2 Blood Trail Page 7

  Henry watched the thought cross Vicki’s face and shook his head. While he admired her independence, he hoped it wouldn’t overwhelm her common sense. He realized that at the moment she felt she had something to prove and could think of no way to let her know she didn’t. At least not as far as he was concerned.

  He put her bag into her hand, keeping his own hold on it until he saw her fingers close around the grip, then drew her free arm gently through his. “The path curves,” he murmured, close to her ear. “You don’t want to end up in Nadine’s flowers. Nadine bites.”

  Vicki ignored the way his breath against her cheek caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise and concentrated on walking as though she was not being led. She had no doubt that the wer, in wolf form at least, could see just as well as Henry and she had no intention of undermining her position here by appearing weak to however many of them might be watching.

  Head high, she focused on the rectangles of light, attempting to memorize both the way the path felt beneath her sandals and the way it curved from the drive to the house. The familiar concrete and exhaust scents of the city were gone, replaced by what she could only assume was the not entirely pleasant odor of sheep shit. The cricket song she could identify, but the rest of the night sounds were beyond her.

  Back in Toronto, every smell, every sound would have meant something. Here, they told her nothing. Vicki didn’t like that, not at all; it added another handicap to her failing eyes.

  Two sudden sharp pains on her calf and another on her forearm, jolted her out of her funk, reminding her of an aspect of the case she hadn’t taken into account.

  “Damned bugs!” She pulled her arm free and slapped down at her legs. “Henry, I just remembered something; I hate the country!”

  They’d moved into the spill of light from the house and she could just barely make out the smile on his face.

  “Too late,” he told her, and opened the door.

  Vicki’s first impression as she stood blinking on the threshold was of a comfortably shabby farmhouse kitchen seething with people and dogs. Her second impression corrected the first: Seething with wer. The people are dogs. Wolves. Oh, hell.

  It was late, nearly eleven. Celluci leaned back in his chair and stared at the one remaining piece of paper on his desk. The Alan Margot case had been wrapped up in record time and he could leave it now to begin its ponderous progress through the courts. Which left him free to attend to a small bit of unfinished business.

  Henry Fitzroy.

  Something about the man just didn’t ring right and Celluci had every intention of finding out what that was. He scooped up the piece of paper, blank except for the name printed in heavy block letters across the top, folded it twice, and placed it neatly in his wallet. Tomorrow he’d run the standard searches on Mr. Fitzroy and if they turned up nothing. . . . His smile was predatory as he stood. If they turned up nothing, there were ways to delve deeper.

  Some might call what he planned a misuse of authority. Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci called it looking out for a friend.

  Four

  “I’m Nadine Heerkens-Wells. You must be Vicki Nelson.”

  The woman approaching, hand held out, shared a number of features with Peter and Rose; the same wide-spaced eyes and pointy face, the same thick mane of hair—in this case a dusty black marked with gray—the same short-fingered, heavily callused grip.

  Her eyes, however, were shadowed, and lurking behind that shadow was a loss so deep, so intense, that it couldn’t be completely hidden and might never be completely erased. Vicki swallowed hard, surprised by the strength of her reaction to the other woman’s pain.

  On the surface, Vicki had absolutely no doubt she faced the person in charge, and Nadine’s expression proved that the welcoming smile had originally developed out of a warning snarl. Still, I suppose she has no reason to trust me right off, regardless of what Henry’s told her. Keeping her own expression politely unchallenging, Vicki carefully applied as much force to the handshake as she received, despite the sudden inexplicable urge to test her strength. “I hope I’ll be able to help,” she said in her public service voice, meeting the other woman’s gaze squarely.

  Force of personality weighted with grief struck her almost a physical blow and her own eyes narrowed in response.

  The surrounding wer waited quietly for the dominant female’s decision. Henry stood to one side and watched, brows drawn down in a worried frown. For Vicki to work effectively, the two women had to accept one another as equals, whether they liked it or not.

  Nadine’s eyes were brown, with a golden sunburst around the pupil. Deep lines bracketed the corners and her lids looked bruised.

  I can take her, Vicki realized. I’m younger, stronger. I’m . . . out of my mind. She forced the muscles of her face to relax, denying the awareness of power. “I hadn’t realized London was so far from Toronto,” she remarked conversationally, as though the room were not awash with undercurrents of tension.

  “You must be tired from your long drive,” Nadine returned, and only Vicki saw the acknowledgment of what had just passed between them. “Come in and sit down.”

  Then they both looked away.

  At that signal, Vicki and Henry found themselves surrounded by hearty handshakes and wet noses and hustled into seats at the huge kitchen table. Henry wondered if Vicki realized that she’d just been accepted as a kind of auxiliary member of the pack, much as he was himself. He’d spent long hours on the phone the last two nights arguing for that acceptance, convincing Nadine that from outside the pack Vicki would have little chance of finding the killer, that Vicki would no more betray the pack than she’d betray him, knowing as he did that Nadine’s agreement would be conditional on the actual meeting.

  “Shadow, be quiet.”

  The black pup—about the size of a small German shepherd—who had been dancing around Vicki’s knees and barking shrilly, suddenly became a small naked boy of about six or seven who turned to look reproachfully up at Nadine. “But, Mom,” he protested, “you said to always bark at strangers.”

  “This isn’t a stranger,” his mother told him, leaning forward to brush dusty black hair up off his face, “it’s Ms. Nelson.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I know that, but I don’t know her. That makes her a stranger.”

  “Don’t be a dork, Daniel. Mom says she’s okay,” pointed out one of two identical teenage girls sitting on the couch by the window in a tone reserved solely for younger brothers.

  “And she came with Henry,” added the other in the exact same tone.

  “And if she was a stranger,” concluded the first, “you wouldn’t have changed in front of her. So she isn’t a stranger. So shut up.”

  He tossed his head. “Still don’t know her.”

  “Then get to know her quickly,” his mother suggested, turning him back to face Vicki, “so that we can have some peace.”

  Even though she was watching for it, Vicki missed the exact moment of change when Daniel became Shadow again. One heartbeat a small boy, a heartbeat later, a small dog. . . . Not that small either, and I can’t call them dogs. And yet, they aren’t quite wolves. A cold nose shoved into the back of her knee and she started. And does that make this, him, a puppy or a cub? Ye gods, but this is going to get complicated. Trying not to let any of this inner debate show on her face, she reached down and held out her hand.

  Shadow sniffed it thoroughly then pushed his head under her fingers. His fur was still downy soft.

  “If you start scratching him, Ms. Nelson, you’ll be at it all night,” one of his sisters told her with a sigh.

  Shadow’s nose went up and he pointedly turned his back on her, leaning up against Vicki’s legs much the way Storm had leaned against Rose that night in Henry’s condo. Which reminded Vicki. . . .

  “Where’s Peter and Rose? Peter. . . .” She paused and shook her head. “I mean, Storm, met the car and I was sure I saw Rose—I mean, Cloud—when I first came in.”


  “They’ve gone to get their Uncle Stuart,” said the graying man next to Henry. Although he’d taken part in the welcome, those were the first words he’d actually spoken. He extended his hand across the table. An old scar puckered the skin of his forearm. Vicki wasn’t positive, but it looked like a bite. “I’m Donald Heerkens, their father.”

  “I’m Jennifer.” The closer of the two girls on the couch broke in before Donald could say any more.

  “And I’m Marie.”

  And how the hell does anyone tell you apart? Vicki wondered. Sitting down, at least, they appeared to be the exact same size and even their expressions looked identical. Mind you, I’m hardly one to judge. All kids look alike to me at that age. . . .

  The two of them giggled at their uncle’s mock scowl.

  “So now you’ve met everyone who’s here,” Marie continued.

  “Everyone except Daddy,” Jennifer added, “ ’cause like you already met Rose and Peter.” The two of them smiled at her in unison. Even their dimples matched.

  Daddy must be Stuart, Vicki realized; Nadine’s husband, Daniel’s father, Donald’s brother-in-law, Peter’s and Rose’s uncle. The dominant male. Meeting him should prove to be interesting.

  “Nice thing to be ignored in my own home,” growled a voice from the door.

  Shadow flung himself out from under Vicki’s fingers, charged across the kitchen barking like a furry little maniac, and leapt up at the man who’d just come into the house—who caught him, swung him up over his head, and turned Daniel upside down.

  Vicki didn’t need an introduction. The same force of personality that marked Nadine marked Stuart and he was definitely very male. He was also very naked and that added considerable weight to the latter observation. Vicki had to admit she was favorably impressed although at five ten she could probably give him at least four inches. Judging by human standards, which was all she had to work with, Henry’s warning aside, he appeared to be younger than his wife by about five years. His hair—all his hair, and there was rather a lot of it all over his body—remained unmarked by gray.

  “Stuart. . . .” Nadine pulled a pair of blue sweatpants off the back of her chair and threw them at her husband.

  He caught them one-handed, Daniel tucked under the other arm, and stared at them with distaste. Then he turned and looked straight at Vicki. “I don’t much like clothing, Ms. Nelson,” he told her, obviously as aware of her identity as she was of his. “It stops the change and in this heat it’s damned uncomfortable. If you’re going to be here for a while, you’re going to have to get used to the little we wear.”

  “It’s your house,” Vicki told him levelly. “It’s not my place to say what you should wear.”

  He studied her face, then smiled suddenly and she got the impression she’d passed a test of some kind. “Humans usually worry about clothing.”

  “I save my worry for more important things.”

  Henry hid a smile. Since they’d met, he’d been trying to figure out if Vicki was infinitely adaptable to circumstances or just so single-minded that anything not leading to her current goal was ignored. In eight months of observation he’d come no closer to an answer.

  Tossing the sweatpants in the corner, Stuart held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Nelson.”

  She returned both smile and handshake, careful not to come on too strong. Come on too strong to a naked werewolf. Yeah, right. “And you. Please, call me Vicki.”

  “Vicki.” Then he turned to Henry and by the tiniest of changes, the smile became something else. He held out his hand again. “Henry.”

  “Stuart.” The smile was a warning, not a challenge. Henry recognized it and acknowledged it. It could change to challenge very quickly and neither man wanted that. As long as Henry kept to his place, the situation between them would remain tense but stable.

  Uninterested in all this grown-up posturing, Daniel twisted against his father’s side, found the grip loose enough to allow change, did, and began to bark. His father put him down just as the screen door opened and Cloud and Storm came in.

  For the next few moments, the two older wer allowed themselves to be attacked by their younger cousin, the fight accompanied by much growling and snapping and feigned—at least Vicki assumed they were feigned—yelps of pain. As none of the other adults seemed worried about the battle, Vicki took the time to actually look at her surroundings.

  The kitchen furniture was heavy and old and a little shabby from years of use. The wooden table could seat eight easily and twelve without much crowding. Although the chairs had chew marks up each leg they—to judge by the one under Vicki—had been made to endure and still had all four feet planted firmly on the worn linoleum. The lounge that the twins were perched on, tucked under the window by the back door, had probably been bought in the fifties and hadn’t been moved from that corner since. The refrigerator looked new, as did the electric stove. In fact, the electric stove looked so new, Vicki suspected it was seldom used. The old woodstove in the far corner would likely be not only a source of winter heat but their main cooking facility. If they cooked. She hadn’t thought to ask Henry what the wer ate or if she’d be expected to join in. A sudden vision of a bleeding hunk of meat with a side of steaming entrails as tomorrow’s breakfast made her stomach lurch. The north wall was lined with cupboards and the south with doors, leading, Vicki assumed, to the rest of the house.

  To her city bred nose, the kitchen quite frankly smelled. It smelled of old woodsmoke, of sheep shit—and quite probably sheep, too, if she had any idea of what sheep smelled like—and very strongly of well, wer. It wasn’t an unpleasant combination, but it was certainly pungent.

  Housework didn’t seem to be high on the list of wer priorities. That was fine with Vicki, it wasn’t one of her top ten ways to spend time either. Her mother, however, would no doubt have fits at the tufts of hair piled up in every available nook and cranny.

  Of course, my mother would no doubt have fits at this entire situation . . .

  Peter stood up and dangled a squirming Shadow at shoulder level—front paws in his left hand, rear paws in his right—deftly keeping the pup’s teeth away from the more sensitive, protruding, areas of his anatomy.

  . . . so it’s probably a good thing she isn’t here.

  Just as she was beginning to wonder if she shouldn’t bring up the reason for her visit, Stuart cleared his throat. Peter released Shadow, smiled a welcome at Vicki and Henry, changed, and curled up on the floor beside his twin. Shadow gave one last excited bark and went over to collapse, panting, on his mother’s feet. Everyone else, the two visitors included, turned to face Stuart expectantly.

  And all he did was clear his throat. Vicki was impressed again. If he could bottle that he could make a fortune.

  “Henry assures us that you can be trusted, Ms. Nelson, Vicki.” His eyes were a pale Husky blue, startlingly light under heavy black brows. “I’m sure you realize that things would get very unpleasant for us if the world knew we existed?”

  “I realize.” And she did, which was why she decided not to be insulted at the question. “Although someone obviously knows.”

  “Yes.” How a word that was mostly sibilants could be growled Vicki had no idea. But it was. “There are three humans in this territory who know of the pack. An elderly doctor in London, the local game warden, and Colin’s partner.”

  “Colin the police officer.” It wasn’t really a question. A werewolf on the London Police Force was a phenomenon Vicki was unlikely to forget. She pulled a notebook and a pen from the depths of her purse. “The twins—Rose and Peter, that is—mentioned him.”

  Donald’s expression seemed more confused than proud. “My oldest son. He’s the first of us to hold what you could call a job.”

  “The first to finish high school,” Nadine said. At Vicki’s expression, she added, “Generally we find school very . . . stressful. Most of us leave as soon as we can.” Her lips twisted up into what Vicki could only assume was a smile. “
Trouble is, they’re making it harder to leave at the same time they’re making it harder to stay.”

  “The world is becoming smaller,” Henry said quietly. “The wer are being forced to integrate. Sooner or later, they’ll be discovered.” He had no doubt as to how his mortal brethren would treat the wer; they’d be considered animals if they were allowed to live at all. When so small a thing as skin color made so large a difference, what chance did the wer have?

  Vicki was thinking much the same thing. “Well,” her tone brooked no argument, “let’s just hope it’s later. I personally am amazed you’ve managed to keep the list down to three.”

  Stuart shrugged, muscles rippling under the thick mat of black hair that covered his chest. “We keep to ourselves and humans are very good at believing what they wish to believe.”

  “And seeing what they wish to see,” Donald added, the skin around his eyes crinkled with amusement.

  “Or not seeing,” Marie put in with a giggle.

  The assembled wer nodded in agreement—regardless of shape—all save Shadow, who had fallen asleep, chin pillowed on his mother’s bare instep.

  “What about those who might suspect what you are?” Vicki asked. Murderers were almost always known to the victim. The times they weren’t were usually the cases that never got solved.

  “There aren’t any.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There aren’t any,” Stuart repeated.

  He obviously believed what he said, but Vicki thought he was living in a dream world. A noise from the right pulled her gaze down to the two wer on the floor. Cloud looked as though she wanted to disagree. Or maybe she wants to go walkies. How the hell can I tell?

  “You do have contact with humans. The younger ones, at least, on a regular basis.” Vicki’s gesture covered both sets of twins. “What about other kids at school? Teachers?”

  “We don’t change at school, ” Marie protested.

  Jennifer’s head bobbed in support, red hair flying. “We can’t change when we’re dressed.”