Changeling Moon Page 6

  The man stiffened and straightened. Zoey gasped as he swung a hand around and pointed directly at her. “That newspaper bitch wouldn’t listen to me. I got something to show her, and she wouldn’t listen. You ought to do your damn job and arrest her!” He clambered clumsily into the back of the patrol car, continuing his rants.

  The officer closed the door with obvious relief and walked over to Zoey.“Are you all right? Has he been bothering you?”

  “I’m fine. He just yelled at me.” Up close, this guy looked even younger than the one who had questioned her about the animal attack.

  “He does a lot of that. He’ll be doing it all night too, I imagine. You can press charges, you know. You don’t have to put up with harassment.”

  She laughed. “I’m in the newspaper business. Getting yelled at is sometimes part of the job. No harm done. But can you tell me who he is?”

  “Are you going to write about this? Because technically, I’m not supposed to give out that information.”

  “What kind of story would it make? Editor shouted at by drunk. Yeah, that’ll sell a lot of papers. I just like to know the names of the people who are upset with me. Helps me to avoid them.”

  The young officer grinned. “Bernard Gervais. He’s in a fantasy world most of the time, so I wouldn’t worry about anything he says.” He touched his hat and returned to the cruiser and its irate passenger.

  Gervais. Lucinda and Mabel had talked about a Gervais. Is that a French name? Zoey could still hear the man in the backseat raving at full volume, even though all the car windows were closed. Saw the officer shaking his head as he drove away. “Glad I’m not you,” she murmured and climbed into her truck. She sat for several long minutes, grateful beyond words to be off her feet and especially off her injured leg. What could the drunken old geezer possibly have against Connor Macleod? Was the guy a farmer, had Connor treated his livestock? Maybe he was upset about the bill. . . .

  She heaved an irritated sigh as she found herself wanting to defend the tall veterinarian. All that walking, all that work, and here she was thinking about Connor all over again. Exasperated, she looked over at her office window and resolutely climbed out of the truck. Maybe it was time to check out those newspaper articles that Lucinda and Mabel had mentioned. Her psychic gift was silent but her reporter’s intuition was tingling, and she would bet money that the old drunk was involved in the wild story.

  The werewolf stories were surprisingly easy to find. Just over two years had passed since Barry Gordon, Bernard Gervais, and Jeb Luken had called the police and then the newspaper, claiming that a werewolf had chased them.

  The men had left the Jersey Pub after last call and were winding their way on foot to Luken’s house. “A great and enormous gray wolf came out of the shadows. It had green glowing eyes and was snarling like a pit bull,” Luken told the reporter. “Straight out of hell it was and no mistake it was going to attack us.”

  Zoey sat down abruptly amid the piles of newspapers. Green glowing eyes. The wolf that attacked her also had strange eyes, demonic, as if lit from within. She still saw them in her dreams. Still heard that horrible throaty snarling. . . .

  Cut that out, dammit! With an effort she shoved the memories away and focused on the article. Luken and Gordon had scrambled into a Dumpster, holding down the metal lid with all the strength they could muster. They didn’t know where Gervais had gone, didn’t hear anything but growling as the monstrous creature had sniffed around the Dumpster. “The wolf jumped right on top of it, bold as brass,” Luken was quoted as saying. “We could hear him walking back and forth, pawing and scratching at the lid. Damn, I don’t mind saying I was some scared. Scared shitless, both of us.”

  Gervais claimed he had hidden inside the covered bed of a parked pickup. “I got separated from my buddies when the wolf showed up. It was every man for himself. I just dove for cover like everyone else.” A photo of the trio confirmed what Zoey already knew, thanks to the officer. Bernard Gervais was the drunk who had pursued her down Main Street.

  The Dunvegan Herald Weekly had published the report on one of the inside pages and below the crease, no doubt hoping to bury the story. It hadn’t worked. A veritable flood of letters followed in subsequent issues, some of them complaining about the press the men were getting for such a wild tale, but others claiming to have seen similar creatures.

  Zoey scanned the letters. Enormous wolves in every color had been sighted at various times in the area, but never in town. Some people had sighted very large wolves running as a pack near Elk Point. All of the stories could be chalked up to ordinary sightings of ordinary wolves. After all, her own research had shown that wolves could reach 175 pounds or more. With so much wilderness to roam in and an abundance of game, it stood to reason that this part of northern Canada simply produced big wolves.

  Reason didn’t have an answer for the diary entry however. Just as Mabel and Lucinda had said, a page had been photographed and printed. The caption said the journal had belonged to one Jack Harrison, a schoolteacher who had homesteaded in the Spirit River area and established a ranch there. Zoey squinted to read the ornate scrawl.

  February 28, 1904.

  Got a big black wolf in my trapp today, biggest I ever saw. Had a white star on its chest and white on its nose and tail like a dog. Thought it were a bear at first until it puts its ears up and looked at me. Rifle jammed up and then there was no wolf in the trapp, just a young man. Snow was deep but he had no coate or boots. Asked him where my wolf was because I wanted that pelt, but he shook his head. Then he opened the trapp with his bare hands. Knew he must be one of the wolf people my dad told me about because two good men aren’t strong enough to open that trapp without the key. He pulled his leg out and it was bleeding bad but then it stopped right quick. I tried to unjam the rifle in case he might want to kill me but he just walked away and headed west to Macleod’s land.

  “Omigod,” breathed Zoey. Connor’s family was actually named. And guilt by association undoubtedly followed. Sure enough, a small letter made it to print in the very next issue of the newspaper, pointing to the Macleods as the cause of all the trouble.

  It’s about time someone called a spade a spade, and revealed the creatures who think to live among us undetected. Families like the Macleods have blurred the line between man and beast for decades, intermingling with humans and converting them to their kind. They look like us on the outside but underneath they’re all teeth and claws, just waiting for a chance to use them.

  The bizarre letter was signed by Roderick Harrison. Good grief, was he a descendant of the man who wrote the diary? It’s almost like a feud, thought Zoey. Harrisons and Macleods instead of Hatfields and McCoys. She empathized with Connor. No wonder he hadn’t wanted the werewolf stories to resurface. Just look at the craziness he’d have to deal with—something Zoey could certainly relate to.

  She shook her head, trying to get back to business. Harrison’s letter should never have been published—any newspaper that printed such a personal attack was opening itself up to a lawsuit. Maybe it wasn’t so surprising that Ted had fired the editor responsible. Most of the publications Zoey had worked for would have done the same simply as damage control.

  Subsequent editorials were allegedly devoted to quelling the “mass hysteria” yet special feature articles appeared on the myths and legends surrounding werewolves. So-called experts flew in from all over, and The Herald dutifully interviewed most of them. Even the one who insisted the U.S. government was conducting the top secret testing of a breed of superwolves in the Canadian north, and the one who claimed that aliens were masquerading on this planet as wildlife. Zoey rolled her eyes and wondered how the reporter had managed to keep a straight face.

  To her surprise, the story died out abruptly only eight issues later—not a very long run for such a sensational event. Zoey scanned all the issues up to the present, but no further mention of wolves, were or otherwise, was ever made. Undoubtedly, her hot-tempered publisher had killed t
he story the moment he returned to the office. She had little trouble picturing Ted Biegel’s wrath descending on the parties responsible. She smiled as she remembered Mabel Rainier’s words. Zoey only had to check the issue following the last werewolf update to see a change in the editor’s name!

  No wonder the village officials had been rude. She supposed she might even have to do some sort of damage control herself, to make certain she didn’t become affiliated with the werewolf stories in any way. But it rankled. She had never hesitated to take a stand with a story, no matter how unpopular it might be. As a professor had once told her, the concept of journalistic impartiality was a myth the public made up. No reporter could write without taking sides at least a little.

  But this was different. There was no lone citizen taking on city hall, no one’s rights to be defended, no issues to be brought to light and championed. Just a bite from an animal she couldn’t prove was a wolf and reports of werewolves from the local drunks. No doubt Larry, Moe, and Curly would have more credibility than that trio. And as a stranger in town, her own credibility wouldn’t be much better.

  It was long past midnight when Zoey finally drove home. She was going to feel like dirt in the morning, but thank heavens it would be a Sunday. She shook her head as she limped up the stairs to her apartment. Werewolves, for God’s sake. She’d stayed up all night researching werewolves. Who’d have thought? She hadn’t read anything to make her believe in the creatures, but the description given by Jeb Luken and some of the letter-writers matched what she herself had seen only a few days before. A wolf, a real wolf, obviously roamed this area. And it wasn’t afraid of people. The fact that it had wandered right into town made it every bit as dangerous as a garbage-eating bear. She had the proof of that on her very own leg.

  Yet when the trio had reported it two years ago, the RCMP and the Fish and Wildlife officers hadn’t appeared overly concerned. The newspaper had quoted them repeatedly as saying the animal was a dog. Maybe a wild or feral dog, but a dog. Nothing more. Which was pretty much the reaction Zoey had gotten when she’d called those departments after the attack.

  Was it so damn far-fetched that there could be a real wolf? Wolves were certainly native to northern Canada and known to live in the Dunvegan area. They weren’t endangered here as a species, were plentiful in fact, and ranchers and farmers routinely shot them. However, prevailing theories claimed that wolves never attacked people—although there was an incident a few years ago with campers in Tofino, and more recently, a hiker killed in Saskatchewan. There was that poor teacher up in Alaska too. . . . Still, it all made for poor statistics. Three recorded attacks in over a century? Obviously Connor was right; the wolf was sick or old and not acting normally. But it wouldn’t be sick for two years . . . it would either have died or recovered. If it recovered, could attacking humans be a bad habit now? She’d have to ask Connor about that.

  Connor again. Her mind had come full circle and she was once more thinking about the tall, dark-haired vet. So much for trying to distract herself. Zoey was far too tired to fight it and instead just let her imagination roam. She fell asleep clutching her pillow and pretending she was snuggled up with him, moaning a little as she dreamed of those big workingman’s hands stroking her naked skin.

  Chapter Seven

  “Thank God this day is over,” breathed Connor, flipping the clinic’s window sign to Closed. To borrow words from a patient’s young owner, it had been “a totally rotten, no-good, very bad day.” To make it worse, it was probably his own damn fault. He’d insisted that he could handle things just fine while Birkie Peterson was on vacation, that he didn’t need any temporary help.

  What the hell had he been thinking?

  His white-haired receptionist and friend had mentored at least three or four veterinarians before him, and her efficiency bordered on the supernatural. More than that, she was well known for her unflappable nature. If a fire-breathing dragon came through the doors of the North Star Animal Hospital, Connor had no doubt that Birkie would simply take its name and direct it to a chair, probably hand it a cup of coffee and a magazine.

  The fire-breathing dragon would have looked good today, he thought as he poured the scorched dregs from the coffeemaker into a Styrofoam cup. Other than the fact that he was still vertical, the day had had few redeeming qualities. He’d semen-tested six young bulls that had been brought in last minute by 83-year-old Ivan Chirikov, then dehorned the lot. Ivan had no phone, seldom came to town, and didn’t believe in appointments. He was also mostly deaf. It was simply easier to perform whatever unscheduled procedures he was asking for rather than try to argue. At least it would be six months or so before the old farmer returned with another batch of unplanned patients.

  Next was emergency surgery on a cat hit by a car. It was noon before Connor could get back to his regular appointments, which included a few patients he’d rather not have seen. Ever.

  One was an old dog that was scheduled for euthanasia. The big Chesapeake was blind, arthritic, and had soiled the carpet one too many times, including that very morning. Connor’s Changeling senses could easily read the animal’s confusion. She didn’t understand why her owners had left her there alone. She did know that they were cross with her. It was instinctive for a canine to keep its den clean, a source of shame to the dog when it failed. Connor ran his hands over the chocolate fur, now dulled to mud-brown with age. It’s not your fault, old girl. He had soothed the animal’s mind and comforted it as he injected the lethal substance. It was over almost instantly, but unexpectedly he had spent the next few minutes in the bathroom splashing his face with cold, cold water. Euthanasia was part and parcel of veterinary practice, but this time it reminded him far too much of what he had been forced to do to Bernie. Oh sure, Bernie was still alive. But only part of him.

  A cesarean case came in right before closing time. The calf was already dead and had been for a while, the cow nearly so because of the extreme toxicity. It had been a god-awful mess. Connor had done his very best, used every talent and skill he had at his disposal, but the unfortunate cow likely wouldn’t survive the night.

  A goddamn perfect ending to a goddamn perfect day. He sipped the terrible coffee, half wished it was something much stronger. Like his father’s favorite whiskey for instance. Connor sighed and wondered how Birkie was doing in Scotland. She’d been his mother’s best friend since forever, and had gone with his sister, Kenzie, to visit his parents. He would’ve liked to have joined them, but that would have meant closing down the clinic completely.

  Of course, things would be different if he’d listened to his friends and family and advertised for a partner. Most of the time he resisted the idea. After all, he’d handled the workload on his own just fine for years. Lately, however, he had to admit that his practice had grown much bigger than one vet—even if he was a Changeling—could handle. The North Star Animal Hospital served a large chunk of the Peace River country, and the traveling alone was taking up a helluva lot of his time.

  Birkie, bless her, had done her best. She’d brought in a steady stream of Animal Health Technicians who needed a few months of practical work experience in order to complete their diploma. The extra hands were invaluable, and thank God he had three techs on hand right now, but there was a limit to what they could do. He needed to bite the bullet and advertise for another partner.

  And he ought to ask Zoey Tyler out.

  Connor picked up a newspaper from a waiting room chair. Zoey hadn’t returned his calls yet, but maybe she was just busy. Or maybe she wasn’t interested. He recalled her face when he had covered her hand with his. She had been flustered, and he hadn’t needed Changeling senses to discern the jump in her pulse even as she pulled her hand away. There was interest there all right. Attraction. Maybe he could build on that.

  God knew there was attraction on his side. And a curious familiarity. He felt as though he knew Zoey, had known her for a long time. That he might attribute to the strong psychic link he had been forced to
make the night of the attack. But the attraction—well, that was apparent from the time he’d first spotted her soaking wet and defiant on the roof of her truck. Might as well admit it, he thought. Those amber eyes had him just this side of mesmerized. Her freckles did too. And as for the rest of her, well . . . as tired as he was at night, he still couldn’t help thinking about those long legs, and imagining them wrapped around him.

  Of course, there were things to consider. She was human. She was also a journalist, and from her writings he could see she had no love for sensationalism. Instead, she paid close attention to detail and delivered solid facts. She’d laughed when he told her about the werewolf stories—how would she react if she knew they were true, that Changelings existed? And that it was a Changeling, not a wolf, that had chewed on her?

  How would she handle it if she knew that she was in real danger of becoming one?

  Zoey’s leg needed a final treatment in order to prevent that possibility. And, thanks to Lowen, Connor had a perfectly good excuse for seeing her again. He patted his jacket pocket where the bottle of silver nitrate was nestled. He’d refilled it this morning in the clinic pharmacy, then loaded his other pockets with gauze and such so he’d be ready to rewrap the wound tomorrow. And maybe he’d work on asking her out then too.

  Switching his coffee cup to the other hand, he snatched up a doughnut—an apple fritter, courtesy of a client—and a half dozen boxes of number 4 sutures, juggling them all as he headed down the clinic hallway, scanning the Dunvegan Herald Weekly.

  Police are advising residents to be particularly watchful, after an animal attacked and bit a local woman Thursday night. The incident occurred after 11 P.M. when the woman was approached by a large canine similar to one of the sled-dog types raised in this area . . .