“Whoa,” he said. “Dog looks like a lady!”
The creature turned and growled directly at me.
“Hi, Honey,” I said, trying to conceal my dismay, “sorry about the mess.”
* * *
The kitchen was relatively undamaged and I busied myself preparing a repast for my company while Lupé went back upstairs to change—out of werewolf mode and into fresh clothing, that is. Lycanthropy is hell on your wardrobe when you transform without undressing first. Tomorrow would likely bring another shopping spree.
Drinks were easy: Lupé had been back for a couple of days and the fridge and cupboards had been restocked. I poured vintage blood bank for Kurt and J.D., V-8 juice for Deirdre, then put the kettle on to brew green tea for Lupé and myself. Surprisingly, I didn’t need any hemoglobin: the extra properties in Chalice Delacroix’s charged bloodstream—whatever they were—seemed to have more than made up for what the machete had cost me.
Lupé was back downstairs before the water started to boil.
Introductions commenced. Explanations ensued. Lupé seemed especially interested in Deirdre’s appearance and part in all of this. They had known each other back in Seattle but my S.O. was particularly interested in why the redhead was here instead of back at the hotel with Pagelovitch. No parts of the past week’s narrative were fabricated but, for brevity—among other things—a lot of details were edited out.
“So, let me get this straight,” Lupé said when we had finished detailing our various portions of the story. “Certain elements—possibly within our own government—have been developing a bioweapon that they hope to use against their own population to reduce the federal deficit . . .”
“Could be inside, could be outside paramilitary self-styled patriots,” I interjected.
“ . . . and the leader of the New York demesne, who everyone thinks is the Countess Elizabeth Báthory . . .”
“But isn’t,” I added unnecessarily.
“ . . . gets involved by offering the unique, transmutagenic elements of vampire DNA to assist in reverse engineering the architecture of a combinant, mutative, super-virus . . .”
“All the while building in a doomsday trigger and creating a decoy virus to cover her tracks,” I elaborated.
“ . . . because she’s really an ancient demoness with a yen for The End, foretold in the Book of Revelation . . .”
“And not Marinette Bois-Chèche, who she pretended to be while enslaving the other Loa to use as supernatural power sources for her sorceries,” I added.
“ . . . and in the process of unraveling her secrets, defeating her evil schemes, and freeing the Loa from her sorcerous imprisonment, you’ve put our address into the database of every vampire enclave in the world, the government, the so-called gray men, and made us a stopping point on the grateful dead’s map of the homes of the stars . . .”
“Well—” I said.
“ . . . you’ve tasted vampire blood . . .”
“Vampire blood?” J.D. wanted to know.
“Deirdre’s. I can smell her coming out of his pores,” she explained. “And she’s tasted his: He’s leaking out of her quite strongly.”
“Um—” I had forgotten about the acute sensitivity of a werewolf’s nose.
“He was dying,” Deirdre tried to explain. “And some of that blood was second-generation vampire blood—”
“Not to mention the scent of human blood—fresh from the vein and not refrigerated in plastic—as well as something more. Chris?”
“Demon infected,” I answered. “I thought it was Loa-laced at the time.”
J.D. looked at me with renewed respect. “Cséjthe, you dog!” His eyes shifted to Lupé’s less than admiring expression. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“I come home to find the house in a shambles. It was probably a lot worse than what I found, but I arrived to find a cleanup crew of corpses washing down walls, mopping floors, and hauling away trash bags filled with what, I don’t even want to guess!”
“We might as well move anyway,” I said dejectedly. “I think I lost my job.”
“Move? How are we going to sell the house in this condition?” She got up and walked over to the answering machine by the telephone. “At least I have a little good news to give you in exchange for the devastation and chaos you provided for my homecoming.”
She pressed the playback button and the dean’s voice crackled from the tiny speaker. “Sam . . .” I didn’t hear the next few words, I was trying to figure out whom he was talking about. Then I remembered: To the university and most of the rest of the world I retained the carefully forged identity of Samuel Haim. “ . . . must confess I was not amused when I was told what you were doing. Using theatrical makeup and costuming to transform yourself into a corpse while lecturing on Themes on Death in American Lit—well, at best it seemed like pandering and, at worst—well, as I said, I was not amused. But the registrar has reported a three hundred percent preenrollment increase for your class next semester and I dropped by the other night to see for myself. And I must admit that I was impressed. Even from the hallway I could tell that the students were alert and paying close attention. The discussion was spirited and insightful. I’m not keen on gimmicks but the content was scholarly and comprehensive while engaging the entire class. I think I can soothe any ruffled feathers from the rest of the faculty if you’ll commit to two or three compromises. First, think about toning down the makeup. You weren’t just unrecognizable, you were positively ghastly. And lose the rotted-meat smell. I think the visual stimulus is quite sufficient without layering on any olfactory realism. And, finally, no more references to the preponderance of ‘dead white males’ in our curriculum.” The recording beeped and started on a message from a telemarketer selling aluminum siding. Lupé hit the delete button. “No point in keeping this one: aluminum isn’t bulletproof.”
I stood up as the teakettle began to whistle from the kitchen. “Baby, I’m . . . sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry?” Even in her human skin I could see the little hairs standing up on her arms and the nape of her neck. “I come home and have the hell scared out of me, thinking you’re dead, and all you can do is say you’re sorry!” She grabbed the front of my shirt and jerked me off my feet pulling me against her. “I didn’t want to go on living! I couldn’t—” Her eyes were brimming with tears as she crushed her lips against mine and kissed me passionately.
* * *
Kurt and J.D. wound up sharing what was left of the foldout couch in the den.
Deirdre refused the guestroom, insisting on keeping watch downstairs while we slept.
The sheets and pillowcases had been changed on our bed and if Lupé’s nose had detected anything of a suspicious nature, she had yet to mention it.
It was nearly eight a.m. when I closed the bedroom door and thumbed the lock for the illusion of privacy. I turned and looked at my werewolf lover who had just emerged from the bathroom, brushing her long brown-black hair. The powder blue nightgown that she wore softened the athletic lines of her slender torso while the baby oil she had rubbed on her arms and chest made her skin glow like polished cherry wood. She was what I affectionately call a big-nosed girl, the features of her face carved more for piquant sensuality than delicate beauty.
As she saw me she smiled and her features were transformed from comely to dazzling. “Christopher,” she whispered, “how I’ve missed you!”
“How?” I echoed. “How have you missed me?”
Her lips curled into something truly extraordinary. “Let me show you.” The nightgown was up and over her head in the blink of an eye. She was on the bed before it hit the floor. Although she probably crooked her finger almost immediately, it was all of another minute before I noticed that particular detail.
A couple of minutes more and the very best detail was revealed: all was forgiven.
* * *
“Chris?”
“Mmm?” While my preternatural biology did not require me to sleep during the day, the las
t few days and nights (not to mention the previous forty-five minutes) had taken their toll: I could hardly keep my eyes open.
“Explain the part about how you are now the Doman of the East Coast undead.”
“Mmm. You want the how? Or the why?”
“The why, I guess. Assassination is the political advancement method of choice in most enclaves and New York makes Machiavelli look like Mary Tyler Moore.”
“That’s why I’m not relocating to the Big Apple.” Her expression made it clear that that was not going to cut it. “Look,” I said, “if I don’t take the position, whoever does is going to come after me anyway. And the ensuing battle over that vacancy will guarantee the rule of the biggest, baddest neck-biter around. While I’m in charge, I can try to institute some changes that might save human lives and protect my own backside, as well.”
“Why don’t you just declare the East Coast demesne disbanded?”
I gave up on my slow slide into dreamland and sat up against the headboard. “Are you kidding? Even if there was a chance that the majority would accept such an edict, can you imagine the resulting loss of life if hundreds of vampires went suddenly rogue? No, better a benign Doman, working to change the system from within. Assuming Kurt can act as my minister-by-proxy.”
“He doesn’t seem very happy about it.”
“Would you in his shoes?” I fluffed my pillow and tucked it behind my back. “Still, without me being physically present, an ambitious assassin has a more difficult road to advancement.”
“Assuming we move.”
“I think that’s a given.” I turned to her. “You’re taking this awfully well.”
“The house isn’t important to me; you are.”
“I figured your nose would be all out of joint over Deirdre.”
Her eyes searched mine, sifting for . . . something. “Should it be?” She propped herself up on one elbow and gazed up at me with an expression of careful tenderness. “You are a hero. A Doman, now. In fact, you are something beyond anyone’s knowing at this point. Your . . . relationship . . . with Deirdre was never simple to begin with and now you owe each other your lives. Am I jealous? Of course I am. Do I understand? I think I do. Am I insecure? She is very beautiful. And I can see that she is devoted to you. And if I were not around—”
I touched my finger to her lips. “But you are around. You haven’t said yet whether you’re back to stay.”
She smiled—a little sadly, I thought. “It’s a fair question, I suppose. I left because I was jealous of a woman who was either a ghost or a figment of your imagination.”
I opened my mouth but she shushed me. “It didn’t matter which at the time. I was jealous and I couldn’t abide what seemed a crucial lack of privacy. I came back when I realized that sharing you was better than giving you up completely. And then I find out that the dark sorceries that were unleashed seem to have banished your ex-wife from our lives and so this whole separation was moot.”
I closed my eyes. Ghost, spirit, or mental hallucination, I hadn’t had the time to properly mourn Jenny’s final departure.
“Anyway,” Lupé continued, “I feel that a living, breathing woman is much easier for me to deal with than a memory given a ghostly presence. Deirdre has no place else to go right now, you need an enforcer to watch your back, and I, at least, don’t have to worry about a certain blithe spirit haunting our bedroom.”
“So you’re back to stay.” It was less of a question, now. Father Pat had preached forgiveness but Lupé’s silent sermon this past hour had been far more eloquent.
“Well . . .” she tugged the sheet down and treated me to a rousing vista, “ . . . I might need a little convincing . . .”
I reached for her. “Did you say ‘little’?”
Her response was interrupted by the sound of the shower turning on in the bathroom.
She looked at me. “Deirdre’s downstairs.”
I looked at her. “I locked the bedroom door.”
Steam began to drift from beneath the door to the adjoining bathroom. “Chris?” Jenny’s voice echoed from the tub’s shower enclosure, “where’s the shampoo?”
THE END
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About the Author:
Wm. Mark Simmons is the author of five novels. His first, In The Net of Dreams, was a finalist for the Compton Crook Award and made the Locus "Best" list in 1991. That novel, with its two sequels, When Dreams Collide and the new novel The Woman of His Dreams, have recently been published in one hardcover volume by Meisha Merlin Publishing. For Baen he wrote the popular and critically praised One Foot in the Grave, to which Dead on My Feet is a sequel. Simmons has worked as a teacher, actor, director, musician, and entertainer, hosting his own shows on both television and radio while winning awards as a journalist and copywriter. He currently manages a public radio station in Louisiana, and hosts a classical music program.
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