Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(79)
Safe for the moment—if ye don’t count me chewed arse—I call to them.
“Greta! Sam! Ty! It’s Owen! Can ye get everybody calmed down so we can talk?”
I’m not sure how much of that penetrates, if anything. Greta says it’s tough to process spoken language when she’s a wolf—the pack tends to communicate via their own link. And when they’re far gone into the animal side, like during a full moon or when the anger is running high, the human is pretty much gone. Right now we’re at a half moon, so we should be fine, except the anger is about as raw as a wound ye rub with salt and lemon juice. Looking over at where the big wolf fell, I understand why. The final shift is over, and that is indeed Hal Hauk lying there with the back of his head missing. Maybe that was a silver bullet the human used and maybe not. Tough to survive a head wound like that, either way.
The rest of the wolves all race to the bottom of the tree and surround the base, snarling and snapping at me. I just keep hollerin’ at Greta, Sam, and Ty, hoping something will get through. It’s grim and desperate shite, yelling at them and getting barks and growls in return, but keeping their attention here is better than letting them tear off through the woods so close to the city. They could wind up killing people out for an evening stroll—or, worse, go back into the house and see if they can get after what’s in the basement. And me heart drops down to me guts as I realize how Greta’s going to take this: Hal will be the second pack leader she’s lost because of something Siodhachan did. Gunnar Magnusson was the one who turned her, but Hal was there when he did; she’s known him since her old days in Iceland. I have little doubt that were Siodhachan here right now, she would try to kill him. And I fear that may be where she stands regarding him from now on, nothing to be done about it.
It’s Sam who gets control first. His form begins to shudder, and then his bones slide and pop under the skin and most of the hair falls out, and his howls turn into hoarse screaming as his vocal tissues transform. Ty goes next, and the two of them start to exert their influence on the rest of the pack, calming them down. But Greta is having none of it. She leaves the tree and returns to Hal’s body, snuffles a couple of times, and then throws back her head and howls. Maybe if it was just an ordinary wolf doing its ordinary thing I wouldn’t care, but because I know who it is and why she’s howling it’s the most terrible, lonely thing I’ve ever heard in me life. Part of me wants to join in, because we’d been having a laugh together not ten minutes ago. This had gotten so cocked up so fecking fast.
Sam and Ty let her do her thing while they get all the other wolves either shifted or in the process of shifting—it’s rough, because they’re riled and haven’t all torn into something, but the leaders’ commands have a powerful influence on them. Then they turn their attention to Greta, calling her name and no doubt trying to reach her on the pack level too. But she shakes her head, rips out a few ragged barks, and takes off uphill, disappearing into the trees.
I could chase after her, but I don’t see the point. She has a lot of anger to work out, and she’s going in the right direction to do it without hurting anyone. Putting meself forward as a target for that anger would be dangerous as well as foolish. She’ll come back when she’s ready—and I’m aware that it might not be for days.
In the meantime, we have a fecking mess to manage. I drop down from the tree and nod at Sam and Ty, who have blood on their faces. We walk together to where the human’s body lays sprawled and mutilated. If Sam and Ty feel sick at being responsible for the torn flesh and the blood on their mouths—in their mouths—they make no indication of it.
Ty asks, “Are the kids safe in the basement?”
“Aye. None of them were hurt.”
“Good,” Sam says. “So who the hell was this?”
“I have an idea,” I reply, “but I don’t know for sure. He looks like someone Siodhachan told me about. Might be the guy who put him in the hospital in Toronto.”
I squat down and pat through the shreds of his coat until I discover an Austrian passport. “Werner Drasche,” I read aloud. “Yeah. This is the guy. Supposed to be the lover of the really old vampire, Theophilus.”
“Why is he here?”
“I don’t think he’ll be fecking telling us.”
“He lost the privilege of conversation when he started shooting.” Sam crouches down and picks up Drasche’s gun, checking the ammo. “Damn.” He drops it as if stung. “He’s got silver. The others don’t.”
He’d know, I suppose. I see a hole in Sam’s side, and if that was a silver bullet he’d be at death’s door himself instead of walking around. Someone would have to dig that out of him before his skin closed over it; accelerated healing can have that drawback against these modern weapons.
“Doesn’t make sense to come in here with only one clip of silver rounds,” Ty says.
“It does if you’re traveling in a hurry and expecting only one werewolf instead of fourteen,” I tell him. “I don’t think ye were the target. I think they were after me and knew that Greta would be here.”
“Oh. You think this is that vampire war against Druidry?”
“Aye, that’s what I figure. Siodhachan told me he was going to go around blowing shite up and something like this might happen. I have wards on the house, but they never got close enough to trip them. And I didn’t expect firearms. I’m sorry.”