Witch Wolf (Camren) Book 1

Chapter 7

  It was midnight and I hadn't dug up any dirt on Dinah Jane Hansen. She had a clean slate. At least, that's how it appeared. I'm just not one to be fooled by appearances. I'm suspicious by nature.

 I closed the laptop and put the leftover pizza in the fridge. I walked into the bathroom, flicking the switch on the wall. I washed off my makeup and started running a hot bath. My blouse fell to the floor as I looked in the mirror at the tattoo on my back.

 "Should've gotten a wolf," I mumbled. I got the tattoo about four years ago. It was before I'd been infected. The tattoo was of a raven with its wings spread wide. The feathers swooped out, tracing the line of my rib cage. The inside of its body and wings were woven with Celtic knot work. In the middle of the raven was a red Triskelion—the symbol of life, death, and rebirth. The raven's beak ended between my shoulder blades, and the tail feathers followed the lower line of my spine. Even if it wasn't a wolf, it was still something I was proud of and didn't regret. 

Becoming a werewolf hadn't changed the fact that the raven was my spirit animal. It was also the animal representation of the Goddess I dedicated myself to nine years ago. If anything, I was sure the raven understood the passage of transformation better than I did. 

I stripped off the rest of my clothes and slid into the water, breathing a sigh of relief as the heat enveloped my body. I craved heat. It comforted me. It usually made me feel safe, but it suddenly felt like a false sense of security. I felt it in every fiber of my being as surely as I could feel the water holding me close. It was a growing sense of unease, a sense that something profound was about to happen. I sensed change before me and shuddered.

 I sank down deeper into the tub. I didn't want to face another trial, another opportunity for growth. Surely the Goddess understood that? Wasn't becoming a werewolf life altering enough? "No," a small voice whispered inside my mind. There wasn't any emotion to it. The voice was neither cold nor warm. It just was.

 I shuddered, wondering what the Goddess had in store. The Morrigan is what a lot of witches would call my matron deity. A matron or patron deity is pretty much a feminine or masculine deity that a witch dedicates herself to. The spiritual connection is very personal. A lot of the time the witch is called to that deity through dreams or synchronicities. There are some witches who choose as their matron or patron the one they relate to most strongly. For example, a poet might be drawn to the Goddess Brighid due to her association with creativity and bards.

The Morrigan is a triple Goddess of Battle who had called to me nine years ago. I felt the breeze of beating wings against my face for an instant and quivered, as if the hand of her power caressed my aura. Weight like some great stone fell to the pit of my stomach. Feeling deity in your personal space can be uncomfortable at best, and terrifying at worst. I sank low into the water and closed my eyes, hoping that tomorrow would bring more clarity and less foreboding. 

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  My search for Seth Hansen was proving to be as unsuccessful as my mission to find anything about Dinah Jane Hansen. I'd called Paula Meeks earlier in the afternoon and spoken with her. I'd tried to schedule a meeting and failed.

 Why? Paula Meeks worked full-time as a telemarketer. She informed me that she was working overtime and was on call for the next couple of days. She gave me the name of her employer, a well-known telemarketer in the city. I'd called to confirm her lack of availability, just to be on the safe side. There'd been worry in her tone and I could tell over the phone that she regretted not being able to drop everything. 

Which is how I knew she'd schedule something as soon as she was available. I didn't like it because it meant that I'd have to drop whatever I was doing to make it for an impromptu meeting, but I couldn't exactly throw a bitchfest over it, either. 

Dinah had told me before she left the café that both of their parents had passed away some years ago. I'd also checked into that, not wanting to take her word for it. Who knew if she was lying about that too? The birth and death records stated clearly that she hadn't lied. I was meeting Shawn at Guns Unlimited in twenty minutes. I'd taken the time to shower and dabbed essential oil on my pulse points to cover my scent as best as I could. I was hoping that patchouli was woodsy and werewolf enough to go undetected in a forest.

 It wasn't guaranteed to work, but it was worth the try. I'd chosen a pair of charcoal gray jeans. They were tight enough to fit into my knee-high combat boots. I slipped the black knife into the top of the boot, tying the lace and making sure the knife stayed in place. I strode across the bedroom, falling into a crouch and drawing the blade in a fluid motion. I flicked my wrist and the blade opened. It was only four inches long, but it'd do the trick as a last resort.

 It had been a present from Shawn. The blade had been coated in silver. I closed the knife and slid it back into my boot. The black thermal was snug, but it was comfortable and easy to move in. 

I pulled the sleeves up and slid the other two knives into the wrist sheaths I wore. They were also high content silver, but fortunately none of the silver was touching my skin and each blade I had was made with a grip. I called it my safety grip. It wasn't losing the knives that I had to worry about it. I learned the hard way that silver and lycanthropy is a big no-no. I've got the pentacle-shaped scar on my sternum to prove it. Thank Gods, it hadn't burst into flames like the crucifixes in old vampire movies.

 After three days of itching and bitching, symptoms like an allergic reaction, I realized the pentacle was trying to melt into my flesh. Luckily enough, once removed it had only branded the skin. Well, guess I didn't need to wear the necklace anymore. I don't think it would have killed me if I'd left it on. 

A wound inflicted with silver forces our bodies to heal nearly as slowly as a human's would. A mortal wound inflicted upon a human is a mortal wound inflicted upon a lycanthrope when it's done with silver. The scar was once red and angry, but now it was a white, faded memory.

 I'd proven the stories right that silver to a vital organ takes a lycanthrope down. I was pretty sure my healing abilities wouldn't cover my arse if that ever happened. It did make me wonder just how far those healing abilities went, but I'm not willing to test any theories. 

Maybe I could find a volunteer?