God bless us, everyone, Weston thought as they walked hand in hand out the door.
The Salvation Army is a wonderful organization with over 3.5 million volunteers, and I’m pretty sure none of them are cough syrup- swilling psychotics.
The names used in this story are all names of characters from famous werewolf movies. Unless someone tries to sue me, in which case I made all of them up. LL Cool J also did a rocking version of “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.”
While the modern Bible is missing many of its original passages, the Book of Bob isn’t one of them. You’re probably getting it confused with the lost Book of Fred.
Other than that, everything in this story is 100 percent true.
The Star of David
Patricia Briggs
Patricia Briggs is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Mercy Thompson series as well as assorted other books. She lives in Montana with her husband and a menagerie of animals and kids in a house that resembles a zoo crossed with a library. The horses have to stay outside. And people wonder where the ideas for her stories come from.
“I checked them out myself,” Myra snapped. “Have you ever just considered that your boy isn’t the angel you thought he was?”
Stella took off her glasses and set them on her desk. “I think that we both need some perspective. Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off.” Before I slap your stupid face. People like Devonte don’t change that fast, not without good reason.
Myra opened her mouth, but after she got a look at Stella’s face, she shut it again. Mutely she stalked to her desk and retrieved her coat and purse. She slammed the door behind her.
As soon as she was gone, Stella opened the folder and looked at the pictures of the crime scene again. They were duplicates, and doubtless Clive, her brother the detective, had broken a few rules when he sent them to her—not that breaking rules had ever bothered him, not when he was five and not as a grown man nearing fifty and old enough to know better.
She touched the photos lightly, then closed the folder again. There was a yellow sticky with a phone number on it and nothing else: Clive didn’t have to put a name on it. Her little brother knew she’d see what he had seen.
She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers fast, not giving herself a chance for second thoughts.
The barracks were empty, leaving David’s office silent and bleak. The boys were on furlough with their various families for December.
His mercenaries specialized in live retrieval, which tended to be in-and-out stuff, a couple of weeks per job at the most. He didn’t want to get involved in the gray area of unsanctioned combat or out-and-out war—where you killed people because someone told you to. In retrieval there were good guys and bad guys still—and if there weren’t, he didn’t take the job. Their reputation was such that they had no trouble finding jobs.
And unless all hell really broke loose, they always took December off to be with their families. David never let them know how hard that made it for him.
Werewolves need their packs.
If his pack was human, well, they knew about him and they filled that odd wolf-quirk that demanded he have people to protect, brothers in heart and mind. He couldn’t stomach a real pack, he hated what he was too much.
He couldn’t bear to live with his own kind, but this worked as a substitute and kept him centered. When his boys were here, when they had a job to do, he had direction and purpose.
His grandsons had invited him for the family dinner, but he’d refused as he always did. He still saw his sons on a regular basis. Both of them had served in his small band of mercenaries for a while, until the life lost its appeal or the risks grew too great for men with growing families. But he stayed away at Christmas.
Restlessness had him pacing: there were no plans to make, no wrongs to right. Finally he unlocked the safe and pulled out a couple of the newer rifles. He needed to put some time in with them anyway.
An hour of shooting staved off the restlessness, but only until he locked the guns up again. He’d have to go for a run. When he emptied his pockets in preparation, he noticed he had missed a call while he’d been shooting. He glanced at the number, frowning when he didn’t recognize it. Most of his jobs came through an agent who knew better than to give out his cell number. Before he could decide if he wanted to return the call, his phone rang again, a call from the same number.
“Christiansen,” he answered briskly.
There was a long silence. “Papa?”
He closed his eyes and sank back in his chair feeling his heart expand with almost painful intentness as his wolf fought with the man who knew his daughter hated him: didn’t want to see him, ever. She had been there when her mother died.
“Stella?” He couldn’t imagine what it took to make her break almost forty years of silence. “Are you all right? Is there something wrong?” Someone he could kill for her? A building to blow up? Anything at all.
She swallowed. He could hear it over the line. He waited for her to hang up.
Instead, when she spoke again, her voice was brisk and the wavery pain that colored that first “Papa” was gone as if it had never been. “I was wondering if you would consider doing a favor for me.”
“What do you need?” He was proud that came out evenly. Always better to know what you’re getting into, he told himself. He wanted to tell her that she could ask him for anything—but he didn’t want to scare her.
“I run an agency that places foster kids,” she told him, as if he didn’t know. As if her brothers hadn’t told her how he quizzed them to find out how she was doing and what she was up to. He hoped she never found out about her ex-boyfriend who’d turned stalker. He hadn’t killed that one, though his willingness to do so had made it easier to persuade the man that he wanted to take up permanent residence in a different state.
“I know,” he said, because it seemed like she needed a response.
“There’s something—” She hesitated. “Look, this might not have been the best idea.”
He was losing her again. He had to breathe deeply to keep the panic from his voice. “Why don’t you tell me about it anyway? Do you have something better to do?”
“I remember that,” she said. “I remember you doing that with Mom. She’d be hysterical, throwing dishes or books, and you’d sit down and say, ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’”
Did she want to talk about her mother now? About the one time he’d needed to be calm and had failed? He hadn’t known he was a werewolf until it was too late. Until after he’d killed his wife and the lover she’d taken while David had been fighting for God and country, both of whom had forgotten him. She’d been waiting until he came home to tell him that she was leaving—it was a mistake she’d had no time to regret. He, on the other hand, might have forever to regret it for her.
He never spoke of it. Not to anyone. For Stella he’d do it, but she knew the story anyway. She’d been there.
“Do you want to talk about your mother?” he asked, his voice carrying into a lower timbre, as it did when the wolf was close.
“No. Not that,” she said hurriedly. “Nothing like that. I’m sorry. This isn’t a good idea.”
She was going to hang up. He drew on his hard-earned control and thought fast.
Forty years as a hunter and leader of men had given him a lot of practice reading between the lines. If he could put aside the fact that she was his daughter, maybe he could salvage this.
She’d told him she ran a foster agency like it was important to the rest of what she had to say.
“It’s about your work?” he asked, trying to figure out what a social worker would need with a werewolf. Oh. “Is there a—” His daughter preferred not to talk about werewolves, Clive had told him. So if there was something supernatural, she was going to have to bring it up. “Is there someone bothering you?”