Chapter 1: A Deadly Discovery

The blinding light from the dawn’s early rays spilled into the night sky, glowing with an array beautiful colors that could put the Aurora Borealis to shame. Chirps from the early birds’ song filled the morning air with a soothing melody.

            Inside a small house with a beautiful garden slept peacefully a female dusky brown humanoid wolf, enjoying the warmth of the sun’s early morning rays that seeped in through the light blue curtains that hung on either side of the windows just above the head of the bed.

            BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP! The sound of the alarm clock shattered the peacefulness of the morning. The female wolf groaned and slammed her paw on the alarm clock, trying to find the off button.

            Stupid alarm.

            The beeping stopped and the female peered at the alarm clock and looked at the time: 6:45.

            Well, at least it’s after dawn. She thought, hopping out of bed to prepare for the day.

            She walked over to her cedar dresser and looked in the mirror. Her ebony hair was tangled and matted like a black jungle.

            She sighed and opened one of the drawers and took out an ocean blue paddle brush and started taming her matted, long black hair.

            Finally, after about ten minutes of yanking and pulling at her deranged long, ebony hair, her golden blonde streak was finally visible, it shot through her hair like a gold river coursing through a black forest. She reached into one of her drawers and pulled out a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. She slipped them on and padded into the kitchen.

            The walls were a rich cream color and the granite countertops were clean and littered with papers, notes, and sketches. The dusty red couch sat behind a red pine coffee table with a glass top and just beyond it was a Panasonic 51’’1998 TV.

            The female wolf trotted behind the counter and opened one of the cabinets, then took out a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and poured it into a brown glass bowl she had taken out. She put the box back into the cabinet and opened the fridge, taking out a plastic bag filled with blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, cantaloupe, watermelon, and grapes, and took out a plastic container of strawberry and banilla yogurt and scooped some into a small glass bowl with a spoon. She took the bag of berries and poured some into the yogurt. She put the yogurt and berries back into the fridge and leaned against the counter with a spoon in her hand. She reached for the remote in front of her and pushed the power button. The wide screen TV came to life and the news came on. The female wolf put the remote back down on the countertop and took a bite of her yogurt.

            “�"Late last night, young Tony Bachwood from Calidge disappeared. His friends claim he went to explore the famed abandoned Black Hills Church. Officials are investigating the area now,”

            The wolf groaned. “Not again,” she moaned. This was the third disappearance in three years. And they all had entered the Black Hills Church. In Calidge, rumors of a mysterious monster cascade throughout the tense air, most claiming it is a werehog that has been causing the disappearances. But then again, Calidge is a hot spot for werehog hating, and everyone knows it. But she supposed it made sense, a werehog kidnapping three children as a way to punish the human race for his imprisonment and mistreatment during the Carnage (also known as the Wereian Holocaust). It was the perfect revenge.

The phone rang. The she-wolf blinked; she had been lost in thought again. She often was when thinking about creative or interesting and mysterious subjects, usually narrating them as if they were a story, describing them and telling like one would when writing a chapter book. She loved chapter books, so full of descriptions and colorful words and amazing and engrossing mysteries, adventures, horror, comedy, sadness and heartbreak, and vibrant imagination, all flowing together in an aurora of perfect synchronization. In fact, she did a little writing and painting and clay molding on the side aside from being a government field agent for the FBI. But she never wrote children’s’ books. She scarcely glanced at them. The last time she had even read a children’s’ book was when she was four. She had started reading chapter books at around the age of five. She hated children’s’ books. She shuddered at the thought. Almost all children’s’ books had a too-good-to-be-true happy ending that made her sick. She was almost a little jealous of children’s’ book characters because in the end, everything turned out just fine, good even. She preferred books that had a half good half bad ending, because they were more accurate to real life; the ending is both happy and sorrowful, not a full out happy ending. Happy endings were impossible. The closest you could get to a happy ending was living a long, ordinary life where there were no tragedies, few fights, no deaths, your mate still loves you and hasn’t tried to get a divorce, and your kids have grown up and have wonderful and completely innocent grandchildren and you died in your sleep at a very old age. Good lives were achievable, happy endings were not. Happy endings were a myth. She knew that better than anyone.

The phone rang again. She blinked again and smiled. Leave it to me to move from an unsolved missing children mystery to my love of chapter books to stirring up old memories. Speaking of which, I wonder where I put my old photo album . . .?

The phone rang again. She smiled and shook her head, as if trying to shake off the thoughts that distracted her from the real world. She grabbed the phone and held it up to her ear just as it was about to ring again.

“Hello, this is Feather Wolfheart speaking,”

“Feather! Morning sleepy head, did I wake you up?”

It was Chicka. Feather smiled. “Nah, I set my alarm, I had a feeling you’d call me in today,”

“Awesome! By the by, commander needs you down at the Black Hills Church as soon as possible,”

“Wants me to help investigate the disappearances, eh?”

“Yeah, you were always so good at solving mysteries, I mean; you’ve read enough mysteries that you’ve gotten pretty good at solving them yourself,”

Feather blushed lightly. “Thanks, Chicka. I’ll be down there in about fifteen minutes, are you already down there?”

“Yeah, I got called down about an hour ago,”

“An hour ago! You must be tired,” commented Feather, to her, waking up before dawn was near insanity.

“I am,” said Chicka, stifling a yawn. “The commander let you sleep a little later ‘cause he knew you wouldn’t be a whole lot of good to us if you were super tired,”

“Oh, well that was thoughtful of him. I’ll be down in about fifteen, see ya there! Bye,”

“Bye Feather, see ya in fifteen!” Said Chicka cheerfully, and then hung up.

Feather quickly scoffed down the rest her fruit and yogurt and pushed the cereal to the side for later, probably for either the next morning or as a snack for later when she sat down to watch a movie or something.

Feather strided into her cream colored room and grabbed her leather jacket and black leather belt with the pockets hanging over the side from off the coated rack and reached for her dresser to open the drawer that contained her fingerless leather gloves. She slipped on her gloves and jacket and buckled her belt; it hung at an odd angle, falling down her hip at the right, but Feather liked it, it gave her a gangster sort of look that fit her too-tough attitude and gave her a little twist of individuality. She loved individuality; it marked a person as different and refusal to blend in with crowd. Well, Feather didn’t have to wear unique clothes to be marked as different and deviant. Feather turned from adjusting her gloves and stared around the creamy room. It was plain; with mahogany walls and a queen sized bed with white sheets. It was Storm’s idea, she always liked plain and simple things, unlike Feather who would have gladly have painted the walls a French or sapphire blue and added a cobalt blue and a tiger pattered blanket to the bed and given it black sheets, and drape the pillows in soft lynx and elk pelts, maybe throwing a few on the floor as rugs and hanging a few on the wall along with some of her paintings. But Storm said no, but she did let Feather choose the light blue curtains for the window above their bed, Feather wanted some sapphire blue curtains that were dashed with cobalt markings, but Storm said she would have to put it somewhere else, since they had to share the room and Storm wasn’t a huge fan of really bright colors. But she knew if Feather didn’t have a place to openly express herself, she would express herself in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and probably in the wrong way, so she said she could do whatever she wanted to the attic, and that suited Feather just fine, it had plenty of space to express herself and it was almost always a little chilly, which was perfect, Feather hated lots of heat, she much preferred something a little cooler, 60 degree-ish weather was the perfect temp for the deviant she-wolf. The attic was her escape, the place she would go up to on the weekends, working on stories, poems, writings, sketches, paintings, clay models, sculptors, and many other artistic crafts. She had even put a twin-sized mattress and a pillow and a couple of blankets in there for her late-night projects and a blue cooler filled with bags of chips, soda, snacks, beef jerky, some fruits, and chocolate, lots of chocolate, for when she got hungry. Storm rarely went into Feather’s “workshop” as she called it, it wasn’t that Feather never let her, she would have gladly showed her sister the projects she was working on, but Storm respected Feather’s privacy and only went in the attic if she thought Feather was seriously hurt, if it was a life-or-death situation, or if Feather insisted she look at something and give her opinion on it. Feather always wanted her sister’s opinion before she asked for anyone else’s’. That was just the way she was. Storm had worked at the sports shop two blocks away and Feather had worked at the car repair shop about two miles south of the grocery store. They had both learned how to repair cars from their father before he passed, they were both just as good at it, but Feather enjoyed it a little more than Storm, it reminded Feather of her father and kept him close to her. Sometimes in between school and work they would go in the garage and work on Feather’s motorcycle or one of their crazy “inventions” that they would work on for months but it never did what it was designed to do, instead it would do something totally different. She could vividly remember Storm’s laugh as she watched one of their inventions spit out small fireworks and make weird noises saying, “Well, we tried. We didn’t get what we hoped, but I think we got something a whole lot cooler, and something definitely unique!” She and Storm would laugh for sometimes hours at a time just watching their invention and taking about who-knows-what. She missed those days. . .

Feather shut her fiery green eyes, cutting off the tears that threatened to break free and stream down her face. She couldn’t stir up old memories now. She had a job to do. She stole a glance at her watch. 7:02.

“Time to skedaddle,” said Feather to herself. It was one of her favorite ways to say ‘time to go’, it was so unique and Feather loved it.

She strided confidently to the door to the garage and grabbed her keys from the hook without even glancing at them and twirled them on her finger and slammed her fist on the garage door opener to her right.

She had a two car garage littered with random boxes and buckets of clay scattered around the edges, a couple of tool boxes and power tools lay dispersed throughout the concrete floor and hung up on the wall, and a few posters and notes taped to the wall, left by her sister, Storm and the notes mostly by Feather. Feather had never bothered to throw away the ones left by Storm, with her messy, quick-stroked and tall cursive handwriting Feather loved so much, like a celebrity’s signature but written in an entire note. She always loved Storm’s handwriting. In Feather’s opinion, a two car garage was serious over-kill, especially since her ride could easily fit in a space half the size of this, even when Storm was around they rarely used more than half of the space, though it was nice when Feather was working on a sculptor that was too big and too heavy to put in her workshop, sometimes the extra space came in handy, but most of the time it seemed very empty.

Feather sighed and grabbed her jet black helmet from the rack on her left and mounted up on her black Yamaha FZR400 1992 motorcycle. She had gotten it few months ago when they first released it to the public, even painted it black herself and added her signature trademark on the side; a blue feather and a blue and gold rimmed four-point star with a fiery green outline, the same color as her eyes. And a deep blue lightning bolt ran down from the tip of the handlebars to the edge of the exhaust on both sides of the bike. It was Storm’s signature trademark; a deep blue lightning bolt.

The garage door was wide open, casting the bright morning light that made Feather’s motorcycle gleam. The chocolate she-wolf slipped on her helmet, glimmering in the sun and started her engine.

“It’s purrin’ like a kitten on a summer day, time to light the fire and hear it roar,” quoted Feather in a soft voice. It was what her dad has always said right after he finished working on a car or when he was about to start something.

Feather lifted her foot from the ground and motored off. She loved the sound her “tiger” made when it roared.

She whizzed by the neighboring houses, it was a nice day, not too hot, not too cold. Just right. The current of wind swept by her in accelerating waves that made Feather’s heart race with joy. It was probably as close as she’d ever come to really flying. She’d been in a plane before, but it wasn’t the same kind of flying she longed for; with great bird wings, soaring through silky air and cascading and weaving through the starry and color eroded skies.

Above her birds fluttered gleefully through the air, Feather whistled to them, they sang back in reply to her greeting. She liked her neighborhood, it was defiantly a nice one; kids were playing in their front yards, men were mowing their lawns with their shirts off, and women were planting and watering their gardens. It was safe, nice, ordinary, and peaceful, very peaceful, almost nothing exciting happened. Usually the most exciting thing that happened was some kid kicking their ball into a nearby neighbor’s yard. Well, ordinary didn’t suit Feather, peaceful maybe, but never ordinary. She revved up her engine and roared down the black street. As her dad always said, “Stop for nothing, just keep going faster!” Or was it Aunt Joesaline that said that? She couldn’t remember, they both said it a lot. 

She knew what the other neighbors whispered about her; “That wolf makes more noise than the kids and more trouble too!” And, “Without her sister that she-wolf is nothing but a loose-cannon! A ticking time bomb about to blow!” And about the names they called her; Abnormalice, Bombardier, the Oddity, Bammy (short for Bam-Bam), Snagger, Triggy (short for Trigger Puller), and her favorite: Deviant.

Feather bellowed by Ms. Cags house, an old woman who lived just a few blocks away from her, the two had never really seen eye-to-eye on really, anything, in fact the only time they really spoke was when Feather was riding down the street by Ol’ Cags rinky-ding little house and Ol’ Cags shouted at her to shut up or keep it down or insult her in some way. Feather didn’t care, what were a few insults? She was used to it anyway.

Ol’ Cags had been sleeping on her front porch in her rocking chair again, her little Yorkshire terrier, Franklin, sleeping peacefully at her wrinkly feet. Feather revved her engine just as she turned the corner past Ol’ Cags house. Ms. Cags woke up with a jolt and screeched, kicking Franklin in the side and sending him flying, who instantly woke up and yelped at the sudden kick, then noticed Feather and got up and started barking. Ms. Cags glared when she saw Feather riding by on her motorbike. She stood up and shouted at Feather, “You no-good trouble maker! The cops’ll catch you yet!” She screamed at Feather with Franklin, or the Lil’ Terror as Feather called him, barked and snarled at the she-wolf.

“The cops never come down this street, Cags!” Feather shot back and revved her engine again and did a wheelie and slammed back down on the ground, shouting and howling all the while. Ol’ Cags shouted something back Feather, but she was too far away to hear, and she didn’t care. Stop for nothing, just keep going faster! Her father’s words boomed in her mind. Or was it her aunt’s words?

Feather stopped at the end of her neighborhood and slowed to a stop. Now she had to follow the rules, cops were everywhere.

Feather revved her engine and swung a left and onto the highway and onto the road to Calidge.

            Feather gently hit her brakes and slowly came to a stop. She put her foot on the ground and killed the engine. Grey clouds blanketed the once bright blue sky.

            Shame. I could have gone riding after I was done here. Thought Feather disappointed.

            “Feather, you’re here!” shouted a golden furred anthro female cheetah with orange hair and a light purple and yellow speckled bandana. Chicka.

            Feather smiled and took off her helmet. Chicka jogged to her and gave her hug. Feather hugged back and smiled warmly at her. Chicka was one of her best friends in the world, her origins hailed from the Cheetah Clan in Africa, one of the eight major feline Clans. She wore a bright green t-shirt and a pair of torn jeans and her usual light purple and yellow speckled bandana and solid gold African tribal belt she had gotten in Ghana. Her right ear had a large hole-shaped gap in it like a giant piercing, where on her trip to Africa a poacher shot at her, but thankfully for Chicka, he was a bit tipsy because he had had a little something to drink before he went hunting and just nicked Chicka’s rounded ear with his bullet. Because he drunk he had mistaken Chicka for a wild cheetah instead of an anthro one. Her orange bangs hung over her left eye, completely swathing her it in orange hair, but her fiery orange eyes gleamed as bright as ever.

            “So, have you got any leads yet?” inquired Feather.

            Chicka sighed and put her hands on her hips. “No, nothing yet. To be totally honest, I’m not sure if our little kidnapper here is trying to hide the evidence or not,”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Well so far the only real clues we have so far are some claw marks-“

            “That’s good,”

            “Yeah, but we can’t identify what species they belong to. We also found some finger and paw prints-“

            “Great! We’ll have this case solved in no time at all,”

            “It’s not quite that simple. You see, when we tried to identify the fingerprint and paw prints, it came up with nothing, we’re not even sure if it belongs to a werehog or a tiger or a bear, I don’t think we’re not dealing with just any ordinary criminal, we could be dealing with a genius,” Chicka paused. “Well, either that, or we’re slacking,”

            Feather laughed lightly. “Let’s take a look at those clues then and make sure we’re not slacking,” said Feather casually and padded to the entrance to the abandoned church. Knelt down on one of the steps was a male anthro Arctic Fox with glasses and wearing jeans and a white flannel shirt. He was examining some claw marks driven deep into the wall.

            Feather silently padded up to him. He was deeply concentrating on the evidence, unaware of the chocolate she-wolf hovering over him. He jotted something in his miniature notebook with a pen.

            “Hey Icestorm,” greeted Feather good naturedly.

            The Arctic Fox jumped and whipped his head around, clearly startled, then relaxed a little when he saw Feather.

            “Oh, hey Feather, don’t do that OK? You scared me,” said the snow white fox whined in pitiful voice.

            Feather rolled her fiery green eyes. “Everything scares you Icestorm, now tell me, what have you guys found out so far?” inquired Feather and knelt down next to Icestorm so she could see the claw marks.

            “Well, to be quite honest, not much. Almost every clue we’ve come across so far has lead us to a dead end,” sighed Icestorm and lowed his head and his pointed ears drooped. This was his first real field mission, she couldn’t imagine how disappointed he was.

            “You said almost all of the clues lead you to a dead end, which one didn’t?”

            Icestorm stood up. “It’s inside, follow me,” said Icestorm and beckoned for Feather to follow before he slipped inside.

            Feather stood up and followed the snowy fox inside. The aisles were busting with detectives, police, and agents, all inspecting and going over different clues and pieces of evidence. Near the front of the church over by the right wall was a human detective with dark brown hair, a young human agent with blonde hair and blue eyes, and an anthro bulldog mulling over some claw marks driven deep into the wall. Icestorm padded over to the group and tapped the bulldog on the shoulder, who turned and smiled at him, Icestorm pointed to Feather and said something to the bulldog, the bulldog nodded and stood up, and he towered over Icestorm by at least a foot and lumbered over to Feather.

            “Mornin’ Feather, didn’t expect to see you here this early,” he had a gruff, but friendly voice and greeted Feather with a huge warm smile. Feather had to keep herself from giggling; every time he smiled his floppy lips would go up and wiggled whenever he talked. He had kind bright forest green eyes with a rim of amber and an inner silvery-gray ring around the pupil.

            “Good morning Kirby, how’ve you been?”

            “Well, things could be better. It would be great if we got a few leads right now, but so far we’ve been coming up with little to nothin’,” divulged Kirby in his friendly gruff sounding voice.

            “What little bit have you come up with?” asked Feather politely and patiently.

            Kirby chuckled, his lip flaps jiggling in the air. “I can’t get anything past you, can I,” sniggered Kirby. It wasn’t really a question, like he didn’t really expect an answer. “Well, all we know is that whoever is causing these disappearances is both powerful and clever,”

            “So it’s not a bear,”

            Kirby guffawed. “No, I don’t think it’s a bear,” Kirby cleared his throat. “But we don’t know for sure, the claw marks are definitely big enough and deep enough to be bear claws,”

            Feather laughed. He always had a way of making people laugh. “So, have you found anything else? Chicka said you guys found some finger and paw prints,”

            “Oh, we found paw prints alright, big paw prints. If it really is a werehog causing all this trouble then we definitely got our hands full. Whatever he is, he’s quite the hunter though, I just hope he comes quietly when we catch him,”

            Feather blinked. “A hunter?” she asked, puzzled.

            “Yeah, the hallways up there are filled with animal bones and the living quarters are littered with ‘em too, not to mention the pelts, mostly deer,”

            “You don’t say,” mumbled Feather, half to herself. A hunter. She didn’t see that coming. She expected a kidnapper, a psychopath even, not a hunter. Feather was more curious than ever to know what, not so much as whom, but what was causing these disappearances.

            “Have you found any of the kids or clues as to where they might be?”

            Kirby sighed. “’Fraid not, and based off the paw prints, I’m not really sure if they’re even still alive,”

            “What do mean?”

            Kirby stared into Feather’s fiery green eyes, locking gazes with the she-wolf. His forest green eyes were fastened in worry. She could smell his fear scent.

            “Feather, those paw prints are drenched in blood,”

            Feather froze. They might not just be dealing with a kidnapper anymore. No, they might be dealing with a murderer. A hunter.

            Kirby continued. “We found most of them in the living quarters. We sent some men up to investigate the bell tower, but they all came sprinting back claiming they felt as if someone or something was watching them. Even sayin’ they heard weird noises and one argued that he had seen a pair of piercing ice-blue eyes,”

            Feather mulled over what Kirby had just told her. Piercing ice-blue eyes. Why is that so familiar…? Thought Feather and turned her gaze away from Kirby’s searching forest eyes.

            “Feather, are you OK?”

            Feather flinched at Kirby’s words, which had snapped her out of her thoughts. “Yeah, I’m fine. So no one’s checked up in the bell tower?”

            “Nope, they’re too scared to,”

            “Well then, I’ll go up there for ya, maybe get us a few more clues, that sort of thing,” assured Feather, stretching and adjusting her belt and jacket.

            “Would you? Ah, thank you Feather. I haven’t been able to get those so-called agents up there since the team came back with their paranormal report,” thanked Kirby with his usual gruff yet friendly country voice.

            “No problem Kirby, it’s my pleasure,” replied Feather and padded off down the far right aisle and paused at about ten feet, and turned around on her heel. Her expression was both confused and embarrassed.

            “Um, can you show me where the bell tower is,” requested Feather, embarrassed. She was one of the FBI’s best agents and detective, and yet she didn’t even know where the bell tower to the abandoned church was.

            Kirby smiled. “Yeah sure Feather, it’s up the right-hand staircase and the living quarter is the second door on your right and the entrance to the bell tower is the door that looks like a closet in the far left-hand corner. You should be able to figure it out from there,” directed Kirby.

            “Thanks,” said Feather, embarrassed. She padded towards the staircase that lead up to the living quarters near the foot of the aisle.

            “No, not that right, your other right!” called Kirby to Feather from across the aisle. Feather stared him for a moment, a bit startled and confused, then turned the other direction towards the staircase opposite of the one behind her.

            “I thought I only had two lefts, not two rights!” joked Feather from across the room.

            “Well you have two rights now! J-just go up the stairs!” stammered Kirby in a joking and friendly tone.

            “Yes sir,” addressed Feather and stood at attention and saluted to Kirby. The caramel and white splotched bulldog laughed. Feather laughed too and made her way up the staircase and into the living quarters.

            Feather stopped outside the door and peered inside. Kirby was right; the long corridor was filled with animal bones. Everywhere there were animal bones scattered throughout the dusty and cobweb strung hallway, deer skulls, squirrel ribs, lynx femurs, crow legs, badger jowls, and elk antlers.

            Feather reached down and picked up a deer skull by the antlers and held it in the air to examine it for any possible clues. She stared into the skull’s empty eye sockets, which stared back at her like dark pools of a bottomless abyss. The skull squeaked and Feather blinked in surprise. A rat poked its long grimy head out of the skull’s socket and Feather dropped it in an instant. The skull hit the cracked wooden floor with a loud clatter and the rat scurried away into another room. Feather paused and stared in the direction the rat had escaped. The chocolate-brown she-wolf stepped towards the door to the unnamed room and peaked her head inside and gripped the edge of the door frame.

            The faded gray-blue walls had cracked and had started to grow mold from the years of neglect and in the far wall were two cracked windows where some of the boards had been ripped off and tattered, ebony curtains hung on either side of both windows, rippling in the morning air that seemed to reach out to Feather like a phantom’s hand. In the far left corner of the faded room was a small sagging bed with draped in fresh animal pelts, most of which were deer and elk, and next to it was an empty cracked oak nightstand and across from it was an aboriginal coat wooden rack holding a worn-out bomber jacket, a démodé pair of torn jeans, and a moth-eaten black leather belt. On either side of the room were two large wardrobes made of pine and had exquisite carvings along the borders and on the fractured doors.

            Feather stared down at the dusty and cracked wooden floor, unable to take her fiery green eyes away from it. On the floor were huge dog-like paw prints scattered throughout the room. And they were drenched in blood.

            Feather gulped. She hoped that the blood was from the fallen animals she had seen in the corridor. Her gaze shifted to the empty oak dresser. It had a drawer, and possibly some clues. She cautiously stepped towards it and reached for the drawer handle. Her hand was just an inch away from the handle when something told her to leave it alone, that it was none of her business. Feather forced her hand away, this went against every instinct she had as an agent, but she had learned to listen and obey these inexplicable messages that seemed to come to her at random. If there were clues in that drawer, they very well could be clues that could ultimately help solve the mystery and lead to the kidnapper’s arrest. But the strange voice kept telling her to leave it alone. And she listened. She knew it was probably for her own good. The voice had after all saved her life, and it hadn’t led her astray yet.

            A floorboard squeaked. With velocious speed, she whipped out her knife from her black leather belt and poised herself to fight, her fiery eyes blazed with ferocity and aggression. A small dark gray shape moved out from the shadows with its long snout twitching like it had an unbearable itch. A rat. The rat from the deer skull.

            Feather relaxed and lowered her knife and skillfully spun it around and slipped it back into its pocket attached to her black leather belt like a cowboy after duel at high noon.

            The rat saw her and scurried under a crack in the closet door across from the small sagging pelt draped bed. Feather padded after it and dropped to her knees to grab its pink hairless tail. Missed.

            Feather growled and bared her apical glistening white canine teeth, but her grimace quickly turned into a frown and she shook her head. This was no time to go chasing after rodents; she had to search for clues.

            She stood up and stared at the closet door for a minute; it was cracked and faded, like everything else in the abandoned church. The deviant she-wolf reached for the rusted gold door knob and turned it, and the ancient scrap of wood that called itself a door creaked in protest. It wasn’t a closet at all. Kirby was right; it was a staircase. The staircase to the bell tower.

Feather took a step into the fabled closet and looked up. The stone staircase climbed up the church belfry in a tall helix, as if someone had taken a spring and stretched it, then painted it grey and cut neat and even jagged edges along the frame of the perfect coil and carefully placed it inside a stone cylinder and put a lid on it.

Feather put her hands on her hips and took and a deep breath, as if preparing herself for the long trek, then took a step onto the first step and pressed her foot down a little harder to test if it was safe, then placed her left foot on the second step and kept climbing and didn’t stop, but occasionally looked down to check on her progress. 

After about ten minutes, Feather stopped and peered down over the edge of the stone steps. She was about three quarters of the way to the top. Suddenly, Feather got a strange feeling she was being watched. Watched by a pair of knowing, warm yellow amber eyes. Feather’s hackles rose, there was something about this that was far more disturbing than the piercing ice-blue eyes. This gaze seemed transparent and distant, and yet at the same time it felt as if those eyes were staring down at her from only a few rabbit length away. There was a slightly unsettling feeling about it, but she wasn’t scared, as if she knew that those warm and knowing yellow amber eyes wouldn’t hurt her. She could vaguely feel the presence of the piercing ice-blue eyes, but it seemed more solid, more real, more alive, but unsettled and in pain. Deep, agonizing pain.

This was another strange thing with Feather. Along with the strange inaudible voice that told her what to do and not to do, she had a strange connection with the spiritual world and felt as if she could almost feel the presence of the spirits around her and when they weren’t there. There was definitely a spirit here, and there was also a soul in pain. So much pain.

Feather shook herself as if to shake off the feeling and continued her trek up the tall stone helix. She could still feel the yellow amber eyes watching her, so as a precaution, she put her hand on the handle of her knife and firmly gripped it, just in case.

At the top of the stone staircase was another cracked wooden door, but this wood was a little less damaged and in much better condition than the one at the bottom of the stairs. Her heart was pounding and her breathing became ragged and shallow, she was terrified at what she might find at the other end of that door, but she didn’t know why. She sniffed the air. Something was wrong. The smell of fresh blood was thick.

Please let it be an animal. Thought Feather desperately. The strange voice that usually told her what to do and what not to do wasn’t telling her not to go, in fact, it was urging her forward. She put her hand on the rusted gold door knob and pushed it wide open.

The stone floor was corrupt with bloody, dog-like paw prints, and just above hung a large, rusty, golden bell.

            So this is the Black Hills bell tower. Nice. Thought Feather as she gazed in awe at the huge, rusty golden bell. It was at least eight times the size of her. Something caught the corner of Feather’s eye; she stepped forward and laid her hand on the side of the ancient bell. There was some kind of strange marking on the side of it, she looked closer: claw marks, deep, blood red.

            Feather’s fiery green eyes widened in amazement. The hunter was much stronger than she had originally thought. Much stronger.

            A scent wafted in the breeze past Feather’s black nose. Her nose twitched, trying to identify and locate the smell. Blood. Fresh blood. And it was close by.

            Feather’s hackles rose and the light in her eyes quickly faded from a blazing fire to a flickering candle. The light in her once fiery green eyes faded and weaken as they widened in horror. She suddenly noticed something she had not noticed before. A chest sized lump laid still and silently in the shadowy corner of the church belfry. Feather cautiously stepped towards it with her hand firmly gripped to the handle of her knife, unable to take her eyes off the anonymous shadowy object. Another scent wafted under her ebony nose. Human.

            Feather froze. They weren’t dealing with an ordinary kidnapper anymore; they were dealing a cold-blooded murderer. And as if to confirm her fears, the clouds parted just enough to let in enough light for Feather to be able to identify the object in the shadows. There, lying in a pool of scarlet was an eleven-year-old boy in scarlet sweatshirt, navy blue jeans, and white tennis shoes. Feather ran up to the boy and dropped to her knees, not caring about the blood on her jeans, and put her hand on the boy’s still body. She froze the moment her hand came in contact with the boy’s still body, it was as if his cold essence had become her own and had frozen her in place. Feather’s hackles rose and froze. He was dead. And worse, he had died with his eyes open. His mouth hung open and his head tilted at an odd angle, and his eyes, oh his eyes, were locked in eternal terror.

            Feather reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone, Chicka had made it for her as a birthday present. Chicka was always so good with technology. Her inventions always did what they were designed to do.

            “Kirby, I found something,” she muttered without taking her eyes off the lifeless body.

            “You did? Wonderful, what did you find?”

            “I found one of the missing kids,”

            The line was silent for several long heartbeats. Feather felt as if her heart would pound out of her chest.

            “Which one?” Kirby finally asked, his voice had the unmistakable trace of awe, as if he were holding breath and was afraid to ask.

             “Tony, Tony Bachwood,”

            For about a half a minute neither Kirby nor Feather said a word. Feather took a long ragged gasp; she had been holding her breath in waiting for Kirby’s answer.

            “I’ll send a team up there. Is he alright?”

            “He’s dead,” answered Feather solemnly.

            Kirby hesitated before speaking. “I’m on my way,” and that was all he said before he hung up.

            Feather slowly and reluctantly put her phone back in her pocket. As she waited for the team to arrive, she closely examined the wound in his chest. For some reason her hackles froze in place until they were like icy needles. All the vessels surrounding the heart had been cut, leaving the heart completely isolated from the rest of the body.

            Again, Feather felt the pair of knowing warm yellow amber eyes watching her.

            The din of the ambulance siren howled and cascaded through the chilly air. It was unusually cold for the middle of May. It was suiting weather for a recently discovered murder.

            The field medics rolled the fallen boy into the back of the ambulance. A pure white sheet had been placed to cover his body.

            Feather stood by and watched as they loaded the boy into the ambulance without taking her darkened green eyes off of him. She couldn’t. Like most Packians, humans weren’t on her list of favorite species, but no matter what species it was, she was fully against hurting children, no matter what they’ve done. The only reason a child would become bad would be if an adult made them that way.

            Chicka reached out and touched Feather’s arm. The disturbed she-wolf jumped at the cheetah’s touch, the light in her green eyes flared for a moment then died back down to a small flicker, like a candle in a dark medieval dungeon.

            “We’ll find whoever did this, and we’ll make him pay. We’ll make sure he never sees another free day again,” promised Chicka, a small flame burning in her own orange eye, since her right one was covered by a thick layer of flaming orange hair.

            Feather turned her gaze towards the abandoned church and stared at a remote point in the distance, into the heart of the forest. Her green eyes had regained their fire and blazed like an infinite green inferno from hell. The wax from the candle had melted and turned the color of blood and seemed to drip green down Feather’s blazing eyes. She could almost see herself slashing the murderer’s throat with her poisoned knife, his blood spraying the hard ground and leaving specks of scarlet on her muzzle.

            She pulled out her silver knife and held it at her side. “You bet we will, I’ll make sure he pays for what he’s done, personally,” seethed Feather darkly and threw the thorn-sharp knife in air and caught it midair by the handle and threw it at the church wall with such speed it might as well have been an over-sized rather than a knife. An unlucky male robin happened to be flying by, singing its sweet melody when Feather threw her knife. The red-bellied bird instantly fell silent with a sharp alarmed tweet as soon as the knife pierced its tiny, rapid beating heart and was pinned against the faded church wall. Its blood slowly dripped down like drops of sweat running down a warrior’s face before battle.

            Feather glanced back at her spotted friend, her fiery green eyes burned with hate. Chicka flinched, as if a spark from Feather’s eyes had drifted away from the inferno and landed on Chicka forehead. She could almost feel the heat radiating from her friend’s eyes. It was no wonder why Feather liked cooler weather, she didn’t need much heat, she had more than enough fire inside her that kept her plenty warm in even the coldest of winters.

            Icestorm stepped out of the church with his clipboard clutched tightly to his chest, then turned his head to the right and caught sight of the dead pinned against the wall with its blood dripping down the side. He shrieked and bolted across the road to Feather and Chicka at full speed, but skidded to a halt and stared in horror when Feather turned her head towards him, her fiery green eyes blazing a strange and deadly light, they almost appeared to be glowing. Icestorm skidded to halt before he could get too close Feather and bolted in the opposite direction and hid behind Talon, anther field agent right under Kirby and a powerful, muscular humanoid bald eagle, completely forgetting about the bloody bird jabbed into the faded church wall. Talon glared at Icestorm and was about to shout at him to go bother someone else, but turned his head and saw the fire in Feather’s eyes and lowered his muscular wing in silence and said nothing. Chicka caught the feint smell of Talon’s fear scent over Icestorm’s overpowering fear scent. Everyone left Feather alone when she was like this. If anyone said they weren’t unsettled by the fire Feather’s green eyes they were lying. No one in their right mind wasn’t scared of that mysterious fire in the she-wolf’s eyes. At least no Chicka had ever met.

            Feather fixed her fiery gaze on a random point in the depths of the thick forest just beyond the Black Hills Church and stared down with at it with her intense green inferno. If you dared to look closely, you could almost see blood dripping in her fiery green eyes. She could almost taste the blood and almost see the piercing ice-blue eyes watching her from the safety of the thick, shadowy forest, staring back at her with fearful eyes, shaking in fear instead of staring back with a defiant icy glare.

            Feather looked away and the fire in her eyes died down a bit as she stared into the ghost of the former town. A sharp stab of pain pierced her heart. There was something about those piercing ice-blue eyes that made her want to help their owner. Feather recalled the image of them when she stared into the forest; there was pain behind them, so much pain, pain concealed by a thick layer of hate. There was more to this mystery than meets the eye. Far more. And there was much more to their little hunter than they could even imagine.

            For the third time that day, Feather the gaze of the knowing warm yellow amber eyes boring down on her.

Author's Note

Be honest, what do you think?

Reviews

[She With Eyes Like Unsh..]

Very interesting! I really like it so far!