Pocket Apocalypse
Page 59
“Everyone,” said Charlotte. “They came out of the central stock. There’s no way anyone could have known for sure which boxes we’d grab.”
“Which means either your luck was very, very bad when it came to picking up ammunition for this little jaunt, or you don’t have any silver bullets left,” I said. “How hard would it be for me to walk into your central stock and swap things around?”
“You? Dead hard. No one would let you in there unescorted. But me, or Shelly, or anyone who’s known to be a member in good standing of the Society? Dead easy.” Charlotte hesitated before she added, “The door’s always locked, and everybody has a key. We’d notice if someone like you tried to stick your head in, but that’s just because you’re not supposed to be wandering around alone.”
“So I—assuming I was a Thirty-Sixer—could have walked in with my pockets full of silver-painted bullets, and swapped them for the actual silver bullets without anyone noticing me or realizing what I’d done. Is that what I’m hearing?” I looked around the car. I couldn’t see expressions in the gloom, but I could see postures, and no one looked very happy.
“Could a werewolf have done that?” asked Gabby.
“If they wore gloves,” I said. “Silver is a contact poison to them, and they might have developed a rash like poison oak if they’d touched it directly, but it wouldn’t kill them or even cause enough immediate pain to be obvious to someone who saw them walking out of the supply area. The better question is whether a werewolf would be able to plan that far ahead. Is there some sort of log that people are supposed to sign when they take things?”
“We’ve never needed one,” said Riley. “Do you have a log?”
“No, sir, but there aren’t nearly as many of us, and we generally have a good idea of our resources.” And we always knew what our visitors were doing, didn’t we? When Uncle Mike and Aunt Lea came by, or when Aunt Mary was haunting the house, we knew, and we kept a close count on our bullets. It was a little mistrustful of our allies, maybe, but it meant that we didn’t encounter any nasty surprises.
“Did you have silver bullets before, Dad?” asked Shelby. “I know you killed the werewolf that bit Tim.”
“We did,” said Riley. “I bought them from a supplier on the Gold Coast, and I checked them myself before I allowed anyone to take them into the field. They worked like the records said they would, and I didn’t look any further.”
“Then whoever swapped the bullets did it after they saw what they could do a werewolf,” I said. “Someone who was there. How many people went with you on that trip?”
“Eighteen or so,” said Riley. “More knew where we were heading. I thought werewolves were just dumb beasts. All the records we had said that they were monsters, not opponents. You even said it yourself.”
I hadn’t put it quite like that, but arguing with him seemed like a bad idea under the circumstances. “A werewolf that has transformed is a monster. A werewolf in the default shape of its species is a member of that species, just . . . a little more temperamental, a little faster to react and judge, a little more oriented toward survival of the self. They don’t make choices for the greater good, because the disease they carry won’t let them. New werewolves transform often and uncontrollably, like those sheep we saw tonight. Werewolves who manage to survive through their first cycles of transformation tend to be less functional, but more in control of their transformations. They can hide themselves a hell of a lot better.”
“So they could have been with us this whole time,” said Shelby. “It could be someone back at the house.”
“Not ‘could be’; almost certainly is,” I said. “They had to have had access to the ammunition, to your cellphones, and most importantly, to information. If you’re trying to set a trap like this one, you need to know who you’re dealing with, and how they’re likely to react. I really don’t want to reopen this topic, but when the two of you received the texts you thought were from each other, was there any mention of Shelby and me being engaged?”
“No,” said Charlotte.
“Absolutely not,” said Riley.
“Then we’re in luck: we can move Raina and Gabby lower on the list of potential suspects—er, sorry.” I glanced at Shelby’s sisters. “Add in the fact that I don’t think you’re foolhardy enough to set up a trap and then walk into it, given the historical lack of loyalty on the part of most werewolves, and we can take you off the list completely. Those sheep would have eaten their puppet master as cheerfully as they would have eaten us.”
“No offense taken, but just you wait until the toasts at your wedding,” said Gabby, in a mild tone. “It’s going to be all about how the first thing you did in Australia was damn near get yourself killed. See how you feel about baseless accusations then.”
“We can write Mum off for similar reasons,” said Raina. “She’d never have walked into a trap, but if she’d been trying to get a rise out of Dad, she would definitely have mentioned the engagement.”
“And Dad’s not stupid enough to walk into a field full of lycanthropic sheep just because he wants to see you get introduced to your lungs,” chimed in Shelby. Then she paused, a sour look crossing her face. “The only person not being cleared by this run of logic is me, you realize. Please come up with some clever reason that I can’t be the werewolf, all right? Just so I feel better.”
“The mice still like you.” Shelby looked relieved. The rest of the Tanners looked bemused, their expressions barely visible through the gloom. My eyes were adjusting. I shrugged. “The mice were able to tell from my wounds that I hadn’t been infected. They adore Shelby—they consider her a priestess, which makes her holy, and makes anything that endangers her a very big deal. Even if she’d been in Australia during the initial attacks, which she wasn’t, the mice would have freaked out if they’d smelled infection on her. She’s clean. She can’t be our traitor.”
“I could’ve told you that, but it’s nice to hear you stand up for my girl,” said Riley. He still didn’t sound terribly impressed with me. That wasn’t a surprise. Honestly, the only things I could think of that might get him on my side were martyrdom and grandchildren, and I wasn’t ready for either one.
“Which means either your luck was very, very bad when it came to picking up ammunition for this little jaunt, or you don’t have any silver bullets left,” I said. “How hard would it be for me to walk into your central stock and swap things around?”
“You? Dead hard. No one would let you in there unescorted. But me, or Shelly, or anyone who’s known to be a member in good standing of the Society? Dead easy.” Charlotte hesitated before she added, “The door’s always locked, and everybody has a key. We’d notice if someone like you tried to stick your head in, but that’s just because you’re not supposed to be wandering around alone.”
“So I—assuming I was a Thirty-Sixer—could have walked in with my pockets full of silver-painted bullets, and swapped them for the actual silver bullets without anyone noticing me or realizing what I’d done. Is that what I’m hearing?” I looked around the car. I couldn’t see expressions in the gloom, but I could see postures, and no one looked very happy.
“Could a werewolf have done that?” asked Gabby.
“If they wore gloves,” I said. “Silver is a contact poison to them, and they might have developed a rash like poison oak if they’d touched it directly, but it wouldn’t kill them or even cause enough immediate pain to be obvious to someone who saw them walking out of the supply area. The better question is whether a werewolf would be able to plan that far ahead. Is there some sort of log that people are supposed to sign when they take things?”
“We’ve never needed one,” said Riley. “Do you have a log?”
“No, sir, but there aren’t nearly as many of us, and we generally have a good idea of our resources.” And we always knew what our visitors were doing, didn’t we? When Uncle Mike and Aunt Lea came by, or when Aunt Mary was haunting the house, we knew, and we kept a close count on our bullets. It was a little mistrustful of our allies, maybe, but it meant that we didn’t encounter any nasty surprises.
“Did you have silver bullets before, Dad?” asked Shelby. “I know you killed the werewolf that bit Tim.”
“We did,” said Riley. “I bought them from a supplier on the Gold Coast, and I checked them myself before I allowed anyone to take them into the field. They worked like the records said they would, and I didn’t look any further.”
“Then whoever swapped the bullets did it after they saw what they could do a werewolf,” I said. “Someone who was there. How many people went with you on that trip?”
“Eighteen or so,” said Riley. “More knew where we were heading. I thought werewolves were just dumb beasts. All the records we had said that they were monsters, not opponents. You even said it yourself.”
I hadn’t put it quite like that, but arguing with him seemed like a bad idea under the circumstances. “A werewolf that has transformed is a monster. A werewolf in the default shape of its species is a member of that species, just . . . a little more temperamental, a little faster to react and judge, a little more oriented toward survival of the self. They don’t make choices for the greater good, because the disease they carry won’t let them. New werewolves transform often and uncontrollably, like those sheep we saw tonight. Werewolves who manage to survive through their first cycles of transformation tend to be less functional, but more in control of their transformations. They can hide themselves a hell of a lot better.”
“So they could have been with us this whole time,” said Shelby. “It could be someone back at the house.”
“Not ‘could be’; almost certainly is,” I said. “They had to have had access to the ammunition, to your cellphones, and most importantly, to information. If you’re trying to set a trap like this one, you need to know who you’re dealing with, and how they’re likely to react. I really don’t want to reopen this topic, but when the two of you received the texts you thought were from each other, was there any mention of Shelby and me being engaged?”
“No,” said Charlotte.
“Absolutely not,” said Riley.
“Then we’re in luck: we can move Raina and Gabby lower on the list of potential suspects—er, sorry.” I glanced at Shelby’s sisters. “Add in the fact that I don’t think you’re foolhardy enough to set up a trap and then walk into it, given the historical lack of loyalty on the part of most werewolves, and we can take you off the list completely. Those sheep would have eaten their puppet master as cheerfully as they would have eaten us.”
“No offense taken, but just you wait until the toasts at your wedding,” said Gabby, in a mild tone. “It’s going to be all about how the first thing you did in Australia was damn near get yourself killed. See how you feel about baseless accusations then.”
“We can write Mum off for similar reasons,” said Raina. “She’d never have walked into a trap, but if she’d been trying to get a rise out of Dad, she would definitely have mentioned the engagement.”
“And Dad’s not stupid enough to walk into a field full of lycanthropic sheep just because he wants to see you get introduced to your lungs,” chimed in Shelby. Then she paused, a sour look crossing her face. “The only person not being cleared by this run of logic is me, you realize. Please come up with some clever reason that I can’t be the werewolf, all right? Just so I feel better.”
“The mice still like you.” Shelby looked relieved. The rest of the Tanners looked bemused, their expressions barely visible through the gloom. My eyes were adjusting. I shrugged. “The mice were able to tell from my wounds that I hadn’t been infected. They adore Shelby—they consider her a priestess, which makes her holy, and makes anything that endangers her a very big deal. Even if she’d been in Australia during the initial attacks, which she wasn’t, the mice would have freaked out if they’d smelled infection on her. She’s clean. She can’t be our traitor.”
“I could’ve told you that, but it’s nice to hear you stand up for my girl,” said Riley. He still didn’t sound terribly impressed with me. That wasn’t a surprise. Honestly, the only things I could think of that might get him on my side were martyrdom and grandchildren, and I wasn’t ready for either one.
