Circle of the Moon (Soulwood #4 )- Faith Hunter Page 0,2

spending the night with Esther and Jedidiah.”

“Jedidiah Whisnut, right? She safe with him?”

Safe was important. The men of God’s Cloud of Glory Church, a polygamous cult from which I had escaped, weren’t known to protect women. My sister Mud was twelve. That was close enough to make her prey to some of them. “She’s good.”

“Better be. You two are making a run. Rick sent a text and needs … hell, I don’t know. Backup? Help in some nonlethal situation? Kent’s gathering Rick’s four-day bag, backup weapon, extra key fob, and extra cell. I’ll text you the coordinates.”

T. Laine was visible at the end of the hallway, loaded down with gear.

JoJo, scarlet skirts swaying, whirled and rushed back along the hallway, part of the full moon and leopard tattoo on her neck catching the overhead lights, her turban glistening. There were gold and silver threads woven through the fabric. JoJo did not dress by PsyLED dress codes, and so far no one had told her she had to comply.

“Rick’s in trouble?” Occam asked as we weaponed up.

JoJo shouted back, “He didn’t send a nine-nine-nine, so I’m assuming he’s ruined his clothes and gear. Went for a swim. Something. But he texted from an old, outdated cell number, and now I can’t get through to it. So wear your vests. Just in case.”

Code-999 was for officer down, urgent help needed. No 999 meant things weren’t dire. Request for his gobag and gear? Yeah, that sounded like he fell in the river.

“Specifics?” Occam asked, seeming irritated that he was having to ask for details.

JoJo read from her screen, shouting down the hallway. “‘Need pickup. Weapon. Gobag. Cell. Car fob. ASAP. Send Occam and Nell.’”

T. Laine said, “Rick’s bag, packed with backup weapon, extra official cell, charger, car fob, shoes, and a change of clothing, as ordered.” She tossed Rick’s gobag at Occam and he caught the bag with catty reflexes, though still not as fast as once before. “Move it, CC.”

CC stood for Crispy Critter, which was the term emergency crews and law enforcement used for burned bodies in a very hot fire. It was not a nice thing to say. It was also the exact thing Occam needed to hear—a reminder that his team knew he was disfigured, ugly, as far as social standards went, but still considered capable. Still part of the team. “Jo and I’ve got comms,” the resident witch added. “I was heading out, but I’ll stay over until we know what’s happened. I’ll update you on the way.”

Occam and I left the gear we didn’t need and headed back down the stairs to his sporty car, putting on comms systems as we went, our own one-day gobags over our shoulders. Occam used only one earbud, because the ear cartilage on the damaged side of his face hadn’t regrown. Yet.

“You copy?” Lainie asked over the earbuds.

“Receiving loud and clear,” Occam said as he started his car.

“Receiving,” I said. “I just plugged in the coordinates and Rick is on the bank of the Tennessee River in the middle of the night?”

“Nothing about the request or the destination makes sense,” T. Laine said. “And the request for backup came in over a nonsecured number, that old flip phone he keeps in a gobag in the glovebox of his car.”

“No other details?” Occam asked. “Grindys?”

“Not a one. No info on the grindys. I’m still trying to get back through. No luck.”

Grindylows were cute, neon green, kitten-sized were-creature killers. They appeared when a were-creature was in danger of transmitting the were-taint and killed the offending were-creature with extreme prejudice, no recourse, no appeal.

As the newest official special agent in PsyLED Unit Eighteen, and the one who had spent six months as part of a forest, on the injured and disabled list, I seldom was allowed to leave the office, my job these days being predominantly database searches and intel correlation. Excitement skittered along my nerve endings like ants in an electric current.

• • •

We made good time, most of the streets and pikes being fairly deserted at this hour, but finding a lone man outside of Knoxville proper, on the banks of a river that twisted and turned like the track of a snake, was difficult. Rick’s GPS coordinates were on a tongue of land between the confluence of the French Broad and the Holston rivers, where they merged to become the Tennessee River. We drove slowly along Riverside Drive, poorly lit, totally deserted, watching for Rick. Not knowing what we’d find. I