Lynx On The Loose(4)

“So, here’s what’s really alarming,” Redthorne said. “It appears that the reason Bradwell was so obsessed with this project, so determined to carry on with it no matter what, is that the scientists in Korslovia actually succeeded in their mission. They’d succeeded in turning humans into shifters.”

There were exclamations of shock and anger in the room. Could that even be possible? In all of shifter’s known history, going back thousands of years, there had never been a case of someone being born human and then turning shifter.

“Where are these human shifters?” Fleetfoot demanded.

“Dead. When the dictatorship was overthrown, Zador blew up the lab and killed them, along with the other scientists and most of the test subjects. According to our contacts in Korslovia, we now believe that Zador fled the country and came to America on a fake visa shortly afterwards.”

“We originally were told that Colonel Bradwell accidentally stumbled on the existence of shifters when he came across one during a military training exercise,” Chief Elder Fleetfoot said.

Loren nodded. “That is what we were led to believe at the time. We now think that the exercise was a cover, and he was out there looking for a shifter to capture,” Loren said. “Horvath somehow knew where communities of shifters live in the United States, and told him where to look. That’s the information that we’re picking up from the arms dealer’s conversations, anyway.”

“Do we have a way to find this scientist?” Fleetfoot asked. “It sounds as if he’s as big a danger to us as Colonel Bradwell is. We need to find out how he knows about the location of our shifter communities.”

“Unfortunately, no known photographs of him exist,” Redthorne said. “We have descriptions of him from the few people who managed to escape his lab. He’s a white male in his fifties, but that’s all that we have.”

“Hair color? Eye color? Facial characteristics?” Connors persisted.

“Those can be, and most likely have been, changed. Hair dye, contact lenses, cosmetic surgery.”

“So where does this leave us?” Chief Elder Fleetfoot asked.

“With far too many unanswered questions. We’re continuing to talk to the Korslovian shifters, to see what information we can get from them. They’re as eager to find this scientist as we are,” Warden Redthorne said.

He glanced at Connors. “I’d like Dash to work with the Wardens in searching for Isadora. They have a history, he knows her, he may be able to aid us in tracking her down faster than we would without him.”

“Thank you,” Dash said fervently, and then, at Sheriff Connor’s angry look, finished up quickly “for trusting me with this important assignment, Warden Redthorne.”

As everyone got up to file out of the room, he found himself wondering if a transfer to the Wardens department might be in order for the near future.

First things first, however. He had to help them find Isadora before she got hurt – that is, before she could hurt anyone.

Damn that lynx, he thought unhappily as he headed out to his patrol car. The sooner she was in custody, the sooner he’d be able to stop thinking about her night and day – wouldn’t he?





Chapter Three


Isadora pulled her minivan into the far end of a parking lot by a small convenience store, yawned heavily, and gulped the last of her large coffee. She’d driven for a dozen hours to a spot two hours outside of Lonesome Pine, Montana. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t stop now. The end-game was almost in sight.

“I need a catnap,” she muttered to herself. “Ha ha. Catnap. I’m hilarious.”

She was parked near a small rural store with a faded sign that proclaimed that it was “Raymond’s Gas N Gulp.” The parking lot was hemmed in by pine trees swaying in the cool fall breeze. The delightful pine scents of the forest swirled in her nostrils, along with the reek of gasoline and the bitter scent of burnt coffee drifting from the store.

She glanced at the other cars parked in the lot. She didn’t smell any other shifters. Maybe she’d really given everybody the slip.

Even if she ran into any other shifters who knew about the APB on her, they wouldn’t recognize her at a glance. She didn’t look like herself any more.

She’d been prepared for this day; she’d stashed bags with disguises in various hiding spots throughout Timber Valley, in case the time came that she had to run.

Once she’d shimmied out of the jail cell window, she’d shifted into lynx form, fetched the bag, and started running with the bag dangling from her mouth. About fifty miles outside of Timber Valley, she’d shifted back to human form, pulled on a blond wig, taken off her nose stud and skull earrings, and pulled on a floral pastel dress with tights and pink Ugg boots. She wore a pink cable knit sweater hiding the tattoos on her arms. Then she’d climbed into the minivan that she’d stashed outside of town in case of emergency, and hightailed it north.

Goth girl had disappeared, to be replaced by a respectable preppie girl who would – she shuddered at the thought – have met with her parents full approval.

She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, and grimaced. She looked like she should be on the cover of “Career Girl” magazine.

“Of all the indignities that I’m suffering, this is the worst,” she grumbled.

Then she climbed out of the car and looked around the parking lot.

Were Warriordemon1 and Savageslayer even going to show up? Hobos weren’t always the most reliable of shifters. There were usually reasons that they weren’t members of prides or packs. Some were free spirits, some were anti-social, and some were downright crazy. Just like human Hobos. Isadora had always enjoyed staying at Hobo camps when she’d travelled in the past, and now that she had a mission, the Hobo network was turning out to be especially useful.

She wished she knew what Warriordemon1 and Savageslayer looked like. There was a code phrase they were supposed to use when they walked up; it was “I hear the weather’s going to turn nasty later.” Anyway, it gave her time to buy some more coffee and maybe a six pack of highly caffeinated soda. She was dying here.

As she walked across the parking lot towards the store, a blue station wagon pulled in, and she glanced over to see who it was. The doors opened, and four men climbed out. They moved like cops, and smelled like shifters.

They were in a human area, so of course the car was unmarked and the men were plainclothes. Most shifter towns officially didn’t exist, so when the shifter law enforcement left their own area, they never drove their police vehicles or wore their uniforms; it would cause too many questions. However, they still had legal jurisdiction over shifters everywhere.

She knew she didn’t look suspicious, but the problem was, they were wolves, with an amazing sense of smell, and she was a lynx shifter. They were already tilting their heads in the air, sniffing, looking around…

The fact that she was a lynx shifter in a human town wasn’t a big deal by itself. Shifters travelled through human areas all of the time. However, since they were looking for a lynx, she knew they were going to come over and question her, and who knew where that would end up. She was sure that photographs of her had been circulated to shifters all over the country. She was suddenly self-conscious. Was her wig convincing enough? Could she pull this off?

She started casually strolling back to the minivan. As she did, the shifters started walking towards her. She couldn’t avoid their gaze; shifter etiquette called for her to at least acknowledge their presence.

She glanced up and nodded at them and then looked away. Running would only attract attention, and there were a couple of humans filling up their tanks with gas, so she didn’t have the option of shifting and bolting for the woods. That was a pity, because if she could make it to the tree line, she’d be all set.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” one of them said firmly. Big guy with a crew cut.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Warden Neil Lawrence, of the Rushing River Pack. I need to see your identification.”

She shot him an annoyed look, fishing in her purse.

“What’s all this about? I’m running late.”

“It’s a matter of Shifter national security. ID” His tone was a little less friendly now.

Acting put upon, she pulled her wallet out of her purse and handed her fake ID to him. Her picture matched the disguise she was wearing.

“Name and date of birth?”

“Laura Isles. January 10, 1990.”

“Pride affiliation?”

“I don’t have one. I’m a Hobo.” If she claimed a particular pride affiliation, they’d check, and see through her story.

He exchanged glances with the other shifters. They were gathered around her now; there was nowhere for her to run.

“What pride were you born into?”

“My parents were also Hobos.” He glanced at her minivan. It was actually a pretty nice minivan. It suddenly occurred to her that most Hobos weren’t that well off. She’d screwed up by having a nice vehicle and respectable outfit. Most Hobos lived on the outskirts of society, doing odd jobs, just getting by.

“Hey! Aunt Laura! Are we ready to go yet?” a cheerful voice called out to her.