Supernatural--Children of Anubis Page 5

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  Morgan—sixteen, tall, lean, short brown hair—walked behind her mother. Sylvia pushed a cart filled with groceries—mostly meat—toward the produce section. Morgan carried her brother Joshua on her hip. He was a year old and capable of riding in the cart, but he fussed if someone didn’t carry him. Especially these days. He was teething again, and while the process was painful enough for human children, for their kind it was doubly so. A human mother might’ve given her baby a topical anesthetic for the pain, but medicines had no more effect on werewolves than poisons did. Luckily, Joshua’s gums would heal soon after his new teeth finished whatever amount of growth they were going to do this time, but until then, the poor little guy would just have to tough it out.

  Sylvia had showed Morgan how to soothe Joshua by massaging his sore gums with the tip of her finger. She’d tried it, and it worked—kind of—but when one of Joshua’s new teeth turned wolf-sharp and he bit her, that was the last time she’d tried to soothe him that way. Now she bounced him gently on her hip and hummed along with the music playing on the store’s sound system. Joshua still fussed now and again, but not nearly as much as he could have, and Morgan took that as a win.

  Sylvia was in her forties, although she looked ten years younger. Morgan hoped she looked like her mom when she reached the same age. Sylvia was nearly six feet tall and didn’t have an ounce of fat on her, with well-defined muscles and rich chestnut-brown hair. She wasn’t simply pretty; she was striking, and not for the first time, Morgan thought she’d have made a fantastic model. But their people didn’t like to stand out. They believed in hiding in plain sight. Why else were they capable of assuming human form? But there was a difference between plain sight and turning a spotlight on yourself. Maintaining a relatively low profile was important for their people’s survival. But sometimes this frustrated her. She was in high school, and she would’ve loved to try out for extracurricular activities like drama club, band, cheerleading, basketball, track… anything really, just as long as she got to do something. But her parents wouldn’t allow it. Not only would she attract undue attention, her Pureblood speed and strength would give her an unfair advantage over humans. The last time she’d tried to convince her parents they’d said no, and she asked her dad why he didn’t maintain a low profile. His eyes had flashed with anger, and he’d begun growling softly. That was the last time she brought up the subject.

  She dressed plainly, in accordance with her parents’ wishes. Today she wore a T-shirt featuring one of her favorite anime characters, a gray cardigan, jeans, and black boots. Sylvia, however, wore jeans that were a bit too tight, makeup that was a bit too heavy, and a blouse that was cut a bit too low. Not exactly a low-profile look, but then she figured parents— werewolf or human—often went by the motto Do as I say, not as I do. She couldn’t help smiling. Who would’ve thought parental hypocrisy would be a defining trait of both species?

  Later, Morgan would realize that she was aware of the boy’s presence before she saw him. Partly it was his scent, so much like that of her people but with tantalizing differences: unknown spices combined with the sweet-rank odor of decay. But it was more than that. She felt a thrill of recognition, as if she were approaching an important, maybe pivotal event in her life. An awareness of something big moving behind the scenery of the universe.

  And then she reached the produce section and she saw him. She supposed another girl might not have considered him handsome. He was skinny and short, and she was taller than him by at least a foot. But he had a kind face, with gentle brown eyes, and thick black hair that almost but didn’t quite curl. He wore a navy-blue hoodie with frayed cuffs, a black T-shirt, threadbare jeans, and old tennis shoes. She liked the way he dressed. He looked comfortable. She wasn’t supposed to dress up, but her father wouldn’t allow her to leave the house grungy either. “We have a certain reputation to maintain in this town,” he’d say. Sometimes she just wanted to be free to make her own choices.

  She thought the boy was handsome. She wasn’t sure of his age, but she figured he was close to hers. One thing she was certain of: she’d never seen him before. He was probably new in town. So if she went over to say hi, she’d just be being neighborly, right? Sometimes her dad said she was too aggressive for her own good. Maybe so, but growing up a Pureblood had taught her that if you wanted something in this life, you had to go out and get it. And she wanted to talk to this boy.

  She glanced at her mother. Sylvia was checking out a display of oranges, inhaling their scent, her eyes closed. It was as good a time as any for Morgan to make her getaway. Still holding onto her baby brother, she started toward the boy with the almost-curly hair. His mother was holding up a head of lettuce and peering at it closely. The boy stood several feet away from her, looking bored. Morgan knew how he felt. He looked up as she approached, and she smiled and gave a small wave. The boy looked startled and suddenly wary, as if she’d drawn a weapon instead of making a friendly overture.

  Maybe he’s not used to take-charge girls, she thought. Or maybe he simply didn’t expect anyone his age to be friendly to him. New kids always had it tough when they moved to Bridge Valley. The majority of families had been here for generations, and besides, this was the kind of town people moved away from, not to. Newcomers weren’t common. Most Bridge Valley citizens were suspicious of anyone not born in town and kept their distance.

  Good thing I’m not like most people, she thought.

  As she drew near the boy, he took a quick look at his mother. She was still engrossed in her lettuce inspection. With an uncertain smile, he started toward Morgan. She was surprised to find herself feeling suddenly self-conscious. She felt a desperate need to check her reflection. She was certain her hair was a rat’s nest, and she wished she had some breath mints. And what about Joshua? He was calm now, but he could start fussing again at any moment—and how embarrassing would that be? For the first time in her life, she wanted to retreat from an uncomfortable situation, but before she could do so, she and the boy were standing in front of one another.

  Now that she was in close proximity to him, his strangely alluring scent of spices and rot was much stronger. She found it almost intoxicating. Her upper and lower incisors sharpened a touch, pressing against her tongue. Her body had never reacted this way in the presence of a boy, and she concentrated on making her teeth return to their human shape.

  The boy drew in a deep breath through his nostrils. He was inhaling her scent. Up until this moment, it hadn’t occurred to her that he wasn’t human. But now she realized that he was like her only… not. This realization didn’t frighten her. Rather, it relaxed her. It told her that this was someone she could be herself—her true self—with.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Morgan.” She nodded to her brother. “This is Joshua.”

  “I’m… Greg.” He paused before giving his name, almost as if he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. But then he smiled and Morgan was reassured. At least he was friendly.

  Morgan glanced at her mother then turned back to Greg.

  “Let’s move to another aisle,” she said. “That way we can talk in private.”

  Greg looked doubtful for a moment, but then he nodded. They left the produce section and went into the next aisle where the shelves were filled with breakfast cereals.

  “I haven’t seen you at school,” Morgan said. “You must be new to town.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not the reason you haven’t seen me. I’m homeschooled.”

  “Oh. That’s cool.”

  She could smell his clothes, too, and she knew they were secondhand. She wondered if his family was poor. Not that she’d judge him for that. Her family wasn’t wealthy, but they didn’t want for anything either. Her father’s people had lived in Bridge Valley for generations, but her mother had told of how her old pack had been forced to relocate several times because hunters had tracked them down. Her pack had abandoned their houses and possessions and started over again from nothing. So while Morgan ha
d never been deprived, she felt a certain amount of kinship with anyone who was.

  “I…” Greg broke off and frowned, as if he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure of the best way to go about it. Finally, he blurted out, “Are you what I think you are?”

  She grinned. “If you think I’m awesome, then the answer’s yes.”

  He grinned back. “I do think that. But there’s something else.”

  She knew her dad would be furious with her, but she couldn’t stop herself. All of her instincts told her she could trust Greg, and the words came tumbling out.

  “I’m a werewolf. A Pureblood.”

  His eyes widened, and as they did, the brown of his irises became bright amber for an instant. “I’m a jakkal,” he said.

  She frowned. “I’ve never heard of jakkals before.”

  He shrugged. “We try to stay off people’s radar, you know?”

  “My family does the same.” She tried to think of something else to say, but the best she could come up with was, “How do you like Bridge Valley so far?” God, how lame!

  “It’s all right. It’s worse than some places my family has been, but it’s better than others.” He paused, and then added, “We move around a lot.”

  He tugged self-consciously on his right sleeve, the motion drawing her gaze. She saw the flesh on his wrist was dry and wrinkled. “Are you okay?”

  He tugged his sleeve down even farther. “It’s nothing. I had a little accident earlier, that’s all. It’ll heal soon.”

  She couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so she simply nodded. She didn’t know how much longer her mother would be distracted, so she decided to make a bold move while she could.

  “Do you have a phone?” she asked. “Let’s exchange numbers.”

  He looked at her in surprise, and she thought he was going to say no, which of course would be the sensible thing to do. Who was foolish enough to swap phone numbers with someone they’ve just met? But he removed his phone from his pocket with a smile and they quickly exchanged numbers.

  “It’s better if you text me,” Morgan said. “My family doesn’t like me talking on the phone to people they don’t know.”

  He nodded. “Texting will work fine.”

  After that, they stood in silence, smiling at each other. There was nothing awkward about this silence, though. It felt good, as if they didn’t need words. Just being in each other’s presence was enough.

  Morgan felt a sudden rush of air, and then her mother was there, her eyes glowing yellow.

  “Get away from him,” Sylvia said. “He’s a filthy carrion-eater, and he stinks of death and decay.”

  Sylvia’s voice had become guttural, and her words were difficult to understand. Her tone of absolute loathing was unmistakable though, and that set Joshua to crying. Sylvia didn’t turn toward her son though. She continued facing Greg, eyes blazing, as if she expected him to attack them at any moment.

  Then in the blink of an eye, Greg’s mother arrived and inserted herself between Sylvia and her son. Her eyes were amber, and she bared teeth that were pointed, although not as prominent as those of a werewolf. Her ears tapered to subtle points, and her nails were long. Whatever a jakkal was, it seemed to be related to a werewolf, at least as far as Morgan could see and smell.

  “Back away from my child.” Greg’s mother sounded as bestial as Sylvia. While she was a good deal shorter than Morgan’s mother, she did not seem intimidated in the slightest. “You know what the bite of my people can do.”

  The women started growling at each other, and Sylvia began to transform too. Morgan feared they would start fighting right here in the grocery store. She exchanged a horrified glance with Greg, and then they each took hold of one of their mother’s arms and tugged her backward.

  “Mom!” Morgan said forcefully. “We’re in public!”

  At the same time, Greg said, “Stop this before someone sees!”

  So far they’d all been lucky. They were the only ones in the aisle, but didn’t the grocery have security cameras stationed around the store? If their mothers began fighting, their battle might be recorded. So much for the low profile her parents always warned her to maintain.

  At first, neither woman listened to her child. Morgan thought they were going to begin biting and clawing each other, but then they stopped growling and—although it seemed to take an effort for them both—they returned to their human forms. Sylvia pulled free of Morgan’s grip and scowled darkly at Greg and his mother.

  “This is our territory, scavenger.” She practically spat this last word. “Leave town now, while you’re still alive to crawl away with your tail tucked between your legs.”

  Greg’s mother’s eyes flashed amber one last time, then she turned and stalked off, leaving her cart behind. Greg gave Morgan one last apologetic look, then he turned and hurried after his mother. Joshua was still crying, but Sylvia didn’t seem to notice.

  “What were you doing talking to one of them?”

  There was more than a hint of snarl in her mother’s voice, and Morgan knew that whatever had happened between the two women, this wasn’t the end of it.

  SEVEN

  The Bridge Valley Independent’s office looked small from the outside: a single window with business hours written on a sign in the corner, and a narrow door with the name of the paper painted on the front. The brothers parked on the street and got out of the Impala.

  “Not exactly The New York Times, is it?” Dean said.

  They stepped inside. There was a single main room with several smaller ones branching off from it. In the middle was a single antique desk that looked at least a century old, on top of which rested a laptop and printer. The lights were soft and yellow and the floor was made from dark wood boards that creaked beneath the brothers’ feet.

  A woman in her late twenties sat behind the desk. She had short black hair and wore a long-sleeved purple-and-white blouse with black slacks, and hoop earrings in the shape of hearts. A scarecrow-thin man sat in front of her. He had straight black hair that looked as if he’d applied too much hair gel and it hadn’t had time to dry. He wore a gray suit jacket over a black dress shirt, jeans, and somewhat grubby sneakers. He held a small notebook in one hand and a pen in the other.

  Both the woman and the man turned to look at them, and Sam was stunned to see that the man was none other than their old friend Garth Fitzgerald IV, retired hunter and werewolf. Garth broke into a wide grin when he saw them. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he glanced at the woman, dropped the smile, and assumed a neutral expression.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” the woman asked.

  Sam and Dean identified themselves as FBI agents and showed their IDs.

  “Are you guys really FBI agents?” Garth said. “That’s awesome!” He gave the brothers a wink.

  Sam knew that Garth—in his own awkward, overly enthusiastic way—was trying to help sell their cover story, but it was the kind of help they didn’t need. A big part of making their cover work was getting past the introductory stage as quickly as possible, so people didn’t have time to question their credentials. And it was even more important that they get past this stage when dealing with someone whose job it was to ask questions. Someone like a reporter, for example.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” Sam said, “but my partner and I are investigating the murder that took place outside town several nights ago.”

  “You mean the gory one where the guy’s heart was ripped out?” Garth asked. “That’s why I’m here too. I’m working on a book about mysterious murders in the Midwest, and when I got word of what happened here, I hightailed it to Bridge Valley.”

  Sam and Dean exchanged a quick glance. As cover stories went, Garth’s wasn’t bad. It might not have the authority and intimidation factor of claiming to be an FBI agent, but it explained why he would want to ask questions about any strange killings. But why did Garth need his own cover story at all? He’d suggested teaming up with them on a p
ermanent basis, but Sam and Dean had urged him to remain retired. Garth had found a place for himself with his wife and her extended family. So what if they were all werewolves? Family was family, and so long as they remained peaceful and fed only on animal hearts, it was all good as far as Sam and Dean were concerned. Weird, but good.

  Had Garth changed his mind and started hunting again? Sam hoped not. Hunters’ lives contained more than their fair share of violence, and while Garth had been used to that as a human, being around violence—and the darker emotions it could stir—wouldn’t be good for him now that he was a werewolf. Fighting and killing could make the animal half of him stronger and harder to control. His pack strived to live in harmony with their wolf selves, but it was a delicate balance. If Garth was going to maintain that balance, he needed to live a normal life. And yet, here he was.

  A terrible thought occurred to Sam then. Garth had joined a peaceful pack that didn’t believe in preying on humans, but the Winchesters were here investigating a murder committed by what sure as hell sounded like a trio of werewolves. Could Garth have been one of them?

  Sam felt guilty for thinking this. He told himself that Garth would never do anything like what had been done to Clay Fuller. But both Sam and Dean knew that the dark powers of the supernatural world could be difficult—if not impossible—to resist.

  From the frown on Dean’s face, Sam knew his brother’s thoughts were running along the same line. They would have to speak to Garth about their concerns, as uncomfortable as that might be, later.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Dean said. He looked at Garth. “If Mr.…”

  “Thrash,” Garth said. “Raleigh Thrash.”

  Dean raised an eyebrow.

  “If Mr. Thrash doesn’t mind us taking you away from him for a few minutes?”

  Garth waved a hand in a “No big deal” gesture. “Fine with me, as long as I get to listen in. Totally off the record, of course.”

  Dean knew a real FBI agent wouldn’t permit this, but since Garth was working the same case they were, letting him listen made sense.