he still looked hungry, I opened a turkey sandwich and placed it in front of him. He ate that too. When it was gone, he drained the water and went to the sink, washed his hands and dried them, turned, and leaned his backside against the counter, facing us. He began to braid his hair into a single plait. The movements were economical and smooth and much less shaky.
“You’re not moon-called. So you pay for all of your shape-shifting energy use with calories, don’t you,” I said.
As his fingers flew among the three strands, FireWind lifted his eyes to me, sharing the minuscule smile that had to be a tribal thing. “Yes. Were-creatures take some energy from the moon when they shift. Skinwalkers must eat or we die.”
I hadn’t realized that, but it made sense now that I saw it in person. “That’s why you liked my bars. What do you need most? Fats? Protein? Jerky?”
“Commercial jerky has too little oils and fats”—his smile widened—“and it stinks when I have an animal nose. But it’s convenient and has a long shelf life. When I’m human, the commercial bars and jerky are too sweet or too dry or they taste like clay.” He bent his head, like a small bow. “I am hopeful you will create the perfect protein bar for the weres and that you will share some with me. If I hunt a bear this fall in my cat form, I’ll bring the bear fat to you to add to your homemade protein bars. And I can hunt deer for jerky.”
I didn’t know what I’d do with bear fat, which I thought had to be rendered to be used in food, but his statements felt formal, like a pact. Carefully, I said, “Whatever I make for the weres you are welcome to share. For now, I have some more energy bars in my vehicle. Homemade fish-flake and nut, a dried milk and peanut butter bar, and some commercial salmon jerky.”
“That would be kind,” FireWind said.
I wondered for a moment why I normally disliked him.
He stood straight and said to all of us—T. Laine, Occam, and me—“There is a body at the barn. It will need the null room, and it’s likely too late to obtain any clues beyond a scent I recognized from the pasture where Nell sent me.”
I had done no such thing, but I didn’t contradict him.
“I think it’s possible that I have the scent of the magic user—not a witch in the traditional sense,” he said to T. Laine, “—who cursed the T-shirts. And . . .” He paused, thinking, finishing up his hair and hunting in a pocket for a tie. “It isn’t truly the human scent of the practitioner, but the scent of foul magic. Yes, that is what I was smelling,” he mused. “I will shift again as soon as I’ve recovered and search the house for more of the scent, hoping to identify the practitioner.”
“The death magic is still active, stronger in the basement than it was before,” I said.
“That’s not possible,” T. Laine said. “The North Nashville coven put a shield around and under the energies. They’re stable.”
“Not now,” FireWind said. “I believe the murderer returned. Perhaps the practitioner got back inside with some sort of focal attuned to the original energies. Nell thought she saw someone in the field. I believe I have the scent. The body in the barn has only been dead a few hours. The horse in the pasture has been dead several hours longer.”
“Can you tell if the practitioner is female?”
“I believe so, though the scent of the energies makes it difficult to be certain. Do we have a list of everyone who was allowed onto the property today?”
T. Laine frowned, thinking. “Yes. Kept by the deputies,” she said, sounding distracted. “I’ve been here all day. If someone got in, right under all our noses, then she’s very, very good.”
“That specific magical scent is all over the pasture where the stallion died and around the barn and the house. If it is also inside the house, then, yes, you are correct. We are dealing with someone quite controlled and powerful.” His lips turned down in an expression I had seen on Jane’s face. “Perhaps she is controlled enough to pull an obfuscation glamour? Or to carry an amulet that provides one? I believe that I can recognize the scent of the practitioner even in my human form now. It was potent, smelling like a whiff of