“Well, we could go in slow and easy and hunt him down, step by step. Or I could get a good vantage, and you could race naked through the backyard and draw him out. And then I could shoot him.”
“Naked.”
Eli’s grin widened. “Works for me.”
I almost said something snarky and then I realized he was pulling my leg. “How ’bout I keep my clothes on.”
“That’ll work too, but the video won’t be nearly so much fun to watch later.”
I shook my head in resignation, then rolled my head and neck on my shoulders, working out tension. “Okay. Gate.” I checked the wind, pointing to the downwind side of the yard, to a gate that was padlocked. “That entrance.”
Using a huge pair of metal cutters he removed from the oversized gobag, Eli had me in the fenced yard in minutes, backing away and closing the gate silently behind him. Then he did a little more covert B and E, traipsed through the house, and took a position on the second-floor balcony, looking out over the pool; I knew he was in place by his scent, flowing down with the humid breeze. The backyard was decorated like a courtyard, with palms, and heavy landscaping along the three fenced walls, with the wall at the house covered with blooming jasmine, the scent so strong it nearly made Beast sick. She sent me a mental image of her claws raking the wall of jasmine down and tossing it into the pool.
Eli said, softly, “Go.”
CHAPTER 20
His Most High Toothy-ness
I readied my M4, but even with the shotgun and its silver-fléchette rounds, it would take a lot of ammo to kill a were. A lot of ammo. The M4 was nearly idiotproof, requiring little or no maintenance, and operated in all weather conditions, even New Orleans’ storms. The smoothbore, semiauto shotgun could fire 2.75- and 3-inch shells of differing power levels, in any combination, with no operator adjustments. It could also use standard ammunition or well-made, hand-packed rounds without replacing any major parts. It utilized the autoregulating gas-operated—ARGO—firing system, with dual gas cylinders, gas pistons, and action rods for increased reliability. It could fire, be adjusted, or be field-stripped, totally without tools. It was perfect for close-in fighting in low-light operations like the night might turn into if we were partially but not totally successful in our aims.
I racked the slides on two nine mils, which took some good ambidextrous moves, rounds in both chambers, both loaded with silver. I called out, “Hey, Brute. Where are you?” Nothing happened, so I called him again, adding, “We’re here to help you.” Which was sorta true, but the call was to no avail. The wind shifted, swirling slowly as the dawn air currents followed the Mississippi River, bringing the scent of dead bodies and water, and the smell of werewolf blood, old and sour, fresh and weak. But there was no sound or movement. No visible sign of the wolf, not even when I drew on Beast’s night vision, which turned the garden area into silvers and grays and greens.
I spotted the bodies. These didn’t look or smell like homeless people. These smelled like shampoo and perfume and fear. Lots of fear. He had taken his time, a leisurely blood-meal with the terrified human females. It was hard to tell much else from the blood-scent and the feces. He had torn them apart and left them piled near the diving board, like so much human leftovers.
But I didn’t smell the sickly sweet scent of were-death, just blood—werewolf and vamp. I gathered that the werewolf had gotten there after Santana finished dinner. Maybe both had been injured in the fight that took place there. That was a cheerful thought. I wondered what effect were-taint might have on the old vamp. If we were lucky, that was the second time the wolf had bitten him.
The wolf still hadn’t appeared, and I so did not want to go looking under the banana leaves and the elephant-ear plants and the other big leafy plants that could hide a three-hundred-plus-pound werewolf. It was the perfect way to get ambushed. I’d rather bring him to me, which would give me at least a little warning. So I whistled, softly. And said, “Here, Brute! Heeeere, boy! I got a treat for you.” Doggy talk. Werewolf trash talk. Talk sure to anger the were enough to bring him to me, even if he was gravely injured. “Here, doggy-doggy-doggy.”
Deep inside me, Beast snorted with laughter and I had a mental image of her slashing the wolf’s nose with her front claws. “Here, doggy-doggy-doggy,” I called.
Eli didn’t react, but I smelled his amusement, a happy scent, like bacon-flavored ice cream. Leaves rustled at the back of the garden. At my side, I saw Eli in my night vision, two fingers pointing. He had the were in his night-vision headgear.
“Here, doggy-doggy.” I heard a low growl and called again, “Heeeeeere, doggy! Come on, boy!”
The growling stopped but Brute didn’t come charging. The harsh scent of fresh blood swirled by on the wind. I walked along the side of the pool. “Brute. We’re here to help.” Yeah. With the sound of two guns readying to fire. I was stupid sometimes. “Seriously. I don’t plan to shoot you. Unless you try to bite me. Then I’ll fill your sorry butt with silver. Come on out. Please.” The leaves—banana leaves—rustled again, and I blew out a frustrated breath. I was gonna hafta go looking. And maybe get bit. Again. I hated this.
Placing my feet with careful precision, I approached the banana plant, the stink of blood and injured dog wrinkling my nose. “Brute?”
With the business end of the gun in my left hand, I pushed back the leaves. And found Brute.
The white werewolf was lying in a pool of his own blood and looked wrong. Just wrong. His back legs bent the wrong way, his throat had been ripped open and still leaked fresh blood. He had been beaten, mauled by vamp fangs, and maybe whirled by a vamp, twisting his back legs until they broke and splintered. He was barely breathing.
Dying, Beast thought at me. Will go to angel Hayyel.
“No. Not in my plans,” I said to her, setting the safeties and holstering all the weapons. I had rounds in each nine-mil chamber, which was a stupid way to holster them, but I might need the weapons. Fast. So I left them there, stupid or not. Louder, I called, “Eli! Injured werewolf. Near death. Rick said we should get a vamp to feed him if he was injured. Suggestions?”
I heard him land in the garden after leaping off the second-story gallery, a deliberate choice on his part, as I knew he could have landed in total silence. Thoughtfully, he said, “Not really. Leo and his people hate werewolves.”