Part 23 (1/2)

CHAPTER 16.

Perry's shop was as dim as the inside of a black cat, and blaring something post-industrial from the speakers mounted in the corners. The man himself was sitting on a rolling stool with his back to me, wispy salt-and-pepper ponytail trailing over his neck. He was working on a client who looked like an undead cheerleader-a violently blond girl with b.r.e.a.s.t.s that could have floated her across Siren Bay, strapped into a leather vest and shredded cutoff shorts. She'd topped the look off with boots, fishnets, and the grinning demon's head Perry was tattooing in the crevice of her cleavage.

”Perry,” I said. ”Perry!” to cut into the music. He stopped the needle and spun on his stool.

”Well, well, well,” he purred. ”Detective Wilder. I thought I smelled something sweet in the air.”

”I'm talking to Perry,” I said to his dead, cloudy gray eye and twisted lips. ”Not to you.”

The bad side of his face, bulging eye and burn-victim skin, hissed at me and he rotated all the way around. ”Sorry about that,” said Perry, scrutinizing me with his good eye. ”The ink, you know . . . I get into it. Been a h.e.l.l of a long time, Wilder. Thought you didn't love me no more.”

”Now, you know that could never happen,” I said.

”Excuse me,” said the pep squad reject. ”I'm not paying you to chitchat.”

”Go back to waving your pom-poms or something,” I said. I drew the statue out of the bag, careful to hold the evidence wrapper by the edges, and showed it to Perry. ”Got any idea what this is?”

”Hot d.a.m.n,” said Perry. He got off his stool and limped over to me, his leg brace catching the low light. A long time ago, something had happened to Perry that trapped . . . well . . . not Perry in half of his body. You had to be careful which side you talked to, depending on the answer you wanted.

”This is some hard-core mojo,” said Perry. ”I was doing tats in Wyoming about ten years back and I ran across some medicine men working with fetishes. Nasty-a.s.s for whoever they turned it on.”

”This was used by Wendigo,” I said. ”It's for what what that I don't know.” that I don't know.”

”Right, right,” said Perry. ”Looks like a hunger G.o.d. The shapes.h.i.+fters got one they call Wiskachee. Supposed to crawl up from the ground and devour your enemies, or something.”

I felt a little cold air on the back of my neck, just enough to ruffle the hairs. ”Is that so.”

”Bunch of bullc.r.a.p if you ask me,” said Perry. He extended the fetish to me but I put my hands up.

”One touch of that thing is more than enough.”

Sunny arrived then, jangling the bell on the door. ”Hi, Perry.”

”Sunflower.” He nodded. ”Anyway, the shapes.h.i.+fters feed Wiskachee, honor him with his fetish wors.h.i.+p while he sleeps, and he wakes up and makes them all motherf.u.c.kin' Superman.” Perry snorted. ”Or something like that. Not like I sat in on Mythology One-oh-One or nothin'.”

”They . . . feed him?” said Sunny. Perry set the fetish on the counter, where it glared at me balefully. I stuck my tongue out at it when he turned his back.

”Wendigo drink blood, and from it they draw their power,” said Perry. ”The legends of Wiskachee speak of an unceasing, all-consuming hunger that will someday swallow the world unless the G.o.d is appeased regularly with the blood of the faithful.”

I wondered if the little statue was the reason Jason Kennuka had plunged to his death. Had his wild Wendigo buddies convinced him to donate a little bit of his faithful blood? The dark magic that wrapped the fetish in layers dense as razor wire spoke to something something pus.h.i.+ng Jason to jump off that ledge. pus.h.i.+ng Jason to jump off that ledge.

”Like I said, c.r.a.p,” said Perry. ”I ain't saying that Wiskachee and his magick aren't real, but that business about the end of the world-do you know how many bargain-bas.e.m.e.nt necromancers spout the same s.h.i.+t?” He stumped over to the cash register to ring up the irate coed. ”Wendigo are first-cla.s.s freaks . . . you know their burial grounds are underneath the whole city? Shallow graves all over the d.a.m.n place. Gave the caster witches a turn when they were building up back in the 1800s. At any rate, Luna . . . you find anything else like that fetish, bring it here. I'll add it to the collection.”

”I won't live live long enough if I ever brush up against something like that again,” I said. long enough if I ever brush up against something like that again,” I said.

Perry gave a wet laugh that came out the twisted side of his mouth. ”We all gotta go sometime, Wilder. Might as well make it with a bang.”

In the hallway, as we walked to the stairwell, Sunny looked at my face. ”You're thinking. That face always means you're thinking. What are you worried about?”

”I'm not worried,” I said. ”I'm frustrated and confused.”

She worried her lip. ”About what?”

I banged open the stairwell door, stamping harder than I had to on the narrow stone steps. ”About how I'm going to explain all of this G.o.d-summoning, human-killing madness to someone who doesn't believe in any of it.”

With most grief-stricken relatives, By the way, your brother was a religious nut who threw himself off a building for Hungry Jesus By the way, your brother was a religious nut who threw himself off a building for Hungry Jesus will get you outraged sobs at best and fisticuffs or restraining orders at worst. will get you outraged sobs at best and fisticuffs or restraining orders at worst.

But then again, Lucas hadn't been straight with me, either. I snarled as Sunny and I walked through the university gates. ”What's so G.o.ds-d.a.m.n hard about being honest, Sunny?”

”The truth hurts,” she said.

”Me putting a foot in their a.s.s is going to hurt the Wendigo a lot more,” I grumbled.

Sunny pulled me back as I, in my righteous indignation, almost walked into traffic. She punched the b.u.t.ton for the crosswalk light and shook her head. ”Calm down, Luna.”

”I've had a s.h.i.+tty-a.s.s day,” I said. ”You go ahead and be calm. I'll stay over here in my rage bubble, thanks.” go ahead and be calm. I'll stay over here in my rage bubble, thanks.”

”What's really rare is for you not to be in a rage bubble,” Sunny said. If it was anyone but her, I would have slapped the smug taste right out of her mouth, and I was considering it with Sunny when I caught the scent of wet dog over my shoulder. I whipped around and saw the green sedan parked directly across the street from Sunny's convertible.

”Wait here,” I said to Sunny, starting to walk.

”Luna, what . . . ,” she called, but I held up a hand, going to the pa.s.senger's-side window and looking in.

Donal Macleod's pet were was hunched over the steering wheel cursing and trying to fidget a digital camera's battery back into its slot. I walked around the car into the street, flas.h.i.+ng my badge at a car that honked, and then put my elbow through his window.

He yelped and scrambled away from the shards as I reached in, grabbed him by the back of his collar, and hauled him, kicking and screaming, out the broken window and into the road.

”Why the f.u.c.k are the Warwolves following me me?” I shouted.

”There's a truck coming!” he screamed. A few hundred feet up Devere Street, a semi barreled toward us, horn blatting.

”Then you'd better answer fast,” I said.

”I'm just following orders!” he cried.

”In about five seconds you're going to be just a bunch of meat in the middle of the road. Good luck following them then.”

”Donal told me to!” he said finally. ”He said to follow you and make sure you were doing the job! We had to get justice for Priscilla! Pack justice!”

The semi was close enough for me to feel the heat from the engine. I jerked the Warwolf to the side and sent him sprawling on the hood of his car. He was gasping, sweat pouring down his face. ”You crazy b.i.t.c.h . . .”

”None crazier,” I said. I took my handcuffs off my belt. ”How much did you hear?”