Undead on Arrival Read online

  Right now she needed a moment alone. The trial would begin at eleven PM. Judging from the pitch of the setting sun, she had several hours—ten minutes to breathe was in order.

  Sasha quietly slipped into her room and closed the door behind her, hoping that Hunter and Silver Hawk hadn’t heard her return yet. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes. So much had gone wrong in such a short time . . . if just one thing could go right.

  After a moment she opened her eyes and pushed her body off the door, annoyed when the miasma of shimmering lights danced over the dining table in her room. A small domed silver tea tray sat next to a larger covered dinner tray waiting for her. Sasha shook her head.

  “Go away, guys—I’m not hungry . . . and you really shouldn’t spy on people. It’s not polite.”

  Much to her dismay they followed her as she tried to get some peace by the window. She shooed them away from her hair like the annoying little gnats they’d become.

  Disgruntled, high-pitched fussing battered her wolf hearing as they tumbled and dodged her hand waves. The entire thing was absurd. The more she waved them away, the more they flew at her like confetti hornets until she finally closed her eyes, allowed her hands to fall to her sides, and slumped against the windowsill.

  “What do you want from my life?” she groaned, letting out a long, impatient sigh.

  Soon she could begin to string together their squeaky chatter once they’d settled down long enough to stop trying to individually talk to her all at the same time. Frustration gripped her as she waited for them to communicate in short bursts in unison.

  “The silver platter,” Sasha said flatly. “Fine.” She pushed away from the window ledge, seriously battling the desire to jump out of it. Even as a wolf, however, the forty-story drop would have been unkind. It amazed her, the enchanted world. On the outside the castle seemed much smaller than it did from within.

  Folding her arms over her chest, she glanced down at the table. “More enchanted grapes—or are you going to spike my veggies with love-jones to make up for everything? Oh, like that’ll work—not.”

  Sparkles rained down on the table, making her grow peevish. “Oh, yeah,” she said, grabbing the knob of the small dome, “and that was so very, very rude showing up in Hunter’s room last night—that I never want to discuss with you again!”

  She snatched off the cover and just stared down for a moment. Sealed evidence bags from NOPD? What the . . .

  Carefully studying them without touching what she saw, she set down the platter lid beside the platter. In thick Sharpie print along with the date and a detective’s initials in the notes section, the first bag read: UNIDENTIFIED ANIMAL HAIR SAMPLES FROM BATHROOM WINDOW AT CHAYA TEAHOUSE—JANE DOE MAULING MURDER #2. Suddenly the silver platters made sense. It was a peace offering, as well as protective covering in case someone wanted to steal what the Fairies had stolen.

  “I could kiss you guys, little voyeurs that you are . . . ,” Sasha said, now picking up the bag by the corner with a linen napkin to study it better under a light.

  Thick, amber strands caught in the light through the clear plastic. Sasha looked up when she clearly heard the sparkling cloud squeal, “Dana.” She quickly set that bag down and read the next one: UNIDENTIFIED ANIMAL HAIR SAMPLES FROM ALLEY DUMPSTER—THE FAIR LADY ESTABLISHMENT—ERIC FRANKLIN MAULING MURDER #1.

  “Oh, shit . . .” Sasha sniffed the bag, and the distinctive odor of demon-wolf stung her nose. “This is pay dirt.” She set the bag down carefully. “I know, I know, but we’re hardly even, despite the fact that basic DNA analysis will show who this came from, or at the very least that it came from a female—not Hunter or Shogun.”

  Sasha smiled. “All right,” she murmured when they started turning gray and angry. “It is golden, I’ll give you that . . . and, yeah, if we run the mitochondrial DNA testing, we can prove the boy’s murderer was Lei’s and Shogun’s mother—not me or Hunter, or even Shogun. But what’s with the Dana hairs? She was at Chaya helping feed the beast . . . is that what you’re telling me?”

  Again, angry sparkles plumed around the room and then danced in an agitated flurry over the larger platter. Without hesitation, Sasha lifted the lid. Initially she didn’t understand. There was a plastic bag with no markings on it that seemed to contain some sort of fabric . . . and then slowly the scent of a healthy, aroused Shogun entered her nose.

  She stood up quickly, slammed the lid back over the pants, and backed away from the table. Words pelted her in Fairy bursts. “Bathroom.” “Dana.” “Vampires.” “Bayou.”

  Sasha paced away from the table, rubbing her neck and studying the floor. She remembered when she’d handed Shogun a change of pants—the sweats she’d purchased from the gift shop. He drew the blood sample in the men’s room and came back without his incriminating khakis. Sasha stopped walking and looked at the cloud of color swirling around the room.

  “Dana went into the trash after we left and got the pants, gave them to Vampires that night, and Vampires left them in the bayou for Hunter to trip over so he’d go after Shogun?” She turned in a circle hardly believing, but the evidence spoke for itself.

  The response was a gleeful shower of bursting, shimmering Fairy lights.

  CHAPTER 18

  The waiting was the worst part, always. Court was court, a trial was a trial—although she’d prefer a human court-martial to a supernatural tribunal any night. Then there was the not-so-small issue of transportation through a bayou where the enraged demon could do serious witness tampering. It had already been enough that the more mild-mannered supernaturals had declined to attend the proceeding, opting to hear about it on the gossip grapevine rather than risk being savaged in the swamps. Who could blame them?

  It meant, in all likelihood, that the only participants would be the Fae peacekeeping forces due to their forest agility; Vampires—who feared nothing; members of The Order of the Dragon, for much the same reason; and Wolf Clan members, who were always ready for a brawl and on trial anyway.

  Therefore, unlike the very egalitarian and democratic process of the UCE Conference, this affair had the markings of a medieval town hanging. Even with a demon-infected Werewolf snuffling through the underbrush, there was an insanely festive mood rippling through the crowd as supernaturals headed toward the deep swamp.

  Dragons lit the way with flame-thrown bursts; Phantoms slipped between the trees, their haunting presence sending chilled breezes through the otherwise humid night. Fleet-footed Fae archers performed breathtaking aerial acrobatics as they advanced through the dense overhead canopy. It was like watching Cirque du Soleil without the benefit of an arena or tickets.

  Burly Werewolf Clan members at least two hundred strong—adding in Shogun’s people—crashed through the underbrush wielding shotguns, baseball bats, tire irons, and pretty much anything else that could do damage. They surrounded their formidable female pack members with possessive warning snarls—as though anybody else wanted them.

  No weapons were confiscated or going to be checked at the door. That was clear by the way everybody brandished what they had. If it was going to be all that, she wouldn’t have tried to tone it down by only having a Glock and a few grenades. Hell, she would have gone all-out with an assault rifle and bazooka. Why not? Once in the bayou, apparently, anything went. Maybe it was the loosed demon-Werewolf; maybe it was just the wild west reality of it all. Who knew? At least all the Shadows had pump shotguns and silver shells . . . though an Uzi or two in her company sure woulda been nice. Had she only known.

  Sasha rolled her eyes and kept walking as she spotted Dana and Lei flanked by Fae protective custody marshals. Until now it hadn’t truly sunk in just how pitifully thinned out the Shadow ranks were from all the wars and the internal struggle with Dexter’s infected wolves.

  With Hunter, Silver Hawk, Bear Shadow, Crow Shadow, and her, there were only about fifty healthy members remaining in the North American Clan. Instinctively she knew that could not be a good thing.
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  Tornado clouds of bats blotted out the moonlight in a fluttering patchwork of agile bodies—leave it to the Vampires to come in by private flights.

  But this time there were no Phoenixes with their gorgeous silken plumes in high colors to light up the night. There were no Fairy sparklers delightedly playing among the trees. The smaller Elves and Brownies were conspicuously absent, as were the slower-moving ground forces of Gnomes and Trolls. With a ravaging Werewolf on the loose, that was perfectly reasonable. The Mythics seemed to take the same tack—what peace-loving Yeti in his or her right mind would go up against a demon-infected wolf?

  It wasn’t until she saw Dugan walking beside Sir Rodney in merry discourse that she began to worry. Hunter and Silver Hawk saw it, too. The threesome shared a look. No doubt this was going to be a particularly long and deadly night.

  A lonely howl sent shivers up her spine. She’d know Shogun’s baleful call anywhere. Immediately two-hundred-plus howls answered him, sending a thunderous warning throughout the bayou; strength in numbers, intimidation by force.

  Sasha looked at the silver trays she and Silver Hawk carried, and the gym bag Hunter had hitched up on his shoulder. What was the point if the entire process came down to firepower? If it was gonna be all that, she’d call in an F-18 air strike and show them some real fucking shock and awe.

  “Easy, girl,” Hunter said with a lopsided grin, needling her to make her relax. “The hair on your neck is standing up.”

  She didn’t answer him as the crowd came to a stop at the deep water’s edge. Everyone assembled glanced up at the moon. It was as though they all had just looked at the Big Ben clock tower in London, rather than the full moon. No self-respecting supernatural required a timepiece, and the Vampires apparently only wore ridiculously expensive brands to show off. Internal reckoning said the huge black marble edifice would rise out of the swamp in a few moments. Then court would be in session.

  No matter how many times she’d seen it—and granted, she’d only seen it once before—watching the mist gather as glistening clean, sculpted columns rose up out of nothingness to appear like something out of the Greek Pantheon was nothing short of spectacular. Clearly she wasn’t the only one who delighted in the process of the UCE being called to order. Applause thundered through the glen, and after the building settled in place, hardening the ground around it and spreading out to offer guests out-of-place courtyards and gardens, individuals began filing up the massive stone stairs.

  In keeping with protocol, she and other entities sat with their group in predetermined orchestra seating that had been assigned, no doubt, eons before her time.

  But oddly, this time the layout was slightly different. There were still aerial posts and catwalks for the Fae, and huge chandeliers with delicate, miniature seating for the Fairies, but rather than the thick wall mounts for heavy Dragons and Phoenixes to loop themselves around, the boxes had silver barriers between them with burly Dragon guards pacing back and forth. Gone were the comfortable, high-backed upholstered chairs. Marble benches arranged coliseum-style prevailed. The Mythics’ boxes weren’t even shielded from view with privacy screens, and slowly but surely she came to realize that the council’s chamber had a dangerous arena feel to it.

  Oh, yeah . . . this was definitely court, even if they wanted to be politically correct and call it a tribunal. Sasha glimpsed Hunter from the corner of her eye. The large black marble U-shaped front bench was empty, no seats taken. Then the dormant gavel sat up, rose swiftly, and banged itself with a crack, yelling, “All rise!”

  Everyone stood, muttering and grumbling.

  Gone was the beautiful Siren stenographer, whose mermaid fantail provided modesty for her Titan carrier. An old crone with a big black book hobbled in and opened the dusty tomb, peering over Ben Franklin glasses. Then she set it in the air where it floated of its own volition. She cackled a screeching laugh that stilled the crowd, pulled out a small wand from behind her pointed ear, and flung it at the book, causing a small explosion that made her have to adjust her lopsided black hat.

  “Truth will print, lies will burn,” she warned, gazing around the group with a crooked eye. “All proceedings are written in blood. This court has come to order.”

  Then just as abruptly as she’d come in, she walked out of a side door and vanished. Three black hooded figures filed in right behind the crone’s exit; one very tall and lean, one extremely robust, and one short and round. It wasn’t hard to guess who they were even before Baron Geoff Montague, Buchanan Broussard, and Elf Dugan climbed up to the bench, removed their hoods, and then sat.

  “There are very serious charges being presented tonight,” the baron said, his steely Vampire gaze roving the crowd and setting off murmurs of accord and dissent. “Two humans have been savaged—eaten, bringing human authorities dangerously close to our secret way of life.” He nodded to Buchanan as though the entire proceeding had been scripted.

  “In addition,” Buchanan said, rearing back and allowing his hefty frame to add size and dimension to his commanding voice. “We have an eyewitness account of contagion being used in a wolf fight as a weapon.”

  Gasps rang out and the crowd began to grumble louder until the gavel jumped up and began shrieking for order.

  “That’s right,” Buchanan said. “Shocking as that may be, we have an infected man now Turning while in custody. We might unfortunately have to publicly execute him tonight.”

  Sasha’s gaze narrowed as she watched the bloodlust ripple through the crowd. Not on her watch. She was glad that Hunter and Silver Hawk gave her a subtle nod.

  “We also have,” Dugan said with an unsteady voice, “evidence of willful toxin usage . . . manufactured demon infection from the human experiments being injected by the same wolf who went rogue and savaged an uninfected man. The death of the one now Turning is truly an act of violence, because the one who willfully infected himself and then passed on the contagion has a natural immunity to it once it runs its course—because he’s a Shadow Wolf.”

  The crowd erupted. Everyone was on their feet, and it took repeated gavel whacks and shrieks to regain order.

  “Yes,” Baron Montague said in a silky tone, his expression smug. “It appears from all the gathered evidence that the sleeper cell within the same Shadow Pack that caused all the chaos during the last full moon is none other than the North American Clan leadership.” He pointed at Hunter and Sasha as the crowd broke into angry growls, barks, and jeers.

  After what seemed an eternity, order was once again restored. Baron Montague crooked his finger toward the floating book, and as it moved to him through the air, silence echoed in the great hall. He peered down and materialized a pair of reading glasses on the bridge of his aristocratic nose.

  “For the felony crime of human murders that could destabilize our supernatural havens, we hereby charge Maximus Hunter, North American Clan leader of the Shadow Wolf Federation. Note in the margin: The Southeast Asian Clan Leader of the Werewolf Federation is exonerated of this act, given that his contagion was willfully thrust upon him in a dastardly act of felonious infection spreading. In addition, for biohazardous toxin smuggling and usage, again, Maximus Hunter is charged, along with his life-mate and accomplice, Sasha Trudeau. Given the serious nature of these multiple charges and offenses, these and all charges carry the weight of the sentence, death by silver bullet firing squad.”

  Shadow Wolves were on their feet, with Werewolves in the adjacent booths yelling back across the Dragon divides. Pandemonium took several minutes to quell, and even then shouts of discontent rang out.

  “This sentencing, should we find the defendants guilty, is based upon the fact that more than human collateral damage occurred. We do have the loss of a valuable member of supernatural society—no matter what, Shogun is Turnin’, ladies and gentlemen,” Buchanan said, glancing around the court. “I was there and saw that part myself. And who knows what else is out there in the bayou—y’all heard it, y’all smelled it . . . who knows who e
lse that boy bit while he was druggin’ and thuggin’?”

  Dugan nodded. “I have evidence of what he was shooting up in me own establishment. Those who know me know that for years I’ve run a clean B and B. There’s never been an incident that leaked to the human world.” He leaned forward and glanced down the bench. “Aye, this is a dark time, if we small businessmen cannot safely run an enterprise. Worse yet, our community cannot have sleepless days worryin’ ta death that some new infection drug may cause violent chaos to reign.”

  The baron made a tent before his mouth with his fingers for a moment, and sent a withering gaze throughout the crowd. “It is bad for business,” he said succinctly. “It is bad for secrecy.” He sat back and let out a long, impatient sigh. “It is bad for the UCE and every group represented here tonight. We cannot have this rogue behavior on our streets.”

  Vampires sneered and hissed as Shadow Wolves growled low warnings.

  “We must stamp out this scourge where we find it,” the baron said, slowly standing. His eloquence enraptured the group, as did his charismatic style. Sasha and Hunter watched, snarling, as he manipulated the crowd until it was practically eating out of his hand.

  “Clearly, these two are guilty from the preponderance of evidence of credible eyewitnesses,” the baron pressed on, gloating. “Unfortunately, by midnight, when the moon reaches its zenith, an innocent young man will have to lose his life—as there is no known cure for the contagion. In addition, there appears to still be a feeding monster on the loose in our fair bayou, which we will have to hunt down. My suggestion is that those who cannot catch the moonlight madness should take on this hunt—Vampires, Dragons, and Fae—in support of our wolf citizenry who are vulnerable to the disease. Shadows, given that this is probably another rogue Shadow Wolf, would necessarily be exempt from this hunt as well. But know that I propose this with no less humility and deference than if this were a daylight matter, whereby I’m sure our Werewolf brethren and sisters would respond to a call to arms for our needs. It is about cooperation and mutual respect.”