Watcher: Based on the Apocalypse (World of Darkness : Werewolf)

by Charles L. Grant

  “And then what?” There was no answer.

  She refused to allow him to touch her, but did as she was bidden when asked to take his place by the coffee-table, her back to him. Then he closed the drapes in both rooms, turned out all the lamps but one.

  “Look at the wall, Jo.”

  She folded her arms under her breasts and scowled. “Some kind of game?”

  “Trust me, Jo—”

  “Ha.”

  “—it’s better this way.”

  His shadow rose on the wall by the door.

  “You do rabbits and birds?”

  “Watch.”

  “Mr. Crimmins, once I do this thing, then what?”

  The shadow began to change.

  * * *

  “You run, Mr. Blanchard.”

  The shadow grew. Expanded. “That’s pretty good,” Joanne said. The shadow began to shift.

  “You run as far away as you can.”

  He knew what she saw, spreading toward the ceiling: The muzzle, the ears, the extended arm and the claws. Anubis.

  He heard the whimper, saw her spine grow rigid, and saw her head begin to move.

  “No,” he cautioned. Voice deeper. Much deeper. As quiet as it was, it filled the room with its power. “Not unless you really want to know.”

  “Trick.”

  “No.”

  She turned, and she saw him. “Oh, Lord,” she said, and sat down hard on the floor. “Aw, Jesus.”

  Blanchard hung up, cursing at the way his hand trembled. He unhooked the scrambler and put it back in his bag. He stood for a long time at the window, watching the snow accumulate on the sidewalks, imagining how it would be when the Veil was torn and the Garou were exposed.

  Not many believers at first, except perhaps those who saw the deed. Then the word would spread. Especially, he thought, if he could get television to record the proof.

  His lips twitched.

  There would be coverage tonight. The costume thing. Local news. Stringers, or reporters who were at the bottom of the ladder. Unless…

  His lips twitched.

  Unless he made a couple of calls, let a couple of people know that tonight wasn’t just going to be a bunch of jerks walking around like it was Halloween.

  Unless he let it slip that… that maybe the police were set to make a major arrest … that the killer was actually someone here at the convention.

  Imagine, he thought.

  Armageddon in Chattanooga.

  It would almost be funny, if so many people weren’t about to die.

  Rich ebony fur edged in silver on crown and chest.

  “Richard?”

  “Yes.”

  Gently slanted eyes filled with green fire. “Oh, God”

  He said nothing.

  “Oh, God, Richard, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

  He took his time dressing, all the while listening to Joanne in the bathroom, retching, moaning, stumbling around, retching and moaning again. Once, he heard a fist slam against the wall. He opened the drapes and turned off the lights. He watched the snow as it began to turn over to sleet. He knocked on the bathroom door and didn’t react when she screamed at him to go away. She was terrified, and terrified that she might be going insane; she would find a hundred reasons why she hadn’t seen what she had, and a hundred more why all of them wrong; she might huddle in there for hours, believing she was dreaming until she knew that she was awake; she would rehearse what she would tell the others, and she would weep and scream again.

  Because she knew no one would believe her.

  And there was nothing, not now, he could do to help her through it.

  He couldn’t stay. He had to trust his own judgment and hope that she would make the right decision.

  On a pad of hotel stationery he left a short note, picked up his jacket, and left without a good-bye. On the way to the elevator he caught up with the white-haired man he had met on the first night, who smiled wanly in greeting. He looked exhausted, massively hung over, and Richard couldn’t help a sympathetic smile.

  “Rough night?” he asked as they stepped into the car.

  A woman’s voice called plaintively just as the doors closed.

  “Insatiable,” he groaned.

  “Doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

  Marcus Spiro chuckled. “At my age, it either kills you or makes you younger.”

  “And?”

  The door opened on the gallery floor.

  “Well, my hair is still white, but I’m not dead. Could be worse,” and he left with a wave over his shoulder.

  Richard felt himself grinning as he rode down to the first floor, and felt the grin fade as he stepped into the nearly empty lobby. Not all the chairs and sofas were taken; those people he did see were clearly on their way to someplace else. Despite the noise he heard from the gallery above, down here the world was hushed. After a moment’s indecision, he made his way to an alcove that contained public telephones and tried to call John Chesney, but again there was no response; nor could he raise Viana or Maurice.

  He almost dialed Fay’s number.

  Until he remembered.

  Disturbed, and feeling flashes of anger at being deserted, he wandered aimlessly around the first floor, noting the sheet of ice forming on the streets, looking through the window of the gift shop at the day’s headlines in the local paper.

  Another murder.

  That stopped him until he saw “copycat killer” in the body of the text. He went in and bought a copy, took it to the restaurant and ate a fast lunch while he read what little there was, plus a lengthy sidebar on the serial killer and his latest attack on the mountain. By the time he was finished, he suspected that the copycat killer wasn’t a copycat at all.

  It was someone who, for some reason, had tried to make things confusing.

  No, he thought; not some reason.

  Had Richard not been injured, he might well have gone to the bus station himself, just to be sure the rogue hadn’t struck again. And if he had … a trap, John had warned him; this whole affair may well be a trap.

  Feeling more alert, he wandered back to the lobby, noting what his preoccupation had prevented him from seeing the first time around—more than a dozen easels scattered around the room, each holding a large color photograph. From the legends at the bottom, not all of which he understood, the pictures appeared to be of stellar attractions of previous costume events at this annual convention, and he had to admit that many of them were quite amazing, detailed and elaborate, and, in some cases, astoundingly beautiful.

  And some were rather silly.

  He couldn’t help a quick laugh when he stopped in front of a picture of someone who had chosen to be Lon Chaney, Jr.’s Wolf Man. A remarkably faithful rendition of the motion-picture monster, with the added attraction of a busty, scantily clad Gypsy cowering at his furry feet.

  Oh brother, he thought, holding back a laugh; boy, if they only knew.

  “Interesting,” a voice said blandly beside him.

  He looked as he said, “Excuse me?”, then shrugged an apology when he realized the man who had spoken had made the comment to his female companion. “Sorry.”

  “Not at all,” the man answered with a polite smile. “We were admiring the picture gallery.” He waved a hand at the other easels.

  “So was I.”

  The woman, whose wiry hair had been pulled back into a fluffy ponytail, looked him over and looked away; her boredom couldn’t have been more evident if she had worn a sign.

  “It’s amazing what these people can do,” the man remarked, then cleared his throat. “I’m awfully sorry, I’m being rude.” He held out his hand. “Blanchard. Miles Blanchard. This is my wife, Wanda.”

  Richard shook the hand without giving his own name, nodded to the woman, who hadn’t looked back, and gestured toward the Wolf Man. “I gather these people are pretty heavily into movies and TV.”

  “Looks that way, yes. It must take them hours to put some of these costume
s together, don’t you think?”

  Richard supposed that it would, spotted the badge on the man’s chest, and asked if he too was going to be in costume that night.

  “But of course,” Blanchard answered with an expansive laugh. He slipped his arm around his wife and hugged her close; she didn’t react. “We wouldn’t think of not doing it. It’s a tradition, you might say.”

  Richard heard someone call his name.

  “Right … honey?”

  “What will you be?” he asked as he looked around, and saw Joanne in the middle of the lobby, beckoning urgently. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, stepping away. “I have to go. Nice meeting you. Good luck.”

  Blanchard said something in response, but Richard didn’t listen. Anxious and hopeful, he hurried over to Joanne, who immediately grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the staircase leading to the gallery floor.

  “Come on, there’s something I have to show you.”

  He tugged on her arm, wanting to see what he could read in her eyes. “Are you… ?”

  “Shut up,” she said without much heat. “No, I’m not, but shut up.”

  They pushed through the crowd, Joanne taking him through the ballroom’s wide anteroom to the gallery’s other side, then up three steps into a long corridor where more photographs were on display. Some guests were already in costume, but Richard saw that these weren’t anywhere near on par with those in the pictures. Mostly capes and fangs, or what resembled Star Trek uniforms, and one white-faced guy in a fuzzy black wig, net stockings, high heels, and a fancy black corset.

  Richard couldn’t help but stare as the man and his similarly dressed retinue passed, and Joanne had to yank his hand twice before she got his attention.

  “Look,” she ordered, and pointed.

  “Jo,” he said, “I’ve already seen a picture of the Wolf Man downstairs.”

  “Look, damn it.”

  He did, and the hall fell silent, nothing but a rush of dry wind in his ears.

  It wasn’t the Wolf Man.

  It was a Garou.

  According to the legend, the picture had been taken just two years ago.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  Joanne pulled him away toward a narrow staircase in the opposite wall.

  Garou. Here. And it’s been here for at least two years.

  “Come on,” she said tightly.

  He stopped halfway down, nearly pulling her off her feet.

  “What?”

  “Not a rogue,” he said. “I’ll be damned. It’s not a rogue.”

  The restaurant/bar was packed, and too many people stood in line. Impatiently she pulled him back into the hall, frowned in thought for a moment, then said, “Button your coat, we’re going out.”

  They went across the boulevard to a McDonald’s on the other side. The light inside was too bright for the weather, the colors too vivid, the smells too strong. Every sound too sharp, every move too stilted.

  Like being in the corner of a glaringly lit stage surrounded by the night.

  He didn’t want anything, but she nearly filled a tray, and they took a booth along a fake-brick wall. She fussed a bit with her food, setting it out as if she were having a real meal, then pointed at the fries.

  “Am I going to be able to keep this stuff down?”

  His smile was automatic and genuine. “I hope so.”

  “Good, ‘cause I’m starving. And while I eat, you’re going to tell me everything, okay? Everything I need to know.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m your partner, right? If you’re going to hunt this thing, I—”

  He slammed a fist on the table, making her jump, eyes wide and fearful.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “What? What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

  He shook his head, put his hands to his head and shook it angrily. “There was a man and woman in the lobby. I was talking to them when you—”

  “I saw them. So what?”

  “They belong to the convention. I asked if they were going to be in costume, and he said they were.” He lowered his hands, palms down, to the table. “I didn’t catch what he said right away, when I asked him what he’d be. I was too worried about what. . He stopped himself and looked around the restaurant, shook his head at his own stupidity, and forced the tension out of his system. “He said, ‘Hunter,’ Jo. He said, We’ll be hunters, Mr. Turpin.’”

  There was a delay in her comprehension, but when it came it knocked her back in her seat. “What?”

  “He knew my name, Jo. He knows who I am.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said when he started to get up. “He did it deliberately, to get your attention. And he’s not going to be there, waiting for you to come back.” She picked up a hamburger, grimaced at it, and took a bite.

  “You’re eating.”

  “I told you, I’m starving.” She took another bite. “Now talk to me, Richard. How does he know who you are?”

  He explained briefly about the Warders, stumbling when he mentioned Fay, and those the Garou knew were trying to gather information about their world. It had been previously thought that these other groups, however many there were, were too disparate to cause many problems because, like humans generally, they hoarded knowledge for the sake of power, and for the sake of future glory. Bad for the humans, good for the Garou, because it made it easier for them to keep tabs on what these people knew, and what they thought they knew.

  When they learned too much, group members tended to disappear.

  Joanne stabbed a french fry into a thick puddle of catsup. “By disappear, you mean …”

  “Yes.”

  There was no guilt, no remorse, he told her; it was a simple matter of survival, for the Garou and for Gaia. Humans didn’t realize it, but it was for their survival too. But now someone had slipped through the Garou net.

  “This guy Blanchard.”

  “No. He’s working for someone else. People like this, they don’t dirty their own hands.”

  She met his gaze without blinking. “Like the Warders.”

  He didn’t deny it.

  Nor could he deny any longer that one of the Warders may have ordered Fay’s death, undoubtedly because he knew she had warned him, knew where her primary allegiance lay. And perhaps she knew more, something she hadn’t been able to tell him.

  “She was your lover.”

  He nodded.

  “Children?” She gave him a lopsided grin. “Or whatever?”

  He returned the grin, and shook his head. Garou who mated, no matter how much in love, rarely produced normal offspring. These metis, as they were called, were deformed if they lived, already mad, already half dead. He glanced away, suddenly uncomfortable. He damn near started blushing. “Garou like me come from … I guess—”

  “A mixed marriage?” she suggested.

  “Close enough.” He still wouldn’t look at her. “Wolves or humans, actually.”

  She nodded thoughtfully, and ate another fry.

  “You know, some people would think that’s pretty gross.”

  “And you?” he asked without thinking.

  “Don’t push it, Richard, I’m still working on it, okay?” When he held up his hands, she added, “But now we have to figure out a way to get you out of the city in one piece.”

  “No,” he said. “First, I have to figure out how to take care of the false rogue. Then I take care of Blanchard and whoever’s with him, probably that woman. Then I get out of town.”

  She gaped, started to argue, then slumped in defeat and said, “Well, maybe I can help you out.”

  “How?”

  “I think I know who that rogue thing is.”

  They reached the exit just as a band of conventioneers scrambled in out of the sleet and rain. Their voices were too loud, their faces too animated, their apologies as they bumped into Joanne and Richard too filled with uncaring laughter.

  Joanne hooked her arm around Richard’s, and they went ou
tside, unable to move quickly because the footing was too slippery. The wind had picked up, the sleet falling at an angle that stung his ear and cheeks. At the curb they were forced to wait for a bus that skidded and hissed steam as it stopped for a red light. Once on the island, they had to wait again, this time for a funeral, headlamps aglare, the mourners unseen in gleaming black limousines. Slush had already begun to form in the gutters; there was nothing left of the morning’s snowfall but a few patches in recesses the sleet couldn’t reach.

  Once under the hotel’s canopy, however, he pulled her to one side, put his arms around her back and clasped his hands behind her. She resisted for only a second, shivering, cheeks beginning to blotch with pale red.

  “When I go in there, it begins,” he said, nodding toward the double glass doors.

  “We,” she reminded him. “I still have to tell you.”

  “Me,” he contradicted gently. “Lt. Millson will kill me if you don’t show up for that meeting.”

  “Can he?” She cocked her head, smiling.

  “No. Not really. But it’s the thought that counts, Jo. You still have a job. It means too much to you, and I don’t want you to lose it.”

  He could tell she knew he was right. He could also tell that she didn’t want to let go. Not now. Not for a long time.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Right now?” He frowned over her head, his breath drifting into her hair like pale smoke. “Not much. And certainly not in there. There are too many people, too many eyes, if you know what I mean.” He shuddered when a run of ice water slipped from his hair down his neck and to his spine. “First thing I must do is make some calls. I have to know what’s happened to my … to the Warders.”

  “Stay away from your room,” she warned.

  “Why?”

  “They got you once, remember? If you stay alone, they’ll try to get you again.”

  He wanted to tell her that he could take care of himself, but an image of the silver spike in his bathroom flared and vanished. He didn’t think that this Miles Blanchard would be carrying a club. He’d have a gun. Silver bullets. He had a partner. More silver.