of that type was accounted for. Malcolm pictured it like some sort of interdimensional queue, or maybe bullets in a magazine, each spirit waiting its turn. If they didn't kill that eel soon, mist cats might become one of the new dominant species.
"We'll need your report as soon as possible."
Malcolm tapped the screen. "Sending it now. The short of it is, brass and amethyst are ineffective. One of the loads in my shotgun worked, but I don't know which. List is included. Judging by the two men, I'd say Allan's theory that they can make familiars is valid."
"Do you think them werebeasts?" Schmidt asked.
"Nothing suggests transformation." Malcolm scanned his other inbox. He'd neglected it the past month since Daniel had first contacted him. He noticed two emails from Ulises. One titled "Great News" from three weeks ago. Six days later, "Call me." They hadn't spoken in months. Once this business with Orlovski was settled, he'd give him a call. Malcolm saw another message from an unfamiliar address but recognized the name. Natasha Luison.
The title read, "Important: It's Tasha."
"Uwe suspects the recent attacks along the coast are from a new lycanthrope," Schmidt said. "Something aquatic."
"Really?" Malcolm said, not really listening. Four years. How had she found him?
"If so, it's going to make them very difficult to track."
He opened the message.
Malcolm,
It's been a long time. No one knew how to contact you, but I managed to find this address in some of Ulises' things. There's no real easy way to say this, but I have some terrible news that you need to know.
"Ah," Schmidt was saying, "Your field report came through. I'll make sure Allan reviews it. Expect a call from him once he does."
"Always do," Malcolm said, still reading. A horrible dread welled in his stomach. Oh shit.
"Fine, then. Call when you leave the hospital or if anything changes."
Malcolm pursed his lips. "Master Schmidt, I won't be able to go to Chile."
"What?"
"I just received a message." Malcolm drew a breath. Held it. "Ulises…my mentor…is dead. I need to go home."
Chapter Four
Lush tree canopy blurred past the windows as Malcolm's bus barreled down the I10 toward New Orleans. Home. The rhythmic thumping of spacers in the seemingly endless bridge through the swamplands sounded like a metronome keeping time. Counting down the miles. Brackish water glistened in the trench between the East and West spans. The occasional fisherman floated through the treeless lane. Malcolm peered down as they neared the next mile marker. Someone had written a name on the window glass with black marker, its stylized letters impossible to read. Through the scrubbed and faded scrawl, he could almost spot the place where Ulises and he had sunk two dead familiars nine years earlier. Now, a limbless log floated there, its barkless surface encrusted with sunning turtles.
After the hospital had released Orlovski, they'd loaded him into the back of the SUV for Sam to make the five-thousand-mile drive to the Valducans' wind farm in Chile. Malcolm didn't envy the infinitely shitty roads the Russian and his broken leg would have to endure. Once they were off, Malcolm drove to Jackson, Mississippi. Any FBI in search of what might have happened to their now missing witness would find the Toyota rented by his only known associate, Alex Jones, returned to the rental car company, sending them off in the wrong direction. The next morning, Malcolm purchased a bus ticket and, with only a suitcase, a locking guitar case, and a backpack, had started the last leg of his journey home.
His response to Tasha's email had been short.
Thank you for letting me know. I'm on my way.
I'll call you when I arrive.
-Mal
The long drive had afforded a good deal of time to think, only fueling his need to get there. During his night in Jackson, he'd searched for news articles about the murder. The most he'd found was a short blurb, detailing the briefest of facts. Ulises Belair, 81, found
"We'll need your report as soon as possible."
Malcolm tapped the screen. "Sending it now. The short of it is, brass and amethyst are ineffective. One of the loads in my shotgun worked, but I don't know which. List is included. Judging by the two men, I'd say Allan's theory that they can make familiars is valid."
"Do you think them werebeasts?" Schmidt asked.
"Nothing suggests transformation." Malcolm scanned his other inbox. He'd neglected it the past month since Daniel had first contacted him. He noticed two emails from Ulises. One titled "Great News" from three weeks ago. Six days later, "Call me." They hadn't spoken in months. Once this business with Orlovski was settled, he'd give him a call. Malcolm saw another message from an unfamiliar address but recognized the name. Natasha Luison.
The title read, "Important: It's Tasha."
"Uwe suspects the recent attacks along the coast are from a new lycanthrope," Schmidt said. "Something aquatic."
"Really?" Malcolm said, not really listening. Four years. How had she found him?
"If so, it's going to make them very difficult to track."
He opened the message.
Malcolm,
It's been a long time. No one knew how to contact you, but I managed to find this address in some of Ulises' things. There's no real easy way to say this, but I have some terrible news that you need to know.
"Ah," Schmidt was saying, "Your field report came through. I'll make sure Allan reviews it. Expect a call from him once he does."
"Always do," Malcolm said, still reading. A horrible dread welled in his stomach. Oh shit.
"Fine, then. Call when you leave the hospital or if anything changes."
Malcolm pursed his lips. "Master Schmidt, I won't be able to go to Chile."
"What?"
"I just received a message." Malcolm drew a breath. Held it. "Ulises…my mentor…is dead. I need to go home."
Chapter Four
Lush tree canopy blurred past the windows as Malcolm's bus barreled down the I10 toward New Orleans. Home. The rhythmic thumping of spacers in the seemingly endless bridge through the swamplands sounded like a metronome keeping time. Counting down the miles. Brackish water glistened in the trench between the East and West spans. The occasional fisherman floated through the treeless lane. Malcolm peered down as they neared the next mile marker. Someone had written a name on the window glass with black marker, its stylized letters impossible to read. Through the scrubbed and faded scrawl, he could almost spot the place where Ulises and he had sunk two dead familiars nine years earlier. Now, a limbless log floated there, its barkless surface encrusted with sunning turtles.
After the hospital had released Orlovski, they'd loaded him into the back of the SUV for Sam to make the five-thousand-mile drive to the Valducans' wind farm in Chile. Malcolm didn't envy the infinitely shitty roads the Russian and his broken leg would have to endure. Once they were off, Malcolm drove to Jackson, Mississippi. Any FBI in search of what might have happened to their now missing witness would find the Toyota rented by his only known associate, Alex Jones, returned to the rental car company, sending them off in the wrong direction. The next morning, Malcolm purchased a bus ticket and, with only a suitcase, a locking guitar case, and a backpack, had started the last leg of his journey home.
His response to Tasha's email had been short.
Thank you for letting me know. I'm on my way.
I'll call you when I arrive.
-Mal
The long drive had afforded a good deal of time to think, only fueling his need to get there. During his night in Jackson, he'd searched for news articles about the murder. The most he'd found was a short blurb, detailing the briefest of facts. Ulises Belair, 81, found
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