Second Skin Part 22

Bryson gulped the pastry down in two bites, frosting crumbs spilling down his shirt and tie. "Whaddaya want, Wilder?"

"I need you to look something up for me," I said. "I went out to the . . . Paiute reservation last night, and I found a lead on your killer. Perhaps even The killer. Can't be sure yet."

"Hot d.a.m.n, are you serious?" Bryson demanded, turning on his computer. "You got no idea how happy you just made me, Wilder."

"Well, don't go giving me a gold star," I said. "You're never gonna be able to prove it in court."

Bryson licked jelly from the corners of his mouth. "Why the h.e.l.l not?"

"He's a Wendigo," I said. "Look up a suicide for me . . . a John Doe that happened last week." It seemed like a lot more time had pa.s.sed since Jason Kennuka took his plunge, but time can expand and compress easily as breathing when you work a case hard. Dmitri was the first boyfriend I'd had who didn't care about the odd hours and the long absences.

Thinking about him made me snarl a little, under my breath. Bryson c.o.c.ked his eyebrow at me, and I pretended to be clearing my throat. "Allergies."

"Whatever. What the f.u.c.k is a Wendigo?"

"A shapeshifting creature who stalks prey and drinks blood to survive," I said.

"Great. f.u.c.king perfect," Bryson muttered. "Because I can absolutely stand up in front of a grand jury and say 'Yes, Your Honor, these four victims were shot in the head to conceal the fact that they were actually actually killed by a mythical creature that has a funny name and drinks blood.' " He banged on the keyboard. "You're killing me, Wilder." killed by a mythical creature that has a funny name and drinks blood.' " He banged on the keyboard. "You're killing me, Wilder."

"There's more to it," I a.s.sured him. "The vics were targeted for a reason beyond feeding, and the Wendigo I spoke to are hiding something. Things are in motion."

"Ain't that helpful," Bryson snorted. " 'Things.'You're a brilliant Hexed detective, Wilder, let me just say."

"Listen," I snapped, "I'm doing the best I can to save your a.s.s here, so why don't you try shutting your trap and being grateful for once?"

Jason Kennuka's face flickered up on the screen along with the coroner's report on his death. "You want to do something useful?" I said. "That's the brother of the guy I talked to. He killed himself, and he was in deep with the group that made those walking were-dead things. You want to find the killer and try to get him in human form, there's your lead. Go fetch, Sherlock."

Bryson grunted. "Sorry. It's early. I ain't had my coffee."

"That and you're sort of an a.s.shole," I muttered.

"You're no prize yourself, Wilder," Bryson said. "So, we going?"

I blinked. "What are you saying?"

"I'm not walking into the home of some freakydeaky blood drinker on my own," said Bryson. "Something wanted this guy taken out, so you say, and if it's still around . . . better you than me."

"Gee, David," I said, "I'm almost touched." My blood beat faster at the thought of going out to a scene, and the were scented the air for prey. "Yeah, I'll come," I said out loud.

Jason Kennuka's apartment in the Garden Vista building was about as cheerful as the execution chamber at Los Altos. An army cot, the covers crumpled to one side, sat in a corner of the studio s.p.a.ce, which had a high ceiling clothed in rusted stamped tin, a flickering light fixture, and fingers of mold creeping out of the crevices. To one side an ancient gas stove and a dripping sink took up most of the s.p.a.ce. The only other furniture in the room was a dresser.

Bryson kicked a mildewed Persian carpet. "Smells like dead grandmothers in here. Lots of 'em."

I stood in the center of the room and surveyed the detritus of Jason Kennuka's last days. The man hadn't had much, and what there was, was on the floor. I narrowed my eyes at the mess, which included the rug crumpled in a corner and rifle marks on the one locked drawer in the dresser. It was so filthy anyway that it was hard to believe, but there was broken gla.s.s around the sink, and a suspicious lack of personal objects anywhere.

"Bryson, this place has already been tossed."

"s.h.i.t," he muttered. "Who even cares about some freak-job suicide?"

"Whoever wants the weres dead," I said. A pot sat next to the stove, a rucksack overflowing with dirty clothes and books, and a squat black manual camera with a long lens.

"That seems sort of pricey for a guy living in this c.r.a.phole," I said, pointing.

Bryson nodded and slipped on gloves, picking the camera up. "p.a.w.nshop sticker. No film. What'd he even need this thing for?"

"Beats me," I murmured. "Glove?" Not that we'd find anything in the wake of the Wendigo.

Bryson flipped one at me like a rubber bullet. I s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of the air with a snap. "Don't throw things at the woman with animal reflexes," I said when he grunted.

"Wilder, I been thinking," he said as we started searching the mess.

"Oh no."

He stopped and crossed his arms. "I know you got some high horse you're ridin' on about me and my deductive skills . . ."

"Or lack thereof," I muttered.

". . . but even Your Highness has to admit this case is thin. What are we into here, some kind of werewolf/ blood slurper vendetta match?"

"Maybe," I said. "People get shot for their cell phones and stabbed for their rims every day in this city, Bryson. Maybe revenge is all the Wendigo are after."

"Okay," said Bryson. "But why now? Things have been quiet for a d.a.m.n long time if this is the first I'm hearing of some big blood feud."

"When you start making sense, I start worrying that maybe it's time to check into Cedar Hill Psych for a few days," I muttered. Bryson had a point. If revenge was the motive, I I didn't fit as a victim. I had never wronged them. The only thing I had in common was blood, reaching back tenuously to a treaty that no one even obeyed any longer. didn't fit as a victim. I had never wronged them. The only thing I had in common was blood, reaching back tenuously to a treaty that no one even obeyed any longer.

Thin, like Bryson said.

He began to rattle the locked dresser drawer, cursing when it wouldn't give. "Oh, move," I said, sighing. I wedged my fingers into the gap and popped the lock with a small exertion, sending it shooting across the room.

"You'd be real handy in a rugby match," said Bryson. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

ustThe shorts are unflattering," I said. A manila envelope caught my eye, one edge raised over the lip of the drawer like a tiny sail.

The envelope was shiny with dirt and use, and crumpled at the corners. It was stuffed full of prints, a street map of Nocturne City scrawled over with notations in some kind of private shorthand, and a few newspaper articles from the previous month, neatly clipped out and shoved to the bottom of the stack.

"Bryson," I said, turning over the first print. "You need to look at this."

He came to my shoulder and whistled when I showed him the photo of Priscilla Macleod, the grainy long-lensed framing marking it as a clandestine shot. "Well, Hex me. What is he, some sort of shapeshifting perv?"

"They're all here," I said. "All four victims plus Carla." And me, caught as I unlocked my car outside the Justice Plaza, as I ate at the Devere Diner . . . I pushed down a shudder and unfolded the map. Now that the photos were arrayed next to the map, the shorthand contextualized. P.M. for Priscilla, along with a green spider track of ink around a neighborhood in downtown that I recognized as Warwolf territory. J. T. for Jin Takehiko, crawling among the pricey avenues of the Mainline district.

"Was he . . ." Bryson c.o.c.ked his head and crouched to examine the map. "Was this motherf.u.c.ker stalking stalking them?" them?"

"Hunting," I said softly. "This is way beyond a thrill. Jason was a pro." Everything in the apartment spun around my already formed thoughts like debris in the tracks of a tornado. Jason was involved. Did Lucas know? Was that the lie?

"Well, this is motive," said Bryson. "Far as I'm concerned, my number one suspect is now pancake boy. That would explain why no one's made a move on Carla yet."

"Why?" I muttered. I wasn't speaking to Bryson but to Jason, and by extension Lucas. "No reason to kill them . . ." I stood up and paced to the window, looking into the rows of tombstone teeth in the cemetery across the street. "This doesn't make sense, David."

"Told you so, Wilder," he said. He gathered up the map and the photos, separating out the ones of Carla. "Say one thing for this fruitcake, he knew his job. This is good, detailed surveillance. He'd been on to Carla for months. All of them, a four-month lead on the murder at least."

I half turned my head. "Really?" The disturbed stirring of illogical evidence turned to something colder and more pressing, like being suspended by a cable over a dark s.p.a.ce with skittering, hungry sounds at the bottom. That feeling always engulfed me when there was more to a case than I realized.

"Yeah," said Bryson. "The weres never made him, either. So much for your sniffers, eh?"

"There's no sense in that," I said. "If Jason was hunting prey, he wouldn't stalk them for four months. Wendigo are hungry, always, and they're good predators." Probably better than weres and definitely better than me, but I didn't articulate that part. "There's no reason reason to do it like this." to do it like this."

"Let's finish this search," said Bryson. "I can feel my clothes starting to grow fungus."

"Polyester doesn't mildew," I said halfheartedly. Bryson went over to the tiny kitchen and began rattling cabinets, and I examined the rest of Jason's s.p.a.ce with a perfunctory eye. The wall over the bed was sunken just a bit, but what really caught my eye was the fact that the plaster was new and free of mold. I rapped my knuckles against the spot and got a hollow popping sound in return. "There's something back here," I said to Bryson.

"Hang on, I got a pocketknife," he said. I drew back my fist and punched through the plaster, digging away the chunks of joint compound from the hole and revealing a small square s.p.a.ce set between the joists and the brick of the outside wall. "Never mind," Bryson said with a sigh.

A little shelf held a leather bag stuffed full of dried-out herbs and a small circle of flat stones surrounding a squat black statue with a distended belly and a huge mouth replete with roughly carved teeth.

"What the Hex is that?" said Bryson. "Some kinda shrine?"

I picked up the herbs and sniffed. They had a sharp tang that wasn't familiar to me. The stones seemed to be regular riverbed rocks like the type Sunny and I used to collect for Aunt Delia in the summer when drought dried up the streams. Together, nothing about the elements of the odd, secret altar suggested menace, but the hairs on my neck went stiff all the same as I examined all the pieces of ritual.

"I don't know," I murmured to Bryson. "It was hidden back here for a reason. I've never seen anything like it, really. Witches use casters to focus, not statues." Though who knew what Wendigo used. How had I not asked Lucas these questions?

Because he had nice eyes and a fantastic chest, that's why. Idiot.

"Maybe it's the statue," said Bryson. "It could be gold on the inside, like. Some kind of Maltese Falcon deal."

"Let's see," I said, and picked it up.

The magick hit me like stepping in front of an express train, and threw me off my feet and backward into the center of the damp, crumpled rug. I felt it in me like teeth in my flesh, magick so dark and dense that it stole air from my lungs.

I screamed, back twisting as the were clawed for the surface of my mind. The phase gripped me unawares as the thing fed me more and more power. I thrashed, unable to loosen my rigid fingers from the splintery grooves of the statue.

Through the black vortexes in front of my vision I saw Bryson pull his gun, change out the clip for another he carried in his inside pocket, and aim at me.

I howled, the were meeting his challenge and I knew, impossible as it was without a full moon to do it under, that I would change and kill him. The dark magick was forcing my phase, just as Alistair Duncan had once forced his plain human son to become a wolf . . .

"No," I choked, under a pain that was a thousand times worse than the phase. My muscles and bones rippled and bucked under my skin like the city in the throes of the earthquake. "No," "No," I snarled. There was a time when I could not hold back the phase, but it would not be now. I snarled. There was a time when I could not hold back the phase, but it would not be now.

I pushed against the were, shaking like a plucked string and fighting with every bit of myself that was still me me to keep the phase at bay. I was stronger than this. The days when I feared the phase were gone. "You are not me," I hissed at the were. to keep the phase at bay. I was stronger than this. The days when I feared the phase were gone. "You are not me," I hissed at the were.

The pain peaked to an unbearable crescendo and then I felt it lessen, inch by inch, over my skin. My rigor-tight grip on the statue finally lessened and I threw it down. It rolled into a corner and thumped against the wall.

Bryson lowered his weapon, flipping the safety on with his thumb. "Wilder?"

"I'm okay," I gasped. I was soaked in sweat and my fingertips and gums started to bleed as my fangs and claws receded. "I'm okay . . ."

I got to my knees and Bryson extended a hand to help me up. "What the Hex was that?" he asked.

"Bad magick," I said. "Do me a favor and get that thing. I can't touch it."

"Yeah . . . okay," said Bryson, picking the thing up like the ma.s.sive wooden jaws might close around his fingers. "You sure you're all right?"

I didn't feel all right, but I pulled my shoulders back and nodded, keeping my jaw tight and swallowing blood. "What's with you changing the clip of your gun? You do that every time you have to shoot? It's cramping your style."

"Nah," said Bryson. "I went to one of those bas.e.m.e.nt stores down by the university when I caught this case and got some were-proof ammunition. For insurance."

I splashed rusty water on my face from Jason's sink. "Insurance?"

"Silver bullets," said Bryson. He threw up his hands when I glared at him. "Don't look at me like that! I gotta look out for myself!"

"You better hit whatever you're aiming at with a kill shot," I said. "Otherwise it just p.i.s.ses us off. And I've seen you qualifying at the range. I think you'd be better off with some Mace and a good pair of running shoes." My bicep still bore a faint streak of scarring from where a silver slug had plowed through the flesh one night almost a year ago.

Bryson ejected the clip of silver and I s.n.a.t.c.hed it from him, putting it in my back pocket. "Your insurance is canceled. I'm not going to explain to some enraged pack leader why you panicked and plugged one of their charges with a d.a.m.n Van Helsing round."

"Those bullets cost a hundred and twenty bucks!" Bryson complained.

"Overpriced," I said, popping my back to ease out the last kinks of the abortive phase. "Let's get out of here."

Grumbling, Bryson picked up the statue and followed me.

I called Sunny after Bryson dropped me off on the corner of Devere across the street from Second Skin Tattoo. "How long will it take you to get downtown? I've got something you need to see."

The statue was dangling from my elbow, wrapped in a layer of plastic shopping bags and shoved inside a gym bag from the trunk of Bryson's car. The odor of socks and athelete's foot ointment wafted around me, and I tried to hold the bag farther away.

"Luna, I have a life," said Sunny. "I have to pick Grandma up at the airport and I have lunch plans."

"Look, Sunny, I don't ask unless it's life or death," I said. "Blow off Grandma this once."

"You ask a lot more than life or death," she said.

"You ask every time you get yourself into something you can't handle because you have a big mouth and a short temper."

"Sunny," I said quietly. "This isn't about me. I need you. I don't know what I'm doing here."

"Hmph," she said. "For you to admit you have no clue is pretty rare, I will say. Iaidll come, but only only until Grandma calls me to come get her." until Grandma calls me to come get her."

"Thank you," I breathed. "Meet me in Perry's shop. I need a second opinion about something."

"Can you dial down the cryptic a bit?" Sunny said. "You sound shaky. What's happened?"

"Tell you when you get here," I said, feeling the statue's magick crawling across the air and over my skin. "Just get here fast."