Magic Strikes(18)
gold.
«Curran?»
A lion glared at me though gray human eyes and vanished, replaced by Curran's neutral face.
«Nice, thorough job.»
I arched my eyebrows at him.
«They salted the scene with wolfsbane. The stems are dried out, ground into powder, and mixed
with some base. Dry detergent works well. Borax. Baking soda. Not as effective as a wolfsbane
paste, but enough of it will overwhelm the scent trail. Jim's crew dumped about a gallon of it here.»
I filed that tidbit away for future reference. «So the sniff test is a bust?»
Curran smiled. «You can't salt the air. Even here, with all the traffic and draft, the scents linger
above the ground. Tell me what you saw and we'll compare notes.»
I hesitated. Talking to Curran was like walking through a minefield. You never knew when
something would set him off, and Jim, screwed-up asshole though he might be, was my former
partner. «Why don't you ask Jim instead? He would probably want a chance to tell you himself.»
Curran shook his head. His face was grim. «When one of ours dies, I get a call. No matter the
hour. I was in the Keep last night and didn't get one. I saw Jim this morning and he said nothing to
me about this.»
«He must have a compelling reason for withholding the information.»
«Kate, did you extend an offer of cooperation to the Pack on behalf of the Order?»
Oh, bite me. «Yes, I did. It was declined.»
«As Beast Lord, I now accept your offer.»
Damn it. The Mutual Aid Agreement bound me to disclose all knowledge of the incident.
I stared at him helplessly. «How do you always do that? How do you always maneuver me into
doing something I don't want to do?»
Curran's face lightened a little. «I've had a lot of practice. The Pack contains thirty-two species
in seven tribes, each with their own hang-up. Jackals and coyotes pick fights with wolves, because
they have an inferiority complex and think they've got something to prove. Wolves believe
themselves to be superior, marry the wrong people, and then refuse to divorce them because they
cling to their 'mating for life' idiocy. Hyenas listen to nobody, screw everything, and break out in
berserk rages at some perceived slight against one of their own. Cats randomly refuse to follow
orders to prove they can. That's my life. I've been at this for fifteen years now. You're easy by
comparison.»
And here I thought I was a challenge. «Pardon me while my ego recovers.»
He grinned. «It's a benefit of having principles. Boxed into a corner, you will always strive to do
what you think is right, especially when you don't like it. Like right now.»
«I suppose you have me all figured out.»
«I understand why you do things, Kate. It's how you do them that occasionally pisses me off.»
Occasionally? «I want to assure you, Your Majesty, that I spend long nights lying awake in my
bed worrying about your feelings.»
«As well you should.» A half-laugh, half-growl reverberated in his throat. «Provoking me won't
work. Tell me what you saw. Or should I make a formal request in writing?»
This was apparently a «let's teach Kate humility» day. He had me by the throat.
I thought back to the scene, reconstructing it in my head. «I came in by mule from Ponce de
Leon. There were seven shapeshifters. Two in wolf form, scanning the scene for scents. One was
here.» I walked over to indicate the right spot. «Male. Looked like a typical European wolf, Canis
lupus lupus, coarse dark gray fur streaked with sandy brown, especially on the nose. The second
one was here.» I crossed the street to approximate location. «Might have been a female, but I'm not
sure. Brown, almost cinnamon fur, black or very dark chocolate muzzle and dark ears. Light yellow
eyes. Looked like Cascade Mountain wolf to me.»
«George and Brenna,» Curran supplied. He was watching me with intense interest. «Jim's best
trackers. Go on.»
I crossed the street to the other side of Dead Cat. «Two shapeshifters here, sliding a corpse into a
bag. Both female. The one on the right was average size, lightly built, ash-blond hair cut in a bob.
Never saw her face.» I took a wide step to my left. «Native American, slightly plump, dark skin,
early forties, long hair in a braid. Pretty.»
Curran said nothing.
«Perimeter guard here.» I pointed to my left. «And here.» I turned to indicate the second spot.
«And one right there.» I stabbed my finger where the guard had stopped me. «The two in the back
looked similar, dark-haired, Latino with a touch of Indian, possibly Mexican, young, male, short,