Sheep's Clothing (7 page)

He looked up at me. “What about silver?”

“Why does silver burn you?” I craned my head to better see him. “You said that Russeau wasn’t human, that he was a vampire. It seems logical that… if inhuman creatures exist… what are the odds that only one—or three—would exist…?” I trailed off, cleared my throat, and tried again; my mind told me this was nonsense, but my gut told me otherwise. “You healed from a stab wound in two days—a stab wound that nearly killed you, and left your side blistered and septic. I’ve never seen anything like that. Now, grabbing a knife burns you, and you say it’s because it’s silver. So… why silver? Is there… Are you…?” I couldn’t make myself finish the sentence—there was no good way to ask someone if they were human or not.

He grunted and tied the bandage in place with a swift jerk.

“Well,” he said, “The fact that you’re letting me treat your arm tells me ya ain’t afraid of me.”

“I’ve seen no reason to be, of late,” I allowed. “But there’s so much that doesn’t add up right now.” I unrolled my sleeve and gingerly pulled my coat on, mindful of my injury.

He nodded his shaggy head slowly. “I get what ya’re trying to say, Doc,” he said. He took a deep breath. “And ya’re right.”

I blinked and frowned. “I’m... right about what? Which part?”

He sat back. “I ain’t human. Not entirely, anyway.”

The back of my neck prickled and my throat tightened, as a cold sweat formed on my brow. I’d heard stories and rumors of the local Indians being less than human, but this struck me as something entirely different. I licked my lips nervously.

“What are you, then?” I choked out.

He tilted his head at me. “Does it matter?”

“It might,” I returned. “I like to know everything I’m dealing with.”

“Well, guess that’s fair,” he said. He looked thoughtfully at the fresh bandage on his hand, and then flexed the fingers.

“My ma was a Lakota woman, that much is still true,” he said, “but she was also something else—something called a skinwalker. A shapeshifter, in other words, who could make herself look like any animal she wanted. Most skinwalkers aren’t all that nice to mortals, but she was fond of humans, for reasons she never really explained to me. I don’t think my pa ever knew what she was.”

“And your father was… human, correct?”

Wolf nodded. “Which makes me a half-breed of a different kind—half mortal, half skinwalker.”

I was momentarily struck speechless by this, unable to comprehend what he could possibly mean by this revelation.

“Now, most skinwalkers can take the shape of any animal they like,” Wolf continued. “Birds, wolves, coyotes, lizards, and snakes are the most common, but as for me, I can only do one animal—a wolf. I reckon that’s good enough for most things.”

I tried to fit this in with what I knew of the world and failed. My head spun, and the color drained from my face. I could perceive that he saw my reaction, as he looked keenly at me.

“Something wrong?” he asked, getting to his feet.

For several seconds I could not make myself speak. My head spun and my legs felt weak, and I tried to sit down, only to miss the chair I was aiming for and wind up seated on the floor. He seized me by my uninjured arm and helped me into the chair, where I sat numbly for a few seconds with my head in my hands.

“This is all quite a lot to take in,” I said finally. “Shapeshifting monsters on all sides… why had nobody heard of these things before?”

“They
have
,” Wolf said. “Ya’re just reading the wrong sorts of books. Not everything can do what I said, but enough can that ya need to stay on yar toes.”

I let out a high, breathless little laugh. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, but saying you can turn into a wolf seems to be a bit of a tall tale.”

“A tall t—?” He closed his eyes. “All right. I get it. Ya’re
educated
.” He said
educated
as though it was synonymous with
naive
. He opened his eyes and looked at me. “That’s why ya don’t believe in ghost stories, right?”

“I… suppose that’s right. I’ve learned to be a bit skeptical, is all.”

He grimaced. “Right. Well, things are different out here.” He sat back down.

I thought about this, trying to make all this fit with what I knew of the world, but still my brain rebelled. I finally gave up and shook my head.

I was about to suggest that the dog I’d seen was just a feral animal looking for food, when I heard the front door open.

I peered out and saw Pack and his wife Angela. The latter looked dreadfully pale, and she leaned heavily on her husband, though she made her best efforts to walk.

“Doc,” he said breathlessly, “There’s something wrong with Angie.”

“All right,” I said, “I’ll be out in a tick.” I hurried o
ut just as Pack was easing Angela onto the examination bed.

“I heard what happened to ya
earlier this morning,” Pack said. “Are ya okay?”

Clearly, Samuel Morse would blush at the speed at which news travels in a small town, as only two hours had passed since my encounter with DuPont.

“Merely a flesh wound,” I assured him. “It could have been a lot worse.”

He nodded. “I’d like to shake the h
and of that Indian who saved ya.”

A quick glance told me that Wolf had made himself scarce again.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate your gratitude,” I said, and turned to the matter at hand. “What seems to be the problem?”

“It’s my wife,” Pack said, “She woke up feeling poorly this morning.”

I crossed to the examination bed and examined her. She looked tired—which was odd, since the Packards were both up with the chickens more often than not.

“I felt so dizzy when I woke up,” she said, “I could hardly make breakfast. I had to stop and catch my breath at least once.”

The signs pointed towards anemia—a relatively new discovery, but during my schooling I’d learned to recognize the symptoms. It was so odd, though… the people of Salvation tended towards heartier dispositions, and this came on virtually overnight—but she didn’t have the chills that would come with fever or influenza. I had to treat what was in front of me.

“It looks like your blood has thinned a bit,” I said, “You should eat lots of red meat for the next few days—liver, if you can get it—and that will help you get your strength back.”

“Okay, Doc,” she said.

“We’ll pick up some steaks from the market before we go home,” Pack said, but as they went to leave, the collar of Angela’s dress shifted, and I saw something on her throat that caught my attention.

“Wait,” I said, and they paused, turning back. “Miss Angela, what’s that mark, just there, on the side of your throat?”

She frowned in confusion, but reached up and touched her collar. She pulled down the edge of the fabric, and I leaned in to get a better look.

My blood ran cold when I saw the cluster of four parallel scratches, nearly identical to the mark I’d seen on the inside of Mrs. Cavanaugh’s wrist. I carefully schooled my expression, however, not wanting to raise a panic.

“What is it?” Angela asked. “Is there something wrong?” She cautiously explored the scratches with her fingers, and appeared to be honestly confused about their origin.

“It looks like you’ve been bitten by something,” I told her. “Any ideas when that might have happened?”

She shook her head. “The scratches… they weren’t there last night, I don’t think—were they?” This last she asked of Pack, who shook his head decisively.

“I’m going to have a visitor of mine take a quick look at them,” I said, “Is that all right with you?”

“Who’s this visitor?” Pack demanded.

“He’s the one whose hand you want to shake,” I replied, and then turned and called over my shoulder. “Wolf? I think you need to see this.”

Wolf emerged from the back room, his posture that of a wary dog meeting a stranger. He kept his eyes on Pack, who stood as Wolf came into view. I made introductions, and Wolf touched his hat to each of them in turn.

“Let’s have a look at yar neck, Miss,” he said.

Angie gave me a frightened look—understandably so, considering the unorthodox request—but at my nod, she allowed Wolf to look at the scratches.

After a few moments, he let out a low growl and nodded at me.

“What is it?” Angie asked tremulously, glancing from me to Wolf to Pack and back.

“Ayup. Something bit ya,” he confirmed bluntly.

Angie gasped, and Pack reached over and clasped her hand to reassure her. With her other hand she covered the marks. Wolf took up this latter hand, examining it thoroughly on both sides.

“Looks like it got a fair bit of blood, too,” Wolf observed matter-of-factly. “Doc, ya see how pale she is?” I nodded.

“What could possibly have bit her?” Pack demanded.

“Hard to say,” Wolf replied, and looked Angie in the eye. “Ma’am, are ya prone to evening strolls after dark?”

She shook her head, frowning in confusion.

“How about dinner parties?” he asked.

“Dinner parties?” Pack demanded. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It might be important,” I said, struggling to keep up with Wolf’s apparent non sequitur and wondering where he was going with this.

“Well,” Angie said, “We did have dinner at the Cavanaughs’ last night…”

“Nice folks, I bet,” Wolf remarked.

“Oh yes!” she beamed. “And they’d invited over Mr. Russeau and his lady friends. They were such delightful people.”

Wolf’s smile didn’t so much as twitch.

“I don’t know about that,” Pack said. “Maybe things are different in France, but who goes to a dinner party and doesn’t eat anything?”

“Talk about anything special?” Wolf asked, his tone almost conversational.

Pack and Angie exchanged a glance, but clearly the small-town urge to gossip won over their reticence towards a stranger, especially one who had saved the town doctor.

“Russeau was talking about how much he was looking forward to living in Salvation,” Pack said. “He said everything was so beautiful here, and he just adored the scenery. His sister was absolutely taken with Salvation, too. The Mayor was of the opinion that Russeau could really bring new life to this little town. Have ya met them, Doc?”

“I have,” I said. “I’m guessing the red-haired woman was his sister?”

Pack nodded. “Rosette, he called her. As for his wife—well, not sure why he’d marry an Indian woman, but I reckon people are a bit queer in France. He called her his little Papillon, whatever that means.”

Wolf maintained his friendly smile, but I saw his jaw muscles tighten.

“Naturally, I wanted to be neighborly,” Angie said, smiling, “What with Alexandre and his sister being so far from home. And they all seemed so charming that of course I invited the three of them to come visit anytime.”

I saw the color drain from Wolf’s face, and he stood up, turning away from the Packards.

“Well,” he said, sounding a bit queasy, “I think I know what might have bit ya, ma’am, and how to keep it from coming back.” He composed himself and turned back to them. “Keep yar windows shut—all of ‘em. Latch ‘em if ya can. And scatter seeds or anything ya got a lot of outside the windows and doors.”

Pack moved closer to his wife, placing a hand on her shoulder; the two of them looked, understandably, more than a little frightened and confused by Wolf’s instructions.

“What’s that supposed to do?” Pack asked. “Keep out… bad spirits?” I heard a note of genuine alarm in his voice, and had to remind myself that the people out here were more superstitious than folks back east.

“Exactly right,” Wolf said. “And if ya got any crosses or crucifixes in the house, keep ‘em close when ya go to bed.”

“We… we can do that,” Pack said.

Wolf nodded. “Ya do that, yar lovely wife shouldn’t get any more bite marks on her.” He glanced at me. “But ya might want t’get some red meat in her anyway, to get her strength back up.”

They agreed to do so and left.

Once they were out of sight, I put my hands over my face.

“Wolf,” I said, “What am I missing?”

“What do ya mean?” he asked.

I lowered my hands and looked at him. “I get that the Packards had dinner with Russeau and his ladies. I get that one of them was Kimimela. But… scattering seeds outside their windows and doors?”

“They can’t help but count things. It’ll keep ‘em busy during the night so they can’t go hunt folks.”

“Russeau’s people, you mean.”

“Yup.”

“Who you think bit Mrs. Packard and drained her blood.”

“That’s right. Ya catch on mighty quick for someone who don’t believe in ghost stories.”

I sighed. “I’m still not convinced,” I confessed. “Besides, two people with anemia and scratches do not mean we have vampires in Salvation.”

He gave me a long look.

“I know there has to be a logical explanation,” I insisted.