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“We lost them in the foothills north of Colorado Springs.”
“They’re fast,” Shumacher said. “They might even be moving as wolves in wilderness.”
Stafford said, “We tried microchipping them, but their bodies . . . rejected the microchips.”
“It’s the superimmunity,” Shumacher explained. “Werewolf physiology rejects invasive technologies.”
“Really?” I said. “So if I ever wanted to do something like, oh, breast implants?”
Shumacher gazed at me warningly and shook her head. Oh, wow, that was kind of sick. She may not have been up on the psychology, but I was always learning new medical tidbits from the doctor.
“The way Dr. Shumacher is talking,” Stafford continued, “this isn’t just a matter of getting my people back under control. She says they could pose a threat to the civilian population.”
“Yeah, they could, if they’re out of control enough to attack people,” I said. “Not to mention my people. Werewolves are territorial, just like the wild version. They might go looking for my pack to take them out.” This was sounding worse all the time.
“That’s part of why I called,” Shumacher said. “I thought you should be warned.”
“For what purpose? So I can worry about it?”
“That wasn’t the only reason,” Stafford said. “Doctor Shumacher says you have a lot of experience, that you’ve encountered some similar problems with violent werewolves, and that you might know how to handle this. We wanted to ask for your advice.” Stafford tightened his jaw; he probably didn’t ask people for advice very often.
Resisting an urge to rant, I leaned my head on my hand and considered. If these guys couldn’t fi
gure out how to stop the rogues, I had to do it. Or face an even bigger problem in, oh, a day or so. I had to call Ben and the rest of the pack, to warn them. I could even call Cormac—he knew more about hunting werewolves than anyone I knew. Stafford and Shumacher ought to be talking to him.
I tried to get at the problem step by step. We had a group of out-of-control werewolves. What did they want? What were they after? If they were operating mainly on instinct, which they seemed to be, they’d be looking to set up a territory. Maybe even looking to join an existing pack—if they were between Colorado Springs and Denver they’d probably get a whiff of mine. The thing was, they were big, aggressive, dominant werewolves—they wouldn’t just want to join—they’d want to take it over. That was what we were trying to prevent. I had to work with Stafford to head these guys off, to protect my pack. And then what? What did wild wolves want after they set up a territory?
Oh. I had an idea. A crazy idea. But not any crazier than the rest of this situation.
“Let me make a couple of phone calls,” I said to them.
WHILE I was making my calls, Stafford heard from his guys in the field. They’d tracked the rogue pack into the mountains of the Front Range, then north. And how had they tracked them? They’d found a body: one of the remaining pack members, Sergeant Estevan, mauled to death, head torn from shoulders. More squabbling within the pack. They were arguing, and Vanderman dealt ruthlessly with dissenters. We only had three werewolves to capture now, but they were tough, angry, and homicidal. My plan seemed even flimsier, but the news made trying to stop them even more important.
Three hours later, a group of us stood in the forest off Highway 285, south of Mount Evans, west of Denver. We were going to try to intercept them. The group included me, Shumacher, and Stafford. I’d brought Ben along because I always brought him when I could. It didn’t hurt that he was a lawyer. I also had my secret weapons.
Becky, dressed in a tank top and yoga pants despite the cold, paced nearby, her arms crossed, looking out into the woods as if searching. A few years older than me, she was willowy, with auburn hair. I’d known her for years, for as long as I’d been a werewolf. She’d been one for even longer, part of the pack that took me in at the start, and now she paced, an unhappy predator. Stafford watched Becky warily. Shumacher looked like she wanted to take notes.
Then there was Cormac in his tough-guy gear: jeans, T-shirt, biker boots, leather jacket, and opaque shades. He stood apart, in the other direction. He didn’t pace; he just watched. I kept glancing over, expecting a shotgun loaded with silver filings to magically appear in his hands, because the guns were part of the tough-guy gear. But he wasn’t carrying any weapons. Ben and I both checked.
Now that I’d brought this plan together, I supposed I had to go through with it.
“Explain this to me again,” Ben said.
I shrugged. “I’m guessing these guys have never met a female werewolf. Maybe meeting one will stop them in their tracks.” I was doing a lot of guessing here.
Ben looked at me sideways. “Isn’t that kind of sexist?”
“Yeah, it is,” I said, answering his smile. “And werewolves running on instinct are some of the most sexist bastards I know.”
“What makes you think they won’t rip our throats out?” Becky said, still pacing.
“That’s what the backup is for.”
We were going to set a trap. Stafford’s guys were supposed to have some heavy-duty gear to capture the rogue wolves. Shumacher had a pair of tranquilizer guns, those big rifles like you see in the National Geographic specials.
“I wasn’t sure tranquilizers would work on werewolves,” I said to her.
“You have to use enough tranquilizer to take down an elephant, but it works,” Shumacher said.
