Blood Lite

by Jim Butcher

  "Harry?" Molly called out, her voice higher-pitched than ever. "Acid doesn't eat through concrete, right?" I blinked at the trapdoor and screamed in frustration, "Hell's bells, what are you doing down there?!"

  Kirby took another pace forward, wolf eyes bright, jaws slavering, head held low and ready for a fight. Behind him, Andi was watching the whole thing with a wide-eyed look that mixed terror, lust, excitement, and rage in equal parts, her impressive chest heaving. Her hands and lower arms had already begun to slowly change, sprouting curling russet fur, her nails lengthening into dark claws. Her eyes traveled to me and her mouth dropped open, revealing fangs that were already beginning to grow.

  Super. In a fight against Kirby, I was worried about him not surviving. Against Kirby and Andi, in these quarters, it would be me who was running against long odds.

  But I try to be an optimist: at least things weren't going to get any worse.

  Above and behind me, a window broke.

  A length of lead pipe, maybe a foot long, capped at both ends with plastic, landed on a rug five feet away from me. Cheap, Mardi Gras-style beads were wrapped around it.

  A lit fuse sparked and fizzed at one end of the pipe. It was maybe half an inch away from vanishing into the cap.

  "But this is my day off!" I howled.

  I know that things looked bad. But I honestly think that I could have handled it, if Mister hadn't picked that exact moment to leap down from his perch and go streaking across the room, acting upon some feline imperative unknown and unknowable to mere mortals.

  Kirby, already on the edge of a feral frenzy, did what

  any canine would do—he let out a snarl and gave immediate chase.

  Mouse let out a sudden bellow of rage—for crying out loud, he hadn't gotten that worked up over me being in danger—and launched himself after Kirby. Andi, upon seeing Mouse in pursuit of her fellow werewolf, shifted entirely to her own wolf shape and flung herself after Mouse.

  Mister rocketed around my tiny apartment, with several hundred pounds of furious canine in pursuit. Kirby bounded over and around furniture almost as nimbly as Mister. Mouse didn't bother with nimble. He simply plowed through whatever was in the way, smashing my coffee table and one easy chair, knocking over another bookcase, and churning the throw rugs on the floor into hummocks of fabric and fiber.

  I leapt for the pipe bomb and picked it up, only to have my legs scythed out from beneath me by Kirby as he went by. Mouse accidently slammed a paw bearing his full weight down onto me as he rumbled past in pursuit, and got me right where the damned dog always gets a man. There was none of that delayed-reaction component to the pain, either. My testicles began reporting the damage instantly, loudly, and in nauseating intensity.

  No time for pain. I lunged for the pipe bomb and nearly wet my pants as another explosion shook the floor—only this one was followed an instant later by an absolute flood of bright green smoke that billowed up from the lab.

  I grabbed the pipe bomb and tried to pluck out the fuse, but it vanished into the cap and beyond the reach of my fingers. In a panic, I scrabbled across the floor to the door and ripped it open with terrified strength. I hauled back to throw the thing out and— A sharp burst of sound. My hand exploded into pins and needles. I fell limply to the floor, my head falling in such a way as to bring my gaze over to where my hand had been clutching the pipe bomb a few seconds before and—

  And I was still holding it now, unharmed. Heavy jets of scarlet and purple smoke were billowing wildly from both ends of the pipe, scented heavily with a familiar odor. Smoke bombs.

  The freaking thing had been loaded with something remarkably similar to Fourth of July smoke bombs, the kind kids play with. Bemused, I tugged one plastic cap off, and several little expended canisters fell out along with a note that read: The next time you interfere with me, more than smoke will interfere with you.

  More than smoke will interfere with you? Who talks like that?

  Mouse roared, snapping my focus back to the here and now, as he pounced onto Kirby's back, smashing the werewolf to the floor by dint of sheer mass. Mister, sensing his opening, shot out the front door with a yowl of disapproval and vanished into the outdoors, seeking a safer environment, like maybe traffic.

  Andi leapt onto Mouse's back, fangs ripping, but my dog held fast to Kirby—buying me a couple of precious seconds. I seized a bit of chalk from the basket by the door and, choking on smoke, ran in a circle around the embattled trio, drawing a line of chalk on the concrete floor. Then I willed the circle closed, and the magical construct snapped into existence, a silent and invisible field of energy which, among other things, completely severed the connection between the psychic parasites in the Never-never and the werewolves whaling on my dog.

  The fight stopped abruptly. Kirby and Andi both blinked their eyes several times and hurriedly removed their fangs from Mouse's hide. A few seconds later, they shimmered and resumed their human forms.

  "Don't move!" I snapped at them, infuriated to no end. "Any of you! Don't break the circle or you'll go nuts again! Sit! Stay!"

  That last was for Mouse. Mostly.

  I couldn't see what Molly had done to my lab, but the fumes down there were cloying and obviously dangerous. I hauled myself over to the trapdoor.

  Molly hadn't made it up the folding staircase, and just lay sprawled semiconscious against it. I had to grab her and haul her up the stairs. She was undressed from the waist up. I spotted her shirt and bra on the floor near the worktable, both of them riddled with acid-burned holes.

  I got her laid out on her back, elevated her feet on a stray cushion from the smashed easy chair, and checked her breathing. It didn't take long, because she wasn't, though she did still have a faint pulse. I started rescue breathing for her—which is a lot more demanding than people think. Especially when the air is still thick with the smell of God only knows what chemical combinations.

  I finally got her to cough, and my racing heartbeat subsided a little as she began breathing again, raggedly, and opened her eyes. I sat up slowly, breathing hard, and found Anastasia Luccio standing in the open doorway to my apartment, her arms folded over her chest, one eyebrow arched.

  Anastasia was a pretty girl—not glamorously lovely, but believably, genuinely pleasant to look at, with a fantastic smile and killer dimples. She looked like someone in her twenties, for reasons too complex to go into right now, but she was an older woman. A much older woman.

  And there I was, apparently sitting up from kissing a topless girl, with a naked couple a few feet away, and the air thick with a pall of smoke and the smell of noxious fumes. For crying out loud, my apartment looked like the set of some kind of bizarre porno.

  "Urn," I said, and swallowed. "This isn't what it might appear to be."

  Anastasia just stared at me. I knew it had been a long time since she'd opened up to anyone. It might not take much to make her close herself off again.

  She shook her head, very slowly, and the smile lines at the corners of her eyes deepened along with her dimples. Then she burst out into a hearty belly laugh. "Madre di Dio, Harry. I cannot for the life of me imagine what it does appear to be."

  I lifted my eyebrows in surprise. "You aren't upset?" "By the time you get to be my age," she replied, "you've either worked out your insecurities, or they're there to stay.

  Besides. I simply must know how this happened."

  I shook my head and then smiled at her. "I ... my friends needed help."

  She looked back and forth between the Alphas and Molly. "And still do," she said, nodding sharply. She came in and, as the only one actually wearing shoes, began picking up pieces of fallen glass from the broken window, literally rolling up her sleeves as she went. "Shall we?"

  It took most of the day to get Molly to the hospital, gather the materials needed to fumigate Kirby and Andi's auras, and actually perform the work to get the job done. By the time they left, all better and psychophage-free, it was after seven.

  "So much f
or our day off," I said.

  She turned to consider me. "Would you do it differently if you had it to do again?"

  "No. Of course not."

  She shrugged. "Then it was a day well spent. There will be others."

  "You never can be sure of that, though, can you?"

  Her cheeks dimpled again. "Today is not yet over. You mourn its death somewhat prematurely."

  "I just wanted to show you a nice time for a day. Not get bogged down in more business."

  Anastasia turned to me and put her fingers over my mouth. Then she replaced her fingers with her lips.

  "Enough talk," she murmured.

  I agreed.

  About the Authors

  KELLEY ARMSTRONG is the author of the Other-world paranormal suspense series. She grew up in Ontario, Canada, where she still lives with her family. For more on Kelley and her work, check out her website at www.KelleyArmstrong.com.

  JOE R. LANSDALE is the bestselling author of thirty novels and numerous short stories and articles. His work has been turned into film, most notably with the cult classic Bubba Ho-Tep and for Showtime's Masters of Horror series with his story "Incident On and Off a Mountain Road." Forthcoming from Knopf is his new novel, heather Maiden.

  LUCIEN SOULBAN is a flight of God's fancy. He doesn't exist. He doesn't live in Montreal and he certainly didn't write for Horrors Beyond 2 or for video games like Rainbow Six: Vegas. At best, Lucien is a rote, grabbing random words and sequencing them like some form of literary eugenics. By reading this, you're feeding the delusion of his existence: that he has substance. Great... now you've

  done it. Are you happy? He thinks he's real. P.S.: Lucien also never wrote four novels, including Desert Raiders and Dragonlance: The Alien Sea ... the smug bastard.

  CHRISTOPHER WELCH is a happily married freelance writer, reporter, and reviewer originally from Akron, Ohio. He currently lives in Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, where he works for the local newspaper and news radio station. He earned a BA and an MA in English from the University of Akron, with a minor in creative writing. Welch's creative works have appeared in various small press and professional publications. His most recent fiction has appeared in Dark Wisdom magazine and the anthology Catopolis. His story in Blood Lite is more autobiographical than he likes to admit.

  MATT VENNE received his BA in English from UCLA, and his MFA in Film from USC. His screenplay for Near Dark is being produced by Michael Bay (Transformers), and his Masters of Horror episode "Pelts" (based on the F. Paul Wilson short story) was directed by Dario Argento (Suspiria). Matt is currently adapting Stephen King's Bag of Bones for Mick Garris (The Stand) to direct and Guillermo del Toro {Pan's Labyrinth) to produce, wrote an episode of Fear Itself "entitled "Spooked" for Brad Anderson (Session 9) to direct, and is writing the next installment of the Rambo franchise for Sylvester Stallone. Matt and his wife, Brynna, live in Los Angeles with their two daughters.

  DON D'AMMASSA is the author of Blood Beast, Servants of Chaos, Dead of Winter, and four other novels, as well as three nonfiction books and more than one hundred short stories. He was the book reviewer for Science Fiction Chronicle for almost thirty years. Don is currently writing full-time, at least when he's not reading.

  MARK ONSPAUGH is a native Californian who grew up on a steady diet of horror, science fiction, and DC Comics. He's written a whole lot of screenplays, and was one of the writers of Flight of the Living Dead. He knows people expect horror writers to be lurking misanthropes, but hasn't lurked since leaving LA. He lives in Los Osos with his wife, author/artist Dr. Tobey Crockett and two off-kilter cats. He hopes that, by the time this book is published, he has retired to a private island in the South Pacific.

  J. A. KONRATH is the author of the Lt. Jack Daniels thrillers, the latest of which isFuzzy Navel. He also edited the hit-man anthology These Guns for Hire and wrote the horror novel Afraid under the name Jack Kilborn. Vist Joe at www.JAKonrath.com.

  F. PAUL WILSON is the award-winning,'New York Times—bestselling author of The Keep, The Tomb, and other novels and short stories spanning horror, adventure, medical thrillers, science fiction, and virtually everything between. More than eight million copies of his books are in print in the U.S. and his work has been translated into twenty-four languages. He also has written for the stage, screen, and interactive media. His latest novel, Secret Histories, stars a teenage Repairman Jack.

  CHARLAINE HARRIS writes the New York Times best-selling Sookie Stackhouse novels and the Harper Connelly series. She lives in southern Arkansas with her husband, daughter, and three dogs. The duck died. Charlaine s only consistent hobby is reading.

  STEVEN SAVILE won the Writers of the Future Award in 2002. Since then he has gone on to publish novels in six different languages. He has worked with the popular Doctor Who, Torchwood, and Primeval television shows in the UK, most recently with the novel Primeval: Shadow of the Jaguar, and the audio drama Torchwood: Hidden. He has also written four novels for Games Workshop's War-hammer fantasy series and two Celtic fantasy novels in the Sldine series. He doesn't fantasize about killing his wife. Honestly.

  During WILL LUDWIGSEN's adolescence, teachers and guidance counselors placed even odds on him ending up in a mental hospital or prison. He now works for the federal government, thereby fulfilling both predictions at once. When not writing horror nonfiction for them as a training consultant, he writes horror fiction for Weird Tales, Cemetery Dance, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and other venues your mother warned you against. If you're working on a graduate thesis in sociopathology, his website at www.will-ludwigsen.com is a treasure trove of research material.

  JANET BERLINER is the Bram Stoker Award-winning author of six novels, including The Madagascar Manifesto trilogy with George Guthridge, and Artifact, her four-way collaboration with friends Kevin J. Anderson, Matthew J. Costello, arid F. Paul Wilson. She has sold over one hundred short stories to magazines and anthologies. She is also the editor of six anthologies, including two with illusionist David Copperfield, and one with Joyce Carol Oates. She is a member of the Council of the National Writers Association, a past president of the Horror Writers Assosciation, and a member of Authors Guild, and the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. Born in South Africa, Janet now lives in Las Vegas while she plans her escape to the Caribbean.

  Despite taking creative writing classes in the 1980s, ERIC JAMES STONE did not begin seriously writing fiction until 2002. Since then, he has sold stories to the Writers of the Future Contest, Analog, and Orson Scott Card's Inter-galactic Medicine Show, among other places. Eric lives in Utah, has a website at www.ericjamesstone.com, and does not eat human flesh.

  Number one New York Times bestselling author SHERRILYN KENYON lives a life of extraordinary danger ... as does any woman with three sons, a husband, a menagerie of pets, and a collection of swords that all of the above have a major fixation with. But when not running interference (or dashing off to the emergency room), she's found chained to her computer where she likes to play with all her imaginary friends. With more than twelve million copies of her books in print, in twenty-eight countries, she certainly has a lot of friends to play with, too. Writ-

  ing as Kinley MacGregor and Sherrilyn Kenyon, she is an international phenomenon and the author of several series, including The Dark-Hunters, The League, Brotherhood of the Sword, Lords ofAvalon, and Nevermore.

  Five-time Hugo Award winner MIKE RESNICK is, according to Locus, the all-time leading award winner for short fiction. He is the author of over fifty novels, close to two hundred stories, a pair of screenplays, and has edited fifty anthologies. His work has been translated into twenty-two languages.

  D. L. SNELL is an Affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association, a graduate of Pacific University's Creative Writing program, and a freelance editor for Permuted Press. Snell's first novel, Roses of Blood on Barbwire Vines, pits zombies against vampires. David Moody, author of the Autumn series, calls it "violent and visceral... beautiful and erotic," and Bram S
toker Award-winning author Jonathan Maberry says, "[I]t has all the ingredients needed to satisfy even the most jaded fan of horror fiction." For more information, visit www.exit66.net.

  NANCY HOLDER is a USA Today bestselling author who has received four Bram Stoker Awards, and has been nominated for two more. She was a charter member of HOWL and is a former trustee of HWA. The author of Pretty Little Devils and the co-author of the Wicked series (with Debbie Viguie), she lives in San Diego with her beautiful, wonderful daughter, Belle. Together they write about a magical mouse named Lightning Merriemouse-Jones, and have sold two of their short stories to DAW Books.

  Award-winning author NANCY KILPATRICK has published seventeen novels and about two hundred short stories, and has edited eight anthologies. She also has written one nonfiction book: The Goth Bible: A Compendium for the Darkly Inclined (St. Martin's Press, October 2004). Mostly she writes in the horror/dark fantasy field, but has also penned fantasies, mysteries, erotica, and one science fiction story. She lives in Montreal with her black cat Bella and her calico cat Fedex. Check out her website for a list of current works: www.nancykilpatrick.com.

  JEFF STRAND was a 2006 Bram Stoker Award finalist for his novel Pressure, but most of his work consists of demented horror/comedy like The Sinister Mr. Corpse, Mandibles, and Gleefully Macabre Tales. He's also the creator of Andrew Mayhem, who has bumbled his way through the novels Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary), Single White Psychopath Seeks Same, and Casket for Sale (Only Used Once). You really should consider checking out his official website at www.jeffstrand.com.

  SHARYN McCRUMB, a New York 7OT«-bestselling Appalachian writer, won a 2006 Library of Virginia Award and the AWA Book of the Year Award for St. Dale, the story of a group of ordinary people who go on a pilgrimage in honor of NASCAR's Dale Earnhardt and find a miracle. McCrumb, who was honored as one of the "Virginia Women in History" for 2008, says: "Writing about NASCAR was a wonderful experience for me. After spending my adolescence writing term papers and avoiding proms, I am now jumping hills at one hundred mph with a race car driver on Virginia back roads, and it is glorious. The books won literary awards, are taught throughout the region, got me invited to the White House, and put the Earnhardts and a Daytona 500 winner on my speed dial. I'm having much more fun than writers usually have." McCrumb is best known for her Appalachian "Ballad" novels. A film of The Rosewood Casket is currently in production.