Second Skin Part 23

CHAPTER 16.

Perry's shop was as dim as the inside of a black cat, and blaring something post-industrial from the speakers mounted in the corners. The man himself was sitting on a rolling stool with his back to me, wispy salt-and-pepper ponytail trailing over his neck. He was working on a client who looked like an undead cheerleader-a violently blond girl with b.r.e.a.s.t.s that could have floated her across Siren Bay, strapped into a leather vest and shredded cutoff shorts. She'd topped the look off with boots, fishnets, and the grinning demon's head Perry was tattooing in the crevice of her cleavage.

"Perry," I said. "Perry!" to cut into the music. He stopped the needle and spun on his stool.

"Well, well, well," he purred. "Detective Wilder. I thought I smelled something sweet in the air."

"I'm talking to Perry," I said to his dead, cloudy gray eye and twisted lips. "Not to you."

The bad side of his face, bulging eye and burn-victim skin, hissed at me and he rotated all the way around. "Sorry about that," said Perry, scrutinizing me with his good eye. "The ink, you know . . . I get into it. Been a h.e.l.l of a long time, Wilder. Thought you didn't love me no more."

"Now, you know that could never happen," I said.

"Excuse me," said the pep squad reject. "I'm not paying you to chitchat."

"Go back to waving your pom-poms or something," I said. I drew the statue out of the bag, careful to hold the evidence wrapper by the edges, and showed it to Perry. "Got any idea what this is?"

"Hot d.a.m.n," said Perry. He got off his stool and limped over to me, his leg brace catching the low light. A long time ago, something had happened to Perry that trapped . . . well . . . not Perry in half of his body. You had to be careful which side you talked to, depending on the answer you wanted.

"This is some hard-core mojo," said Perry. "I was doing tats in Wyoming about ten years back and I ran across some medicine men working with fetishes. Nasty-a.s.s for whoever they turned it on."

"This was used by Wendigo," I said. "It's for what what that I don't know." that I don't know."

"Right, right," said Perry. "Looks like a hunger G.o.d. The shapes.h.i.+fters got one they call Wiskachee. Supposed to crawl up from the ground and devour your enemies, or something."

I felt a little cold air on the back of my neck, just enough to ruffle the hairs. "Is that so."

"Bunch of bullc.r.a.p if you ask me," said Perry. He extended the fetish to me but I put my hands up.

"One touch of that thing is more than enough."

Sunny arrived then, jangling the bell on the door. "Hi, Perry."

"Sunflower." He nodded. "Anyway, the shapes.h.i.+fters feed Wiskachee, honor him with his fetish wors.h.i.+p while he sleeps, and he wakes up and makes them all motherf.u.c.kin' Superman." Perry snorted. "Or something like that. Not like I sat in on Mythology One-oh-One or nothin'."

"They . . . feed him?" said Sunny. Perry set the fetish on the counter, where it glared at me balefully. I stuck my tongue out at it when he turned his back.

"Wendigo drink blood, and from it they draw their power," said Perry. "The legends of Wiskachee speak of an unceasing, all-consuming hunger that will someday swallow the world unless the G.o.d is appeased regularly with the blood of the faithful."

I wondered if the little statue was the reason Jason Kennuka had plunged to his death. Had his wild Wendigo buddies convinced him to donate a little bit of his faithful blood? The dark magic that wrapped the fetish in layers dense as razor wire spoke to something something pus.h.i.+ng Jason to jump off that ledge. pus.h.i.+ng Jason to jump off that ledge.

"Like I said, c.r.a.p," said Perry. "I ain't saying that Wiskachee and his magick aren't real, but that business about the end of the world-do you know how many bargain-bas.e.m.e.nt necromancers spout the same s.h.i.+t?" He stumped over to the cash register to ring up the irate coed. "Wendigo are first-cla.s.s freaks . . . you know their burial grounds are underneath the whole city? Shallow graves all over the d.a.m.n place. Gave the caster witches a turn when they were building up back in the 1800s. At any rate, Luna . . . you find anything else like that fetish, bring it here. I'll add it to the collection."

"I won't live live long enough if I ever brush up against something like that again," I said. long enough if I ever brush up against something like that again," I said.

Perry gave a wet laugh that came out the twisted side of his mouth. "We all gotta go sometime, Wilder. Might as well make it with a bang."

In the hallway, as we walked to the stairwell, Sunny looked at my face. "You're thinking. That face always means you're thinking. What are you worried about?"

"I'm not worried," I said. "I'm frustrated and confused."

She worried her lip. "About what?"

I banged open the stairwell door, stamping harder than I had to on the narrow stone steps. "About how I'm going to explain all of this G.o.d-summoning, human-killing madness to someone who doesn't believe in any of it."

With most grief-stricken relatives, By the way, your brother was a religious nut who threw himself off a building for Hungry Jesus By the way, your brother was a religious nut who threw himself off a building for Hungry Jesus will get you outraged sobs at best and fisticuffs or restraining orders at worst. will get you outraged sobs at best and fisticuffs or restraining orders at worst.

But then again, Lucas hadn't been straight with me, either. I snarled as Sunny and I walked through the university gates. "What's so G.o.ds-d.a.m.n hard about being honest, Sunny?"

"The truth hurts," she said.

"Me putting a foot in their a.s.s is going to hurt the Wendigo a lot more," I grumbled.

Sunny pulled me back as I, in my righteous indignation, almost walked into traffic. She punched the b.u.t.ton for the crosswalk light and shook her head. "Calm down, Luna."

"I've had a s.h.i.+tty-a.s.s day," I said. "You go ahead and be calm. I'll stay over here in my rage bubble, thanks." go ahead and be calm. I'll stay over here in my rage bubble, thanks."

"What's really rare is for you not to be in a rage bubble," Sunny said. If it was anyone but her, I would have slapped the smug taste right out of her mouth, and I was considering it with Sunny when I caught the scent of wet dog over my shoulder. I whipped around and saw the green sedan parked directly across the street from Sunny's convertible.

"Wait here," I said to Sunny, starting to walk.

"Luna, what . . . ," she called, but I held up a hand, going to the pa.s.senger's-side window and looking in.

Donal Macleod's pet were was hunched over the steering wheel cursing and trying to fidget a digital camera's battery back into its slot. I walked around the car into the street, flas.h.i.+ng my badge at a car that honked, and then put my elbow through his window.

He yelped and scrambled away from the shards as I reached in, grabbed him by the back of his collar, and hauled him, kicking and screaming, out the broken window and into the road.

"Why the f.u.c.k are the Warwolves following me me?" I shouted.

"There's a truck coming!" he screamed. A few hundred feet up Devere Street, a semi barreled toward us, horn blatting.

"Then you'd better answer fast," I said.

"I'm just following orders!" he cried.

"In about five seconds you're going to be just a bunch of meat in the middle of the road. Good luck following them then."

"Donal told me to!" he said finally. "He said to follow you and make sure you were doing the job! We had to get justice for Priscilla! Pack justice!"

The semi was close enough for me to feel the heat from the engine. I jerked the Warwolf to the side and sent him sprawling on the hood of his car. He was gasping, sweat pouring down his face. "You crazy b.i.t.c.h . . ."

"None crazier," I said. I took my handcuffs off my belt. "How much did you hear?"

"Everything," he gasped. "Filthy, stinking monsters."

Pendantics are so unattractive. I thumped the Warwolf on the back of the head. "Roll over and put your hands behind you before I throw you into traffic again."

He did as he was told. I like that in a suspect. I got the handcuffs on one of his wrists and started to reel off his Miranda. "You have the right to remain . . . oof. oof."

His foot came up and back and got me in the gut, the tender section just above the belly b.u.t.ton that makes all of your air vacate your body at once. I doubled over on my knees in the gutter between the sedan and a fire hydrant, making loud sucking sounds as I tried to breathe.

The Warwolf took off up the sidewalk, spinning Sunny around as she tried to catch him by the jacket, my handcuffs jangling merrily from his wrist.

That was the second time I'd lost my handcuffs to a recalcitrant were, and I vowed then and there it would be the last.

Sunny crouched next to me. "Luna, are you all right?"

"No . . . ," I wheezed, and then abruptly retched and vomited onto the pavement. "Better . . . now . . ."

"Come on, hon," said Sunny, maneuvering me gently to my feet. "Let's get you home."

"No . . . ," I insisted. "I gotta . . . get that guy . . . before he tells the other packs and screws the case."

"If you vomit in my car," said Sunny matter-offactly, "I am going to kill you slowly. Buckle up."

I protested, but by the time Sunny supported me upstairs to bed, the combined events of the day had piled on my shoulders and all I wanted to do was sleep.

I rocketed out of a muddled dream about Lucas and blood on naked skin and an ancient, aching hunger inside of me to the telephone shrieking next to the bed. Sunny had left a scrawled note on my pillow. Gone to airprt., back after G-ma @ home. Gone to airprt., back after G-ma @ home.

I jerked the old-style rotary phone out of its cradle. "Yeah?"

"Luna?" the voice said. I recognized it immediately, straight and biting as edged metal.

"Lucas."

"I hope you don't mind me calling," he said. "I need to know what the morgue hours are so I can identify Jason and . . . well . . . I thought it'd be better to call you."

G.o.ds, why did he have to sound so lost? Maybe I was just turning into a paranoid gun-toting nut who saw everyone as a liar. It would be easier to believe if 90 percent of the people I came in contact with in daily life weren't weren't liars, of one stripe or another. liars, of one stripe or another.

"They open tomorrow at nine," I said, "but Lucas . . . one of the packs that the dead weres belonged to got wind that Wendigo were involved." I didn't go into how because I already felt bad enough without feeling like a dumba.s.s on top of everything else.

"I'm coming," said Lucas, a snarl creeping into his voice. "Jason was my brother."

"I really think this is a bad idea," I said. "I know what I said, but pack justice is taken very seriously and as an Insoli, I can't protect you."

"I'm not worried," said Lucas. "You're going to be there with me. You're all I need."

Yup, I was definitely a paranoid nutcase.

"You really trust me? I gotta warn you, that hasn't worked out so hot for a few other people."

Lucas gave a short chuckle. "Luna, the only thing you could possibly do is make this a little easier. I'm not doing so hot, but I'll hold it together because that's what Jason would have wanted. Will you meet me there in the morning?"

"Of course," I said, feeling my core and other parts of me warm slightly at the tone of his voice. I felt a ridiculous surge of happiness at the thought of visiting the morgue. "Don't worry about anything, Lucas. This treaty bulls.h.i.+t won't cause any unpleasantness for you when you come to get Jason."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Luna."

"See you tomorrow," I agreed, and hung up the phone with a huge, irrational smile on my face.

Lucas finally showed up at the morgue an hour late, after I'd worn a groove in the stone steps, pacing and waiting. There was a hot, wet wind off the bay and I kept scenting the salt, thinking I'd catch another were.

He climbed out of the pa.s.senger's side of a rusty pickup, and waved the driver off when he saw me. "Let's get this over with," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"All right," I said. "Have trouble finding the place?"

"Not as much as I would have liked." Lucas was stiff, and his eyes moved from face to face as we went through the gla.s.s doors and across the lobby. He also looked shredded-like he lost ten pounds since I'd seen him last. His face was covered with uneven stubble and his eyes were sunken and red. He coughed, and it rattled inside his rib cage with a wet sawing sound.

I put a hand on his shoulder. Lucas wasn't putting out any heat-he was the temperature of the air. "You okay?"

"Peachy," he coughed. "Just perfect."

The guard at the metal detector glared at Lucas. "Going to have to search your backpack."

"He's with me," I said, moving my T-s.h.i.+rt to show my badge. "Let us through."

Lucas breathed out and shook his shoulders. "This is going to be harder than I thought."

"You just have to look in through the viewing window," I said. "And tell the morgue attendant where to release the body to."

"We don't have any G.o.dd.a.m.n money for a funeral," Lucas muttered. I led him over to the elevator and punched the down arrow.

"The city has a few forms you can fill out for help with that."

Lucas hissed. "I don't want your help." His eyes silvered for a moment.

I held up my hands. "Look, Lucas, I know this is tough but n.o.body here is trying to give you a hard time. I'm trained to be sympathetic at times like this. If you think I'm being disingenuous, that's your problem."

As soon as I snapped at him I felt awful, and to see Lucas's eyes fill up with apologies made it ten times worse. "Lucas, I'm sorry . . . I open my mouth when I shouldn't a lot and . . ."

"No," he said. "You're right. Jason's dead. He's gone."

I touched his hand. "That doesn't mean that you have to pretend like it doesn't bother you," I said quietly.

A grim smile flickered across his face. "Wendigo once ate their dead. He's less than nothing to me."