“I’ve tried that, Susan. Look, can we go off script for a minute? I know the drill. I want to skip the reboots and reconfigures, and go straight to where you check for service interruptions on your end. Check the tech panel on your bottom right. There’s probably an alert from this morning on your problem queue.”
Susan was quiet for a full thirty seconds. I imagined her staring at the wall of her cubicle as the little hamster in her brain fell off the wheel repeatedly. To her credit, she didn’t try to tell me she couldn’t do what I asked.
“O-okay. Yes, Ms. Mackenzie. I’m showing an outage as of five this morning, and no activity since. I’ve reset your connection from the switch. That should have you back on within three to five minutes. Would you like me to stay on the line with you while we wait?”
“No thank you, Susan. I’ll just call back if I need to. Goodbye.”
I hung up the phone and waited. Sure enough, the red X disappeared and our POS was no longer MIA. I walked over to Connor’s room and stuck my head in. “All done. You can get back to preselling Vinny here on —” I looked at the drawing in front of the men. “Harry Potter? Really?”
Vin Dun Pham, affectionately known as Vinny, smiled at me. “My daughter loves the books. I want to get a Gryffindor crest with her name underneath.”
I threw up both hands and shook my head. “Far be it from me to question. The customer is always right. Except when they’re not.”
Connor laughed. “We could put something on you this morning, Bon. I’ve got some lovely stuff from the Old Country that would complement that lily white skin of yours.”
I turned my back and scratched between my shoulder blades with both middle fingers. The men laughed and went back to their discussion. Connor didn’t understand. He didn’t believe in the wolves, called them “Poppa’s Ghost Stories.” He couldn’t understand why I never wanted to get a tattoo again. I went back upstairs and bent to pick up the newspaper, closing the door with my foot. I refilled my coffee and sat down, circling the article about the missing girl’s body in red marker. It was time to hunt again.
Chapter Three
City lights played sparkling games over the bayou as I walked toward Thermal. Saturday would be a packed house, especially with tonight’s unseasonably cool November weather. I paused two blocks away and looked to the grassy bank. Someone had put a cross there, one of those kinds you see on the side of the road where some idiot flipped their SUV. This one was old. Sentiments only last so long. The wreath that wrapped around it was long dead, and the dry summer had left it a mummified husk. It had surprised me to see it the first time—the man who died there wasn’t worthy of remembering. Apparently someone disagreed.
I hadn’t paused for his benefit. This was the spot where I lost Dreama. I knew her as Dree, my best friend for many years. I saw her change gradually into something subhuman. At the time I didn’t understand. I thought Poppa was just as crazy as Connor said. Then I saw her rip a man’s throat out on this very bank. She was vicious, bestial. She slipped a chunk of him between her teeth and relished in it. She’d looked at me as she ran off. Those glowing yellow eyes did not belong to my friend. She was cursed by my family. I intended to correct that mistake.
I walked back toward Thermal. It was the first of a series of recent urban improvements. Before the fancy converted lofts came in, somebody thought it was a good idea to make an old heating and A/C factory into a club. Most nights it feels like a heater is on. I mostly come back here for Dree—to remember why it is I have to kill the wolves. If one of them is on the prowl when I drop in, that’s all the better. If not, at least I could possibly get laid. It had been much too long.
Hiding a modified epi pen full of my own blood wasn’t an easy task when I didn’t want to carry my purse. Thermal didn’t have a coat check, so I had to shove it between my shoulder blades and under my bra strap. My hair was long enough to cover the bulge. Tall boots hid my handgun, barely. I wore a form-fitting dark green dress with plenty of slink and enough give for dancing. I knew how to complement my coloring. I got more than a few appreciative looks as I showed my ID at the door.
The bartender nodded at me as I came up. He looked like an obsidian statue, all dark muscles and cinched-up dreadlocks in a loose silk shirt. The light from the back of the bar made his skin glow so dark it was almost blue. He smiled at me.
“How’s it going, Henry?” I said.
“I can’t complain, but I do anyway,” he laughed and poured me a Jack and Coke. “Always good to see a familiar face.” His accent was a very deliberate, precise English—the kind you hear among first-generation immigrants. It fit. Henry Ndbuisi was right off the boat from Nigeria. My family had helped with the papers as a matter of fact. Connor had a soft spot for immigrants—one raised him after all.
Henry leaned in and spoke directly into my ear. “Got one for you tonight. Back corner, dancing with the blonde in yellow.”
Apparently my night wasn’t going to be all fun and games after all. I never asked Henry how he could spot them. For me it was the way they moved—like they had more muscles under their skin than they should. Did they have werewolves in Nigeria?
I sipped my drink. Henry always stiffed me on nights he knew I was hunting. I guess he was just looking out for me, but I couldn’t help but be a little annoyed. I got barely a tingle from the cup in my hand. I turned and looked at the dance floor. One corner was darker than the rest, and lined with old bleachers. People sat, sprawled, and leaned on them. Some looked three sheets to the wind already. I zeroed in on the blonde in yellow. She looked like a goddamned bumblebee in that outfit.
Her beau for the night danced much better than her. Of course, he probably wasn’t even buzzed. He could have had a dozen drinks and not felt a thing. That poor girl had no idea what she was getting into. As I watched, he slipped around his date in time with the thumping music. His hair was cut short, almost military style. It practically glowed peroxide blond. He wore the gaudiest Hawaiian shirt I’d ever seen. I could have killed him for that alone. His angle was the bumbling prince charming apparently. From the look of the girl, it was working.
I downed the rest of my drink in a long draw, sneezed from the carbonation, and primped myself for the walk across the club. The DJ swapped styles from upbeat techno to a darker, coursing industrial beat. I slinked slow and fluid through the crowd, dancing briefly with a couple of willing men and one woman. She ground herself into me and looked back at the bleachers. Most of the men’s eyes were drawn to us. I nipped at her earlobe. She raised her hands into the air, leaning back and pressing the two of us together. She was actually smaller than me, so I got to be the big spoon for once.
A man who apparently belonged to her emerged from the crowd and joined us. I’m not into ménage, so I excused myself and made my way back toward Hawaiian Shirt Guy. I had his eye. By now the proximity of our bodies meant I had his nose too. That’s right, good puppy. Smells good, doesn’t it? Come closer. I won’t bite.
He stepped away from Girl-in-Yellow, and danced over to me. I saw the daggers she tossed and let them pass over. She’d thank me if she knew the truth. The only way out of a night with a wolf was a back full of tattoos and a tail—or a casket. There was no in-between. Despite his goofy act, he moved well enough. He danced with me like his spine was malleable, slinking around behind to pull me close. If the shape of the epi pen bothered him, he didn’t show it. He had his own bulge, and it was plenty happy to see me.
He pulled my hair back and breathed on my neck. Jesus Fucking Christ, I needed a nice human lay. My back wanted to melt into jelly. I kept it firm with sheer will and the reminder somewhere in the back of my head that this fucker would just as soon eat me, and not in the good way. “You’re a good dancer,” he said. “Very fluid.” His breath tickled the side of my neck, and made its way up to my earlobe. Was that a trace of a growl I heard in this throat? “What say we continue this somewhere a little more private?”
Wolves like to move fast. They
rely on their charm and panty-dissolving sensuality to push otherwise unwilling women to follow along. I admit—I’m not totally immune. There’s a crescent scar on my abdomen that’s proof of that. It happened not long after Poppa died.
“I don’t know,” I said with mock chastity. “We just met. Isn’t that a little sudden?”
He turned me around and put one hand on the small of my back. The other went between my breasts. He barely tapped me and I dipped far enough back for my hair to touch the floor. Holy shit, this one was strong. He’s going to have to get his medicine quick or he’ll break my back first. He pulled me back up and breathed another shiver down my spine. I put on my best beguiling smile.
“Well, you’re a pretty good dancer yourself. Maybe you could teach me a few steps. Give me a…” I stood up and pressed the full length of my body against him. “Private lesson?”
An alert observer might have noticed that he heard me clearly over the house music without me having to press my mouth to his ear. Sadly, there weren’t very many alert observers at Thermal. Alcohol and techno dulls the senses something fierce. I took Hawaiian Shirt’s hand and led him through the crowd. Henry winked at me on the way out. It was his slyest way of saying “Good luck. Don’t end up dead.”
Hawaiian Shirt was brighter than the last one. He took his time, ambling us toward the bayou and into a bit of brush for cover. Foot traffic on the mostly-forgotten sidewalk was more or less nonexistent at this time of night. A few drunken bums might shuffle by, but they mind their own business out of survival instinct. Something about wolves tells the feebleminded to stay away. Fools rush out, in this case. And here I was letting him lead me into a trap.
“The moon is so pretty tonight,” I said. I stretched and brought my hands down to the neck of my dress. He pulled me in for a kiss and locked one of my arms with his. I slipped free gracefully, but stumbled on purpose to make him think I’d had a little too much to drink. He was in no hurry. He watched me right myself and strode up slowly, making the Panama Jack abortion he was wearing look almost suave. Oh, this one had turned or killed quite a few in his time. I started to get nervous.
He took a deep breath, and I saw his irises widen. Fuck, he smells it on me. He knows I’m scared. He’s going to pounce soon. I faked a fall and pulled my epi pen out of my dress. He didn’t see it. He took the opportunity to move in for the kill. His body pressed against mine and pinned me to the grass. I caught a flicker of moonlight in his eyes. Yellow. He’s turning. Fuck, PJ, do it already!
I slammed the epi pen down on his back, but it only discharged halfway. He growled, and I saw his face begin to change. Teeth lowered toward my neck. I felt his breath on me, and this time it didn’t feel good. The smell of him was the smell of eminent death. He closed his jaws just enough for his expanding muzzle and fangs to touch me. Hot drool dripped onto my neck and I cringed. Suddenly, he rolled off me. “What the fuck?!” he half-growled. His voice was thick with the change. He clawed at his shirt and it ripped open. “What did you do to me, you crazy bitch?”
I scrambled clear of him, reached into my boot, and trained the pistol on his exposed chest. “I’m nobody’s bitch, puppy dog. I don’t intend to be. Not now, not ever.” I unloaded two shots into his head. My blood coursed through him slowly. It had taken longer with only half the dosage. The silver bullets helped the process along. He writhed in pain for a good couple minutes. I wasn’t sure it was enough to kill him.
“Who…are you?” he asked through gritted teeth. Even two in the brainpan had only slowed him down. Fuckers were tough, I’d give them that.
“The last surviving woman of the Mackenzie Clan. Tell that to the Devil when you see him,” I said. He held his head and seized, then went still. I kept the pistol trained on him and walked around to his left side. My epi pen was smashed under his torso. I carefully picked up every piece I could, stowed my gun, and looked around. So far the coast was clear. No love-struck lookie-loos to stumble over my murder scene. Good. Someone would have heard the shots though, so I needed to move. I’d also need another epi pen before my next hunt. It was time to visit the witch doctor.
Chapter Four
The botanica where I got my pens wasn’t far from my apartment—just on the other side of the freeway. Unfortunately, the shop was busier than usual that week so I didn’t make it there until the following Friday.
It was a nondescript place, basically a converted house. Some of our best clients lived not far from it. The crime around that particular collection of old houses was very low compared to what surrounded them. My friend Manuel was the reason. He was trained as a paramedic, but that wasn’t what kept the bad people away from his neighborhood. His other title, Santero, did that.
I walked in the front door of his shop, through strings of long beads. The smell of incense slapped me in the face every time. Dozens of statues of the Virgin Mary and other saints I didn’t recognize lined the walls, which were covered with shelves of candles and bags of herbs in colorful paper pouches.
Manuel Fraga sat behind the counter on a stool, fanning himself with a newspaper. His jet-black hair was cinched back in a short ponytail. The white button-down Cuban shirt and matching slacks he wore made him gleam like an angel. To some of his clients, he was just that. He rose when I walked in and picked up a thick cigar that smoldered on the counter.
“Buenos dias, Guerrera de Sangre,” he said. His voice was low enough that it could have shaken the nails from the floor. He nodded back toward the newspaper. “Lots of death in the news, chica. I was afraid the lobos had finally done you in.”
He smiled and gave me a bear hug. He smelled like incense and tobacco. “Hola, Manuel. In the mood to bleed me today?”
We walked behind the counter to another beaded door and he held it open for me. The tiny closet where he practiced western medicine consisted entirely of a single chair with high arms, an ancient table with cabinets beneath, and a battered metal stool. He looked me up and down. “The real question is, are you?”
“I know it’s soon after the last session, but I lost a pen last night. I thought it would be good to stock up again.”
Manuel sighed and reached into a low cabinet. He pulled out his medical supplies and prepped my arm. “We can’t do this forever, you know. You’re spreading yourself thin with all this death.”
“I never thought I’d see a santero shy away from the sight of blood,” I said.
He didn’t respond. Instead he put on some gloves, cinched rubber surgical tubing around my arm, and poked in a vial. I didn’t watch it fill up. If I watched, I fainted. I had learned that the hard way. I woke up shaking, with a barely-detectable pulse, and a face that was much paler than usual. One of Manuel’s customers had crossed herself as I left, apparently sure I was an evil spirit.
“Maybe it’s just machismo,” he said. “But I hate to see a beautiful woman constantly put herself in danger. Do you honor your friend’s memory with this?”
“You and my uncle would get along,” I said. “He says I must have inherited Poppa’s madness. He’s threatened to set me up on a blind date.”
Manuel popped off the full vial and inserted another. “Would it hurt you to try and feel something other than anger? Your aura is muddy from all this death.”
I leaned back in the chair and looked at the ceiling, focusing on deep breaths. I always felt a little light-headed while giving blood. “Spare me the mysticism, Manuel. You know I don’t buy it.”
“You believe a man changes into a wolf because of a curse your ancestors put on him, but you don’t buy that you have an aura? Madre de Dios, you white people.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Manuel taped a square of gauze on my arm and threw away the tubing, then chucked his gloves as well. He placed the vials of my blood in what looked like an armored lunchbox, and then stowed the rest of his pack under the cabinet.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “You need a fuck, chica. Is that down-to-earth enough for you? I’d help you out with that, but I
’m afraid you’d steal my soul.”
I punched him on the arm as we left the back room. Manuel was a handsome guy, if a little too religious for my taste. The fact that he slaughtered goats and chickens regularly didn’t help either. I know how hard it is to wash blood off your hands.
“How long before you can get me more pens?” I asked. He sat down behind the counter again and took a puff from his cigar. I don’t think he actually enjoyed smoking. It was just the smell. He’d said as much before—it reminded him of his father.
“Couple of days, like always. Usual arrangement applies. You need anything from the shop? I’ll give you a good price.”
I looked around and picked out a Virgin Mary candle for Connor. He didn’t make it to Mass as much as he wanted to, but when he did I’m sure he did enough praying for the both of us. Manuel carefully wrapped the candle in brown paper and handed it to me.
“On the house,” he said.
I shook my head and pulled out a five-dollar bill from my bag. “I know better than to owe a favor to a witch doctor.”
Manuel smiled and reached under the counter. He brought out a small cash box. “The candle is only a dollar. Let me get your change.”
“Keep it,” I said. “Call it a donation for a needy parishioner. Or a prayer to…what was it you said that one time? Babaloo?”
“Babalú-Ayé,” Manuel said. “He’s the spirit of healing. You’d do well to remember him. Adios, PJ. Sobreviva.”
Stay alive. Most of my friends tell me that. There was a time when the worst thing I had to worry about was getting knocked up or mugged. I thanked him and carried the brown package out to my car. The tiny red coupe had seen better days. I made the mistake of leading a wolf to it once, and he’d ripped off the side door before I could dose him. I had it reattached, but I never got the scratches repainted. Manuel knew a guy that would do it cheap, but I’d never taken him up on it. The scratches reminded me to be more careful. Toxic blood wouldn’t do me any good if a wolf snapped my neck.
Marked Clan #2 - Red Page 2
