Never Cry Werewolf Page 3

  She stared at General Westford and saluted him. “Thank you, sir.”

  “No . . . thank you,” he said and then glanced at Doc Holland. “They don’t understand. Hell, at first I didn’t understand, until you all showed me what was at stake . . . told me things that will never allow me to get another good night’s sleep for the rest of my life. All of us with an ounce of common sense know that Captain Trudeau is right, but that young arrogant prick, Madison, doesn’t know it. That’s the problem.” General Westford shook his head. “I met him this morning when he came on base. Thinks he knows it all. Those poor young bastards that they’re sending into New Orleans will pay the price for the political one-upmanship that’s going on at the Pentagon—but then again, what else is new? That’s just Washington as we know it.”

  “It’s suicide,” Doc Holland said, shaking his head. “Fools, all of them. This isn’t any kind of conventional war—this is madness.”

  The general let out a weary breath. “No, Doctor—this is fear . . . and fear makes fools of us all.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “You cannot be serious,” Winters said, glancing around at the others in the lab.

  “Figures,” Bradley muttered and then fixed his gaze on Winters for a moment. “You’re the youngest here, so you still haven’t learned that the little guy always gets screwed.”

  Clarissa slipped back into the lab, picking up on the conversation. Bradley cast her a worried glance, but she gave him a discreet look that allayed his fears and told him they’d talk later.

  “What’d I miss, guys?” Clarissa glanced around at the haggard expressions in the room. “I take it the meeting with the Joint Chiefs didn’t go well.”

  “You got it,” Sasha said with a scowl. “I’m on house arrest for a botched mission and some new, arrogant . . . ahem, a new colonel, guy named Madison, is taking over and we’ve been told to stand down.”

  “So, like, nothing we did mattered?” Fisher said in disbelief, opening his lanky arms and then dragging his fingers through his sweat-spiked red hair. “First they fire on us, and then clear us as nonwolves, but now we’re downgraded to this BS spectator position? What gives, Captain?”

  “Might as well get used to it, bro,” Woods said, pushing off a lab stool. “Face it, we’re cannon fodder. They don’t give a rat’s ass about us. We were an experiment born out of a petri dish who happened to get the right concoction that made us familiars and not full-blown Werewolves.” He turned to Doc Holland and saluted him with bitter sarcasm. “Much obliged, sir!”

  “This sucks, big time,” Clarissa said, her hurt gaze holding Sasha’s.

  “I know,” Sasha muttered, beginning to pace and not caring that the walls had ears. “It blows, it sucks, yeah, yeah, and what? There isn’t jack we can do about it right now but take it on the chin. Wish I had better news, but I don’t . . . and we’ve gotta debrief—”

  Sasha stopped mid-sentence as a colonel entered the room with Doc Holland and General Westford. She and her entire squad stood at attention, as was protocol for the general—but she was really having a tough time even thinking about saluting the guy she assumed to be Colonel Madison.

  There was instant dislike between them; it was in his haughty glare and the vibes that radiated from his aura. Sasha stared into a pair of hard, dark brown eyes and a stone-chiseled face the hue of dark walnut. He was almost a full head taller than her; that put him at about six foot three, and he was clearly proud of it. She could tell by the way he looked down his nose and surveyed the lab as though something in it were rotten, like old garbage—or her and her team. Instinct told her that Madison would be the kind to use his height advantage to try to loom over others, invading personal space to get the psychological advantage. His stance was more than perfect military posture; there was an arrogance to it that went beyond fit-body male swagger. She’d seen his kind before; the kind of officer who assumed that because she was female, she was somehow inferior or inept. Part of her wanted to chuckle—the part that was on the side of her DNA that could rip his fucking throat out if he blinked at her wrong.

  “At ease,” the general said, and then tensely began the formal introductions. “Captain Sasha Trudeau, Colonel Keith Madison.”

  Out of respect, Sasha forced a salute. “Colonel.” She waited for a nod or some form of recognition that never came. Okaaay. “Sir, I take it you have already been briefed on Doctor Xavier Holland’s stellar reputation. Permit me to introduce my team. Our civilian hires who come with phenomenal university résumés are Doctor John Bradley, who is our dark arts spec; Doctor Clarissa McGill, our resident bio expert; Mark Winters, who is our computer and technology spec; and Lieutenants Woods and Fisher are—”

  “I know, I know, Captain—the guys, like yourself, with compromised DNA,” Madison shot back, cutting Sasha off.

  “Wanna see how compromised?” Sasha said with an angry half smile. “In the interest of a thorough debriefing, sir,” she amended to stay just within the very fine lines of insubordination that she was treading dangerously near.

  Colonel Madison nodded, a challenge clear in his eyes. “Any day or night, Captain.”

  “Under a full moon might be better, sir,” Sasha said as the hair began to bristle at the nape of her neck. Human or wolf, an alpha challenge was an alpha challenge.

  “No, I think you might be more impressed by one Max Hunter, sir,” Woods said, his gaze now locked on Madison. “He’s a friendly with a mean overbite.”

  “Are you threatening me, soldier?” Colonel Madison asked, stepping in close to Woods. “Tell me you aren’t that stupid with a commanding officer present.”

  “Not at all, sir,” Woods said, not backing down in the least, but keeping his answers politically correct. “Our orders were to give you a full briefing on the enemy combatant’s full capabilities. That was my suggestion—a demonstration of that by a friendly, sir.”

  “Gentlemen,” General Westford said, clearly conflicted, but staying within the authority of his office to keep order. “This transition from one team to another is a hard choice that has been made, but it has been made nonetheless. Period.” He stared at Colonel Madison for a moment to get his point across. “This is the finest team that I have seen to date. No matter what you may have heard from the brass in Washington or out at Mac-Dill, this Paranormal Containment Unit has brought us valuable intel while engaged with new species and threats to our way of life that almost defy explanation. Captain Trudeau and her squad have my utmost respect—they should also have yours. They know this enemy and have seen what it can do on the ground.”

  “I have read the reports thoroughly, sir,” Colonel Madison shot back, staying just within the bounds of propriety.

  “And they have lived the goddamned reports, Colonel,” General Westford said between his teeth. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Colonel Madison said, looking past the general to a point on the wall, obviously peeved.

  “Then carry on,” the general said to Sasha. “Maybe if Colonel Madison opens his mind, he just might learn something.”

  “Send Sasha Trudeau a Fae missive,” Garth urgently commanded the captain of the Fae Guards.

  The lithe archer drew a silver, iridescent arrow from his quiver and waited as Sir Rodney’s top magic advisor prepared his wand to infuse the arrow with the critical information. He watched with ancient eyes as an arc of white static charge flitted from the tip of his wand into the tip of the arrowhead.

  “If this falls into the wrong hands, it will self-destruct,” he said with unwavering confidence. “Demons cannot infiltrate the white light, nor can they abduct the silver. It is programmed to follow her until it finds her, but to not reveal itself until she is alone.”

  “Aye,” the archer said, drawing the arrow into his bow. “But if she’s in that blasted human underground hell hole they call NORAD, my arrow will not reach her until she’s aboveground.”

  Garth sighed, and nodded. “Do it, man. Before the Se
elie declare war on the Unseelie for this most recent act of aggression against our king, we must inform our battle allies. We must know that the wolf Federations stand at the ready to bear arms alongside the Fae, as they ever were. An attempt to send residual possession spells against Sir Rodney is an act of war. It is a full declaration!”

  “But she was called in by her human commanders. They have her sequestered . . . it could be days before we know that she’s received our missive.” He pulled a long Phoenix feather off the end of it and handed it to Sir Garth. “Once this burns, we know she’s read it and it’s burned into the ether. Until then . . .”

  “We wait,” Garth said. The aged Gnome lifted his chin and stuffed the feather inside the sleeve of his long monk-like brown habit. “What other choice have we got?”

  News trucks clogged the French Quarter as news helicopters beat the night air. Bright television crew lights added an unnatural glare to the sunset. Martial law had been declared, making it illegal for civilians to be on the streets past nine PM, but the media would take that right up to the last possible moment in an attempt to get a story.

  Russell Conway swirled his beer in the bottle and then turned his longneck up to his mouth while looking out of the bar’s window. The Fair Lady was a paranormal joint, as word on the street had it . . . then again, the private blood clubs might have been a better choice, if only he could get in. But you had to know somebody who knew somebody—Vampires definitely weren’t going to let him in without an intro.

  With all the bright lights and human curiosity, anything that was remotely paranormal most likely had been driven way underground, especially Vampires. For some odd reason, he was drawn to them tonight. Something in his gut told him that if anyone would have direct access to what had gone down here in New Orleans, it would be that species that foolish humans refused to believe existed. He knew otherwise.

  The bartender signaled Russell when he set down his empty bottle. “Want another?”

  “Yeah,” Russell said, his time-hardened gaze roving the establishment. “Tell me,” he added when the bartender brought him a new bottle, “who do I have to see to get into the Blood Oasis?”

  The hefty bartender smirked. “Yo, buddy, you’re obviously new around here. Half of New Orleans and the rest of the United States want to get in that joint, or joints like it. You been watching the news? So what brings you to town all the way from probably Texas—judging by the way you dress? You a ghost hunter or paranormal investigator, or something?” He looked over Russell’s worn fringed leather jacket, cowboy hat, dirty jeans, and cowboy boots. “Bounty hunter or trapper, right?”

  A pair of hard hazel eyes stared at the burly man behind the bar. Russell smiled a strained half smile. His getup had worked, and yet it had also told on him. He’d have to amend that. He was a long way from South Dakota, but no one needed to be the wiser. However, he’d been correctly pegged as a bounty hunter.

  “I’m not a ghost hunter or bounty hunter,” Russell said and then took a swig of his fresh beer. The cold ale felt good going down, and he winced with satisfaction and then rubbed the five o’clock shadow on his jaw with a callused palm. “I’m just a guy from a small-town rag wanting to get an angle. Might put it on my blog.”

  The bartender laughed. “Okay. So you came all the way here to get the story that’ll get you a job with the New York Times, huh?” He shook his head and began wiping out glasses with a rag of questionable cleanliness. “Looking at the long hair and the outfit, I’da swore you was a bounty hunter looking to get yourself in a world of hurt over there at the Oasis.”

  “Why, is there something over at the Oasis that will hurt me?”

  “Only the mob, maybe, if you go placing screwy bets and trying to sneak into their upscale club, son. They don’t want any part of this circus going on in New Orleans. All of it’s bad for business—especially shutting down the city as soon as it gets dark.” The older Creole man leaned forward. “All the business during the day don’t make up for the loss of late-night carousing, if you follow. People don’t drink the same during the day as they do at night . . . not as hard and therefore tips be slow, you understand?”

  “So, I take it you don’t know anybody who knows anybody . . . not even for the right price?” Russell studied himself in the mirror behind the bar for a moment. The bartender was right. He needed a good shave, some preppy clothes, something that said college professor interested in making friends with the supernatural world via a sighting, or maybe hungry reporter.

  The bartender laughed again. “Listen, son, let’s not be hasty . . . everything is negotiable in the Big Easy. This is New Orleans.”

  “Can you believe that asshole?” Sasha muttered under her breath as soon as Colonel Madison had left the lab with General Westford.

  Everybody on her team just shook their heads. Bradley and Winters pointed toward the ceiling tiles to remind her that they were probably being monitored.

  “Well, since we’re officially off duty for the foreseeable future . . . I say we go find the Road Hawg, then find a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and get snot-slinging hammered,” Woods said, looking at Sasha. “What say you, Captain?”

  “My call is tequila—that’s even uglier,” Fisher said. “Shots are called for, in my humble estimation.”

  “Salt, lime, then brrrrr—tequila,” Winters agreed. “Isn’t that the order, Cap?”

  “Nah . . . Kamikazes just seem like they’d be more appropriate, given the frickin’ circumstances,” Clarissa said, raking her plump fingers through her short blond bob. “I don’t even want to remember this conversation until maybe three days from now.”

  Bradley just gave Clarissa a look.

  She smiled at him. “What?” She seemed slightly disoriented. “That oughta kill any leftover bad takeout in my system—that or bring it all up.”

  “I’m going home,” Doc said. “You all might want to do the same. I’m going to order a nice steak dinner, open a beer, and take my high blood-pressure meds—I’m too old for this shit. Then I’m going to watch a movie and just go to bed. Tomorrow morning, I’ll begin working on my overrun garden. Might just follow General Westford’s lead and retire. I fulfilled my initial service obligation a long time ago—put in my thirty years, retired at the mandatory age, and came back to work the next day as a civil service hire. And I’ve served in that role long enough to get another pension. I’m going home to think about all my options; you all might want to do the same.”

  Sasha just stared at Doc for a moment. “You’d really retire?” The thought was incomprehensible to her—not that he’d leave the military, but that he’d leave the team . . . would leave her.

  “I refuse to have a stroke about what I can’t control,” Doc said in a weary tone. “One day you’ll hopefully get to my age and see the wisdom of my approach. Self-destruction is—”

  “Gratifying,” Woods said, kicking over a chair.

  “Totally,” Fisher said, punching the wall. “Hell, me and Woods are beyond our initial service obligation as commissioned officers, just like you are, Cap.” Fisher held Sasha’s stricken gaze. “Just say the word. We can resign at will, just gotta give ninety days’ notice.”

  “No contract to break like enlisted men,” Woods said, staring at her. “No contract re-up, no end of time served to worry about, no reenlistment NCO sweating us about bonuses for signing our lives away for another five or six years . . . your call, Captain. If this bullshit is too thick, we’re with you.”

  Clarissa nodded. “We’re civvy hires,” she said, glancing at Winters and Bradley, who also nodded. “We could probably all resign and then go government consultant on them to make ten times what we make now just for providing vital expertise, without you guys being in harm’s way, ya know?”

  “My point exactly,” Doc said, rubbing the nape of his neck. “With this change of leadership and all the political games about to go down, it might make more sense to be free agents. Who knows? Time will bear all that out. But I need
to go somewhere quiet to think.”

  “I need to go debrief Hunter,” Sasha said. “He’s waiting for word at my place. Save us a seat and start lining up the shots. And, Doc, you might not want to get too comfortable at home. After I explain this bull to Hunter, both of us might need a Jack Daniel’s IV drip.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “What!” Hunter stalked away from her and punched the wall, taking out a huge chunk of plaster with his fist. “This is bullshit, Sasha—complete bullshit!”

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” she said, and then motioned with her arm around the room. She knew her apartment was being monitored. It was a fact she hated but lived with. “Care to discuss this somewhere else, where I’m pretty sure it won’t end up in an MI report?”

  She flung open the coat closet door and then waved her arm in front of the dark shadow within it. “After you.”

  Hunter shook his head. “Ladies first.”

  The Fae missive hit the wall just as Sasha slipped into the shadows with Hunter, and then pulled out—hovering, waiting, sensing, trying to relocate its delivery target, who was once again unreachable.

  Two seconds after they’d entered the shadow lands, Sasha’s voice exited her body in a sonic boom. “I cannot believe it—but I do believe it! That’s the pure tragedy of it all. You told me one day this would happen,” she shouted, walking a hot path back and forth in the misty cavern. “You have no idea how hard it was to keep from shape-shifting right there on the spot! Oh! And that arrogant son of a bitch colonel they replaced me with—he’s going to get an entire squad slaughtered, not to mention however many innocent civvies in the streets of New Orleans! You should have seen the way he disrespected me and my men. I thought Woods was going to get put in the brig for insubordination . . . right after I showed the colonel what a real live wolf combatant looked like. I swear I wanted to rip the guy’s throat out, the way he spoke to us and blew off Doc! Even General Westford had to check him. I thought Westford was gonna have a coronary—the man retired on the spot!”