The Eye of the Moon

by AnonYMous

  ‘Thank you, Professor Cromwell. I’ll do that.’

  ‘Good, but you still haven’t told me what plans you have for your three days’ vacation.’

  ‘Oh. Well, nothing really.’ Beth continued to fidget uncomfortably with a few long strands of hair hanging just in front of her ear.

  Cromwell smiled at her again and then nudged the brown-paper parcel over the desk to her. ‘It’s eighteen years today, isn’t it?’ he said quietly.

  Beth stared down at the floor. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was a whisper.

  ‘Halloween, eighteen years ago. That must have been a terrible night.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it was.’

  ‘So, I’ve bought you this gift,’ said Cromwell, nodding at the package. ‘Open it, please.’

  Beth reached tentatively for the package as if expecting him to snatch it away. When it was in her hands she set about unwrapping it. It had been sealed at each end with thick industrial tape. Not exactly girly wrapping, but who was she to complain.

  After peeling the tape from the parcel she tore it open and saw within it a soft but very warm-looking blue hooded sweatshirt with a zip-up front. She lifted it out of the packaging and held it up. As she did so something else fell out and clattered on to the desk.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Beth gasped, fearing she had scratched the wood on the desk.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the Professor, amused, but anxious to reassure her. She really was extraordinarily self-effacing, he thought.

  Beth smiled shyly and held up the blue hooded sweatshirt. ‘Thank you so much for this,’ she said. She sounded genuinely pleased.

  On the desk in front of her, where it had fallen from the package, lay a silver chain with a large crucifix hanging from it. The crucifix was also silver, but a small blue stone had been set in the centre of it.

  ‘Is this for me too?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I want you to wear the sweatshirt and the necklace when you go to the pier tonight.’

  ‘What?’ Beth’s confusion was all too obvious, and she blushed furiously.

  ‘You go to the pier every Halloween night, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but how did you …’

  ‘Let’s just say that I like to know a little bit about the people I employ. You know, the personal details. As I understand it, you go to the pier every Halloween night and freeze half to death, and I can’t have that. I would hate to think of you coming down with a cold, spoiling your three days off. And the crucifix? Well, that’s just in case any evil spirits come your way. It may help to ward them off. The blue stone in the centre is in fact a tiny vial. It contains holy water from the Sistine Chapel in Rome.’

  Beth was overcome with gratitude. ‘Thank you so much, Professor Cromwell. I don’t know what to say. These are lovely.’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything, Beth. I am very glad that you’re pleased. But I am curious about one thing. Why the pier every Halloween? It’s very dangerous down there. Is it because that’s where you were arrested that night eighteen years ago?’

  ‘Kind of,’ said Beth, fastening the chain around her neck and adjusting the crucifix so that it hung centrally. ‘I was supposed to meet a boy there at one o’clock on the night – well, morning, I guess – I was arrested. I think I missed him because I was late getting there, but a fortune teller who lived by the pier said he would come back. So I wait there from midnight till one every year. I know it sounds silly, but ever since I left prison it’s kind of become a tradition.’

  ‘A fortune teller, you say? Was that the Mystic Lady?’

  ‘Yes, Annabel de Frugyn. She was murdered last year.’

  ‘I remember reading about it. You know, that woman was undoubtedly a little eccentric. She predicted all kinds of strange things. She claimed that puppets could see, and that there would be an earthquake in Santa Mondega on the fourth of March about three years ago. Caused quite a panic at the time, and she was totally wrong, of course. Strange woman. Bit of a con artist, too. Always looking through the obituaries and stuff.’

  ‘I know, Professor Cromwell, but I just like to pretend to believe it all. You probably think I’m being silly, and I know everyone calls me “Mental Beth”, but I just have to live with those things. Spending an hour at the pier every Halloween is better than Christmas for me. That may sound mad, but it’s true. In spite of all the horrible things that happened on that night eighteen years ago, it was still the best night of my life, and if people think that makes me “mental” then so be it.’

  Cromwell got up from his chair. ‘I admire your spirit, my dear,’ he said generously. ‘Take the rest of the day off. Wrap up warm in that sweatshirt, and keep the crucifix on, where it can be seen, and I’ll say a prayer that your young man comes back for you tonight.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Beth, standing up and picking up the blue sweatshirt. ‘Thank you for everything, and see you in three days.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Thirty-Nine

  After his brief flirtation with danger brought on by the reappearance of the Bourbon Kid, Sanchez had rushed back to the Tapioca in double-quick time. He burst in through the front door like a man possessed, sweating and panting for breath. The barroom wasn’t exactly how he liked to see it, either. To his dismay there was a clan of six werewolves and a hooker sitting at one of the tables right in the centre of the room. The werewolves were a scruffy bunch, like most of their kind. All unkempt, unshaven and a good deal hairier than the average customer. And the average customer in the Tapioca was usually pretty hairy, but these guys stood out to Sanchez. Apart from the hooker, they were the only drinkers in the bar, most likely because any others would have cleared out at the sight of them.

  Sanchez recognized the leader of the clan first – it was MC Pedro, the useless rap-star wolf. A Grade-A idiot (like most werewolves, if truth be told) who was blissfully unaware of just how shit his rapping and lyrical flow was. On this occasion he had come dressed appropriately for a wannabe rapper, wearing an oversized yellow LA Lakers basketball shirt bearing the number 42. The hooker was sitting on his knee, which was not an attractive sight. She looked distinctly rough in a scarlet-coloured dress that left little to the imagination, and her jet-black hair was a mess, suggesting she’d already carried out a few of her services in the men’s room out back. Sanchez was livid at the sight of this loser, his hooker and his loser friends sitting in the bar area.

  ‘Hey, I thought I told you guys never to come in here!’ he yelled at them, in a manner far braver than even he had expected.

  ‘Hey, man,’ said Pedro, standing up from the table and causing the hooker to fall off his knee and on to the floor. He approached Sanchez with an arrogant strut that looked particularly stupid because his basketball shirt was hanging down past the knees of his black combat trousers and wasn’t quite wide enough to accommodate the long steps he was trying to take. When he was little more than two feet away, in an attempt to impress his comrades and intimidate Sanchez, he burst into one of his infamous raps. ‘Wassup you bitchass muthafucka? The moon ain’t bustin’ out just yet, so there ain’t no need for you to fret. Let me break it down for ya, we’re legit for one more sip, ’cos for you my homeboy we’re too legit. One more sip is all it takes, and then my brother we’ll all do the shake!’

  Sanchez didn’t like rap at the best of times, but when it was done as poorly as this and made absolutely no sense, it turned his stomach. Had this MC Pedro guy heard any rap music by anyone other than MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice? Probably not.

  When, a moment later, the idiot werewolf rapper patted him on the shoulder in a slightly intimidating manner, Sanchez could actually feel himself getting angry. He didn’t have the time or the patience for this shit. Normally, Pedro’s threatening manner would have made the cowardly bartender feel more than a little uncomfortable, but on this occasion it didn’t have the desired effect. Sanchez had bigger things on his plate right now. The Bourbon Kid was heading their way, and all of these pansy-assed werewo
lves were likely to perish if Santa Mondega’s most feared decided to look in for a quick snort.

  ‘I gotta go upstairs a minute,’ said Sanchez, pushing past Pedro and heading behind the bar towards the stai rs to the apartment above. ‘I want you lowlifes gone by the time I get back.’

  ‘Sure.’ Pedro smiled. ‘You’ll just hear one more sound. An’ it’ll be me orderin’ one last round.’

  Sanchez was appalled, not just by the rapping but by the news that the werewolves planned to order another round of drinks. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to argue. He needed to get to Jessica before the Kid showed up.

  Working behind his bar on this most unpleasant of early evenings was a fairly new employee named Sally. She was an attractive would-be Baywatch babe, only with just a little bit more meat on her bones than a lifeguard should really have. She usually wore low-cut tops to show off her generous cleavage, and today was no exception – a skimpy, tight red top with a plunging neckline was twinned with a tiny pair of black leather hotpants. This outfit was similar to the one that she had worn to her job interview with Sanchez, and which had been the main reason he had employed her. She had no previous experience as a bartender, and she was fairly dumb, but she had it where it counted when it came to the customers, who liked her. A lot. Behind the bar, Sanchez made a quick stop by Sally and quickly whispered some instructions into her right ear as he stared down her cleavage. The instructions were only too familiar to Sally already, although she didn’t relish carrying them out. After making sure she understood exactly what he wanted her to do, he bounded on up the stairs to the room where Jessica was staying.

  MC Pedro strutted up to the bar and leaned over the wooden counter to get as far into Sally’s personal space as he could. And to sneak a look at her tits, or as much of them as was on show.

  ‘Seven whiskeys. Now,’ he growled.

  ‘Sure thing.’ Sally offered a half-hearted smile. There were two things she didn’t like about her job at the Tapioca. The first was having to serve dangerous bastards like MC Pedro. The second was always having to serve them piss instead of what they actually ordered, because Sanchez insisted on it. So it was with a great deal of reluctance and after an almighty deep breath that she picked up the special bottle from under the bar and poured out seven glasses of the stuff.

  There was a stained copper tray on the bar, and she set the glasses down on it one by one, shaking very slightly as she did so, fearing what might follow once the werewolves tasted their drinks.

  ‘That’ll be twenty-eight dollars, please,’ she smiled nervously at Pedro.

  ‘Yo bitch. This place is a fuckin’ rip-off! Change the price or I bite your lip off!’ Pedro rapped, even louder and more angrily than usual. Though there was no sign of the full moon due that night his rage was starting a semi-transformation into his werewolf persona. This wasn’t something that would normally have been possible, but Pedro had tasted blood from the Grail. Since then he could turn at will, or just instinctively. Luckily, this was not a full turning. He merely sprouted a little more hair around the face, and a minor ripple ran through his arms as his biceps enlarged a little. His new strength was hard to control when he felt even the slightest rage inside.

  ‘You know what?’ said Sally nervously. ‘Have these on the house. Just don’t tell Sanchez, okay?’

  The beast within Pedro calmed a little and his appearance returned to its more normal state. At that moment another man walked in through the front entrance and joined him at the bar. Pedro recognized him immediately.

  ‘Hey man, how ya doin’?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m good,’ was the newcomer’s abrupt response. He was wearing a long dark robe with a large hood hanging down around his shoulders.

  ‘Yo, barmaid,’ Pedro snapped. ‘Get my buddy here a whiskey too. Stick it on my slate.’

  ‘Sure.’ Sally picked up the piss bottle once more, but the Tapioca’s new customer quickly stopped her.

  ‘I’ll have a shot from that bottle over there,’ he said, gesturing to a bottle of bourbon that was gathering dust at the back of the bar. ‘On the rocks.’

  ‘Yo, wassup? You don’ like the whiskey in here, homeboy?’ Pedro asked his suspiciously.

  ‘That’s stuff’s piss.’

  ‘It may taste like it’s full of piss, but it don’t mean … you can’t touch this!’ Pedro rapped.

  ‘It’s piss.’

  From the back of the bar where she was pouring bourbon over a couple of ice cubes, Sally was picking up on a distinct touch of gravel in the newcomer’s voice. She hadn’t seen this guy in the Tapioca before, and she already had a feeling she wouldn’t want to see him again.

  Pedro hadn’t really got the point of his companion overemphasizing the It’s piss joke, so he picked up his tray of drinks and carried it over to the werewolves’ table and set it down. The hooker now had nowhere to sit because Pedro wanted his chair back, so she stood up and proposed a toast.

  ‘To Pedro, the new boss!’ she called out.

  ‘To Pedro!’ the others chimed in unison. There was a chorus of chinking glasses as they all toasted their leader. Their mood was buoyant and the drinks were free. What more could a werewolf or a hooker ask for?

  Their cheeriness was soon drowned out, however, by the sound of Sanchez charging down the stairs. When he made it to the bottom he grabbed Sally’s arm as she was placing a drink down on the bar.

  ‘Hey, you see the girl from upstairs anywhere?’ he demanded, tugging hard on his employee’s arm.

  ‘No, why? She not upstairs?’ asked Sally.

  ‘No she ain’t. Jesus, woman, she’s gone. How the fuck did you miss her? She must have walked out this way? Aw, fuck!’ Sanchez was unable to hide the anger in his voice He was furious with the barmaid. She had been made well aware of how precious Jessica was. The beautiful woman upstairs wasn’t a secret Sanchez shared with many people. Unfortunately, Sally had wandered upstairs once and seen Jessica asleep, so he had been forced to divulge a little information about the woman he had secretly been in love with all these years. He also issued a simple instruction: never let anyone up there, and never let Jessica out without him knowing about it.

  Before he could tear into his hapless employee, Sanchez heard a voice that made his stomach flip and his blood run cold..

  ‘Hey, barmaid. Fill the glass.’

  He looked over at the man sat at the bar. Now Sanchez hadn’t shit himself since he was a kid, but he very nearly lost control of his ass at the sight of the Bourbon Kid sitting in his bar with a glass of the gold stuff in front of him. Holy-fuckin’-shit-I-don’t-need-this, he thought in his terror.

  Before Sanchez could speak, or even reach out to try to grab the glass of bourbon from where it sat on the bar, a glassful of warm piss was thrown in his face. It went in his eyes, mouth, nostrils and ears, and then began to drip down his nice white ‘FUCK OFF’ T-shirt.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been soaked in his own special brew, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Karma had a habit of catching up with Sanchez at times like this. As the shock subsided he took a moment to wipe his eyes to try to rid himself of the stinging sensation that was now making him weep a little. Standing at the bar was one very angry wannabe werewolf rapper, with a furious snarl distorting his face.

  ‘You fuckin’ scumbag, Sanchez!’ Pedro was shouting. ‘That ain’t the first time that fuckin’ bitch has pulled that piss trick!’

  The five other werewolves and the hooker remained at their table, fuming. Each had taken a swig of the piss in their glasses, and somehow each had managed to spit some of the foul liquid over whoever was sitting opposite them at the table. They were all trying to brush the stuff of their faces with their hands, spluttering and hawking as they tried to rid themselves of the taste.

  Sally stepped back out of range of the angry werewolf. She clearly felt safer topping up the glass of bourbon on the bar than dealing with the angry figure of Pedro. For a moment the stunned Sanchez didn’t
know where to look or what to say. Then he just blurted out the first thing that came into his head.

  ‘That’s the Bourbon Kid!’ he yelled, pointing at his newest customer.

  Pedro turned sharply and looked at the Kid who was sitting at the bar. He still hadn’t pulled his hood over his head.

  ‘Don’t talk fuckin’ stupid, Sanchez, I know this guy, his name’s …’

  Before he could finish his sentence the Kid sprang from his barstool and grabbed the thick black hair on the back of the rapper’s head. Then he smashed his face down on to the bartop.

  CRACK! – The sound of Pedro’s nose breaking echoed around the bar. The Kid pulled his victim’s head back up. It was already slick with blood and his nose was no longer in the middle of his face.

  ROAR! – A new sound. That of Pedro instinctively turning into a werewolf. Ready for a fight.

  SMASH! – Face down on the bartop again.

  And again.

  And again.

  This werewolf had taken great pleasure in the slaughter of Casper, an innocent whose brother had not been there to save him. He had to be made to pay. No quick death for this piece of filth. Seven times in succession the werewolf’s face was cracked down on to the bartop and hauled back up again. Each time it came back up it looked twice as bad as before. The seventh time the wolfman’s face hit the bartop it yielded a loud cracking noise as a set of huge fangs shattered and flew out of his mouth and over the bar.

  The Bourbon Kid pulled Pedro’s battered wolf face back up from the counter one last time and dragged him a foot back from the bar, once more pulling him by the thick hair on his head. The werewolf was unsteady on his feet, utterly dazed by the savage speed of the attack, which had taken him completely by surprise. While he was still struggling to regain his senses, his attacker shaped his free hand into a half-clenched fist. Then, in one sudden move of unimaginable violence he plunged his sharp clawed fingers into the wolf’s soft neck. They pierced the skin and flesh with horrible ease. An unpleasant squelching sound followed. The Kid’s hand wriggled and pulled at the wolf’s throat for a few brief seconds and then snapped back, leaving a gaping bloodied hole where the front of Pedro’s neck had been. In the Kid’s grip was a pulsating lump of bloodied gristle that had once been Pedro’s Adam’s apple.