Black Arts, White Craft (Black Hat Bureau 2)

They had to know that I knew that they knew there was no zombigo in there.

Otherwise, they wouldn’t stand there and let me walk into certain danger. Still, despite the ding to my pride, I intended to explore in the event there were clues to be found. Poop was nice and all, but its secrets were limited. Or should that be secretions?

To light my way, I slid my wand from its sewn-in pocket in my pant leg and willed the tip to brightness.

A loud crunch underfoot distracted me as I wriggled between the stone slabs barring my way.

Lifting my boot, I identified a jawbone snapped in two from my weight.

A human jawbone.

The deeper I traveled, the worse it smelled, until I hit a narrow anteroom stacked to the high ceiling with bones. Some were cracked and yellowed with age, but flesh clung to others, reminding me of ribs from a macabre barbecue joint.

The human remains were easy to spot, but there were animal bones too. A rotting carcass in the corner was the source of the stink, not the wendigo. I got close enough to determine species, but it was only an unlucky bobcat who had been a snack a few weeks ago. Most likely prior to the wendigo’s zombification.

Now certain I was alone in the cave, I brought out my phone and allowed for the minor distraction of taking photos to give us an idea of how many humans had gone missing over how many years.

A careful wendigo, a loner, could hide in one spot for decades without being discovered by the locals.

Proximity to Chattanooga promised it a buffet of tourists would hike through its yard every few days.

More evidence this wendigo had an established den, that it wasn’t brought here, and its recent murder spree wasn’t instinctual behavior. Otherwise, it would have been bagged and tagged long before this.

Necromancy ought to be left to the necromancers, but they only resuscitated the dead for profit.

Black witches tended to be more practical and self-serving. They would hunt the most vicious creatures they could find, kill them, and then resurrect them to ensure their loyalty. Bargain-basement necromancy at its finest.

Working my way backwards, I reached the mouth of the cave and told the guys, “No one’s home.”

Neither one looked surprised to hear that, confirming my earlier suspicions.

“Can you tell what denned here?” Clay dusted a cobweb off my shoulder. “Animal or creature?”

“Definitely creature. There were more human than animal bones.”

“Old den.” The daemon flared his nostrils. “Smell like cat too.”

“That lovely aroma comes from a bobcat carcass in the late stages of decomp.”

“You know,” Clay interrupted, “Ace never said more than two words to me after he shifted in all the time we’ve been partners. Then you come along, and he’s always ready with a helpful remark.”

“Like Rue.” The daemon passed me a handful of silky hair. “Rue pet.”

“How sweet.” Clay rolled his eyes. “It still would have come in handy on those cases where I would be like ‘Hey, Ace. Do they have guns?’ and you were like shrug. That could have been a one-word answer. And yet you gave me a subtle movement, and not even a helpful one.”

Already bored with the conversation, the daemon zoned out, happy for me to simply hold his hair.

“I took photos and logged the coordinates.” I checked my bars. “Reception is better than I expected.”

There had been no cell coverage gaps since we arrived, and believe me, I would have heard about them. Forget using any blips in service as a warning. Given I had refused to share the cabin Wi-Fi password with Colby, she would have been pouting if nature ruined her raiding plans.

The phone buzzed in my hand, and my heart tripped over itself, but the text was from Arden.

Blowing out a slow breath, I steadied my nerves and reminded myself Colby was fine.

Once I got over my jitters, I turned my attention to Arden and switched gears from para to normal.

Under less hectic circumstances, I would have replied later, but the shop was a priority, and so was she.