Black Arts, White Craft (Black Hat Bureau 2)

“Thanks for that,” I grumbled, unhappy at him for highlighting my inability to forge romantic bonds.

“Until she met you, Ace.” Clay ignored my death glare. “That’s what freaked me out the most. It was like my kid sister discovering boys exist.” He tilted his head. “No, that’s not quite it.” He gave it another shot. “More like she decided they didn’t have cooties after all.”

“I not have cooties.” The daemon puffed out his chest. “Asa have cooties.”

A laugh burst out of me that left the daemon grinning from ear to ear, huge fangs on full display.

Which didn’t, in any way, remind me of the daintier version Asa had been sporting earlier.

“You share the same body.” I hated to break it to him. “That means you share the same cooties.”

“Asa have cooties.” He jutted out his chin in stubborn refusal. “I not have cooties.”

Oh, yeah. There was more self-awareness, more identity, in Asa’s daemon side than maybe even he understood.

“Okay, fine. You win. Asa has cooties.” I checked with Clay. “Do you want to keep going or circle back?”

We had only the old den to show for our first outing, but dawn was still a few hours away.

“We’ve come this far.” He checked the GPS app on his phone. “There’s a waterfall just ahead. The area is a big draw for hikers. The wendigo likely denned here for the water source, and the lure for food. We should clear the area before we head back.”

Texting Colby an update, I warned her we might be later than anticipated, but not by much.

To the left, a tree with deep furrows you would expect from a bear marking its territory caught my eye. I crossed to it, examining the bark for signs to help me date it, and the daemon followed me on its tether.

“Hmm.” I picked at the beads of sap, but they were all hard. “Can you tell if the zombigo did this?”

A slim chance remained that a mate or small clan was in residence, but it was shrinking all the time. As predators, they would grasp the necessity of moving dens after losing one of their own. I doubt they had any idea what had happened to their brethren, assuming there were more wendigos, but the smells of decay and black magic would have warned them away from it and its hunting grounds.

“Same as cave.” He leaned in, sniffed the trunk. “Smell old.” He inhaled again. “No cat.”

More proof that the wendigo had been native, not brought in with the practitioner.

Wendigos weren’t super rare, but they were uncommon in urban areas. Their lack of impulse control and appetites meant they tread the line of exposing supernaturals to humans too often to be allowed to breed freely. They were tracked, monitored, and wiped off the map if they let their hungers rule them.

“The black witch found the wendigo here.” I turned it over in my head. “They hunted it, killed it, brought it back, and unleashed it in its territory to cage it within defined parameters. That’s why it’s retracing its steps. Not instinct. Instruction. Its orders must be to patrol and attack all intruders since it’s quit using its den.”

But why bother reanimating it? What here was worth the effort? Unless the location itself was the prize? Any predator would rid itself of competition, and black witches were no exception. Coven relocation was rare, but a loner? Maybe the black witch wanted a new territory and thought an enforcer would help them secure it against any other threats. If so, that plan blew up in their faces the moment it began eating townsfolk, alerting Black Hat to the witch’s failed attempts to control their henchman.

All of which reminded me of an old practice I hoped the Bureau had kept up since I left.

“Have you asked the Kellies to dig up tags on local supernatural wildlife?” I aimed the question at Clay. “There should be a record of any wendigos or other predatory species around here for culling purposes.”

Already, Clay was shaking his head. “This area has no recorded tags.”

That tidbit increased the odds it had been a loner. “Then how did the witch know where to find it?”

“Either they’re local,” Clay said, “or they got lucky.”

The Kellies kept tabs on locations with higher-than-average missing persons, deaths, and animal attacks. But so did monster hunters interested in bagging their next big thrill. This witch could have used any number of resources to locate an active zone, one teetering on the edge of intervention, even if they went in blind to what manner of beast or creature called it home.

“Maybe,” I murmured, unable to peg why the witch’s stroke of luck in finding the wendigo unsettled me.

The trek to the waterfall lasted about fifteen minutes, but the ground was level, the path was well-worn, and the walk scenic. Easy to see why hikers used this route often, even if it meant they were parading in front of the wendigo like contestants sashaying across a pageant stage. Except the winner got a slash instead of a sash.

With that happy thought, we reached a rustic campground, and I held out my arm to bar the daemon.

Two tents set back far enough not to risk contaminating the water supply, their flaps angled toward us.