“Morning, Sunshine,” he answered, handing me a cup of cocoa. “Ready to storm the seethe today?”
I blew on the steaming liquid. “About that—” I faltered to a stop.
Adam waited for me to finish. He would listen to me. He wouldn’t tell me that my evidence was ridiculous, even though it was. I tried to think of a way to talk about it that didn’t begin with “I had this dream...”
When I didn’t complete my sentence, Adam let it be. I knew that it was only a temporary stay, though. If I didn’t address it, he’d press me on what I’d been going to say.
Turning his attention to the giant omelette he was cooking, he said, “Sherwood did a drive-by on Wulfe’s house last night. It’s empty with a Realtor’s sign in the front. He called the real estate agent this morning, who told Sherwood that it’s undergoing renovations and just went on the market on Tuesday. He’s going to meet the Realtor there at nine and check it out. Sherwood has a good nose. He’ll be able to tell if Wulfe has been there between last Saturday and today.”
“Sherwood called the Realtor this morning?” I checked the clock; it was barely seven.
Adam saw my look and nodded. “He told me that the early bird gets the worm.”
“He’s right,” I conceded. “But it was still rude. If I were the Realtor, I’d have told Sherwood to meet me at two in the morning.”
Adam smiled, but asked, “What were you going to say about the seethe?”
I’d known he wasn’t going to let that pass.
Before I could decide how to answer, the doorbell rang.
Adam pulled the pan off the burner, checked his concealed carry, and waved at me to tell me to stay in the kitchen while he got the door. I wasn’t wearing a weapon this morning—and as soon as I had that thought, I noticed the walking stick lying on the kitchen table.
Before Adam got to the door, whoever it was had switched to knocking. I picked up the walking stick as Adam opened the door. I set the artifact down on the counter, where it would be a little less noticeable than on the table, as soon as I heard Larry’s voice.
“Adam,” he said, sounding pretty intense. “We need to talk.”
I don’t know if Adam gave a soundless invitation, but he certainly didn’t say anything before the firm quick steps of someone wearing hard-soled boots heralded Larry striding into the kitchen. I blinked at him.
Gone was the nearly naked, barbarian goblin. Or the good-old-boy goblin. Today Larry was dressed like an upscale Texas businessman who wanted to be a cowboy, in gray boots made of some exotic skin. His western-cut shirt and jeans had to be bespoke to fit him that well. The only thing missing was a hat.
When I was growing up in Montana, we sniggered at people who wore clothes like that. Most of the time. But sometimes you could tell that the person wearing the expensive want-to-be-a-cowboy garb had really spent a lot of hours on a horse. Larry wore them in a way that made me confident that, unlike a certain Montana politician, if he were wearing a cowboy hat, he’d have known which way to put it on.
Ignoring my surprise at his appearance, Larry thumped a copy of the local newspaper down on the table without bothering to greet me. “Have you seen this?”
“Not yet,” Adam told him, picking it up to look.
A couple of months back, our last paper-delivery person met Joel in his tibicena form and refused to come back, which was fair. I didn’t know what the newspaper paid its delivery staff, but it wasn’t enough to brave a volcano god’s demon dog.
I stepped in close to Adam so I could see the newspaper, too. The headline read 15 People Gone Missing. Where Is the Pack? They’d used a picture of Adam in one of his dark suits with Warren in wolf form. The photo, I knew, had been taken at a recent training exercise Adam had conducted with the emergency response people in the hope that humans who had repeatedly been exposed to werewolves would be less likely to shoot them when the wolves were trying to help out. But the shot, with the river in the background, made Adam look like a playboy. Or maybe a wealthy but dangerous criminal. It was a hazard of his looks.
To save time, I read the first line and the last line of the article, just like one of my old college professors had taught me. Our local reporter sounded shaken, I thought, and honestly concerned that we had too much on our plate—that we couldn’t keep the city safe.
I checked the byline, but I was pretty sure who’d written it because I recognized her style. Tamra Chin was young but sharp. She was a good journalist, and she’d done a few pieces on the pack.
“Bingo,” I muttered, and both Adam and Larry looked at me. I said, “Marsilia warned us this was coming.” I thought, motivation, motivation, motivation. “Public distrust to undermine our pack’s position as protectors.”
Larry nodded at the paper. “This is my fault. After you called me, I sent my people out to search and ask questions. As you see, we found a few more missing people than George did. All of these fit your criteria—connected to the supernatural, but not powerful themselves or associated with powerful groups. For comparison, we had three people who disappeared between January and July. About what I would expect, given the mobile nature of our more vulnerable people.” He wasn’t just speaking of the goblins. He was talking about the people who lived in our territory. He wouldn’t have done that last week. He was taking his offer of friendship seriously.
“No one went missing in August,” he continued. “Ten people disappeared the last two weeks of September and five more this month.”
Adam hissed through his teeth. “That’s a lot of bodies to dispose of,” he said. “Or people to stash.”
Larry jerked his head in agreement. “Bodies, I’d think. They weren’t interesting enough for anyone to go to the bother of keeping them prisoners.”
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and put it on the table. On it was a neat list of names, designations (things like “witch” or “half-blood fae”), dates (presumably the dates they disappeared), and how they vanished. “This is in time order,” he said.
“It’s your fault the newspaper got the story so fast?” I asked as Adam began reading through the list.