“Why?” I’d asked him. “You love comics.”
He’d shrugged, began to do curls. “I’m growing out of it. You’re still children,” he’d said with a cocky grin. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He’d been a punk but correct. I’d been thirteen, had my own collections that straddled childhood and adolescence. Holographic nail polish—which was becoming a Very Big Deal for girls older than me—and the vampire Barbies I hadn’t played with in years but couldn’t bear to part with.
“I understand plenty,” Lulu said, snorting as she kicked her feet onto the coffee table. “For example, I understand you’re going to have to spend a lot more time lifting those weights.”
He’d been whip lean then, didn’t have nearly the muscle he’d eventually grown into. “Why don’t you come over here and lift it, witch?”
Her eyes had fired; she hadn’t liked that word. “Why don’t you shove it, puppy?”
They’d argued like that for fifteen more minutes, until Connor or Lulu—or maybe both of them—had stormed into some other part of the house. I’d peeked into the closest box, found a battered book of manga, and settled in to read.
“The comic is in mint condition,” Petra was saying. “Theo saved up.”
“Good luck to him,” Connor said. “Nice addition to anyone’s collection.”
“So Theo and Yuen are currently indisposed,” I said mildly. “You said you had two things—what’s the second?”
“Second, I have information regarding your cryptid,” she said.
“Give it to me, baby.”
“The Beast of Owatonna,” she said, drawing out the words like a storyteller around a crackling fire.
“Ha!” I said, and poked Connor in the arm.
Petra’s expression fell. She looked disappointed we hadn’t responded with confusion and surprise. “You already know about it? Then why did you call me?”
Connor rolled his eyes. “We know it’s nonsense. Local hokum.”
“A shifter suggested the Beast of Owatonna was involved,” I explained. “But we’re nowhere near Owatonna.”
“And the footprints were made by a real creature,” Connor muttered.
Petra rolled her eyes. “The story only begins in Owatonna. It does not end there.”
“Few good stories do,” he said.
I put a hand on his arm. “For the sake of argument, why do you think this is the Beast of Owatonna?”
“Because the shoe fits,” she said. “Or the footprint, anyway. Like you guessed—the track wasn’t made by any known domestic or wild animal, and certainly not by anything that’s native to the area. Too long, too wide.”
“But it matches tracks made by the Beast?” I asked.
“Technically,” she said, “we don’t know that, because there aren’t any confirmed tracks of the Beast. But,” she said, raising a finger, “the Beast is wolfish but bigger. Stalks prey throughout north and central Minnesota, usually at night. Prey is usually livestock. Sheep, cows, roosters. And, drum roll, there are multiple reports of attacks on humans.”
“What kind of attacks?” I asked.
“The humans generally report they were assaulted by big, hairy, canine-type creatures. Some reports have them on four legs. Some reports have them on two. Chasing, lacerations, torn clothing, bites. And one alleged incidence of interspecies flirting.”
“Someone was propositioned by the Beast of Owatonna?” Connor asked.
“That’s the story. Mildred Farmington of Albert Lea, Minnesota, says she was walking back to her home from her neighbor’s house when the Beast approached and began to flirt with her.” Petra looked down, frowned at something offscreen. “Quote, ‘She was wooed weekly for approximately seven weeks, at which time she told the Beast she was unwilling to make a commitment, and the Beast moved on,’ unquote.”
Connor whistled. “And humans think Sups are bizarre.”
“Humans are the strangest of all,” I said. “At least we have a magical excuse. Tell us more.”
Maybe—okay, almost certainly—this wasn’t really the Beast of Owatonna. But maybe, like many other tall tales, the tales had some origin in fact. Maybe there was some clue we could glean out of the stories.
“It’s a carnivore. Has a taste for chickens—they tend to go missing when the Beast is roaming. It’s more active in the summertime. Not active at all in the winter.”
Much like a hibernating bear, I thought.
“Prefers to hunt after one o’clock in the morning, during what they call the ‘wicked hour.’”
“Is that like the witching hour?”
“Wicked,” Petra said, “as in the Beast is selective about who it eats.”
“What do you mean, ‘selective’?” Connor asked. “It only eats the plumpest, most tender humans?”
“A tried-and-true plan of attack, but no. It’s morally particular. The Beast’s victims have always done evil deeds. There was a deer poacher, an insurance fraudster, a lady who ran a Ponzi scheme and bilked a dozen Minnesotans out of their pensions.”
Connor just rolled his eyes. “So the Beast was punishing white-collar crime.”
“You sound skeptical,” she said, her tone entirely reasonable. “And I understand that. But if you’re going to believe in human-eating North Woods beasts, better they do a good deed along the way by ridding the world of the wicked.”
While I was still 90 percent convinced the Beast of Owatonna was nonsense, she had a point.
Maybe Loren’s attack had been random, the result of some animal we hadn’t yet identified. But if it wasn’t random, wasn’t just an attack, then someone had selected him. Someone had attacked him on purpose. Why? Because of something he’d done? Something he knew? Something the attacker was afraid he might do?
I thought about the violence that had been done to his body. It looked like punishment. So who would want to punish Loren? And for what? And did Paisley have something to do with it?
“Thanks for taking a look,” I said after a moment. “We appreciate it.”
“You find any more evidence, send it along. And, Elisa?”
“Yes, Petra.”
“Beware of government types in ill-fitting black suits. You never know who else may be looking for the Beast.”