Kelly Meding - Wrong Side of Dead

I’d been hunting at the ferry port twice in my career, Tybalt three times. All had been tips about goblin activity, rather than Halfies, and it occurred to me on the drive to the river that overall goblin activity had been negligible lately. We’d seen very little from them since the battle at Olsmill almost three months ago. I didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it worried me a little. Goblins were not subtle creatures.

Each of us humans was loaded down with more weapons than I was used to carrying into a single fight. Two guns each, one primary and one backup. Four clips of bullets: two regular and two of a new variety tipped with an infusion of garlic and onion oil. The latter wouldn’t bother the Lupa much, but they’d be painful as hell on the Halfies—like shooting them up with poison. Our access to anticoagulant rounds was diminished after the destruction of the lab at Boot Camp. The oil-tips were our first collaboration with the vampires on an effective weapon against their kind.

The fact that Isleen suggested the bullet never failed to astonish me all over again.

We also had a variety of other weapons, depending on our comfort levels. Tybalt had a scary blade attachment on his prosthetic hand. I had three serrated hunting knives strapped to various parts of my body, as well as a pair of silver chopsticks in my ponytail. Paul favored brass knuckles and an aluminum baseball bat. He had apparently developed a fondness for whacking his victims with solid objects.

Kyle and Shelby had only a single gun each, which they’d likely pass off to one of us when they shifted into their true forms. I’d never seen Shelby shift, and knowing he was a polar bear made me a little eager to witness the Halfies’ reactions when they first saw him.

Phin, of course, had his Coni blade loosely belted to his waist.

We had a handful of photos to study, as well as Historical Society literature that came with a handy map of the port. The Terminal Station has a chain-link fence built around it to prevent vandalism (in theory), but no security measures were in place around the weed-strewn parking lot. A single cement and steel dock jutted out from shore, directly in front of the Terminal Station, its aluminum roof with the same faded blue paint as the ferries themselves. All three were anchored in a row—one south of the dock, and two north.

Astrid’s orders to all assault teams were to get into position no closer than one block from our target, create a tentative plan of attack, and then wait. As soon as Marcus got word from the Pinnia scouts, he’d pass along anything of relevance and we’d go from there. Thackery could be at only one of the three potential targets, and we needed to be ready to move on all of them. Even though I’d wager my handy healing powers on him being at the ferry terminal.

Kyle was driving our SUV through the city. Paul rode shotgun, and Phin and I took over the middle two seats, with Tybalt and Shelby in the rear. Mercy’s Lot gave way to the industrial section that lined the east bank of the Black River. Cheap apartment buildings gave way to businesses and storage facilities. A block from our destination, Kyle found an alley between two crumbling brick structures, one of which had once been a fire company station, and parked.

“The ferries are almost completely enclosed except for the lower car deck,” I said. “Seal the windows on the upper levels and he’d have a lot of space to work with.”

“Agreed,” Phin said.

“Could he be on more than one ferry?” Tybalt asked.

“Unless he found a way to travel between them underwater, I’m doubtful. The Terminal is abandoned, but still within sight of a street and intersection.”

“What about this sheltered area?” I said, pointing at the covered pier between the ferry on the south and the two on the north. “If he’s in the boats on either side, he could use that awning as cover to move between them. Plus they have the most direct access to land.”

Phin nodded. “So they are our most likely targets.”

Paul shifted around in the front passenger seat. “You two are really convinced that Thackery’s got the Halfies here, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Phin and I said in stereo.

“This isn’t you letting personal bullshit affect your judgment?”

Phin deferred that one to me, and I just shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe, but I learned a long time ago to trust my instincts on stuff like this.”

“Baylor thinks they’re at Waylander.”

“And it could be, if one of Thackery’s little science projects hadn’t told me he felt movement like water where he was held,” I said.

Paul frowned. “You didn’t share that?”

“Then we wouldn’t have been the first ones here.”

He opened his mouth as if about to object, then snapped it shut. His lips twitched into a half smile. “So if they’re on two boats, how do we go in?”

I glanced at Phin, sure that he was thinking the same thing as I was—we both wanted to hit the boat with the Therians first. As soon as Thackery realized he was being breached, he was likely to kill them all. The man had taken a nosedive off the crazy board weeks ago, and I wouldn’t put anything past him now.

“I can get onboard in my true form,” Phin said. “I’m small enough. Once I know which boat is holding my people, we’ll be better able to formulate a plan.”

“Thackery’s going to have scouts watching land and air,” I said. “And he’ll make sure they know what an osprey looks like.”

He gave me a slow, deliberate blink, then reached over the backseat for a duffel bag. Rummaged around inside until he produced a can of black spray paint. “They may not notice me if I don’t look like an osprey.”

Tybalt chuckled. “That’s fucking genius.”

“Spray paint?” I took the can from Phin like I’d never seen one before. “You want me to spray-paint you?”

“Yes,” Phin said.

“Black?”

“Yes.”

“Okeydokey.” A bizarre thought occurred to me. “If I spray-paint your feathers, will you still be painted when you shift back?”

He started to answer, then paused with his mouth open. Blinked. “I have no idea. But if it gets me onboard, I don’t care.”

“Good enough.”

“So we aren’t waiting for information from the Pinnia?” Tybalt asked.

“Why bother?” Kyle said, adding to the conversation for the first time. His lover was out there somewhere; I couldn’t imagine what was going through his mind as he turned his intense gaze on Phin. “I trust your instincts.”

“I’m in,” Paul said.

“Okay, then,” I said. “Phin gets onboard, figures out where to find the Therians, comes back to tell us, and we go from there.”

“If we confirm this target before Astrid hears from the Pinnia scouts,” Phin said, “we’ll inform the other teams before we move in.”

“Right.” We’d need all the muscle we could get, depending on—“And try to get a rough estimate of how many Halfies we’re looking at.”

“Of course.”

“Then let’s do this.”

12:45 P.M.

The fact that Phin reeked of fresh paint didn’t strike me as a concern until he was in the air and on his way toward the ferry terminal. Feathers glistening black, he was the only hooked-beak raven in existence, and I couldn’t rid myself of the ridiculous image of his human form with black paint streaks all over it. If nothing else, it was something to occupy myself with while we waited for him to return. Or for Astrid to officially declare a target.

Either one, as long as something happened soon.

Kyle twisted around in the front seat to face rear, his expression pinched. Someone he loved was out there, hoping for rescue, and I waited patiently for his accusations—that Lynn was targeted because of Kyle’s connection to me, and this was all my fault. Standard fare, really. Anyone in my orbit was fair game for inclusion in the violent insanity of my afterlife.