Hunter's Trail (A Scarlett Bernard Novel) Read online

  By Melissa F. Olson

  Scarlett Bernard novels

  Dead Spots

  Trail of Dead

  Hunter’s Trail

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Melissa F. Olson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-10: 147782412X

  ISBN-13: 9781477824122

  Cover design by Gene Mollica Studio, LLC

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014932572

  For Chad, who saved me and never knew.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Remus arrived at the park while the sun was still high and parked in the lot for the Kings Canyon Lodge, now closed for winter. His old pickup looked forlorn in the abandoned lot, a dingy little boat on a sea of white snow. Remus got out his snowshoes and gear and began trekking east, cutting north into the wilderness as soon as he was certain no one was watching. The main road through the park had closed three days earlier on account of a blizzard, and was not expected to reopen for another week at least. Christmas was only a few days away, and between the weather and the holiday, park security had relaxed to the point of near desertion. Even so, Remus kept the Nikon close to hand, in a separate bag slung across his chest. If the rangers did find him, he would play the part of an ignorant hiker, an amateur photographer with no concept of personal safety. Once upon a time, Remus marveled, shaking his head to himself, he had even been that person.

  It had taken forty-four years to find his purpose, but now he knew his place in the world, the true calling that pulled him farther north with each shuffle of his snowshoes. The only thing that mattered was protecting the wolves. He talked to himself on the hike, mumbling through the long string of affirmations and pledges that had propelled him through the last few months of preparation.

  He paused to rest at the foot of one of the enormous sequoias, squinting up to admire its thick trunk in the fading sunlight. His breath crystallized in the air, and he took a long moment to appreciate the quiet, so different from his parents’ neighborhood in Los Angeles. Then the sound of shifting snow drew his attention downward. A white-tailed jackrabbit bounded closer, pausing to stare at him from a few yards away.

  Remus was delighted. “Why, hello, baby,” he crooned, squatting a little. “I’m headed in that direction too. Can we walk together?”

  The hare gazed at him for another moment, its empty black eyes only mildly curious about the intruder. Then it twitched a hind leg and flashed back the way it had come, its white tail disappearing in an instant. “Fine, then,” Remus muttered angrily. “I’ll make bigger friends, and we’ll come back and eat you.”

  He followed the compass north for another two hours, until the last trace of sunlight had vanished and the moon had risen, low and fat on the horizon. It was well below freezing now, the trees heavy with snow that hadn’t quite completed the journey to the forest floor. Remus found the spot where a long, winding line of same-sized trees formed a sort of natural entrance to the thickest part of the woods, and he dropped his pack. He squatted down and unzipped the main compartment with cold fingers, pulling out a brand-new camping lantern and a little collapsible tripod. He turned on the lantern first, using the light to set up the tripod and the Nikon on a flat, stable stretch of embedded rock, with the camera’s lens facing toward him. When he was satisfied with the positioning, he angled the lantern to get as much light on his face as possible and turned on the camera, thumbing the switch to the “Record Video” setting. Knees creaking, he settled back on his butt, smoothed down his hair, and began.

  “My name is Remus. This video is either scientific evidence or my last will and testament, depending on how the night goes.” He gave the camera a big winning smile before continuing. “On the night of December twenty-third, I have come to Kings Canyon National Park, where I hope to be bitten . . . by a werewolf.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I have heard that the nearest pack sometimes visits the northernmost stretches of this park during the winter, and that one bite can change a man into a werewolf himself. It is my life’s mission to protect and celebrate these magnificent wild creatures, and I feel the best way to truly understand their needs is to become one with them.”

  Remus sipped from his water bottle, enjoying the sounds of the woods around him. He imagined an audience for the video, an awestruck congregation of his fellow eco-warriors and activists. Putting down the bottle, he turned to face the camera again. “This is the fourth month in a row that I have traveled to Kings Canyon. So far I have seen little sign of wolf activity, but I have high hopes for this fateful night. It is a busy time for the world of men,” he said with distaste, “and the snow makes the trek difficult for the two-legged. Hopefully—” Remus stopped short, listening. He forgot to keep the low dramatic tones in his voice, which came out high and excited as he continued, “Did you hear that? I swear, it almost sounded like a—”

  The second time there was no mistaking it: a long, deadly-sweet howl that was snatched up by the wind and braided through the tree line. The acoustics were confusing, and Remus couldn’t pinpoint the direction the howl originated from. The sound wasn’t quite what he’d expected, either. It didn’t seem wild and noble, like on his recordings. It seemed . . . terrifying. For the first time since he’d concocted this plan, Remus felt a thin edge of fear slicing through his excitement.

  He struggled to smile broadly at the camera. “That was quick,” he exclaimed shakily, and rummaged in his pack for his digital recorder and the cattle prod. “This was recorded from a pack of wolves in Idaho,” he told the camera as he hit the “Play” button on the recorder. A territory howl came blasting out, loud enough to make Remus feel smug about the extra money he
’d taken from his dad for the upscale equipment. He played three full minutes of howling, grinning stupidly before hitting the “Stop” button. “Now let’s see if they respond,” he said to the camera. He made a show of looking toward the forest entrance, but it was fully dark now and the brightness of the camp lantern had destroyed his night vision. The silence was eerie, and he realized that somehow the park had gotten even quieter. What—

  The attack came from behind. A hundred fifty pounds of predator slammed into Remus, teeth locking down hard on the back of his neck. Remus let out a squeak and scrambled for the cattle prod, knocking over the tripod. He dimly heard the crash of his camera hitting the rock but—oh shit, his neck hurt—and felt the wolf shaking its head, worrying at Remus’s spinal cord. For God’s sake . . . His fingers finally latched on to the cattle prod, and Remus reversed the foot-long weapon so the tip was toward him, shoving it backward under his armpit until he felt it make contact with the wolf. Remus pulled the trigger and felt a buzz of secondary electricity hit his neck, but by then everything was getting dark, and Remus felt a brief surge of noble pride. He would die, but for his cause.

  For the wolves.

  Chapter 1

  “Seaweed!” Molly marveled for the third time, rubbing the sheet of paper-thin nori. “Can you believe it’s made of seaweed, Scarlett?”

  I squirmed around on my utility stool so I could face her. The “Make Your Own Sushi Rolls” class was being held in the science lab of a private community college, the kind of room with shelves of beakers and those two-person tables with little gas nozzles. Molly and the rest of the class perched easily on the metal stools, but I was at a weird angle because I was using a second stool to prop up my knee brace. “I know I grew up in a small town,” I said drily, “but I was aware of seaweed as an ingredient in sushi, yes.”

  She gave me a good-natured swat on the arm. “Don’t ruin this for me,” she said with a shark-wide smile, tossing back her copper-colored bob. There was a tinge of warning in her voice.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, trying to work up some enthusiasm. Molly, I should mention, is my landlady and roommate. Oh, and when she’s not around me, she’s also a vampire. I’m a null, a human who negates all the magic in a certain area around me. Vampires who get close to me become human again and age just like anyone else, which is what Molly wants more than anything. She was only seventeen when she was turned, which isn’t nearly as old now as it was in 1905. In exchange for a very generous break on the rent, I’m supposed to hang out with Molly and help her get older.

  Unfortunately, she’d recently decided that she wanted to define “hang out” as “take a ‘Make Your Own Sushi’ class together.” Vampires can’t eat people food, so Molly wanted to try some exotic new tastes while she was temporarily human. And for a traditional gal from Victorian Great Britain, it doesn’t get a lot more exotic than sushi rolls. I wasn’t about to point out to Molly that sushi had been around for a while and that the rest of Los Angeles had progressed a hundred steps down the evolutionary line of exotic food trends. I was afraid she would make me eat offal or something.

  “Ladies,” said the instructor, approaching the table that Molly and I were sharing. “Everything all right here?” He had introduced himself as Hoshi (“rhymes with Yoshi”) and was a short Japanese man with a mild accent, a gleaming black buzz cut, and a tendency to overshare. He’d opened the class by explaining that he was teaching for some extra money because his American wife was expecting their unplanned third child. Because that’s something you tell complete strangers.

  “You bet!” Molly chirped, beaming at him. “I can’t believe it’s seaweed!”

  Hoshi cut his eyes over to me very briefly, unsure if Molly was putting him on. “She’s new to sushi,” I said gravely.

  His eyes widened, as if now I was putting him on. Which was fair. “Right,” he said, a little suspiciously, and then he turned his attention to the rest of the class. “Let’s begin our first rolls, everyone,” he called, weaving through the tables to the front of the room, where he’d laid out his own supplies on the instructor’s desk.

  He began walking us through making a simple cucumber roll, and I concentrated on his instructions. I rolled the rice and cucumber up in the nori, pressed down along the edges to make it stick together, and glanced over at my struggling roommate. Molly’s hands weren’t used to the motions of food preparation, and she had none of her usual vampire grace in my presence, so her lopsided roll fell apart over and over, until each attempt began to resemble a Charlie Chaplin sketch. When she began furtively wiping sticky rice off her hands with the dangly tail of her cashmere cardigan, glancing around to make sure no one had seen her, I couldn’t help snickering.

  “Good thing I wore my play clothes,” Molly said seriously, and my snicker turned into a full-on laugh. In all the time I’ve known Molly, I have never seen her wear an item of clothing that costs less than a tank of gas, and her “play clothes”—cashmere sweater, designer T-shirt with a picture of a T. rex failing at a push-up, and jeans that looked soft enough to make baby asses jealous—were no exception. She looked up from her sweater, amused.

  “What?” I asked, picking up a knife and cutting my long tube of sushi roll into slices.

  “Scarlett Bernard,” Molly said, her voice low and joyous. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were actually having a good time.”

  “Me? What? I am not,” I said immediately. Because I’m mature.

  “Pants on fire!” Molly crowed, her voice now officially too loud. Hoshi paused in his instructions to send us a questioning look.

  “She’s kidding, sir,” I called helpfully. “My pants are not actually on fire.” Giving us a stern frown, Hoshi went back to his lesson, and I said out of the side of my mouth, “Are you suggesting I shouldn’t be having fun?” Because frankly, the thought had occurred to me.

  “Of course not. I just haven’t seen you look happy in . . .” She trailed off, and then finished awkwardly, “You know. A while.”

  I did know. I’d spent the last few days huddled in bed, alternately icing my knee and staring guiltily at the ceiling. And before that . . . well, Molly was right; it was good to be out. “Thanks for this, Molls,” I said quietly.

  Molly flashed a smile—and then frowned down at my perfect sushi roll. Arching a smug eyebrow, I popped a piece of the roll into my mouth. It’s a rare day when I’m better at something than she is.

  “Seriously, how is yours staying together?” she demanded.

  “It’s all in the wrist,” I said around a mouthful of rice. Molly apparently had missed that particular idiom, because she examined her own wrists with new interest, and I almost choked on a bite of cucumber.

  Then my cell phone buzzed in my pocket and I jumped, knocking my cane from where I’d propped it against the table. It clattered loudly to the floor, and the middle-aged lesbian couple at the next table glared at me. I shrugged in a “what’re you gonna do” kind of way and leaned back so I could dig the cell out of my jacket, which I’d tossed on the empty table behind ours. The caller ID said it was Will, the head of the Los Angeles werewolf pack. I frowned.

  My job is cleaning up crime scenes for the three Old World parties in Los Angeles—the vampires, the werewolves, and the witches—and I’m on retainer, so in theory, any of them could call me anytime. But I hadn’t had any work calls since my injury, and frankly, Will was the last person I’d expect to call me for any other reason.

  The phone buzzed a second time, and Hoshi paused in his explanation to glare at me. I was tempted to turn the phone off and put it back in my pocket, but that went against years of habit—and besides, Will wouldn’t call unless he absolutely had to. And by the time I hobbled out to the hall with my cane, I’d miss him. There was nothing to do but answer. “Sorry, Hoshi, but I’m an obstetrician,” I lied. “I have to take this.” The instructor’s face relaxed into a forgiving nod, and the couple next to me went back to their own rolls. I held the phone to my ear.
“This is Dr. Bernard,” I said serenely. Molly grinned without looking up from her sushi.

  Will didn’t even mention the fake title, which told me right away that things were serious. “You need to get to my house right now,” he said, his voice urgent.

  I blinked in surprise. He was calling me into a crime scene? “For . . . working things?” I said stupidly. No, Scarlett, he’s got an emergency grape-juice stain. I glanced down at my swollen knee, which looked barely restrained by the metal-and-Velcro brace. “Will, I’m not exactly fit for duty yet. Is it . . . really minor?” I asked hopefully.

  “No,” he said shortly. “It’s a disaster. At my house.” My face must have changed, because Molly’s own eyes widened in alarm. A weight I hadn’t known I’d dropped settled itself back into place on my shoulders.

  My employers and I don’t discuss crime scenes over the phone, for obvious reasons, but we also don’t bother using a lot of code words to describe the situations. Codes are difficult to remember, and ultimately, knowing in advance what I need to clean up won’t make me get there any faster. They send me to a location, I get there as fast as I can, and I use whatever I have in my van, the White Whale.

  One of the few codes we do have, however, is “disaster.” If Will was using it now, that meant that somewhere in his house there was a dead human body.

  Chapter 2

  “Scarlett?” Molly said uncertainly. She had put a hand out like she was spotting me, and I realized I had swayed a little bit on my stool. I grabbed the edge of the lab table for balance and told myself to get my shit together. It wasn’t like this was my first dead body.

  “Hang on a second, Will,” I said into the phone. Without hanging up I put the phone in my hoodie pocket and looked at Molly, tilting my head toward the door. She nodded and began gathering our jackets and her purse. Technically Molly could have stayed, since it was after sunset, but she wouldn’t have been able to taste anything without me anyway. She handed me my cane, and we walked—well, Molly walked, I did more of a weird pirate shuffle with the cane—out to the hallway. “Good luck!” Hoshi said gaily, probably glad to be rid of the two of us. Didn’t blame him at all.