by J. F. Lewis
“Kyle, you’ve got to come play with the puppies!”
Oh, crap. Bacon had already headed to work the night guard shift at Void City Power. Greta not bumping into Bacon was good. Working mostly nights gave Bacon time to hang with me (and Cloe whenever I had a Cloe) during the day when she wanted, but from a vampire perspective my whole apartment carried Bacon’s scent. Not that she stinks. Therianthropes just happen to have stronger pheromones than humans. Maybe it’s the fur.
Greta arrived after Bacon left, but before whatever werewolves had broken into the apartment. Not that I’d known they were out there; I’d been a little preoccupied. There wasn’t too terribly much time until midnight when it would magically be Sunday and I could leave my apartment and still look like me.
I could find the silver lining in Greta’s timing, but her opening my door without knocking, while I was having -ahem- some “me” time looking at pictures of Greta from when we were both alive was a huge negative.
Worse, or at least equally bad, was the way the light of the Hand of Glory locked me in place mid... hand movement... The universe doesn’t hate me, but I’m convinced it likes to see me embarrassed.
“Put that thing away, mister.” Eyes taking in the scene, Greta clucked her tongue and snorted. “It might be loaded.”
At the instruction, my paralysis evaporated. Jerking my pants up and my laptop closed before Greta could see what I’d been looking at, I stood, grimacing.
“So... the Hand of Glory works, I see,” I said while willing part of me to relax and lie low. Her wet t-shirt was no help there.
“It’s not the only hand that-“ Greta snorted. “Sorry, I laughed before I could finish. Also, apparently before you could finish.” She mugged like a sitcom character expecting a laugh track.
“Puppies, huh?” I looked at the werewolf frozen behind her in the corridor. “Just how many ‘puppies’ are there?” Candle wax dripped in lines down the side of the candle pooling around the edge of the dead man’s fingers then spilling over to trail across the green-gray flesh and running over Greta’s fingers. “And how long have you been playing with them?”
“A little while. Who cares? Look, I know you’re weird about Saturdays but it’s after midnight and you like games… so come play.”
“Here,” she said. “You can use this ball.” Greta set the Hand of Glory down on the cement floor of the corridor and I was surprised to see the corpse hand adjust itself subtly to maintain its balance. Grabbing the werewolf next to her, Greta manipulated him like a doll, forcing his muzzle down, tucked against his chest and bend him into a sitting position. Wrapping his arm around his knees in rough approximation of a ball, she broke a few bones to help increase the ball-like effect.
She really wasn’t like this when she was alive. The dissonance hit me, filling my stomach with a sinking feeling. Her eyes met mine and despite the slow steady washing out of her irises there was a glimpse of the old her, harried and trying too hard, a desperate actress trying to draw in an unruly audience, a comedian afraid her smile will slip and the crowd will see her damage, not her persona.
It was the same look she had when she wanted Eric’s approval after seeing him do something monstrous.
“See,” her demeanor would say. “I saw you kill that young woman and rip off her head and I’m still smiling. I’m not scared. I approve. You saved me from my foster dad and you killed him for me. You’re going to make me strong like you and I love you and it’s not just okay that you murder people, it’s awesome! It’s great! It’s as it should be! Please don’t be mad at me if I throw up a little still. I’m not a vampire yet. When I’m a vampire, I’ll be perfect. You’ll see! You’ll be proud! Please be proud.”
I realized I would give anything to save her, to make her sane and happy and unafraid. In that moment, as I took the werewolf from her and she told me, in the light of a candle made from a man she murdered, to let her know if the werewolf got too heavy for me, I knew I was going to stop wasting time. I needed to get the ball rolling.
I could never save her; a woman as brilliant and powerful as Greta can’t be rescued... But if you love her and you are patient... and you bide your time... and find your moment, sometimes you can help her save herself.
“Kyle, are you having a Drone moment?”
I nodded, still thinking, as I followed her out to the parking lot. It had taken me just over a decade to fix my little Drone problem, but to engineer a similar opening for her in such a way that she might accept it... Maybe twice as long?
“Pay attention.” Greta stomped once and it set off alarm bells.
“You’re the boss, Applesauce.” I forced a smile and it conjured a matching expression of happiness from her.
Spreading her arms, she spun in a pirouette, her infectious joy working its way through me despite myself.
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re amazing.”
She preened.
Out in the parking lot, Greta had rearranged the parked cars to turn the steep hill leading to the uppermost set of apartment buildings into a makeshift bowling lane. At the bottom, ten werewolves stood tall and straight and unable to move, aligned in a perfect wedge like bowling pins.
“It’s easier to keep them rolling if we bowl downhill.“ Greta darted off at full vampire speed blurring, before my eyes, and coming clear again holding the Hand of Glory.
“Want to bowl first?” She jammed the wrist of the Hand of Glory against the asphalt. It adjusted, but stayed put.
“Thanks,” I said because it was what she wanted me to say. Picking up my “ball”, I took its weight and measure. I don’t think it would have occurred to me in a billion years to paralyze a bunch of werewolves and go bowling with them.
A line of paralyzed humans formed the foul line.
“Hey, Greta,” I asked, “what exactly are we going to do with these guys when the candle burns down?”
“I’ll tell you if you win,” she said.
Greta bowled a three hundred, a perfect game.
I bowled a ninety-eight. And, since my losing seemed to make her happy, I went home without being told what she was going to do with the werewolves. I imagined it would be painful, though. I’m glad she’s on my side.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Greta: Wolf Fiction
How does a vampire bowl a ninety-eight?! Even when using an unfamiliar werewolf for a ball, I don’t get it. I mean, he could have unfolded the guy and just thrown him at the pins and done better. I know he knew that was fair game, because I told him he could try it to pick up that five-seven split. Oh well.
Once Kyle was hugged, kissed on the cheek, and safely back in his apartment so I knew nothing could happen to him other than what he did to himself - I do not want to know what he was looking at on his laptop, but I hope it wasn’t anything super creepy - I turned to the task of what to do with my furry bowling equipment. Norbert had burned down over halfway, but that still left me plenty of time to make and execute a plan.
Killing them all; just ripping off their heads and dumping them somewhere kept popping up in my head like a naughty ear worm, but I didn’t have permission from Dad to kill them and werewolves aren’t the same as normal foods.
If the pack got really angry and were well-connected enough, they could theoretically call in some actually dangerous characters from the Lycan Diocese. Rome, Georgia is too close to Void City to rule out that possibility and I don’t heal holy wounds without Dad’s blood... which he’d give me if I needed it, but having to ask would be like being grounded and going to your parents for an advance on your allowance because you spent all of your money on a date you didn’t have permission to go on. Nope. Nope. Not something I wanted to have to do.
Still... I poked out all of their eyes (they’d grow back; I didn’t use silver or anything, just fingers) and hid them in my apartment while I located their vehicles. They’d come in a short little church bus, painted white, with Orchard Lake Baptist stenciled on the sides
... and one guy had met them here in a Volvo with a Void City University faculty ID in the glovebox.
“Jim Walker,” I read with a laugh. “Do his friends call him Jimmy? Does he shout DYNOMITE when they do?”
Silly. I’d have changed my name.
A quick search turned up their clothes, wallets, cellphones, keys, and the trash bags they’d put their bloody shed human skin, teeth, fingernails, and toenails into. Yeah. Normal werewolves are gross. You pretty much want to be an Alpha (so you go all glowy when you change instead of all fleshy rippy, teeth fally-outie and bleh) or pick something different to be. These guys were all normals. I took note of their home addresses and used my fax/printer to make copies of their driver’s licenses before pocketing the cash and credit cards for a little pre-dawn online spending spree. Then I loaded them onto the bus, still paralyzed, and mounted the Hand of Glory to the center aisle with a whole bunch of duct tape.
As an afterthought, the werewolves all got a good thick layer of duct tape to attach them to their seats.
“Okay, puppies.” I stalked up and down the aisle as I addressed them. “I’m going to ask you some questions and I want you to answer them honestly and politely or I will get creative.”
“Now.” Popping my knuckles didn’t make them jump because they couldn’t, but I pretended they did. “One of you is going to get a chance to try answering first. Refusing to answer as I described previous will mean that I rip your balls off and stuff them in your buddy’s mouth and vice versa.”
All dirty, cut, and broken with their eyes poked out, they looked a little sad. Asphalt, blood, and fur made up the scent profile in the bus.
“Alright, Pikachu. I choose you.” Picking a gray furred werewolf at random, I extended a claw and poked his black nose drawing blood. I was pretty sure Norbert obeyed me because he was mine and I’d been the one to light him, but exactly how the candle knew when I wanted someone to be freed or not was a question I could ask Magbidion, the non-Guild mage Dad uses. He’s greasy, but he rarely smells like food and, more importantly, Dad seems to like him.
Shaking violently into motion, my chosen informant howled either in pain or for backup or both. Not that it mattered. Heart pounding, he struggled to free himself, but the tape slowed him down while my hands clamped around his muzzle shut him up, teeth cracking under the force. Oops. Muzzle gripped him too hard. Eyes buzzing back into place like weird plump-when-you-boil-em eggs. Healing quickly, he blinked away blindness then blurriness then tears.
“First question, puppy: What the actual fuck?!” Biting the last syllable off with a crisp click of my fangs and a fang-baring scowl, I held his gaze, ready to do a little vampire-style mind-o a mind-o.
“William will end you, you-“
“Wolfman’s got nards,” I quoted. Muzzle clamped with one hand I used my claws on his crotch, finding the bulging sack of man weakness and getting a good strong grip. “For now. Hey. Do you have a red rocket in a puppy rocket pocket like an actual doggy dog? No. Never mind. First question again.”
“What,” he gasped, “question?”
“What. The. Actual. Fuck?!”
His eyed flickered toward my hand.
“Try to bite it and see if your teeth close on my hand or your own balls.” I kissed him on the nose. “Really. It will be fun and educational for your friends.” Batting my eyelashes, I let go of his sack. “I’ll even give you a fair shot.” He didn’t move. “No? Well, Pikachu really is yellow, isn’t he? Now. Explain.”
“William told us to capture Eric Courtney’s two offspring; the ones he treats like his kids.” He panted, looking down and away. “He said to stake you both and bring you back to Orchard Lake.”
“Why?” I dragged out the word, sounding purposefully child-like.
“Your sire killed the son of our Alpha and-“
His words ceased as I thought at Norbert to freeze him again.
“Revenge?” I scoffed. “Dad would only kill a werewolf if the werewolf picked a fight with him and wouldn’t take the first ass kicking as a warning and go home. And, even if he did, Dad can do what he wants. ANYTHING he wants.”
Matching werewolves to their driver’s licenses and clothes by smell, I dropped their clothes in their laps and called each of them by name and address.
“I know who you are and what you look like when you’re human.” I paced the length of the bus as I lectured. “That means I can find your house, your family, and do an awesome job of bringing your whole world burning down around you. Or, once you’re done healing, and once you’ve managed to walk home, you can take this as a valuable bit of obedience training, and stay the hell away from me, from Kyle, and from my Dad.”
No one answered me, but I didn’t give them the chance. Fifteen minutes later, the bus pulled out with me in the driver’s seat and the Volvo roped to the rear bumper. They had a lesson to learn; it would be a hard lesson. A... burn-y lesson. Does fire kill werewolves? No, I was almost certain it didn’t.
An hour later and a little too close to sunrise, I was walking back into the apartment complex smelling of gasoline, grease, and smoke, with the remains of Norbert in my hand and the smell of burnt fur in my nostrils.
Dad hadn’t answered any of the calls I’d made on the way home, but I didn’t leave him a message. If he was too mad to answer me, I wanted to give him extra space... unless the werewolves came back tomorrow. If they did, I’d have to head to the Demon Heart in person and let Dad decide what to do with them on the spot.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kyle: Mythical Reconciliation
Greta slipped back into her apartment whistling the theme to Sesame Street and smelling like gas, smoke, and barbecue, her clothes soaked with blood. Despite the horror, I could see the old her under the vampiric veneer. “The Laughing Gnome” and the “Sesame Street Theme” were her favorite songs in life and her face lit up the same way then as now... minus the fangs. While she spent the last few hours doing horrible things to werewolves, I’d been busy squaring away the apartment complex and placing any tenants who’d seen the Hand of Glory into their beds and tucking them in, hoping they’d believe it all to be sleep paralysis.
To add to the realism, I made sure to do it in my Saturday Night guise, letting some see me sitting at the edge of their beds, perching on chests, tagging a few folks I was afraid had seen more than the Veil of Scrythax, that strange mystic field over Void City which clouded the minds of mundane people to retaining true memory of the supernatural unless they were truly impacted by it or desperately wanted to believe, would cover. I was pretty sure my efforts were enough to prevent a Fang Fee.
Once tagged my victims would grow ill with generic, but wholly supernatural influenza symptoms, grow frail, and eventually die if I didn’t release my hold over them. Combine sleep paralysis, sudden illness, and a week of getting worse followed by a miraculous recovery and I was betting every one of them would chalk up anything they might remember to the realm of fever dreams.
That done, and with the knowledge I wouldn’t need to hunt for a week, I added a reminder to my calendar to double-check everyone on Wednesday in case one or two victims declined faster than expected and needed to be released early.
An urge to go and hang out with Bacon while she did her rounds and handled her post rose and fell, my smile with it. I knew where I needed to go, but who likes to do what they’re supposed to do, especially if it might be hard?
Running laps around the tennis courts, first as a human, then a wolf, my ears pricked at the peculiar sound of scales slithering against silk. Aja Anat leaned against the fence puffing on something that smelled of nicotine, but not cigarette smoke.
Her snakes shifted nervously under an orange and purple floral head scarf which, on the face of it, seemed to clash with her garish peacock-inspired sports coat, and more subdued floral skirt. Combined, though, the ensemble worked.
She peered at me through cosmetic rose-tinted circular lenses and stared. Aja couldn’t turn me to stone (well...
I was almost certain she couldn’t), but the imperious glare of a Gorgon (even someone who claimed to be only one-quarter Gorgon) is disheartening at best no matter how beautiful the Gorgon.
“At least now I won’t have to evict either of you.” Aja took a puff on the silver and glass tube, the end glowing orange in much the way the cherry of a real cigarette does when a smoker inhales. She held out the device when she noticed it had my attention. “An e-cigarette. One of my holdings is developing them in Japan. You’ll see them invading the states in a year or two.
“What was all that about?” Her eyes flickered from round to slit pupiled. She brought her palm over them, blocking my gaze and when she pulled it away her eyes were their normal shade of green. Seeing her “other” eyes, even through the glass lenses woke all of my defensive instincts as surely as if Greta were letting a single claw hover a centimeter from my forehead.
Shifting from wolf to human with a hint of vampire, I summoned garb of my desire. Not an easy trick for me on a normal night, but made easy tonight with the number of humans upon whom I was feeding. Leather bomber jacket, jeans, white crew neck t-shirt, and Bass Weejuns settled onto my briefly naked form in what I think of as my James Dean look.
Aja raised an eye brow at the shoes, eyes gliding up and down me in a judgement I appeared to pass.
“The Orchard Lake pack thinks Eric killed the son of their Alpha,” I said, answering more thoroughly and honestly than I’d meant.
“Did he?”
“No.” I laughed. “Not that they’d believe me. He’ll work out peace with them or wipe out the pack, though, so I don’t think it matters much.”
She puffed on the e-cigarette exhaling a cloud of scentless vapor. Her nails caught the flaring red light at the end of her e-cigarette and I caught the metallic taste of silver in the air.
Silver-plated nails, I mused. I bet they’re blessed, too.
“Go try and settle it between you,” Aja said. “I don’t want them back here.”
