Freak City

by Saje Williams

  "Huh. I need to run some more tests. That's amazing. This is true in either form?"

  "Any form,” Ben answered. “I have three. My human form, my were form, and what I call my wolfen form."

  "Fascinating.” They reached the end of the bridge and walked across the parking lot in silence. As they approached the front door Ben eyed the line outside with a certain amount of discomfort. He felt terribly out of place here. He'd never even been in a bar, even the ones in Central Oregon that allowed minors in until a set time. His parents weren't the bar type and neither Rachel Flynn or her boyfriend Scorpius—the former marine gunnery sergeant who'd trained him to fight—would ever have considered letting him in a bar.

  Loki took one look at the line and shook his head. “Come on.” He slipped around the side of the building and walked over to a small inlet leading to a blank wall. He slid his hand down the wall until he found a small, finger sized hole, which he slid a finger in. A second later the small wall slid inward and dropped away, revealing a short hallway leading to an ordinary door.

  Loki took the hall in two long strides and turned the knob. Ben followed as he entered a large, smoke-filled room that looked more like someone's basement lounge at home than anything you'd find in a club.

  To his immediate left was an eight foot bar. Behind it sat a fridge, a stove, and a dishwasher. A lazy susan rack holding half a dozen liquor bottles sat on the top of the bar on one side of the double sink. Directly in front of him sat six figures at a large round table playing cards. Behind them he could see an entertainment center holding a top of the line fifty-four inch HDV and several shelves of DVD and CDs. A bookcase took up the left wall. Sitting on the dividing line between the two rooms was a large green recliner—the same emerald shade as the carpet . The chair swiveled as they entered, disgorging a pale, compact woman into Loki's arms. The immortal jester lifted her up and ran slim fingers through her chestnut hair as he crushed her to his chest. “I'm back."

  "You're back,” she murmured into his shoulder. Her eyes—nearly the same shade as her hair, lifted to meet Ben's gaze. “Who's your friend?"

  He set her down and turned, leaving one arm around her shoulders. “This is Ben. He's a werewolf."

  "So he's the one.” She looked at him curiously. “He's cute enough."

  Ben felt himself blush and hated it.

  "What are you doing? It's my deal."

  He glanced up at the table. One of the players—a young giant with a flowing golden mane and bronze skin—met his gaze and nodded congenially. Ben blinked a couple of times as he realized who it was. “Hey, you're—"

  "—Stormchild,” the big blond answered.

  "—Thor,” Loki said.

  Stormchild gave Loki a tiny smile, little more than a quirking of his full lips. “It's hard to break a habit of a lifetime."

  Loki nodded. “Stormchild—this is Ben Dalmas. He's our resident—our one and only—werewolf."

  "You're not going to eat me, are you?” the big man asked with a sly grin.

  "Not today,” Ben replied glibly.

  "Your turn,” said the woman to his left. She was attractive, in a broad shouldered, flaming red hair kind of way. Except perhaps the way she talked with her teeth clenched around a smoldering cigar. She took two large puffs and sent a couple more cloud dragons up to duel in the already misty air above the table.

  "Damn—it's like little LA in here,” Loki muttered, waving his hand to clear away the smog. “Those things stink, Morgan."

  "You have no taste, Loki."

  "I must not. I like you."

  "You ought to know better than that, Morgan. Verbal sparring with Loki isn't a game you can win. You're doing better at poker.” This from the bald, ebon-skinned gentleman in the crisp gray suit sitting across the table from her, his British accent crisp as his suit. He didn't seem to be playing. Not a poker fan?

  "Not a welcome opponent,” the man said, as if in answer to his unspoken question.

  "Hell, yes,” said the small, curly-haired fellow to her right, apparently agreeing with the black gentleman. He was the one with his back to Ben. “Looking for tells from Morgan is like reading statuary."

  "The woman with the smelly rag burning in her mouth—as you might have guessed—is Morgan. She's grumpy, but don't worry ... she only kills for money. The big blonde guy you know—Mr. Big Rock Star. The woman who tried to molest me the minute I walked in the door is my wife, Renee. She's undead. Please don't hold it against her. Now, me, I can hold it against her. I hold it against her every chance I get,” he said in an odd tone of voice, miming holding a guitar in one hand as he wiggled his eyebrows up and down.

  Everyone laughed but Ben. He didn't get it.

  They all sighed. “Mortals,” murmured the ebon man. They all sighed again.

  "My dark friend there is Bladesworth. They won't let him play because he cheats."

  "I do not cheat,” Bladesworth objected in a mild tone. “It's not my fault that Morgan here's the only one who can keep herself calm enough that she doesn't broadcast her every intention."

  "Bladesworth is psionic—what you mortals call psychic. So's Renee, for that matter. That's why she's not playing either."

  "For Morgan,” said the curly-haired one, “poker-face isn't just an expression. It's a way of life. Who's turn is it?"

  "Still Stormchild's,” both Morgan and Bladesworth said in unison. “Would you hurry up?” Morgan grumbled at him.

  "See what I mean about the grumpy part?” Loki asked.

  "Shaddup, Loki."

  "The mop-top belongs to Hermes.” A strikingly youthful face peeked briefly over one shoulder before he went back to staring at the big blond.

  "I can't concentrate with all these distractions,” Stormchild objected.

  "Boss?” A disembodied voice suddenly drowned out everyone's commentary. “Guy from the liquor board's here."

  "Ah. Thank you, Bruce. Care to take care of this, honey?"

  Renee rolled her eyes, but nodded. “I'll be right back.” She stood up, shifted one of the DVD disk cases, and the whole entertainment center pivoted aside. She vanished into the hole and it spun back into place.

  "What's she doing?"

  "Getting rid of the government guy."

  "How? Why?"

  "What—you writing a book?” As if realizing how snappish that sounded, he smiled apologetically. “We aren't as ... particular here about who we serve as the ‘Man’ might like."

  "I like how he still calls it ‘the Man,” Stormchild said with a grin. “Loki, you're stuck in the sixties."

  "Better than the eighties—or is that big hair thing coming back?"

  "Funny.” Stormchild tossed his head and peered down at his cards. “I raise you ten,” he said, putting two chips into the pot.

  "I see it,” Hermes said, tossing in a couple chips of his own. “It's yours,” he told Morgan.

  "I see it and raise fifteen."

  "Damn. I fold.” Stormchild threw his cards away.

  "Me too,” said Hermes.

  The door behind them opened and Athena walked in. She shook her head violently and her dark tresses seemed to arrange themselves into perfect order. “Sorry I'm late, guys.” She brushed a hand casually over Loki's shoulder, offered Ben a quick smile by way of greeting, and made her way to the table. Bladesworth stood, offering her his chair, and moved to the recliner as she settled in at the table.

  "So. Morgan's winning?” she asked, eyeing the pile of chips in front of the redhead.

  "Isn't she always?"

  "Huh. Pretty much. Well, woman—I'm here to tell you that your luck is about to change."

  "Unlikely,” muttered Hermes. “Whose deal is it?"

  "Athena can deal,” Morgan said. “What's your poison?” she asked, pushing herself away from the table and heading for the kitchen.

  "Just a beer,” Athena said. “The flavor of the week, whatever it is."

  "Thomas Kemper pale lager,” Loki said. “Draft, not bottles."


  "Sounds good."

  Morgan pulled a glass from a cupboard and filled it from a hidden keg. Ben watched all this with a distinctly uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach. He felt a little like an intruder here.

  Loki seemed to sense this, and laid a hand on his arm. “It's okay, Ben. I invited you here, remember?"

  "Has Amanda ever been here?"

  Loki nodded. “Of course. This place is a sanctuary for the immortals when they're in town, an informal gathering hall where we argue our way through important policy decisions. Or just waste a bunch of time accomplishing nothing in particular. Take your pick.” He grinned broadly.

  Athena dealt nine cards. “Baseball."

  Stormchild swore. “It figures. I hate that game."

  "Keeps Morgan honest,” Hermes observed dryly. “She doesn't like blind poker any more than you do."

  "Always said the woman has taste,” the blond giant snorted.

  "We've been talking about Seymour,” Morgan said, sliding back into her chair. She pushed a frothy glass across to Athena, who accepted it with a querying look.

  "Oh? What about him?"

  "Morgan wants to get rid of him,” Bladesworth answered from the recliner.

  "Wonderful idea,” Stormchild grunted. “He's a big pain in the—"

  "Absolutely not,” Athena said curtly, silencing the big blond with a frosty glare as she flicked him a card. “Have you lost your minds? Right now he's a nuisance ... you kill him and you'll make him into a martyr."

  "Better to come up with a way to discredit him,” Loki put in.

  "So, how do you discredit a nut-job, anyway?” Stormchild asked blandly. “Make him look sane?"

  "With these people the best way is to catch them canoodling someone besides their wives,” Hermes said, scraping his cards into a pile.

  "So, do we know anything about him having such ... proclivities?” Morgan asked. She looked a bit disappointed, Ben thought. She gathered her own cards into a pile and eyed the ace of diamonds sitting next to the deck in the middle of the table. “What's this shit?"

  "Stormchild's gotta beat an ace,” Athena replied with a shrug. “Rumor has it Seymour's known to fuck around occasionally."

  "We can use that,” Stormchild said, flipping one of his cards. It came up the queen of clubs. He sighed and flipped another. This one was a three of diamonds. “Two queens. I'll bet ten.” He tossed in a couple of chips.

  Everyone else tossed in two chips apiece. “It's going to be tricky,” Hermes commented, flipping his first card. It came up a four of spades. “'Nother card please."

  Athena tossed him a card from the deck. Face up. “Nine. Pair of fours. Doesn't beat a pair of ladies though."

  "Nothing beats a pair of ladies,” Loki remarked with a sly smile.

  "Loki—shut up.” Morgan sighed.

  Hermes turned over the next card, revealing a seven of hearts. He turned the next card and came up with another four—this one in the suit of hearts. “Three fours.” He tossed a single chip into the pot.

  "Not feeling too confident there, are you?” Stormchild asked him. “So we gonna use an agent, or is one of you girls—I mean women—going to do it?"

  "I sure as fuck ain't going to sleep with the jackass,” Morgan said. “I'd shoot him, but I sure as hell wouldn't fuck him."

  Loki chuckled, shaking his head. “Help yourself to a beer, Ben. I'm going to go upstairs and check on my wife. Be back in a jiffy.” He trotted over to the entertainment center, jiggled the DVD case, and vanished through the opening.

  Seven

  The man's skin was jet, but it wasn't the darkness of an African, or even of an Australian Aborigine—his features were far too knife-edged for that. Everything on his face was all right angles, a vertical slash for a nose, cheekbones that slashed down to a sharply pointed, jutting chin. Eyes, narrowly cut with the hint of epicanthic folds, narrowed further as he leaned forward on his granite throne.

  Some ten feet in front of the throne and the five foot raised dais stood a large creature—cursed with a woman's form drawn in giant scale with skin as black as her master's, with a pair of huge bat-like wings spread like a great black cloak behind her.

  She wore a sparse uniform of matte black chain-link armor over silken silver, a short, wide skirt and a half shirt, scoop-necked to reveal the cleavage between large ebon breasts lying below silver chain cut to match.

  As defense it was useless. As a fashion statement it was nothing short of striking. Her visage resembled that of the man on the throne, though, in truth, she shared very little of his DNA. “The whispers in the dark of a man called Raven, Lord."

  The immortal called Hades settled back and glowered. “And this ... Raven ... the vampires fear him?"

  "Fear may not be a strong enough word, Lord. He slays the rogues with impunity. He destroys those who would prey on the humans. A better word would be ‘terrified.’”

  He didn't like the hint of admiration that tinged her voice. This ... Raven ... was interfering with his plans. Who was this creature? “Continue your patrols,” he told her. “Find him and bring him to me."

  "As you say, Lord.” She bowed and swept from the chamber.

  Do not fail me in this, Dusk. Or do not return..

  * * * *

  As the sky turned light behind her, Jaz eyed the squatty, bullet-headed man suspiciously as he stood next to the open door and motioned with one arm. “Welcome to my humble abode."

  She didn't want to be here. She didn't trust him. Then again, she didn't trust anyone. Trust was a weakness she couldn't afford.

  She edged her way past him and inched her way through the foyer. Her eyes lingered briefly on the statuette of a fox-headed woman on a small cherry wood table beside the arch leading into the next room. She walked past it and stood on the brink of a large sunken living room filled with a cream colored sofa and two black futon loveseats. A huge HDV set sat between two towering cases filled with audio components and DVDs.

  The whole back wall was a massive window overlooking a meticulously landscaped yard. “Pretty,” she said reluctantly. “You've got a nice house."

  "Keeps the rain off my head,” he replied off-handedly. “Bathroom's down that hall to the right,” he said. “Kitchen's the first door, bathroom's the second, guest room is the only door on the left."

  "Where do you sleep?” she asked.

  "In the loft,” he said, pointing at a small wrought iron spiral stair she hadn't noticed in the corner directly to her left. “You don't have to worry—I've got a bathroom up there. The one down here is all yours."

  "Oh.” She wandered over to the racks next to the HDV. She recognized a lot of the titles, but remembered seeing only a few of the Disney classics when she was little. The rest of them—well, she didn't get much of a chance to watch movies these days.

  "Feel free,” he said. “I'd suggest you get cleaned up and get some sleep. I need to go up to the main house for a while. I have no clothes to fit you, but you can appropriate one of my tee-shirts, if you'd like. I can take you out to pick up some new clothes when I get back."

  She turned and stared at him. “Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why would you do that for me. Do this?” She waved her hands as if to encompass the whole house.

  He smiled. A little sadly, she thought. “Because I can. If you're hungry there's plenty of food in the fridge. Help yourself."

  After he'd gone she found the kitchen and made herself a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, pouring a big glass of milk to go with it. She sat at the small round table and ate the sandwich, staring out the kitchen window at a large willow tree stirring in the breeze, twinkling with the light of the dawn. Thoughts spun wildly in her head. It didn't make sense. None of it did. Not the vampires, not this ... whatever it was.

  None of it.

  What does he want? She was afraid. Afraid of what he might want in return for his generosity. There was always a price.

  * * * *

&n
bsp; Amanda woke screaming. It wasn't the first time, but it hadn't happened for a while—ever since Ben arrived, she realized, taking long, deep breaths to try to calm her racing heart. And if he knew I might be the one who killed his parents? He's never really asked what happened down there.

  The dream had been the same one. Back in the caves—where that mad vampire bitch Veronica had held court. Where she'd used human zombies under her mental command to mine for an artifact long forgotten by human legend, an artifact of such power that one of the last dragons had been given the task of guardianship of it.

  Where, at the moment of her death at Amanda's hands, the zombies had gone mad and attacked everyone in reach. Who had no choice but to defend themselves.

  Several hundred men and women died that day, gunned down by Amanda, a local detective, and the Marine strike team under PAC authority who'd been sent to back them up. Amanda had fired the bullet that set them off—a magically assisted round that had penetrated the vampire queen's eye and turned her brain to mulch inside her head.

  She knew, on an intellectual level, that she wasn't really to blame for what happened, but ... too many people lay buried under the Central Oregon desert for her to feel completely confident of that. Too many lives snipped short. And the two that gnawed at her most were Ben's parents.

  * * * *

  Ben snapped awake, the scream echoing in the distance. He raced to her room and burst through the door before he, trapped like a fly in amber as the light flicked on overhead at her murmured command, realized his mistake. He regularly slept nude and tonight had been no different. It took him a few seconds to correctly read the amused gleam in her eye before he looked down and saw the reason for himself. He felt his whole body blush. “I just thought ... I heard ... are you okay?"

  "I'm fine,” she replied, with a tired sigh. “Just a nightmare."

  He covered his groin, swollen first with the need to urinate, then further by the sight of her naked shoulders as she sat up, pulling the blanket tight over her breasts. “Sorry."

  "I wouldn't apologize for that,” she said, with a pointed glance at his groin.

  He darkened another couple shades and slowly backed out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.