by C. Gockel
Wyatt smiled.
“History is important to us, to me, and to humans in general. It links us to our ancestors and makes us see the totality of our achievements instead of just what we can accomplish in our short lifetimes.”
He picked up the Beretta and looked at it fondly.
“We wouldn’t have these firearms, or even the amazing weaponry in our military, without exploding cannons in the sixteenth century and generations of people dedicated to improving them. Keeping historic items around, it helps connect us with our past and allows us to feel like we can individually contribute to a chain of knowledge and advancement that builds our future.”
I can’t really describe how I felt hearing him say this. Humans mentally were like amoebas compared to us. The simplest things took them forever to think out and put together. I knew humans learned from each other, but this was the first time I realized the sum total of their advancements. They were mental midgets individually, but collectively and over time their intelligence and their accomplishments grew exponentially complex. Who knew what they’d be in a few thousand more years.
“I’ve grossly underestimated you,” I said. I meant the human race as a whole, but I think Wyatt took this as a personal compliment because he beamed at me. I tucked this away to contemplate it later, and looked at the last pistol on the table. It was a huge ugly hunk of metal. I think I was in love.
“What this one?”
“This,” Wyatt announced as if he were presenting me to the queen, “is a Desert Eagle .50–caliber. It has a gas operating repeating system with rotating pistol locks.”
Wyatt went on to describe the firing mechanism that produced enormous pressure in the barrel, and some other stuff about backward slide movement and recoil springs. I picked it up and the sucker was heavy. About seventy two ounces heavy. It was blocky, ugly, big, and held only seven rounds, but I fell in love just as Wyatt clearly had. It was such unbelievable overkill. I did love overkill.
I picked up one of the bullets and let my energy explore it. Brass casing with bullet inside, gunpowder, and a chemical mixture of lead, sulfide, and barium nitrate at the back end. I could envision the process of ignition in the primer, subsequent ignition of the powder, and combustive pressure ejection of the bullet. Brass is soft, so the powder combustion would push the cartridge case against the inside walls of the barrel, sealing the sides and allowing maximum pressure to propel the bullet with the expanding gas. Simplistic and still inefficient since, by my quick calculations, only about twenty six percent of the energy created by the combustion would propel the bullet. The rest would be wasted in heat or unused energy. Clever, though.
I got to shoot the Beretta. Wyatt had me shoot it two handed with the butt of the gun resting in my left palm. One handed was supposedly ideal since you could turn your body and present a smaller target to your opponent, but using both hands stabilized the gun, especially for inexperienced shooters, and allowed for greater accuracy. I could have had four arms like the goddess Kali and I still wouldn’t have hit the target. Five rounds with the shotgun and fifteen (a whole clip) with the pistol and the target stood there pristine and mocking me. I was tempted to just reach out and blow it to bits. That would have not only been accurate, but very efficient in energy usage. I decided that indulging in my urge to show off might send the tentative and rather promising advances in our relationship back a few paces.
Wyatt wasn’t so humble. He slapped a new clip in the pistol and, with one hand, pounded out five shots in rapid succession. He didn’t even look like he was aiming. In fact, he was holding the gun at some strange crooked angle which was in direct contradiction to his instructions earlier. We walked over to look at the target which had a nice cluster of holes where the drawing indicated a head should be.
“I think you killed him,” I said, admiring the grouping. I wanted so badly to add that I could easily do this without a gun, while doing Sudoku and playing piano at the same time, but I figured that he knew that and I didn’t want to rub it in.
I helped him put the guns back in his safe where I saw at several others he hadn’t trotted out for our session. The card table and target went under the dilapidated deck.
“Come have lunch with me,” Wyatt said putting a hand on my shoulder and sliding it down my arm to squeeze my hand.
I’d never been in Wyatt’s house beside my journey to the gun safe just a few moments ago. It seemed strange that we’d known each other these two years, and he was so free with my place, yet I’d never been in his home. I hoped this offer of lunch indicated some trust on his part.
The house inside was just as bad as it was on the outside. Furnishings were sparsely scattered around on the chipped linoleum and worn carpets. Wood paneling covered most of the walls, except for a strange wallpapered photograph mural in what must have been the dining room depicting a green forest scene. The furniture all looked to be hand–me–downs or thrift store, and the appliances didn’t match. Wyatt clearly spent every dime of his earnings on his computer equipment and TV which took up the entire living room in a humming sprawling mess of boxes and cables. I reached into the lemon yellow refrigerator to get the iced tea and the door nearly fell off in my hands.
“Shit, Wyatt. Your damned fridge door is falling off its hinges. I know what I’m getting you for Christmas.”
Wyatt shrugged unconcerned and told me I’d need to lift it a bit when closing it to make sure it sealed tight. The shape of his home didn’t seem to embarrass him at all. In fact, he seemed oblivious to its dilapidated condition.
We made Panini’s for lunch. Wyatt didn’t have a Panini press, so we used an old waffle iron instead. What he lacked in modern, functioning appliances, Wyatt made up for in the contents of his fridge. I expected a case of beer and cold Ramen noodles, but he had almost as many gourmet foods on his broken shelves as I did. We fixed turkey Panini’s with gruyere, artichoke, and roasted red pepper. They were amazing. I’d not cooked before coming to this realm, but luckily many of those I Owned did know how to cook and I could call on their memories. Otherwise, I would have been at the mercy of take–out for forty years. Still, this was really good and beyond what I usually managed on my own. I told Wyatt he should come over every day and cook me dinner on my decent stove. He thought I was joking.
I hated to leave, but I had some zoning documents I needed to review this afternoon. The city was trying to extend the historical district to encompass a few blocks where I had five apartments. Having to comply with their regulations would seriously cut into my profits and just piss me off in general. I was covering the bribery and threatening bases, but it still was good to explore their logic and reasons in case I needed to rebut this in a more civilized manner. These documents would be boring as hell, but I needed to buckle down and plow through them.
Wyatt walked me to the door and as I turned to say good bye he planted a kiss on me. It wasn’t passionate. It was gentle and tentative. I pushed back my raging hormones, kept my hands to my sides, and my tongue in my mouth.
“Wow, I didn’t die,” Wyatt said in amazement.
“And you didn’t shoot me,” I added.
Wyatt laughed.
“Are we okay?” I asked.
“Sam, you’re my best friend,” Wyatt said softly. “I can’t just throw that away.”
He kissed me again this time with greater intensity. I kept my hands fisted and firmly locked to my sides and kept myself in check. It wasn’t easy as he held himself under no such restrictions and brought his hands up to cup my face, his fingers in my hair. I really wanted to press myself against him, but held back, even as he ran his tongue over my bottom lip. He stepped back and looked at me appraisingly.
“I’ll call you later tonight,” he said.
“Okay,” I told him breathlessly and headed down the lane toward my house. Hmmm. A lot to think about and absolutely no desire to peruse zoning documents and historic district guidelines.
I let Boomer out of the barn and flicked on th
e radio and outdoor speakers by the pool. Maybe the documents would be more palatable if I read them outside. Pop music blared from the speakers, pumping out a Rihanna song. Walking over to the water I slipped off a sandal and dipped in a foot. What the hell. Work could wait. I pulled off my clothes, throwing them haphazardly around the patio and dived naked into the pool, reveling in the feel of the cool water against my skin. I did laps, and then sprawled on the inflatable lounge for a while. Fuck zoning, this was too nice a day to read that crap. I rolled off the lounge and did more laps.
As I came up for a breath of air, I saw a pair of high heels walking across the patio. They stopped a few feet from the edge and I swam to them. Pushing the hair from my eyes, I looked up and saw an immaculate Candy Starr before me. Her blond poof of hair was pulled tightly back, and she daringly wore white capris and a crisp tan and white button down shirt. I would have had dirt or coffee spilled on that outfit within seconds of putting it on. I wondered if she had a dirt repelling force field surrounding her pants. Or maybe some other kind of repelling force field, I thought humorously.
I knew I didn’t have an appointment with her, and it was pretty ballsy to come out to my home uninvited to discuss business deals. I stared at her silently, not giving her the courtesy of a greeting.
“I have a rather unfortunate matter that I need to discuss with you,” she said.
Chapter 8
Okay, now I was curious. I couldn’t imagine the canal row houses being an “unfortunate matter”. Candy was at the bar when I saw the angel. I was hoping that wasn’t the “unfortunate matter” she was referring to.
I swung myself up and over the side of the pool, noticing Candy’s uneasy expression when she realized I was swimming in the buff. I decided to expand on this by pulling myself upright to stand square in front of her, and wringing out my hair onto the patio. I didn’t know whether she was more alarmed at the prospect of getting pool water on her gleaming white capris or the full frontal view.
“What’s up?” I asked as she looked around unsuccessfully for a towel to hand me.
“I am a representative for Bobby Winegarten” she said, giving up her search and deciding to only look at me from the neck up.
She said this like I should know who the hell Bobby Winegarten was. He can’t have been important or I would have remembered his name. Although I was really bad at names in general.
“Is he one of the county commissioners?” I guessed. “The one who dated the previous mayor?”
“No,” she said watching me carefully with those shrewd brown eyes of hers. “Bobby Winegarten was found dead in his house on Rosecrest Lane off Old Annapolis Road last night. I’m here because he was part of my pack. As head of his pack, I represent him.”
Oh fuck. The electrocuted unwashed crazy guy. It wasn’t on the news last night or this morning though. And what was a pack? Why was Candy even here? Did real estate agents moonlight as crime scene investigators? Was she undercover FBI with license to deviate from the bland clothing? She’d have to be better than Spencer Reid to trace this back to me, especially in such a short time.
“I don’t know him,” I said casually. “Did he leave me money or something?”
Candy sighed.
“No. You killed him and I’m here to claim weregeld as the head of his pack.”
I understood weregeld. We don’t have family so to speak, but we do maintain households and those in our households are our property. If one is murdered, accident or not, it’s not a big deal. The killer does need to pay a price to the owner, though. If not, it calls their status into question and they could be knocked down in the hierarchy, or even killed themselves. If Candy was the head of this Bobby’s household, whatever she called it, then I did indeed owe restitution. I’d gladly pay it, but only if she could prove I did it. Another demon would have been able to read my energy signature and pin this on me, but I doubted this human had a video tape of me doing the deed or something equally incriminating. A murder with no evidence was no murder at all.
“If this man was murdered why aren’t the police investigating it?” I asked.
“Do you really want the police investigating this?”
I shrugged and smiled. I’m not afraid of the human law enforcement officers.
“Well we don’t like to involve others in our matters. Our kind prefers to handle this on our own. I went to check on Bobby after he missed an appointment yesterday. I found his house in disarray; clear evidence of a fight and a struggle. Bobby was dead apparently from some kind of high voltage strike to the chest.”
I walked over to a lounge chair and sprawled into it making sure I flashed Candy all the good parts. She winced and darted her eyes back to my face. She didn’t want to involve the police, and her rambling about her “pack” sounded a little off the deep end. I was beginning to figure she was in the Klan or with some subversive terrorist group. I could take her. And no one would find the body. I shot a quick glance at Boomer, who casually got up and stretched before wandering off to guard against intruders.
“What makes you think I killed your friend?” I asked. “Is there a super high–powered defibrillator in my car with my prints all over it?”
Candy looked at me carefully as if she understood the gravity of her situation.
“Bobby came to me last week as his pack leader and advised me that a hell hound was spying on him. To be honest, Bobby had his struggles with reality and was always concerned that someone was trying to follow him or even kill him. I told him to continue to report on this hell hound, but not to engage it in a fight. I didn’t want him tearing up the neighbor’s Rotti and have to deal with covering that up.
“Late Friday night, Bobby called me and told me that the hell hound had broken into his house and he had severely injured it trying to defend himself. He was terrified that the demon who owned the hound would retaliate. I had a strong suspicion what you were after we met in the Wine Room, so I didn’t want to just dismiss his claims. I met with him Saturday morning, but couldn’t get a good scent on this hell hound Bobby was talking about. I could clearly smell the neighbor dog, though. Since Bobby was uninjured and there were no unusual smells I figured he was having one of his psychotic episodes. I had him take his pills and told him I’d check back with him on Tuesday. When I didn’t hear from him before then, I thought he’d regained some sense of reality.
“I went over there this morning and found him dead. He apparently died late Saturday night. There were very clear scents in the house. I recognized your scent from the bar, and this time I did pick up the scent of your hound on the door sill.”
“And what do my dog and I smell like,” I said. This woman was clearly off her rocker. She had nothing on me, and I was looking forward to killing her.
“Your dog smells like hot chocolate and wet dog.”
Yum. Well, except for the wet dog.
“You smell like dark burnt chocolate — that’s very strong. You also smell like the human form you have now, and behind all that I can smell wisps of hundreds of humans and animals. I can’t differentiate the humans and animals. You have the most complex smell I’ve ever known, and the most distinctive.”
“It’s nice that your nose is so acute,” I said in a bored tone. “You’re quite the human bloodhound.” It was time to wrap this up because I suddenly wanted some pudding. The kind you cook on the stove so I could eat it warm right out of the pot.
Candy looked at me as if deciding what to do. Slowly she began unbuttoning her shirt and slipping off her heels. I watched her disrobe with interest. She clearly wasn’t aflame with desire. I could only assume that maybe she felt she would negotiate restitution better if we were both on an equal, naked playing field.
Candy obviously worked out. Hard. Her body rippled with lean muscles, and her breasts were small and natural with a slight gentle droop that comes from age and childbirth. Her belly showed confirmation of childbirth too. Low down on the six pack abs she had soft folds of skin and a cesarean sec
tion scar pale above her light brown curls of pubic hair.
She carefully folded and placed her clothes on a dry lounge chair. Facing me, her muscles began rolling under her skin like a thousand tennis balls, and her bones twisted and turned. I shot up out of my chair and stared in horror.
“Fuck! Fuck! Oh shit! Fuck!” I shouted as her body twisted and turned beyond the capabilities of the human flesh she wore.
Now to put this into perspective, I don’t gross out easily. I think Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a comedy. Pain and suffering doesn’t bother me, but this was brutal. Watching her spend ten minutes contorting her body, changing small sections at a time as she converted was agonizing. I can’t imagine how painful this must be, and I wondered how she didn’t pass out. Finally she was done and a huge wolf stood before me panting with eyes a little glazed from the difficulty of the transition. She was grey, with black tips on the edges of her coarse fur. The same shrewd brown eyes looked back at me as I admired her.
It was a good conversion. Excellent control and command over the details of the body. Solid, well formed. A bit bigger in the fore body than I would have done, but powerful and imposing none the less. The wolf took a deep breath and began to transform back with the same agonizing slowness. No, it actually took longer and it looked like some portions got stuck and had to be forced into the correct form. I winced quite a few times. This would clearly win a torture contest back home. I made a mental note.
Candy stood naked before me and slowly sat down on the chaise trying not to look weakened. She didn’t need to prove herself any further to me; I was impressed all to hell.
“Holy shit on a stick!” I shouted at her. “Why the fuck did you take so long to do that? You didn’t have to make it last that long to impress me. You are one tough bitch, girlfriend.”
Candy looked at me puzzled.
“You’re not surprised that I’m a werewolf? Like something out of a horror movie? I doubt you’ve ever seen one of us before, since we need to keep it hidden to be in compliance with our existence contract.”
