"They're dead. They all died out years ago." Broderick argued, though there was an undercurrent of fear in his outward denial.
"Yeah. They're just bogeymen our parents use to scare us into behaving." Maverick echoed his brother's sentiment and the uneasy tone.
"They're not." Jameson shook his head. "I know that is where she is." He did know it. He felt it as sure as he felt the moon had risen outside while they'd been arguing in the house.
"Jameson," Herb's voice was sympathetic. "We believe you. It's just that there's been no sighting of them for decades. If they're not dead, they've run away and ..." He sighed. "How do you know?"
Jameson had kept the vision to himself. Just told the others to meet him at the resort. In the newest cabin, large picture windows facing out over the lake and Mount Bailey beyond it, the clan had come at his call. Every member except one. Charles had left the day CJ had gone missing four days ago, and his phone went right to voicemail.
He had been so angry at Charles. Convinced that he'd told Contessa the truth so to ruin any hope that she'd come to accept Jameson for what he was. Whether it was spite or jealousy, Jameson had only known the feared result, not really the reason. Now he needed his friend, but he'd been banished.
Charles' parents had come when he called, but Jameson could tell they were pained. They were holding hands in public. That was testament enough of their mutual heartache, and Jameson felt like the cause.
"Tell us, Jameson," Isabella spoke from beside the fireplace, her hands occupied with a long twisted cord of knots that she turned in her fingers in a slow circle like a rosary. "You will, someday, lead this clan. If we cannot trust you to tell us the whole truth..."
He sank to the arm of the chair and put his face into his hands. Was he crazy? Did he really just make it up because he needed to have something to cling to? He'd heard of men going crazy when their mate died. Was that what it had been? "I saw the girl." He looked to Herb. "The one you described in your father's picture. She was in the road and I swerved. I got out of the car and then ..."
He rubbed his forehead. "I just felt a wave of horror. Fear and disgust and anger and I saw... saw clear as I'm seeing you now, a woman tied to this wooden torture rack, screaming. There were men there all around her and there was a tree. A huge dead trunk, blackened and broken but still standing. Somehow, I knew how it got that way. This was the Nesri camp. The one you told me about. The one that burned."
"You must go." Isabella spoke firmly. "I have seen this tree as well. It is just as he says." She slid the rope into her pocket and fixed each of them under her sharp gaze. "They will expect you at night. You do not know their number. You must wait until morning comes. They will be weak because they are Nesri." She curled her lip at the name. "They will have run wild all night long. You must leave your skins behind tonight and make your way to their camp as men. When the sun rises fully, then, and only then, will your efforts succeed."
"We're with you, Jay." The twins spoke as they stood up as one.
"As am I." Andrew Aldwin stood, still keeping his wife's hand in his. Though older, he had lost none of his strength. Beside him, Jacqueline stood as well, Her mouth a tight line of resolution.
"Go." Jaris' voice quietly encouraged her husband. "I'll be fine." Her eyes were glossy with tears. "She's maybe hurt, Blaine. I have to stay behind. You don't. Go. Be my strength. Save her."
Blaine leaned over and took her face between his palms and kissed her softly, lingeringly, then stood, his arms crossing over his chest, his bearded jaw clenched.
"I'll keep an eye on everyone here," Herb spoke up, glancing to Jameson. His eyes revealed that he was not doing so out of an unwillingness to follow Jameson but to act as reassurance so that Blaine could act without being distracted by fear for his mate and children.
Jameson felt honored. He felt fear. He felt the pride of his clan. Pride in his clan, and for the first time since his father's passing he began to imagine himself taking up the mantle of their leader. "Alright. Go prepare. Dress for it. Bring your skins. Keep them close but they're not to be used unless there is no other choice. Otherwise, come dawn, we'll be weak as they are."
The group nodded and broke up. It wasn't as if they'd packed for a nighttime venture into enemy territory. The cars pulled away, Jaris and Blaine moving away to a bedroom where their kids were sleeping. Jameson was left alone with Herb and Isabella, his most trusted advisers.
"What if it's too late? I've heard about what happens when your mate dies. How you can lose yourself."
"My father never really knew his mate. When she was gone, they'd never bonded other than to know they were the other's match. Maybe that's why he was able to move on as he did." Herb said. "I don't think she's dead, Jay, and I don't think you're crazy."
"She lives," Isabella said. There was no emotion behind it, no tone of reassurance, no hint that this was just her being hopeful. It was as much a fact as if she'd said 'water is wet'.
Jameson nodded. "I suppose I should get ready too." He set his hand on Herb's shoulder and gave it a squeeze, then stalked off toward the door and his car. The drive would be short, and he'd be back quickly.
It was just a fact that when you had money, you could get things you wanted. It was, he supposed, the definition of being spoiled, but he was always grateful for everything he had, or at least he tried to be. Right now he was grateful for the fact he had more than one house. The cabin was not well-stocked, but the ranch was. It was empty when he arrived, as he expected.
He made his way up to his room, pulling off his shirt the instant he entered. He opened the closet, choosing gear he thought appropriate. Heavy socks into which he tucked his heavy black cargo pants. An UnderArmor shirt pulled across his wide chest and tucked in, a black tee pulled over that. He reached up into his closet and drew down the carved chest.
With reverent hands he lifted the fur out, the softness of it always amazing him. He craved the feel of it, the shifting, the strength that would bring him. At dawn, it would come off and he'd be naked and weak. That was not going to help him, and even though he expected the bestial side of him to roar out for it, to demand and claw, it was quiet. It lay, growling menacingly at the back of his mind. He folded the luxurious black fur in half and then again, slipping it into a backpack.
He removed another box, this one heavy steel and locked by a combination. When opened, it revealed a single Thompson Center Contender G2 pistol. The G2 was unique in that it could be altered to fire a wide variety of ammunition depending on which barrel you chose. This one was made to fire .410 shotgun cartridges. They were unique as well. Each of the seemingly ordinary shells was filled with steel buckshot coated in silver.
He thought back to the night he'd found it among his father's things, a box marked only 'For Jameson - just in case'. With the steel gun case and the box of ammo was a memory stick. What was on it he would never forget.
The only thing on it was a video file. Opened, it revealed a split-screen. One half was dark, only the very barest hints of movement visible. The other was night-vision. In that world of hazy green and glowing white eyes, the bestial manifestation of James Holt was chained to the wall of some dark basement room, his arms outward in a crucifixion position, unable to move.
At the bottom of each screen was a countdown timer, though the one on the black side was ten seconds behind the other. It reached 00:00::01 on the green screen side and Jameson tensed up as the sound of the shot was heard.
The terrible silver allergy was like the fur. It was part of being a skinwalker. He'd watched in horror as his father writhed in pain. Each wound swelling shut, sealing the silver inside to burn through the blood. The timer on the black screen side reached its end and a panel to the side of the room dropped with a heavy thud, letting the sun in.
Screaming in agony, James shed his skin, the pellets ticking softly as they hit the ground and rolled away, his father's naked body covered in vicious red hives. The smaller size of his body allowed the human man to slip free of the bonds, falling to the ground where he wheezed and coughed for what seemed forever before he could draw a proper breath and drag himself to stand, limping over to turn the cameras off.
Just in case? Had his father known about the Nesri? That they were not extinct as everyone was told? Jameson didn't doubt it for a minute. After all, who'd told them the threat was ended? The man who made lying to the people he was supposed to protect his life goal.
Jameson poured out the box of shells onto the bed, putting a few into each of his pockets. He slipped the holster on over his chest, the gun settling heavily against his ribs as he pulled on his coat over it, zipping it up. He pulled on his shoes, heavy-soled black hiking boots, and laced them up.
Resolute, he stalked back through the house and out to the car. He was aware the whole of the long ride back of that deadly weapon digging into his ribs. It served as an unnecessary reminder of the gravity of the situation they were walking into. He was leading his people into what might very well be a trap.
He wrestled with the thorny issues of the sacrifice of the one to save the many, the duty of a man to his mate, the potential repercussions of what they would do. In the end, the plan did not change. They would capture if they could, eradicate if needed, but the Nesri threat would end tomorrow.
At the cabin by the lake, the others had returned by two in the morning. Each was dressed for stealthy moving in the dark, each had a manner of carrying their other skins, and each was armed with traditional ammunition meant to protect against bears when hiking and silvered blades to protect them if the threat were Nesri. Wordlessly they filtered out into the darkest hour of the night.
Through the night, they moved silently along the trails that snaked up the mountainside. Aided by their inhuman natures to tread lighter, to see better in the darkness, to hear more, the group moved spread out, but a single entity.
The smells of the forest overtook the wet, slightly fishy scent of the lake, then, as the second hour of quiet creeping had passed by, another scent touched their noses. An unnatural smell that drew them toward it. It was the smell of internal combustion and smoke.
They moved slower, more time spent listening, smelling, waiting than they spent moving forward. They could hear raucous music blaring and the sound of ATVs running. There were screams and laughter and the crackle of flames.
Jacqueline Atwood held up a hand. Her slender frame embraced in black, even her pale hair had been slicked back and a knit cap was pulled low across her forehead. She touched the corner of her eye, then pointed toward the distant section of the woods from which the noise was coming, indicating she would go get a better look.
Andrew shook his head, but she smirked and patted his cheek. It was years of being mates that allowed their almost telepathic communication. He knew her mind. That she was the smallest. She was the best suited to spy rather than fight.
He gave her a stern look and she reached down, patting the fanny pack in which her skin was secreted. She wasn't completely defenseless. He took her face between his hands and set his forehead to hers, inhaling deeply. She did the same and then scampered off into the dark.
The remainder of the group moved, almost unconsciously, into a circle, their backs to one another, watching and listening. Every sound seemed to be drowned by the bass thudding from the music blaring. The loud music and the rumble of motor vehicles made it nearly impossible to feel the subtle tremors of anything approaching. When the faint rustle of her return was heard, they opened the circle and Jacqueline slipped into a kneel between Jameson and her husband.
She put her hands on her thighs, still and flat. Then lifted them. One hand moved outward in a circle, index pointing to each in turn, coming to herself. She shook her head in the negative, then bent her wrist, index now joined by her second finger like an inverted V set into her other hand's palm.
Jameson read the signs as he assumed everyone did. Not us. Men. The people she'd seen were not the Nesri. They were humans.
She then lifted both hands in downward facing fists, flicking them up and down by pivoting her wrists twice, then, palms flashed out and fingers splayed, she closed them, opened them again, and then set her palms back onto her leg.
The throttle of a motorcycle being revved. Hands flashed fully twice. They were bikers. Twenty of them.
The twins motioned to the bag on Maverick's hip, where no doubt their skins were both hidden. They obviously wanted to rush in, a shock-and-awe attack. Jameson shook his head. Something about this felt off. Why would humans be up this far into the mountain? Perhaps they could gain more information by simply asking rather than running in all fang and claw.
Blaine looked toward Jameson, his thoughts obviously running along the same path. He pointed to himself, then away in the direction, the humans lay. He set out one hand, palm down, the other slipping beneath it, indicating he would go undercover. Jameson considered it but then nodded. It was a risk but it was worth taking.
Blaine pulled his hair free of the ponytail holder. With his long hair and beard, he stood the best chance of blending in with the crowd. A last look around the group, he set his hand on Jameson's shoulder, saying much with a single look, then he slipped away.
He took a circuitous route, down the mountain to get onto the trail they'd avoided, walking up the last few hundred yards to the open clearing. The trees had made a good effort of taking back the mountain. The few trailers that rimmed the edge were already overgrown and twisted by the trees pushing at them.
A newer trailer was erected across the open space, lights in every window shining. There were a few more trailers, not exactly liveable, but at least whole. The windows in these were dark. That made the only one lit up the place Blaine needed to get to. At the center was a huge burned-out pine. Before it was the wooden structure that Jameson had mentioned. This was the place.
"Hey." A voice called toward Blaine and slowed him to stop. "What do you think you're doing here?"
"Oh, I saw the smoke. I thought hell if there's a chance of a party, I'm there!" Blaine grinned, though he remained coiled and ready to move.
"Oh... sure!" The other man laughed, his leather-clad arm thrown over Blaine's shoulder, his grin wide in the framing of his black beard. He lead Blaine toward the bonfire, pausing to pluck a beer from the cooler and offer it out. "You must be Rusty."
Blaine decided to play along as he took the beer. "Yeah. That's me. Rusty."
The man wrinkled his nose and bobbed his head for a moment, then took hold of Blaine's hair with his right hand, driving his face toward the oncoming fist of his left, cracking into Blaine's nose and sending blood to pour as he let him go, stepping away with his arms out. "Naw, wait a minute dude. I'm Rusty."
He leaned back and let out a wild whooping and every human head turned, looking toward them. "They're here, boys! Get 'em!"
A shot rang out.