Blood Trail

father because his father didn't do anything without talking it over with Uncle Stuart first.

    Uncle Stuart. Peter tore at a piece of meat as Uncle Stuart accepted the saltshaker from Rose.
    He didn't have to touch her. Thinks he's so ... so shit hot. Thinks he knows everything. Well, /
    know something he doesn't.

    "Whacha angry about, Peter?" Peter glared at his young cousin. "I'm not angry." Daniel shrugged. "Smell angry. You going to jump on Daddy again?"

    "I said I'm not angry."

    "Peter." Stuart leaned around Daniel, brows down and teeth bared.

    Peter fought the urge to toss his head back, exposing his throat. His ears were tight against the sides of his skull, the torn edge throbbing in time with his pulse. "I didn't do anything!" he growled, shoving away from the table and stomping out of the kitchen. You just wait, he thought as he stripped and changed. I'll show you.

    Rose made as if to follow but Nadine reached out and pushed her back into her chair. "No,"
    she said. Stuart sighed and scratched at a scar over his eyebrow, the result of his first challenge fight as an adult male. This had to happen when there was a stranger with the family. He looked over at Celluci who was calmly wiping ketchup off his elbow - Daniel had been overly enthusiastic with the squeeze bottle again - and then at Nadine. Arrangements to separate Rose and Peter would have to be made this evening. They couldn't put it off any longer.

    Storm skulked around the barn, looking for rats to take out his bad temper on. He didn't find any. That didn't help his mood. He chased a flock of starlings into the air but he didn't manage to sink his teeth into any of them. Flopping down in the shade beside Celluci's car, he worried at a bit of matted fur on his shoulder.

    Life sucks, he decided.

    It would be almost two hours until dark. Hours until he could prove himself. Hours until he could take that human's throat in his teeth and shake the truth out of him. He imagined the reactions of his family, of Rose, when he walked in and declared, I know who the killer is. Or better yet, when he walked in and threw the body down on the floor.

    Then faintly, over the smell of steel and gas and oil, he caught a whiff of a familiar scent. He rose. On the passenger side of Celluci's car, up along the edge of the window was an area that smelled very clearly of the man in the black and gold jeep.

    He frowned and licked his nose.

    Then he remembered.

    The scent he'd caught at the garage, the trace clinging to the hood release of Henry's wrecked car, was, except for intensity, identical to the scent here and now.

    This changed things. Tonight's meeting could only be a trap. Storm scratched at the ground and whined a little in his excitement. This was great. This alone would convince everyone to take him seriously.

    "Peter?"

    He pricked up his ears. That was his uncle's voice, over by the house, not calling him, talking about him. Storm inched forward, until he could see around the front of the car but not be seen. Fortunately for eavesdropping, he was downwind.

    His uncle and Detective Celluci were sitting on the back porch.

    "He's all right," Stuart continued. "He's just, well, a teenager."

    Celluci snorted. "I understand. Teenagers."

    The two men shook their heads.

    Storm growled softly. So they could dismiss him with one word could they? Say teenager like it was some kind of disease. Like it explained everything. Like he was still a child. His hackles rose and his lips curled back, exposing the full gleaming length of his fangs. He'd show them.

    Tonight.

    "... course, up until the early 60s, most shooters thought that no one would ever shoot a score above 1150 in an international style competition but then in 1962, a fellow named Gary Anderson shot 1157 in free-rifle. Well, there were some jaws hitting the floor that day and most folks believed he'd never be beat." Bertie shook her head at the things most folks believed. "They were wrong, of course. That 1150 was just what they call a psychological factor and once Gary broke it, well, it got shot all to shit. So to speak. I'll just make another pot of tea. You sure you don't want more coffee?"

    "No, thanks." Since she'd left the force, Vicki's caffeine tolerance had dropped and she could feel the effect of the three cups she'd already had. Her nerves were stretched so tightly, she could almost hear them ring every time she moved. Leaving Bertie in the kitchen, she hurried to the living