He glared, his eyes narrowing, suspicious. "Help this . Help me be normal again."
"Ah. I'd heard the same thing."
"Then you know why I'm here."
"I've also heard that he's a fraud. That his church is really a cult. That he brainwashes people so they'll stay with him. Nobody knows what goes on in there."
"Yeah, I'd heard that, too." He hugged himself like he'd suddenly become cold.
"And you're still willing to go there?"
"What choice do I have?"
"Is it really so bad? So bad that you'd give up your freedom, your identity? Assuming the rumors are true."
"I haven't been able to hold a job for more than two weeks since it happened. I keep losing my temper. I can't—I'm not very good at controlling it."
"I'm sorry. You don't have a pack, do you?" He shook his head. He hadn't had anyone teach him how to control it.
He looked over my shoulder suddenly. Jeffrey and Roger had come up behind me. The young man took a couple steps back, then turned and ran, through the gate and toward the caravan.
"Wait!" When he didn't stop, I wasn't surprised. "Damn."
"That kid's scared to death," Jeffrey said.
"But not of me."
"Yeah, a little. Also of his own shadow, I think. It's funny to think of a werewolf being scared of anything."
"Oh, you'd be surprised. A lot of us spend most of our time being afraid."
"Let's go," Stockton said, gesturing toward the trees at the edges of the field, around to the side of the caravan, closer to it but still in shadow. "Before his flunkies figure out we're not here for the show."
I tipped my face up, turning my nose to the air, half closing my eyes to keep out distractions. Then I shook my head. "Let's go to the other side. It's downwind."
We walked along the road to a place where we were mostly out of sight of the main entrance to the caravan, then climbed over the fence. Quickly we made our way to the trees, following them along the edge of the pasture down a gentle slope, toward the caravan. As we approached, the floodlights grew brighter, and the area around the encampment grew darker. For all it appeared like a carnival lot, the place was quiet. No talking, no voices, no sounds of life, like pots and pans clanking together while dinner was being prepared. By all accounts, dozens of people were living there, but I couldn't make out any obvious signs of life.
Except for the smell: I sensed a kind of ripe, college dorm-room smell, of too many people living in close proximity, and not enough housekeepers. I wrinkled my nose.
"There." Stockton pointed to a gap in the trailers. Temporary wire fencing still enclosed the area, but here was a place where we might catch a glimpse of something interesting. A spot where a corner of the main tent was staked to the ground was visible.
When a pair of burly-looking men—Smith's bodyguards from earlier today—walked past, we kept very still. They were patrolling, and they didn't stop.
His back against a tree, Stockton settled down to wait, focusing his camera on the gap looking into the caravan. Jeffrey took the next tree over as his prop. I stayed by Stockton, watching what he watched.
The ground was damp, and I was getting damp sitting on it. The air was cold, getting colder. My breath fogged.
Jeffrey hugged his jacket tighter around him. I wondered how long we could possibly sit here. Something had to happen soon. The pilgrims, including that young guy, had gathered at Smith's gate. He wouldn't leave them waiting.
I moved next to Jeffrey and whispered, "Can you contact vampires who have, you know, moved on?" I was thinking of Estelle. I was thinking she might be here and could tell us something.
"I never have. That is—none of them have ever tried to contact me. I hate to ask it, but do they even have souls?"
This came up on the show all the time, and my gut reaction said yes. How could someone like Alette not have a soul? But what was a soul, really? I didn't know.
I didn't answer, and he shook his head. "I'm not sensing anything like that. This whole space feels numb. Asleep, almost."
Stockton sat forward suddenly and raised his camera. "Here he comes. There."
Jeffrey and I crept over to join him. Squinting, I looked through the gap.
Smith walked past it. I only saw him for a second. But Stockton muttered, with some satisfaction, "Ha, I got you. If only I could get that on film, damn you."
I hadn't seen him do anything. He looked just like he had at the hearing, conservatively dressed, his manner calm. He moved across my field of vision, that was all.
Stockton was insane, suffering from some kind of delusion. And I'd fallen for it.
Before I had a chance to call him on it, he pulled something over his head: a locket on a chain that he'd kept hidden under his shirt.
Handing it to me, he said, "Put that on. The next time he walks by, tell me what you see."
It seemed like a simple piece of jewelry, not particularly impressive. The metal wasn't silver. Pewter, maybe. It felt heavy. The locket was a square, an inch or so on both sides, and cast with patterns of Celtic knotwork, worn with age.
I fingered the latch. "What is it?"
"Don't open it," he said. "It's got a little bit of this and that in it. Four-leaf clover, a bit of rowan. Cold iron."
Some kind of folk magic, then. Now, was it the kind of folk magic that worked, or the kind that was little more than a placebo against the nameless fears of the dark?
I put the chain over my head.
I had to give Stockton credit for being more patient than I was. He was used to waiting for his stories, and he was good at it. We had no guarantee that Smith would pass within our view again. But he did.
And he glowed . His skin wasn't skin anymore. It looked almost white, shimmering like mother-of-pearl. At first I thought he'd gone bald as well, but his hair had turned pale, almost translucent. He looked completely different, but I knew it was him, because he wore the same clothes, and had that same meticulous bearing. For just a moment I saw his eyes, and they were far too large, and dark as night, dark enough to fall into and never climb out again.
I almost shrieked, but Stockton grabbed my arm and pinched me to keep me quiet. Then, Smith was out of sight again. My eyes remained frozen wide open.
"Holy shit, he's an alien!" I hissed.
"Um, no." Stockton donned a not very convincing Irish brogue. "In the Old Country they called them the Fair Folk, the Gentry, the Good People, the Hill Folk—"
"He's a fairy ?" I couldn't decide which was more completely outrageous.
"Don't say that word, he'll hear you. Give that back." He held his hand out for the pendant. Reluctantly, I returned it. "Nobody was ever able to get close enough to confirm any suspicions until he came to testify. I'm lucky I was in the right place at the right time to see him."
I had to work to keep my voice a whisper. "You can't be serious. That's—it's all stories, folklore—"