I stopped at the next gas station, tossed out the chicken bones, and programmed my father’s truck navigation system to take me to Fargo. Ridding myself of my scars would be my first step. Then I’d cut a deal with my virus, and we’d hunt for a man capable of handling my entire family. She wanted a cat. I’d accept a human—or even a damned wolf as long as he treated me right.
If my virus had an opinion on my thoughts, she kept quiet for a change.
Fargo, North Dakota made an excellent place for me to start my dirty work. Most folks minded their own business, I’d been through often enough to not draw attention at my preferred coffee shops, and I didn’t feel like I needed to sell my soul to the devil to buy a drink. Armed with an extra sweet coffee, I dug out my old laptop, booted it up, and began the tedious process of tunneling into a chain of compromised servers until there was no realistic way the government would be able to trace me to my actual location. It cost more time than I liked, as my preferred server in Germany liked to give me problems on a good day, but it served as an excellent speed bump for anyone trying to identify my location. After an hour and a second beverage, I hit up the CDC’s bounty site, logged in with my legitimate credentials, and checked the list of available jobs.
A red banner at the top of the screen informed me that my presence was required at a CDC center, with a preference for the one in Fargo, which was where I typically showed up when someone wanted to get a hold of me.
As the flag didn’t bar me from picking up new jobs, I searched through the available contracts for a naughty lycanthrope in need of a whooping and some community service time. A kill bounty would put more money in my pocket, but with the one big job ready to put me in the running for starting the scar-removal process, I refused to ruin it all taking too many chances.
My entire family wanted me to accept my scarred face, but I’d accepted long ago I hated everything my scars represented and wanted them gone. In part, I blamed my momma, as she’d raised me to be stubborn. My daddy took the rest of the blame, because I wanted a man to look at me the way my parents looked at each other.
That initial flinch, which happened so damned often, even among my family when I showed up without makeup or warning, ruined the whole thing for me.
The only damned man who hadn’t flinched over my scars was the lion I loved to torment into roaring at me. Without fail, his roars brightened my day, pleased my virus, and could get me through just about any shitshow intact.
Flinching followed with guilty adoration didn’t fly with me and never would. I would find a permanent solution to my problems through my hard work, and I’d take pride in accomplishing my goal. That my hard work involved hunting those who’d crossed the line with the law didn’t bother me but would bother my entire family. When Uncle Henry did things like play the bounty hunter system and make good money, they loved it.
The thought of me even breaking a nail induced panic attacks, and some days, it amazed me they only bothered me three times a week making sure I hadn’t done something they’d regret.
My cell rang, and the display showed a private number. Scowling, I weighed the odds between a government contractor or a telemarketer. Had I not just logged into the bounty system, I would’ve assumed telemarketer. Dodging a government call might land me in hot water, so I answered, “Wells.”
“Where are you?” the growly voice of my favorite lion demanded.
Some days, it rained. Today, the sun shined, I had coffee, and I got to annoy the damned lion I loved pestering into roaring for me. Better, yet, I could walk up to him with my scars showing without him grimacing. “Somewhere neither here nor there. Finally getting around to confessing how much you miss me, Sumners?”
“I need to speak with you in person, you murderous little fur-freak.”
Oh, oh, oh. When the lion got feisty, I got my roars early in the conversation. Unable to help myself, I purred. “Did the little lion get the tuft of his