windshield. He watched it for a moment as it sat there, not even bothering to melt, taunting him. More flakes joined their brother. Within seconds his view was peppered white. Time was running out.
It would have served her right, spawn of that treacherous, thieving Finn.
Nikolai shook his head. It had become far more demanding lately. It made it difficult for Nikolai to think clearly. “Focus.” There was still much work to do, people who had known Aksel to interview, places to investigate. These were problems that could not be solved with tooth and claw, nor with the rifle in the trunk, for that matter. “We must be discreet.”
Do you smell that?
He did. “Wolfsbane…” The scent coming through the heater vent was distinct, barely detectable, and only recognized because Nikolai was used to its effects. Its presence served as a general warning, though the herb would cloud his normally acute senses and mask the precise location of the most important thing of all, other werewolves, specifically the one that was wearing it.
Harbinger.
The light turned green. Nikolai activated the wipers and knocked away the collecting snow.
* * *
The Quinn Mine had been closed for years. Operations had already been winding down from the glory days when it had been the region’s largest employer, so that by the time the tragedy had occurred the Quinn Mining Company had been but a shadow of its formerly great self. Only two of the company’s dozen shafts had still been in operation, pulling copper from the bowels of the Earth on the day when a rock burst had trapped twenty miners at the base of Shaft Number Six. Over the next seven days, the rescue attempt proved fruitless and was finally called off when two rescuers were killed on the surface by a malfunctioning piece of equipment. It had been the final nail in the coffin of the financially struggling Quinn Mine.
Surrounded by forest and isolated by hills, most of the buildings still stood. Equipment that had been caught up in the ensuing lawsuits had been abandoned to rust. Volunteers from the Copper County Historical Society conducted a tour a few times a year, and some of the faculty from MTU would do the occasional field trip, but otherwise the warren of offices, rock house, hoist building, and warehouses remained empty and decaying.
Ethan Pedde had been a miner there when the Quinn had finally shut down and had been working as the night watchman ever since. Usually the most interesting thing he got to do was chase off teenagers looking for somewhere to screw around or to scare themselves silly in a place that everyone in town said was haunted by the ghosts of trapped miners. Last year he had even let in a group from a cable TV show that had come in hunting for ghosts with a bunch of cameras and recorders. They hadn’t found anything, but Ethan still knew that the place was haunted.
For example, the building he was currently strolling through, that stood on top of Shaft Six, always gave him an eerie feeling. It was several narrow stories of splintering wood and hanging tin, home to rats and pigeons. The wind always made the whole place creak and cry. There was a hole under his feet that went down five thousand feet, farther than God ever intended man to ever go, an inclined nine thousand feet of tunnels, all coated in red iron dust, and somewhere in a pile of rocks under all that wet red hell were the skeletons of twenty of his best friends who’d asphyxiated in the pitch black. Oh, yeah, if anyplace was truly haunted, it was the old Number Six.
He’d taken a few days off for Thanksgiving, then took a sick day because of a nasty cold. The broken chain lying in the snow at the gate had told him that somebody had snuck into Number Six while he was away. Damn kids. They were probably long gone by now, but if they weren’t, braining one of them with his nightstick was mighty tempting.
Ethan saw the gleam of a flashlight bouncing ahead of him before it disappeared down the
It would have served her right, spawn of that treacherous, thieving Finn.
Nikolai shook his head. It had become far more demanding lately. It made it difficult for Nikolai to think clearly. “Focus.” There was still much work to do, people who had known Aksel to interview, places to investigate. These were problems that could not be solved with tooth and claw, nor with the rifle in the trunk, for that matter. “We must be discreet.”
Do you smell that?
He did. “Wolfsbane…” The scent coming through the heater vent was distinct, barely detectable, and only recognized because Nikolai was used to its effects. Its presence served as a general warning, though the herb would cloud his normally acute senses and mask the precise location of the most important thing of all, other werewolves, specifically the one that was wearing it.
Harbinger.
The light turned green. Nikolai activated the wipers and knocked away the collecting snow.
* * *
The Quinn Mine had been closed for years. Operations had already been winding down from the glory days when it had been the region’s largest employer, so that by the time the tragedy had occurred the Quinn Mining Company had been but a shadow of its formerly great self. Only two of the company’s dozen shafts had still been in operation, pulling copper from the bowels of the Earth on the day when a rock burst had trapped twenty miners at the base of Shaft Number Six. Over the next seven days, the rescue attempt proved fruitless and was finally called off when two rescuers were killed on the surface by a malfunctioning piece of equipment. It had been the final nail in the coffin of the financially struggling Quinn Mine.
Surrounded by forest and isolated by hills, most of the buildings still stood. Equipment that had been caught up in the ensuing lawsuits had been abandoned to rust. Volunteers from the Copper County Historical Society conducted a tour a few times a year, and some of the faculty from MTU would do the occasional field trip, but otherwise the warren of offices, rock house, hoist building, and warehouses remained empty and decaying.
Ethan Pedde had been a miner there when the Quinn had finally shut down and had been working as the night watchman ever since. Usually the most interesting thing he got to do was chase off teenagers looking for somewhere to screw around or to scare themselves silly in a place that everyone in town said was haunted by the ghosts of trapped miners. Last year he had even let in a group from a cable TV show that had come in hunting for ghosts with a bunch of cameras and recorders. They hadn’t found anything, but Ethan still knew that the place was haunted.
For example, the building he was currently strolling through, that stood on top of Shaft Six, always gave him an eerie feeling. It was several narrow stories of splintering wood and hanging tin, home to rats and pigeons. The wind always made the whole place creak and cry. There was a hole under his feet that went down five thousand feet, farther than God ever intended man to ever go, an inclined nine thousand feet of tunnels, all coated in red iron dust, and somewhere in a pile of rocks under all that wet red hell were the skeletons of twenty of his best friends who’d asphyxiated in the pitch black. Oh, yeah, if anyplace was truly haunted, it was the old Number Six.
He’d taken a few days off for Thanksgiving, then took a sick day because of a nasty cold. The broken chain lying in the snow at the gate had told him that somebody had snuck into Number Six while he was away. Damn kids. They were probably long gone by now, but if they weren’t, braining one of them with his nightstick was mighty tempting.
Ethan saw the gleam of a flashlight bouncing ahead of him before it disappeared down the
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