A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [96]
“Kroegers lost a bunch of chickens. Hell of a mess.” He shakes his head, walking to the couch. “No tracks, nothing. Bit clean through chicken wire.”
I pull the tuft of hair out and sink into the rocking chair. “Seen anything like this?”
He brings it close to his face. The strands waver in and out of visibility. He pulls glasses out of the chest pocket of his overalls. “What the hell . . .”
“It’s not your eyes. It disappears.” I watch, gauging his reactions.
“If that isn’t the damnedest thing,” he mutters, rubbing the hair between his fingers. He looks up. “Was it with the sheep?”
“No, we found it in the woods.” Does he look relieved? “We heard something, saw movement. Found this.”
“You should have heard the noises!” Dean interjects. “There was more than one of . . . it. One hooting and another yelling and crashing around—”
“Hooting?” Bernie’s brows draw in and I nod, exchanging a long look with him. He lifts the hair to smell it and grimaces. “Can’t smell a thing. Damn sinuses. You?”
Taking the hair, I sniff. “No,” I admit apologetically. I always want to be extra-helpful around Bernie. Dean grabs the hair, and I wonder if he suffers the same impulse.
“This thing attacking . . . it’s got some sense. Leaves out zombies. Damn fool things. They were my first bet.”
“Werewolves might—” Dean starts, but Bernie waves an impatient hand.
“Vermont werewolves have more sense than that.”
“Exactly! Smart enough to clear tracks—”
Bernie shakes his head. “Not werewolves.”
“But—”
“Not werewolves,” another voice speaks. A lovely dark-haired woman in her forties enters, small and fine-boned, with large liquid eyes.
I smile at Bernie’s eldest. “Hi, Cathy.”
Catherine nods. “I guarantee it’s not werewolves.” She perches on the arm of the couch, graceful and self-contained.
“How can you guarantee—” Dean stops, eyes widening. He sinks into a chair.
Catherine smiles, unruffled. “The local werewolves assured me.”
Dean’s face pales. Knowing Vermont has successful Integration Policies is an intellectual exercise. Sitting across from an integrated werewolf is an emotional experience, and likely not a pleasant one given his history in Pennsylvania. Having suspected for a while now, I just hope Catherine won’t be offended. I’ve kept Dean and Bernie’s daughters apart without much trouble. Guilt pokes at me for not warning him, but ethics dictate that you just don’t imply someone is Uncanny unless you know. I couldn’t see agitating him by implying werewolves might be visiting next door at all hours.
“So, not werewolf—” A car pulling up makes Catherine pause.
“Who’s that?” Bernie asks. Catherine rises and crosses to the window, politely ignoring Dean shrinking into his chair as she passes.
“Ned,” she says, voice clipped. “If you’ll excuse me.” She tosses her head and leaves the room.
Bernie heaves himself to his feet, limping to the door and opening it before the knock.
“Bernie!” Ned Dietrich bounds up the steps, striding in with a wide grin and a hearty handshake. “You have company! Didn’t mean to intrude!” He walks into the living room, flashing blinding white teeth the whole way. I can’t help smiling. Hardly my favorite person, he’s still hard to dislike. “Reesa! My favorite weaver!”
“Hi Ned.”
“And her sidekick!” Ned heads for Dean’s chair, hand extended.
Dean leaps up, color returning in a surge, dopey grin breaking across his face. I muffle a snicker. Dean doesn’t like Ned any better than I do—surprising, given his understandable discomfort around Uncannies could make him sympathetic to Ned’s position as chair of the local Society for the Preservation of Human Rights. But Dean’s an inclusive sort by nature, and didn’t jump on board with SPHR. He distrusts Ned on principle. Like or no, though his response to Ned is a lot more visceral than mine.
Even I can appreciate that Ned’s thick black hair, dark complexion, and deep brown eyes make a