Charlaine Harris - Wolfsbane and Mistletoe

We had never liked each other, and now he harbors the deep suspicion most cops have for PIs. He’s always made my hackles rise. I couldn’t put my finger on the reason, so I did the best I could to avoid him.

Annie knew him, too. Well enough to know that she could look forward to a full six-percent tip.

I waited until Weems was tearing into his bear claw, then opened the door to the cab—

. . . the screech of brakes before a crash . . . a phone ringing at 3:30 in the morning . . . the gush of blood from a wound that is deeper than you thought . . .

I could barely keep myself standing. I slammed the door, and stumbled back to my truck, not even waiting to calm myself before I fled into the traffic and away from that cab.

“What’s next?” Claudia said, when I returned to her condo two hours later. She looked a little better and was now dressed in shorts and a T-shirt that said, I ❤ SPIKE. She was barefoot, making us coffee. I still felt sick and I was freezing just looking at her. Her place is all white wood and glass and bare surfaces, which she calls “clean lines.” The Christmas tree and lights looked out of place there, but I was glad of them.

I tried to get myself together. “After I left Ziggy’s, I checked the motel. He paid cash, left no forwarding address. No luck at the other fleabags, either. I cast around for a while, but he wasn’t doing any walking and I couldn’t get anything from car tracks.” I didn’t tell her I’d driven halfway to New Hampshire before I’d gotten hold of myself, and used my work to keep from spinning into another panic. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to feel less hollow, trying not to puke watching the cream swirl around the top of the coffee.

She saw me hesitate. “Gerry, what’s wrong? You look like seven kinds of Hell.”

I pushed the coffee away from me. “Every time I’ve caught a noseful of Smith, it’s almost knocked me off my feet. You were right, he’s bad.”

“Yeah, bad. But why did I take so long to bounce back after I saw him? And you, you’re always psyched up, all bloodlusty and rarin’ to go, when you find a bad guy. What’s different about Smith?”

“I dunno.” I shrunk down into myself, not wanting to talk.

“That’s not helpful.” She went into psychiatrist mode. “Okay, you can’t say what’s wrong with Smith . What do you feel?”

“Claudia—”

“Humor me.”

I shivered. She was right, but I really didn’t want to discuss it. “Every time I think about Smith, I get sick, I feel confused. It’s like the world’s upside down, like I’m chasing my own tail—”

I shoved the chair back and bolted for the sink. I made it, just before the donut made a repeat appearance, and turned on the tap while I retched. Much as I wanted it to, the sound of running water didn’t block out Claudia’s exclamation.

“Oh, my God, Gerry. He’s one of us .”

“He can’t be.” I wiped off my mouth and turned to her.

“That’s got to be it. It explains so much—our reactions, his, the way he went berserk in the office—”

“He’s just a psycho,” I said. But I knew she was right.

“No, Gerry.” She took a deep breath. “He’s evil. And he’s one of us !”

“There’s no such thing as an evil Fangborn, Claudia,” I said. “Not in all our history.”

“Maybe not in our history, but what about our future? I’ve got to check in with the family, let them know what’s going on. Maybe the oracles will have something for us. This is amazing —”

A sudden, childish urge hit me. “Claud, don’t.”

“Don’t tell the family?”

I nodded. I just didn’t want any of this to be true.

“Gotta do it, Gerry. We can’t let Smith get away, and if he’s what we think he is, they all need to know. This is big .”

I shrugged miserably.

She put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s scary, yes, the idea of evil appearing in our form, with our powers. It’s also a tremendous revelation. Gerry, it can tell us a lot about who we are, maybe more than the geneticists or the oracles can, and it can tell us about the nature of evil. It may even foretell the final battle against evil, Gerry. The one where we win . Who wouldn’t want to be present for that?” Her eyes were alight and her fangs peeked out with her excitement.

I hated her for being excited, but at least that helped shake off the overwhelming emptiness I felt. Time to man up, Gerry. We’re still the good guys—

It’s just that the bad guys had never looked like us before.

I nodded. “Okay, you contact the family, and I’ll hit the Internet. Smith’s out there, and until we get a clue or a scent, we’re just gonna have to wait.”

We exchanged a look. Sensing the presence of evil is one thing. Being able to find it before it acts is quite another. And the idea of evil in the form of a Fangborn was just plain terrifying.

I went home, and no sooner opened the door than I was attacked by a mass of muscle and fur.

“Beemer, get off!” I peeled the big, brown-striped tom off my shoulder and dumped him on the couch. As a kitten, Beemer jumping from the staircase railing onto me was impressive and cute as Hell. Now that he was in the fifteen-pound class, it was less amusing. To me, anyway. Beemer still thought it was a riot. But even he couldn’t cheer me up tonight.

As I heated a shepherd’s pie I got over at Henry’s Market, I listened to the police scanner, but didn’t hear anything that would help. As Beemer washed himself on the leather couch next to me, I drank too much and flipped around the TV—a beaut, 40‘ plasma, with controls to put the Enterprise to shame—but there was nothing to keep my attention. Ditto the Internet and the new issue of Maxim . If you wanted proof that my kind are born, not made, just do the math: if we could turn normals, not a single lingerie model would be left unbitten. Trust me.

Frustrated in every sense of the word, I didn’t drift off until just before the alarm rang.

Groaning, I got up, dumped kibble into Beemer’s bowl, and hit the bricks, not because I had a lead, but because I had a headache worse than any hangover. The memory of evil left unchecked is one of the downsides of the job, and I didn’t even want to think about what Smith meant.

I walked by Ziggy’s, but Annie wasn’t working. The day outside matched my insides: granite gray, cold, depressing. Even the telephone poles were decorated to suit my mood: the neighborhood was papered with missing pet flyers. I knew how I’d feel if Beemer ever went missing: it’d be a crappy Christmas for the kids worrying about Kitty-Cakes or Bongo or Maxie . . .

Focus on the job, Gerry. Keep it together.

Down by the Willows, I caught a faint scent. The Salem Willows is an amusement park, very small and dated. It’s mostly Whack-a-Mole and fried dough stands and rackety rides during the summer. In the winter, it’s a wasteland, boarded up and abandoned.

It wasn’t abandoned now: Salem PD, state police, and the ME vans were there. My vision and hearing sharpened, and my olfactory nerves went crazy. Smith had been here, not long ago.

Weems was also there. This time, he came right over to me.

“Steuben. Been seeing a lot of you lately.” He only reaches my chin, and he’s kinda pudgy, so short-man syndrome never helped things between us.

That’s why werewolves and vamps have such crappy reputations. The local authorities always notice us sniffing around crime scenes and figure we’re the bad guys.

I sipped my coffee. “Been seeing a lot of you, too, Weems. Funny, huh?”

“I ain’t laughing.” He crossed his arms. “What’re you doing here?”