I got us out of the restroom and up onto the second level of the mall into another one just in time. We weren’t leaving a trail of water and blood now, though we still both stank to high heaven. I used plenty of paper towels to scrub the worst of the gunk off, shivering as adrenaline wore off and the fact that I’d just been dumped in a fountain by a big burning thing and shot a werwulf in the face occurred to me over and over again.
Like this. I’d look in the mirror at the long nasty gash along my hairline and think, I’m going to have a scar when that heals. Then my mind would shiver sideways, and I would hear the zombie again, tapping its bony fingers on the back door. Or the streak-headed werwulf’s snarl. Or the burning thing’s thrashing as it drowned.
And I would let out a hurt little quivering sound, clapping my hand over my mouth in case any of the cops were looking around the mall. I didn’t think they would—there was a clear trail of scorching from the broken windows to the fountain, and it was so messy around there it wouldn’t be immediately obvious what had happened.
The thing that worried me more was the wulf. Had he been rabid, newly changed, or just pissed off? Wulfen don’t normally go after humans; there is too much fresh raw meat you can get easily in a supermarket. The exception is right after they shift the first time, but it would make no sense for a first-time wulf to want to get inside a building. From what I’ve heard, they usually want to run out and get some fresh air.
The thing that worried me most of all was a big burning dog the size of a Shetland pony. Had it been after me? After Graves? Or just pissed off because it had to buy some new clothes?
I didn’t hear any footsteps, but after a while the alarm shut off. I waited. Graves was propped against the inside of a stall, shivering so hard his teeth clicked together rapidly. He was in shock, and I didn’t know what to do for him. The bite—would he begin to change? I should have left him behind. You don’t fool around with werwulf bites. You just don’t. It was a law. When he started to get hairy and hungry, I’d have to—
Christ no. Don’t think about that. I checked my watch again. Still ticking, even though it took a licking. Just like me.
My legs shook, tired all the way down to the bones. My head was full of cotton wool. I hurt all over, adrenaline fading in fits and starts.
I went to the entrance to the restroom, where the hallway did a sharp bend so nobody could peek into the girls’ pee-palace. I listened with every fiber of my being, focusing out, my entire body becoming an aching pair of ears. The compact ball of my self inside my head relaxed too, sending little fingers out, searching for any disturbance.
I heard nothing. No voices, no sounds of movement.
Okay. How do I get us out of here?
I could bet that the werwulf, if it was still alive, had fled. They’re strong and unholy quick, but they avoid the authorities just like suckers. A cadre of cops with firepower and vests can cause plenty of damage, and neither wulfen or suckers want to be caught in the open like that. It attracts too much attention. They live by staying at the edges of things, under the cover of night.
Of course, the cops and other authorities didn’t want news of the weird getting out; it might cause a panic. Cops, EMTs, firemen—they cover up this sort of thing as a matter of course, consigning it to the dead-file section. Dad always argued with August about whether it was a Conspiracy or just the human need to have things fit into neat little boxes.
So neither side, Real World or officialdom, wanted to meet each other face-to-face. Even if cops had vests and greater firepower, a wulf could wreak a lot of havoc. They’re expensive to replace, fine officers of the law. Freelance hunters like Dad have to make do with even more firepower and sneaky cunning, understanding their prey in order to think three steps ahead of it.
Too bad I was just a kid. Dad was the brains of the operation. I just tagged along and told him where to find the biggest weirdness, or broke a hex or two. I mean, I was a great accessory, the best weirdness detector around, but he was the boss and the brains and the one with the guns. I was worse than useless on my own, and I had someone else to worry about now, too.
But the situation is what the situation is, Dad always said. There was nothing else to do but keep going. If I stopped now I’d drown without even a bubble.
“What’s going on?” Graves whispered. He sounded about three years old and scared of the dark. “Jesus Christ, what’s going on?”
“It has nothing to do with Jesus,” I whispered back, checking the gun for the fiftieth time. If I’d had a spare clip for the gun I’d have racked it in, on the theory that it was better to have a full one than a half-empty one if something else happened.
Dad, you should be proud of me. I’m thinking like you. Trying to, anyway.
I just hoped I could think enough like him to keep us both breathing.
Graves blinked at me. “You shot it.” His voice shook like a bad engine. “I thought you were going to shoot me.”
I should. Dad probably would. I shut my eyes, leaned the back of my head against the tiled wall, my wet hair finally stopping its dripping. “I wasn’t aiming at you.”
“What was that thing?” His hand clamped over his shoulder, the pressure bandage mercilessly tight. “It had teeth. It had big teeth. It smelled.”
“It was a werwulf.” I shouldn’t tell him anything. I should put a bullet in his brain. Dad would put him down as a casualty before he changes. Once bitten, you have twelve hours, sometimes less. That’s a fact.