Dark Prelude, Moonsongs Episode 3

Note from the author:

This is the final episode of the first season of Moonsongs. Episodes 1 (Blood Fugue) & 2 (Witch's Nocturne) are also available here on Wattpad. I recommend you read those first. Season 2, episodes 4 & 5, are available on Amazon for .99 each: http://www.amazon.com/E.J.-Wesley/e/B009GI10B0/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Wattpad is the ONLY place you can find Dark Prelude for free. Just because y'all rock. :)

This is one of my favorite stories in the series so far! Jenny is tested both physically and emotionally in ways I didn't even see coming. (And I write the darn things!) She faces the most fearcome monster yet, and worse, a decision that could forever alter her relationship with her bff, Marshal.

This one gets tense in a hurry, so maybe read with the lights on. Happy reading!

~EJW~

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Dark Prelude

The past never seemed to stay where I left it. Like an old, haggard stray cat, memories had a way of sticking around. And the less desirable they were, the more they stuck.

Take my dead grandfather for example. The first time he disappeared from my life I was learning my numbers and barely tying my own shoes. That version of the man had been a little girl’s best friend and a living family heirloom. When he was gone, I’d been left with a broken heart and a handful of fond memories. The second time he exited—a few months ago—I’d been old enough to buy my own beer and stay up all night playing video games without fear of an ass chewing. That man had been a scary and mysterious stranger. He’d brought me tidings of my hidden family legacy of hunting monsters, and a newfound connection with my Apache ancestors via an ancient tribal journal. He departed yet again, but this time my heart remained mostly intact, and the memories were more of the terrifying sort.

Both versions of my grandfather fought in my mind as I drove my oversized, black pickup truck through our dusty Texas town, Center Pointe. I was heading to visit my best friend, Marshal, who would hopefully distract me from my thoughts.

Maybe he’d also help me figure out why my paranormal investigation business had been so slow lately. Nothing weird had happened in weeks, making me think the freaks of the world were on holiday. I supposed a single werewolf and a few witches were the extent of the supernatural goings on in the world, but the increasingly large pit of worry in my gut said otherwise.

In less than a minute, I’d driven through the small, mismatched collection of steel and brick buildings we called a downtown. A few more blocks, and I’d reached the far end of town. I spotted Bill Swartz, our local constable, sitting in his squad car. My jaw clinched tight enough to make my teeth hurt.

Bill graduated a few years ahead of me. He’d joined the Army Reserve right out of high school. Shortly thereafter, he’d been injured fighting in Afghanistan, and subsequently discharged from service. He returned home a hero, and did what any former Center Pointe football star would do. He became a cop, so he could harass the same folks he’d spent his entire youth bullying.

The blue lights on the squad car flashed to life the instant I drove past.

Shit.

Normally, when police lights came on, I’d take a quick look around to see who they were after. This time, there was no need. I was the only vehicle on the road within a four-block radius, and this was Bill. I slowed and pulled off to the side of the street, making sure to drive up on the curb before coming to a stop.

That should really piss him off. 

We had a little history, Bill and I. Most of it had to do with him being an asshole, and me reminding him—often—of how bad I hated the smell. I guess I’d earned some of his disdain for me when I refused to go to prom with him. But when a guy gets back from basic training and asks a sophomore in high school to take him to her prom, it’s a little creepy. Creepier still, Marshal had actually heard some people around town talk bad about me for not giving in to his passes.

Screw them.

I knew the truth. Bill’s buddies had told him I was new and would be an easy lay. After I informed him the only action he’d ever get from me was the pump-action, shotgun kind, he quit chasing me. Romantically speaking at least. In the end, I’d hurt whatever mutated sense of pride he had. So he gave me a ticket every chance he got, and I messed with him at every turn.

Think the Tom and Jerry cartoon, if Tom were a pint-sized jerk with a buzz cut, and Jerry was a tall, Native American chick with purple hair, and a bad case of the fuck-offs.

The only thing Bill hated more than me was being ignored, so I let him stand outside my door while I pretended to fiddle with my radio. Honestly, he wasn’t that hard to overlook in this particular situation. I could barely see the top of his head, my pickup being so high off the ground and Bill being so, well, not.

He eventually gave an impatient rap on the glass with his gloved knuckles.

“Afternoon, Bill,” I said, rolling down the window. I displayed my most insincere smile. “What imaginary thing did I do today? Hope it’s not left-of-center again, because you’ll notice there are still no lines on our streets.”

He stood perfectly erect, glaring at me from behind a set of mirrored shades. I suppose the moron hadn’t noticed the severe lack of sun today.

“You were speeding,” he said. “Thirty-five in a thirty. Got it right here on the gun.” 

He pushed a plastic device, a cross between a pistol and a hairdryer, in front of my face. Guess he thought I wouldn’t believe such technology existed without seeing it firsthand. 

I got a whiff of the thick, winter-mint smell of the chewing tobacco bulging in his mouth and suppressed a gag. 

“That’ll never stick, and you know it. I’ll go to court and get it dropped—just like the last three you’ve given me. You really want another spanking from Judge Mercer?” 

His brow wrinkled like he was working on taking a difficult dump.

During my last day in court, the judge had reamed Bill for wasting court time on, “such a petty and juvenile rivalry.” I intended to remind Bill of it as often as I could. Forever.

“Consider this a warning then,” Bill said.

His head disappeared as he slid the radar gun into a holster on his belt. He took a few steps back from the door, presumably so I could see him better. His face broadened into a hungry, wolfish half-grin.

I’d seen that look on Tom’s face, and it usually meant hard times ahead for Jerry.

“Where’s your little pixy friend, off butt-pumping one of his boyfriends?”

I reached for the handle thinking if I threw my weight behind the door, I could probably split his bigoted skull with my side mirror. The son-of-a-bitch thought he could get away with murder because he was a cop, but he was about to—

He’s trying to bait you. You’ll be arrested, and he’ll still be a pig, Marshal’s voice warned in my mind.

I placed my hands on the steering wheel, squeezing hard enough to make the leather squeak. “Are we through here? I’ve got places to be.”

Bill frowned. I could almost hear the clanking and squeaking as his brain tried to grind out a retort. “Yeah, well, I’ve got better things to do than spend my time keeping the local troublemakers in check, too.”

I chuckled. “What could you possibly have to do around here other than round up stray cattle and fetch kittens off of roofs?”

Bill’s mouth slacked, and his posture stiffened. I’d hit his pride right between the eyes.

“I’ll have you know we had a graffiti incident at the First Methodist Church last week. Still haven’t caught the little bastard that did it, but I will.” He slapped his gloved hands together, making me flinch. “I’ve also worked two auto accidents in two days—one of them bad enough I think they’ll file an insurance claim.”

I smirked. “Oh dear, think of the paper work.”

He stammered, clearly searching for anything to wow me. At last he added, “And Sheriff Mays said he got the coroner’s report on an old man we found dead out south of town a few weeks back. Thinks we might have a positive ID. That serious enough for you?”

Grandpa. I knew they’d eventually find him. The anonymous call Marshal had put in pretending to be a concerned neighbor had seen to that. But I’d naively hoped they wouldn’t put much effort into figuring out who he was—just write him off as another old person who’d died in his sleep.

Small town cops are still cops. They don’t ignore dead people, Marshal’s voice sounded again.

Bill pushed his glasses down on his nose, revealing a pair of measuring, beady brown eyes. His gaze was cool enough to make me shiver. I suppose my face betrayed some of the shock I felt, giving Bill an excuse to be his self-important, prick self again.

He crossed his bulky arms over his chest. “You ask me, something fishy is going on with that one. Didn’t find any identification in his house. And we talked to all of his so-called neighbors. None of them knew him. Someone around here sure knows who he is. Too small of a place not to.”

I tried to convince myself this wasn’t a horrible turn of events. Worst case, they figure out he’s your grandfather and you deny knowing he was alive.

Still, what if I’d left some clue that I’d been out to his house? Just how far were they going to dig? What if the wounds from the silver bullets had only healed on the outside, and the autopsy showed he’d actually been murdered? As if I weren’t already losing enough sleep.

I glared at Bill, trying to force a little rhythm into my skipping heart. “Well, good luck solving that mystery, Holmes.”

“Slow down, and for the last time, quit parking on the curbs.”

I'd already started rolling up my window when he shouted. I slammed down hard on the gas, racking the pickup’s professional exhaust to an ear-splitting level. Bill hopped out of the way, and I smiled at my own brazenness. Seeing him dust his pants angrily in the rearview mirror made me relax a little.

I was pretty sure our law enforcement entities shared the same pistol. Most likely, nothing would come of the investigation. Still, I made a mental note to take more caution when dealing with Bill in the future. Just by sensing something was off, he'd proven to be sharper than I'd have ever given him credit for.

A few minutes later, I picked Marshal up. He had a thermos and lunchbox with him, and said we were going to deliver them to his father at a worksite outside of town. I was still deliberating how to break the news of what Bill had told me, so I simply nodded and we set off.

We’d barely gotten out onto the highway when Marshal asked, “What’s the best way to take down a werewolf?”

Bombarding me with questions about the monster-hunting journal my grandfather had given me was Marshal’s new favorite pastime. Especially when I was too pissed off or distracted to talk, which admittedly happened a fair amount. Still, chatting about a book written in Apache, that I was just only beginning to understand, was preferable to doing those bullshit, fashion-sex magazine surveys he usually favored.

Typical question: If your lover dumped you tomorrow, what would your biggest regret be?

Jenny’s typical answer—after vomiting over the thought of referring to someone as her lover: History says I’d regret not giving him a boot-to-the-ass sooner. Next.

I yanked Beauty’s gearshift down to fourth, provoking an irritated roar from the engine. I could relate to her bitchy attitude. After my encounter with Bill, my own humor gauge was barreling toward E.

“Christ, Marsh. You know I know this one. Can’t we talk about something different?”

“Okay, like what?”

Still not ready to discuss Grandpa’s dead body, I glanced at Marshal, trying to find my target. “Say, those sure are some fancy snow boots.”

Marshal pulled down the visor in front of him, baring his teeth at the vanity mirror. He poked at his spiked blond hair with his fingers and smoothed the many-colored, knitted scarf around his neck. “Nice try.”

Shit. He’d loved it when I’d complimented his footwear before. Time for a new tactic.

“Don’t lie. You’ve been sitting on those things for ten years waiting for wintertime to finally come to West Texas. Not like it’s going to snow anyway.”

Attacking his sense of fashion timeliness would get him going. I doubted Marshal owned anything from last season, much less ten seasons ago. Although, I wasn’t as confident in my weather forecast. The sky had morphed into one big, brooding heap of grey cloud. A north wind whipped at the golden winter grass fields with gusting, frigid lashes. Sure looked like arctic weather was marching our direction.

He crossed his arms and arched his eyebrows, letting me know he still expected an answer to his question. I swerved the pickup to avoid a skunk that hadn’t quite made it to the other side of the road, and thought about the other nasty things that might be waiting to spring out at us from the roadside brush.

There were witches. They hated silver, because it screwed with their spells—a little nugget of wisdom that had saved my life a couple of months back. Since then, by studying the tribal journal my grandfather had given me, I’d learned several tricks for dealing with potential adversaries. The best way to catch a vampire, for instance, was with human bait. They could only be killed by removing their heads, or by being given sunlight facials. I’d also discovered that a talisman could save or kill, depending upon the demon. Ghosts weren’t fond of garlic or lemon grass, but they were attracted to liquor and saltwater—like tears. Wraiths were similar to the undead, but harder to kill, with fire being the preferred method in both cases. The list went on and on, with poltergeist, forest spirits, and the like. But Marshal wanted to know about werewolves.

Prior experience had taught me that werewolves were tough as nails, and could only be killed with a subcutaneous—one of Marshal’s thousand-dollar nurse words—dose of heavy metal.

I proudly cleared my throat. “A shot of metal, like mercury or silver, into the nervous system is the only surefire way.”

My chest poked out, and I waited for the praise to rain down. Instead, I got a slanted look from Marshal, a fox’s grin spread across his face. I was pretty sure his response was going to suck more than a Game Over screen.

“Why doesn’t lead work?”

I slapped the steering wheel. “I don’t know, damn it. Maybe werewolves don’t care for pencils. I’m a monster huntress, not a chemist.”

He sighed. “It’s because lead isn’t absorbed quickly enough. If you don’t learn this stuff, it could literally get you—us—killed.”

“Whatever,” I said, trying to commit his words to memory.

Marshal had an annoying habit of being right about everything. Getting myself killed trying to prove him wrong seemed a little obstinate, even for me.

 Marshal pointed. “Your turn is coming up on the right.”

I seized the opportunity to change the subject. “How long has your dad been working on this bridge?”

His father was an engineer for the state of Texas and had been put in charge of a statewide bridge repair project a couple of years ago.

Marshal cocked his head to the side. “More than twelve weeks, I think. Said the trusses were almost completely gone. Had to build a brand new bridge from the ground up.”

I whistled. “That stinks. How are things? You know, between the two of you.”

Marshal had only recently come out to his parents. But I was pretty sure they’d known all along. He didn’t hide being gay from the rest of the town, and Center Pointe didn’t excel at keeping secrets. Information was passed around our little community like a cold at a day care.

I’d never questioned him about keeping them in the dark, figuring he had his reasons.

“Rushdam wanted to meet them, so I knew I’d have to finally confirm their worst fears.”

I laughed. “I always figured I was their biggest nightmare.”

Rushdam was Marshal’s new boyfriend. He was also a witch—the only one I didn’t want to kill, incidentally.

Marshal smiled. “Silly Grasshopper, you know so little about being a good Baptist. Anyway, I didn’t know what would happen. But Dad has actually been pretty cool about it. We’re talking now, which we never did before I told him. It’s like the pressure has been removed from the situation or something.”

“Speaking of, how did Rush meeting the folks go?”

“Mom and Sis adore him.”

“Well, he is a tall, dark, super-smart, and sexy-as-hell Middle Eastern guy.”

“True,” Marshal said with obvious pride. “I wouldn’t say he and Dad are best friends, yet they had a lot to talk about. Dad has collected old arrowheads, horseshoes, and other weird things he dug up at his worksites over the years. Rushdam really wowed him with his knowledge of local anthropology. Dad even took him into his study after dinner and let Rushdam touch his books.”

“No way. Remember when we wanted to use some of your dad’s books for that report senior year? He watched us a like a prison guard, and got all panicky when he thought we hadn’t sufficiently washed the Cheetos stains off of our hands.”

Marshal laughed. “I think that’s why Dad left his stuff this morning. Rushdam told him about this swap meet near Lubbock where a lot of Native American and Mexican artisans gather. Dad’s been trading emails with one of the vendors who is going to turn an old gemstone he found and polished into a necklace. He met with her yesterday, and Mom said he didn’t get home until late. The bridge is just ahead.”

Marshal pointed to a creek that had sprung up out of nowhere and followed along beside the dirt road. Not far ahead, a large reflective-orange sign read, DANGER: BRIDGE OUT. The sky above the sign was tinged an even more sullen shade of murk than an hour before, changing the palette from gloomy to slightly foreboding. The twisted oak trees lining the road and the creek’s banks swayed in the stiffening breeze, their leafless limbs contorting like grasping, skeletal fingers. 

“I still doubt we’ll see precipitation, but it damn sure looks nasty out there,” I said in quiet disbelief.

Weather skepticism was a birthright to all Texans. Ninety-five degree days in November, tornadoes in January, and snow in May gave Mother Nature a less-than favorable reputation in our part of the world. We treated her like our bat-shit crazy Aunt Edna; just humor her and give her lots of space, and she won’t stick around long.

“If you don’t believe in miracles…” Marshal wagged a finger in my face.

“Shut it.” I slapped his hand away with a laugh. “That your Dad’s truck?”

We parked behind an oversized work pickup. The passenger door was open. Odd, considering how cold it was outside.

Stepping out into the biting wind, I winced, and pushed a large, hunter’s orange beanie onto my head. The hat was the last piece of winter gear left at the Dollar Mart, and I couldn’t afford to be picky—both literally and practically. We were in the financial doldrums of After Christmas, Before Tax Day, so the computer repair jobs—my normal gig—had been few and far between of late. Plus my hair was short, which didn’t leave a lot of insulation. I had a disturbing mental image of the gel I used to spike my faux-hawk freezing and snapping off fifty bucks worth of fresh, purple highlights.

As I walked toward the vehicle, the droning chime of the key reminder rang through the air. The sounding alarm was painfully loud out here where only the wind and chirping birds contended with it. I moved to the driver’s side door, leaned in, and pulled out the keys—an almost subconscious gesture. A blast of frigid air nearly took my hat off, prompting me to zip up my jacket.

Something didn’t feel right.

“That’s weird,” Marshal said from the open passenger door across the cab. “Dad’s personal cell phone is in here. He almost always has it on him.”

He picked up the mobile and gave it a thoughtful glance. The pale skin on his cheeks had bloomed into crimson circles from the cold. Swirls of his breath danced in the air.

I licked my lips, which had suddenly gone painfully dry. I didn’t want to stumble over my words, either. I was concerned, but I didn’t think Marshal needed to share my jitters just yet.

“Probably under the bridge working and didn’t want to get it wet,” I said.

That didn’t explain the door being left ajar with the keys inside, however. I wrapped my arms around my torso for warmth.

We’re in country, West Texas, not downtown Houston. Except for possibly a rowdy raccoon, it wasn’t like someone was going to drive off with his truck out here. Why would he worry about locking the vehicle up tight?

The uneasy tension that had settled over me became a full on vice grip of dread when we pushed the doors shut in unison. The sound echoed softly in the country void, sending a couple of curious crows perched on a nearby highline into squawking flight. Marshal’s furrowed brow said it all. He’d picked up on the same bad vibe I was getting.

We set off toward the edge of the bridge. Rows of orange and white construction barriers with blinking yellow lights were lined up across the road near the new bridge. A large, earth-moving machine rested quietly a hundred yards or so to the left, where the old bridge sat. Seeing the younger model’s shiny steel and smooth concrete next to the old design’s warped and fatigued wood made me rethink my future bridge crossing strategies.

“Dad? Brought you some lunch and a coffee refill for your thermos,” Marshal called, as we stopped in front of the barriers.

The wind greedily pulled at his scarf and muted his voice. We listened, but only the groaning tree branches replied. Marshal looked at me. Like the heat pouring out of my body, concern seeped from his blue eyes.

“Let’s check under the old bridge. They’re probably walking the creek,” I said.

If Marshal had checked my pulse, he’d have known I was lying.

At the edge of the road, I spotted an oddly shaped dark, rust-colored blot on the dirt. The mark glistened like it was still wet. Then we came to another. Then a dozen more that grew from spots to splotches, all leading toward the ditch. I’d opened my mouth to mention the oddity to Marshal when I saw the bloody hand lying in the weeds.

While my brain did a hard reboot, trying to make sense of a severed hand poking out of the overgrowth like some kind of morbid dandelion, my body wasn’t waiting around to respond. My spine went rigid, ready to propel me into action; I scanned the rows of trees around us, looking for an attacker; my head cocked to the side as I listened for any hint of danger.

Marshal broke into a run. “Dad!”

He was already in the ditch and stumbling down the gentle slope of earth toward the creek bottom before my body could respond.

“Wait.” I chased after him.

By the time I’d made it to the bottom of the hill, he’d already waded into creek’s shallow waters. The cold flow was barely over the shoelaces on his sneakers, so I went in after him.

The frigid water quickly soaked through my pant legs where it splashed up on me, first burning, then numbing the skin beneath. I grimaced and cursed with every step.

Marshal snapped his head from side to side, shouting. He sloshed toward the dim area underneath the bridge.

“Hold on a second, damn it. We’re going to catch pneumonia,” I said, slogging after him.

Or worse, something is going to catch us. I’d seen too many scary things lately to believe bloody limbs just fell out of Santa’s sleigh. From my somewhat limited experience, teeth and claws were usually the culprits.

I tried to calm myself by controlling the number of my breaths—an old runner’s trick—but it was no use. The high-pitched ringing in my ears told me panic and cold were winning out.

The wind shifted. A musky odor of animal—like an entire pack of wet dogs had been bathing in the creek—punched my nose, forcing my hand to my face. The hairs on my arms stiffened.

“No, Dad…” Marshal raced forward, spraying me with freezing water droplets. 

The creek narrowed, with two large sandbanks blooming on either side. Bulky wooden beams jutted down from underneath the bridge to pierce the ground below. Globs of old debris dangled in places, showing where the water had crested high above our heads in years gone by.

I finally caught up to Marshal. He stared at one of the dark alcoves between two of the beams, his hand pressed to his mouth. Tears cascaded down his cheeks.

“Marshal, what is…”

What I’d initially mistaken for debris was a human body—or what was left of it. The figure had been crammed into the space where the two beams joined the bridge like some kind of giant, fleshy squirrel’s nest. One of the legs was missing, and the other had been bent back behind the head, leaving the body contorted in a kind of garish yoga pose. The face had been peeled away, leaving tendrils of red muscles and flesh to dangle from visible portions of white skull bones. 

I swallowed back something sour, and grabbed Marshal.

“Don’t look at it,” I said, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him close. My friend buried his face in my shoulder and sobbed.

“We have to call the police,” I whispered.

Minutes after I made the call, the serene countryside turned into a spectacle of flashing lights, roaring engines, and shouting emergency personnel. The sheriff’s department, in the form of a scarecrow-thin deputy named Floyd Rose, arrived first. I guided Floyd to the edge of the road and showed him the severed hand. He retched. I waited, then explained what we’d found under the bridge. After that, I walked back to my pickup to wait inside with Marshal.

Floyd’s high-pitched screams as he shouted into his radio, and Sheriff Mays shouting back at him to calm down, still haunted my ears. My body was shaking uncontrollably, so I put the heater on full blast. I hoped the droning blower would drown out the sounds in my head.

When my thoughts cleared, surprisingly, my mind wasn’t racing with questions about the horrors I’d seen. All I could think about was Marshal. How, if that had been his father we’d seen strung up in the eaves of that bridge, he’d never be the same. Seeing something horrible is one thing, but knowing the victim of that horror was a psychological game changer. This wasn’t a slaughtered horse or a family pet struck down by a car. This was his father. I wanted to offer Marshal some encouragement, but in the end, what did I know about what he was going through? Sure, I’d lost my grandmother, who’d been more of a parent to me than either of my biological ones. But Granny had been killed by her own body, in a mostly natural way—with her face intact.

I scooted closer to him. The warmth of Marshal’s body slowly enveloped mine as we sat huddled under an itchy, wool blanket one of the firefighters had given him. A fine mist gathered on the windshield, creating a stained-glass effect with the red and blue police lights.

Sheriff Mays tapped on the glass, causing us both to jump. The jowly man waited patiently for the window to come down, his face pink from razor-burn and cold. 

“You kids warming up?” he asked as casually as if he’d just handed us some warm cocoa.  The heady odor of Old Spice wafted in the open window on a gust of bitter air.

I crinkled my nose and coughed. We’d just seen a human body doing a poorly butchered hog impersonation, and he was concerned about our comfort? I felt my brow scrunching together in irritation, and briefly considered throat punching the buffoon.

Cut him some slack. It’s not like he’s worked anything like this before.

The sheriff cleared his throat. “We finally got the body down. Found the leg a couple hundred yards upstream. What a goddamn mess.”

Marshal whimpered.

“Hey, son, don’t you worry.  We’ll find your dad. Although this shit-assed weather isn’t going to help things any—”

“Find him?” I asked, looking at Marshal undoubtedly wide-eyed.

Marshal dug his fingers into my arm. “But … who was—”

Realization spread across Sheriff Mays’ chubby face like a slab of melting butter sliding across a hot pan. “Oh hell. That wasn’t your father up there. According to his driver’s license, he was Charley Sheffield.”

I let my head slap back against the seat and sighed, unbelievably happy to have something working in our favor. And relieved, too, that Marshal still had a scrap of hope to hold onto. Just a shred of faith might give him the courage to keep going.

“I’m guessing he worked with Jimmy?”

Marshal nodded, fresh tears sloping down his face. “He was Dad’s assistant.” 

“Sheriff, you have any clue what might’ve happened?” I asked.

He shook his head, making the folds of skin on his face quiver. “I’ve never seen anything like it. An animal most likely, but I’m not sure what would’ve been strong enough to drag him up there like that. A bear or big cat is all I can imagine. Hoping your dad was able to fight it off. Maybe he’s injured. Got lost running away or something.”

I looked at Marshal, hoping my face conveyed the feeling of having a warm, beating heart dipped in a bucket of ice water. Because that was the overwhelming sensation I felt. We’d been down this road before, and there weren’t any bears waiting with porridge at the end of it. There were only monsters. I hoped to God I was wrong, but I was slowly learning to trust my instincts on these things. I had a bad feeling we were in a world of trouble, yet again.

“We have to find him,” Marshal said, the terror and sadness in his eyes giving way to determination. “Right now.”

***

We’d made most of the trip back to town before Marshal spoke. “I know he’s out there. He’s still alive.” I’d been stealing looks at him the entire way, trying to figure out when I should say something. He never stopped staring out the passenger window, as if he were hoping he might spot his father running along side us in the gloom. Steam coated the glass where his breath brushed against it.

Along with a dozen other people, we’d walked the creek for hours. The mist had turned to a pelting sleet not long after our search had begun. Even though one of the firemen had given us dry socks and gloves, my feet and hands were aching from the cold when the night had finally blotted out the day. A few shreds of ripped and bloodied cloth were all we found by the time the sheriff had called the search off due to the worsening storm and nightfall.

Charlie Sheffield’s mangled corpse weighed on all of our minds. Every little noise had people yelling into radios and brandishing firearms. Whatever had done that to the poor man—be it a bear, mountain lion, or Paul Bunion’s giant blue ox—was more than any of us wanted to face, even with an army at our sides.

“Sheriff Mays said the state folks would bring the dogs up in the morning. I’m sure we’ll find him,” Marshal said.

I considered my words. “I think so, too.”

Unlike Marshal, I wasn’t at all certain we’d find him in one piece, but I sure as heck wasn’t going to share that belief. I shook my head, trying in equal parts to purge the mental image of the body we’d seen and the mud-soaked weariness from my bones. 

Marshal turned to me. “It’s so cold. Do you think he can survive the night?”

His eyes were swollen and red. The hope in his expression was as fragile as the thin sheet of ice covering the creek we’d left behind. It crushed me to see Marshal, the guy who never seemed to tire of supporting others, so devoid of strength for himself.

“His truck is full of gas, and the keys are in the ignition. If he can find his way back to the road, I don’t see why not.” I gripped the steering wheel tighter, not knowing how to say what I was about to say. “You don’t think—I mean Grandpa and all?”

“No.” He hurled the word at me like a stone. “This is different. It has to be.”

Son of a bitch, he thinks I mean his dad is a werewolf. I suddenly remembered I hadn’t told him about my run-in with Bill. “Whoa, I know this isn’t Grandpa again if that’s what you think I’m saying—”

“How do you know?” Marshal’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp and accusatory, but I gave him a pass. He was exhausted, heartbroken, and scared—all things I knew about.

“Look, I ran into Bill today, and he mentioned they’d found an old man’s body outside of town. It has to be him.”

Marshal gave me a doubting frown. “How can you be certain?”

“I don’t know I can just feel it. And the details Bill gave fit.”

Marshal’s cheeks reddened. He was winding up again, so I held up my hand to stop him.

“I’m not implying your dad is a werewolf. But what if there’s another one out there?”

Marshal sighed so long the sound probably should’ve been punctuated. “No, you’re right. I saw the body, too. It definitely reminded me of your grandpa’s mangled horse. We have to at least consider there could be something similar going on.”

Or worse.

I turned down Marshal’s parents’ street. Vehicles stretched the entire block on either side of the road. Twice, I had to stop to let people trot in front of us as they made their way to the house.

A group of men I recognized from the search party sheltered themselves from the weather underneath one of the tall pine trees in the yard. They smoked cigarettes and sipped from thermoses but paused to give us solemn nods when we walked by. I couldn’t dispute that our little town had an ugly side. But, bless ‘em, Centre Pointe sure knew how to rally when things went bad.

Like flood water, people pressed into every corner of the home. We did our best to wade through the crowd, but no sooner would Marshal get by one well-wisher when another would catch him with a hug or back pat. Eventually, we found his mother and little sister in the kitchen surrounded by a phalanx of old churchwomen.

I caught the blue-haired harpy nearest me checking out the large red feather tattooed on my forearm, her mouth a thin line of disapproval.

Maybe I should have left my jacket on… Nah.

I smiled at her. “You should see the one on my boob.”

Marshal glanced at me, his eyebrows arched. I couldn’t tell if he was questioning whether I’d gotten another tattoo—I hadn’t—or my lack of tact, so I decided I’d better leave it at that. “I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

He nodded, and I exited. I was greeted by the unfortunate sight of Bill Swartz.

I rubbed my face and groaned. This day was more frustrating than playing games with a shitty Internet connection—except I couldn’t turn this off and go to bed.

Bill said, “Me and some of the boys are going back out tonight. I’ll find whatever it is and have its head mounted on my wall. We’ll have his ass cooking on my grill by goddamned breakfast.”

He was dressed in his finest mossy oak camouflaged overalls. He had on one of those stupid hats with the long, wooly ears on them. He looked like a Hunting Goofy action figure—minus the height, of course. A group of similarly dressed men had gathered around him near the fireplace and nodded in agreement.

I shook my head and laughed. Dogs and ticks, bees and flowers, cavemen and open flames—nature’s perfect pairings.

Bill hoisted a black metal flask to his lips and swigged. His eyes narrowed when he spotted me leaning up against the wall next to the television. “What’s so funny? You finally buy a mirror?”

A couple of his buddies chuckled. I glanced at a vase sitting on a nearby table and smiled. The imagined sound of glass shattering around his fat head was a sweet symphony for sure, but that wouldn’t have been fair to the vase.

I pretended to check for dirt under my fingernails. “Just picturing you eating ass for breakfast. Hope you brush better than you used to.”

“Back in Iraq, I would’ve busted your ass for that smart mouth. But now, I’m a man of the law, so I’ll just tell you to watch it.” I wasn’t watching him at all, but his tone was prickly enough to tell me he was bristling.

When I did finally look up, I hoped my grin was as cold and dead as it felt on my face. “Every Mayberry needs a Barney, I suppose.”

I could picture the vein on his forehead throbbing underneath his hat and could almost see his nostrils flaring from across the room. His stooges were murmuring, but the rest of the place had gone silent. Everyone watched us. I was pretty sure Bill realized it as well, or he might’ve lowered his head and charged right then.

He bared his teeth at me. “We’ll see how smart you are when I bring his daddy back here by morning.”

“And a new bearskin rug,” one of his cronies added and high-fived the others.

I prepared to unleash another retort, but a chilling thought stopped me. These guys were well on their way to being drunk. If there was another monster on the loose, they’d be slaughtered. Not to mention, half of them would probably die from hypothermia or break their damned fool necks when they fell out of their deer stands. A part of me wanted to let the morons go, but a bigger part of me realized I wouldn’t be able to sleep with that hanging over my head.

I stepped away from the wall. “Maybe you all should hold off until the sun comes up. It’s sleeting pretty hard out there.”

Bill sneered. “You ladies can stay warm and cozy in your beds for as long as you like. The men will be out saving people’s asses, like always. Come on, boys.” 

He twisted the cap onto the flask and zipped up his coveralls.

I ducked my head back into the kitchen. 

“Marshal, can I talk to you for a second?”

He was in the middle of conversation with Blue Hair Number Six but paused long enough to say, “Sure.”

After excusing himself, we moved to the half-bathroom down the hall and locked the door.

“What’s up?”

“Bill,” I said.

“What did the ape say now?”

I shook my head. “It’s not what he said. It’s what he and his idiot friends are going to do.”

Marshal put his hand to his head and massaged his temples. “Jesus, he’s not going back out there, is he?”

“Afraid so. They’re loaded to boot.”

Fatigue and grief had turned Marshal’s typically vibrant, clear-eyed stare into a dull, red-tinged expression. “I’ll get my coat.”

I fully realized the potential of what I was walking into. If things went south, Marshal’s dad, me, or both of us might not come out of it alive. I didn’t necessarily want Marshal to see any of those outcomes firsthand.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “I got this. Take care of your family.”

His eyes scanned my face. I knew he was searching for some hint of weakness to betray my tough talk, so I cut him off before he could ask if I was sure. “I’m a Moonsong. This is what we do, remember? My tomahawk is in the truck. I’ll be careful.”

Thinking that should just about cover Marshal’s worry checklist, I turned to leave.

 “Jenny,” his voice cracked.

I couldn’t tolerate seeing more of his tears—more emotion wasn’t going to help me survive the rest of the night—so I didn’t turn around. “Yeah?”

“Bring Dad back to us… Please.”

“I will.” I hated myself for the promise before the words had even left my mouth.

***

I swung my feet out of the pickup onto the ground, my boots crunching into a couple inches of winter precipitation. The frozen rain had changed to snow. A million soggy flakes filled the air around me. I could just make out the moon’s golden glow behind the thick, black clouds scuttling above. An owl hooted in the distance.

“What are you doing out here?” Bill asked as I approached.

I knew he would’ve loved to call me out for being a woman. Say something about my delicate hands not knowing how to handle a firearm. But he—and the rest of the town—knew the truth: I’d won the Centre Pointe Thanksgiving Clay Pigeon Shootout three years in a row. I was the best marksman or woman in the county, and secretly thought I might give the best ones in the state a run for their money.

“Where’s your gun?” Bill asked, pulling a hard plastic weapon case from the cab of his own truck.

I’d parked behind him and the other three vehicles, a mix of SUVs and pickups. They were lined up, single file, down the middle of the road, the bridge barricade closing the way in front of them. Whatever happened tonight, I sure as hell wasn’t going to get blocked in.

I kept the hatchet tucked in the hammer loop on my pants, and the Glock 45 holstered underneath my coat, a secret. My father had gotten me well acquainted with firearms growing up, taking his littler girl with him on his regular trips to the gun range. I’d continued the practice long after he’d died. The tomahawk, however, was a gift from my monster-hunting Grandpa. Since I’d acquired it, I’d had two encounters with the supernatural, and the ax had saved a life both times. First Marshal’s, then mine. Now, I never left the house without it. 

 “Figured I’d just charm the fur off of the critter with my winning attitude,” I said with no humor. “I told you, I’m out here to find Marshal’s dad, not to kill anything.”

Bill shook his head in disbelief, like I’d suggested we strip down to our underwear and frolic in the ice-covered creek.

“That kind of thinking won’t keep you alive. My old sergeant used to tell me, ‘If you aren’t ready to kill, you’re ready to be killed.’ That simple.”

The locks on the case clicked open, drawing my attention to Bill’s hands. He pulled a compound bow from the box’s padded innards. The steel tips of a half-dozen arrows glistened sharply as he inspected the rig with his flashlight.

Scuffling footsteps announced the arrival of the other hunters as they clustered around us. They murmured amongst themselves while Bill continued to fiddle with his bow. The hard confidence I’d seen in them at Marshal’s house had melted, leaving soft, nervous, half-drunken stares in its place. Some had bows, some rifles, but they were all scared.

In my book, that was a good start. Scared might allow them to survive until morning.

Bill gave one last tug on his bowstring.

“Gather round and listen up. Everyone pair off. No one flies solo. We don’t know what’s out there just yet, but we know it’s big. If it’s a cat, it’ll hunt us, not the other way around.”  He paused, sticking his chin out, then eyeballed each man like a diminutive Patton before the Bulge. “Everyone has a radio, so standard protocol there.”

A hand shot up from the back of the group. “What’s a pro-tuh-call?”

A few of the men snickered, but when the guy left his hand up, they quieted.

Bill snorted in some snot and spat an impressive wad of phlegm on the ground at his side. “Was that you, Seth? I ought to kick your stupid ass right here in the snow. Just don’t use the damned radio unless you see something, got it?”

“What if we find the father?” one of the other men asked.

“If you find the body, call it in. Otherwise, focus on the animal. It’ll likely stay close to where it left its food, so we fan out from the old bridge.”

“We don’t know if he’s dead,” I said, my face heating up in spite of the cold.

Bill spun toward me, his eyes radiating with challenge. “I heard what was done to the other body. He’s dead.”

“You can’t know that.” I stepped forward to gaze directly down on him. A surge of anger-fueled blood throbbed in my ears.

I stood about six feet in boots, Bill was about six feet on a ladder—although, he was as broad with muscle as he was tall. I had no delusions. He’d kick my ass in a fair fight, but I didn’t like to fight fair. Men were very brash creatures for having such glaring vulnerabilities. I adjusted my posture enough to allow for a quick knee-to-nut-shot should the need arise.

Bill met me in what I supposed was to be a macho confrontation. But his head only came up to my chest, making it appear like he wanted to motorboat me through about fifteen layers of clothes. And I didn’t have big boobs, so that would’ve been a first.

He took an irritated half-step backward and poked me with a gloved finger. “This ain’t some little girl’s fairytale. Even if he isn’t dead, he’ll be half-frozen to death—probably lose his feet and hands, so he might as well be.”

I sucked in a calming breath. If I was going to be out here risking my life and freezing, I planned on spending my time searching for Marshal’s dad, not fighting with Bill.

“You’re an asshole.” I shoved his hand away.

He gave me one last hard glance, then turned to address the others. “The way I see it, we only have a few hours to get that animal before those state sons-a-bitches swoop in here with their dogs in the morning. It’s our town, and it’s our right to kill it. Let’s get it done.”

The other men selected their partners and headed out into the white speckled darkness, leaving me alone with Bill. Was I the only fire hydrant left in the world for the Universe to piss on, or what?

“Guess I’m with you,” I muttered.

His lip curled. “Probably best. You’re not as likely to get me killed as you are those other yahoos.”

We walked in silence, moving deeper into the woody area, away from the road.  Occasionally, Bill would stop to taste the snow on the ground, cock his head as if he were listening for a heartbeat and shush me, or do some other silly hunting gimmick. Outside of that, our pace was steady.

I crept along behind him, using a glow stick’s soft, blue light to look for footprints, or other signs of activity. The search was useless. The snow, now up to my shins, fell hard enough to limit my vision to only a few feet. Our own tracks faded almost as quickly as we made them. Would we be able to find our way back to the vehicles in a few hours?

The snow had stolen the noise from the world as well. The sound of our moving feet was all we could hear, leaving me to wonder if the thing we looked for counted our steps, too.

Bill threw a closed fist into the air. The hairs on my arm stiffened and I froze mid-step. Now what the hell has he found?

After a few overly-dramatic glances around, Bill put his bow against a nearby tree.

I crept up behind him.

“What is it? Did you see something?” I whispered.

He pulled his gloves off with his teeth. Fishing in his overall pockets, he gave me a sour look. “No. I’m thirsty.”

He eventually found his flask and twisted off the cap. After taking a pull, he extended the drink toward me. 

Even under gloves, my fingers burned from the cold as I took the container from him. I sniffed, crinkled my nose, and took a nip. I’d have drunk gasoline for a spark, and whatever was in the flask wasn’t far off. Coughing, I handed it back, feeling a little put off by the friendly gesture.

As the liquid warmth worked its way into my belly, I said a reluctant, “Thanks.”

Bill grunted and took another drink. He placed the flask back into his pocket and worked his gloves back on.

Without looking at me he said, “I don’t like you.”

There’s the Bill I know and loathe.

“You don’t say?”

“I knew a hundred girls like you in the Army. Think a freaky hairdo, some tattoos, and the ability to fire off a few rounds makes you as tough as the guys? No respect for the natural order of things, no respect for authority. Then a man comes along who knows how to handle that sort of thing, and bam.” He punched his hands together. “Just like that, the tune changes.”

Too cold to be angry, I laughed. “You don’t know the first thing about me, and something tells me you don’t know much about handling women, either.”

“See that’s where you’re wrong,” he said.

He stood from a crouch, calmly brushing snow from his shoulders and head. Next, he grabbed his bow and knocked an arrow. With his back turned to me, he gave the bowstring a couple of test pulls.

“I’m a man. And a man knows a woman likes to keep secrets. I’m also a cop, and a cop knows secrets are dangerous.”

“I appreciate the pep talk, but let’s—”

He aimed down his bow sight and slowly turned to point the weapon at me. “You don’t understand. I know you’ve got secrets. I plan on finding out what they are. There’s no room for freaks like you and that faggot in my town.” 

Normally, I’d have chalked the act up to a bullshit display of bravado, but there was a dangerous, rigid quality to his posture, and a reckless gleam in his eyes. The crazy asshole was a killer. Maybe the booze was fueling him, but he’d skewer me with an arrow if I gave him an excuse. I was sure of it.

My jaw locked tight enough to make my vision blur. He’d finally gotten me good and pissed off.

He could call me all of the colorful names in the book—I probably already thought of myself in those terms, anyway. But he was going to leave Marshal out of it. Bill had crossed a line, and I intended to show him the way back over it with a little extreme prejudice of my own.

I reached for the pistol tucked under my coat.

“Bill! You there?” The radio at his side squawked. 

He lowered the bow and pulled the radio up to his mouth in one fluid motion. “Copy that. Bill here.”

My arm relaxed as I focused on the voice coming over the radio. Had they found him?

“This is Jimmy. I think we got…” Static finished his sentence.

“What? Where?” Bill yelled back.

He started moving before he let go of the receiver button. I followed, in spite of the death threats. I wouldn’t have cared less if Bigfoot had jumped out of the brush and snapped Bill’s stupid, fucking neck right there. Shoot, I might’ve even offered to build a fire so the yeti could cook him. But if the others had seen the beast, maybe there’d be some sign of Marshal’s father, too.

Jimmy responded as we ran. “Jesus, smells like an entire zoo took a dump out here. We’re about four hundred yards down the creek, east of the bridge. Seth said he heard something and took off into the trees. I’m going in aft—”

“No,” Bill cut him off. “You stay there and wait for us. You hear me?”

The answer came in the form of more static. I knew better than to think Bill was overcome with chivalry. He wanted them to wait so he could be the one to make the kill.

“Come on. Those dumb bastards will probably scare it off,” Bill said.

I plunged into the frosty creek behind him. With each step, our feet punched through the thin ice. My boots offered some protection, but the drops of frigid water splashing onto my face felt like droplets of hot grease on my bare skin.

The radio had been silent since Jimmy’s last update, but we had no trouble finding the spot where he and Seth had clambered up the bank. Huge clumps of mud had been peeled back where the men had struggled to get their footing in the slippery earth. An animal’s pungent smell was heavy on the otherwise crisp night air.

My pulse and pace quickened. We were getting closer to something wild, something dangerous, and my body knew it.

Bill leapt from the water to the top of the bank. An instant later, the trees swallowed him completely. I paused at the opening. Once I followed, there’d be no turning back. 

“I see it. Oh God… No.” The muffled shouts were followed by the more audible crack of a rifle firing. Couldn’t have been more than a couple of hundred yards away.

I took the hill with a single, large step. Doing my best to follow the tracks in the snow, I barely noticed the trees or the direction I was going in. I came to a clearing with footprints leading down multiple paths. I chose the one with the heaviest traffic. After running for what felt like ages, I stopped, both hands on my knees, taking in ragged, icy breaths.

I’d run on the cross-country team in high school, but growing up in Texas hadn’t given me a lot of experience being active in these frigid conditions. Each gasp of air was an arctic wildfire raking across my throat and burning through my lungs. I tried to get my bearings, but my eyes were watering too much. Trees, trees, snow, and more trees—I was lost as all hell. What was I thinking? I might’ve been Native American by ancestry, but I sure as shit wasn’t any kind of tracker.

A growl vibrated through the night air. A sound so low it could’ve come from the earth below me. There was a soggy, ripping and snapping noise, similar to what I imagined a submerged tree limb being broken free, and pulled from the mud and water might sound like. My stomach tightened as I thought about a number of unpleasant things that could make such a noise.

One thing was certain. Whatever made the racket was close. I slowed my breathing and listened.

More growling. More tearing. I dropped to a crouch and waddled forward in the direction of the noise. I placed a shaking hand over the head of my tomahawk. A bevy of low branches blocked my path. I scooted on my stomach to crawl beneath them. Just beyond the trees, a clearing came into view.

Hunkered down in a circle of bloodstained snow, not fifteen feet away, sat a hairy, white giant of an animal. Its back was turned to me, but I could see the creature was gnawing on a camouflaged arm. The rest of the arm’s body was scattered all over the clearing. I spotted Seth’s head peeking out of a hill of snow not far from one of his legs, a look of surprised terror still spread across his dead face.

I winced. I was just a few feet away from joining him. I let my arms and legs go completely limp, not wanting to disturb even an ounce of snow. One wrong move and my head would be poking out of the snow next to Seth’s.

Oblivious to my presence, the creature continued to worry the arm, only stopping to take an occasional, cautious sniff of air. With each breath, a volcanic eruption of frosted air, spittle, and blood spewed toward the treetops. Its shoulders had to be as wide as my pickup. Once, when the monster turned its head to the side, I caught the outline of a set of jagged, mismatched horns sprouting from either side of a sloped, slab of brow.

Sure as shit wasn’t any bear or cat, but I didn’t think it was a werewolf either. At least this thing didn’t look like the one I’d seen. There had been a measure of cunning or intelligence in the werewolf. This creature was somehow more primitive—an evolutionary leap in the wrong direction.

Not daring to move, I sat and watched it devour a man who’d been asking silly questions a short time before. When the creature finished gnawing on the limb, he rose on arms that were longer than his body and lurched over to the next hunk of meat.

The thought occurred to me that I might actually freeze to death while he worked his way to dessert, but the sight was so shocking time became as uncountable as the snowflakes drifting to the earth. The entire scene played out like some bizarre documentary on giant, man-eating polar gorillas—and I had a front row seat.

When the monster got to Seth’s head, he sniffed his bloody trophy and flung it into the woods with a yowl.

I couldn’t feel anything from the waist down. I flexed my toes open and closed, trying to force some blood flow back into my extremities. In my current state, there was no chance I’d be able to make a quick escape—

The monster turned in my direction, giving me my first good look. The beast carried its unbelievable girth on a pair of stunted legs, with massive, furry arms thrust out into the snow in front of it for support. Though obscured by blood and frost, I could see tiny, yellow eyes buried in the middle of an ugly, wrinkled face. Two gleaming fangs poked out from a shaggy lower lip. A glowing purple circle dangled just below the giant’s head. With each movement of its colossal frame, the orb swayed in front of the beast’s heaving chest.

I shifted my weight forward onto my elbows so I could inch closer. Monsters—at least not the ones I’d seen—didn’t wear jewelry. I squinted, trying to get a better look.

Bill leapt from the shadows onto the animal’s shoulders. He slashed at its back with a hunting knife. “Die you ugly motherfucker!”

Before a third blow could land, the animal pulled him free like it was picking a leaf off its fur. It held Bill aloft, dangling by his legs, their faces inches apart. Bill whimpered as the creature inspected him with emotionless eyes and a twitching pug nose.

Shit, shit, shit…

I wanted to leap to my feet, to scream out—to do anything to distract it—but cold and terror had me frozen to the ground. Bill tried to say something else, but a mighty roar drowned his words. A coat of phlegm and blood covered Bill’s face, and his eyes rolled back into his skull.

At least he’ll be unconscious when he dies.

Unexpectedly, the creature flung him across the clearing. Bill bounced off a tree with a crunch. I gasped.

The animal turned to face me.

Oh hell. I pushed to my knees but fell into several inches of snowdrift when I attempted to stand. I scrambled backwards as the creature advanced on me with slow, thoughtful movements. My back hit something solid. I’d crawled into a tree.

The animal lowered his head. Mismatched horns pointed toward me. He reached me in less than three plodding steps. Huge, clumsy fingers wrapped around my throat, and he hoisted me into the air. Dark yellow claws gouged my soft flesh. The metallic smell of blood combined with the pungent animal odor formed a nauseating mixture.

“Mr. Copperly… it’s… me… Jenny,” I said, trying to think of anything to buy me just one more second of life.

Marshal’s dad was the lone, unaccounted for person in this equation. The only possibilities were that the animal had eaten him, or he was the animal. Either way, my time in the world was winding down. Fast. 

It didn’t let go of me, but the hold on my neck loosened enough to allow a painful gasp of air. The purple sphere hung in front of me amidst a swirl of floating, black dots. The jewel was secured by a piece of gold metal—elongated and broadened at the ends, like a key—that wrapped around it in a spiral. The key was attached to a gold necklace by a strip of leather. There were little symbols etched into the gold looping around the orb. It all swam in my vision, over and over, a spiral that seemed to never end, similar to looking at a twirling top. I wanted to stare at the jewelry and go to sleep. Forever…

The beast roared, digging his nails further into my neck and back, jarring me from my hypnotic stupor.

“Mr. Copperly, your wife is worried about you. Marshal, too. I can help you.”

At the mention of Marshal’s name, he threw his head back and screamed. It was an agonizing and tortured sound that added another layer of ice to my already frozen bones. He stood still, eyes scrunched in confusion, madness, or terror—I couldn’t say which. But I was certain he was feeling something, and that gave me hope Marshal’s father was still in there somewhere. 

“Let me take you home. We can figure this out. We can—”

A gunshot broke off my words. 

“I heard something,” someone called from nearby. The voice was followed by more shouts, and two more gunshots.

The animal gave me a final curious look, shook me, and let go. My body felt as though it were floating to the ground. The snow enveloped me in a wonderful blanket of cold, then the world went dark.

“Can you hear me?”

My eyes opened, but instead of seeing Sheriff Mays—the voice I’d heard—the head of a monster flashed in my vision. Stinking teeth, matted fur, and piercing eyes bore down on me. I screamed and tried to thrash away, but my shoulders were pinned. 

“You’re safe now. Try to relax.” It was Sherriff Mays’ voice again, and this time the sheriff’s chubby face swam into focus. “It’s okay, Floyd. You can let her go.”

I pushed myself into a sitting position. My head felt four times too big for my body. There was an odd humming, a rumble in my ears, and voices came from people I couldn’t see. I tried to lean onto my side, but a stabbing pain in my neck and shoulders left me erect and wincing. I might’ve blacked out again if not for the overpowering, thick scent on the air. Not animal or blood, but… Old Spice? I wasn’t sure if the fragrance did much to attract the ladies, but it made a great smelling salt.

I crinkled my nose. “Wh—” I coughed and sputtered, my throat feeling like I’d swallowed a hot charcoal briquette.   

“Here, take some water.” The sheriff handed me a cup with a bendy straw. He watched me take several painful sips before continuing. “You’re in the back of an ambulance.”

That explains the rumbling in my ears, at least.

 “Got a call from one of your hunting buddies saying all hell had broken loose at a potential crime scene.” He’d almost yelled the word scene before pausing as if to collect himself.

“A potential crime scene the sheriff of the county strictly forbid anyone to go back to,” Deputy Floyd said, his pencil-thin chest sticking out. His excitement betrayed a slight lisp in his speech, undermining his tough talk .

Sheriff Mays ignored the interruption. “By the time we got back out to the bridge, I had two more dead men on my hands, one unconscious young woman, another man critically wounded, and four in hysterics. Jesus H. Christ, what happened out there?”

I didn’t look him in the eyes. “I’m not sure.”

There was a sharp intake of air as the sheriff shifted with a grunt. There wasn’t room to stand in the back of the ambulance. I chanced a glance in his direction. A tan cowboy hat sat crookedly on his head, before he swept it off to scratch at his bald dome. A few large flakes of snow clung, melting, to his shoulders.  His eyes were sunken and purple with fatigue.

He’s about to break. I needed to give him something, but not the truth. He wouldn’t believe that, anyway.

“Seth called on the radio. Bill and I went to help him. When we found Seth, he was… dead. There was some kind of bear, or something—I didn’t get a good look. It attacked Bill and me. It killed Bill.”

I did my best to look remorseful, even though the jerk had threatened to kill me. In truth, I felt a brief stab of regret for Bill. He’d been pretty ballsy in the end. 

Placing his hat back on his head, Sheriff Mays leaned toward me. I flinched when he reached out to pat me on the shoulder. “Bill ain’t dead.” 

I coughed so I had an excuse to cover my face, and hopefully my surprise, with my hand. If Bill was alive, he’d probably already told them a wild story about monster knife fights in the snow. Who’s to say I hadn’t seen a bear, and he’d seen Bigfoot? 

Who was I kidding? In their eyes, Bill was a member of the law enforcement fraternity, and I was the town circus. I knew whose story they’d believe.

“At least not yet,” Deputy Floyd said.

Sheriff Mays gave him a scathing look.

“I best be checking on him.” Floyd hurried to the rear of the ambulance.

  A blast of cold air swept in when the door opened, helping to further clear my mind. A couple of curious EMTs looked in at us.

The sheriff shook his head—whether he was telling them not to bother us, or trying to erase the deputy’s remarks from his memory, I couldn’t say.

“Bill’s in real bad shape. They took him straight back to surgery. Doc thinks he might have a broken back—sure it was a bear you saw?”

I seized the moment. “It was on us so fast, I can’t be sure. But I’d swear that’s what got ahold of me.” 

“It’ll be the first damn bear attack I’ve worked in thirty-five years of law enforcement, then.” Sheriff Mays sighed. “I suppose we’ll find out what it is for sure in a couple of hours.”

“How’s that?”

 “Because we’re about to have the collected law enforcement agencies of the state of Texas so far up our asses it’ll take surgery and a soft cushion to get rid of ‘em,” Sherriff Mays said.

Marshal’s dad, and God knows how many police officers, were about to meet a real bad end.

“Can I leave?”

I tried to locate my coat, but the sheriff put a hand on my knee to still me.

“You can go as soon as the medics clear you. There’s something else I need to tell you.”

His hand hadn’t distracted me from ripping the blood pressure cuff off of my arm, but the last bit stopped me. I watched him, searching for some clue of what might be coming.

He frowned. “I know this isn’t the best time for this, but you’re here… Ah hell, I’ll just say it. We think we found your grandfather.”

I stared at him, trying to muster the appropriate lack of emotion. “The graveyard is pretty small, and he’s been there a while.”

Sheriff Mays’ eyes widened. “No, that’s not how I mean. He was alive. Well, he’s not now, but—”

“You’re trying to tell me that the grandfather who I thought had died when I was kid, didn’t really. And you’ve found him—dead—again.”

“Yes, I think that’s it.” His jaw hung open.

I shrugged.

“You’re not upset?” he asked, sounding more relieved than surprised.

“Sheriff, if he walked out on my family, he wouldn’t have been the first to do it. The way I see it, the bastard let my grandmother die alone of cancer. Dead or gone, he makes no difference to me. Hasn’t for a long time.”

The sheriff studied me in a way I was all too familiar with. A look that said he thought I was crazy, weird, or peculiar beyond reckoning—which was exactly what I wanted him to think in this situation.

At last he said, “Well, when you get a chance, stop by the department. You’re his only kin—that we could locate, anyhow. You’ll need to sign a release in order for the body to be turned back over to you.”

“What if I don’t want it? I don’t have the money to pay for his second funeral.”

The sheriff arched his eyebrows. “I’m not sure what happens in that case, honestly. I’ll do some checking and get back to you?”

I nodded, slipping an arm into my coat. After pretending to search for my keys, I asked, “Do they know how he died this time?”

“He was pretty old. Coroner said natural causes, most likely.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling grateful for the small bit of good news but dread for what was to come.

***

By the time I reached Marshal’s apartment, dawn raked across the sky in brilliant red and gold streaks in between huge, scuttling banks of white clouds. More than ten inches of winter precipitation had fallen during the night. We probably had more camels than snow plows in our part of the world, which was to say none of either. Lucky for me, Beauty was a four-wheel drive. So the journey into town was slow but not all that treacherous.

I treaded through the snow where I thought the sidewalk should be. I appreciated the cold lapping against my shins and seeping into my boots. The discomfort almost made me forget about the pain in my neck and back.

The EMTs had wanted to take me to the hospital for stiches and a tetanus shot—the creature’s claws had gotten me pretty good, apparently—but I refused. The weather would buy us some time, but the countdown to save Marshal’s father had begun in earnest. If the state police got to him first, more people would die, and eventually so would Mr. Copperly. We had to figure out a way to undo whatever had been done to him, and fast.

My fist had just landed the second blow on the door when it opened. A bleary-eyed Rushdam greeted me.

Shielding his eyes from the burgeoning daylight, he said, “Hi?”

“Please God tell me you’ve got coffee,” I said, trying to quiet yet another uncontrollable shiver working its way over my spine.

“Jennifer… I… we weren’t expecting… I mean, I got in late last night and…” His cheeks glowed.

He looked down at his wardrobe, surprise widening his facial features. He probably realized for the first time he was wearing a thin, kimono-style bathrobe. Courtesy of Chez Marshal, I wagered. The garment did a pleasantly poor job of covering his dark, muscular body. I smiled as he fought to close the robe, doing my best—sort of—to not focus on the well-filled zebra-striped bikini briefs peeking out the bottom. Those were decidedly not standard Marshal issue.

What do you know? Mr. Serious has a freaky side.

God only knew what I looked like, but my give-a-damn had been choked out of me by a hairy monster a few hours earlier.

“It’s Jenny. No offense, but I’m freezing my tits off. Can I come in?”

I pushed by him.

“Sorry, absolutely.”

I shoved half a dozen decorative pillows off the first papasan chair I came to and collapsed into the heavenly soft folds. I closed my eyes and might’ve even dozed off had the smell of coffee not forced me back to the waking world.

Rushdam extended a steaming mug toward me. His hair was its usual nest of smoky tendrils. A small crop of dark stubble grew on his angular jaw. He’d found a pair of benign, black sweatpants to slip on under his vibrant, green and red robe.

Damn.

“Thanks.” I took the cup. “Marshal know I’m here?”

He shook his head. “He’s in the shower. I wanted to get you warmed up first.”

I stifled a giggle, a little surprised by my own immaturity. Which was saying something coming from a master of childish thoughts.

Everything is funny when you’re exhausted, half-frozen, and recently mauled by a giant man-beast.

Hiding my grin with the oversized coffee cup, I waited to reply until reality—or caffeine—had sobered me up. “You better go get him. I think we’re in a lot of trouble.”

While I waited, I studied the picture on the side of my glass as a way of not having to think about the conversation I was about to have. A red-eyed, hung-over looking unicorn holding a coffeepot poured a rainbow-colored drink into his own mug. The caption above the image read, Coffee: Because sometimes even fabulous needs a jumpstart.

“You aren’t lying, brother,” I mumbled as Marshal came into the room.

His hair was still dripping and slicked to his head. I hadn’t seen him without his gel-spiked do in a while. The look made him appear older than his twenty-two years. Or maybe the hollowed, dark circles around his eyes, and the way his usually perky face sagged with concern, was what aged him.

He moved in to hug me but stopped short. “Wha… What happened to you?”

I tilted my head to let him inspect the bandages and bruises on my neck. The fresh scent of Marshal’s soap reminded me of how bad I smelled, and how awful I probably looked.

I glanced down. My jeans were still damp and splattered with blood, mud, or something in between. My coat was torn in several places. White stuffing jutted out of each jagged tear like cute, puffy cloud guts, making me think of dead unicorns for some stupid reason.

When Marshal poked hard enough to make something hurt, I brushed his hand away. I gave him my mug. “Get us some more coffee and have a seat. This is going to be hard.”

Marshal sat on a stool in front of my chair, with Rushdam standing at his side. As I recounted the night’s events, Rushdam’s hand never left Marshal’s shoulder. I was grateful someone had the stamina to comfort him as the tears welled in his eyes yet again. Strangely, I could relate to the difficulty of hearing a family member had become a monster. But that didn’t make me Dr. Phil for Friends of the Changed and Damned or anything.

Rushdam gave Marshal a final pat and left the room, as I finished with what the sheriff had told me about the state police.

“You’re sure it was him?” Marshal pawed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

My shoulders tensed. Sure was a pretty damned big word to spit out when abominable snowmen were involved.

I ran my hand through my hair. “He responded when I called him by your dad’s name—when I said your name. And nothing else fits.”

Marshal nodded.

Rushdam returned with a box of tissues for Marshal, and a pad and pen for me.

“Can you sketch a picture of what you saw around the monster’s neck?”

“I guess.” I took hold of the pen.

I was no artist, but the pendant’s design had been simple enough—just one crude piece of gold metal curled into a looping spiral around a purple gemstone—

“Damn it, how could I be so stupid!” I threw down the pen and shoved the drawing into Marshal’s hands.

He scanned the paper but didn’t seem to be making the connection.

“For Christ’s sake, Marshal, what did your dad go to Lubbock to do?”

His jaw started moving, but the words still weren’t coming.

Rushdam leaned over Marshal’s shoulder. His bushy eyebrows closed together as he inspected the picture. “Your father went to the swap meet, yes?”

Marshal nodded.

“Then we have to assume this is the piece of jewelry he had made, and that it’s somehow connected to all of this.” He frowned.

“What is it?” I asked.

“There’s something troubling about the metal work. Spiral symbology is used in a lot of Native American art and jewelry. It represents the unceasing cycle of life, a progression of things. Like the journey of connecting to our innermost being, the spiral gets smaller as it nears the center. If that were combined with something very old and earthen, like the gemstone, it could make for a powerful enchantment. But it can’t be—”

“Sarah.” I slapped the chair.

Just saying her name brought a bitter taste of bile to my mouth. The bitch had a major hate boner for my family, and she had tried to use witchcraft to kill me. I’d wounded her in the confrontation, but she’d gotten away.

“How? I thought she’d completely disappeared.” Marshal stared at Rushdam.

Sarah and Rushdam had been classmates, as well as having belonged to the same coven.

Rushdam looked equally dumbfounded. “I haven’t seen her since that night. No one has, not in the coven, not at school. But she definitely knows about the swap meet. This is very bad.”

“Why?” I tried to summon the energy to get out of the chair.

“If she is responsible for this transformation that’s come over your father, this is very powerful magic.”

I held up my hand to stop him. “Just tell us how to undo it.”

“I’m not sure you can. Unless you know the exact curse—which I don’t—the only way around such a charm would be to physically remove the necklace. That’s risky. As I said, the spiral indicates the complete cycle of life. If you disrupt that, you could disrupt the life, too. I’d need to call some of the other witches who have more experience with cursed objects to know for sure.” Rushdam snatched the paper out of my hands and poured over it again.

Marshal stood. “We don’t have time for that. We’ve got to get it off and change Dad back before anyone else gets hurt.”

I found myself in the unusual position of being the voice of reason. “Now wait just a damn second. We aren’t just going to walk up to this thing and ask for the necklace back with a please-and-thank-you. I don’t know what Sarah has turned your dad into, but it isn’t friendly. I didn’t get these making out with him.”

I pointed to the claw holes in my neck. Marshal’s posture stiffened as he presumably prepared to launch a counterattack. If Marshal was upset enough to fight back, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to talk him out of this one.

But I had to try. “We don’t even know what he’s become—”

Rushdam cleared his throat.

Marshal and I spun around to face him. “What?” we shouted in unison.

“I think I might have an idea of what he is.”

“And?” we asked.

Rushdam scratched at his ear nervously. “After dinner the other night, your father showed me a book he was reading about Norse mythology. These types of spells are highly personalized, and usually play off of the victim’s most immediate emotions and memories. Think about what we know about the monster. It hides under a bridge, smells, and doesn’t seem very intelligent. What do children’s stories tell us about such creatures?”

Marshal spoke solo this time, but we were thinking the same thing. “Holy shit. Dad’s a troll.”

***

I clutched the steering wheel, my knuckles whitening to the color of the bone beneath the skin. My eyes never strayed from the dangerous road in front of me. We were driving too fast to use the four-wheel drive, and the highways were still a mess. I regretted my offer to drive, while Marshal searched my grandfather’s journal for suggestions on dealing with man-eating trolls.

The absurdity of the situation was overwhelming. A witch had turned my best friend’s father into a troll, who incidentally lived under a bridge. Where was Billy Goat Gruff when we needed his smelly, goat ass? As if my life could get any fucking weirder.

One thing was certain: The next time Marshal called me boring and gave me shit about staying home and playing video games, I’d punch him in the giblets. Hard.

“I can’t find anything about trolls.” Marshal slapped his palm against the dash in frustration.

Since we’d left the house, he’d been bouncing between the journal and a plain-English companion book my grandfather had assembled over the years. I knew the effort wouldn’t amount to much. We’d spent the last couple of months trying to make sense of both documents. The work was tedious at the best of times, and impossible at the worst.

“Guess I’m the first Moonsong to fight a troll. Gramps would be impressed.” I turned down the road to the bridge.

“Let’s just hope you’re not the last one,” Marshal said with more than a little hopelessness in his tone.

We didn’t have time to be discouraged. “You grab the emergency kit out of your car like I asked?”

“Yeah, what was it you wanted out of there?”

“If this thing is troll-like, it’ll probably hate bright light. Unfortunately, it’s still pretty overcast, but road flares might do the trick,” I said.

“Maybe this doesn’t have anything to do with Sarah. Maybe Dad just found this enchanted necklace with all of the other crap he digs up. If it isn’t witch work, that might be why there’s no reference to it in the journal. We get it off of his neck, and he goes back to normal.” Marshal’s voice was high and pleading.

I sighed. He knew who was behind this every bit as much as I did, but arguing was pointless. “Let’s just hope Rush can find someone in his coven with some ideas and relay the information to us. And he’d better be quick about it, because we’re here.”

His father’s snow-covered work truck was the only vehicle still at the site. Yellow barrier tape had been draped across the bridge opening, in the ditch near where we’d found the severed hand, and across the trees on the creek bank. The snow and wind had left most of the material pinned to the ground, or trailing in the stiff morning breeze. The long tendrils of tape snapped in the air, like they were shooing us away with waving hands. We hadn’t heeded the words written on the barrier, so I supposed there was nothing left to do but physically warn us off.

 “What’s the plan?” I asked.

“We find him,” Marshal said, his voice muffled by the scarf he’d wrapped around his face. “Then we take the necklace off.”

“So long as neither of us knows what we’re going to do,” I grumbled.

We walked a few steps toward the new bridge and stopped. The entire world had gone quiet, as if nature were taking a deep breath. I held my tomahawk in my left hand, the pistol in my right. I’d stuffed two road flares into a pocket on my cargo pants.

Marshal gave the weapons a dubious look that I didn’t acknowledge. I had no intention of being caught off guard again, nor did I plan on letting Marshal and me die without a fight. Maybe his dad was in there, maybe he wasn’t, but I wasn’t going leave anything to chance.

“Mr. Copperly,” I called, my words echoing off the trees around us.

“Dad, it’s me, Marshal. If you can hear us, we’re here to help you,” he said, adding to the fading chorus of my own voice. 

More silence.

“I guess we go back into the woods?” I asked.

A snarl came from the direction of the old bridge. My fingers clinched around the hatchet handle tight enough to make my forearm cramp. Under the bridge is the only place he can hide from the daylight.

“Come on.” Marshal broke into a trot.

I bit my bottom lip as I hurried after him, not knowing if the gesture was to stop it from trembling, or to keep me from crying out for Marshal to stop.

The shallow creek water was frozen solid, but the snow on top allowed for enough grip to keep us upright. An outsider watching us might have thought we were being cautious, the way we took one measured step after another. We were probably just too scared to go any faster. We crept toward the bridge. The pungent animal odor returned.

A familiar tightness grabbed hold of my throat, and my pace slowed.

“This is a bad idea. I’ve seen this thing up close. If your dad is in there, he’s a long way off now.” I’d known there was no hope all along but had been holding it back for Marshal’s sake.

He ignored me. “Dad, we can help you.”

A whimper came from the gloom. I trained the gun on the darkness, but the pistol was shaking so badly I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hit a thing.

Marshal’s face contorted with determination. A look I’d come to know as the nurse-Marshal-can-fix-anything special. He took two more bold steps.

“Goddamn it, Marshal,” I whispered.

I tried to stay a few paces behind and to the right of him to keep my line of fire open.

“Dad, come out here. Let me see you.”

Predatory animals had an extra sense; they could detect fear and weakness. They didn’t take on the bold and strong. That was what made them great hunters. Prey probably had an extra sense as well. Call it fight or flight—or whatever—animals that got snacked on a bunch knew when they were in danger. They knew when to call it quits and hall nuts out of Dodge.

Perhaps my recent brushes with death had put me in touch with the little, frightened squirrel deep inside of me, because I knew the troll was sizing us up. I had an intense urge to run like hell.

Instead, I holstered my pistol and placed the axe on the ground. I pulled a flare from my pocket, and twisted off the plastic cap. Holding it away from me, I struck the ends together and watched it spark to life in a vibrant, hissing crimson flash. Marshal looked at me as I flung the flare under the bridge.

“We might as well see what’s going to eat us,” I said, rearming myself.

The flare skidded into place, brightening the area beneath the bridge considerably. I adjusted my grip on the pistol, trying to accommodate for how sweat-slicked my hand had become. My blood pumped so hard I wasn’t even cold without my gloves. The tomahawk felt rigid and strong in my other hand. The basic strategy was to empty every last bullet into the creature and save the ax as my last line of defense. But I knew these things rarely went as planned.

“Marshal, we need to leave. Now—”

A mighty roar severed my words as a seven hundred pound ball of dirty, white fur and fury dropped from the rafters of the bridge. In a single, fluid movement, he launched toward us. Ice cracked and crunched as his claws pushed through the frozen water for traction. The beast grunted in rhythm with each massive, loping stride.

Marshal’s legs buckled as the troll closed the dozens of yards between it and us in seconds. I fired once. Twice. Three times. Between recoils, I could see the monster wasn’t slowing. He went straight for Marshal.

I dropped the gun and charged. There wasn’t enough traction for me to get up to sprinting speed, and I only had seconds to get between troll and friend. I fell into a baseball slide. Slush and snow flew in my wake as I skidded over the ice on a collision course with the creature. I held the ax in both hands as tightly as I could.

Please let my timing be good enough.

I barely felt the head of the ax slice into his leg, but the agonizing howl and warm spray of blood on my hands told me I’d found my mark. Still sliding, I managed to turn in enough time to see the troll careen sideways just before he reached Marshal. The monster slammed into the creek bank, uprooting a sizeable oak tree in the crash.

I buried the hatchet into the frozen creek to stop my slide, then pulled myself to my feet. Marshal ran toward the beast.

“Stop!” I scrambled after him.

The troll rose from the mud and snow. The mammoth, towering at least three times as tall as Marshal, bellowed and grabbed my friend by the neck. Blood streamed from a long cut above the monster’s knee, where I’d whacked him moments before. Within seconds, Marshal went limp, his legs dangling loosely beneath his body like two fragile strings.

I only hoped the troll was so focused on Marshal he wouldn’t see me coming for the rematch.

When I’d closed within a few feet, I doubled my grip on the hatchet. Letting out a shrill scream, I leapt into the air and buried the ax into the shaggy arm nearest me.

The limb thudded to the ground next to Marshal, who’d been unceremoniously dropped. I spun around, trying to locate my opponent. The troll swung at me with his intact arm. I dodged just enough to deflect some of the blow, but it was still powerful enough to send me flying into the creek bank with a thump.

I wheezed and sputtered, trying to get air back into my lungs, needing to get moving, but unable to do either. Through watering eyes, I spotted my tomahawk—it had been knocked out of my hands, too far away for me to get to. The troll stood still, his large bottom lip jutting out more and more with each breath. His eyes shifted nervously, as if he were mulling his options: Finish killing breakfast, or haul ass back to shelter to lick his wounds.

Finally regaining enough oxygen to think, I found the last flare in my pocket. My fingers fumbled over the device as I desperately tried to separate the pieces. The monster noticed my movement and took a tentative step towards me. I’d apparently put some fear into him, but not enough to scare him off.

The beast growled when I dropped the plastic ignition cap into the mud and snow, and the hackles of hair around his head stiffened.

 Get your shit together, Jenny. Fast!

Managing to push myself into a crouch, I snatched the piece off the ground. I started frantically striking it against the top of the flare. If I’d somehow made the cap soggy enough to not light, it would literally be the last mistake of my life.

The troll took two more steps in my direction, this time more assured, his rage growing with every rumbling pant. He leaned over me, his girth blotting out the daylight around us. His nose twitched from side to side as if he were trying to determine my ripeness. He was close enough to grab me.

The flare hissed to life. I lunged forward and thrust it into the troll’s face, instantly melting the tufts of white hair hanging from his cheeks and brow. He flailed backwards, waiving his massive arm in broad, defensive swipes, which I ducked. After stumbling several times, he turned toward the bridge, and began walking toward the shelter in an awkward, zigzagging march.

I’ve blinded him.

I threw down the flare and limped over to my tomahawk.

“Don’t,” Marshal said weakly from behind me.

At the sound of his voice, I squeezed my eyes closed in thankfulness. If he could talk, he was alive. I wanted to check on him, but I also knew we’d never get another shot at ending this. So I didn’t take my eyes off the creature, not even to blink. I wouldn’t have had a hard time tracking him anyway. There was a steady trail of purple blood snaking along behind him.

Each step was deliberate as I crept up on the monster, half of me ready to attack, the other half ready to run. An odd, mental image from one of my favorite old horror movies came to me: Jack Nicholson from the Shining, stalking over the snow, bloody ax in hand. Here’s Jenny! But the beast never turned around.

A noisy pant—this time more like the whining of an injured dog than the sound of a hyper-aggressive gorilla—came from him. I closed within striking distance. My eyes watered. Damn these things smell bad. The back of the gold chain glistened through his dirty fur. I raised the hatchet.

The blow landed with a resounding crack. There was a blinding spark of light as if some kind of magical seal had been broken, and I flew backwards onto my rear. The necklace fell away, and the monster whimpered. The troll crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Marshal ran by me. “Dad! Oh God.”

I approached them slowly but could clearly see the troll was Mr. Copperly once more. His skin had turned a soft shade of blue. Marshal sobbed. I didn’t need to check for a pulse to know the man was dead.

“Marhsal, I’m sorry. It was the only way to stop this. He was going to kill you.”

I placed my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged away from my touch. Then Marshal stood, turned, and walked away.

***

“Anything else you’d like to add to your official statement?” Sheriff Mays asked, still scribbling on his notepad.

The police station was a blessedly sterile environment. No hint of troll stink, no sign of blood, and no screams of terror. Just a small fan droning lazily in the corner, and a modest metal desk littered with little, white coffee cups and manila folders.

Snow and heaters two days ago, sixty degrees and fans today. Fucking Texas.

I recounted my story in my head, trying to make sure I’d covered my bases. Marshal and I had driven out to continue looking for his dad and found him naked—and dead—on the frozen creek. We called the police. The lie had been pretty straightforward compared to some of the ones I’d told lately.

A memory of Marshal’s vacant stare, as he silently watched me hide my weapons and come up with a story to tell the authorities, came to me. I hadn’t spoken to him since.

I licked my lips to moisten them enough to speak again. “Think that’s all.”

“Poor bastard probably got confused from hypothermia and stripped down. Not sure if the cold, or blood loss from losing his arm got him,” Sheriff Mays said, giving the gum in his mouth a world-class workout. “Guess either is better than being eaten by a bear.”

The swivel chair I sat in squeaked as I moved closer to the cluttered desk. “They ever find it?”

Sheriff Mays looked at me, a shadow of concern darkening his features. “Not even a pile of bear shit. State guys said the dogs wouldn’t even get out of the cars. You believe that? They’re going to do some forensic stuff on the bodies, see if they can come up with anything. And of course, I’ll question Bill when he’s up to it—see if maybe he saw something you didn’t. If you ask me, nothin’ll ever come of it. Critter probably got wind of all the commotion and hightailed it. Won’t catch me traipsing around out there any time soon, I’ll guaran-damn-tee you that.”

He finally put his pen down. Sheriff Mays scratched at his scalp nervously. He appeared uncomfortable, like a dad who needed to talk to his daughter about birth control but wasn’t sure if he even knew how it worked for girls.

“Well, I guess I’ll be going,” I said.

The sheriff stood with a groan. “Right.” He extended his hand but pulled it back before I could shake it. “Wait just a second, I’ve got something for you.”

My heart thudded faster than the seconds eroded as he hurried out of the room. I tried to imagine what new misery awaited me. Were trolls on the endangered species list? Didn’t think so, but what else could I have done?

He returned in moments, carrying something similar to a large Tupperware container.

“I inquired about the body like you asked, they said they couldn’t force you to be responsible for him. But turns out, there’s some private group that has a fund set up to pay for indigent burials. They offered to pay for a cremation, and requested that you have the remains.”

I held back a relieved giggle, but my hands shook all the same as I took the plastic box from him. I had to adjust my grip so I didn’t drop it. A printer label on the top read Billy Moonsong. My grandfather’s ashes were sealed inside of a plastic baggy underneath the lid.

“Things are heavier than you’d think.” Sheriff Mays scratched his head again.

“Do you know who the group was?” I was more perplexed than grateful.

“Not sure. The state will send an official death certificate to the county courthouse. Might check there.”

With Grandpa tucked safely under my arm, I said my thanks and exited.

I sat outside of the police station in my truck for a long time. There were a few patches of snow leftover from the storm hiding in the shady areas next to the building, but none of them were connected. And why would they be? Everything in my life was just so fucking random. There was no one to blame. I was a Moonsong by blood, and that birthright was responsible for all of this craziness.

I wanted to scream, shoot something, frag the shit out of someone in a video game, or—well, do just about anything to put me back in my comfort zone. I punched the seat and picked up Grandpa, fully planning to hurl him through the window. Instead, a ball of grief and regret dislodged somewhere inside of me and choked me with sorrow. I clutched the ashes and wept.

Getting all teary wasn’t my usual way of dealing with things, and I sure as hell knew feeling sorry for myself wouldn’t bring Marshal or any number of my dead relatives back into my life. But I had to admit, crying felt pretty good.

After I’d composed myself, I carefully set Gramps on the passenger floorboard.

Not caring who might see me chatting with myself, I said to the remains, “We’re going to have to figure out what to do next. You can’t just throw me to the wolves. Okay, that was a poor turn of phrase.”

My phone chirped, and my stomach fluttered. Marshal had his own text sound on my phone, and that hadn’t been it. I snatched the device off the seat a little too eagerly nonetheless.

A text from Rushdam, of all people.

Think I’ve located Sarah. Call me ASAP.

I smiled, realizing I’d been wrong. There was someone to blame for the shit-ball of misfortune my life had become. And I intended to see she paid for the pain she’d caused, starting now.

********