Chapter
Twenty-four
The coroner’s van pulled away with its sad
burden, followed by the RCMP cruisers. Connor watched them go
without seeing them, without seeing anything. He felt like he was
underwater. Everything was distorted through a watery lens and he
was moving in slow motion, pushing against the current along the
bottom of a cold river.
Every living thing on the farm had been
chased down and slaughtered, from the herd of cattle in the pasture
to the smaller animals that ranged free around the yard. Blood
seemed to be everywhere, soaking into the hard clay, splattering
the fence rails and feeders, even splashed against the walls of the
white barn like garish paint. Still, he’d made a thorough check of
every animal, from the biggest draft horse to the smallest cat.
He’d known they were dead before he touched them. But he’d needed
to touch them. And each one reinforced both his anger and his
decision. White hot fury hardened his resolve to
diamond.
Bernard Gervais had run rampant long
enough. He had to be stopped, permanently. For Jim Neely and for Al
Menzie, for every victim known and unknown. For those intended to
become victims, like Zoey. And for all the helpless and innocent
creatures.
Connor stood and scanned the
surrounding land. The forest, the fields, the coulees dropping away
to the river valley. He surveyed them until gradually a silvery
thread appeared before his eyes. Farsight
had come to his aid at last.
He had Bernie’s trail.
Zoey paced the house, rubbing her arms
as if she was cold. In truth, she didn’t know what she was. She
couldn’t seem to feel much, except anxiety for Connor. He’d asked
for some time alone in the farmyard, and she could certainly
understand that. She was tired and knew she should be hungry, but
although she warmed up some soup, she couldn’t bring herself to eat
it. Nor could she sit down and rest. Her mind and heart were with
the man she loved. And so she kept returning to the living room to
watch Connor through the windows. She’d seen him kneel by every
last animal, saw him touch each and every one. Was he saying
good-bye? Praying for them? What did Changelings do? Whatever their
custom, she thought of her own loss when Fester died, and thought
how much worse this must be for the gifted veterinarian. His heart
was already sore from the loss of his human friend. But the animals
had been his friends too. She remembered the night she first walked
through the farmyard with Connor, remembered how he had introduced
her to each animal that lived there. They were all individuals to
him. And they obviously adored him, couldn’t get close enough to
him.
Oh Jesus—she
suddenly remembered Lila and the puppies. Her puppy. She dashed out the front door, but paused at
the top of the steps when she spotted movement on the far side of
Connor’s truck. Connor himself emerged from the backseat, pulling
something with him. Then in a blurred motion almost too fast to
follow, he spun away.
He Changed. He must have. Because in
the next instant all she could see was a massive black and silver
blur moving between the trees.
And then it was gone.
“Wait,” she mouthed although Connor was
no longer in sight. Something was niggling at the corners of her
awareness, something huge and dark. Suddenly her physical sight was
overwhelmed by her inner sight.
She was flying high overhead,
eagle-like, following a wide river. The water was turbulent,
swollen with rain and debris. Trees were gouged from the banks and
carried along in the torrent. As she watched, she noticed several
places where the hillsides had given way and slid into the river.
One spot in particular drew her attention, about four miles
downstream from the first. Where the toe of raw earth met the
river, an enormous tree lay on its side, its roots half-buried in
the slide and half in the air, its broken crown nearly submerged in
the river, spanning a third of the way across the wild, churning
water.
The tree was important. She
had to get there. It was important, as
necessary as breathing.
She dove toward it—
—and found herself on the ground at the
foot of the stairs, staring at an empty vodka bottle that was
wedged under the bottom step.
Zoey eased herself to her feet,
brushing off her clothes. She’d have bruises, no doubt, but that
wasn’t bad considering she’d tumbled down six or seven stairs. It
was the vision that bothered her. What the hell did it
mean?
She paced and swore repeatedly in pure
frustration at the strange gift that had set her apart, made her
different, disrupted her career and her life. Why the hell couldn’t
it work the way it did in television shows? Often she received
nothing, no hint at all of what was to come. Other times, she’d
been led to scenes after the event had already taken place.
Sometimes she just received incomprehensible clues, like these. A
landslide, a flooded river, a fallen tree . . . She sank to the
bottom step and willed her brain to work through the puzzle. The
river in her vision had been very wide and the coulees that flanked
it were a signature of the Peace River, the same river she could
see in the far distance as a glimmering thread. But it gained its
name from its serene surface. Sure, the calmness was deceiving—the
Peace actually boasted a strong, swift current—but it was hardly
the raging floodwaters she’d seen in the psychic
vision.
Or was it?
She glanced at the lowering sky. It
hadn’t rained here yet, but she knew that it was still raining
heavily in the mountains and foothills. The dam had been forced to
release more water. How long did it take for all that extra water
to travel a couple hundred miles or so along the winding river?
Zoey held her head in both hands in an effort to focus, to discern
the meaning of the images she’d seen. Why was it so important? What
was it she needed to do? Did any of it have to do with Bernie or
was it just a distraction?
Connor had headed into the forest that
flanked the farmyard on the south. The river was west. If there was
a connection, she couldn’t feel it. She got to her feet again and
as she turned to begin pacing, her foot brushed the vodka bottle. A
sudden tingle went through her as if she’d touched a tiny electric
current. Puzzled, she knelt and reached for the bottle—and as her
hand closed around it, thoughts and images burst into her brain.
Not so much an epiphany as an explosion in
her head.
Zoey lost her balance and fell backward
onto the grass, overwhelmed. She knew without a doubt that Bernard
Gervais had touched the glass, had wrapped his fingers around it.
And she suddenly knew something more, something new. Because he had
touched this object, she could use it to
enhance and direct her gift! In the past, in the city, her growing
psychic ability had led her to places and events by thought alone.
Never had she intentionally or inadvertently touched anything
associated with a crime scene. And so she’d never known, never even
thought or imagined, where her talent truly lay.
Please, please,
please. Zoey held the bottle in both hands, clutched it
close to her, tried to open herself up to her gift. Show me. Tell me.
It did.
With horrifying clarity, she could see
exactly what her vision had meant. Bernie was near the river, lying
in wait. Connor was going after Bernie.
And neither would survive.
The faint silvery thread of
farsight led into the woods and straight
into the shallow stream. Connor found himself racing along the
streambed, driving the cold water into plumes around him. Miles
later, his psychic guideline had not altered. Bernie had clearly
used the little creek as a personal pathway. How long, how far,
Connor couldn’t begin to guess, but it didn’t matter. The water
didn’t slow him in the least. An adult wolf was a perfect running
machine, able to cover fifty to sixty miles in a day. A Changeling,
twice that distance. An angry Changeling, maybe more.
The psychic trail led Connor to where
the land dropped away into the river valley in runneled cliffs and
coulees of sandstone and clay. The saddleback wolf trotted along
the tops of the cliffs on silent feet, keeping to the cover of
trees and brush. His farsight had subsided,
but he didn’t need its help anymore. Bernie had left the water’s
camouflage and Connor could sift the rogue’s scent easily from the
air. Knew he was close by.
Without warning, an enormous grizzled
shape crashed through the bushes and broadsided the saddleback
wolf. Connor simply rolled beneath the force and regained his feet,
launching himself straight at his attacker’s throat.
The creature twisted and leapt aside,
Connor’s jaws closing just shy of the vulnerable throat. Instead he
got a mouthful of the gray ruff. He used his momentum to pivot,
scoring a long ragged gash along Bernie’s ribs.
At least he thought it was Bernie.
Changelings were naturally larger and more powerful than ordinary
wolves, and Connor was one of the largest in the Pack. Yet this
incarnation of Bernie outweighed him easily. Only the color of the
creature’s hide and the madness in its eyes identified it as once
having been Bernard Gervais.
Connor dodged and wheeled as the
monstrous rogue charged him again and again with snapping jaws and
deep-throated snarls. He delivered quick slashes of his own, then
leapt barely out of reach as the beast whirled on him. The battle
became a blur of savage growls and lunging forms. Droplets of
spittle and blood flew from gnashing teeth. The rogue wolf was pure
killer instinct, all fang and claw, muscle and teeth. His madness
had lent him unnatural strength and speed. Connor left off trying
to get to the throat and instead sliced at the rogue’s legs at
every opening. If he was lucky, he might be able to slow Bernie
down, disable him. But each time, Bernie managed to shake him
off—often twisting away from Connor’s jaws like quicksilver—and
delivered vicious bites of his own.
Despite Connor’s best efforts, the
rogue gained ground, backing the saddleback wolf onto a narrow
promontory of land that fell away steeply on three sides to the
river valley below. Connor was bleeding from many deep wounds while
Bernie’s injuries seemed few and shallow by comparison. Determined,
Connor made another try for Bernie’s throat and found himself
abruptly slammed away by a paw that felt more like a fence post. He
landed hard near the edge of the cliff, raked with deep parallel
gashes over two, maybe three, cracked ribs.
Apparently satisfied that he had his
enemy both cornered and subdued, Bernie backed away and sat down at
the root of the outcropping, effectively blocking any hope of exit.
The rogue was barely breathing hard although his opponent’s sides
were heaving. Still, Connor got to his feet quickly, braced for
another attack. And recoiled in pure shock as he got his first
clear look at his enemy.
The only wolflike features Bernie had
left were his ears, which looked out of place perched on top of his
widened skull. His lips drew away from powerful jaws with multiple
rows of long needle-like teeth. His skeleton had shifted,
broadened, to support muscle that would have been out-sized on a
Kodiak bear. In fact, he looked like a grizzly on steroids,
complete with a massive hump of muscle over the shoulders. His
front feet, braced in front of him, revealed additional toes with
wickedly hooked claws. As Connor watched, the rogue’s hide seemed
to move, almost as if live things snaked and bunched beneath the
skin. As if his body were still in flux, still
changing.
Like the upgrades,
Macleod? As you can see, I’ve evolved.
Bernie’s words popped into Connor’s
head. They felt dark, almost oily. The old Changeling had been
verbally belligerent most of his life. But this was different. Not
because of the physical alterations, but because of what Connor
could sense within Bernie. Pure evil. Instinctively he masked his
own thought processes, locked them away deep where the monster
couldn’t read them. Wished he could keep the monster’s voice out as
well.
You’re looking at
the future, Macleod. And after I’ve killed
all of you, I’ll start a race of new and improved Changelings.
Together, we’ll hunt the weakling humans instead of being hunted by
them.
Sounds like a bad movie
to me, Bernie. Are you going to proclaim yourself Emperor
too?
The rogue snapped his foam-flecked jaws
together, opened them with a deafening roar. You
should be on your knees to me! All of you! Every damn one of you!
And you will be before I kill you!
Connor noted with amazement that Bernie
had just severed the end of his tongue—yet he seemed unaware of it.
The rogue continued his mindspeech rant as if nothing had happened,
although blood ran freely from his jaws.
Pretending to quake in fear, Connor
hunched down as if submissive. It wasn’t hard to fake defeat.
Wounded and bleeding, he was trapped between Bernie and the cliff.
He had to buy time, had to keep this insane monster busy gloating
as long as he could. It was plain now that Bernie couldn’t be taken
down by ordinary means. Pack law was clear on the rules of fair
combat between enemies, and also clear on the fate of rogues—only
tooth and claw were honorable to use between Changelings. But the
horrific creature in front of him was no longer a Changeling at
all. It was an abomination.
Maybe I should call
your woman, have her watch while I tear you
apart.
It was all Connor could do to keep a
leash on his temper. He had to wait, had to watch for the right
moment, the right opportunity. Still, a long, low growl escaped
him. Keep her out of this, Bernie. It’s between you
and me.
The creature laughed horribly, a
high-pitched gurgle. I’m going to have fun killing
you, Macleod. But it’s really all about her.
She’s got the bloodline, you know, the power.
What the hell are you
talking about?
Bernie fell back on his haunches and
hooted, hyena-like. You gotta be kidding me,
Macleod. You don’t know? Then let me be the one to tell you what
I’m taking away from you. Your red-haired bitch is
theriona.
Theriona. Connor hadn’t heard the word
since he was a child, when his father told him stories of the
ancient race. While Bernard Gervais was a well-known liar, he was
also far older than any Changeling Connor knew of. Was there a
chance he could be right? Jessie herself had said that Zoey wasn’t
exactly human, that she had powerful gifts. But Jessie, for all her
wisdom, hadn’t known what Zoey was. No one
did, not even Zoey. C’mon Bernie, there aren’t any
of those left.
You know nothing, you
stupid pup. But I do. And once I open up her throat, all that power
is going to be mine at last.
I think you’re full of
shit, Bernie. And you’ll never touch her again.
The beast roared, spittle and blood
flying from the dreadful teeth as its powerful forefeet clawed the
ground. You’ve forgotten I’m her sire—think about
all the things I can tell her to do. I can even make her
like it. Maybe I should keep your woman alive for a
while, Macleod. Use her for breeding. Maybe I should use her
to create my new race.
Maybe you should ask
her what she thinks about that. Connor deliberately flicked
his gaze over Bernie’s shoulder. The rogue fell for the ruse and
turned with a savage snarl, giving Connor the split-second opening
he needed. Calling on all the energy he could draw from the earth
and the air, he Changed to his human form. The .375 was cocked and
loaded in his bleeding hands.
It happened fast. With a deafening
roar, the demon that was Bernie spun and leapt at Connor. Just as
his feet left the ground, the blast of the rifle echoed off the
valley walls. Momentum carried the creature forward, but the rogue
was dead before his massive bulk slammed to the ground, missing one
eye and most of the back of his skull.
“Evolve from this, you murdering
bastard.” Connor emptied the rest of the shells into the carcass,
obliterating the head. Changelings could recover from wounds that
would be fatal to a normal wolf, and he was taking no chances in
case the rogue’s healing ability had been as enhanced as his
muscles and teeth.
The ringing echoes had barely subsided
when Connor became aware of a strange crackling in the air around
him. The hair on his head lifted, floating as if he was underwater
and he realized with a jolt that the death of what once was Bernie
had released energy.
A ton of it.
There was a sudden wrenching groan from
deep in the earth. Connor jumped back as the ground trembled,
shifted, but there was nowhere to go. The very hillside itself gave
way beneath him and slid several hundred feet to the river
below.