able to convince the little creature to join forces with me. Didn’t tell them that either. I couldn’t lie worth a dang, but lying by omission? I was learning to do that real well.
“We’re not releasing that to the public,” Grizzard instructed.
“Fine by me. The press is plastering my name and likeness all over the airwaves. They aren’t my best pals.” I thought I had worked my way into their good graces and so I took a shot. “Can I see the site?”
Grizzard nodded to Sam. “Orson, take her on down.”
Relief poured through me. “One last suggestion,” I said. “Weres are really hard to kill. Silvershot may not kill them any faster than regular ammo, but silver
will
hurt them. Bad. If they suffer a wound—say silvershot double-oughts—I don’t think they can change form to heal until the silver is surgically removed, forcing them to stay in the form they were in when injured. Left in them long enough, it’ll poison their bloodstream. If you want, I got a local guy who hand-loads my rounds with silver fléchettes. I killed several in New Orleans with them.”
“You’ve killed these things?”
“Yeah.” I looked into the trees, down the slope. They had nearly killed me, but I left that out too. Lying was getting easier. I waited for some guilt but nothing happened. It was Sunday morning; I should be getting ready for church instead of lying to cops. Yeah. I was going to hell.
“Name? Cost?” Grizzard barked.
I gave him the name and contact info for the guy who hand-loaded my rounds. “I can’t tell you the cost. That’s dependent on the market value of silver, the amount of silver he uses in the fléchettes, a whole bunch of factors.”
“Okay. Take her down. Don’t fuck up my crime scene, Yellowrock.”
“You’re such a softie.”
Before he could reply, Sam grabbed my elbow and pulled me away. “You never did know when to shut your mouth,” he growled.
I looked down at him and grinned. “You can’t hold your liquor.”
Sam Orson did a little eye-roll-blow-out-breath thing and pulled me down the hill. On the breeze I smelled blood. Dead meat. Human.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vigilante Law’s Got No Place
in My County
The hundred square feet inside the yellow crime scene tape reeked of human blood, werewolf, and dead fish to my sensitive nose. The three humans the weres had feasted on were still near the tents, buzzing with flies. The smell in the campsite had drawn a murder of crows, sitting in trees, watching, waiting. One turned and looked at me, cocking its head to the side in a movement reminiscent of the way vamps move when they aren’t trying to ape humanity. Or when they don’t care if someone sees their true nature. I held my face still, nonreactive, and studied the scene, walking around the perimeter, viewing it from every angle. Some of the crime scene techs were bagging evidence, marking where each body part or piece of evidence was found. Others were taking photos or making notes or putting down little evidence markers for new physical trace to be added into the bigger picture.
The campers had been attacked in the night, the wolves rushing in from the west, tearing into the tents, then into the sleeping campers. Three had been killed quickly. Three others had run into the woods and been chased. “What did the surviving campers say?” I asked.
“They were chased, knocked down, bitten, and let go.”
“All of the live ones were female,” I stated.
Sam studied me as I analyzed the scene. “How did you know that? We implied to the press that the one who called for help was male.”
“Three tents, three coolers, three bear-bags of food. All the dead and eaten ones are male, but you have female clothing of different sizes scattered all over the site. I admit to an assumption that it wasn’t six cross-dressers, ergo three couples.” Sam snorted softly. “Also, the werewolves in New Orleans were trying to make mates. Werewolves aren’t like other weres.
“We’re not releasing that to the public,” Grizzard instructed.
“Fine by me. The press is plastering my name and likeness all over the airwaves. They aren’t my best pals.” I thought I had worked my way into their good graces and so I took a shot. “Can I see the site?”
Grizzard nodded to Sam. “Orson, take her on down.”
Relief poured through me. “One last suggestion,” I said. “Weres are really hard to kill. Silvershot may not kill them any faster than regular ammo, but silver
will
hurt them. Bad. If they suffer a wound—say silvershot double-oughts—I don’t think they can change form to heal until the silver is surgically removed, forcing them to stay in the form they were in when injured. Left in them long enough, it’ll poison their bloodstream. If you want, I got a local guy who hand-loads my rounds with silver fléchettes. I killed several in New Orleans with them.”
“You’ve killed these things?”
“Yeah.” I looked into the trees, down the slope. They had nearly killed me, but I left that out too. Lying was getting easier. I waited for some guilt but nothing happened. It was Sunday morning; I should be getting ready for church instead of lying to cops. Yeah. I was going to hell.
“Name? Cost?” Grizzard barked.
I gave him the name and contact info for the guy who hand-loaded my rounds. “I can’t tell you the cost. That’s dependent on the market value of silver, the amount of silver he uses in the fléchettes, a whole bunch of factors.”
“Okay. Take her down. Don’t fuck up my crime scene, Yellowrock.”
“You’re such a softie.”
Before he could reply, Sam grabbed my elbow and pulled me away. “You never did know when to shut your mouth,” he growled.
I looked down at him and grinned. “You can’t hold your liquor.”
Sam Orson did a little eye-roll-blow-out-breath thing and pulled me down the hill. On the breeze I smelled blood. Dead meat. Human.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vigilante Law’s Got No Place
in My County
The hundred square feet inside the yellow crime scene tape reeked of human blood, werewolf, and dead fish to my sensitive nose. The three humans the weres had feasted on were still near the tents, buzzing with flies. The smell in the campsite had drawn a murder of crows, sitting in trees, watching, waiting. One turned and looked at me, cocking its head to the side in a movement reminiscent of the way vamps move when they aren’t trying to ape humanity. Or when they don’t care if someone sees their true nature. I held my face still, nonreactive, and studied the scene, walking around the perimeter, viewing it from every angle. Some of the crime scene techs were bagging evidence, marking where each body part or piece of evidence was found. Others were taking photos or making notes or putting down little evidence markers for new physical trace to be added into the bigger picture.
The campers had been attacked in the night, the wolves rushing in from the west, tearing into the tents, then into the sleeping campers. Three had been killed quickly. Three others had run into the woods and been chased. “What did the surviving campers say?” I asked.
“They were chased, knocked down, bitten, and let go.”
“All of the live ones were female,” I stated.
Sam studied me as I analyzed the scene. “How did you know that? We implied to the press that the one who called for help was male.”
“Three tents, three coolers, three bear-bags of food. All the dead and eaten ones are male, but you have female clothing of different sizes scattered all over the site. I admit to an assumption that it wasn’t six cross-dressers, ergo three couples.” Sam snorted softly. “Also, the werewolves in New Orleans were trying to make mates. Werewolves aren’t like other weres.
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