The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told

by Martin H. Greenberg

  “What about a second stop for our honeymoon?” I asked.

  Her nose scrunched in an unspoken “What?”

  “Well, I know this isn’t shaping up to be everything you’d hoped . . . .”

  “This afternoon was.” She grinned and rubbed her foot against mine. “I’m having a good time, but if you’re not . . . ”

  How the hell was I supposed to answer that? No, darling, our honeymoon sucks. I’m bored and I want to go somewhere else.

  If it was true, I wouldn’t have minded saying so, though I supposed, being a romantic getaway, I’d have to phrase it more carefully. Walking away from a threat set my teeth on edge, but it was better than having this mutt ruin our honeymoon. Still, given the choice between staying and making Elena think I was having a shitty time, something told me option one—even if it meant fighting a bigger, younger werewolf—was a whole lot safer.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “You just seemed a little . . . bored earlier.”

  Alarm brightened her eyes and she hurried to assure me she was, most certainly, not bored. I should have known. Any other time, Elena would have no problem admitting it. But a honeymoon was different. It was a ritual and, as such, came with rules, and saying she was bored broke them all.

  Shortly after I met Elena, I’d realized that, while she squirmed and chafed under the weight of human rules and expectations, there was one aspect of them she embraced almost to the point of worship. Rituals. Like Christmas. Ask Elena to bring cookies for the parent-and-tot picnic and she’ll buy them at the bakery, then dump them into a plastic container so they’d look homemade. But come mid-December, she’ll whip herself into a frenzy of baking, loving every minute because that’s part of Christmas.

  When the subject of “making it official for the kids’ sake” came up, I knew she’d want the ritual—a real wedding, the kind she’d dreamed of eighteen years ago when we’d bought the rings, her face lit up with dreams of a white dress and a new life and happily ever after.

  Instead of the happily ever after, she got a bite on the hand and the kind of new life that had once existed only in her nightmares.

  I won’t make excuses for what I did. The truth is that your whole life can change with one split-second decision and it doesn’t matter if you told yourself you’d never do it, or if you stepped into that moment with no thought of doing it. All it takes is that one second of absolute panic when the solution shines in front of you, and you grab it . . . only to have it turn to ash in your hand. There is no excuse for what I did.

  After I bit Elena, it took eleven years for her to forgive me. Forgetting what I’d done to her, though, was impossible. It was always there, lurking in the background.

  When Elena vetoed a wedding, I thought it was just the weight of human mores again—that it didn’t feel right when we already had kids. So I’d decided I’d give her one as a surprise. Jeremy talked me out of it and it was then, as he waffled and circled the subject of “why not” that I finally understood. There could be no wedding because every step—from sending invitations to walking down the aisle—would only remind her of the one she’d planned all those years ago, and the hell she’d gone through when it fell apart.

  But the honeymoon was one part of the ritual we hadn’t discussed. So, if a wedding was out, the least I could do was give her that.

  I’d made all the arrangements, trying to create the perfect honeymoon. My way of saying that I’d screwed up eighteen years ago and I was damned lucky we’d ever reached the stage where a honeymoon was even a possibility.

  The mutt resurfaced at dinner, spoiling my second meal in a day. Not just any meal this time, but a special one at a place so exclusive that I—well, Jeremy—had to reserve our table weeks ago. It was one of those restaurants where the lighting is so dim, I don’t know how humans can see what they’re eating or find what they’re eating—the tiny portions lost on a plate filled with inedible decorations. But it was romantic. At least, that’s what the guidebook said.

  It matched Elena’s expectations, and that was all that mattered. She’d enjoy the fussy little portions, the fancy wines, the fawning waitstaff, then fill up on pizza in our room later. Which was fine by me . . . until the mutt showed up.

  As I was returning from the bathroom, he stepped into the lobby to ask the maître d’ for directions. Our eyes met. He smiled, turned, and sauntered out.

  I knew I should walk away. Take care of him later. But there was no way I could enjoy my dinner knowing he was prowling outside. And if I didn’t enjoy it, Elena wouldn’t enjoy it, and we’d get into a fight about why I’d take her someplace I’d hate only to sulk through the meal. I was determined to make it through this trip without any knock-down, drag-out fights . . . or, at least, not to cause any myself.

  I waited until the maître d’ escorted a couple into the dining room, then took off after the mutt.

  I found him waiting for me in the lane behind the restaurant. He was leaning against the wall, ankles crossed, eyes closed.

  Who raises their kids like this? That was the problem with mutts. Not all mutts—I’ll give them that. Some teach their sons basic survival and a few do as good a job as any Pack wolf, but there are far too many who just don’t give a damn. At least in a Pack, if your father doesn’t teach you properly, someone else will.

  Here stood a perfect example of poor mutt-parenting skills—a kid stupid enough not only to challenge me, but to feign confidence to the point of boredom, lowering his guard in the hopes of looking “cool.” Now I had to teach him a lesson, all because his father couldn’t be bothered telling him I wasn’t someone to fuck with.

  Werewolves earn their reputations through endless challenges. Twenty-seven years ago, when I’d wanted to protect Jeremy on his rise to Alphahood, I didn’t have time for that. So I’d sealed my reputation with a single decisive act, one guaranteed to convince every mutt on the continent that the infamous child werewolf had grown into a raging lunatic. To get to Jeremy, they had to go through me, and after what I did, few dared try.

  I could only hope this mutt just didn’t realize whom he’d challenged and, once he did, a few abject apologies and a brief trouncing would set the matter straight and I could get back to my honeymoon.

  I walked over and planted myself in front of him.

  He opened his eyes, stretched, and faked a yawn. “Clayton Danvers, I presume?”

  So much for that idea . . .

  I studied him. After a moment, he straightened, shifting his weight and squirming like a freshman caught napping during my lectures.

  “What?” he said.

  I examined him head to foot, eyes narrowing.

  “What?” he said again.

  “I’m trying to figure out what you’ve got.”

  His broad face screwed up, lips pulling back, giving me a shot of breath that smelled like it’d never been introduced to mouthwash.

  “So what is it?” I asked. “Cancer, hemorrhagic fever, rabies . . .”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You do have a fatal disease, right? In horrible agony? ’Cause that’s the only reason any mutt barely past his first Change would call me out. Looking for a quick end to an unbearable existence.”

  He let out a wheezing laugh. “Oh, that’s a good one. Does that line usually work? Scare us off before you have to fight? Because that’s the only reason a runt like you would have the reputation of a psycho killer.”

  He stepped closer, pulling himself up straight, just to prove, in case I hadn’t noticed, that he had a good five inches and fifty pounds on me. Which did not make me a runt. I’d spent my childhood being small for my age, but I’d caught up to an average size. Still, mutts like to point out that I’m not as big as my reputation, as if I’ve disappointed them.

  “You do have a daddy, right?” I asked.

  His face screwed up again. “What?”

  “You have a father, don’t you?”

  “Is that some kind of Pack insul
t? Of course, I have a father. Theo Cain. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”

  I knew the Cains. Killed one of them a few years ago in an uprising against the Pack. “And your daddy warned you about me? Told you about the pictures?”

  “Pfft.” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve heard about those. Photos of some dude you carved up with a hatchet.”

  “Chain saw.”

  “Whatever. It’s bullshit.”

  I eased to the side, getting my nose away from his mouth. “And the witness? He’s still alive, last I heard.”

  “Some guy you paid off.”

  “The pictures?”

  “Photoshopped.”

  “It was almost thirty years ago.”

  “So?”

  I shook my head. The problem with stupid people is you can’t reason with them. Waste of my time while my meal was getting cold and Elena was spending our romantic dinner alone.

  Screw this.

  I surveyed the dark service lane. There was never a convenient Dumpster when you needed one I eyed the garbage cans, eyed Cain, sizing him up. . . .

  “So when do we fight?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “You know. Go mano a mano. Fight to the death. Your death, of course. I’m looking forward to enjoying the spoils.” His tongue slid between his teeth. “Mmm. I gotta thing for blondes with tight little asses, and your girl is fine. Bet she’ll fix up real nice.”

  “Fix up?”

  “You know. Get some makeup on. Get rid of that ponytail. Trade the jeans for a nice miniskirt to show off those long legs. You gotta keep after chicks about things like that or they get comfortable, let it slide. Not that she isn’t damned sweet right now, but with a little extra effort, she’d be hot.”

  I shook my head.

  “What?” he said “You’ve never tried?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it. Another waste of time. He wouldn’t understand my point of view, no more than I understood his. “So you think if you kill me, you get Elena?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “If it didn’t require my death, I’d be tempted to go along with it, just to watch you tell her that.”

  “Whatever.” He rolled on his heels. “Let’s get this over with. I’m hoping you brought your chain saw, ’cause otherwise, this fight isn’t going to be nearly as much fun as I was hoping, with your fucked-up arm and all.”

  I stopped, then slowly looked up, meeting his gaze. “My arm?”

  “Yeah, Brian McKay said you busted his balls last year for having some sport with a whore. He said something was wrong with your arm. You kept using your other one. Tyler Lake says he did it, as payback for what you did to his brother.”

  “Yeah? Did he mention which arm it was? This one?”

  I grabbed him by the throat and pinned him to the wall, hand tightening until his face purpled and his eyes bulged.

  “Or was it this one?”

  I slammed my fist into his jaw. Teeth and bone crackled. He tried to scream, but my hand against his windpipe stifled it to a whimper.

  I dragged him down the wall until his face was level with mine, and leaned in, nose to nose. “I’d say that will teach you not to listen to rumors, but you’re a bit thick, aren’t you? I’m going to have to—”

  A thump to my left stopped me short. I glanced over as the restaurant rear door swung open. We were behind it, a dozen feet away, out of sight. I held Cain still as I watched and listened, ready to drag him into the alley if a foot appeared under that door.

  Garbage can lids clattered. They were right next to the door. No need to step outside. Just dump the trash—

  Cain let out a high-pitched squeal—the loudest noise he could manage. Then he started banging at the boarded-up window beside him. I tightened my grip, my glower warning him to stop. A foot appeared under that door, someone stepping out. I dropped the mutt and dove around the corner.

  “Hey! Hey, you there!”

  I pressed up against the wall. Footsteps sounded. A man yelled at Cain, mistaking him for a drunk. The mutt mumbled something about being jumped, struggling to talk with a broken jaw.

  I gritted my teeth. Ending a fight by alerting humans was bad enough. Trying to set them on my trail? That toppled into full-blown cowardice.

  I shook it off and retreated before someone came looking for the “mugger.”

  Back in the restaurant I longed to visit the washroom and scrub Cain’s stink off me. But I’d been gone too long already. So I grabbed a linen napkin from a wait station, wiped the blood from my hands as I strode through the dining room, and tossed the cloth onto an uncleared table.

  Elena looked up from the last bites of her meal.

  “Hey, there,” she said, smiling. “Thought you’d made a fast-food run on me.”

  “Nah.” I took my suit coat from the chair and slipped it on, blocking the mutt’s smell and covering the blood splatter. “Something didn’t agree with me.”

  “Lunch, I bet. That’s the thing about buffets—lots of food, none of it very good. So, is dessert out of the question?”

  I shook my head. “Just give me a second to finish dinner.”

  Our hotel was a few blocks from the restaurant, so we’d walked. Heading back, I had to switch sides every time we turned a corner, staying downwind from Elena, and keeping a foot’s gap between us. She didn’t notice the extra distance. Neither of us was much for public displays of affection, so walking hand-in-hand wasn’t expected.

  That worked only until we got to our room. She leaned against me as she pulled off her heels, then ran her hand up the back of my leg, grinning upside down, hair fanning the floor. She swept it back as she stood, her hand sliding up my leg and into my back pocket.

  “Pizza now?” she asked. “Or after we work up an appetite?” I tugged her hand out, lacing my fingers with hers, elbow locked to keep her from getting close enough to smell Cain.

  “Hold that thought,” I said. “I’m going to grab a shower.”

  Her brows shot up. “Now?”

  “That problem in the restaurant? I’m thinking it might be something I rolled in this afternoon. My leg’s itching like mad. Let me scrub it off before I pass it along.”

  Her head tilted, the freckles across her nose bunching as she studied me, her bullshit meter wavering. Normal-Elena would have called me on it, but honeymoon-Elena was struggling to avoid confrontations just as much as I was, so after a moment, she shrugged.

  “Take your time. I’ll catch the news.”

  I ran my hands through my hair and lifted my face into the spray. My forearm throbbed as the hot water hit it. Tomorrow I’d pay for overworking the damaged muscle, but it was worth it if Cain took home proof that Clayton Danvers’s arm was definitely not “fucked up.”

  For two years, I’d been so careful in every fight, convinced no one would notice. I was favoring my left. I should have known better. Like scavengers, mutts could sense weakness.

  Damn Brian McKay. If Elena had listened to me, we wouldn’t have had to worry about him talking to anyone. When he’d killed a prostitute in El Paso, Jeremy sent us after him, but left his punishment up to Elena, as he often did these days. To me, the answer was simple. McKay was a vicious thug and we should eliminate the threat while we had the excuse. Elena had disagreed and we’d let him off with a beating. Let him return home to spread his story about my arm.

  I squeezed the water from my hair as I moved out of the spray and looked down at the pitted rut of scar tissue. All these years of fighting without a permanent injury and what finally does it? One little scratch from a rotting zombie. At the worst of the infection, I’d been in danger of losing my arm, so I couldn’t complain about some muscle damage.

  But if rumors were already circulating, I had to squelch them. And maybe even that wouldn’t be enough. Was Theo Cain’s son only the first in a new generation of mutts who’d heard the stories about me and fluffed them off
as urban legends or, at least, ancient history?

  I’d first cemented my reputation to protect Jeremy. Now I had fresh concerns—a mate, kids . . . and a fucked-up arm that was never going to get any better. So how was I going to convince this generation of mutts that Clayton Danvers really was the raging psychopath their fathers warned them about?

  I rubbed the face cloth over my chest, hard and brisk enough to burn. I didn’t want to go through that shit again. What the hell would I do for an encore? What could I do that wouldn’t have Elena bustling the twins off to a motel while she reconsidered whether I was the guy she wanted raising her kids?

  Elena understood why I’d taken a chain saw to that mutt. If pressed, she might even grudgingly admit it had been a good idea. Anesthetic ensured the guy hadn’t suffered much—the point was only to make others think he had. Still, only in the last few years had she stopped twitching every time someone mentioned the photos. Admitting I might have been right didn’t mean she wanted to think about what I’d done. And she sure as hell wouldn’t want me doing it again.

  I shut the taps and toweled off, scrubbing away any remaining trace of Cain.

  As I got out, I could hear the television from the next room. So the news wasn’t over. Good. I had no interest in local or world events—human concerns—but Elena would be engrossed in them. Distracting her was always a challenge . . . and a sure way to clear my head of thoughts that didn’t belong on a honeymoon.

  I draped the towel around my shoulders, then eased open the door to get a peek at the playing field. Through the mirror, I could see the bed. An empty bed, the spread gathered and wrinkled where Elena had sprawled to watch the news.

  A sportscaster was running through scores. Shit.

  I tried to see the sitting area through the mirror, but the angle was wrong. It didn’t matter. If she was finished with the news, I’d lost my chance to play. I gave my dripping hair one last swipe, tossed the towel on the bathroom floor, walked into the suite, and thumped onto the bed, springs squealing.