He nodded. "Yes, but to see your loved ones destroyed, an old family like ours ... I did not have it in me."
"So, what've you been doing all these years?"
He smiled, showing long, yellow teeth. "Following the wind, bubeleh."
"Zeyde, what's your name?"
"Joshua Tobeck," he replied. "There are many Tobecks, but our branch of that honored line was . . . special . . . very old. Blest, we often said." He chuckled—a short, brittle sound.
"Listen, Zeyde, the other night, when that man was killed . . . weren't you close enough to hear anything?"
"Was / close enough?" he asked, slyly.
I watched him uneasily. "Did you know he was a Nazi?"
"Did I know he was a Nazi?" he repeated sarcastically.
I frowned. He was goading me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. He wasn't a helpless old man anymore . . . and we both knew it. He was a werewolf. The feeling was on me stronger than ever, like instinct, like a sixth sense. "Did you kill that Nazi?" I asked softly, not wanting to know.
"Did I kill that Nazi?" He grinned wildly. "Did I rip his throat out? Did I eat his heart? Such a death is too good for a Nazi!" He spat angrily on the street. "Did / kill that Nazi?" His gray eyes gleamed with a feral light.
Fear made my skin crawl, but only for a moment. I got a grip on myself and felt embarrassed. It wasn't like me to let my imagination run away like that. I looked at Zeyde's thin form, his gnarled hands and stooped shoulders. He was so old, so worn.
Of course Zeyde knew about the corpse. News travels fast on the streets, and the street people who'd been there would've talked about it among themselves, sharing the grisly details. That's all it was. He was just raving, trying to scare me.
"So, how's your policeman, bubeleh?" Zeyde said, once more the sweet old man, as though nothing had happened. "Be nice to him, he has a good heart."
I watched the stooped figure shuffle away, telling myself that such conversations were typical with street people—confused memories laced with paranoia. But as I slid into the driver's seat, I switched on the radio to call Joe.
▼▼▼
I never did tell Joe much . . . just that Zeyde wasn't a reliable witness. I didn't even consider discussing my uneasy imaginings ... I'd have sounded even crazier than the old man. I could picture Joe's face. Werewolves, yeah, sure!
However, on impulse, I did let Joe take me to breakfast. We shared other meals over the next few weeks. We'd meet at the restaurant, go dutch, then separate from there. He had to be the world's most patient man, but I guess he could tell that was all I was up for. After the second week, I started really looking forward to seeing him and Chief, even though I suspected Joe was using my love for the dog to win me over. Linda couldn't believe I wasn't sleeping with him yet.
I kept running into Zeyde around the city. Sometimes he was lucid; others definitely not. He started telling me about his family, how the Nazis took them, how one minute they were together and the next, only he was alive. He hinted once that he'd helped other prisoners get away.
". . . when I had the strength to help them," he'd said. "The guards, they feared those bright silver nights."
"Bright silver? You mean moonli " I'd started to ask.
"Searchlights!" he interrupted, smiling. Staring blankly, lost in memories, he muttered, "Six others, there were with me . . . three Jews, two gypsies, a political dissident . . . they hid me in the bad times, and
I helped them get away . . . and revenge we tasted on sweet silver nights. . . ."
"But, Zeyde," I'd said, when he trailed off, "why didn't you escape?"
He didn't answer.
Yet, I couldn't shake the crazy notion that he was a werewolf. Especially when he grinned, with all those long, yellow teeth. How could a man his age not have lost any teeth, especially in the camps?
We never found any large pack of dogs to explain that Nazi's death but, with the crush of work, it was easy to forget. I was doing fifteen to twenty-five kills a night, average for fall. Then, one chilly Friday, almost a month to the day since I'd met him, Zeyde appeared at the shelter again, waiting by my van.
"Hi!" I greeted him, smiling. "Have you eaten?"
He nodded. "The people from Bread for the City had the trucks out early. The soup's not kosher, but . . ." He shrugged eloquently. "Do you have a minute to speak with me, Therese?"
"Norris!" Linda yelled out the front door. "Phone! It's him!" She batted her long lashes. I flipped her the bird.
"Sure, soon as I get this call. Come inside, it's warm." I went in to grab the phone. "Norris here."
"WhiteCrane," the baritone said. "Breakfast okay?"
I smiled, then realized Zeyde hadn't followed me inside. I poked Linda, who was leaning on me, trying to eavesdrop. "Bring Zeyde in," I hissed. "Sure," I told Joe. "Can we take Chief to the park later?"
"Yeah," he said, softly. "After the park . . . can Chief and I . . . take you home? Tell us at breakfast. Be careful tonight." He hung up quickly.
So, the world's most patient man had finally lost his patience. I was surprised to find how tempted I was. Then I noticed Linda still beckoning to the old man.
"Hey, come on, Zeyde," I called. "It's warm in here!"
Reluctantly, he stepped into the reception area, glancing at the array of brightly colored posters that admonished clients to neuter or spay— it's the only way. The cat kennel was on the left behind a glass wall, so clients could see the kitties. The dog kennel was out of sight, entered through a back hallway. Two small dogs were yapping, but the other sixty were still.
"Sit down, Zeyde, and tell me—"
The quiet shelter erupted in furious sound. The dog kennel exploded with hysterical barking. Linda and I stared wide-eyed at the cats. Every one of them stood facing Zeyde, backs arched, spitting and hissing.
Grabbing his elbow, I hustled him outside. Zeyde was shivering, looking sick and ancient. I sat him in the passenger seat of the van, then turned the heat up.
"I never had much of a way with animals," he muttered. There was a long, uncomfortable moment, until he finally said, "Therese, I've come to give you something. A gift."
I felt confused as he fumbled in the pockets of his huge coat. He pulled out something shiny, a small dagger, the blade maybe four inches long. It had a heavy handle, ornately carved.
"Pure silver," he said, touching it reverently. "It's been in my family since . . . since the family began, how far back no one knows. It's part of our legacy, this knife, like our name, and . . . our blessing. To the strongest grandson, the knife is passed from the grandfather, the zeyde. With the knife, the legacy, the blessing, is passed as well."
He took a shuddery breath and his young, gray eyes filled with tears. "Everything they took, but this. I hid it in the ground, and after the war, almost left it. Who needed the knife when there was no family, no legacy to pass? But, someday, I knew, I would want to pass it, so I took it. And now, I give it to you, bubeleh. I can't live much longer. If I die on the street, who gets the knife? You're all the family I have."
I didn't touch the knife, unsure if Zeyde was rational enough to give me the only thing of value he owned. "Uh . . . Zeyde, I'm honored. But ... I'm not Jewish."
He chuckled. "Not even a little? Maybe once you went with a nice Jewish boy, we could say you were Jewish by injection?"
"Maybe once," I admitted, smiling.
"Take the knife, Therese," he begged, "with my love, my blessing. Then if I die tonight, I know the legacy is safe."
A month ago, I wouldn't have wanted that much connection to the old man. A month ago, I wouldn't have gone out with Joe. I held out my hand. He placed the handle in my palm.
"The inscription is Hebrew." He pointed to the ornately engraved letters, reading from right to left. "It is yod, he, vau, he. In English, it is YHVH—you would say 'Yahweh.' "
I wrapped my hand around the small, ancient knife, feeling the engraved name of God. I suddenly cared a great deal if Zeyde
lived through the night. "Let me take you to the homeless shelter, okay?" I slid the knife into the pocket of my jacket.
His eyes glittered strangely. "No. The wind blows sweet tonight, like fresh hay sick with mold. You ever smelled that?"
I shook my head. I was a city girl, after all.
"I smelled it first in the camps. It's their smell, the Nazis, a smell to make you sick inside. I followed it all over the world, after the camps. In every city, I found the smell ... I found them. But here ... it leaks from the ground, from the big, fancy buildings. They come to make deals, and they carry the smell. Dictators come to make nice to the President. Last week, that one from South Africa—feh! The smell! And the monsters that make the bad drugs . . ." he smiled, shaking his head, lost in his memories. "To find a Nazi in this town is no easy thing. So much competition they have. Ach, tonight, the wind blows sweet and sick and I follow it."
Then, as if he'd said nothing bizarre at all, he smiled and said, "So, how's your fella, bubeleh? He's not Jewish, is he?"
▼▼▼
After Zeyde had shuffled away, I started the van and went back to work. It wasn't a bad night for a Friday. By midnight, the van was only half full—no french-fried cats, no bad hit-by-cars. The air was cold and clean smelling. I was thinking about coming in, maybe even finishing on time. Then the radio crackled.
"Tee, we've got a police call," Linda's voice said. "In the alley between Vermont Avenue and Fourteenth Street, bordered by K and L. A possible feral dog attack. Joe and Chief are on their way. He says to wait till he's on the scene before leaving the van. Says that's an order."
"Right!" I said, irritably, swinging the van around. "I'm not far away." Joe and I were going to have to talk about his mother-hen routine. A drug bust was one thing, but handling bad dogs was my business.
I pulled up to the alley, grabbed my pole and flashlight, then tiptoed into the darkness. I peeked around a big dumpster that blocked most of my view. If I startled them, they'd all split and I'd never catch even one. If they came after me, I could always jump in the dumpster. I heard low growling, the kind a big, heavy-chested dog makes.
Then I saw him, and my breath stopped. I blinked, confused. It was Zeyde. Hunched over somebody, his back to me. The sounds had to be coming from him. The sprawled figure was spasming feebly, while the old man squatted on his haunches, hands to his mouth, growling.
"Zeyde!" I yelled, starting forward. "What the hell are you doing?" The old man would get busted if he was rolling this guy, and I didn't think Zeyde could handle being in the D.C. lock up.
He stopped, and turned, rising to his feet.
All that time I had spent with him, seeing the werewolf, I'd always talked myself out of it, not wanting to really believe it. I couldn't see the moon, but it had to be full.
Zeyde was fully transformed. He filled up the huge coat, his thickly muscled arms thrusting out its sleeves, his coat and shirt wide open to accommodate his huge, furred chest. His clawed paw/hands were soaked with blood. He must've been six feet four, and weighed at least two hundred pounds. And his face! A wide-muzzled animal glared at me, with Zeyde's eyes shining out of thick fur. The teeth were huge, impossibly long and sharp.
As he faced me, the beast chewed the last bit of his victim's quivering heart and swallowed it.
You can't outrun him, I reminded myself, gripping my rabies pole and flashlight. I spoke quietly. "It's just me, Zeyde."
He grinned a bloody smile and I remembered Joe wondering about the smell of his breath. My knees got weak. He moved towards me, snarling. I couldn't help it. I backed up.
"Don't do it, Zeyde," I said softly. "Joe's coming. He'll kill you."
The werewolf growled a laugh and launched himself.
I swung the pole with everything I had, bending it double against him, but it had no effect. I backed away, clubbing him with the flashlight, but he ignored the blows and pulled me down. Instinctively, I threw up my left arm, protecting my throat, and he fastened his teeth into the heavy nylon sleeve, worrying it. The tough material ripped like ancient muslin. I grappled with him, trying to squeeze his windpipe one- handed, but his neck was steel, and my fingers tangled futilely in the coarse fur.
I brought my knee up, a solid blow to the groin, but he ignored it. He roared, deafening me, and his hot breath scorched my hand as I hammered my fist against his wet, black nose. He never flinched.
His claws tore my coat. "Zeyde!" I screamed. "Stop! It's Therese!" Then I shrieked as white-hot pain seared my arm.
I hadn't been bitten in eight years, and I'd never felt such pain. I screamed again, but he kept biting me, tearing me up. My blood filled his mouth, feeding him, giving him the hot meal he craved. Next it would be my throat, and then my beating heart.
As he clawed my coat open, I suddenly heard the clatter of his silver knife as it hit the ground. I scrabbled, searching for it blindly with my right hand.
My fingers enclosed the hilt, the name of God pressing against my palm, just as his hot, bloodied breath blew against my neck, and his teeth kissed the skin of my throat. The flare of sudden headlights brightened our bizarre coupling, as 1 drove the knife between his ribs right into his heart. His young, feral eyes widened, staring into mine. With a tired sigh, he sagged against me.
His expression was peaceful, just like the sick animals I killed. Hugging his body with my good arm, I wept.
▼▼▼
They released me from the hospital only a few hours later. By the time I'd reached surgery, most of the wounds had healed. By tomorrow, I knew, there wouldn't even be a scar.
Joe came by to get me, but Chief wouldn't let me in the car. The moment he caught wind of me, he went crazy, lunging and barking. I can't tell you how bad that hurt.
One of Joe's buddies came and took Chief back to the station, so Joe could take me home. We drove in silence, but finally it got to me, and I spoke. "What did the coroner say when he saw Zeyde?"
"Said it was amazing how much strength an old man can have under the right circumstances," he answered quietly.
"Like the full moon?" I asked, with a bitter laugh.
"He meant when they got crazy. All the coroner saw was an old, shriveled man."
"You knew about Zeyde," I said.
"I suspected," he said dully. "Native Americans have their own shape-changers. 1 was afraid you'd think I was nuts. I'm sorry, The- rese." His jaw muscles tightened.
I couldn't stand his sympathy now; I'd fall apart. As we pulled up to my building, I reached for the door handle.
"You can't deal with this alone, Tee," Joe said, grabbing my arm. "Let me help you. Let me stay with you."
I choked on a sob. "Help me? How? Can you stop the changing of the moon?"
He hugged me tightly and let me cry. He smelled so good, like moonlight and nighttime, smells I'd never noticed before. Finally, I pulled away.
"The Navaho may know a rite," he insisted. "I'll find out . . ."
"Forget it, Joe," I said tiredly. "There's nothing to be done." I'd have to call Linda tomorrow and quit. I'd never be able to set foot in the shelter again. I'd lost everything. My career, the animals I loved, the man I might have had. . . .
"Joe, what happened to the knife?"
"There'll be a hearing. I'll bring it to you after that."
I saw myself as an old woman, transforming monthly into a healthy, strapping werewolf, killing and killing. The day after must be hell, as the aged body paid the price. Could I pass the knife to someone else, the way the Tobecks passed it to their strongest grandsons? "Give it to Linda," I said leadenly. "I'll get it from her. I can't see you again."
"Don't shut me out, Tee," he warned quietly.
"I have to. Or some night, I'll find you dead beside me."
"The full moon wanes tonight. Nothing will happen for twenty-seven days. We can . . ."
"Stop it!" I shouted. "The Tobecks carried this for centuries, generations! You're out of it, out of my life!" I stopped and took a deep breath. "I don't
want your blood on my hands."
I climbed out of the car and walked away. Joe didn't call me back. As I reached my door, a silver stretch limo suddenly pulled out of a side | street, then glided past, oddly out of place here in Anacostia, with its old buildings and trash-littered streets. The smell struck me like a blow, , j making my stomach clench. New-mown hay gone moldy. I almost puked.
After a moment I opened the door and climbed the stairs, but no animal ghosts followed me tonight. I wondered dully if, in a month, there'd be two-legged ones. Inside, even Dove's and Alfred's ghosts were gone. I thought about the long years ahead of me, doing a job that had to be done, without the warmth of a friendly animal to relieve them. Without Joe's scent to perfume the night.
I pulled out my old, battered suitcase and, ignoring the tears splashing over it, methodically filled it, wondering where I'd be during the next full moon.
There are worse things than death.
CLOSE SHAVE
Brad Linaweaver
▼▼▼
DON'T let them take the natural out of the supernatural!" That's been my motto, ever since I expanded my business to include the physical side of the occult.
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alfred Von Booten, adventurer . . . and barber for hire. Haircuts, shaves, dentistry and minor surgery are my stock in trade. I also deal firmly with monsters of every kind. Von Booten rates are reasonable, and open to negotiation if the need is great enough.
Only once have I suffered disappointment with one of my customers, but I made up for it in the end. The frustrating series of events began when I was on holiday in the mountains of central Europe. On impulse, I decided to drop in on an old friend.
Descending from the mountain, I saw the little village of Kaninsburg, partly obscured by clouds that were so low as to hug the ground. Shouldering my kit of provisions—and precision-made dental and barbering instruments—I trudged over rock and crevice with the sure-footedness of a mountain goat (a goat restricted to using its two hind legs, that is).
The Ultimate Werewolf Page 23
