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There were truths in this, as in all mythology. The child werewolf. The axe-job and photos. The bite. But it was all vastly more complicated than any mutt's urban-legend version allowed. Now, seeing us together, hearing us talking, we seemed like a normal couple... or as normal as any couple who knew how to field-dress severed fingers.
"So," Clay said as he repacked my medical bag. "Your hand. Mutt do that?"
Reese flinched at the word. Some do, taking it as derogatory. Others wear it as a badge of honor. Most don't care, the word having long since lost its bite, a label no different from "Pack wolf." But seeing Reese's reaction, I quickly said, "Another werewolf, I take it?"
He nodded. "I was in the museum this morning. The art and history one on Seventh Street."
He explained that he'd gone, pulled by a mild interest in history coupled with the conviction that if any werewolf had followed him to Alaska, a museum would be the last place we'd look.
For Liam and Ramon, I was sure that was true. These were two guys who'd have trouble spelling museum. For Clay, though, there was no city attraction he was more likely to be found at. But I didn't mention that.
Reese's logic, while sound, didn't help him. He was found there, by two mutts who'd introduced themselves as Travis and Dan. They'd crossed his trail a couple of blocks away and followed it to check him out, as any werewolf would upon scenting another in the same city.
They seemed relieved to find he was just a kid--in our world twenty years old is still "just a kid"--meaning he'd have little fighting experience and no reputation. They were fine with Reese being in Alaska--temporarily, they hoped. He was no threat to them and as long as he stayed out of trouble, he was welcome to visit. They even gave him some advice on cheap motels, good buffets, safe places to run...
Friendly enough without being overly hospitable, which struck the right balance for a kid who'd already been burned. In the course of the conversation, Travis noticed Reese's class ring. He asked about the insignia. Reese let him take a closer look.
"Travis was checking it out, holding the end of my fingers. That's when it happened, so fast I didn't see the knife until..." He paled at the memory. "If I hadn't yanked back right then, he would have taken both fingers right off. I ran. I shoved my hand in my pocket and I ran as fast as I could. I could hear them coming after me. So I raced past this guard--an old guy. By the time he got up and yelled at me, I was out the door, but it made Travis and Dan pull back. There was a cab right out front. I got in and came here. I--I guess they wanted the ring, but it wasn't anything special. Just a high school ring."
"It wasn't about the ring," Clay said. "It was a warning. Get off our territory."
"Then why not just tell me to? Why act all nice, then--" He lifted his hand. "Do this?"
"How do you feel?" Clay asked.
Reese's face darkened. "How the hell do you think I feel? I lost my fucking fingers."
"Scared? Confused?"
"Hell, yes."
"And what were you going to do after you got it cleaned up? Tell the desk clerk you'll be staying a few more days, extending your Alaskan vacation?"
"Fuck no. I would have been on the first plane--" He stopped and nodded. "That's the point, isn't it?"
"Strike hard and fast, catch you off guard and scare the crap out of you. Lot more effective than giving a friendly warning and hoping you don't stab them in the back."
I asked about the mutts. He gave me a description. Travis was "huge." At least six foot four and buff. The rest of him hadn't left much of an impression--brown hair, he thought, neither long nor short. No idea what color his eyes were. No distinguishing marks.
Travis's size had blinded Reese not only to what he looked like, but to his companion. All he could say about Dan was two things. First, he was smaller. Second, he was Russian--he'd spoken little, but when he did, it was with a heavy accent. Oh, and while Travis's English was perfect and had an American accent, he'd had a few exchanges with Dan in Russian.
They didn't match anyone from my dossiers. Between Dan's accent and Travis's Russian, I guessed they'd been living abroad.
"We'll go back to the museum," I said to Clay. "I doubt they're hanging around, but I want to check the scents.
Chances are these are the same guys we smelled in the woods."
"Hope so," Clay said.
I agreed. Multiple groups of werewolves in the Anchorage area was more than I cared to contemplate. Our simple trip had already become far too complicated.
"I'll take you there," Reese said. "I can show you where I was attacked."
"Just tell us where to look, and we'll pick up the scents. They're probably gone, but they could be staking it out, and you've already gotten hurt."
"And that's why I want to go back." He flushed. "I ran away."
"You'd just lost two fingers. Running away was the right thing to do."
