Thinning the Herd (3 page)

Regret glimmered for a moment in Nick's yellow eyes, then he loped off toward River Road.

“Good boy,” Hal murmured. He glanced at Galahad. Patted his shoulder. “All aboard the Rupert Express.” They'd have to travel on foot; he couldn't trail Nick in the pickup. Fleeing animals tended to run cross-country.

Galahad jumped onto Hal's shoulder and anchored himself with his claws. Gritting his teeth, Hal stood in one fluid motion—imagining himself the very epitome of grace even with claws buried in his flesh and blood flowing . . . okay, maybe just trickling . . . down his back.

“Ass-kicking time, Gally.”

Galahad purred.

4

THE DEAD STAY DEAD, MOSTLY

Nick took the lead. Hal followed, running at an easy pace, Gally bouncing on his shoulder. The
y
ō
kai
's path wound along the interstate and across lanes of traffic, through the lush growth surrounding the ponds on Delta Highway.

The smells of heated rubber, wet grass, and car exhaust filled the air. Hal fell into a hypnotic rhythm as he followed Nick. But two feet were never as quick as four, so Nick paused once in a while, allowing Hal and Gally to catch up. In the darkness, the
y
ō
kai
's lambent eyes glowed like night-lights.

Night-
lights for hunters,
Hal mused.
And heroes
.

His heart
ker-thudd
ed hard against his ribs when he realized where Nick's path led. Valley River Center. And the greenbelt he'd cruised just that morning. His thoughts flashed back to his lovely Desdemona. He knew, just gut
knew
, she was in danger. Maybe not that very moment, but soon. Eventually. Someday.

As Nick's pace slowed, Hal allowed himself to drop into a jog. The
y
ō
kai
followed a scent path down to the river, then stopped. He stared out across the rushing black water as Hal galloped down the bank, his boot heels slipping in the dew-slick grass.

“Trail's end?” Hal asked, stopping beside Nick.

Nick nodded, gaze still on the passing river.

“End of the line for the Rupert Express,” Hal said.

Galahad jumped from Hal's shoulder and prowled the riverbank. Hal gingerly rubbed his shoulder. “So, now what, boys?”

Galahad batted at a low-fluttering moth. Bounced after it. Hal sighed. That was the problem with
y
ō
kai
. Unlike lycans, whose animal natures took over at inopportune times,
y
ō
kai
animal nature ruled
all
the time. Even when in two-legged form, they remained critters.

Hal walked along the riverbank, catch pole in hand. The night was quiet and he heard the river passing, a low rushing sound. He realized that was
all
he heard—no creaking crickets, no mournful night birds, no splashing fish (but, he conceded, maybe fish didn't do much at night). His muscles knotted. He half turned and looked back at Nick. The
y
ō
kai
's ears pointed straight up, attentive. Galahad was nowhere to be seen.

Hal's fingers locked around the catch pole. They were no longer alone. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened. He ducked low and whirled. Something hurtled past him, over his head. Something with a mouth full of sharp teeth. Something snarling.

Hal straightened and swiveled again, arcing his catch pole around and hitting . . .
something
. The shock of contact slammed into his shoulder. His hand went numb and he almost dropped the pole.
Almost.
He staggered.

A streak of orange and gold blurred past him and leapt on the . . . something. The hair-raising scream of a cat cut through the night. Another form, gray, black, and tawny, bulleted past. Snarling. Nick.

Hal stepped forward but hesitated as the animals fought, rolling and dodging, clawing and biting. He didn't want to risk hitting Gally or Nick. A sharp
yipe
was quickly followed by silence.

A wolf lay limp and unmoving on the riverbank. Hal stepped forward, fear a hard knot in his belly. “Nick?” he whispered.

A furred head bumped his hand. Relief slammed through Hal, weakened his knees. He sat down hard. “Aw, hell.”

Nick sat on his haunches, his muzzle bloody, tongue lolling. Galahad weaved through Nick's front legs, stopped in front of Hal. Extended a leg. Groomed.

Hal laughed. “You scared the holy living shit out of me.” He glanced at the still form on the riverbank and his laughter died. “That your Dumpster buddy?”

Nick bumped his hand again. Hal nodded. Okay, then. Using his catch pole for leverage, he climbed to his feet and walked over to the body. Crickets chirruped. Night birds mourned. Hal nodded, again. Okay, then. He poked the body with the pole.

Another truth about lycans that most people didn't know—whichever shape you died in was the shape you stayed in. No Shifting back to True Form after death. The dead stayed dead and the only change they experienced was decay.

Hal poked the lycan's body a few more times for good measure. Yup. Dead. Okay, then. Someone wouldn't be going home in the morning. Someone had just joined the rolls of the missing—along with all the fortune-tellers and hippies.

Hal sighed. He sat down in the grass. Laying the catch pole down beside him, he rubbed his face. He felt eyes on him—Nick's and Galahad's; they were waiting for him to make a decision. Depending upon him for leadership and guidance. Waiting . . . respecting a true hero's need for silence, for—

“Mew.”

“Are you freakin' kidding me?” Grabbing the catch pole, Hal jumped to his feet. “Where?”

“Mew.” Galahad sat primly on the path, a well-groomed paw holding down a fluttering moth.

“But that's just a rumor,” Hal protested. “Just an urban legend. Doesn't exist.” He walked along the riverbank looking for the bushes Galahad had just described. Nick trotted beside him, nose to the ground, sniffing.

“Mew.”

“C'
mon
,” Hal groaned. “Now you're just showing off. There's no way . . .” His words trailed off as Nick bounded forward into a mass of thick undergrowth. And disappeared.

“Nick!” he hissed.

Hal stopped in front of the blackberry-vine-entangled bushes. A gust of damp, chilled air blew against his face. Using his catch pole like a machete (okay, a very
dull
machete), he pushed his way through the vines. Thorns stabbed at him, snagged his clothing.

If Galahad was right, there'd be no living with him. Hal, the very epitome of grim resolve (great caption for another photo op), pushed through the river-mist-dampened vines and bushes until he finally broke free.

Nick sat on his haunches, waiting.

In a tunnel.

Hal stepped forward and nearly fell as something lassoed his ankle and tried to jerk him down. Catch pole twirling with mind-numbing speed, Hal struck the vine loose from his ankle. He straightened. Breathed in the tunnel's hash-pipe odor.

“Mew.”

“Yeah, yeah” Hal muttered. “You were right. Here it is.” As Galahad twined around his feet, Hal took in the sight before him, a sight stretching away into darkness.

The fabled underground pot dens of Eugene.

But at that moment something brown and bristly launched itself out of the tunnel like a furry guided missile aimed straight for Hal.

5

INSANE CHITTERING

The brushy-tailed missile smacked Hal in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. Struggling for balance, Hal tumbled into the blackberry vines. In a frenzied dance of little clawed paws, the chittering missile scrabbled free and raced away into the night.

Hal sucked in a fledgling breath only to have it knocked from his lungs—freaking
again
—when something heavy, something chasing his chittering little assaulter, used his chest as a trampoline and bounded away in hot pursuit.

Squirrel
,
then Nick,
Hal thought as he stared at the whirling tunnel ceiling.
Insane.
And he realized he didn't know if he meant the squirrel or Nick or himself.

Hal lay there a moment, sucking in a breath of pot-smoke-tinged air, wondering which had done more damage—squirrel claws, blackberry thorns, or wolf weight. He waited for the ceiling to stop spinning.

“Mew.”

“Don't you start. Just . . . don't start.”

After a few moments the ceiling slowed to a lazy twirl, then stopped moving altogether a few moments after that. Breathing once again, Hal plucked himself free of the blackberry thorns. Using his catch pole for leverage, he eased to his feet. He looked into the tunnel's dark maw. Shook his head. “Gonna have to wait for daylight or a flashlight. Too dark for comfort.”

“Mew.” Galahad stretched out his front legs, belly down, butt up.

Hal laughed. “You got that right. This ain't a movie and we ain't stupid.” As he turned, a gleam near the opposite side of the tunnel's mouth caught his eye.

Frowning, Hal crossed over to it and crouched down, catch pole in hand. A pile of neatly folded clothing. A pair of shiny black dress shoes. “Holy shit, Gally. Our deceased lycan used this tunnel to change in.”

Hal checked through the clothing: long-sleeved white shirt, suit jacket, slacks, all bearing the
EXCLUSIVELY
AT WALMART
label. Black belt with silver buckle—the gleam that'd caught his attention—boxers, socks tucked into the shoes.

Hal frowned. No wallet. He searched through the suit jacket's pocket. His fingers slid across a paper-sharp edge, tugged it free. He held a torn piece of paper wrapped around a tarot card.

The Moon. Blood-smeared and nibbled.

And on the torn piece of paper—a phone number with a Springfield prefix.

“We've got ourselves a clue,” Hal said. He glanced at Galahad. “And, given my run-ins with him, I think our deceased buddy was sent to kill me.”

“Mew.”

“Yes,
me
. He either didn't know about you and Nick or, if he did, he might've figured you were on his side, being fellow shifters and all.”

“Mew.”

“Personally, I think it's a
good
thing that he wasn't a competent assassin.” Hal rubbed his chin. Stubble greeted his fingers. “The question is—who sent him?”

Panting and scrabbling through the vines and greenery hiding the tunnel's mouth, Nick slid inside. He padded over to Hal. Winked. No fresh blood gleamed on his muzzle, so Hal guessed the squirrel—insane, perhaps stoned on pot fumes—had escaped.

“We've got ourselves some clues,” Hal said, showing the tarot card and paper to the wolf. He tilted his head toward the tunnel. “We'll investigate when we have some daylight.”

“WHOOOOOOoooooOOOO.”

“No, I don't think the squirrel's in on this,” Hal said. “Unless he's a shifter too.”

Nick shook his head. Clear disappointment in his eyes. Hal smiled. That was the thing about wolves and canids in general—they were easy to read. Unlike cats. He glanced at Galahad. He sat there, tail curled around his feet, as readable as a Russian newspaper.

“Let's head back,” Hal said. “I need to get back to work. Let's meet here at noon tomorrow after I catch a little shut-eye.” Pocketing the card, he looked from one pair of lambent eyes to the next. “Who wants to call the number?”

Nick lifted a paw. Hal shook it. Nick growled. Hal laughed, “Just messing with you, buddy.” He balled up the piece of paper, centered it on his palm, then extended his hand to Nick.

The
y
ō
kai
sniffed the piece of paper, then picked it up with a delicate nip of his teeth and swallowed it. Hal tapped the catch pole once against the ground in appreciation.

“Good job,” Hal said. “Lead the way, Nick.”

Nick whirled and launched himself headfirst into the tangle of vines. Galahad followed, weaving in and out of the greenery, untouched as though his bright fur repelled thorns.

Hal beat a path through the vines and thick branches with his catch pole. He listened for insane chittering but heard only the droning buzz of crickets. As he climbed out onto the riverbank where Nick and Galahad waited, he saw the dark shape of the dead assassin.

“What do we do with him?” he asked. “Never handled a dead lycan before.”

“WhooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooOOOOOOoo.”

“Really? Just leave him to nature?” Hal looked at the lycan's body for a long moment. “I think it'd be better if we tucked him out of sight while nature did its thing.”

“Mew.”

Hal grinned at the feline praise. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”

Leaning his catch pole against a tree, Hal grabbed handfuls of fur and dragged the lycan's body behind some bushes and out of sight. As he dusted off his hands, something small and hard bonked off his head.

Without thought, Hal grabbed the catch pole and twirled it above his head like a baton. Small things rained down from the tree, bouncing off the spinning catch pole and into the grass.

Chittering.
Insane
chittering.

“Christ!” Hal stepped away from the tree and the acorn/walnut/pinecone bombing site. He glared up into the swaying branches.

A hero always had a nemesis, an intellectual equal—but one versed in crime, mayhem, and general evil—who presented the hero an ultimate challenge . . . but—a
squirrel
? Hal shook his head. A squirrel just wasn't nemesis material.

Keeping a safe distance away from the infested tree, Hal knelt. “All aboard the Rupert Express.” Gally leapt onto his shoulder and Hal gritted his teeth in a hero's grimace as the tabby situated and secured himself. “I think you need to go on a diet, Gally buddy.”

Galahad flexed his claws.

“Just a couple of ounces,” Hal hissed between clenched teeth. “Consider cutting out the bacon, okay?” He stood. “Y'know I'd carry you no matter how much you weighed.”

With Nick loping in the lead, Hal ran, Galahad purring in his ear.

Life didn't get much better than this.

Well . . . okay, yes it could—
if
you added Desdemona into the mix. But, after that, life didn't get much better than this.

*  *   *

Catch pole stowed in the truck bed, Hal watched Nick and Galahad in his rearview mirror until he couldn't see them anymore. They'd agreed to meet at Hal's place at noon. Tomorrow was Friday and a shifter serial killer would be stalking the vendors, entertainers, and participants of the Country Fair. Not to mention endangering his pale and alluring Desdemona.

And that Hal would
never
allow.

He'd guard her as she sold her unique line of Goth clothing, jewelry, and bondage gear. Not even a single strand of her purple hair would he allow ruffled.

She'd never be safer.

But for now, Hal needed to finish his shift and then catch some shut-eye. Maybe a cold drink before hitting the sack. Maybe two. His thoughts shifted to the tarot card tucked into his pocket. What was the significance of the nibbled-upon cards? He had no way of knowing if the cards had belonged to the victims or had been left by the killer. So—clues or a psychopath's sharp-toothed signature?

Or X's on a murder treasure map?

Crap. Were they being
led
?

Each possibility chilled Hal's blood. And the tunnel? Would they be walking into a death trap? Nick and Galahad—as
y
ō
kai
were they safe? Or marked for death for hanging out with a no-shifter?

Ah, but whoever was snuffing fortune-tellers and hippies didn't know who they were messing with—Hal Rupert. Man of action. Hero incarnate. Romantic. Let the killer(s) underestimate him. Let them think he'd taken the bait.
They'd
be the ones surprised.

“Bring it,” Hal whispered. “Send your best against this bad boy.”

The image of the full moon from the tarot card filled Hal's mind. He was sure Galahad would argue the point, but the moon often represented the subconscious. All of Hal's studies into the occult underscored this belief. But how would a lycan ruled by the moon view the card? How would sun-ruled
y
ō
kai
?

Light glared from his rear view mirror and Hal squinted. The full moon slipped from the card to his mirror. Light filled the pickup's cab. Blazed like the sun, like a falling star, a meteor.

And crashed into the pickup.