by Andrea Speed
He ventured into Holden’s bedroom, to make sure he was asleep. He was, lying on his side (good—it wasn’t likely he’d vomit in his sleep, but still, it was a good idea), half his blanket pooling on the floor. Roan picked it up and draped it over his torso, and on some mad impulse, briefly stroked his driftwood colored hair. It was soft, although there was a bit of brittleness from hair product. He felt a brief flare of warmth for him and wasn’t sure why, except Holden was his “sidekick,” and possibly just as fucked up as he was, but in a totally different way.
Oh, what was he thinking? No one was as fucked up as he was.
He left Holden’s apartment, locking the door behind him, and realized he felt funny as he walked back to his car. Why? It took him a bit to figure it out, but he was sober, sober and hungry, and he had these weird aches in his shoulders and hip joints. Not pain, not… exactly. It was just an odd feeling, one he couldn’t quite pin down or describe. He didn’t feel quite right in his own body anymore, did he?
See? This is why it never paid to be sober. You noticed things that bugged the shit out of you.
He stopped at a fast-food place and just ordered random crap off the menu, figuring it all tasted pretty much the same: like fryer fat and salt. He was correct.
Once he got home, he expected to be greeted by Dylan, but instead he found a note. It seemed that Silver, that upscale place, had had to sack their bartender and needed to hire someone right now for the evening shift. Dyl had to drop everything and get over there for a speedy orientation before he worked his first shift tonight. The place was open only until midnight, so he’d be home a bit earlier than his usual Panic shifts, which sometimes put him home around four in the morning, an ungodly hour decent only for drug addicts and detectives.
Even though he knew he might not dress well enough or earn enough to get in the door, he had to try and see Dylan tonight. It would be a supportive gesture to show up—well, as long as he didn’t cause a scene or start a fight. He’d work hard not to do that.
At least Dylan would probably be too tired to bring up the fact that they hadn’t slept together since he’d returned from Willow Creek. Roan was trying hard to keep his libido tamped down with the meds, and generally it worked; most days he was too tired to stay up and watch television, never mind do anything else.
But it would come up sooner or later, he knew Dylan was already thinking of ways to ask him about it, and why did he even need to ask? The last time they’d had sex, Roan had bitten him.
Not the usual way, which could be dismissed as a “love bite,” much like the growling could be dismissed as an odd quirk. He had bitten Dylan’s throat, hard enough to make him jerk his head away reflexively, hard enough to actually draw blood. The worst part? Roan hadn’t been aware he’d done it until Dylan’s reaction.
It was Dylan who made the excuses for him. He said it was hardly a scrape (bullshit—one of his canine teeth had punctured his skin), that he got carried away and it was nothing, but it wasn’t nothing. The lion was screwing up rage and lust, and he was starting to lose control in even the quiet moments. He didn’t want to risk intimacy again until he was sure he wasn’t going to accidentally kill Dylan… but he couldn’t be sure, could he? There was no way to be sure.
And his blood? Oh god, it had tasted so good. He was starting to dream about the taste of Dylan’s blood. He was a fucking monster.
He dozed on the couch until the phone woke him up. It was dark in the house and kind of cold, and he didn’t care. Answering the phone was pure reflex—as soon as he did it and was half-awake, he wanted to slam it down again. But it was too late.
“Roan, how fast do you think you can get to Club Damage?” It was Seb asking; typical for him, he skipped the foreplay.
“Club Damage?” Roan asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’d been dreaming of the taste of Dylan’s skin, salty and warm, followed by the ecstasy of his metallic, hot blood. What was he now, a vampire? Being a cat wasn’t bad enough? “Oh god, is that that meat market that opened up where the Neon Lounge used to be?”
“One and the same. Funny you use the term meat market—a cat, seems like a leopard, got loose in the club somehow. We have ten injured, three by the rush out the door, two seriously mauled by the cat, which has been trapped in the men’s bathroom. The bathroom has a grate over the window, so the cat can’t get out, but the sharpshooters can’t take a shot either, and considering how enraged this cat is, going through the door seems vaguely suicidal. You feeling lucky?”
“Not really.” He sat up, then asked, “How’d it get in the club?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. You’d think the Lady Gaga disco remix that assaulted us once we came in the doors would have scared the bejesus out of any cat, but maybe it’s deaf.”
“So nobody knows?”
“So far, I’m lucky to get a coherent sentence out of anyone. Apparently there was a bachelorette party on tonight, and these girls have been enjoying many two-dollar margaritas, and the guys are hardly any better. The bartender did tell me that the door wasn’t open, and no one let it in as far as she could tell. But why would someone let a leopard in?”
“And how? Why wouldn’t the cat attack whoever was holding the door? That doesn’t make sense, Seb.”
“I agree. What’s your theory?”
Good question. Of course he didn’t have one. Nothing made sense; he’d have to see the place to formulate any kind of theory. “Elves.”
“Can you prove it in court? I’ll accept it if you can prove it in court.”
“Elves explode into dust if you don’t believe in them.”
“Shit. Well, I’ll cross that off the list. See you in twenty?”
“I’ll try and make it fifteen,” he said, and hung up. It was only then that Roan realized there was a message waiting on the machine. He checked it to find it was Dee. “I’m off at midnight. Drop by or I’ll kick your ass.” That was it, the entire message. Great. He was going to get his ass kicked either way, wasn’t he? Well, why not? His life was currently a series of various ass kickings.
He changed clothes, wolfed down a croissant, and popped a couple of pills before grabbing his leather jacket and helmet. He hadn’t taken out the bike for a while, and he felt like it could use a little road time.
It also helped him make illegal cuts, so he got to Club Damage in about fifteen minutes. You’d think with a name like Club Damage it’d be a punk club or something, but sadly no, it was a trendoid place where you drank overpriced drinks and hoped to hook up with someone who wouldn’t give you chlamydia. The Neon Lounge, which used to be there, was actually an odd little jazz club that occasionally hosted avant garde musicians and other oddities, raking in just enough to keep it afloat, but as soon as the owner died from hepatitis, it was bought up and transformed into a place that promised foam parties and two-for-one well drinks. It was like a piece of the city had died as well.
Police cars and ambulances blocked off the street, with news vans forced to the periphery. One of the reporters recognized him, and after waving like a lunatic, bellowed, “So it is a cat incident, huh?”
Roan’s only response was a middle finger, which got laughs from the paramedics who were paying attention. He ducked under hastily rolled out crime scene tape and was intercepted by Seb while getting evil glares from Garcia and the rest of the cat squad goons, standing by with their body armor and sniper rifles, looking like fascist toy boys. Roan shot Garcia a smile, and a slightly smarmy “Ladies.”
Seb snickered, and said, “You just wanna start something, don’t you?”
“If he’s gonna eye fuck me, he’s gonna pay for it. So what’s the deal? If I’m goin’ in, I don’t need backup.”
“Normally, yeah, but there’s something wrong with that cat.”
“What, does it have rabies?”
“You joke, but that might be it. C’mon, I’ll show you.”
Roan followed him into the club, which smelled of blood, fear, and tequila, with a b
it of that foam they would spray on the dance floor for the foam parties. (In fact, there was still a bit on the edge of the dance floor.) They were hardly halfway toward the back when Roan heard the snarling, followed by dull thuds. “What the hell’s that?”
“According to the guy looking in the window? The leopard throwing itself into the doors.”
“Doors? Not just the door out?”
He shook his head. “Stall doors, stall walls. It jumped up on the sinks and tried to climb the mirror. It attempted to jump on a hand dryer and brought it down. It’s acting like it’s all hepped up on goofballs, and no one’s sure why.”
“Just like no one’s sure how it got in here?”
“Yeah. Think there’s a connection?”
Roan looked around. The fire door could only open from the inside, and the club’s front entrance was actually two doors, since the new owners hadn’t modified the Neon Lounge’s old holdover of having a lobby (the building had once been a bank, and the owner of Neon had thought it was kind of funny to keep the entrance the same). “Hell if I know, Seb. But two coincidences in a row? No fucking way.”
He nodded tersely. “Kinda what I thought too. But do me a favor and find me a clue I can use, okay?” Seb handed him a radio and a tranquilizer gun, and while Roan took them both, he couldn’t help but ask, “If it’s hepped up and rabid, is a tranq gonna do anything?”
“That’s a triple dose of the usual, what we’d use to try and put you down.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Take it as a compliment. You’re stronger than the average bear and we all know it.” After a moment, he added, “You strapped? That leopard might be stronger than you.”
“No leopard is stronger than me,” he snarled, with more anger and pride than he intended. Maybe it was the whole thing with Bolt, or maybe he was still stung by the idea that he was leaving humanity far behind him. Either way, he deserved the odd look Seb gave him, but he didn’t acknowledge it as he turned away and walked toward the two cat squad guys blocking the men’s room door, keeping it shut and standing by with their guns drawn. He didn’t recognize either of them but they seemed to recognize him, as they both nodded and the Latina with the butch haircut raised her hand and said, “Wait a moment, sir.” She was listening to her earpiece radio, and after several seconds reported, “It’s in a stall,” and stepped aside, so he could go in. He was going to make a joke about maybe it needed to use the john, but everybody was so damn serious he knew it wouldn’t go over well.
He stepped into the bathroom with its slate tiles and gleaming porcelain fixtures, and had barely shut the door behind him before the leopard came charging out of the stall it was in and ran straight for him. There wasn’t a lot of ground to cover, but it was a relatively small leopard, maybe five five in length (not counting the tail), dark brown with lighter spots, and yellowish streaks suggesting whoever it was used peroxide. It wasn’t so much roaring as screaming as it ran for him, foam and saliva dripping from its gaping maw. Roan roared an angry warning, but it wasn’t listening and was already lunging. If it wasn’t rabid, it was crazy.
It jumped for his throat, but he caught it midair with a punch, hitting it square in the jaw. It went flying across the room and hit the wall so hard a part of the urinal broke off and fell to the floor, along with the leopard, which struggled to get up on its feet. It shook its head hard enough to shake its whole body, and it stumbled every time it tried to stand up. It was growling the whole time, snarling, drool hanging down from its lower jaw. Roan was growling too, but it was reflex. The cat smelled wrong; there was something chemical in its scent, something like ammonia and phosphorus, and it was deeply confusing, almost throwing his lion side off. He felt the muscles boiling beneath his skin, bones crackling like kindling on a fire, the crack of his jaw like gunshots as the joints popped.
A lighter punch had fractured Oliver’s skull, but showing how tough transformed cats were, the leopard finally regained its feet and started toward him, but he vomited out a roar that was loud enough and angry enough to stun it, make it hesitate. Roan hesitated too, mainly because it smelled so wrong he wanted to put it out of its misery. It wasn’t a sick smell, not exactly… it was more like a smell of poison.
As he snarled and growled, approaching the cat slowly, his Human side warred with his cat one. Something was wrong with this cat, and it wasn’t rabies, it wasn’t pneumonia, it wasn’t anything that could be explained by smell.
Smell. That was it; that was the weird thing beyond the ammonia and phosphorus. Perfume. He was smelling perfume, Bijan Wicked to be exact. What the hell…?
The leopard got up enough strength and courage to lunge again, but he was back in himself enough to kick it, fighting back what he actually wanted to do (which was rip its throat out, put it down like the sick creature it was). He caught it in the torso and sent it flying backward, where it crashed into the window hard enough to shatter the glass, which rained down on it as it hit the floor. It was still snarling, still struggling to get up, ignoring the “Holy shit!” coming from outside, where the bathroom watcher must have gotten a scare. Roan remembered the tranquilizer gun and pulled it out, putting a round in its neck. It was still struggling to get up, now bleeding from its black pad of a nose and from a dozen different glass cuts, and still drooling thick, viscous ribbons. “Stay down,” he snarled, his voice just barely Human, sounding like a cross between James Earl Jones and a trash compactor full of gravel. It was fighting the drugs all the way, but didn’t have the impetus to stand up.
He heard the door open behind him, smelled the relatively fresher air, and heard Seb say, “I’d ask how you broke a urinal, but I don’t care.”
“There’s something wrong,” he said, not turning around. His voice was still gravelly, but Human enough. His jaw didn’t feel right, though; he wasn’t sure it had completely morphed back.
A female voice snorted, and he assumed it was the Latina cop. “No shit, Sherlock.”
“No, you don’t get it. She’s newly transformed.”
A pause, the snap of gun holsters. It was Seb who replied, and Roan could almost feel the other cops looking at him, tacitly saying, He’s your freaky friend—you deal with him. “You’re gonna hafta be more explicit with me here, Roan. You saying this was her first transformation?”
“I’m saying she came in this club a Human.”
“How is that possible? I mean, it takes about an hour to transform, right? I mean, for most.” Roan heard the unspoken Not for you, you freaky ass bastard, but for everyone who has even a shred of humanity left. “Someone would’ve noticed.”
“I agree. Someone would have. Maybe the someone who poisoned her.”
“Poisoned? She’s poisoned?”
“Run a full tox screen. Better yet, get Doctor Petra Rosenberg in on this.”
“Who?”
“My doctor, she’s an expert on infecteds, I’ll give you her number.”
There was a scoff, and a male voice—not Seb’s—exclaimed, “How the hell does he know this stuff? I mean, we all know he’s one of them, but—”
“He says something, you can bet on it,” Seb snapped, more impatient than angry. “And if you don’t believe me, ask the Chief. Got it?”
The boy answered with a cowed, “Yes sir.”
Roan didn’t know if he looked Human enough or not, and really didn’t care. He hurt, he could taste his own sour blood in his mouth, and this rookie just fucking pissed him off. He glared at him, a potato-faced boy who was probably on the wrong side of twenty-two, and said, “One of them? I am not one of them. She is a Human being who’s probably been murdered by some fuck you barely questioned twenty minutes ago. Don’t forget you’re looking at an illness, not an outcome.”
“Murdered?” Seb repeated. “You don’t think she’s gonna make it?”
Roan shook his head, even though it hurt. There weren’t enough drugs to ever block out this pain, although the ketamine worked surprisingly well. Maybe he should’ve aske
d Holden if he had more. “It smells like it’s permeated her system. No wonder she was acting crazy.”
“Um, did you just say you weren’t Human?” the female officer asked, obviously confused.
He wiped the blood from his chin, wishing he’d brought one of the cars after all. He needed more pills just to function; it felt like he was full of broken glass, clogging his bloodstream like crushed ice. “Yes. Now where are the fucking paramedics?”
Maybe it was the pain, or the continued restlessness of the lion in his own head, but he had a bad feeling that this was just the start of something. And there was no fucking way it could be any good.
5
Pretty Visitors
ROAN stayed on the scene until the ambulance took her away, strapping the virtually comatose cat down to a reinforced stretcher with so many ties Roan found it hard not to laugh. She’d be lucky ever to wake up, so why not put a few more plastic ties on her? It was absurd, and yet he knew it was regulations, and they were just doing their jobs. Just like putting on what looked like hazmat suits was just part of the regs.
He got Rosenberg on Seb’s phone and left him to talk to her as he wandered off, finding his bike and a stray Percocet in his pants pocket. He dry swallowed the pill before putting on his helmet and taking off.
He decided to stop by Silver, since it was on the way, but he pulled off into a Starbucks on the neighboring block first, mainly so he could duck into their restroom, clean blood off his face, and make sure he looked reasonably Human and presentable. He still didn’t look like Silver clientele, but fuck it. He zipped up his jacket to cover up the bloodstains on his shirt (mostly his, some the leopard’s), and hoped that normal people couldn’t smell it as much as he could.
Silver was a sleek restaurant of smoky glass and brushed chrome, going for a retro feel but a classy one, less fifties diner, more grounded space yacht. The only thing that took the polish off its aura was the fact that it was taking up the corner of a downtown street that wasn’t nearly as upscale as it was. But the gentrification was just beginning. Give it a year, and it might be.
