Etched in Bone

CHAPTER 26

Thaisday, Messis 23

Needing gas, Jimmy found his way back to a paved road and drove until he came to a cluster of businesses, including a gas station and a place called Miller’s Trading Post. He pulled up to a pump at the gas station and filled up the tank. There was a small diner, but the trading post might have food and drinks too, and the cha-ching should be properly grateful for some food by now. Then he saw the way the old guy at the cash register looked at him and looked at the car when he came in to pay for the gas.

Fuck! Did the cops know about the car already? How’d they find out? The kid who owned it had rented it to him for the day and wouldn’t be calling the cops about it yet, so how did they know what he was driving?

He stared at the old guy, daring him to pretend he had balls enough to take on a man years younger and heavy with muscle, not a beer belly.

Having sufficiently cowed the old guy, Jimmy walked out of the gas station, not looking at the other businesses. But he was pissed that he couldn’t go into that trading post and pick up a few things for the road, pissed that he couldn’t sit down in the little diner for a while.

He hadn’t gotten as far from Lakeside as he needed to go. He’d thought he’d have at least a day with CJ sending out inquiries and shit to places like Shikago and Hubbney. But he was still in the middle of the Finger Lakes, which was fucking nowhere, and he had to find a place where he and the cha-ching could go to ground near a bus depot or train station so that he could ditch the car. If an old fart at a nowhere gas station had heard something that made him look at the car, then the cops were going to be all over anyone driving any of the roads heading away from Lakeside. He’d thought that talk about a region-wide manhunt was just a reporter’s way of hyping a story. But if all the cops really were hunting for him . . .

Had to get some distance from this place before the old fart decided he had balls enough to call the cops. Had to find an empty piece of road. Then he had a few questions for the bitch in the trunk.

Meg drifted among the visions that folded into one another—the result of tangled prophecies. Unable to anticipate the jolts and bumps, she knocked her arm against something in the trunk, and one of the new cuts reopened, leaked blood. Showed her . . . things.

Human bodies mounded on cracked, baked soil, rotting in the sun.

Bloated bodies washed up onshore, a feast for crabs.

The land burning, the sky a cloud of black smoke. New things? Old things?

Cities drowning while blood dripped from water faucets.

Sitting in the back of a car, hugging Simon.

Nail. Tire. Balloon leaking air.

Sam bringing down his prey—a human—while another human hit Skippy with a club that had a metal hook at one end.

Old things? New things? Had she told the Cyrus Controller about those images? Had he asked? Didn’t have to tell if he didn’t ask. Wouldn’t tell if he didn’t ask.

A tombstone made from a mound of old leaves.

Was that past or future?

She was property again, a thing again. Weak. Helpless.

No. She wasn’t weak or helpless. She lived with Wolves, and she could run fast and far. There was a place where she could hide from the Cyrus Controller. She would follow the images and escape. Like she did the last time.

Then the car slowed down. Stopped. And Meg had one clear thought as Cyrus Montgomery opened the trunk and hauled her out: it’s time.

Radio stations throughout the Northeast continued to interrupt programming with special bulletins about the region-wide hunt for Cyrus Montgomery, a man accused of abducting a young woman from the city of Lakeside. The police had issued a description of the man and the car, including the license plate number. They also gave a description of the young woman—short black hair, gray eyes, fair skin. A scar on the right side of her jaw.

Even radio stations in towns too far away to be within the target zone were running the story, keeping their citizens apprised of the dangerous situation—not because they thought this man would reach their town before he was caught. No, they were keeping the citizens apprised because they had seen the Hawks and Eagles soaring over the roads, watching; they had seen the Crows flying low, attempting to inspect any car coming into town.

They didn’t know why this particular woman was important enough for this kind of attention, but they knew if the terra indigene were this involved in the hunt, there were good reasons for humans to be afraid.

Meg didn’t struggle when Cyrus hauled her out of the trunk. Her legs were too stiff and she felt a little dizzy. Lack of food, loss of blood. She couldn’t think about those things now. She had to focus on the moment when she would escape.

“You left out a few things, bitch,” Cyrus said, looking and sounding menacing.

Meg kept one hand on the car. Her legs and feet tingled and burned, but she thought that was circulation and not prophecy. “When the cassandra sangue speak prophecy, we don’t remember the images. It’s up to the listener to remember.”

His hand closed into a fist. “You didn’t say it right.”

“Maybe you should have been listening instead of playing with yourself.” The words fell out of her mouth as if she’d rehearsed them—or read them somewhere.

Cyrus gave her a nasty smile. “Don’t need to be playing with myself when you’re so wet and horny after you’re cut.”

Had he . . . ?

Her courage started to crack as suppressed memories threatened to rise and overwhelm her, but she didn’t have time for old hurts. Cyrus didn’t know much about blood prophets, and that lack of knowledge was a weapon. “If you used me for sex, then it’s your fault that you’re not getting accurate prophecies.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“They don’t use us for sex,” Meg lied. “Ever. It dilutes the accuracy of the prophecies. Being used that way can drop the accuracy of the prophecy by fifty percent for several days.”

“If you’re not seeing things right, it’s not because of me.” Cyrus stared at her. “You been doing the nasty with that Wolf?” He stepped closer. “Is that why you’ve been telling me stuff that’s wrong?”

“I don’t remember most of what I see, but I remember one thing, Cyrus Montgomery. The Crows are going to eat your eyes.”

Images collided for a moment, and she felt a blow before his hand connected with her face so that she was already turning and falling against the car.

She looked up and saw the freight truck. About half the size of a tractor-trailer, it could handle the roads that wound through the wild country to small human communities that needed supplies. It wasn’t a huge truck, but it was big enough.

The sharp look on the driver’s face. The warning blast of the horn.

Meg bolted in front of the truck and avoided being struck by a finger’s length. She ran across the road, ran across the grass verge, and disappeared into the trees, following the game trail she had seen in the visions. She ran hard—not play-prey pursued by friends who would gently bump her and lick her and laugh a little at the panting human. This time the predator was real.

She heard Cyrus shouting, swearing, searching. But she was short and wasn’t wearing bright clothes, and the game trail forked. She took the right-hand trail and kept running.

“You come back here, bitch! You come back right now or I will beat you black!”

After searching for several fruitless minutes, Cyrus scrambled back to the verge and crossed the road to the car. He didn’t have time for this shit. The truck hadn’t stopped after the bitch dashed across the road, but he’d had the impression that the driver was reaching for a radio or mobile phone, was going to tell someone about the car and the girl.

Had to move, had to get away from here. Just because the truck hadn’t stopped, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t pull in to the first place on the road where there were other people.

He’d backtrack; that’s what he’d do. That way he wouldn’t end up behind the truck and the man who had seen the bitch. Yeah, he’d backtrack, maybe stop at one of those little towns in the Finger Lakes long enough to pick up bleach or some other shit that would erase the blood in the trunk. Then even if the cops found him, what could they prove? He’d rented a car, all legal and aboveboard, and gone for a drive. He was heading back to Lakeside to return the car. What was all the fuss? They couldn’t prove the bitch had been with him. If she took off, what was that to him?

Jimmy turned the car around and headed back the way he’d come—and didn’t notice that the right rear tire was rapidly going soft.

“Simon!”

Turning at the sound of Greg O’Sullivan’s voice, Simon dropped the books he’d been moving off the display table in order to have something to do.

O’Sullivan burst into the front area of Howling Good Reads. “The car’s been spotted.”

Simon glanced at Vlad, who had been working behind the checkout counter, then focused on the ITF agent. “Meg?”

The ITF agent shook his head. “Not—” He pulled out his mobile phone and looked at the caller’s number. “It’s Burke. Yes, Captain? They were? Where?”

Simon moved closer to O’Sullivan, trying to hear.

“I’ll be ready.” O’Sullivan hung up. “A truck driver reported seeing a man and woman arguing by the side of the road. The woman’s general description matches Meg’s, and it was on the same road as the first report of the car. Police from the communities nearest to those locations are on the roads right now, searching for the car. Burke is picking me up. Lieutenant Montgomery and Officer Kowalski will be following in a second car. We’re heading for the last known location.” He hesitated. “The truck driver thought the woman ran into the woods. We can arrange for a couple of officers with search-and-rescue dogs to meet us there if you’d rather wait . . .”

“The Wolfgard can find Meg better than some dog,” Simon snarled.

O’Sullivan looked relieved, which made Simon feel more forgiving about his suggesting dogs in the first place.

“I’ll be ready when Burke gets here.” He rushed upstairs to the office, stripped, stuffed his clothes into a carry sack, then shifted. He dragged the carry sack to the stairs, then gave it a push so that it rolled to the landing. Another push landed the carry sack on the floor of the stock room.

O’Sullivan arrived at HGR’s back door carrying a daypack. “Water and food. The police already have first-aid kits in their vehicles.” He opened the back door just as Burke’s black sedan drove up the access way.

By the time they crossed the area behind the stores and reached the back of the Liaison’s Office, Burke had turned the car around. He stepped out of the car, opened the back door and the trunk, then held up one finger to indicate he would be a moment. He walked up the access way.

Simon eased into the back of the car, careful not to leap and smack his head on the doorframe. He dropped the carry sack with his clothes on the floor behind Burke’s seat, then stretched out on the backseat.

Blair called.

he replied.

His heart pounded. His body quivered with anxiety and anticipation.

The humans had found the car. The Wolfgard would find his Meg.

“So,” Burke said dryly, “instead of one Wolf to help us track, we have three?”

Monty nodded. “Blair and Nathan were scratching on the back doors as soon as Kowalski pulled into the delivery area. Don’t know what they know, except that the police found something and they’re coming with us.”

“They can track as well as the dogs,” O’Sullivan said. “And if we have to leave the road and the right-of-way area for any reason, the Wolves can smooth the way, right?”

“How much did you tell Simon?” Burke asked.

“That the car was spotted, giving us a starting point for the search,” O’Sullivan replied. “And the woman ran into the woods.”

Monty’s stomach churned. “You didn’t tell him about the blood the truck driver saw on her clothes?” Jimmy had cut Meg. Of course he had. He wouldn’t resist the chance to hear predictions about his future or how to acquire easy money. Wasn’t that the reason he’d taken her in the first place? He’d force her to help him avoid capture. So why had someone spotted the car this quickly? Was it a diversion?

“No reason to mention it yet,” Burke said, “or to tell any of the Wolves about Hope Wolfsong’s vision drawing.”

“Simon may think we’re being dishonest,” Monty said quietly.

“When Meg Corbyn was last seen, she was alive and well enough to run away from Cyrus,” Burke countered. “For now we stick with that. Besides, you’ve got two large Wolves filling up the backseat of that patrol car. Do you really want them more upset than they already are?”

Monty shook his head.

Burke waited a beat. “Lieutenant, I can assign someone else for this.”

“No, sir. I’m the leader of the team that deals with the Courtyard. So I’ll deal with this.”

Monty returned to the patrol car. As Kowalski pulled over to let Burke take the lead, Monty prayed to all the gods he could name that Jimmy hadn’t done any serious damage to Meg Corbyn. And if Jimmy had, he prayed that his brother would have sense enough to surrender so that he wouldn’t have to be the one to put a bullet between Jimmy’s eyes.

Meg ran and ran, following paths that blurred or became too sharply focused. Cyrus had cut her across the scars of old prophecies, and he’d made the new cuts too close together. The prophecies weren’t distinct because of that. The images bled into one another. Worse, she kept seeing superimposed images, and she couldn’t tell what was real and what was part of a vision. She could walk off a cliff because she thought she was walking on a road.

But she had to run no matter what she thought she saw, had to find the right place.

Finally slowing to a walk, she wiped her left hand on her shirt to remove the stickiness. When it felt sticky again a moment later, she finally looked at the blood welling up from a cut.

How had that happened? When had that happened?

She kept walking. She needed water. She needed to figure out which of the visions she’d been seeing for the past little while were the ones that would help her.

Preoccupied with her thoughts and a path that was or wasn’t real, she took a step and overbalanced when her foot hovered in air before she rushed headlong down a slope into a small bowl of land.

Her foot caught on something beneath the leaves, propelling her forward. Reaching in front of her, her hands hit something and slid along its length as she fell.

Meg looked at the jacket sleeve. She felt the cold white hand—and screamed.

Jimmy swore and kicked the car. Fucking piece of shit. What was he supposed to do way the fuck out here with a flat tire?

That bitch knew. She knew. He should have softened her up, taught her who was boss. If he’d done that, he could have stopped at that trading post and picked up some food and water. He wouldn’t be standing out here with nothing if she hadn’t been such a bitch.

Suddenly he stopped swearing, stopped making noise, and listened to an odd silence he could almost feel against his skin.

The blow knocked him off his feet, lifted him so high he flew through the air and watched a strange rope uncoil from his belt before he hit the ground in the grass verge. When he tried to sit up, he saw the slices in his torso that had been made by big claws sharp enough to cut glass.

As he lay there, unable to move, the air shimmered around him and turned into shapes so old they were remembered only in nightmares.

Something wrong with her ankle—wrong enough that she couldn’t walk, couldn’t even support her weight enough to stand.

Meg scooted a little farther away from the cold white hand. Then she looked around.

This was it. This was the end of the prophecy. She had found the grave in the woods, the tombstone made of old leaves.

It was cool and dark beneath the trees, but she wasn’t cold. It would be night before the temperature dropped enough for her to feel cold. But she was hungry and tired and so very thirsty.

And alone.

But she was part of the Wolfgard pack at Lakeside. Just because she was alone, she wouldn’t turn into some blubbering human. She would . . .

“Arroo! Arroo!” I am here. I am here, Simon. Come find me. “Ar-r-rooo!” Please find me.

Then she turned into a blubbering human after all.

A strange sound. Familiar but not. And nothing made by one of them.

Their kin near Lake Etu had sent out a call to all who could hear them: find the sweet blood howling not-Wolf, the little female called Broomstick Girl.

Could this sound be coming from what they sought?

As they moved toward the sound, their footsteps filled the land with an odd silence.

O’Sullivan took the call, spoke quietly for a minute, then hung up. “The local police found the car.”

“Are we on the right road?” Burke asked, his voice neutral.

O’Sullivan nodded. After a minute of brittle silence, he added softly, “They think they found Cyrus Montgomery.”

Burke didn’t ask what that meant. He already knew.