Blood and Silver - 04

by James R. Tuck

  Nodding, he moved over by Tiff. His left leg dragged just a bit, giving him a short limp. Father Mulcahy is the Catholic priest who tends bar at Polecats. Mass on Sundays and tending bar the rest of the week. He has been with me since I first started hunting monsters after my family was killed those years back. Only he knew the details of my family’s deaths and what happened afterward. Only he had any inkling of what it did to me. I needed someone that I could rely on when everything went tits up.

  Father Mulcahy was as reliable as cancer.

  The dog lay limp like she had since we rescued her, but the convulsive shaking she had done in the car had slowed to a tremble. Whimpers and whines came from her muzzle as Kat probed her for wounds. Kat has a lot of experience being a medic. She’s usually the one who patches me up. No, I am not a dog, but technically neither was her current patient.

  Lycanthropes are humans who can change into animals. It’s a supernatural virus. It is contagious, but not all that easy to catch. Not like in the movies where a scratch will make you furry once a month. You need blood-to-blood contact or blood-to-mucous membrane. It works a lot like AIDS, actually.

  Also, the virus mutates with the host DNA, so it is different from lycanthrope to lycanthrope. Some shape-shifters can change form anytime they want; some can only change in the height of the lunar cycle. Some can change into partial animal forms, like a half-human, half-animal combo pack. Some can only change completely into their animal form. Some shape-shifters retain their intellect while shifted, some don’t and they remember what their animal half did as a dream. And all these variants had more variants.

  The only two constant rules about lycanthropes are as follows: First, they all lose control during the full moon. They go completely, out-of-control, batshit crazy. Transformed and vicious. Different lycanthropes handle it different ways. Some lock up, some dope up, and some go north to northern Georgia where a wealthy Were-possum has a fully fenced and portioned off hunting preserve that covers an entire mountain. If the Weres are not a predator, they just stay home, but the dangerous ones have to take precautions.

  The second constant is that silver is the great equalizer. Every lycanthrope in the world has a violent allergic reaction to silver to the point that it negates their healing ability and can be deadly.

  Other than that, all bets are off.

  There are also shape-shifters who have nothing to do with lycanthropy. I know a family of Tengu here in Atlanta. They own a drive-through sushi joint called the Bento Box. Tengu shift into ravens and raven-human warrior forms, but they are not lycanthropes. They are Tengu. There are also skinwalkers, selkies, and animals who turn into men. I am an acquaintance-who-doesn’t-kill-each-other with an ancient three-headed dragon who spends his days as a professional hitman. He is apparently a Werekin, whatever that means. Silver worked on some of these, some it didn’t. But even if a shape-shifter could shrug off silver, I was still delivering a bullet.

  I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but the one Kat was examining felt like a lycanthrope. It’s hard to describe, but I felt the night and the moon in her, but not the forest. A Were-dog instead of a Werewolf, she looked tamer than any kind of feral canine. My ability to feel out supernatural crap in others filters through my natural senses, but it is very impressionistic and I have to do a lot of interpretation. It’s a guessing game that I win only sometimes.

  Kat sat back on her heels, kneeling on the stage next to her patient. “There are some definite broken ribs, but I can’t be certain of much else. There are a lot of cuts and contusions.” Her gloved hand was filthy as it waved over the Were-dog’s abdomen. “But I am really worried about this area, though. It is swollen, solid, and hot to the touch. It’s probably an internal injury, but I can’t tell without an X-ray or an ultrasound.”

  “Well, we can’t just swing her over to the local vet.”

  “We could take her to Larson. He’s been treating lycanthropes for a few months now and is equipped to handle something like this.”

  Larson is a former wannabe vampire hunter who had been used as bait in a plot to kill me by the same hell-bitch vampire from when I met Tiff. In the final standoff he had been seriously injured by one of her minions. That had been months ago, and since then he had become our local mad scientist and go-to guy for research on the supernatural. He lives and works in a lab that I fund through the club.

  It was the least I could do, the man was hurt helping me save the world.

  I nodded. “Let’s load her back in the Comet and get her over there then.” I knelt down and started using the towels to wrap the dog.

  Some small noise I couldn’t identify made the muscles on the back of my neck tense. I stopped working for a second, waiting to hear it again. A tingle started on the back of my scalp, getting stronger as the seconds ticked away.

  The entrance doors swung open. Light streamed into the dim club silhouetting three people as they walked in. They were indistinct in the bright light. A deep voice rumbled. “You are not taking her anywhere. We are here to collect her.”

  My gun was out just seconds before Kat’s and Father Mulcahy’s.

  The doors closed, shutting the light off with a snap. With the streaming light cut off, the three people could now be seen. One was a short, stocky man with a wide chest and a wide jaw to match. Scars covered his neck and arms where his skintight T-shirt did not hide them. Deep-set eyes glared bright gray from under a heavy brow full of scar tissue. They rolled and jittered in his thick skull, making him look crazed. I had seen the same look in the eyes of punch-drunk boxers and soldiers with post-traumatic stress disorder.

  The middle one of the group was a woman. Tall and lithe, she stalked into the club like she owned it. Her skin was golden brown, like expensive caramel, and her hair was a mass of thick ringlet waves that were pulled back and pinned to show her face. High cheekbones cut between sultry lips and deadly eyes the color of mahogany. She was striking and aristocratic, noble and elegant. She looked like you would find her face stamped on a coin in a foreign country.

  The third member of the party was dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit with a smart charcoal stripe. His skin was darker than the woman’s, a dark cocoa to her caramel, and his hair sprouted in tiny dreads the color of blond rolled in dirt. I had seen his face about an hour ago.

  It was the same face as the Were-lion that had beaten the dog.

  They stopped just inside the club. The man in the suit had his arms outstretched, hands empty of weapons; the other two stayed just behind him. The woman stood straight, hand gently resting on his outstretched arm to the right, whereas the other man leaned his chest against the left one, straining to keep from moving forward. All our guns stayed on them, ruby dots dancing on center mass.

  Mentally I cursed at us for leaving the door unlocked in the hurry to see to the injured lycanthrope. I had relied on someone else to get the lock since my arms were full of dog. I would have to stop that. I opened my power up. The same nose-wrinkling smell of cat came to me as earlier, double strong since I was inside and there were two cats in front of me. I would bet dollars to donuts they were both lions. They felt like a mated pair.

  The other man gave off the feel of violence. Blood and cement, the taste of fur and metal. Power rolled off the three of them in three distinct flavors: regal and aloof power, calm and peaceful power, and barely contained power that wanted to shed blood.

  The lion in front lowered his head just slightly, not deferring, just placating. His arms stayed out to his side, hands held loose, looking as human as I am.

  Which isn’t all that human, to be honest.

  His voice was deep, a slight purr in his inflections that soothed the ears. “She is one of mine. I thank you for rescuing her, but we are equipped to care for her now. Let us have her so we can tend to her.”

  I moved the laser dot up his chest until it flared across the planes of his face. Golden amber eyes blinked in the glare. The dot stopped in the center of his forehead. “I do
n’t think so. She is under my protection now; I’ll see to her medical care.” I stood up and took a step forward. The red dot stayed on his forehead. “Just who the hell are you people?”

  “We are her friends. Her family. We just want to take her to a safe place and nurse her to health.”

  “Some asshole named Leonidas is the one who did this to her.” I studied his face. “He looked a lot like you, so you have to understand why I am having a hard time trusting you.”

  “That is my brother. We are nothing alike and have nothing to do with each other.”

  The scarred one growled low and raspy. The rumble in his chest tightened his jaw into a bulge. The lion turned his hand and touched him on his arm. I think it was meant to be a calming gesture.

  It didn’t work.

  “You’re not one of us. You can’t protect her like we can.” The scarred man’s jaw was thick and heavy while he talked.

  I laughed—a head-back, full-throated guffaw. “You weren’t there when we saved her from the piece of shit who was trying to beat her to death. So take your protection and care, turn it sideways, and shove it up your ass. And while I’m at it, get the fuck out of my club. I need to get her to medical attention.”

  I felt the air move before I saw the stocky one come at me. In a blink, he was around the other man’s arm and charging toward me. He was a blur of superhuman speed as he plowed into me, knocking me off my feet. The Colt .45 spun out of my hand and away. Powerful hands clamped on my wrist and throat as we rolled across the floor. I managed to swing my elbow into his face, pain flashing across my arm as his teeth broke skin, but I landed a solid blow to his mouth. I knew because I felt it jolt all the way up to my shoulder. Hot blood spurted, arcing over my forearm to hit me in the face.

  We came to a stop in the middle of the floor with him crouching in front of me and me sprawled on my side. Red dripped from his lower jaw. It could have been his blood or mine. I knew I had broken some of his teeth, but I could also feel blood pulsing out of my forearm and running hot down to my wrist. I got to my feet in a scramble, crouching low like he was. Dirty napkins and beer bottles littered the floor between us, and the carpet was soaked with dozens of leftover drinks. We had knocked over a trash can in our tumble.

  Kat’s voice called from behind me. “I have no shot!”

  I was between her and the lycanthrope that still crouched in front of me. Muscles bunched across his chest and shoulders, white fur sprouting through the scar tissue on his neck and arms. His face was more canine. Jaw wider, lips pulled into a joker grin. Pit bull flashed in my mind. Fucking great. I couldn’t get into a fight with a Were-Labradoodle? No, of course I couldn’t. Who was I kidding?

  He wasn’t fully shifting, but he was edging toward it, probably from the adrenaline. He crouched, muscles bunching as he panted. He had attacked me but wasn’t trying to kill me. It made me want to keep from killing him back.

  I try to not kill shape-shifters. They are human most of the time, and I try to only kill 100% monsters. This one wanted to fight for the lycanthrope we had rescued. He was trying to hurt me, but not kill me.

  Not yet anyway. I was willing to play the game only as hard as he did.

  But the only way he was leaving with the Were-dog today was over my dead body. Things would change when he figured that out.

  Two silvered knives were tucked into my boots, but there was no way I would get to them before he would be on me. My eyes darted for some kind of weapon, sweeping the floor. My fingers closed around the longnecks of two beer bottles. I stood, smashing the two bottles together with a brittle crash. The sound of the old-fashioned Southern Switchblade opening. It’s a sound that makes blood run cold when you are in a late-night honkytonk with a woman you just met.

  Nothing cuts nastier than a broken bottle, not even lycanthrope claws.

  My power unfurled from inside me and I felt the animal beneath his skin. It snapped at him, snarling and clawing to get out. Blind with rage. It wanted to hurt me because I was in front of it. Hell, it wanted to hurt anyone. His will hung like a fraying rope around the neck of his beast, barely restraining, ready to snap.

  I held the bottles in a fighting stance, one out toward him, one back and ready to strike. “Easy, Fido. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

  “I am not fucking Fido.” He growled, voice thick and wet. One big, meaty fist paw thumped his chest. “My name is Cash. Let us have Sophia and I won’t hurt you.” Muscles shifted under his skin in a roll of power that scraped along my skin. Short white fur sprouted up his arms and neck. His jaw pulled even wider, pushed apart by thick teeth. The canines were blunted from chewing on bone. His forehead slanted and stretched, becoming a flat ridge of skull as his eyes spread apart over his muzzle. “At least not much.”

  “You are not getting her. She is under my protection now.”

  “She is my mate.” His eyes cut over to the lion and lioness. They said nothing to stop him. “Mine to protect.”

  “Piss off.” Anger surged in my words. “Until she wakes up and is coherent, nobody is taking her.”

  “Give her to us!” Spittle flew as he roared.

  “Kiss my ass one more time.”

  I settled into myself, loose and relaxed, ready to react the second he moved. His wide head shook side to side. I watched closely as his eyes snapped up at me and he tensed, muscles standing like cables along his arms. The air sang with potential violence.

  He threw himself at me. Spittle flung in thick strings from his jaws as they snapped toward my throat. I shoved the bottle out in front of me. My shoulder jolted as it punched into his neck, tearing and ripping the loose skin. I twisted the jagged edge into thick folds. Glass splintered with the shrill sound of thin crystalline edges grinding together. Blood splashed warm over my hand as I pushed up and away. Shoving him up, stretching him back. The other bottle flicked out crossways, slashing across his stomach. The skin opened up with the green, ripe smell of intestine.

  He thudded to the floor in a slosh of blood and the spill from the trash can. My big boot swung out, moving to kick his face. Scrambling away, he was a white blur. I lost him for a split second. My eyes had to track the blood he left in a trail to follow his movement as he leaped over the bar.

  Over the bar Tiff was behind.

  Cash was in full dog-man mode as he grabbed her. One paw slapped across her face, pushing her head to the side to expose her throat. Wicked canines dripped just inches above her jugular. His other arm wrapped around her waist, trapping her against him.

  Noise exploded around me as everyone started yelling. Kat and Father Mulcahy, the two lions. My heart hitched in my chest and all the sound in the room faded to a buzz. Someone yelled “Stop!” before my head filled with static. My mind reset itself to murder as I watched the rabid Were-pit bull hold Tiff.

  Tiff stood still, eyes wide behind the paw that held her. She swallowed her fear, throat muscles working as Cash lowered his muzzle even closer to her skin. He took a long sniff through a nose gone black and canine. His voice was thick and gnarled, coming from a throat more dog than human. I could barely understand the words he spoke. Homicide pulsed inside my mind.

  “She smells like a raw steak. Delicious and bloody.” His eyes cut up to me. Daring me.

  Father Mulcahy yelled at him. “Don’t do this, son. Let her go. This is a mistake.”

  Cash growled. “The mistake is trying to keep Sophia from us.”

  The priest’s gun was still trained on the lions. “You are not going to listen to reason are you, young man?” He shook his head sadly. “You are trying to kill yourself.”

  “Myself?” The laugh was a bark. “Not myself.” His cheek rubbed on Tiff’s. “But if you don’t give us Sophia, I will kill this—”

  The silver bullet took off the top of his head.

  A spatter of gore painted the wall behind him. Chunks, thick and red, ran down the bottles of liquor like homemade marinara sauce.

  I was over the bar before his b
ody slumped toward the floor. My hand closed on Tiff’s arm, steadying her as the body released her to fall down. My eyes searched her over, looking for any sign she might be hurt. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. Her pink and black hair was spackled with blood that wasn’t hers. Her voice tremored. “I am. I’m fine. I’m okay.” She took a deep breath. Pulling it in, holding it hostage, then letting it go. I watched as she pulled herself back together. She looked up at me; there was a little too much white around her pupils, giving her a wild look, but the tremble had disappeared. She took another breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again she was almost normal.

  One side of her mouth quirked up. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” I looked down at her. “You all right?”

  Small hands pushed me away. “Go back to work. I’ll be okay.”

  The snub-nosed .44 smoked slightly in my hand. I turned to the two lions who were still in place, still covered by the priest and Kat. The man had tears streaming down his cheeks and a look of horror on his face. The woman was unmoved, face impassive as a stone. Her coloring had deepened into a more burnished copper tone, and I could feel her anger from across the room.

  “Let me be clear.” I added the gun in my hand to the ones pointing at them. “You are not taking Sophia and you are getting the fuck out of my club.”

  As I stepped around the bar the man’s mouth moved to speak. I waved the gun at him like a librarian’s finger. “No, no, and no,” I said. His mouth closed into a tight line. “I don’t care what you have to say and I don’t want to hear it.” Leaning in toward him, my voice dropped to a growl worthy of an animal. “You brought this down. You let him push too far.” My finger pointed at Cash’s body. It had fallen and was propped on the bar. Blood puddled on the waterproof surface in a thick, chunky soup spilled from the bowl of his skull. “This is what happens to anyone who threatens one of my people. If you ever forget it, you’ll be the next one to fall.” I stepped back. “Now get the hell out.”