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Ben said, “Well, did we pass?”
The vampire smiled. “I think Roman underestimated your resources yet again.” He glanced at Cormac and Tyler, without whose help Denver would currently be under a dozen feet of snow.
“Go team,” I said, raising my glass for a toast. We clinked glasses, except for Rick, who sat back, his expression amused.
Tyler kept himself apart, leaving space enough for extra chairs on either side of him—the places where Vanderman and Walters should have been sitting. Maybe he saw his whole squad sitting around the table. I worried, but all I could do was look after him.
“You okay?” I asked, failing my attempt at subtle inquiry.
He shrugged. “I’m alive.”
“That’s good, right?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Eventually.”
“Amen,” Cormac muttered. I considered that the two of them might be able to talk to each other about adjusting to life on the outside.
Rick asked, “What’s next for you, Sergeant Tyler?”
He took a long drink. His smile was wry. “We just have to wait and see.”
Epilogue
KNOB’S LAWYER successfully bucked Franklin’s lawsuit. She would have done a fine enough job of it without my help, but I helped anyway. I wrote up a report of everything we’d discovered about Franklin, his thunder-god cult, the spells he used and power he wielded, about the storm that had threatened the Denver area and what we’d done to stop it. Ben still muttered about the possibility of us facing charges for vandalism, but I avoided the word. Ben, Cormac, Shaun, and Tyler all agreed to testify that everything I reported was true, no matter how crazy it sounded. I left out suspicions that Franklin was working with or for someone else. As Ben said, I didn’t want to inadvertently paint targets on my friends. In response, the lawyer wrote me a very nice note, saying something along the lines that while such evidence might not be admissible in court, she certainly appreciated my perspective on the situation, given my profession as an entertainer specializing in supernatural topics. It didn’t quite sound like a brush-off.
It turned out that Franklin had enough wacky stuff going on that my claims about him on the show, while extreme, were not in fact outright lies. There were statements from former employees indicating that Franklin would only conduct meetings under certain circumstances—specific times of day, the chairs arranged around the table in a certain way—that could be perceived as ritualistic. He was an enthusiastic collector of archaeological artifacts and would lose his temper if his collection was shifted out of place in the slightest. He’d once fired a custodian for failing to replace each artifact in the correct spot after dusting. I had to ask—were the artifacts co
And the final bit of information: Franklin had been known to place good-luck charms at various Speedy Mart franchises. He personally visited each new building at least once during construction, and the lawyer had a signed statement from the foreman on one project saying he’d seen Franklin placing strange items in the foundation. He didn’t know what. The specifics weren’t important at this point. Franklin really was doing freaky magical stuff at Speedy Marts all over the country. It wasn’t libel. Franklin’s lawyers tried pressing the case. The judge threw it out.
Franklin himself sold his company and retired, citing health concerns. By all accounts, he returned home from Denver a broken man, physically damaged by hypothermia, mentally wracked by vague nightmares. I never got Cormac to say exactly what he—and Amelia—had done to him. Probably just as well.
A MONTH after the storm, Tyler got his medical discharge and even qualified for disability benefits. He’d done enough, sacrificed enough, it was decided. Ben and I took him home to Seattle.
Werewolves are territorial. Tyler couldn’t just fly home and set up shop without ruffling a lot of fur with the local wolves. With his intimidating stature, he would set the locals on edge. They might see him as a threat, someone who was powerful and who might try taking over. We all knew that wasn’t what Tyler wanted, but the Seattle pack would need convincing. He’d have to tread carefully and give plenty of warning.
I knew a little bit about the Seattle pack. It was supposed to be one of the safe havens, one of the packs that was willing to take in runaways and refugees, to take care of wolves who needed a little extra help. I hoped they wouldn’t look at Tyler and decide that he was too much of a threat to help. Instead of making Tyler navigate the situation on his own, I decided to act as an intermediary.
I called my contact, Ahmed, the werewolf in Washington, D.C., who ran the local lycanthrope scene there. He passed along the contact information for Christopher, the alpha of the Seattle werewolves, and I called him to explain the situation. As I’d feared, he was wary about taking on Tyler, a Special Forces veteran. I couldn’t really blame him; this was uncharted territory for all of us. “Just meet him,” I’d said, trying to sound confident and reassuring rather than pleading. He agreed to a meeting, and I liked to think it was my incredible powers of persuasion that convinced him. The fact that Christopher turned out to be one of the good guys and willing to take the chance probably had more to do with it.
Ben, Tyler, and I drove straight through to Seattle a week after his discharge. Ben and I took turns driving; Tyler spent most of the drive napping or looking out the window, face right up to the glass, taking in the world. He’d spent most of the last month or so locked up in a hospital room, with occasional excursions. Driving the interstate with the scenery sliding past had to feel as much like freedom as anything.
We reached Christopher’s meeting place, a regional park northeast of Seattle, at dusk. I’d called a couple hours out to let him know our ETA. He’d directed us to a parking lot and picnic area, against a backdrop of a thick pine forest. Even in the middle of winter the place was green, and I could smell the rich scent of evergreens touched with icy snow. He and a number of his pack were already there, waiting for us. I’d have done the same thing if our positions had been reversed. Stake out your territory, show your strength, take the high ground, and so on.
I didn’t know all that much about werewolf packs. I’d heard a lot of stories through the radio show, and through rumor and hearsay. My own experience was mixed—my pack was part of the best of times and the worst of times, as they say. Some cities didn’t have packs at all, just loose confederations of likeminded lycanthropes. I’d been warned away from some areas entirely because a chaotic, warlike environment dominated. There were almost as many different kinds of werewolf packs as there were individual werewolves.
I’d never really met another werewolf pack with a solid alpha male and his followers lined up behind him. This was going to be educational. I was nervous but tried not to show it. Confident, suave, hip—that was me.
The three of us got out of the car. “Wait here a minute,” I said to Ben and Tyler. “Let me talk to them first.”
“I should be with you,” Ben said. He was looking at the leader, standing out in the grass, and at the men and women arrayed in a semicircle behind him like an entourage. “You can’t face that all by yourself.”
Tyler tipped his chin up a little and took a deep breath. “I can smell them. This whole place smells weird. Different.”
Alien. Another pack’s territory. I could sense it, too.
“They can see you,” I told Ben. “Let ’em think I don’t need backup, right?” I gri