Supernatural--Children of Anubis Read online

  Morgan had never heard her mother talk this way before. The anger, the sheer venom in her voice… It was clear that Sylvia hated jakkals with all of her being. She hated Greg without even knowing him. But then, Morgan didn’t know Greg either, not really. They’d only spoken briefly before their mothers had freaked out. But she’d felt a connection. She didn’t believe in love at first sight or anything like that. That sort of thing only happened in movies. But she did believe in listening to her instincts, and her instincts told her that Greg was a good person, and he could be trusted. Did her mother’s instincts tell her something different? Or was she so blinded by her hatred that she refused to listen to them?

  Sylvia continued. “If for some reason we ever run into that boy again—or any of his pack—do not allow them to get close enough to attack you.”

  Morgan was confused. “I thought you said they were harmless.”

  “They are… in general. Just do as I say, please?”

  “All right.”

  Morgan thought of Greg’s kind face. She couldn’t imagine him being dangerous. The idea seemed laughable. But she didn’t look dangerous, did she? None of her family did.

  “What did Dad say when you told him about the jakkals?”

  At first Morgan thought that Sylvia wasn’t going to answer her, but then she said, “He’s going to see if he can find the jakkals’ den and ask them politely to leave our territory.”

  Morgan thought her dad’s idea of politely was apt to be a bit more confrontational than hers. She hoped a fight wouldn’t break out. She didn’t want anyone getting hurt. Especially Greg.

  “He told me something else.” Sylvia’s tone was less angry now. More worried. “A pair of FBI agents showed up asking questions about Clay Fuller’s death. And earlier, a writer from out of town tried to interview him about Clay, but your dad turned him down.”

  Morgan had a cold, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Hunters?” she asked softly.

  “Maybe. We’ll have to be on guard for the next few days.” She shook her head in disgust. “Jakkals and now hunters. How much do you want to bet the carrion-eaters led them here?”

  Morgan couldn’t take any more. “You’re being racist, Mom.”

  Sylvia turned to look at Morgan for a moment, then looked forward again.

  “I’m not racist,” she said. “I’m a monster.”

  As they drove on in silence, Morgan wondered if the two conditions were mutually exclusive.

  After a bit, Sylvia said, “At least we won’t have to worry about Amos Boyd blabbing to the media anymore.” Her mouth twisted into a cruel smile, and Morgan could see a hint of fangs.

  “What do you mean?” Morgan asked, afraid of the answer.

  “Never you mind,” Sylvia said. “And don’t tell your father I said that.”

  Sylvia continued smiling as she pried a small shred of meat from between her too-sharp teeth.

  Morgan caught the scent of human flesh and shuddered. She didn’t want to know what that was about. She turned away from her mother, gazed out the window, and thought.

  She’d only just met Greg, and they’d spent less than five minutes speaking, but she felt a connection to him. She wanted to see him again, but more than that, she wanted to protect him from her dad— and her mom, who in many ways was just as dangerous as he was, if not more so. But Morgan had no idea what she could do. Her family—her pack—operated by a strict hierarchy, and she was dead last in the pecking order. Not counting Joshua, of course. She was expected to obey her father, mother, and older brothers in all things. If she continued to insist her family could find a way to live alongside the jakkals, she would be punished. But she had to do something, and soon, if she was to have any hope of saving Greg and his family from hers. She would text him a warning as soon as she was alone, but she didn’t know if it would be enough. She didn’t know if anything would be enough.

  * * *

  When Alan ended the call with Sylvia he was so furious he wanted to punch a hole in his office wall. He restrained himself, though. No one else in the Sheriff’s Department was a werewolf, and he’d have a hard time explaining how he could punch all the way through the wall with a single blow and not damage his hand. He ran his tongue over his teeth to check them. They were halfway sharp, and he concentrated until they became human again.

  First some writer tried to get an interview with him, then a pair of supposed FBI agents show up asking questions, and to top it all off, there were jakkals in his town. This was not shaping up to be one of his better days on the job.

  Before he could do anything else, his phone rang. The display identified the caller as Melody Diaz. He really didn’t want to talk with her right now, but even in a small town, it didn’t pay to irritate the press.

  “Hey, Melody. How are you doing?”

  She didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I’m calling to see if you have anything new on Clay Fuller’s murder.”

  He frowned. “Why? You’ve already covered the story. I don’t—” He broke off. “A couple FBI agents came to see me today. They didn’t happen to drop by your office, did they?”

  Melody didn’t respond.

  “Look, I understand reporters want to protect their sources and all that, but if you want me to scratch your back, you’ve got to scratch mine.”

  Melody sighed. “Fine. Yeah, the agents paid me a visit, along with that true-crime writer you wouldn’t talk to. The agents asked some questions about Clay Fuller’s death, and then they left. The writer did too, shortly after. I had a feeling the three knew each other, so I stuck my head out the door in time to see them go into The Whistle Stop.”

  She went on to tell him about sneaking into the bar to spy on them, how they’d left together in an Impala—“An old one, a real classic”—and that she was in her own vehicle right now, tailing them.

  “I think they’re heading over to Amos Boyd’s house to question him, and I want in. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know. And don’t bother telling me to keep my nose out of it. We both know that’s not going to happen.”

  She ended the call before Alan could say anything more.

  He let out a growl of frustration as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. The Crowder family had lived in Bridge Valley for generations, and in all that time, they’d managed to hide more or less in plain sight. At first, they’d lived peacefully, subsisting on animal hearts. But eventually they realized that it was a mistake to deny the more savage aspects of their werewolf heritage. And so the Hunt was instituted. Once a month, the Crowders would abduct someone who wouldn’t be missed, turn them loose in the woods, and then the fun would begin. At the end of the Hunt the human would be killed and their heart shared among the family members. No one got more than a taste, but it was enough to satisfy their needs. Barely.

  But as technology became an increasing part of people’s lives, tracking missing persons became easier. So Alan—a young man at the time—had decided to join the Sheriff’s Department where he could not only better conceal his family’s… recreational activities, but he had access to people who no one would ever miss. People like Clay Fuller. Alan quickly rose to the position of Sheriff—after all, he was his pack’s leader, and humans responded to his commanding nature just like werewolves did—and he’d held the job ever since. Things had worked out well enough, and while there’d been a few bumps here and there, the road had been smooth for the most part.

  Until the night when the Hunt had gone wrong. Alan had never expected Fuller to make it so far. They played with him too long. They could’ve brought him down much earlier, but prolonging the Hunt was part of the fun. Unfortunately, Fuller had reached the road, and then Amos had driven up while Sylvia and their twin sons were finishing off Fuller. It was something of a miracle that they’d been able to keep themselves from killing Amos as well. Fuller was a low-life drug dealer, but Amos was well known in town and would be missed if he were to disappear.

  Alan wasn�
��t sure what good talking to Amos would do the three men. Amos had already told his story to the media, and while urban-legend enthusiasts had been speculating wildly about his tale online, no serious media outlets believed him. Alan doubted Amos could tell them anything more, but there was a possibility they might be able to get Amos to remember some new details.

  And Melody was tailing the three men too. What if she learned something she shouldn’t?

  He was tempted to drive out to Amos’s place and confront the agents and the writer and, if necessary, take them out. Melody too, if it came to that. He didn’t like the odds, though. It would be three on one, and while he was still strong and in his prime, if the men were hunters—as he was beginning to suspect—there was a good chance they’d be armed with silver. The man in him knew it would be wiser to wait for a better opportunity to confront the hunters, but the wolf in him demanded he go to Amos’s now. His pack was threatened, and that threat had to be eliminated.

  But then, the hunters weren’t the only problem his pack had to deal with at the moment.

  When he was growing up, his pack had dealt with jakkals, and he hated the filth as much as his wife did. He would go to the grocery, catch the scent—although the thought of inhaling a jakkal’s stench sickened him—and track them from there. And if he lost the trail, he’d search abandoned places that were falling to ruin. Jakkals were creatures of death, and according to the stories, they chose to lair in desolate, lifeless places. A cemetery would have too many visitors, so it would likely be something else. One way or another, he’d find them soon enough.

  He didn’t want to face the jakkals alone. Not that he was afraid of them. They were smaller and weaker than werewolves—at least in terms of physical strength. But he had no idea how big their pack was, and if the legends were true, they did possess one formidable weapon. He needed backup, and he couldn’t ask his human deputies for help. That left him only one choice. Well, two, actually.

  He took out his phone once more and called Stuart. His son answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  Alan didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Is your brother with you?”

  “Yeah. We’re just hanging around the station. What’s up?”

  Stuart and Spencer Crowder were twins in their early twenties, working as firefighters for Bridge Valley Fire and Rescue. It was useful to have members of the pack working in another area of local government, but they knew the pack came first.

  “Tell the chief you and your brother have a family emergency and need to leave. Don’t worry: nothing’s wrong. But I need your help for a couple hours.”

  “No problem. Want us to meet you at the station?”

  “No,” Alan said. He bared teeth once again grown sharp. “At the grocery.”

  ELEVEN

  “You told us this town was clean!” Marta shouted.

  The entire jakkal family had gathered in the living room. Nathan and Muriel. Greg’s parents Marta and Efren. His older sisters Kayla and Erin, one seventeen, the other nineteen. His sisters looked like younger versions of their mother, although both were slightly taller than Marta. Marta sat between them, while Efren stood in the middle of the room, almost as if he were on trial. Greg sat cross-legged on the floor near Nathan’s chair. His wrist still hurt from where Anubis had grabbed it, but the skin was less aged and leathery now, which he took as a good sign.

  In some ways, Efren Monsour looked like he didn’t belong to the family. He was taller than the rest of them, although most people would consider him average height, and his skin was fairer. He wasn’t as thin either, although he was by no means heavy. He was, however, a nervous man, and he often fidgeted and paced when he talked. His voice had a strained, almost whiny quality, as if he were always apologizing for something that deep down he didn’t believe was his fault.

  “I thought it was clean!” Efren said. He held his arms rigid against his body, and his fingers tapped his outer thighs. He looked like he wanted to run and hide and from the way Marta, Nathan, and Muriel glared at him, Greg didn’t blame his father.

  “It was your responsibility to find us a new town to move to,” Nathan said. “A safe town. Instead you’ve brought us—and worse, your god—to the territory of a werewolf pack!”

  Nathan’s voice grew louder as he spoke, and his fangs and claws began to emerge. Muriel reached over to take one of his hands, and his teeth and claws subsided a little.

  “Daddy, how could you?” Kayla said.

  “You’re supposed to protect us!” Erin added.

  “You were gone almost two weeks on your last scouting trip,” Marta said. “That should’ve been more than enough time for you to thoroughly investigate a town this size.”

  “Two weeks?” Muriel snorted. “He should’ve picked up the stink of werewolf on his first day here.”

  Efren tuned to face her. “We’ve been here almost a month. Have any of you caught any trace of werewolf scent in that time?”

  No one answered.

  Efren relaxed a bit and gave a small, satisfied smile. “You know the longer we remain in human form, the less like jakkals we smell. The same applies for werewolves. If you’re right on top of them, you can smell them, but otherwise…” He shrugged as if to say, what can you do?

  “What you say is true,” Nathan admitted. “But two weeks? You should’ve found some sign of the wolves in that time, if only a small one.”

  Efren looked uncomfortable again, and he began tapping his fingers against his legs once more. “I was gone two weeks, yes. But I didn’t spend those two weeks here. Not all of them, anyway.”

  Marta jumped to her feet, her features instantly transforming into her jakkal self. She grabbed her husband’s throat with one clawed hand, and when she spoke, her voice was a low, rumbling growl.

  “If you weren’t here, where were you?” she demanded. “And don’t lie. This close, I’ll smell it on you.”

  Efren showed no sign of transforming. To do so would’ve meant he was accepting Marta’s challenge and intended to fight. He kept his gaze fixed on hers and did his best to speak calmly.

  “I scouted two other towns before I came to this one. Both were clean, but they were smaller than Bridge Valley. I believed we might have drawn too much attention if we settled in either place. But when I came to this town, not only did I find it big enough for our needs, the presence of death looms large here. So much so, that I found it… intoxicating.”

  For a moment, Greg wasn’t sure what his father meant, but then he understood. Bridge Valley had a significant problem with drug addiction and overdoses. Jakkals could smell the scent of death and decay the same way a shark could detect a single drop of blood in the water from miles away. So when the jakkals were in the midst of it—in other words, when they went into the town proper—their senses could be overwhelmed if they weren’t careful. And it wasn’t only the presence of physical death that they could sense. They could sense the dying of the town itself—buildings on the verge of collapse, streets badly in need of repair, a community of people lonely, depressed, and disconnected from one another. In a way, Bridge Valley was like a gigantic animal in the process of dying. A perfect place for scavengers like the Monsours—and for their god.

  Efren continued. “Once I was here, I forgot about scouting. All I wanted to do was wallow in the town’s darkness and despair. I wandered the streets by day and slept in the open by night. I didn’t eat, barely drank. I would’ve continued like that if I hadn’t felt the pull to return to you.” He lowered his gaze to the floor, clearly ashamed. “Even then, I almost didn’t leave.”

  As Efren had talked, Marta slowly returned to human form. She slid her hand away from Efren’s throat and onto his shoulder.

  “This is why you take so long when you’re out scavenging in town, isn’t it?” she said. “You want to obtain that feeling again.”

  Greg had the sense that his mother had almost said high instead of feeling. He supposed there were all kinds of drug
s in this world, many of them not obvious.

  “I make sure to take the girls along when I scavenge,” Efren said. He raised his head and gave his daughters an embarrassed smile. “They aren’t as affected by the town’s atmosphere as I am—none of you are, it seems—and when they’re with me, I know that I can’t stay out too long. I have to bring them home.”

  The family’s mood toward Efren had softened, and now Nathan stood and took hold of his shoulder in a gesture of support.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Nathan said. “But from now on, you should avoid going into town. The girls are old enough to go on scavenging runs on their own. And it’s about time Greg started going as well.”

  For an instant, Efren looked panicked at the thought of not going into town, but then he nodded.

  “Yes, I suppose that would be best.”

  Marta smiled, kissed her husband, and then embraced him. Nathan also hugged him, and Muriel rose from the couch and joined them. All, it seemed, was forgiven. Greg didn’t know if his father would experience withdrawal symptoms, but in any case, he would likely have some hard days ahead of him.

  Kayla and Erin exchanged looks, and since everyone else had forgiven Efren, they decided to as well. They rose and joined the other members of the family in what had become a group hug. Not wanting to feel left out and wishing to show support for his father, Greg rose and joined the others.

  He knew it was wrong of him, but he felt relieved that his father’s problem had drawn the family’s attention away from the fact that he’d spoken to Morgan in the grocery. On the drive home, Marta had raved about the werewolf bitch and her tramp of a daughter. Greg had wanted to tell his mother not to call Morgan names, that she didn’t deserve his mother’s automatic, unthinking hatred. But he wisely kept his mouth shut. As upset as Marta had been, Greg feared Muriel—and especially Nathan—would go ballistic when they found out. But they had been more concerned with the realization that their new town had a werewolf pack living in it than the fact that he’d spoken to one of them.