Cold Moon Rising (8 page)

I pursed my lips and tipped my head with a twitch of my shoulder. “Enough to get by. I’ve found it’s better to be personable but vague to lull suspicions. I notice you brought along a clipboard and measuring tape. Pick one and I’ll man the other. It’s probably good it’s Saturday. Then we can’t get the answer of, ‘Go talk to someone at city hall’ when we start asking stupid questions.”

“That was my plan.”

I rolled down the window to let in the cool morning breeze. I’d gotten used to cracks from Sue about being her favorite puppy with his nose out the window, but I couldn’t deny that the scents and motion from passing air were invigorating. I also noticed Lucas wasn’t complaining.

We were still several miles from Hansen on a narrow county road. The barrow ditches were so tall with weeds and volunteer wheat that we had to poke the bumper nearly into the oncoming lane to see at each intersection. It told me that either the county didn’t have enough of a tax base for a road maintenance budget, or nobody cared enough to complain. It’s amazing how much you can learn about a town and the residents by just driving around a little. Carrying that air of blindness to your surroundings is critical to blending in. Too many tourists fail at it because they carry along with them what’s “normal” from where they left, instead of adapting to where they are. If nobody else notices a particularly nasty scent, then a smart tourist doesn’t either. If locals flock to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that looks like a dive over a fancy, shiny eatery, it’s wise to follow if you want to stay healthy.

So when we hit the edge of town, I started scoping out who was hanging out where. The little building with a sixties pole sign reading, CUPPAJOE’S was our best bet. Probably half the town’s vehicles were in the lot with more arriving every minute. “Let’s make a swing through the site while everyone’s busy.”

Lucas didn’t reply. He just drove past the restaurant casually, keeping the speedometer a shade under the posted limit and hanging his arm out the window like he belonged. The people exiting the restaurant didn’t even look up, meaning he’s apparently done this before.

We had to go slow around the wreckage of the water tower and swerved once or twice to avoid some particularly large potholes that were dug into the pavement from where the unyielding steel met the ground. Lucas was taking everything in as he drove, his eyes flicking back and forth while appearing not to. I started making notes in my head to put on my “expert” persona and tried to spot where there might have been a big burrow dug into the sand. It was mostly sand in town—the fine, nearly powdery kind that would compact really well, but would probably require shoring during the excavation. I added that piece of information to my mental list as we passed by an old adobe motel that had seen better days, on our way around the block to head back to the café.

“And he swears it was Tony the Nose?”

My head and upper body snapped around so fast that the seat belt thought it was an accident and jerked me back. But it was too late. I couldn’t see who the speaker had been. “Turn around!” I ordered, fast and low. “Go back past that motel. But don’t make it obvious.”

He twisted his head as he flipped on the blinker at the corner. “What’s up?”

The doubts started to set in as Lucas increased his speed slightly on his way to the next corner. Maybe I heard wrong. After all, what would someone who knows the stupid name they gave me in the mob be doing in a small Kansas town? I shrugged and tapped my fingers on my knee. “Could be nothing. I could have sworn I heard a guy with a Jersey accent say ‘Tony the Nose.’ That was the idiotic nickname my friend John Corbin gave me when we were kids, and it stuck through the whole time I was in the family.”

Lucas suddenly started to take it seriously and stomped on the gas after we rounded the next corner, sending a spray of dust into the air. The Sazi, for some unknown reason I couldn’t fathom, had expended a lot of time and energy to make me “dead” to my old life and welcome me onto the Wolven force. I’d asked repeatedly, but nobody would tell me why. Occasionally, it was against my will, but I was settling in to the role. It was good money and used my talents well. Now, I’d changed my appearance and had taken pains during this past year to stay out of areas I knew could be a problem, but I was starting to worry that I’d missed something—gotten so involved in an assignment that I hadn’t noticed someone noticing me. His voice interrupted my walking through each of my last few assignments, searching my memory for something I’d missed. “Do you think Leone would spill the beans?”

The guffaw that erupted from me nearly made me choke. “It would take even more torture than the Sazi snakes are capable of to make Carmine Leone spill the beans. A couple of the guys saw me during the spider attack in Chicago, but they were all made guys. I’d be very surprised if they’d squeal if Carmine told them not to—and he would. And even if they told someone in my old hometown, no way in hell would they tell anyone in Jersey about Carmine’s ace in the hole.”

That raised Lucas’s eyebrows. I started to kick myself, because it didn’t come out like I’d planned. “Are you Carmine’s ace in the hole? You been moonlighting on me?”

I knew what he was really asking. Was I continuing to assassinate humans, risking arrest and revealing the secret of the Sazi? That’s an automatic, instantaneous death sentence, because humans have no idea we exist. I shook my head wearily. “No, I’m not still working for Carmine. Hell, I haven’t even been in contact with him or Linda since Christmas. And the last time I saw Babs, she was spun up in a spider cocoon. But Joey, Sal, and Louis all saw me that one time visiting with Bobby.” I still remember the look on Joey the Snake’s face when he came walking up to me in the basement hideout Carmine had dug underneath his estate. The grin he’d worn as he approached me turned into something more serious. The simple words of, ‘Thought you were dead, man’ had been echoed by the faces of those around him, and was about as emotional as guys like them get. I’d been flattered, at least until I learned Joey’d been undermining my replacement. Sadly, that left two seats open at the poker table each month, because Carmine wasn’t pleased to the point that Joey wound up at the bottom of a deep lake.

“Would they talk?”

I shrugged. They never had before, but who knew what had changed in the last year? “I’d be shocked, but I’ve been shocked before. Joey’s dead, and Louis and Sal have always been Carmine’s top two lieutenants. But anything’s possible, I guess. A better bet, in my mind, is that I did something stupid and got noticed by someone who was in a place I didn’t expect. The ‘out of context, out of mind’ thing.”

“We need to check into this motel.” He flipped on his right blinker to turn into the motel parking lot, causing my heart to do a drum solo.

I started scanning the lot, looking for pairs of eyes staring. “Are you nuts? You trying to make certain they spot me?”

Now he smiled in the corner of my vision, and it was filled with the same amusement he always wore when I’d forgotten about his abilities. “Then we need to make sure you don’t look like you.” When I turned to look at him, gone was the stocky Latino with the silvering hair. In his place was a taller Caucasian with wavy dark hair and a hometown, outdoorsy tan who would fit in perfectly in this town.

I recognized the man. I’d seen him once before in an airport in Indiana on another near-f moon. I’d only figured out it was an illusion because he’d gotten angry and his aura changed colors. It was back to what it had been that night, a thin gold band instead of blue-white, and he now smelled of lemon-limesoaked cardboard instead of the sweet smell of ripe cactus fruit.

“Ah. It’s Greg Hamilton—football hero, today, is it?”

He offered an open, friendly smile that I knew was all mask. “Not quite. Greg is dead and is known in some law-enforcement circles. They do look similar, but I’m modeled after a young man named Josh Sampson. He’s the nephew of the man we’re visiting. I dropped by their house in Boulder last night. The plane’s rented in his name with his pilot’s license. Josh is going underground for a few days—an allexpenses-paid trip to a remote island with no electrical service, where the staff waits on you hand and foot. He can use it. He’s a pilot and is on leave for burnout. I was a little surprised how subtle the difference is, but the slope of the nose is different and the hair is a touch darker. No reason not to use the scent, though. And don’t forget to check the mirror . . . Joe.”

I flipped down the visor on the passenger side, but it wasn’t a deluxe model that had a vanity mirror. So I rolled down the window farther and stuck my head fully out to see myself in the rearview. My brows shot up because it was so totally not me staring at me. I blinked and so did the reflection. I bared my teeth in a kind of smile and so did my double.

My dark hair was now golden and tight against my head. The eyes, once the cold blue-gray of gunmetal were closer to sapphire. The face was more narrow, with high cheekbones, a slightly roman nose, and a weak chin. It was an odd mix of nationalities—Native America meets Scandinavia, via England. “Where in the world did you come up with this face? Do I actually look like a real person you know?”

“Knew. Guy named John Spence. He was a good guy, just doing his job protecting a makeshift fort, during the War of Northern Aggression. He was killed by a stray bullet not even aimed his way, and left a young wife he’d only married a few weeks before. Pity. He was tolerant. That was rare in the day.”

My lips pursed. I knew that Lucas was as old as dirt, but it’s weird when someone talks about events from nearly a hundred fifty years ago as though they happened last week. Bobby does that too, and it’s always strange.

“So, I look like a Civil War victim. You have personas picked out for us?” I knew he did. He’s always a step or two ahead. It was mere courtesy to ask what it was.

“Like I said, I’m Josh Sampson, Ralph’s brother’s youngest son from Colorado. You’re Joe . . . Davis. How does that sound?”

“Sounds white-bread, middle class, and completely forgettable. Should be perfect. And we’re here to put in a bid on the water tower?”

“You are. I’m just delivering you and visiting family. Fewer people ask questions when you’re family . . . even shoestring relatives. I know enough about the Sampsons that I can pull it off.”

We opened our doors at the same moment one of the room doors opened. I twitched almost visibly as two men came outside. I recognized them both and it was a struggle to ignore them as though I didn’t.

I knew the older of the two as Stuart Prezza. He was the spitting image of his daddy, Vito. Square and short, with dark hair in a buzz cut and hazel eyes. They both hailed from the New Jersey mob. I’d killed Stuart’s younger brother, Jeffrey, at Carmine’s order—but it was before I even knew the Sazi existed, so I’d already been excused from that job by the council. But I hadn’t come close enough since turning wolf to notice his scent, which my head immediately attached to an image of the algae that grows on carpeting left too long in the rain. The younger man I knew by reputation and photographs. He had a metallic scent covered with dirt . . . sort of like a big mound of buried coins. Ricky Mario was slender and tall, his thin sandy hair just brushing his shoulders. From the way he had it parted, I was betting he was going to be a candidate for early pattern baldness in a year or two. He was an up-and-comer hitter when I started freelancing and we occasionally bid on the same jobs. I was a little surprised that Vito had sent him out this far, unless they expected to take me by surprise.

Of course, that led me back to the same questions—what were they doing here in a pissant little town in Kansas, and why would they be expecting me?

The longer I thought, the longer I apparently stared at them, because Stuart noticed me noticing. That’s never good. He flipped me off with a slap of his palm to his forearm. Normally, that’s enough in the big city to get the curious to find other things to look at. It gave me an out without confrontation, so I did as expected and shifted my gaze, trying to look cowed. That particular set of facial motions isn’t all that easy for me, since I’m either too good or too stupid to admit I should be cowed.

What do you mean, he isn’t here? He was expecting me to arrive and knew I had little time.

The inside of the clinic in Boulder was suddenly superimposed over the Kansas parking lot and Stuart’s ugly mug. But I wasn’t in Sue’s head. I could tell that because whoever I was in was taller than Amber, so she had to look up to lock eyes.

“Oh, please, Ahmad. Why are you so surprised? They had a Wolven emergency in Kansas and had to leave. It happens. You weren’t supposed to arrive until this evening, so don’t give me the little time crap. I expect they’ll be here by then, so you might as well just sit down and wait. Charles is on his way too, so you’ll have to make time even if you don’t have it.”

I could feel the snake king’s brows furrow as he considered what she said. I still couldn’t figure out for the life of me why I was attaching to his head right now—and if anyone said anything about having mating ties with that guy, they’d get decked.

“Why is Charles coming? He was scheduled to be in Germany for another week.”

Amber sighed and stripped off the blue nitrile gloves she was wearing. I only know what they are because I prefer them over latex or vinyl. “It’s Angelique. Something happened to her down there. I’m not sure she’s ever going to be the same. Decisions need to be made.”

A sensation like being punched in the stomach made me let out a whoosh of air. Turned out it was something punching me in the stomach . . . my duffel bag. “You still with me there, Joe?”

Stuart and Ricky were long gone, the car a black dot down the highway. Lucas was inches away from my face, his eyes glowing bright as he struggled to shield me against whatever was happening to me. But it wasn’t that easy. He was holding a key with a tag in his hand, saying that he’d already checked in while I was stuck out of body. This wasn’t a moon thing, because I wasn’t in Ahmad’s head long enough for all that to have happened. Or, at least I didn’t think I’d been. “Yeah. Sort of. Got another flash of snake king. He’s in Boulder and pissed we aren’t.”