Secrets in the Moon (Crescent City Werewolves #1)

Chapter Ten

Ragbag Way was no place to be at night, but Sam wasn't concerned. The shadowy alleys and shops that thrived where city limits met no man's land expected desperate wolves struggling to live without a pack, and it had been years since he had been that.

He smelled addicts hiding rusted knives, prostitutes with their cheap perfume and bone-deep weariness, and a fresh body outside a nearby bar. There was also the familiar cocktail of human sweat, fear, and calculation from those who thought they were safely hidden in the shadows while he walked beneath the glow of streetlights. Those who couldn't see his eyes thought he was a cop; those who could shrank further back in caution, sensing his confidence.

It wasn't bluster. He still knew Ragbag well, and didn't even need his nose to find the tattoo parlor that Dominic Tierney had used for his final, unfinished piece. The dead man's bank account could only reveal the cost, not the place, but Sam had found other tattoo artists who'd recognized the work and told him where to go.

Now he was here, too familiar to feel afraid and too aware to feel comfortable. Unbidden, the thought of Cora Marshall in a place like this crossed his mind. She'd surely face the grimy streets and their uncertain threats with only a complaint about the state of her shoes. He'd never met anyone so undaunted while being out of their element. Hell, he'd never met anyone like her at all.

Just as he realized he was half-smiling, the air sharpened, burned wood and cold ash mingling with the faintest traces of ink, blood... and death. He swore beneath his breath even before rounding a corner and catching sight of a burned-out hole between a peep show place and a pawn shop.

Nobody stopped him from stepping into the remains of the tattoo parlor, but he doubted he'd find much anyway. The lingering cinders smelled and felt old, which meant anything left unburned would have been long scavenged. He circled around the scorched foundation, thinking. The poor bastard who had burned with his parlor wouldn't have agreed, but this was a better lead than anything gleaned from an interview.

Ragbag Way witnessed murders every day, but not with fire. The buildings all leaned together like drunks, and there were too many people crammed inside them with no way out. To burn something, anything, was as good as setting yourself alight. A knife in the back or hands on the throat left a body, but what did that matter? No one who lived in Ragbag had to hide their deeds. Only an outsider would burn an entire shop to make sure nothing remained.

Sam glanced around, feeling eyes on him even as nearby windows remained dark or covered over with signs. He could try combing through the street to see if anyone would talk, but there was a better source of information waiting just two blocks away.

The moon glowed brightly in the sky when he reached the house, an old brick structure as worn and stately as an unearthed statue. It looked the same as ever, standing three stories high yet surprisingly narrow compared to the surrounding apartment complexes. When he saw light winking out from the pulled curtains of the ground floor windows, he continued to the front door and knocked quietly.

Within moments, it opened, revealing one of the few figures in Ragbag feared by all: Minnie Wilkes. She was an old woman now, white-haired, frail, and limping from arthritis, but that didn't quell rumors about her being a strong enough mind reader to boil the brains of anyone she disliked. Whether it was true or not, her house was left alone, and so were any lodgers who were given the upper floors.

Sam gave her a smile—a real one. "Hello, Minnie. Did I wake anyone?"

"No, but we didn't expect you until next week." She pulled him in to kiss him on the cheek and then added, "Come in, you devil. I'll make some coffee."

As he followed her toward the kitchen, taking care not to set off the squeaky floorboards, the grief hit his nose hard enough to make each breath sting. He jerked toward the source out of instinct and realized it was coming from the second bedroom. A she-wolf, her scent still shocked and raw. Then he caught hints of the pup with her, its scent barely formed from being so young. A newborn still in its swaddling.