Liz took several photos of the damage and the dead. Using a yard rake propped against the coop, she gently rearranged a few chicken parts to look underneath. There were a number of partial prints in the gore that matched the one clear print in the mud at the edge of the yard. Liz took more shots and secured her cell. She sniffed gently, trying to determine if there was some unexpected scent present, but her nose was human, and she had never attempted a magical working that might differentiate one scent from another. The complexity of such a working would be boggling.
However, there was fresh blood on the torn screening, as if the attacker had hurt itself while ripping through the screen, and the double-layered metal screen had been ripped from a height of six feet, down to two feet above the ground. Big sucker. The blood was at a five foot height. She took a clean cloth out of a zippy bag and wiped the cloth over the bloody metal, before resealing it and sliding cloth and bag into her pocket.
What she needed now was a … a paranormal creature with a really good tracking nose and the ability to understand English.
When she was in half-form, Jane Yellowrock had a great nose, but smelling a bunch of dead chickens to determine cause and creature of death seemed a lot to ask the queen of the vampires. It surely was beneath her dignity and not the kind of job Jane took these days. These days, her responsibilities were more along the lines of killing rogue-vampires with royal titles, and upsetting the political stability of the entire paranormal world. She had a mouth on her and few social skills, so maybe that part was easy.
That left Brute—a huge, monstrous, white werewolf trapped in wolf form after her elder sister Evie summoned that pesky demon. That demon had been eating the werewolf when Jane and the angel—like a real honest-to-God, from heaven, angel—got him free. The angel’s actions had left the werewolf permanently a wolf for reasons Liz and her magic didn’t understand.
Brute might still hold a grudge against her sister, Evangelina. Liz’s feelings were certainly conflicted and she hadn’t been chewed on. But what if Brute’s unhappiness stretched to all the Everhart sisters? Would he refuse to help? She and the white werewolf had never spent a lot of time together, and she had no idea if he would help her. And even if he did help her, she had no idea how to kill a Dwayyo. Silver bullets? Garlic? Bug spray? Maybe waffles were terminal to them.
Her best bet was to not take the job. That would save her from getting a bad review from the potential clients. Except they had money. Lots and lots of money. To track down and kill the creature who had killed the Mrs.’s pet chickens, Mr. Moneybags had promised Liz a check for a thousand dollars in addition to all expenses and her hourly rate.
Liz stood and stared at the back porch and the woman who had called her. Felicity Hogg Drake was resting against her husband’s chest, weeping theatrically. She had been weeping since Liz got to the chicken coop. Loudly. Felicity was a drama queen, a tiny-waisted, double-D-breasted, bottle blonde, with the problem-solving IQ of a jar of mayo and the survival instincts of a cockroach. Mr. Moneybags was older and clearly doted on his wife.
A thousand dollars over expenses and the hourly rate.
Liz needed cash for next month’s rent. A grand would help meet that requirement.
She put on a solemn expression, made her way across the yard, and placed a foot on the bottom step. This left her about ten feet from the couple. The wife wailed. The husband patted her shoulder.
Gently she said, “The chickens appear to have died at the hands of a paranormal—or a previously mythical—creature.”
Felicity wailed. “Can you bring them back to life?”
“Ummm. No. Sorry.”I’m not Stephen King,she thought, trying to keep the expression that might say, “Idiot,” off her face. “The tracks lead into the woods and up the rocky hill behind your house.” She nodded to the security cameras and motion sensor lights. “Nothing on them?”
“All the security was pointed toward the front of the house,” the man said. “This thing came in from the back, in the dark, on a hill that would tax most hikers in the daylight. Was it a mountain lion? A bear?”
“No. Neither.” Which he already knew, or he’d have called a mundane tracker with dogs. Instead he’d called a witch who found lost things and lost people though her magic talent. Liz studied him, not sure why he set her teeth on edge. Maybe just the air of privilege and condescension. “It’s a paranormal predator of some kind.”
“I saw the track. I assumed as much. We’ll have our security company do some upgrades so there won’t be a next time, but Felly and I want it dead so it can’t come back.”
Liz made a ruminative sound. “Tracking and capturing most paranormal predators is within my skillset. But this isn’t a lost dog hunt or a werewolf hunt. It will take time, expertise, and tracking skills to pursue and eliminate the killer, assuming the killer isn’t sentient or some form of human-based shapeshifter. If the killer is sentient, I’ll be unable to kill it, and will have to capture it and hand it over to PsyLED. But honestly, I don’t think the Psychometric Law Enforcement Department of Homeland Security will have much interest in a chicken killer.”
Mr. Moneybags winced.
Felicity wailed again and fell against him.
Liz shifted her attention to the husband. “I can try to track the creature and kill or capture it. My expenses alone are likely to be costly, and it will take a lot of man-hours. Certainly more expensive than the thousand offered for the job. Probably more expensive than repairing the coop, buying new chickens, and installing a good security system on the coop. And I didn’t get your name.”
“Charles Drake,” he said as if that should mean something to her. “Money—to a certain degree—isn’t the issue. If my wife wants you to chase a ghost into the mountains, fine, chase it. I’ll pay for it, mainly because we have small dogs, including a male Cavalier King Charles Spaniel that placed Best Of Breed and Best In Show at the National specialty.”
“My Sugar BooBoo,” Felicity said. And went back to wailing.
Drake frowned. “This thing gets that dog? We’re out a lot of potential cash from sperm sales.”
“Stud rights,” Felicity whispered.
“I don’t give a shit what it’s called. It’s an investment. And not just an investment. Felicity’s distraught.” As an afterthought, he added, “And there are kids in the neighborhood too. So chase it down and kill it. I want its head mounted over the fireplace.”
What a charmer,Liz thought. “I don’t kill paranormal creatures unless they’re previously proven to be non-sentient, and that is questionable at this point. I’ll have to bring in bigger guns, including a huge scent… hound. And the price goes up with all that. So it will be two thousand up front, nonrefundable, to hire the proper breed of paranormal hunting scent-dog, and his handler. An itemized bill, due upon delivery, will be hand delivered afterward, and there’s no thirty day grace time. I hand you a bill, you pay it. And the contract will stipulate what I can and can’t do legally.”
“Fine.” He handed her a credit card and a business card. “Send the contract to my email on the card, I’ll print it, sign it, and bring it to the door. If you can’t kill the thing that killed Felly’s chickens, capture it. I’ll call a friend at the governor’s office if we need PsyLED to assist in removing the beast. Come on Felly. Let’s get you a cup of coffee and your blankie.” Drake turned away and led his weeping wife inside.
Blankie?
Liz took the VISA to her Subaru and ran it through her credit card system. Then she altered a contract and sent it to the email on the card. Four minutes later Drake opened the back door. Liz returned his card and accepted the contract, all properly signed and legal. Drake shut the door without a word. Liz, careful of possible cameras, kept her expression neutral until she was half a mile down the road. Then she pulled over and did what she had wanted to do from the beginning, and called Eli.
