Hair of the Wolf

by Peter J. Wacks

  Before the gaping mouth of one darkened alley, she saw feral promise in the glass shards of a broken streetlamp. She glanced up at the jagged teeth of the shattered light, running her tongue over her lips and briefly revealing fangs.

  Yes, she thought, this will do nicely.

  Walking into the alley, she stepped to the left, letting the shadows envelope her. Growling greeted her distantly, a soft echo from the far end of the darkness.

  The growl came from around a dimly lit corner. Hmm. Now this was interesting. She had found another predator in here, though not of her kind.

  There was a mugging in progress down the alley. Four street thugs, all in their mid-twenties, stood surrounding what appeared to be a family of three. Predatory instinct was obviously lacking in them, and they had chosen the alley for ease and apparent invisibility. Dirty to a man, the muggers were grimy from the wear and tear of life on the streets. Grey clothing, which might have once been white, or just as easily black, adorned them. None of them was clean shaven, ranging from scruffy to scraggly full bearded. Bathory smiled. Bottom feeders. Focusing further on, she turned her attention to the family instead.

  A woman with flowing dark red tresses, in her early twenties, stood protectively in front of a man holding a child. She was wearing a tie-dyed sweater, sun dress, and high heels, obviously dressed for a night out, but her stance and physical tone gave lie to the outfit. She was a fighter, and experienced.

  The man was in his late twenties, perhaps even early thirties, and dressed in bellbottom jeans and a flannel work shirt. The lines of his face were strong and chiseled, handsome even, but he had a rough look about him, like someone used to physical labor. Curly light brown locks, almost dirty blond, framed a deeply tanned face. His arms were wrapped around a toddler, an incongruous sight for the time of night. Who brings a child out for a night on the town?

  The three of them were backed up against a Dumpster, with the claustrophobically tight walls of the buildings hemming them in on either side. The four dark-clad muggers were spread around them, herding the victims towards the dead end.

  Elizabeth smiled to herself. It was bad planning on the mugger’s parts. Always leave an untested opponent a difficult way out, that didn’t require going through you.

  The trapped girl illustrated the reasoning behind that point. Her growl deepened to something bestial. It went straight through the ear to a part of the brain that polite society had long since covered with decorum and etiquette. Eons ago, the human race somehow stumbled upright, and the parts of the brain that raged against the Night got covered by tea, manners, conversation, and other niceties. Elizabeth smiled as she watched that growl freeze the muggers.

  A single heartbeat of inaction was all the woman in the tie-dyed outfit needed. Shadows blurred and the woman sprang forward. Watching from the mouth of the alley, Elizabeth saw the young man jerk, pulling the child close. Floral colors erupted into a whirlwind as the tie-dyed virago quickly swept the legs of one mugger, destroying his left kneecap with a loud crunch. As he went down, she sprang to the side, delivering a fierce uppercut to the second man. His knife clattered to the ground as his jaw shattered. Mugger number three peed his pants, turned around, and ran for it.

  He never even saw the clawed hand reach out of the shadows. One moment he was running, the next he was on the ground, sans throat. Elizabeth was intrigued by this werewolf who didn’t use her claws.

  The woman spun to face the shadows. “Smell you, Vampire.” Her voice came out gravelly, half growling.

  Elizabeth stepped out of the shadows, frowning as she glared at the lapel of her suit. “Do you know how impossible it is to get blood out of white polyester? This suit is ruined. Simply unacceptable.”

  “You!” Spat the other woman. Her body blurred slightly as fur grew out from the back of her hands. Her fingers lengthened and nasty claws sprang out, shinning despite the dark. Despite the shifting of her body, she still only stood 5'6". Finally the claws were out. “I remember your smell. Decay. Death. Milk and honey. Sweet rot.”

  “Good,” the Vampire idly flicked at the blood. It was a surprise to run into Tabitha here on the streets of New York. This wolf pup was one that was marked for torture. “You should remember me. And I must say, I’m pleased at how much control you are showing over the change. I haven’t seen one as young as you with that much finesse in my four hundred years. I’ve only heard rumors of one; a thousand years ago. Good for you youngling!”

  “Bitch. Kill you.”

  “Now, now. When I slaughtered your family in front of you, it wasn’t so that you could throw your life away this early. Mature some. Learn. Refine your skills, my pet.”

  The werewolf launched herself at the vampire.

  ***

  Loki the Coyote

  Morning fog gathered around the God, obscuring him. Pain and disillusionment flavored the air, the reek of a young man disenfranchised with his lot in life.

  The alley … Loki whispered to the fog.

  Glancing furtively around, the boy paused, trying to pierce the depths of the waiting corridor.

  There was a resonance between this alley here in London and the alley in New York. That bitch Lilith was controlling New York, only she wasn’t. She forced Loki to use his powers, draining his essence, while she sat and watched. He grinned. She was awesome.

  Focusing on a memory, Loki stretched his fingers out. The ghost of a pearl appeared in his palm, coalescing from the fog. He blew gently on it. Candescent lights flared in the pearl in response to his breath, and the stone dissipated into dust drifting down the alley.

  Loki couldn’t return the Angel’s memories in full without alerting Lilith, and he was sure she was at least partially right. The Angel’s corruption, the madness, would be purged with his memories being stolen. But he needed the roots of who he was.

  Loki smiled softly as the dust vanished. The fog pulsed and shadows peeled away. The pearl, fully formed, drifted through the air until it settled gently in Loki’s outstretched palm.

  ***

  Skid

  Skid stood in the mouth of the alley that ran behind the Westminster Chapel. His languid gaze casually strolled both ways, trying to pierce the damp fog that shrouded the London nightlife around him. He couldn’t see any cozzers patrolling the area, not that Old Bill was all that bright; if he couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see him. He grinned.

  A manky trollop quickly walked past him, speeding her pace near the mouth of the alley, wrapped in a thick fake fur coat with her shoulders slumped. She gave the impression that she was ragged and beaten, and didn’t care enough to show her wares on this cold night.

  Her jaded and tired eyes quickly looked him up and down—sizing him up as she passed. But she saw only a fourteen-year-old scrote wearing torn jeans, a ripped shirt, and a frayed gray trench. To top it all off was a mop of unruly black hair that made him look like he had just been jolted by a live battery. He was definitely not a punter to her, at least not for a few more years.

  Then she looked back to the pavement before her feet, not wanting to stare too long—afraid of baiting him into attacking her.

  He thought about rolling her for a moment, but shrugged the idea off. Juicing the street walkers always pissed off the pimps, and they were real trouble. Those guys where colder than ice and they would as soon slit your throat as look at you. Besides, she had obviously been at her job for far too long and was losing what looks she may have once had. The hag probably wouldn’t have much dough on her anyway.

  The slags were always fairly broke—but they stayed alive because there was always some guy who couldn’t afford to buy anything better. Skid laughed quietly to himself, thinking about how dulled the streets made the world seem, especially at night.

  Once she was a bit further down the block, he reached into the depths of his faded and beaten trench pulling out two cans of stolen spray paint. One was black and the other red. Now, to do the job that he was really here to do. He turned int
o the beckoning corridor.

  The alleyway was dank and smelly. The fog was dampening everything there, and as a result a fine layer of dew was covering the trash. The added moistness only made the trash rot—which added to the putrid stench. Skid grimaced and tried to only breathe through his mouth. He was used to the smell of decay that seemed to go along with the dreary world he lived in, but something about this particular alley and this particular night was really bad.

  As thoughts ran through his head about the tagging he was about to do, adrenaline started pumping into his blood, and he began to get a bit giddy, which made it easier to ignore the fetid smell. Tagging the house of God. There was no act deemed greater in Skid’s skewed reality.

  Skid hated God, and his hatred coursed and flowed in his veins with a dark passion love could never equal. He had grown up mostly in orphanages and Catholic charity boarding schools. His parents hadn’t wanted him, so had given him up—and he hated them too for not loving him. As a young boy Skid had been naturally trusting and full of love to those around him. In a lot of ways, betrayed love built a much stronger hate than malice alone ever could. And Skid felt betrayed by a lot of people in his life.

  But the lord of mankind held a special place in Skid’s hurting heart.…The way he figured it his heart was no worse than anyone else’s. After all, look at all the messed up things people do to each other every day. He had witnessed enough of them first hand to know just how people could use each other. But God he definitely hated most of all.

  It was hatred so deep even Lucifer Morningstar would envy it and place it on display for all in Hell to see. God had hurt Skid more than any other. God had given him every piece of pain in his life. Every shard of Skid’s shattered soul, every wasted tear, shed only to mingle with his own blood, was God’s responsibility.

  Throughout his entire childhood the nuns had all beaten him for reasons he couldn’t understand. Three of the priests had used him and then, feeling guilty over the act, had him beaten for being the temptation that led them to sin. He remembered the faces of all the nuns and priests. In fact, he remembered with a perfect clarity every single face that had ever caused him pain over the course of his short life.

  Someday he would … he would get even. Someday he would do much worse to them than they had to him. After all, was he not taught that what you cast unto waters you receive back tenfold? He would have his revenge. And right now he was starting it. He was going to tag this church with his name. He was going to make this house his spiritual property and take it away from a useless God … and he would do it to every church in London.

  He quickly scanned the alley. It was filled with cardboard parodies of those homes never owned and of owners nursing their soulless futures. It was obvious that the homeless often tried to camp here, but were booted out by the coppers. Right now the only life sharing this space with Skid was a wretched old vagrant, dirty and pale, asleep under a pile of newspapers. Skid walked up to him and planted his steel tipped toe right into the old geezer’s ribs.

  “Oi, granddad. Shove off!” Skid panicked. The streets were eat or be eaten, and he wasn’t about to get eaten. He planted another kick into the man’s midsection. Much to Skid’s surprise the old man didn’t budge. He didn’t even groan at the force of the kick.

  Skid was young—he knew that he didn’t have much muscle—but his life had made him tough. He knew how to throw his entire weight into a kick so he would break bones—a trick he learned quickly so that whoever he was fighting would not be getting back up. Skid looked again at the man, this time a lot more closely, and realized that his chest wasn’t moving. Well, the skagger was stone cold dead. What d-ya’ know, it was turning out to be Skid’s lucky night. He could roll the body and at least come away with a decent pair of boots. If he were really lucky the old-timer would have a half-consumed bottle of booze. Anything to warm up the foggy night, he thought with a grin.

  Skid knelt next to the man and started pulling the newspapers off. One of the headlines, briefly glimpsed, amused him. It read “London’s Abused Homeless Population: Death Rate Up By Twenty Percent.”

  Sure enough the man was clutching something to his chest. He began to pry at the man’s cold stiff fingers, eager to see what prize tonight’s treasure hunt would reveal. But the corpse’s fingers—locked as tightly as they were—wouldn’t budge despite Skid’s best efforts. Skid braced himself and yanked with all of his fourteen-year-old’s strength, not caring if he ripped the guy’s hand off. He wanted whatever it was the old man had valued so dearly. He wanted it very badly. And finally the death embrace of the old man’s hands broke—without tearing off any body parts.

  Skid looked in awe at what he saw revealed. The old fart had been hiding a fragging sword under his coat. The blade was some type of blue gray metal and it looked sharp and really old. The hilt was leather wrapped, and there was some writing etched into it in a language Skid didn’t even recognize. The symbols looked vaguely like Sumerian, or at least what Skid vaguely remember Sumerian looking like from the ancient history course he had been in right before he ran away. He couldn’t even begin to read the fragging letters. Talk about luck! This was an awesome find—hell, this was probably his best find ever.

  Skid’s greedy little eyes lit up—he should be able to pull at least fifty or sixty pounds out of this find at the right place—and that was a whole lot of dosh to someone like him. He reverentially reached down and let his fingers wrap around the hilt. It was cold to the touch and seemed to slightly pulse, almost like a heartbeat.

  The old man’s eyes fluttered open the second Skid touched the sword, and his hand shot out, faster than lightning, seizing Skid’s lapel. Skid jerked back in surprise, and the fingers of his free hand tore at the old man’s fist. Again Skid found that he couldn’t break the codger’s grip.

  “Let go of me you old arse!” Skid was panicking. “I’ll cut your hand off and bloody well kill you if you don’t let go of me!”

  This guy should be a corpse, not alive and stronger than Skid—but he remembered through the haze of fright to not shout. Never do anything to attract the attention of the coppers. Old Bill stalked the streets, waiting for the people who owned the Night to step out of line. Then, all in the name of protecting what the gentle folk of the day had to see, they would make people like Skid just disappear. Always keep your head enough to stay off the jam wagon’s net.

  Skid took a breath and tried to find his cool as the codger began to speak. The old man’s voice sounded like the creaking of an ancient door, rusty and feeble but with faint hints of golden times that were so much greater. “Listen to me … please … please … Oh gods … the caves … I remember them so very well. You were so young … so innocent … so naïve and trusting … So simple—and yet you were so beautiful.”

  Cloudy and dull eyes, which should have been blind, drifted to Skid’s hand and locked their feeble gaze on the sword. “Please … You can have the sword; just listen to my story. I have to tell my story before it passes from this world.”

  ***

  Elizabeth Bathory

  Claws ripped through metal as the tie-dye wearing werewolf launched herself forward. Dragging her nails through the Dumpster, she flipped her wrist at the Vampire, flinging sparking scrap metal and trash at her.

  Elizabeth didn’t even flinch. Casually lifting her hand, she let the sparks fly around her as she tore through the Dumpster and caught the wolf-girl’s wrists in her hand. Elizabeth stopped her cold, and the two women were face to face. “Tabitha. You aren’t ready for me yet. You are nowhere near the diversion I want. Not at all the satisfaction I crave.” She locked her gaze onto the wolf’s eyes.

  Tabitha focused as she saw the Elizabeth’s eyes start to swirl, red and lavender. Tension ripped at her shoulders forcing her hands apart. She recognized the feeling, and knew that they were sharing mind-space, battling with will alone.

  She had once watched her family die, slaughtered before her by the very vampire fighting wit
h her in this alley. At the end of that night, she had been caught in the Gaze, and she felt herself slipping into it again.

  The night streets of New York vanished, a vast plain appearing in her mind instead. Blood dripped from the Vampire’s mouth as she walked forward to where Tabitha was bound. The werewolf struggled; to no avail. Shadows rippled across the mindscape, with only the two, vampire and werewolf, clear—the rest of the shapes around them enshrouded, obscured from their sight.

  As Tabitha struggled, control slipped away and she shifted to full wolf. It didn’t help. Her bindings grew tighter as Elizabeth watched, one fang softly biting her own lower lip, and a crucifix grew out of the shadows behind the wolf.

  “Tsk. Tsk. I told you that you were not ready, child.”

  As the Vampire spoke, the wolf’s eyes focused on her, radiating hatred. The white polyester pantsuit was gone, replaced with a flowing gown of deepest blacks and reds. Her fangs had lengthened, out of her mouth and over her lips. The eyes were the worst though, ember red instead of white with bright green irises. Tabitha struggled anew as she saw that the elegant and charming woman was gone, replaced by an evil bitch-monster from Hell.

  Fire started to lick at Tabitha’s paws, springing up from nowhere and everywhere, caressing the base of the crucifix. She whimpered, writhing in pain. Flames climbed higher.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Nowhere near ready. Sleep, child. Be ready for me next time we meet.” With a wave of her hand, the mindscape vanished.

  In the alley, Tabitha collapsed limp and discarded, a pile of tie-dyed rags and dark reddish-brown fur on the edge of the shadows. The man, still clutching the child close, watched the vampire. He stepped forward, calmly walking until he was standing between Elizabeth and the downed werewolf. “You will not touch us, foul beast.” His voice had an Old World lilt, too, but his accent wasn’t easily placed.