Chapter 72: Blame

When the warehouse door opened, the Savannah and the sisters jumped. Clay closed it and paused, back to them, collecting himself before turning and fixing a neutral expression on his face. It was a struggle, and he soon gave up, lines deepening around his mouth and between his eyes, face pale and drawn. Blood flecked his shirt and neck. More speckled one cheek.

"Done?" Buffy asked.

"Almost. He's out cold. I'm checking in before I finish."

Buffy nodded. "Did he give you anything?"

"A bit. Not enough."

Dan had admitted that Tesler killed Dennis in a territorial dispute. He said Dennis had found them and ordered them out of Alaska. He'd challenged Tesler, they'd fought, Dennis died and Tesler had tied his body up in the cabin to make it look like a break-and-enter gone bad.

Which was bullshit. Dennis might have gotten more 'in touch with his inner werewolf,' but that inner werewolf still would have taken one look at Tesler's hulking outer wolf and run the other way. What they'd seen on Dennis's body were the signs of torture, not a fair fight.

When asked about this, though, Podrova had laughed. Were they not torturing him for information? What, then, did they think Tesler wanted? As for that, Podrova got vague again, but he hazarded a few guesses—bank account details, keys to Dennis's truck… If Tesler was going to waste time killing the guy, he sure as hell was going to make sure he turned a profit. Sadly, given everything they'd seen and heard of Tesler, this made sense. Though it had been hard to gauge the extent of the torture, it had seemed the kind of thing thugs would do, tying up a homeowner and making him give PINs and passwords so they could empty his accounts.

Podrova also admitted they'd had contact with Joey. They left him alone because they had an agreement with him. As for what that agreement was, he had no idea—that was Eddie Tesler's area. Apparently, baby brother was the brains of the operation, which didn't surprise them—Roman said the gang was smart and Travis Tesler didn't strike them as a deep thinker. All Podrova knew was that for now, Joey was untouchable.

Podrova had also admitted that their pack was responsible for the wolf kills. Well, the first, at least. One of the other members had killed him, and that's why he'd been sent away on business—in punishment. Eddie didn't tolerate man-killing. Like the rapes, it wasn't conducive to a settled lifestyle.

As for the other two victims, Podrova knew nothing about them. Yes, the last one had been found close to where they Changed and ran, at a spot away from their cabin, which Eddie insisted on. But none of them knew why a human would be killed, apparently by large canines, in that same spot.

Clay suspected Podrova himself was responsible for the two unclaimed killings, that he'd acted on his own and covered his ass so he wouldn't be sent away like his comrade. Now he continued covering it, afraid that being outed as a man-eater would seal his fate with us. But of all the issues and questions, this was least important. We knew they were responsible.

There was a limit to how far Clay could push, and how much pain he could inflict while keeping the subject conscious and lucid, so he'd moved to what he knew was another important issue for the sisters: the missing young women. And here is where, driven to his limit, Podrova no longer bothered being cagey. Yes, he was sure Tesler had taken those girls. When their little pack moved to Alaska, Eddie insisted his older brother lose the habit. Law enforcement would be stricter and more advanced here, and if they were settling in for the long term, they had to be more careful.

So, while Podrova had no proof of it, he was certain those girls hadn't just coincidentally vanished after they arrived. Just as he was sure there would be more.

"And that's all he said. But what you both really want to know is: where the hell is that cabin so you can stop this bastard? He says he doesn't know where it is, and as stupid as that sounds, I believe him. The Teslers do all the driving. This guy just goes along for the ride. He knows its south of the city. He knows it's about an hour's drive. He knows they pass that service center before they turn off because they like the pizza there, so they stop in on the way back. Then, after they get back on the highway, drive awhile, then turn. And turn. And turn…"

Buffy and Dawn groaned.

"Yeah, it's like getting to Dennis's place, only it seems even farther in the woods. It's the same deal, too, where you can't get there in the winter except by snowmobile."

"Didn't they buy the cabin?" Savannah asked.

Buffy nodded in agreement. "I see where Savannah's going. If we research real estate transactions in the right time period…" she saw his expression and stopped. "They didn't buy it, did they?"

"This guy has no fucking idea, Buffy. All he knows is they came to Anchorage and they moved into a big cottage that was already furnished. The Teslers might have bought it. Or they might have killed the owners. Or they might just be squatting in some out-of-towner's summer cabin. This mutt does as he's told and he doesn't clutter his brain with details. He's just happy to have an Alpha to tell him what to do." He swiped the blood from his cheek. "I'm not going to get anything more from him on that, but if there's something else…"

There was more the sisters wanted to get, but nothing he could get. If the mutt was unconscious, he'd passed the breaking point. Even if Clay could rouse him, he'd had a taste of painless oblivion and he'd spout whatever lies Clay seemed to want to hear if it would take him back there.

"That's enough," Buffy said. "I'll help with the rest."

"I've got it," Clay said.

"You're going to need to bury—" Dawn started.

"It's a dirt floor and tools. I'll make do."

"But we can—" Dawn tried again.

"Got it." He went back inside. When he came out later, he carried a bag, presumably holding any belongings that could identify the dead man. They walked to the shore where they helped him clean off the blood. By the time they'd finished, his mood had lifted. He wasn't ready for cracking jokes, but he'd returned to a quiet equilibrium.

Later they were walking back toward the hotel. Dawn looked over at her sister. Saw the haunted eyes. The same eyes she had seen when Spike had tried to rape her. She closed off the link to Clay and Savannah so they could talk in private. "Buffy? Are you alright?"

Buffy looked at Dawn and shook her head.

"You want to talk about it?" Dawn asked.

Again, Buffy shook her head.

Clay looked at the sisters and shook his head. "Open the link, Dawn. Or say it out loud."

"I have to agree with Uncle Clay," Savannah said. "Especially when I think I know what you were talking about and it has me worried as well."

"I just was asking if Buffy wanted to talk about what happened," Dawn said.

Clay nodded. "Buffy, he's a coward and you know it. Hopefully, you'll never have to deal with him again—not alone, anyway, but if you do, then just show him whose boss and he'll run like hell. Let the Slayer have full reign. You're a better fighter than him. Don't forget it."

"He's right, mom," Savannah said. "In fact, mom, I will remain at your side. Between being both a Slayer and a witch. I think the two of us together could take him."

Buffy smiled at daughter. "Thank you, sweetie." She looked at Clay and gestured at the bag he was holding. "You took the mutt's clothing?" she said wanting to distract herself from Tesler. "We'll need to find a place to burn it."

"Nah. It was all generic stuff. I only wanted this." He handed Buffy the bag. Inside was Dan's jacket, washed denim with leather trim and a shearling lining.

"Nice, but it looks a little small for you," Dawn said.

He rolled his eyes.

"Okay," Dawn said. "I give up. What did you want with his jacket?"

"It's not his. It's Dennis's."

"Dennis?" Buffy asked.

"I smelled him on it when I was checking Podrova for ID. So, I took it. No mutt is being buried in Dennis's coat."

Dawn pulled it from the bag. "This isn't Dennis's. First, I saw his coat in the cabin—a plain, Sears catalogue parka. All his clothing was department store and that—" She pointed to the jacket. "—might have come from a catalogue, but if so, it was from one of those fancy collegiate stores. It's a young man's jacket. Dennis was trying to recapture his wolf, not his youth."

"Well, it smells like Dennis. Like he wore it." He motioned for the sisters to sniff the inside. They did and Dennis's scent was indeed there, as if he'd pulled it on once or twice, but under the mutt's more recent smell was another, deeper one embedded in the fabric. The real owner. And when they caught a whiff of that, they swore.

A smile creased Clay's eyes. "Admitting you two are wrong?"

"Not about that. Something bigger," Buffy said. "At Dennis's place, Dawn and I smelled another werewolf. A family member. We presumed it was Joey, but having now smelled Joey and smelling this, we were wrong. This coat belonged to a werewolf and it belonged to a Stillwell. But not Dennis and not Joey."

It was Clay's turn to curse, taking the jacket, inhaling deeper and cursing again.

"We need to talk to Joey," Buffy said.

They'd already needed to talk to him—about this "deal" with the mutts and his lie about not encountering them. And now this: the existence, or former existence, of a Stillwell that Jeremy knew nothing about.

But this wasn't the sort of conversation they could have in Joey's office. They'd need to waylay him as he left work, and hope he didn't decide to put in too much overtime.

It was only midafternoon, meaning they couldn't talk to Joey for a few hours. That was fine, because right now, none of them were in the mood for that conversation. They were tired and hungry and sore, and all them wanted was to crash in their hotel rooms … which was a problem.

"Already taken care of," Clay said. "I called Jeremy when we first split up. He'll have something booked for us by now."

First, though, they had to retrieve their stuff. Buffy's steps slowed as they entered the lobby, certain she could pick up the faint smell of Travis Tesler, her stomach knotting at the thought of going up there, smelling him, smelling what he'd done.

"Take a seat," Clay said, waving at the armchairs in the middle of the lobby. "Call Anne. Talk to Joyce and Logan."

Buffy hesitated.

"Plenty of people around," he said. "It's safe."

"That's not what I meant. I should help—" Buffy said.

"Mom, sit," Savannah ordered. "You are not going back into our room till the stuff that they messed with is gone. I don't want you running off like you did earlier. I lost Mama Eve; I don't want to lose you too."

Buffy sighed and nodded. "Dawn."

"I'll make sure everything is tossed in the trash," Dawn promised.

Buffy smiled. "Thanks." She and Savannah then picked a seat with their backs to the manned counter, facing the doors. Buffy couldn't imagine Tesler sneaking up on them here, but she felt better being careful. Then she called home.

She talked to Anne first. She started by reassuring her that she was coming home as soon as possible, fending off the problems Jeremy had with her and Joyce earlier. It worked.

Anne told Buffy about her day, specifically dinner yesterday after Jeremy had left for New York, when Jaime made them all pancakes, which were good, but she hadn't done it quite right, because it wasn't breakfast so they weren't in their pajamas and Jaime had forgotten the blueberries, but no, Anne didn't want her to tell Jaime where the blueberries were because she wanted to save them until Buffy, Savannah, Dawn and Clay got home, and as soon as they got home, they had to have their special pancake breakfast with blueberries and ham, and they had to be in their pajamas, and they had to pretend there wouldn't be enough for Uncle Clay and smack his hand when he tried to steal ham from the frying pan.

It was a silly little ritual. The kind three-year-olds love, one that keeps evolving and every step must be performed every time and it's just as hilarious the tenth time as the first.

When Dawn and Clay came down, Buffy and Savannah had been talking to Joyce. They started to stand, but Clay motioned that he'd check them out and Buffy should keep talking. She passed him the phone and she and Savannah hurried off before he could argue. As mother and daughter walked away, they heard Joyce saying, "And Jaime made us pancakes, but she…" and they smiled.

"Now this is more like it," Clay said as they walked into their suite in the new hotel. Unlike the other one they actually had a suite with a common sitting room and two bedrooms off to either side. Dawn tossed her suitcase by the door to one of the bedrooms and headed for the room service menu. Clay snatched it first.

"Excuse me," Dawn said. "You and I are supposed to be reading Dennis's notes, remember? I believe that was Buffy's order."

"My stomach exercises its power of veto. Food first, work later."

"I have to agree with Uncle Clay," Savannah said.

An hour later, his stomach full, Dawn and Clay sat on the couch, reading Dennis's notes aloud and adding lecture bits as they went. Savannah and Buffy were curled up in chairs across from them, eyes closed as they listened.

Dennis's notes were mostly about other shape-shifter myths. There was the Bajang from Malaysia, a dwarfish human that can transform into a polecat. Or the Grecian Striga, a witch that shifts into a screech owl. Or West African leopard men, the offspring of humans and leopard gods, who can take on the form of a cat. Go to Bali and you'll find the Leyak, black-magic practitioners who change into animals at night. The Scots have their Selkies, seals who can change into human. Brazilians have Encantado, humans who shift into animals, particularly dolphins. And that's only the beginning.

"I love you," Dawn said.

He looked across at Dawn. "You interrupted my lecture for that? Tell me something I don't already know."

"I hate you," Dawn said with a quick glance at Buffy and Savannah, both of whom were trying to keep from laughing.

"Know that, too. Keeps things interesting. Now, where was I?"

"Pompously expounding on the arcane minutiae of shape-shifting lore," Buffy said.

"Been doing that for the last hour. Question is: which bit of minutiae was I expounding on?"

"I believe it was Tlahiame," Buffy said. "Or something like that."

"And Buffy's mispronunciation of complicated names strikes again," Dawn chuckled. "She meant it was Tlahuelpuchi."

"Ah, the Tlahuelpuchi. Actually, more a vampire myth than shape-shifter—"

"Similar to the Nagual," Dawn said, "but differing in both the variety of transformation and the transmission of the power. A Nagual shifts into recognizable animal form and is believed to learn the craft, while the Tlahuelpuchi curse is inherited and the cursed being shifts into a bestial form, often resembling a bird, such as a vulture or that overlooked horror movie possibility—the dreaded were-turkey."

"You know it so well? You give the lecture."

"God forbid. The podium is yours, Dr. Danvers," Dawn said as Buffy laughed.

Buffy knew that when it came to mythology, Dawn was probably just as versed as Clay. Dawn had long since gotten a Ph.D. in mythology and had planned to use what she learned when they returned to their own time to help the Slayers.

Later they watched Joey head for his car. He had his head down, frowning as he searched his pocket for his keys. He pulled them out and saw Savannah, Clay, Dawn and Buffy blocking the way.

Joey stopped so suddenly his loafers squeaked on the damp asphalt. "I said I didn't want to—"

Clay threw the denim jacket on the car hood.

Joey winced as the buttons scraped the paint.

"Recognize it?" Clay said.

"Looks like something you'd wear, so I'm guessing—"

"It belongs to a Stillwell," Buffy said.

"My father? Not exactly his style."

"It's not your father's and it's not yours. But it smells like you. Your kin. Want to know where I got it?" Clay didn't wait for an answer. "Off a mutt. One of the three who killed your father. Can you tell me why he'd be wearing it? Or who it belonged to?"

"Why don't you ask the guy who had it?" Joey frowned. "No, I suppose you can't do that, since he's probably no longer among the living. That's the problem with torturing and killing mutts, isn't it? You work so hard to get your answers, and sometimes they die on you first."

Joey's eyes lit up like Jeremy's when he hit the bull's-eye on a seemingly impossible target. But Clay just stood there, as if waiting for the punch line.

After a moment of awkward silence, Joey said, "I'm right, aren't I? You tortured him. Killed him."

"Yeah," Clay said.

Again, Joey waited for a reaction—chagrin, embarrassment, shame. Again, Clay waited for him to get to the point.

"Did you use a chainsaw?" Joey said. "I seem to recall you like chainsaws."

"There wasn't a power outlet." Clay turned to Dawn. "That's what I want for Father's Day, darling. A gas-powered chainsaw."

That flush crept across Joey's face, his eyes hardening. "You know what you are, Clay?"

"No idea, but I'm sure you'd love to tell me," Clay said.

"Yes, we interrogated the mutt," Buffy cut in. "We were trying to figure out what happened to your father, three dead men and three missing women. And yes, Clay tortured him until he admitted they'd tortured and killed your dad, killed at least one of the men, raped and presumably killed the girls. So, what did you do with your day, Joseph? Write a catchy jingle?"

"You don't know anything about me."

"No," Clay said quietly. "I guess I don't."

Joey jiggled his keys, as if deciding whether to try shouldering past Clay. After a moment, he pocketed them. "What do you want?"

"I've already asked: who does this jacket belong to?"

"I have no idea."

"Can I guess?" Dawn said. "You and your dad had a falling-out. Was that because another son showed up on his doorstep?"

"I'm a little old to be jealous of my daddy's attention."

"I didn't say you were," Dawn said, "but you might be miffed with him for being careless and bringing another werewolf into the world, something I don't think you'd approve of."

"If my father did, I know nothing about it. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Clay moved aside to let him into the car. He waited until Joey's hand was on the door, then asked, his voice low again, "Did you call them this morning, Joey?"

"Call who?"

"The mutts," Savannah said as she got into Joey's face. He got a whiff of her scent and knew instantly she was a Slayer. "They paid a visit to our hotel after Aunt Dawn and mom talked to you."

Joey looked over Savannah's shoulder, meeting Clay's eyes. "I can't believe you'd ask me that."

"But you do have their number, right?" Buffy said. "It's part of your deal with them."

"Deal?" He turned to the sisters. "What deal?"

Clay told him what Dan Podrova said.

"Well, that mutt's a liar," Joey said. "Big shock there. That's another problem with torturing someone—eventually they hit the point where they'll say anything to make you stop. No, I don't have a deal with a pack of thugs and I didn't send them to your hotel room. Now take your wife, sister-in-law and niece, Clay, and go home."

"We'll leave as soon as we're done talking to you," Savannah growled.

"I mean, go home. Back to Stonehaven. There's nothing here you need to concern yourself with." Joey said eying Clay. "Take your pretty wife, sister-in-law and niece, go back to your Alpha dad, your kids and your other niece, whom I'm sure are just damned adorable. That's your life. This is mine. Now leave me alone."

They left him alone. For now. But they knew he was lying. Was he colluding with a gang of gun-runners, hoping to make Savannah, Buffy, Dawn and Clay leave before they poked their noses in too deep? Clay didn't think so, but he had to consider the possibility, and they had to keep doing what Joey didn't seem to want us to do—digging for the truth.

Lynn Nygard lived in a neighborhood in west Anchorage, one with winding lanes and thick trees, sparsely dotted with eclectic homes that ranged from cottages to sprawling McMansions. Hers was one of the smallest homes—a tiny A-frame chalet. Dawn had called her again after they'd confronted Joey, and she'd said to come right over. Clay drove them, but stayed in the truck.

Lynn ushered the Savannah and the sisters in as she tried to wrap up a phone conversation, mouthing an apology to them and rolling her eyes.

"I haven't forgotten. I'm getting old, not senile. Now I have a guest…" A pause. "Yes, dear, I'll make all the arrangements." She waved me into the living room. "But right now…"

The person on the other end kept talking. A male voice. Judging by her tone, they guessed a son.

"I really have to let you go, dear. There's a young woman here who wants to talk to me about the wolf kills." She widened her eyes. "Well, no, I didn't plan to mention my theory on the Ijiraat, but now that you mention it…"

A pause.

"No, that is an excellent idea. I'm so glad you brought it up." Her eyes sparkled with mischief as her son's protests grew louder.

"Yes, dear, I promise to behave myself. But if something goes wrong, you will come visit me at the psychiatric hospital, won't you? Loosen the bindings on my straitjacket? Wipe the drool off my chin?" She laughed at his reply, signed off, then turned to me.

"Do you two have kids, Ms. Danvers?" she asked looking first at Buffy and then Dawn. "Ms. Danvers?"

"We each have two," Buffy said.

Savannah stayed quiet, seeing how physically there was only about a ten-year age gap it was safer not to address that she was Buffy's daughter.

"Well, eventually you reach the point where they aren't sure whether they're the children or the parents. One minute my son needs Mommy to arrange his wife's surprise party, the next he's trying to make sure I don't embarrass myself in front of strangers." She set down the cordless phone. "Coffee? Green tea? Red wine?"

They noticed an almost full wine glass on the kitchen counter behind her and despite that the sisters rarely if ever drank alcohol. They decided to be the nice guests and said they'd have wine.

"So, you two work with Hope Adams?" she asked as she got down a couple of glasses.

"When she needs us. Otherwise, we freelance. Do you know Hope's work?" Dawn said.

"I'd be a poor paranormal fanatic if I didn't. With Weekly World News stopping tabloid production last year, True News—and Ms. Adams's column—is the only game in town for those of us who like the occasional vampire story with our daily doom and gloom. Not that Weekly World News was much competition. I stopped reading it back when they added a disclaimer that it was for entertainment only. Seemed like a license to give up even trying to uncover any truth." She handed the sisters each a glass of wine.

"Now, Ms. Adams?" Buffy said. "She's a professional. She doesn't take herself too seriously. After all—" She winked. "—we are talking about the paranormal, not world politics. But you get the feeling she really is looking for the truth. She strikes me as a young woman I could have a coffee with." She raised her glass to the sisters and smiled. "Or a glass of wine."

The phone rang again. "The machine can get it," she said.

"No, go ahead," Dawn said.

It stopped ringing.

"Good. Now you wanted to know—"

The phone started again. She sighed and said she'd be just a moment.

As the sisters sipped their wine, Savannah surveyed their surroundings. What she saw made her sputter, clapping her hands to her mouth in shock. "Mom…Aunt Dawn," she said as Dawn and Buffy turned to see what she was gazing at.

"Do you like wolves?"

Savannah, Buffy and Dawn jumped. Lynn stood in the doorway.

"I didn't mean to startle you three," she said. "I just asked if you liked wolves." She pointed to the painting that Savannah, Dawn and Buffy had been staring at.

The painting was of Buffy and Dawn, as wolves, with Savannah kneeling between them running her hands through their fur. Jeremy had painted it shortly after Savannah had been reunited with Buffy. Jeremy had made several prints to sell with the proceeds going into a trust for Savannah's college education. Savannah, Buffy and Dawn knew this had to be one of the prints. He had given the original painting to Buffy as a birthday gift. Buffy in turn had given it to Savannah and it now hung on the wall in her eldest daughter's room next to a portrait of Savannah standing next to a seated Buffy, in human form, with Anne in her lap.

"It's a print," she said, as she sat. "I'd love an original, but I could never afford one. I must confess, wolves fascinate me, as they do many people these days."

"We know," Dawn said with a glance at Buffy and Savannah.

"You do?" Lynn asked surprised.

"It surprises me that you didn't recognize me," Savannah said motioning toward the painting. "That's me. The original of that painting hangs over my bed. Next to a portrait of me, my mom and my baby sister."

"Your parents actually let you …" Lynn said astonished that Savannah's parents had let Savannah sit between two wolves like that. "If that had been me, I'd have backed away very slowly and got out of there as fast as I could."

"Don't worry. While I know wolves can never truly be tamed, those two are accustomed to me," Savannah said as she winked at her mother and aunt.

The phone rang.

Lynn sighed. "This time, I am letting the machine pick up." The answering machine clicked on, and they could hear that the caller was a young man who said he was in town on a logging contract and looking for a place to let. "I'm getting a lot of interest," she said when the message ended. "But not the sort I was hoping for."

"You're renting out a room?" Buffy asked.

"Or two. My husband died a couple of years ago and I'm ready for some company. I was thinking of a stripper." She laughed. "That didn't come out right, did it? I meant I was hoping to rent rooms to girls on the exotic dance circuit. We get a lot of them through here and their living accommodations are less than ideal. I thought I could offer something nicer, more secure. A safe place to stay is hard to come by in that field."

"We heard a few girls have gone missing lately," Dawn said. "They weren't strippers, though. At least, we didn't get that impression."

"No, they weren't. Not officially, that is. The first one was a part-time prostitute, though you won't see that in the articles. And rightly so, in my opinion. One whiff that those girls were less than saintly …"

"And they're dismissed as doped-up whores who took off with the first guy who promised them a new life in Seattle," Dawn said.

"Precisely. The second girl, now she was the type who should make headlines. Joy Sataa. An A student. Came from a fly-in community to attend college. But it's that 'fly-in community' part that moves her down the priority list."

"Native, as was the third girl, I think," Buffy said.

"Right again. Adine Aariak. Seventeen and living on the streets. Maybe turned a trick now and then, though no one on the police force recalls picking her up. Grew up with the three A's: alcohol, abuse and abandonment. She came to Anchorage hoping for a break, but we all know how that works out."

Dawn and Buffy sipped their wine, waiting for her to go on. When she didn't, Dawn prompted her with "And you think … I heard something about aliens."

She grinned. "Ah, yes, my alien abduction theory." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "It's bullshit."

Dawn and Buffy laughed.

"I don't believe in aliens. Well, no, I do, but not in alien abduction. Can you really imagine a recognizable alien race traveling thousands of light-years to impregnate humans? I just like to get folks going. They expect me to come up with outlandish theories, so I do, then have a good chuckle as they humor me and pretend to play along. A monster did get those girls—but one with a very human face. Again, an old story, too often told." She drained half her glass of wine. "Enough of that. You came to talk about other crimes. The ones in the woods."

"You don't think wolves are responsible," Buffy said.

"I will admit it is possible, but I very strongly doubt it. I've taken photos of the sites and the bodies, and while there is evidence of wolf activity, there's no proof that a wolf actually killed or even participated in eating the corpses. A wolf in winter won't kill something and leave it for scavengers. They can't afford to. My guess is that they visited the site, took a look, and left it alone. Wolves don't kill people. They just don't."

"Wolf attacks are rare," Buffy said. "Deaths are rare to the point of being unheard of."

She smiled. "Good, you two have done your research, which means I can skip the lecture and jump straight to the good stuff. Do you both know anything about Ijiraat?"

"That they're shape-shifters from Inuit mythology," Dawn said. "I have a Ph.D. in mythology." Lynn nodded and motioned for Dawn to go on.

Dawn looked to Buffy and explained to her sister and niece that Ijiraat were a lesser known type of shape-shifter, indigenous to the Arctic and the Inuit. They were believed to be spirits of the land who could take on the form of any creature native to that land, from raven to wolf, and even human. As with most such myths, the Ijiraat were commonly believed to be evil, hell-bent on deceiving and destroying humans. Another branch of the myth, though, claimed they weren't inherently evil—just wild creatures that would, if threatened, defend themselves. One common thread in the stories was that the Ijiraat could influence memory. If you saw one, you'd forget all about it if you didn't tell someone else right away, which coincidentally explains why they aren't seen more often.

"Now, as with most legends, there are regional variations. The Inuit say that the type living here can only shift between three forms—human, bear and wolf. There's a rich history of sightings dating back over a hundred years, from tourists to weekend warriors to folks who only leave the woods when they absolutely have to."

She reached onto the table behind her to grab a folder, then handed it to the sisters. They opened it to find a thick sheaf of typed pages.

"Those are all the accounts I've been able to find, both written and oral sources. I typed them all up into a database. You'll see notations on each account—a color and a number. The color indicates the reporting party's credibility. Green would be a group of trustworthy locals all reporting the same thing. Red would be a kid who admitted he was out in the woods drinking. Yellow is in the middle, and you have all kinds of variations in between. There's a legend on the first page. The numbers show how I rank how close the accounts are to the most common core story. Ten means its dead on the money. One means it's so far off I only included it to be thorough."

"You definitely are thorough," Dawn said.

She laughed. "I might be a nut, but I'm the best organized nut around."

"Would we be able to borrow…?" Buffy said.

"Oh, that's a copy for you to take."

As Dawn flipped through a few pages, she caught familiar phrases and felt a surreal sense of déjà vu. Or maybe not so much déjà vu as spooky coincidence. Dawn looked at Buffy and then back at Lynn. "Do you give out a lot of copies?" I asked.

"Not as often as I'm asked for them. I don't advertise my research—I bring my children enough grief as it is—but people find out about my interests, as you did. With most, I prefer not to encourage their fantasies. Give them these and they'd be scouring the countryside looking for proof and shooting anything that moves—and not with a camera."

"So, this is the only copy?" Buffy tried to say it casually, absently even, as she alongside Dawn scanned the pages.

"I did give them to someone else recently. A friend of mine." She blushed. "I suppose friend is being a bit hopeful. An acquaintance really. He's interested in the Ijiraat myth and he knows someone on the police force. My name, and my theory, came up when they were discussing the deaths and he got in touch with me."

"He's interested in the myth? An academic?" Dawn said.

"No, no. He's an electrician. This is just a hobby, but he's quite serious about it. Not obsessive, mind you. Just a scholarly interest in a nonprofessional way. Like mine. We hit it off quite well."

She sipped her wine. "Which reminds me that I haven't heard from him in a while, and I found a book he was asking about. I should call him. Perhaps invite him to dinner." She glanced at the sisters. "Does that seem too forward?"

"Do you know what got him interested?" Buffy asked. "People who suddenly take a serious interest in the paranormal … Well, in my experience, it screams 'encounter.'"

They could tell by her expression that she was uncomfortable with the question.

Buffy hurried on. "Sorry, I didn't mean for the article. Hope has a policy of never reporting anything that isn't a firsthand account. I was just being nosy. When you work with this stuff, you can't help … looking for proof, I guess."

"I can imagine. Well, Den—he seemed to have had a sighting, but he never told me about it. I've learned not to push. There are some who are eager to pour their tale in any sympathetic ear, and those who need to work it through themselves first. He did say he has a cabin in the region reputed to be Ijiraat territory. He asked about the Ijiraat's forms, specifically. Whether they shape-shifted into bears or wolves, or perhaps into something that simply resembled both, depending on the witness."

"Like two people seeing an animal in a city alley, one saying it was a cat and one a rat," Dawn said.

"Exactly. It's a fascinating idea that I hadn't considered. If a human is going to change into an animal, a full shift into a bear or a wolf seems rather unlikely. It would be more logical to change into something bear like or wolflike. A beast on two legs."

"Like those old Hollywood wolf men," Buffy said.

"Yes, exactly."

Clay was hungry. Savannah, Buffy and Dawn told him what they'd learned as they picked up burgers at a drive-thru.

"Maybe these creatures do exist," he said as he took the paper bag and drove away without waiting for his change. "But I don't see any evidence that they're shape-shifters. I finished going through those accounts while you two were inside and there's not one mention of the usual signs of a shape-shifting human—footsteps go into a thicket and paw prints come out, shoot an animal and see a wounded man later. Not a credible mention anyway. I'd say it's more likely to be single-form humanoids like Bigfoot."

"Good point," Buffy and Dawn said.

"Whatever Dennis saw could have been this Ijiraat, either a humanoid creature or a shape-shifter. And whatever attacked you last night was definitely no bear. The Inuit say these Ijiraat have been here for generations and people have been reporting sightings for a hundred years. But only now does it start killing people? When a pack of mutt thugs rolls into town?"

"Well, I think Lynn was missing that bit of info," Dawn said.

"Dennis must have seen something, and I agree there might actually be something out there. What I'm not buying is that the two—this creature and the killings—are connected. Except that if such a beast exists and this is its traditional territory, it's not going to be too happy about werewolves turning it into a killing ground."

"True," Buffy said. "That might also explain why it didn't like us being on its territory last night." She unwrapped her burger and glanced at him. "We need to go back."