Werewolf Smackdown

by Mario Acevedo

  She took a set of keys from the purse. “Can you sing?”

  The question puzzled me. “I can belt out a tune when I have to.”

  “Good. I want you to impress me.”

  I got my knapsack and put the revolver and ammo inside. We drove her Maserati south to downtown Charleston. We parked. Angela told me it would be best to leave the pistol in the car.

  “We’re safe,” she assured me. “A gun wouldn’t do you much good anyway. You’ll see.”

  I shoved the knapsack and gun under my seat.

  We walked to a place called the Blind Tiger Club. The sign above the door showed a tiger with shiny circles over its eyes like a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

  “Creepy name,” I said.

  “Comes from Prohibition days,” Angela explained. “They couldn’t sell liquor, but if you bought tickets to a blind tiger fight, you’d get complimentary drinks. Then the management would announce that the blind tiger was sick and you could buy tickets for tomorrow’s bout. Some people bought tickets for years and never saw one blind tiger fight.”

  “Imagine that. In straitlaced Charleston.”

  A crow squawked. It peeked over the blind tiger sign. Had to be one of Wendy’s recon birds.

  Around the front door, I caught the smell of canine musk. Werewolves.

  I grasped Angela’s arm. “Is this a trap?”

  She stroked my hand. “Trust me, will you? With so many werewolves coming into the city, the pack alphas called for a parley. Everyone chill. Enjoy the city before we convene Le Cercle.” She led me inside. “This place has been designated a sanctuary. Even you are safe.”

  The interior of the Blind Tiger showed its history: wood darkened by the passing decades, brass edges worn smooth, and a ground-in taint of old tobacco smoke. Rock music blared from a back room. The manager hustled the few human customers out the door, telling them the Blind Tiger was closing early for a private party.

  A black curtain had been hung across the threshold between the front dining area and the back room. The canine scent was strong, practically an odor, and the room smelled like the arena for a dog show.

  A sign had been taped to the wall beside the curtain.

  PACK AND CLAN ALPHAS

  WELCOME TO WICKED CHARLESTON

  SEND TEXT MESSAGE

  TO THE LATRALL ESTATE

  FOR INFO ON

  TOMORROW’S WEREWOLF COSTUME BALL

  I turned to Angela. “Werewolf Costume Ball?”

  “Another activity in the parley. Calhoun arranged the ball to keep the alphas happily distracted.”

  We passed through the curtain.

  Everyone was in human form, but by the smell, there was no denying they were all weres. Dozens of them. Angela had been right; my one pistol wouldn’t intimidate this crowd.

  Tables and chairs faced a big flat-screen TV. Four werewolves were in front of the TV; three stood, and the fourth sat behind a small drum kit. Two of the standing weres played plastic guitars; the other swayed and sang into a mike. Animated musicians performed on the TV while colored lights scrolled down the center of the screen.

  The speakers blasted Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising.”

  The weres played Rock Band. Werewolf Rock Band.

  Angela shouted into my ear. “Check out the graphics.”

  The animated characters were cartoons of werewolves.

  “Those two”—she pointed to a pair of Asian weres sitting up front and bobbing their heads to the music—“hacked the game code to change the play list and make the musicians into werewolves.”

  Angela led us to a table. “You going to sing?”

  “Not until I get my voice box lubricated.”

  An hour later I was on my fourth bronx cocktail. And on the rhythm guitar and deep into Rock Band. By using vampire speed, I was able to keep track of the colored dots on the screen and press the appropriate buttons on the guitar. We jammed to Kiss’s “Detroit Rock City.” I played the guitar because a dopey-eyed were who looked like the offspring of Pee-wee Herman and a basset hound wouldn’t let me sing. He kept failing at the vocals, and we ended in third place.

  Not good enough.

  On the next song, basset-hound were returned to do vocals.

  “No way,” I said. “You sank us last time.”

  Basset Hound tipped a beer to his lips and shrugged me off. “Who asked you, bat-dude? Go suck a vein.” He grabbed his crotch. “Better yet, suck this.”

  My talons wanted to spring out. I laid the guitar on the floor. Maybe eighty werewolves crowded the room. And one of me. All those drinks puffed up my courage and I thought I could live with the odds.

  “You’re the one who sucks!” the werewolf on drums yelled at basset-hound were. “Quit being an asshole so we can win.”

  “Like hell, dude. He’s a party-crashing vampire. Who invited him?”

  “I did.” Angela stepped from behind me and motioned with her finger.

  Basset Hound grinned like he was expecting a proposition. He stepped close and she whispered in his ear. He nodded enthusiastically. She whispered something else. The grin faded. He quit nodding. The grin turned into a flat line. The flat line turned into a scowl. His face darkened with humiliation. He handed the microphone to me.

  “What did you tell him?” I asked Angela.

  “I said I was going to shave his nuts and paint them fluorescent pink. Here. In front of everybody. For insulting my guest.”

  “And he believed you?”

  “He better. I did it to his brother.”

  Tough girl. That’s why I liked her.

  I got the microphone while Angela got on the rhythm base.

  At this stage of the contest, we were all at expert level. The colored dots were going to come at us like tracer bullets from a machine gun. But vampire speed wouldn’t help at vocals. You either sang or you croaked.

  Our cartoon doubles flexed and primped on the screen while the game console scrolled to the next song.

  “Werewolves of London,” by Warren Zevon.

  The weres in the room howled in delight. They punched each other and bared their fangs.

  A voice cried above the din. “A vampire is singing lead.”

  Someone else picked up the cry of protest.

  “No vamp.”

  “No bloodsucker.”

  A vampire singing this tune must be like Che Guevara wailing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  “We have to sing,” Angela shouted to a judge. “We get docked for refusing a song.”

  The two judges brought their heads close and chatted. After a moment, one raised his hand and jumped on his table.

  “Shut your steak holes and listen. The rules say nothing about a vampire or whatever”—the “whatever” sounded like he was referring to something you’d scoop from a lawn—“singing any song from the playlist. So the contest goes.”

  The audience booed. Someone threw a cup of popcorn. A beer bottle smashed on the ceiling.

  We started the song. Until now, the audience had followed along. This time it was just us four onstage and me singing. Alone.

  I didn’t have any problems with the start of the song, not even when a second bottle broke against the rafters and showered me with beer.

  But when I got to the chorus, the “Ah-wuuu, werewolves of London,” I had all but the stick-up-their-asses diehards singing along. By the start of the second stanza, even they couldn’t resist joining in. This was their anthem.

  Werewolves jumped on the tables. The air shook with howls that started low in their throats and grew into roaring bellows. The singing, the reverb from the speakers, the thick aroma of canine musk and pheromones, the pounding of paws and the stamping of feet—my sixth sense was on overload. My ears and fingertips buzzed in excitement.

  Me, vampire, the leader of the werewolf band. I hopped in the air and floated to the closest table, where I danced, microphone in hand.

  The colored dots sped down the screen like s
treaks of lightning. Angela and the other player moved their fingers on the guitars in a blur like hummingbird wings. The drummer beat the skins and worked the pedals in a feverish spasm until the song ended.

  Our score: 100 percent.

  We had won.

  The band cheered. I cheered.

  Our cartoon doppelgängers vogued and pumped their animated paws in triumph. I floated down from the table, eager to claim my place as equal in Rock Band to these werewolves.

  I clipped the microphone to its stand. Angela warmed me with her smile and wrapped an arm around my waist. My sixth sense reverberated, probably from all the excitement.

  Maybe vampires and weres could be friends.

  My head rocked from a blow to the back of my neck. Pain spiked through my backbone. My eyes blanked out. I stumbled into chairs and werewolves.

  CHAPTER 35

  I lay on a dirty wooden floor, not sure of where I was or how I got here. A distant voice called through the chaos of pain in my head.

  “You’ve had your fun, bloodsucker. Not get the hell out.”

  Faces whirled around me as blurry smears. Second by second, the faces came into focus. I was in the Blind Tiger Club. Playing Rock Band with werewolves.

  Slowly, strength returned to my legs.

  My kundalini noir went into battle mode.

  I bolted upright and whirled around, talons and fangs at the ready. My attacker was Jerry, the werewolf engineer from the other night, at the rumble outside Big Jack’s Saloon.

  I grinned. “Back for more, hair bag?”

  His right paw swiped at my face. I caught his wrist and got ready to rip his paw off when he wrenched free.

  Two more weres stood by his side. Other weres pushed chairs and tables to make more room.

  One of the Rock Band judges stepped between the weres and me. “No fighting. This is sanctuary.”

  Jerry shouted. “Fuck sanctuary.” He pumped a clawed fist. “The Palmetto Clan rules.”

  Other weres jumped to their feet and chanted, “Palmetto rules. Palmetto rules.”

  These werewolves were no longer directing their ire at me but at the crowd. Weres kicked over chairs and readied their claws. Someone punched the judge and he staggered into a table, knocking glasses of beer to the floor.

  “Magnolia Clan,” a were yelled. “Band together.”

  “Hickory Clan,” another shouted. “By the bar.”

  Werewolves clustered back-to-back and waited for others to declare themselves friend or foe.

  Angela grabbed Jerry’s shirt. “Stop this. Honor the parley.”

  He pushed her away. “Fight or get out.”

  My talons sprouted and my fangs got ready. I advanced on Jerry.

  Werewolves blocked my way. “This ain’t your fight, bloodsucker. Get the hell out.”

  A new chant started. “Dog pile. Dog pile.”

  Bottles crashed against the ceiling and walls, spraying us with beer and glass. Werewolves climbed on tables and jumped into the crowd.

  We were seconds away from mosh pit to riot.

  A shriek echoed over the pandemonium. A police whistle. Cops, rather were cops, rushed into the room, swinging big hairy arms and truncheons.

  Rather than bring the peace, the whistle acted like a signal. Suddenly every werewolf was biting and throwing punches.

  Angela held her shoes in one hand. She clasped my wrist and tugged me toward the door. She cleared a path through the mob with a flurry of barefoot karate kicks.

  A werewolf staggered atop a table, his clothes ripped, blood streaming from his head, his right arm bent and cradled before him. He shouted, “Palmetto Clan rules.”

  More cops bulldozed into the room. As they crossed the threshold, each morphed from human form to werewolf.

  Angela and I made it to the front dining area. A line of cops, as humans, kept the curious from entering the club. The cops let us out.

  We walked away, relieved like we’d made it off a capsized boat.

  Angela said, “Sorry about what happened. It was supposed to be a party.”

  “I learned something. Didn’t realize werewolves could be violent.”

  Angela leaned against me and put her shoes back on. She smoothed her dress. “That was mild. Tempers are running hot. We need to keep even a bar fight from turning into the first skirmish of a war.”

  “That was clever of you using the loophole to keep me playing Rock Band,” I said. “Arguing that the rule didn’t exclude vampires.”

  “I know the importance of nuances.”

  “Even so, I better stay clear of werewolves. I hate to rely on nuances to save my ass. You saw how they used me as an excuse to make trouble.”

  “All werewolves?” Angela cocked an eyebrow.

  “Maybe I could handle one.”

  “Sounds like a challenge.” She unlocked the Maserati. “Let’s find out.”

  We got into the car.

  “What’s this going to do to your reputation?”

  “I’m a werewolf. I’m supposed to have a bad reputation.” She gripped the steering wheel and gunned the engine. “Let’s go. I’m curious to see how bad my reputation can get.”

  CHAPTER 36

  We drove east over the Ashley River, then south to Centerville. Angela explained that we were on James Island, miles away from Charleston.

  A waxing moon followed us across the night sky. The luminous circle was almost complete. The time for Le Cercle de Sang et Crocs drew closer. Werewolves couldn’t behave themselves at a party; what would they do when all the territory clans got together?

  “When the moon is full,” I asked, “do all of you turn into wolves?”

  “We can resist the impulse. But it’s hard. We may not be pleasant company, as you’ve seen.”

  “So it’s like a mass interspecies PMS?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

  “I always figured wolves as northern animals,” I said. “How do you weres put up with the heat and the humidity?”

  “You’re thinking of gray or timber wolves,” she answered. “Many of us, like me, are red wolves, indigenous to the South. We’re used to the climate. There’s also the Mexican or desert wolf.”

  As she talked, I loaded the Webley with silver bullets. I snapped the frame closed. The other twelve rounds remained in the carton. After tonight’s trouble, I kept the Webley on my lap, just in case.

  “Are you stuck living here? I mean, if you’re a red werewolf, what’s to keep you from living in Idaho?”

  “Nothing. Different types of werewolves live in different types of climate. Besides, most of the time, we’re in human form and we take advantage of air-conditioning and central heating.”

  “How do you become a werewolf anyway?” I asked. “A bite?” I thought about Charly in the alley of Big Jack’s. “A scratch?”

  “If your mom is a were, you can be born as one. If you’re turned from human to were, the first turning has to come from a special werewolf bite. Here.” She rubbed her left clavicle. “Or here.” She touched the bottom of her nape. “Otherwise, we’d be up to our chins in werewolves. What about you vampires?”

  “You fang somebody and feed them their blood.”

  “How?”

  “With a kiss.”

  Angela grimaced. “Yuck. You vampires can’t do anything without blood.” She eased off the gas and we slowed to ninety.

  “How were you turned?” Hopefully it didn’t involve Calhoun or Bourbon. I was certain making werewolves from humans was an intimate undertaking like vampire fanging.

  “Someone who’s since moved on,” she answered. “Leave it at that.”

  We were past the suburbs, at a spot where the highway connected low islands surrounded by sloughs of water.

  “That’s the Folly River.” Angela flicked the high beams. “Up ahead is Folly Island.”

  The highway cut through a series of intersections and ended against, ironically enough, considering we were in the Deep South, Arctic Aven
ue.

  The intersection overlooked the beach and the long pier jutting into the Atlantic Ocean. Angela turned right and we continued south. Arctic Avenue curved into Ashley. The neighborhood was mostly cottages, with a sprinkling of upscale beach houses, two-story homes with big windows on the top floor and a carport underneath. The few shops were closed for the evening.

  Angela pulled beside a small bungalow near the end of the road. She parked on a narrow driveway paved with gravel and seashells.

  We got out but she didn’t make the offer that we go inside the house. I carried the Webley tucked into my waistband.

  She had me follow her into the backyard. Bushes grew into a U around the yard and shielded us from view by the neighbors.

  Angela slipped out of her shoes and stood barefoot on the grass.

  My kundalini noir quickened.

  She acted relaxed. “You vampires can shift into animals, right?”

  “We can.”

  “Bats?”

  I answered, “Not all of us.”

  “What do you shift into?”

  “A wolf.”

  “What a coincidence. I like wolves. Do you need anything special to shift?”

  “Like a full moon? No.”

  “Can you shift,” she asked, “for me?”

  “Any particular reason?” I asked.

  She reached behind her back and unzipped her dress. “Curiosity. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Angela wiggled her shoulders, and the dress slipped down her torso. With a shimmy of her hips, the dress fell around her ankles.

  I removed my contacts and stored them in their plastic case.

  Angela’s aura surrounded her like a veil of yellow light. Orange blobs swirled through the glow, the blobs breaking apart and re-forming like the hot wax in a lava lamp. A human aura I was expert at reading. A were? Different language.

  Angela straightened her back and stood tall, her body toned, her abdomen a series of smooth ripples, her black bra and matching thong panties drawing attention to what they concealed.