgrades, Macleod? As you can see, I've evolved.
Bernie's words popped into Connor's head. They felt dark, almost oily. The old Changeling had been verbally belligerent most of his life. But this was different. Not because of the physical alterations, but because of what Connor could sense within Bernie. Pure evil. Instinctively he masked his own thought processes, locked them away deep where the monster couldn't read them. Wished he could keep the monster's voice out as well.
You're looking at the
future
, Macleod. And after I've killed all of you, I'll start a race of new and improved Changelings. Together, we'll hunt the weakling humans instead of being hunted by them.
Sounds like a bad movie to me, Bernie. Are you going to proclaim yourself Emperor too?
The rogue snapped his foam-flecked jaws together, opened them with a deafening roar.
You should be on your knees to me! All of you! Every damn one of you! And you will be before I kill you!
Connor noted with amazement that Bernie had just severed the end of his tongueâyet he seemed unaware of it. The rogue continued his mindspeech rant as if nothing had happened, although blood ran freely from his jaws.
Pretending to quake in fear, Connor hunched down as if submissive. It wasn't hard to fake defeat. Wounded and bleeding, he was trapped between Bernie and the cliff. He had to buy time, had to keep this insane monster busy gloating as long as he could. It was plain now that Bernie couldn't be taken down by ordinary means. Pack law was clear on the rules of fair combat between enemies, and also clear on the fate of roguesâonly tooth and claw were honorable to use between Changelings. But the horrific creature in front of him was no longer a Changeling at all. It was an abomination.
Maybe I should call your woman, have her watch while I tear you apart.
It was all Connor could do to keep a leash on his temper. He had to wait, had to watch for the right moment, the right opportunity. Still, a long, low growl escaped him.
Keep her out of this, Bernie. It's between you and me.