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  Cold Spell

  Book One of the

  Silver Bullet Chronicles

  By

  E.A. Copen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, persons, places, and incidents are all used fictitiously and are the imagination of the author. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, events or locales, is coincidental and non-intentional, unless otherwise specifically noted.

  No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  E.A. Copen

  COLD SPELL

  Book 1 of The Silver Bullet Chronicles

  © E.A. Copen 2018

  All rights reserved.

  Please contact the author via e-mail with typos: [email protected]

  No one is above the law. At least, that’s what federal agent Judah Black believes. Her job is to police supernaturals who have come out of hiding to live alongside humans. Read her story from the beginning. To find out how to get Fortunate Son, and another novella, for FREE, check out the link at the end of this book.

  Prologue

  The Season of Darkness

  O sha went with her father to watch the last witch in Utqiaġvik die. It was cold that morning. Not the kind of cold the Southerners knew, as her father would say. This was true cold, the icy breath of an angry god who would damn them all to Hell if they suffered a witch to live.

  She held her father’s hand through her mittens and wished he would put her on his shoulders so she could see over the crowd of tall men. They’d gathered in front of the church under the season of darkness when the sun did not shine for an entire month and then some. Torchlight lit their faces, the shadows dancing in a way that reminded Osha of the restless spirits of the ocean. The preacher’s angry voice boomed—the voice of God, her mother said—carrying over the ice and snow, though she didn’t understand his words. She didn’t speak the preacher’s rough tongue, nor did half the people in the village. But the elders said they should listen because the white man was the future. He would make their lives easier. So they listened.

  The woman in front of Osha shifted to the right and suddenly her view was unobstructed. She could see the witch standing before the preacher in the small clearing in front of the church. Her little heart seized at the sight of her big brother and she thought there must be some mistake. Big Brother was not a witch. He was a good man. He shared what food he had, spoke softly, and laughed loudly. Big Brother couldn’t be the evil that had made the white man so angry, angry enough to call on his god and his black book for protection.

  With all the shouting, she would have been frightened. She might even cry. But not Big Brother. He stood resolute, his face solemn. He’d left his hair down and unbraided, but combed his mustache. White flakes gathered in his dark eyebrows as he stood, his weight on one leg, a hunting spear in his hand.

  She pulled on her father’s sleeve. “Is Brother going to help them find the witch?”

  Father didn’t answer.

  The preacher finished his angry speech by pointing a finger at her brother. Wind whispered through the clearing, the only sound for a long moment. Brother’s eyes moved, stopping to meet hers, and Osha’s heart beat into her throat.

  “It is as you say,” he said in his people’s language. “If it will save Utqiaġvik, then I must go.” Big Brother walked from the clearing toward Osha. The crowd parted to let him through, everyone suddenly unwilling to be near him. “Do not cry for me, little sister,” he said, kneeling and placing his spear on the ground.

  Osha sniffled and blinked away the tears. Why her eyes watered, she didn’t know. “Brother, if you go away, who will tell me stories about monsters and heroes?”

  Brother cast a glance behind him at the preacher. A sad look. “This new world has no more room for heroes or monsters, I’m afraid. Remember what I’ve told you. Take care, dear sister.” He stood and met Father’s eyes, but said nothing to him.

  Then, with nothing but his spear and the caribou skins on his back, Brother walked out of town, disappearing behind a wall of angry white.

  Later, the preacher would make them swear never to speak Brother’s name again, but every full moon, Osha could hear the wind whisper it to her and she would smile.

  But Brother had been very wrong about the new world. There were still plenty of monsters left, and perhaps even a few heroes too.

  Chapter One

  D ominic Amaruq pulled the hood of his parka closer to his head and took in the salty scent of the Arctic Ocean. Once, he might have chanced a swim to the ice shelf offshore, but the ice had grown thin over the years, pushing the white line in the distance closer and closer to the horizon. Besides, he couldn’t call on his wolf kin now. If he had to kill one of his own, he’d rather do it as a man than wolf.

  “What are you going to do about David, Nic?” His second, Bryce, leaned forward to catch his eye. Broad-shouldered, sharp-chinned, and dark-skinned, Bryce was the biggest man in the pack. Most discounted Bryce’s abilities, thinking he was all brawn and no brain. If that were true, he’d have never made Nic’s second. Stupid werewolves did not live long, not this far north.

  “He hasn’t killed anyone,” Bryce said. “At least not yet. Wait much longer and that’ll change.”

  “David is a danger to everyone in town. This is bigger than the pack.” Nic took a step closer to stare into the water. Blackness stared back.

  “Killing him won’t stop it, you know.”

  Nic closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side, listening to the calm waves lap against the rocky shore. Bryce was right. David was the third werewolf in their pack affected by this strange madness. If it had just been Anabelle, he might have thought she’d gone. Anabelle wouldn’t be the first person to lose their mind thanks to the harsh Alaskan winters. He might have tolerated the madness before she attacked Paul. By doing so, she broke the cardinal rule of the pack: the strong protect the weak.

  Poor Paul. He’d found him with his chest ripped open, insides spilling onto the floor. Even with his injuries, his quick werewolf healing kept him alive for the better part of two hours after that.

  Nic shuddered, and not because of the cold. “I know.”

  Bryce crossed his arms. “Then what are you going to do?”

  Nic didn’t have an answer. Alpha werewolves were supposed to always have the answer. That was why they’d made him alpha. Everyone counted on him to make the right decision. Without more information, that was impossible.

  He backed away from the water’s edge. The wind bit at his exposed nose and cheeks until he lifted the fabric back over the lower half of his face. The perpetual pink of dawn lit up the landscape behind the town, the potential daylight a lie. They had just begun their annual thirty days of darkness, and it would be some time before he saw the sun again. The pre-dawn coloring only meant they’d passed midday.

  Snow crunched under his boots as he trudged up the gradual slope to where he’d left the ATV. ATVs made it easier to get around in Barrow. They were especially useful since no roads went in or out of town. The only access was by plane. With gas edging toward eleven dollars a gallon, ATVs were cheaper, too. This one was one of the largest models on the market, suitable for hauling around anywhere from four to six werewolves. He’d sprung for the cab model when the pack made the purchase, setting the whole pack back twenty-six grand, but it was worth it. The side-by-side proved more reliable than most cars in the cold.

  Nic climbed into the driver’s side and pushed the start button on the dash. The passenger door opened, and Bryce got in, pulling his hood back, revealing a head of long, black hair pulled into a loose ponytail. Normally, the weight of Bryce’s gaze would have bothered him,
but he was too focused on David to worry about it.

  They drove up past the Mormon church and took a left on the next road. The pack’s housing was a good quarter mile down the dirt road at the end of the street. Paint flaked off the side of the gray shutters against muted teal siding. Like every other house in Barrow, stilts kept the house up out of the permafrost, making the building seem taller than it was. An identical structure stood next door. Between the two of them, the pack had plenty of space.

  Nic parked the ATV in the driveway and left the keys in the ignition. No one would steal it, not knowing it belonged to the pack. Those who didn’t outright fear the werewolves respected them, especially since Nic required each member of his pack to do ten hours of community service every month.

  As soon as he got out of the vehicle, he cringed at the shrill laughter coming from the upper floor. Under normal circumstances, laughter wouldn’t have bothered him. Laughter cleansed the soul, as his mother used to say. But this laughter was dark, malicious. Evil. The pack had listened to it non-stop for two days except for when they bribed the doctor into giving David a hefty dose of Ketamine. It’d knocked him out for a half hour each time, but even that had lost its effectiveness.

  Nic sucked in a deep, cold breath and trekked through the snow to the front door. It opened before he got there and Mandy Harrick, the youngest member of their pack, stood there with her eyes downcast, a dark shadow on her face. If she’d been in her wolf form, she would have her head low and tail tucked. “I’m glad you’re back, Alpha,” she said. “David’s getting worse.”

  He forced a smile, hoping that would put her at ease, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “How many times have I told you to just call me Nic, Mandy?”

  A new fit of shrill, male laughter cut through the air, making her jump.

  Nic removed his hand. “I’ll deal with him.”

  He stepped into the house on the nice, hardwood floors without stopping to take off his boots and started up the stairs. They creaked under his weight even though he was a small man. At least, smaller than Bryce. As he climbed, the cackling got louder and less restrained.

  At the top of the stairs, he turned left and let his hand trail on the banister until he stood in front of the other closed door where he removed his gloves and placed them in his pocket. David’s mad laughter drifted through it as if the door weren’t even there. The giggling stopped for a moment and David drew in a deep breath before he started cackling again. Mandy was right. He’d gotten worse.

  Nic grasped the doorknob and held it until it was no longer cool against his palm before he turned it and opened the door.

  The room was small, but cozy. A round, woven rug broke up the wood flooring between the door and the queen-sized bed. A small writing desk usually sat next to the bed, but they’d cleared anything that might be used as a weapon. They’d also stripped the bed. Once this was over, they’d have to burn it. David, in his madness had urinated and defecated all over it. The room stank of waste and sweat.

  David lay restrained on the bed. The heavy, silver chains holding him crisscrossed over his bare chest, where the skin blistered at their touch. His struggling forced the blisters to burst. From the look of it, some of them had gotten infected, but Nic saw no point in treating the wounds. David would just shred the bandages, despite being restrained. They’d tied his arms and legs to the wall and floor using rawhide strips. All his struggling had frayed the strip on his left leg. They’d have to replace it soon or he’d get loose again.

  David’s mate, Tara, sat cross-legged on the floor next to the bed, her hand resting gently on David’s arm. She was human, David’s Tara, but no less a member of their pack in her own way. The strong protected the weak, and David had protected Tara with a ferocity that even Nic found impressive. Her eyelids sagged, dark and bruised. Sand brown hair coiled over her shoulders in matted knots. She wiped a hand over red, splotchy cheeks.

  David wiggled and writhed like a man possessed, trying desperately to pull his limbs in against his body. Tears streamed from his eyes as he laughed, his cheeks speckled with the red and pink of broken blood vessels.

  Tara swallowed and spoke with a raw, croaking voice. “Nic, please help him.”

  Nic’s throat constricted. There was nothing he could do. They’d already tried everything. The doctors didn’t know what was wrong with him. Shifting had only made it harder for the pack to contain David. Only the Ketamine helped, and the doctor had said another dose might be fatal.

  “Make it… Make it stop! God, please!” David gasped between fits of laughter.

  Nic stepped into the room and the door creaked shut behind him. His feet were leaden as he crossed the short distance to the bed where David lay. He stood above the once-proud man and marveled at what he’d become. A week ago, David had been the third ranking werewolf in his pack. In just a few short days, he’d wasted away. Sores and blisters covered his body. His face had grown thin and ashen from not eating. Dark, purple-gray circles surrounded his once strong eyes, which had now sunken into his skull. The warm, white smile that had once lit up a room with vulgar jokes had turned broken and jagged.

  David squeezed his eyes shut as Nic touched his forehead. He burned with fever.

  Tara’s hand closed on Nic’s arm. “There has to be something you can do.”

  “There’s nothing left to do but kill him, Tara.” His heart sank. Executing Anabelle had nearly broken him. He didn’t sign on as an alpha to kill his pack. He was supposed to protect them.

  David exploded with new, darker laughter. More tears flowed form the corners of his eyes.

  Tara rose on shaky legs and grasped Nic’s coat. “Nic, you can’t kill him. He hasn’t done anything wrong! It’s not his fault!” Her grip tightened. “He needs help!”

  Nic swore and struck the wall with a fist, hard enough it left a crack in the wall. Tara jumped. Dammit, no matter what he did, it made no difference. Whatever the source of this strange sickness was, it wouldn’t stop. Not until every werewolf in his pack was dead.

  Not if I can help it. Nic snarled and dug his cell phone out of his parka’s pocket. He scrolled through the contacts, looking for one he rarely ever had to use. When he found it, he hesitated. Once he did, his pack would never be the same.

  At least I’ll still have a pack. Nic pressed the button to call.

  A male voice answered, this one calm and cool, but with a hint of irritation in his voice. “Yes?”

  “This is Dominic Amaruq of the North Slope Borough pack.” He hesitated, deciding how to proceed.

  “What can I do for you, Dominic?”

  Nic pulled in a breath and stopped to convince himself that asking for help did not make him weak. If he didn’t bring someone else in, someone who might know how to help, then David would die. The whole pack was at risk. Nic imagined breaking David’s neck as he’d done to Anabelle and felt sick. Asking for help, even if it made him weak, was better than having to kill another one of his pack, wasn’t it?

  He blew out the breath. “I need help.”

  Chapter Two

  J ackie Wheeler stared at the tank full of dead fish. She’d forgotten to feed them again.

  She hadn’t been too busy to feed a couple of goldfish; her schedule had been light as of late. It was just before tax season, meaning she was living in the calm before the storm, every CPA’s dream.

  Maybe I should get a cat. They don’t seem too high maintenance. She lifted her coffee mug and sipped at the over-sweetened cappuccino she’d made. Better not. Cats don’t like werewolves. Besides, if I forget to feed the cat, he’ll do more than float belly-up in a tank.

  She sighed and gulped down more cappuccino. Maybe she was cursed. No luck with pets, men, or sentient beings in general. At least when it came to numbers, she knew what she was doing. Numbers were rigid, unchanging things. She didn’t have to guess at their intentions or doubt their motives. Numbers couldn’t lie, needed no interpretation, didn’t grow hungry, or need anything from her. T
hey simply were.

  The shrill ring of her landline phone cut through the peaceful morning, and she sighed. Jackie kept telling herself she should just unplug it or stop paying the bill and let it get shut off, but then she might miss something important.

  On the sixth ring, the answering machine kicked on, but no one left a message. Then, five seconds later, her cell phone rang. She watched it dance on the granite of the breakfast bar in the corner of her vision, seriously considering not answering. If she hadn’t known exactly who it was, she wouldn’t have, but only one person ever called like that at this hour. She didn’t want him at her doorstep.

  Jackie put the coffee cup down, grabbed the phone, slid her finger over the screen to answer it and growled into the receiver, “What, Dad?”

  “Get your bag, Jacqueline,” said her father on the other end. “We’re going to Alaska.” Then he hung up.

  Jackie glared at the screen of her phone as it blinked the short call timer and she considered crushing it to a pulp. It wouldn’t be the first phone to go that way. It would be an unnecessary waste of time and hassle to replace it, so she didn’t. Instead, she relaxed on her sofa and sipped at her coffee, wondering what her father wanted from her.

  In Jackie’s experience, her father wouldn’t have bothered her over a father-daughter trip. This had to be work-related. She and her father, Bo, were both employed in the same line of work which involved cleaning up other people’s messes. Usually, Bo handled the messy business and made troublemakers disappear in whatever way best helped the higher ups sleep at night.

  Jackie gathered and analyzed information. Unlike her father, Jackie found it easier to deal with the clear-cut parameters of machines, numbers, and cold, hard facts. They almost never worked together. The place their boss was sending them must’ve been too far-flung for Jackie to do her work remotely.