I pulled Sarrat out of my sheath. Holland pulled a sword out of the scabbard on his hip. Dark, with a no-nonsense epoxy and leather grip, the blade ran about nineteen inches long and at least an inch and a half wide, with a profile that fell somewhere between a falchion and a Collins machete. Holland held it like he’d gotten it dirty before.

If we got Beau’s deputy injured, we could kiss the sheriff’s cooperation good-bye.

I moved toward the light, walking nice and slow, careful where I put my feet. The two shapeshifters glided on both sides of me. I could barely hear Holland behind me. It wasn’t his first time in the woods either.

The trees parted. A clearing spread before us, unnaturally circular, as if some giant had dropped a huge coin in the middle of the woods and forgotten about it for a decade or two. The grass covered the ground, but no trees had managed to encroach on the clearing. The growth around us was new too, the trees tall but thinner than those half a mile back by the river. Must’ve been a fire a few years back.

I walked to the edge of the clearing. An old woman stood in the light with her right side to me. She wore a pair of beige pants, a white collared blouse with matching beige polka dots, and a white knitted cardigan. It had to be ninety-five degrees, I was sweating like a pig, and here she was, wrapped in wool.

Holland shouldered his way to the front. “Mrs. Boudreaux? I’m Deputy Holland. I need you to come with me.”

No reaction.

“Mrs. Boudreaux!”

She didn’t even turn.

I walked toward her, sword in hand. Holland caught up to me, while Ascanio and Derek fanned out to the sides.

“Mrs. Boudreaux?” I asked.

She turned to me. The whites of her eyes had yellowed and the red veins stood out, fat with blood. She stared at me.

Holland smiled at her. “Mrs. Boudreaux, it’s me, Robby Holland. I’m Gladys Holland’s son. You used to knit together, remember?”

She peered at him, swiveling her neck at an angle, like a puzzled dog.

“We were all very worried when you walked off. You didn’t even say where you were going.” His voice was slightly chiding. “And it’s hot out here. Let’s get you off this mountain and into some nice cool shade. What do you say?”

Jene opened her mouth. “Little prick.”

Nice.

“There is no cause for strong language,” Holland said. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to insist you come with me.”

The old lady turned to me. “You’re her. You’re his bitch daughter.”

Thanks for the reputation bump, Dad. “Yes, I am.”

She stared at me, her gaze unsettling.

Try me and see how bitchy I can be.