Word had spread quickly on the warehouse sting three days back. The mood was down, friends had been lost, and the undead had kicked our collective butts again. Not a good week in Mudville, boys and girls, and the atmosphere is so heavy with sorrow it is downright palpable.
“Pitts,” Captain Zelig shouts out to me from his half-open office door. “You’re early.”
“So are you, Captain,” I say.
“Come in, come in.”
I lumber into my captain’s office and take my seat opposite his duty desk. He punches a button on his speakerphone.
“Send Curadal in here.”
Zelig then shoved a file toward me. I opened it.
“Attila Curadal, Lieutenant, out of New York as of yesterday,” Zelig rattles on professionally. “He’s young, sharp, street wise and Tactical in NYPD gave him top marks. Like you, he has the dubious distinction of being the longest sole survivor in Monster Vice East Coast.”
“Lucky him,” I say, inwardly thinking, poor bastard. He probably has a background similar to mine -- lone survivor to a long string of Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition defensive campaigns against the Undead.
“I really don’t need a new partner this soon,” I say, though roaming the streets by myself is not an enticing thought.
“I know, tough guy,” Zelig nods. “You’d rather go solo. But that’s not how we do things around here, remember?”
Zelig is of course fucking with me, which I deserve, because I was fucking with him. I am feeling sentimental and self-pitying, wallowing in grief for my lost partner and brother, which Zelig no doubts appreciates but can ill-afford to indulge longer than a nano-second. So, we’ve done our political dance and metaphorically finished sucking each other’s dicks in tacit commiseration, just in time to turn our attention to the door opening and one Attila Curadal.
“Lieutenant Curadal, meet your new sidekick, Inspector Dick Pitts,” Zelig says.
I take Curadal in for just a second. He’s my size, slim, black on first appearance ... but not quite. In fact, his skin tone is hard to pinpoint. Zelig says he’s young, and there is a youthful quality about him, but one look at the eyes and you know this guy has seen a lot, probably done a lot. I shudder for a second and am surprised. This is one of the good guys, I remind myself.
Yet those eyes ... a piercing blue ... and his hands look like they perform brain surgery, so delicate, even fragile in appearance they seem to be. He extends one of those hands, offering a smile.
“Inspector,” he says in a surprisingly deep voice. “My condolences on your losses the other night.”
I take the hand, and offer a curt nod, noting that Curadal’s grip is powerful, surprisingly so. I am again reminded of Hanson and feel immediate sorrow.
“What brings you to L.A.?” I ask unenthusiastically.
He smiles, not too broadly, and there is a touch of sadness in his eyes when he replies. “Personal reasons, Inspector.”
Fuck you, the reply says clearly. Fine. I respect that. None of your goddamned business, Dick, if you don’t mind me saying so just at the moment. I realize that I am not dealing with a rookie, rather a seasoned vet who likes conversation about as much as I do. Gotta respect that.
Zelig takes over, and both of us turn to our senior officer.
“It’s been a bad bloody week in the City of Angels, gentlemen,” he says wearily.
“And along those lines, I’ve made a few nasty discoveries in my days off,” I say.
I then proceed to tell Zelig and my soon-to-be-new-partner about my run-in with the talking wolf and the Grand Master.
Curadal is silent after my declaration, but Zelig is about to have a coronary.
“Holy Christ, that shakes it! Vampires and werewolves on holy ground! We are completely fucked!”
I wish I could disagree. It is Curadal who interjects an unexpected dose of optimism.
“I suggest a special task force to find this Grand Master. Once found, we can attempt capture and find out how he’s controlling the Lyckers and circumventing the normal rules of behavior.”
“I don’t want to be the turd in the punchbowl,” I say, “but every regular Master we’ve run into thus far has had to be killed, and that’s with outrageous casualties on our end. It can’t be done.”
“I captured one in New York,” Curadal says.
“You what?” I sputter.
“Down in Battery Park, about six months ago,” Curadal studies a nail. “He lasted a whole day before I had to stake him.”
“You, alone, captured a Master?” I am again dumbfounded.
“Well, with the assistance of my partner. She was most helpful.”
“She!” I spew incredulously.
“Yes. She.”
Zelig looks to me, and I shake my head in clear skepticism. Curadal doesn’t seem to notice, and then looks to Zelig.
“Samantha has moved out with me,” he says. “I’d like her to join our task force.”
Before I have a chance to offer further protests, Zelig nods. “Okay. You, Pitts and your partner. I’m assigning you to find this Grand Master and get some answers.”
Zelig dismisses us in short order, and I am completely dejected. Not only do I have a new partner, I have two new partners. I look to Curadal, who regards me with those two disturbing eyes.
“So when do I get to meet this Samantha person?”
“Now, if you’d like. She’s at the house I’m renting.”
“It’s early.”
Curadel just smiles.
I shrug. “No time like the present,” I say dryly.
“Then I would suggest that we return to the place where you found the talking Lycker,” he says.
I’m looking for a reason to quarrel, but Curadal is right. The wolf may still be in the house, and at the very least, I’ll have an opportunity to plug the sonofabitch. I hate talking werewolves.
I drive and Curadal, gratefully, does not try to make small talk. He seems preoccupied. Fine by me, as I am just as distant. Thoughts of Mirabelle spring into mind suddenly; I find that I would like to see her again this evening. Good chance that will happen, too.
Curadal’s house is about ten minutes from Monster Vice and it looks downright haunted. Perched on a small hill overlooking what is referred to as Old Hollywood, the place gives me the instantaneous creeps. We park in a gravel driveway and head for the front door.
We enter … and I see immediately that there is not a chair, sofa or table in sight. I mean, not a stick. Just walls.
“Roomy,” I say.
“Yes,” Curadal replies. “Needs some furniture, don’t you think?”
I nod that it might be a good idea.
“We just hit town a few days ago. You know how that is,” Curadel says.
“Sure.”
And then I see her.
She is the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. Bewitching is a term that leaps to mind.
“Samantha, meet Inspector Dick Pitts,” Curadal says easily.
She approaches me (more like glides across the floor), so smooth is her movement. She extends her hand, which I take. I am trembling and it’s not because of my hangover.
“A great pleasure,” Samantha says in a voice that can only be described as musical.
“Likewise,” I croak back.
Her eyes are similar (eerily so) to Curadal’s – that same piercing intensity. I wonder if this is a New York thing, that perhaps I have gazed into the eyes of too many dead Los Angelians in my day. But most remarkable about Samantha – and I know this is impossible – but she looks no more than seventeen or eighteen years of age. Her skin is like porcelain, and even the feel of her hand is like touching velvet … or some kind of material that has the light consistency of cotton candy. I must remind myself that this is not some extremely hot teen-ager, a nymph-narf from the Land Beyond Narnia, but a human being, a trained law enforcement ‘specialist’, as Curadel put it. Still, Samantha’s overall demeanor and appearance is disconce
rting, especially to a lecherous old beat-walker like myself.
The house is suddenly inexplicably cold. I wonder vaguely if Curadal and Samantha are lovers. They live together, apparently.
“No, we’re just friends,” Curadal smiles at me. As if he were reading my mind. “I just wanted to clear that up quickly so it doesn’t become a factor in our work relationship.”
I nod, not venturing forth a word. I am still mesmerized by Samantha – and find myself staring.
“Inspector, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Samantha says.
“Really,” I reply.
“You are a bit of a legend on the west coast. You’re quite the talk in the Big Apple.”
I am, of course, flattered … though for the wrong reasons. I entertain the dreamy notion of possibly having carnal knowledge of Samantha – this after only one minute of conversation.
“Well … I’m still alive. Maybe that’s the secret to legendary status,” I say with all the sincere modesty I can muster.
Samantha smiles and her eyes twinkle.
“How charming. Humility. And in one so young…”
I don’t exactly know how to take this, as Samantha appears two decades my junior. She talks as if she’s a century old. But I am charmed in turn.
Curadal stands silent, watching this little interchange.
“So,” I begin, clearing my throat. “Samantha. I take it you are a police officer.”
Samantha smiles. “No. I’m what you might call … a specialist.”
“Specialist in what?”
“Killing monsters,” she says easily. I wait for an explanation. “NYPD contracted me out to assist in their Monster Vice activities.”
“What is your background?” I ask.
“Very specialized. We’ll talk about it one day, but now I understand there may be a Lycker who has acquired speech,” she says brusquely.
I know when not to push. Fine. She’ll tell me later. Maybe over wine. Or after sex … okay, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Curadal fills her in (though I’m puzzled as to how she could have known about the Lycker, as I don’t recall him even calling her from a cell phone or from Monster Vice). She listens attentively, and I see an expression of concern cross her face.
“This is happening sooner than we expected,” she says to Curadal, who simply shrugs.
“I wasn’t expecting this at all!” I say, somewhat mystified by these two.
Samantha sighs, and puts her hand on my arm. “It’s a case of mutation, Inspector. Any existing life form, after some period of time, will evolve into something different, possibly more advanced. I think this is what we’re seeing in the werewolves, and most definitely in the vampire community.”
“You’re talking about the Grand Master,” I say.
“That, and the fact that he, and some of the Lyckers, no longer fear holy ground,” Samantha says. “It will make our jobs more difficult.”
“Boy, is that an understatement,” I respond with a whistle.
“Can we take a look at the house where you found the talking wolf?” Curadal asks.
I’m coming to like this guy. A no bullshit kind of cop, right down to brass tacks and let’s not waste any more time on pleasantries. He hasn’t offered me a drink, or even asked if I need to take a piss – just pick up the girl, and go to work. Fine.
“Let’s do it,” I say, and move out of the house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The ride from Curadal’s place of legal tender to the Lycker house (my neighborhood) took around ten minutes. During that time in the car, none of us spoke. The night is unusually bright with a beautiful full moon above. When we finally arrived, Samantha glanced to Curadal and whispered.
“This can’t take too long,” she says, looking up at the sky. “Sun up soon.”
Curadal nodded. “We’ll be fine.”
I glance at them, clear bum-struck curiosity on my face.
My two rambling companions clearly didn’t feel the urge to explain their byplay, so I avert my eyes, and focused on the objective of our mission: The Talking Lycker Holiday Inn.
“Dick, things may get a little dangerous in there,” Curadal says. “If they do, leave most of the situation to Samantha and myself.”
“I can handle my ass, partner,” I say defensively. For fuck’s sake, I have been doing this for awhile, I was no novice, I took issue with the cherry treatment.
“No doubt,” Curadal says. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I’m more worried about the little lady here,” I say, glancing at Samantha.
“Don’t,” Samantha smiles seductively.
Eat me, was her underlying retort, and I got the message loud and clear. Okay, we were all being a little surreptitiously bitchy at the moment, and we should be thinking of other things. Curadal and Samantha seemed to sense what I was thinking, and then moved toward the front door without further preamble and pissing-contest chit-chat.
“You know,” I say, suddenly rethinking things, “we could always call in to MV and ask for some support backup, just in case.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Curadal says.
“There could be more than one Lycker now,” I say practically. “I just thought –“
“There’s only one,” Samantha says with unquestionable confidence.
I was getting the distinct impression that I was being treated like a third wheel on a fuck-in-the-car date. Hey, this was my territory after all. Curadal and his hot looking biker chick specialist acted as if they were merely taking me along on this ride as a courtesy. Perhaps they were.
“Well, fuck me,” I mutter in a tone of voice so off the human auditory scale that even a well trained German Shepherd would have been hard pressed to hear what I had said.
Samantha turns to me and grins. “Time enough for that later, Dick.”
I was simultaneously astonished and aroused. How she could have heard what I said was beyond me. How she had managed to get me to boast half a stalk, nagging at my trousers, was even more niggling. I suddenly found myself wondering if Samantha had a navel ring, and it was at this point that I realized I should really pull the proverbial shit together and get frosty and focused on other things, like say, a talking werewolf that quite possibly may kill us all within the next few minutes.
Curadal reaches for the front door knob and turns it. The knob clicks without resistance and the door opens.
“Showtime,” he says softly, and enters the house, followed by Samantha, and yours boner-hard truly, bringing up the rear.
I notice as we all walked in that both Curadal and Samantha do not have guns drawn (and I should have noticed this earlier, had I not been contemplating whether Samantha possessed a shaved or unshaved Pussy-Cat beneath those tight pants). Samantha, I could possibly understand … but Curadal? A veteran of NYPD-Monster Vice? What the fuck was he thinking?
I was about to make mention of this little observation when I heard the Lycker growl.
“So you have come back, human,” it snarls from near the staircase. “And you’ve brought company.”
“I so enjoyed our little chat last time,” I say, trying to sound flippant and casual (probably failing miserably). “I just wanted to share the magic. Bond, if you like. Make medicine.”
The Lycker snarls. “I should have killed you when I had a chance.”
“Missed opportunities can be so humiliating,” I say.
The Lycker came out into what little ambient light was available through the boarded windows. It kept its distance, though, which I found odd. I felt certain it would attack, and this worried me when I glanced at Curadal and Samantha, who were simply standing next to me, still as the dead.
“We’re looking for the Grand Master,” Curadal said, and I was enviously pissed because his voice was steady and smooth – and it wasn’t a damned act, either. You could viscerally sense his calm. Brave fucker, I thought, as my own personal sphincter was puckering tight as a drum in suppressed terror.
&n
bsp; “He’s looking for you, too,” the Lycker growled, its eyes on Curadal and Samantha, its interest in me suddenly evaporated. “Even you won’t be able to defeat him, bloodsucker. Or your bitch,” it said, glancing at Samantha.
“I really don’t think we need engage in name-calling,” Samantha said, sighing … sounding almost weary and patronizing. Her voice, also, was oddly calm. Strike that, she, too, had a keen absence of fear or trepidation in her words. Okay, I thought, was I the only scared girlie-man here today, terrified of the mean, nasty werewolf standing only twenty feet in front of us?
Apparently so.
The Lycker turned to me suddenly. “I find it interesting that you are working with vampires,” it said, and my mouth nearly dropped in astonishment. “Most unusual. In fact, rather unheard of,” the Lycker hissed.
“Vampires?” I said, sounding about as intelligent and articulate as your basic mentally-arthritic parrot.
“You always talk this crazy?” Curadal said to the Lycker.
“Oh, please,” the Lycker growled. “I can smell your type two blocks away.”
I realized that the Lycker was a bit delusional, or fucking with me, probably the latter.
“Anyway, what do you want with me?” the Lycker snarled once more.
“I thought I was rather clear on that point. But at the risk of repeating myself, I’ll try again. Where’s the Grand Master?” Curadal said, taking a step forward.
The Lycker (to my great surprise) backed up a step.
“Suppose I don’t tell you?” the Lycker hissed. “Suppose it’s my little secret?”
“Then your death will be all the more painful,” Curadal responded … and took another step forward.
“Uh, Curadal,” I said, clearing my throat. “Gun? Gun out? Now?”
Curadal ignored me. Samantha glanced at me and grinned. “It’s okay, Dick. We’ve got this furry bad boy under control.”
Oh, well, excuse me, I thought, completely speechless. We’re only dealing with a Lycker that could kill all three of us within seconds, and by the way, only one of us has the horse sense to have his gun out. What was I thinking? Fuck me in the mouth for being, oh, just somewhat prudent.
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