Better Off Undead: The Bloodhound Files

by DD Barant

  “Well, you know who I am,” I say. “Why am I here?”

  That’s a question I already know the answer to, but I want to see what they tell me. Tair might not have given me the whole story.

  “We need your expertise,” Dino says. “In a very sensitive matter.”

  “Sensitive,” Louie says, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, “as in it doesn’t leave this room.”

  “Hit me,” I say. “Uh—I mean, tell me.”

  Louie raises one demonic eyebrow at me, which is a little like watching a caterpillar do a push-up. “It’s about the Don,” he says.

  “Yeah,” says Atticus. “We have what you might call a delicate situation.”

  “Sensitive and delicate,” I say. “Does it involve lacy things, too? ’Cause you’ve got to hand-wash those.”

  “What do you know about La Lupo Grigorio?” Dino asks.

  “Quite a bit. Seeing as how I work for the National Security Agency and all.”

  “You know how we decide leadership issues?”

  “Sheep-eating contests?”

  That at least gets a grin from Atticus, though Louie scowls. Dino seems to have decided that the best response is to ignore my attempts at wit, though he’s going to regret that. It just makes me try harder.

  “We do have contests, yes. Just like packs in the wild, we choose our leaders based on strength. Strength of mind, strength of will, strength of endurance. I can’t give you any details, but believe me when I say that the only way you get to be head of a family in the Gray Wolves is to be the toughest, wiliest, meanest son-of-a-bitch within a thousand miles.”

  “Okay, let’s agree that’s exactly what Don Falzo is,” I say. “Which means you three aren’t. You’re capos, right? Dino, I’ve got you pegged as consigliere. So let’s skip the chase and cut to the kill—why are three of the Don’s flunkies talking to me about their boss?”

  “Because we think he might be getting goofy,” Atticus says.

  “Getting Goofy? He’s put out a contract on a Disney character?”

  Dino sighs. “At this point, I wouldn’t put it past him. See, he’s—he’s acting unstable. Not himself.”

  “Mentally unwell,” says Louie.

  “Like I said,” says Atticus. “Goofy.”

  They all sound a little hesitant, unsure of themselves. That’s because the supernatural races, being mostly immune to disease, have little experience with either the fact or the terminology of the mentally ill. Little—but not none.

  “What about Hades Rabies?” I ask.

  “He’s been tested,” Dino says. “Negative. We think he must have watched that video on the Internet. Won’t tell us, one way or the other.”

  I nod. Hades Rabies is a cursed virus, one that infects thropes and makes them crazy. If that wasn’t what was affecting the Don, odds were good he’d been exposed to the Ghatanothoa meme—but I needed more to go on.

  “So what’s he done?”

  Dino glances at Louie. Louie glances at Dino. Atticus says, “He’s been eatin’ the furniture.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Chowed down on most of a couch the other day.”

  Now Dino and Louie are both looking at Atticus. They’re not happy, but Atticus just looks back and shrugs again. “Hey, she wanted to know. What, I should tell her about the Jacuzzi?”

  “What about the—”

  “Never mind,” Dino growls. “Look, all we want is for you to check him out, let us know if he’s losing his mind or not. You can do that, right?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Depends on whether or not he cooperates. And whether or not I do.”

  “All due respect, Miss Valchek,” says Louie, “I’d advise you to help us out in this matter.” He stares at me, unblinking, a predator with his prey cornered. I feel my own hackles rise in an automatic response—I don’t do well with being bullied—but I bite back on my anger. The fact that I have a sleeping infant in my arms helps. “Besides,” he continues, “I understand you have something to gain, too.”

  So he knows about Tair’s offer. “Yeah? Can you guarantee Tair will follow through on his end?”

  Dino smiles, a big, wolfy grin. “Oh, he’ll follow through. Being in stir—and not too popular with certain other parties—he’s pretty much committed to keeping us happy.”

  Well, that makes sense. Tair would double-cross me in a second, but he’ll think twice about doing it to the Mob, especially in his circumstances.

  “Let’s say I do this. How would you want to—”

  “Right away,” Louie says. “He won’t let a shaman near him, but he’s agreed to talk to you. He could change his mind at any moment, though—you have to do it now.”

  Now I understand why I was yanked out of my apartment in the middle of the night: They’re worried the Don will do something a lot worse than chewing on the upholstery and figure they better take a shot while they still have one.

  “One question before I start. Which way are you hoping this will go?”

  “It’s not like that,” Dino says flatly. “We gotta know, that’s all. If he’s losing it, he’ll get replaced. But we have a code about things like this, on account of dealing with Hades Rabies. He’s got to be examined by a professional, one everybody signs off on. Replacing the head of a family, that’s not something that gets done lightly.”

  No, of course not. It occurs to me that I have an opportunity here to remove a major criminal figure from a position of power—but who’s to say his replacement won’t be worse? For that matter, how do I know I won’t screw up some ongoing investigation by another agency?

  I look down at Anna, trying to think.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Atticus says. “We’re family people, remember? She’ll be just fine while you and the Don talk. Then we’ll take both of you home.” He gives me a jowly, Elvisoid smile.

  “You better,” I say. “Or I’ll come back with a black ops team and put a silver-tipped crossbow bolt into the left eye of everyone in this house.” I give him a smile of my own, and it’s not nearly as jolly. “Now let’s get this over with.”

  THREE

  The defining aspect of the Mafia, on my world and this one, is greed. Greed is at the root of all seven of the deadly sins: Lust is greed for more sex, anger is greed for violence, sloth is greed for more rest, envy is greed for something someone else has that you want. Pride is just greed congratulating itself on a job well done.

  And then there’s gluttony.

  It may be a cliché that Italian mobsters are obsessed with cooking, but in my experience it holds true a lot of the time. Aside from the fact that Italian cuisine is obsession-worthy all on its own, gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins that they can indulge in without worrying about the law. Well, that and sloth, but in a world of carnivores that’s more likely to be a main course than a hobby.

  In fact, it may even be what the Don is cooking when I walk through the kitchen door. As a vegetarian I’m not that crazy about the smell of cooking meat, but whatever he has bubbling in that giant pot on the stove, it isn’t something my nose can identify.

  He’s absorbed in his work, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon and adding a handful of spices. Don Falzo is a robust, large-framed man, with a full head of iron-gray hair that looks more leonine than lupine. His features are strong, angular, and wrinkled, with a squared-off jaw and a Roman nose. Deep-set eyes beneath craggy eyebrows darker than his hair. He’s wearing a plain blue chambray shirt, tan slacks, brown leather loafers, and an apron that proclaims MY MAMA LOVES TO COOK!

  “Don Falzo?”

  He doesn’t look at me, just sticks his head over the pot, closes his eyes, and inhales through his nose. I guess whatever he’s got simmering is doing well, because he smiles. He doesn’t look crazy—he looks like somebody’s grandfather puttering around in the kitchen.

  Then he opens his eyes and turns to me. “Ah. You must be Jace. Buongiorno.”

  “Hi. You know who I am?”
/>   He turns back to the pot, stirring it slowly. “Yes, of course. You work for the NSA, no? You are the one they call the Bloodhound.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised—wise guys often have as much information about us as we have about them. “That’s right. But I’m not here as part of a criminal investigation. Your—associates wanted me to talk to you. If that’s all right with you, Don?”

  “Please, call me Arturo. Yes, I will speak with you. You do not mind if I continue while we talk? The dish needs tending.”

  “No, of course not.”

  When trying to determine someone’s mental state during an interview, there are at least twenty different factors you have to consider, from psychomotor behavior to social functioning. You can learn a lot from simple observation—I can already see that his emotional affect is good, he’s capable both physically and mentally of paying attention to involved tasks, his mood is open and friendly. His clothing is neat and appropriate, his grooming careful. To learn more, I have to get him to talk.

  “I understand you’ve been a little unsettled lately.”

  He shrugs. “Perhaps. I am no longer a young man, and so my concerns are not those of youth—but there are always concerns, no? The older you become, the more heavily the world weighs upon you.” He’s not making eye contact, which could indicate hostility or nervousness—though his tone and attitude seem to contradict that.

  “Concerns like losing your position as head of your family?”

  He glances at me sharply. “That is not a problem. Every year I face a challenge to my leadership, and every year the challenge fails. My strength is not diminished.”

  From what I can see, that’s true. He has the body language of someone years younger, with none of the stiffness or hesitancy you might expect to see in someone of his age—his apparent age. What his true age is, I have no idea; he could have been around when radio was the big idea. His posture is firm, proud, without any signs of agitation. So far, he seems pretty normal.

  I decide to take a more direct approach. “I also hear you ate a couch.”

  He frowns. He turns back to the pot, lifts the spoon to his lips, and takes a taste. Goal-oriented behavior, good control. He nods, then holds the spoon out toward me. “Taste this.”

  “I’d rather not.” The spoon holds a viscous brown liquid, steam rising off it. I still can’t identify what it smells like—oregano, vanilla, and wet paper, maybe?

  “Try it.” It’s not a question, and I can hear the trace of a snarl in his voice. Definite increase in hostility, with abrupt change of emotional affect; he seems more focused now, more suspicious. Before he wouldn’t meet my eyes and now he’s watching me like a hawk.

  “Tell me about the couch, Arturo.”

  “It was not a couch. It was a demon. It was lurking in my house, waiting for me to sleep so it could slaughter me and take my place. I killed it and sucked the marrow from its bones.” His voice is getting rougher, deeper, and his eyes are shifting from black to yellow. Coarse gray fur sprouts from his skin. Bones creak and joints pop as his skeleton grows and his mass increases.

  I take a step backward. On the world of my birth, a statement like the one he just made would definitely be grounds for a psychiatric assessment—but here, he could actually be telling the truth.

  The last word he growls before his mouth deforms too far for human speech is, “Look!” He sweeps one long, hairy arm at the pot on the stove, knocking it to the floor and splashing boiling-hot liquid all over the place. I scramble backward and only get a few drops on my legs, but they burn like hell. I can see what he’s been cooking now, lying on the kitchen floor in a steaming brown puddle.

  Shoes.

  A loafer, a sneaker, a bedroom slipper, and a ladies’ high-heeled pump. The Don has switched to sign language, which is what thropes use to communicate in were form. You see? The cloven hooves of the damned!

  “Sure,” I say carefully. “And you were cooking them because?”

  I was boiling out the evil! He pauses, his long, clawed fingers stroking the air like he’s playing an invisible harp. Once you do that, you can make a really nice manicotti from them. I used the couch for bouillabaisse.

  So that’s what happened with the Jacuzzi. Well, I know which way my diagnosis is leaning … and then he notices my shoes.

  He points with one long, wicked claw, and growls. I’d really rather not part with them, but I’d like it even less if he decides to remove them himself. He might not take them off my feet first.

  I kick both shoes off, using the opportunity to take another backward step toward the door of the kitchen. I’m really not sure if it would be better to run or yell for help—

  And then he leaps.

  For the shoes, luckily. While he’s concentrating on demonic footwear, I bolt for the door.

  The lean one, Louie, is just outside—listening in on the conversation, no doubt. He raises a curved eyebrow at me.

  I try to bring my breathing under control. “In my considered professional opinion,” I say, “he’s in a state of nocturnal airborne rodent feces.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s batshit. Crazy as a square cueball. Off-his-rocker-around-the-bend-out-of-his-mind. Your Don is riding the crazy train, compadre, and I think he’s bought a first-class ticket.”

  “That’s—”

  I don’t get to hear whatever Louie is about to say, because right then the Don bursts through the door, a seven-foot gray-furred werewolf in a frilly apron with one of my shoes hanging out of the side of his muzzle. It would be hilarious, if I weren’t unarmed and facing down an insane lycanthropic mobster.

  “Hey,” says Louie. “Take it easy—”

  With a single backhand swipe, the Don disembowels him.

  I won’t go into detail here, but it’s about as messy and violent as it sounds; I can tell Louie’s a man with backbone, because I can see it. He slumps against the wall with an expression on his face that’s part shock, part disbelief, and mostly pain.

  The Don throws back his head, letting the remains of my shoe drop from his mouth, and howls. “AAAOOOOOOOOWWWHHHH!”

  This is it. I’m dead. If he’d do that to one of his own men, then obviously a purveyor of satanic pumps will be shown no mercy. I hope he at least makes it quick.

  He glares at me for one long moment, his yellow eyes blazing with madness, and then he turns and bounds away down the hall and around the corner. A second later I hear the smash of a window breaking, and then a tortured screeching that has to be iron bars being ripped out of their frame.

  Louie, on his knees on the floor and already trying to stuff various loopy bits back into his belly, stares at me. “Nuts, huh?” he says. “Y’think?”

  Thropes are extremely resilient; if the weapon that delivered it isn’t made out of silver, they can pretty much come back from almost any wound. Louie’s not going to have much of an appetite for a while, but he’ll pull through.

  Don Arturo Falzo, however, is gone.

  Not just gone in the sense of no one home upstairs—he isn’t home at all. After leaping out a window, he ran down the hill and jumped in the ocean. His men tried to track him, but even a wolf can’t track a swimming thrope. For all they know, he’s decided to swim right back to Sicily, by way of the Panama Canal.

  I know this because they won’t let me or Anna go until they figure out if I had anything to do with him taking off. I know Louie would vouch for me, but he passed out from lack of blood shortly after he found his spleen. I don’t think he put it back in the right place, anyway.

  They’ve got Anna and me stuck in the home theater, I guess because they’re paranoid about a federal agent seeing the rest of the house. Anna’s woken up and she’s not happy—I think she needs to feed, but I don’t have anything with me and I’m not about to let her latch onto my jugular.

  Dino comes in, closing the door behind him. “Sorry about this,” he says. “But there’s one more thing you got to do before you can leave.”

/>   “It better be fast,” I say as Anna starts to wail.

  “It’ll only take a moment.”

  He motions for me to follow him. I do, carting an unhappy vampire baby under one arm and my remaining shoe in the other. Not the combination of barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen that my mother envisioned, I’m sure.

  Dino leads me down the hall, to another room about the same size as the home theater. Just outside the door, Atticus is waiting; he takes Anna from me, and her wails get louder. The thick door closing behind me shuts them out completely.

  This room is obviously for meetings: It has a long, black slab of a table, with twelve high-backed chairs around it. The walls are hung with portraits of thropes, most in half-were form and wearing some kind of formal outfit that dates them to previous centuries.

  There are four flatscreen monitors in a row down the center of the table. Each of them holds the black silhouette of a man’s head, features hidden in shadow.

  “Honored Dons,” Dino says. “This is Dr. Jace Valchek. She’s here to deliver her medical evaluation of Don Falzo.”

  “Proceed,” one of the figures says, though I can’t tell which.

  “Uh, I didn’t have time to do a thorough analysis,” I say. “I only talked to him for a few minutes.”

  “Jace,” Dino says. “Just tell them what you told us.”

  “As near as I can tell, he’s mentally ill. Delusional, possibly even schizophrenic.”

  “Schizophrenic?” one of them demands. “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’s had a psychotic break. He can no longer tell the difference between what’s real and what isn’t.”

  “Demenziale,” one of them mutters.

  “Yeah. That’s my considered opinion, anyway.”

  “Grazie,” somebody says, and all four monitors turn off.

  “Are we done now?” I ask. I’ve lost my shoes, I have a cranky infant in my care—one whose mother is going to show up at my door any minute now, and is entirely capable of mobilizing the Marine Corps to ensure the safety of her child—plus it’s almost dawn. I’m starting to head toward cranky myself, and I generally don’t have very far to travel at the best of times.