“Not quite.”

He must have seen something in my eyes because he closed his, dropped his head, and let out a pent breath. “What?”

“I was trying to track the wolves last night and I found a house where the wolves bit a squatter. And a campsite—” I stopped, remembering that Beast had wandered through the site. Her paw prints would be there. I closed my mouth. I hadn’t thought this through.

“And?” Grizzard was now watching me closely, too closely.

My silence had stretched too long. Except for bald-faced and obvious lies, I had no idea how to explain big-cat prints. Again, I was flying by the seat of my pants, depending on luck. The silence stretched, I flushed, and Grizzard looked suspicious. Into my memory, Beast shoved the bobcat tree markings I had seen Sunday. I had an out. “You have two dead campers,” I said. He flinched. “My GPS wasn’t working, but I can show you the location on a map. It’s just off the French Broad, downstream of Paint Rock, outside of Hot Springs.”

“Hot Springs?” Relief poured off of him in an aromatic wave, pheromones that scented of something like joy. Gruffly, he said, “Why didn’t you take it to Madison County sheriff’s office? You’re wasting my time, Yellowrock.”

Madison County. Well, crap. “Yeah, that’s my goal in life, Grizzard. To tick you off as often as possible.” I let a hint of a smile out with the words and he grunted again. I extended the crushed bag of Mickie D’s finest. “I never met the Madison County sheriff. I have no idea where his office is and no time to hunt it down. I’m giving you the info and you can do what you want with it. And to make your day even better, it might be on park land, so you can split some more jurisdictional hairs.” My smile fell, as I remembered the campsite. “It was bad, Sheriff.”

Grizzard cursed and rubbed his hand over his face. He smelled of old sweat and failed deodorant and, on his breath, rancid coffee and fast food. “And that’s the best you can do for a bribe?” He indicated the bag, still outstretched, with a little finger toss, his voice carrying amused remorse—joking, but maybe only a little.

“Yeah. I’ll try to make it steak next time. Take ’em.” Grizzard took the bag, opened a McMuffin and ate it in three bites. I heard his stomach rumble in relief. “When’s the last time you ate a real meal?” I asked.

“Before werewolves started eating people. That takes the joy out of food.” He opened another sandwich and took a bite, disproving his own theory about his appetite. “Okay,” he said through a bite of my cheap bribe. “Show me.” He raised his middle finger to a tri-county map hanging on the wall. I didn’t think the middle finger was an accident.

Turning my back to him, which Beast didn’t like, I found the bend in the river, the junction of Spring Creek on the far side. I pointed. “Campsite’s here somewhere. Away from the river.”

Grizzard pulled up an aerial view on his laptop and it was detailed enough for me to find what might be the rock I woke up on at dawn, not that I shared it with him. I pointed to a smaller area, thinking I recognized a tree that was now larger than when the shots were taken. “The house where the squatter was bitten is . . . here.” I shrugged when Grizzard tried to pin me down more than that. I wasn’t gonna do his job for him, and besides, mountain lions don’t do GPS.

“Park land is close, but so are some private parcels,” he said, sounding frustrated. He dropped into his chair and dialed an old-fashioned phone, calling the park service, where he spoiled the ranger’s breakfast, requesting he drive to the site and check it out. When he hung up, he drummed his fingers, thinking.

I would hate being a cop. The sitting around waiting would drive me nuts.

Next he called the Madison County sheriff, who turned out to be a woman. I heard her voice on the other end of the phone, direct as a drill sergeant and nearly as earthy. Grizzard addressed her as Scoggins, and I had a mental picture of her, with steel gray hair, a muscular body, and the posture of an aggressive alpha dog. Just my nerves talking, but it seemed to fit the voice. She cussed as she took down info and sent a deputy out along Paint Rock Road to liaise with the ranger. She cussed as she arranged radio frequencies so they could manage a four-way chat without being overheard by John Q Public. While they talked and arranged and cussed some more, Grizzard ate, managing to down two more sandwiches.

I brought him a coffee when his voice started to sound dry. The good little helpful citizen, yeah, that’s me. I smothered my impatience and waited.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Who? Bit? You?

I heard the park ranger gag when he described the site over the four-way chat line. It was on park land, but just barely. The deputy wasn’t much better, sounding young and full of horror.

Then, in the background, I heard the ranger say, “There’s fresh cat tracks. Like a mountain lion. Huge paws.”

Grizzard lifted his eyes at me, holding me pinned. I tried to look surprised and innocent. “No mountain lion sign in the state,” he said, “not in nearly a hundred years. The record kill for bobcats, though, is something like forty-eight pounds.” He added thoughtfully, “Lynx have bigger paw pads.” He shook his head. “But unless it’s got rabies or distemper, no bobcat or lynx attacked, killed, and ate humans. Mountain lions, though—”

I shook my head, interrupting. “Wolf tr—”

“Wait,” the ranger said. “I see the wolf tracks. There’re everywhere, but older. Settled into the soil.” A moment later he said, “Looks like the wolves did the killing and the cat came to investigate. If it’s a bobcat, it’s got the biggest damn feet I ever saw.”

Trying to maintain an innocuous expression, I lied. “Could be. I heard snarling and hissing and, in the distance once, a woman screaming bloody murder.” Those were sounds a bobcat makes, especially a female in heat with males fighting over her. Lynx screams sound different to Beast, but no human would know the difference.

“Unless you have some reason to consider putting out traps, forget the cat for now,” the female sheriff said, taking charge of her men. “When CSI gets there, have them make pictures of the cat prints and include it in the report.

“Grizzard,” she said, her voice tight. “How do we kill these things?”

“Silvershot.”

She cursed succinctly. “I can’t afford silvershot. My budget’s screwed already.”

I lifted a finger. Grizzard jutted his chin at me, giving me permission to speak. “I can call a . . . friend or two. See if they’ll donate the silver rounds.” I meant Leo Pellissier and Lincoln Shaddock. They were loaded. Let them help out the local law, make a few friends in high places. But I also knew not to hide that from the cops. “Vamps,” I said.

Scoggins cussed like a sailor for ten seconds, then went silent. Grizzard and I could hear her breathing over the line, harsh sounds like an angry bulldog. “Grizzard? What do you think?”

“Better the suckheads than my men going furry every full moon,” he said instantly.

“Fine,” she spat. “But tell them not to expect political favors.”

“I think they’ll be happy if your men don’t shoot them with their own gifts,” I said wryly, skirting close to snide and sarcastic. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I know what they’ll do. Can I go now?” I asked Grizzard, not that he had forced me to stay, but I had covered my tracks, found out what the cops were up to, and now had other places to be.

“Yeah. Sure.” I went into the hallway and Grizzard called out to me. I paused in the doorway and swiveled to face him.

“Yellowrock, anything you can do for us will be appreciated.” The words sounded like they were pulled out of him with red-hot pincers. I waggled my fingers to show I’d heard, and took off down the hall, texting requests to Bruiser for phone calls and to the twins for meetings. Sometimes it was easier to go through the human (or mostly so) blood-servants to get to vamps, especially when asking for big-ticket items that didn’t relate perfectly to the mission at hand.

Thanks to the miracle of modern tech, I had my day planned in minutes and was left with three hours to kill, which meant I could take a nap or a break. I opted for the one with food. Seven Sassy Sisters’ Herb Shop and Café had a booming business, locally and Internet, selling herbal mixtures, teas in bulk and by the ounce. The café served brewed teas, specialty coffees, breakfast and lunch daily, and brunch and dinner on weekends. Homemade soup and breads were available, both to go and to eat in. The menu leaned heavily toward vegetarian fare, whipped up by the eldest sister, water witch, professor, and three-star chef, Evangelina Everhart, a drill sergeant of a woman who terrified me on some ancient, primal level.

In New Orleans, Evangelina had been thrust upon me by Molly over the summer, as my houseguest, during the talks between witches and vamps about reparations for the deaths of witch children and to open communication lines between species. The visit hadn’t ended well, and Evil Evie and I still had some things to discuss, a conversation I figured would be unpleasant. She had put what looked like a love spell on George Dumas, Leo’s prime blood-servant, in what I assumed had been intended to provide an edge in a game of political maneuvering between vamps and witches, a game where the vamps had all the advantages. I got in the way, and it spilled over on to me, which caused Bruiser and me to end up half-naked in the shower together. I didn’t appreciate being spelled, even if it was by accident. And love spells are illegal by witch-law. No matter how I looked at it, Evangelina had been a bad guest. If she hadn’t been Mol’s sister, I’d have sent her packing with a few bruises to show for her time.

There were two reasons I hadn’t dealt with the problem since then: deference to Molly, and the knowledge that Evil Evie was the leader of the sisters’ coven. Covens were like team sports, and the leader demanded obedience. She also had the right to draw on the power of the coven’s members for group workings. I didn’t know enough about witches to stick my big nose in. Yet. I wanted to handle it with tact, which wasn’t my strong suit, so I was thinking it through. For weeks now. Ignoring any possibility that fear of Evangelina or fear that Molly would get ticked was keeping me away. No. Not me.