Hunter's Trail

“So,” I said to Jesse, “You speak French.”

“A little,” he admitted. “I already spoke Spanish, so in high school my mom made me take French. Haven’t used it in years, though.” Jesse wrinkled his nose. “Smell that?”

I glanced around the condo. It wasn’t even furnished, not really, but what little furniture was there probably cost more than my van. “Money?”

“Piss,” Jesse corrected. “I think she pissed herself.”

“Oh. Yeah, that happens.”

He nudged the Luparii scout’s body with a toe. She glared up at us, conscious but unable to access the ability for speech. Jesse glanced down at my Taser. “Is that thing street legal?” he asked doubtfully.

“Let’s call it legal-adjacent,” I suggested.

“Will she be okay?”

The barking from the back room had gotten so loud that he had to repeat himself twice before I understood. “She’ll be fine,” I yelled back. “We should get her tied up before she recovers though.”

Jesse produced the roll of duct tape from behind his back, where he must have tucked it into his belt, and we got to work taping the woman’s ankles, wrists, and mouth. We used more than half the roll before Jesse declared her officially subdued. As he tore off the tape, I spotted a very expensive handbag sitting on the countertop. “Hey,” I called, crossing the empty kitchen to the bag. I almost didn’t want to put my grubby hands inside it, it looked so expensive. I solved the problem by flipping the damn thing over. A small mound of purse paraphernalia scattered across the counter.

Jesse picked up a French passport. “Her name is Petra Corbett,” he called over the sound of barking.

“Doesn’t sound very French,” I yelled back. He just shrugged.

“We gotta get it to be quiet, or someone’s gonna call the LAPD for real,” Jesse pointed out. I nodded, and he started for the back bedroom. I hobbled after him.

Jesse opened the bedroom door very slowly, but the bargest didn’t dart out and trample him. It must have been in a crate or something. But when the door began to move, the thing went suddenly quiet, and Jesse and I exchanged a nervous glance. He pushed the door the rest of the way open.

I swung the backpack around so I could dig the dog stuff out of it, but I looked up when I heard Jesse’s gasp. He was planted in the doorway, frozen, mouth wide open. “Holy shit,” he breathed.

“What?” I said, making my way toward the doorway.

“That,” Jesse said, eyes huge and round, “is the ugliest fucking dog I have ever seen.”

I came up behind Jesse’s shoulder and got my first look at the bargest.

The back bedroom was fairly large and had no furniture, but a lot of space was taken up by an enormous wire crate that didn’t look sturdy enough for what was inside. The bargest stood tense and growling within it, paws planted in all four corners of the crate. I had been expecting big, and it was very big. Almost three feet at the shoulder, and I was guessing about a hundred and eighty pounds. Big, yes, but not the biggest dog I’d ever seen.

But Jesse was right; it was hideous. Except for the ears, the bargest looked like someone had taken a Scottish deerhound, shaved off huge swathes of its fur, and dipped it in the blackest of black ink—except that its face was lumpy and not quite symmetrical, giving the overall impression that it had recently lost a prizefight. Tufts of short, coarse fur covered part of the back and one ear, while the rest of its skin was hairless, with a pebbly reptile-like texture that looked a little like . . . armor. The hairless ear had been torn at some point and had healed not quite right. The good ear flicked forward, and I realized that it was a perfect wolf’s ear.

If Frankenstein made a dog . . .

It snarled, drawing black lips up over terrible white teeth. Jesse took an involuntary step back, stretching out his arm protectively. “This isn’t gonna work, Scar,” he warned. “That thing is dangerous.” Jesse held out his hand. “Give me the Taser. We’ll tape it up and take it to Dashiell or Kirsten. They’ll find a humane way to put it down.”

I stared at the bargest. Once you got past the ugliness and the size, it looked . . . like a dog. A terrified, confused dog. “Let me talk to it,” I suggested.

“And say what?” Jesse said disbelievingly. “That thing only knows French commands.”

“Well, try one. Tell it to sit.”

Jesse shook his head at me, but said, “Uh—asseyez-vous.” He looked at me. “I don’t know the command tense.”

I pushed gently past his arm and approached the kennel. When I took a few steps into the room, though, the bargest hit my radius, and suddenly it’s growling stopped and it whined uncertainly. It shook itself. Jesse began to say something, and the bargest snarled again, the tufts of fur on its back rising with tension.

With some effort, I lowered myself to the floor a few feet in front of the kennel, stretching out my bad knee and pulling my opposite foot in to touch my thigh. “Jesse,” I said softly, not meeting the bargest’s eyes, “I saw a wad of paper in the purse. Would you see if any of it is for the dog? Vet papers or whatever?”

I wasn’t looking at him, but I could practically feel a suspicious look coming from Jesse. “First promise me you won’t go any closer,” he commanded.

“I won’t go any closer.”

I heard soft footfalls on the carpet, and the bargest looked at me, slightly calmer. It tilted its head, puzzled. Maybe having multiple people in one room had been a little overwhelming