Werewolf Smackdown

by Mario Acevedo

  We drove from the neighborhood just as flames shot from the roof of Wendy’s house. I didn’t want to look.

  We caught the highway back to Charleston and passed a convoy of fire trucks going in the opposite direction.

  This ride better not be my one-way trip to a landfill. I flashed my talons. This ride would be a one-way trip for the both of us, if he betrayed me.

  Calhoun made a face at my lack of couth. “I want to express my condolences about Wendy.”

  I acknowledged the comment with a wave of my fingers and waited for him to get to the meat of this conversation.

  “But the show must go on,” he said. “We have responsibilities. You and I don’t have the luxury of stopping to weep.”

  I don’t weep because vampires can’t. I asked, “Who planted the bomb at the mortuary?”

  Calhoun’s eyes iced over. “The investigators said it might have been a gas explosion.”

  “It was a goddamn bomb.”

  “None of the casualties was a werewolf. What do you want me to do?” His voice was cold.

  “But Wendy?”

  “She is dead.” Now his voice was ice cold. “I know why the Araneum brought her to Charleston. You want to know the best way to honor her? Promote her mission. Peace among us werewolves.”

  He faced me. “Let me tell you the lengths the Araneum will go to in order to protect its interests.” His eyes glowed warily from the dark pocket of shadow under his brow.

  “During the War Between the States, werewolves served on both sides. Living among humans tests our loyalties.” Calhoun touched his prothesis, a memento of his patriotic sacrifice. As a supernatural, he could’ve found a way out of military service, but he didn’t. He went to Iraq and fought alongside his sailors.

  “During the blockade of Charleston,” Calhoun explained, “the local nidus took advantage of the chaos to feed on soldiers and stragglers from both sides. Despite warnings from the Araneum to evacuate the city, these vampires remained and grew complacent on the easy pickings until they were trapped within the Union encirclement. These vampires threatened to reveal themselves if the Araneum didn’t rescue them.”

  A ray of sunlight slashed through the window but did nothing to brighten Calhoun’s grim narrative.

  “The Araneum wouldn’t risk loyal vampires to save these renegades. So it ordered the trapped vampires to assemble for passage through the Union line. But the Araneum cut a deal with werewolves serving on both sides. Southern were cavalrymen led the vampires from Charleston to Hell Hole Swamp. Once there, the were cavalry and Union werewolf infantry cut the renegade vampires down in a cross fire.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I’m a clan leader and a Southerner. I must know these things.” Calhoun reached into a pocket inside his coat. He brought out a small leather pouch. The hide was worn yet supple. He undid the rawhide cinch and spread the pouch open in the palm of his hand, careful not to touch a pitted and tarnished metal lump. A silver minié ball. “The vampires were killed with these.”

  The lesson was clear. Don’t fuck with the Araneum.

  We arrived in Charleston. Calhoun’s limo drove to a small hotel on the southern tip of the peninsula.

  “Why are we here?” I asked.

  “You need a place to stay. Don’t worry about the bill, I’ll take care of your expenses.” There was little warmth in his voice.

  The place was an elegant boutique hotel. A bellhop helped a middle-aged couple into a horse-drawn carriage. This looked like a good place to stay except that Calhoun had brought me here. No doubt he had his were and human servants staffing the hotel, with orders to keep tabs on me.

  “Any particular reason you chose this hotel?”

  “You can stay anywhere you want. How about a Motel 6?”

  Didn’t matter where I stayed in Charleston, the werewolves would find me. Might as well be comfortable.

  I got out without thanking him. The limo drove off. I had no luggage, as I’d left my knapsack in Angela’s Maserati.

  The concierge, a slender woman in a trim maroon skirt and a blue blazer, greeted me. “This way, Mr. Gomez.”

  It would’ve been a wonder if she hadn’t known my name.

  The concierge led me to a suite on the second floor. Miraculously, my knapsack rested on the bed. French doors opened onto a balcony with a wrought-iron railing.

  She handed a plastic room key card. “Anything else?”

  “Any way you can turn back the clock to last week?”

  “If I could do that, sir, I wouldn’t be working here.”

  “How about a drink?” Considering it wasn’t yet noon, I ordered a screwdriver. For the orange juice.

  She nodded and dismissed herself.

  I opened my knapsack, certain that it had been searched. The Webley revolver was right on top. The cylinder still loaded. The extra ammo tucked next to my shaving kit. All my belongings were here.

  Never figured werewolves to be so considerate. I’d bet it was Angela who’d taken care of this.

  A steady breeze beat the leaves of the magnolia trees against the balcony railing. Out in the harbor, four tall ships rocked in the chop.

  Farther to the south, rounding Fort Sumter, approached yet another tall ship.

  More werewolves. The prelude to war. To what end?

  Wendy, Lemuel, and his intern chalice were dead, killed at the mortuary. I’d had three attempts on my life, two by vampires and one by werewolves. And consider the fight in the alley behind Big Jack’s and the brawl at the Blind Tiger Club.

  The Araneum’s original plan at defusing the werewolf war had been lost with Wendy. Calhoun was right; there was no time to commiserate. I had a mission. Find Paxton. I had to be hard. I had to encase my feelings in armor.

  I got the Webley from my knapsack. The cylinder felt warm from the silver bullets in their chambers.

  Standing in the doorway to the balcony, I watched the ships bring in more werewolves. I thought of ways to sink them: attach mines to the hulls, sneak on board to plant bombs or open the bilge drains. That could kill hundreds of werewolves but make everything worse. I couldn’t kill Bourbon. I couldn’t kill Calhoun. I had no options other than to wait and hope.

  My ears tingled. Someone was in the hall.

  Feet scuffed the carpet outside my door. Someone knocked.

  My ears quit tingling. No threat detected.

  I stuck the revolver in the front of my trousers and opened the door.

  A young woman in a hotel staff uniform held a silver tray with my cocktail.

  I invited her in and pointed to the table beside the sofa. She set the tray on the table and didn’t act bothered by the Webley. Maybe that a guest could pack a firearm was a perk of the hotel. My first whiff told me “human” and that she’d recently had a latte.

  I had to assume she was one of Calhoun’s spies.

  Out of habit, I let my gaze go to the choicest spot on her neck, the hollow between the larynx and the muscles of her throat. My nose hunted for natural smells masked by the artificial fragrance of her deodorant and perfume.

  Her pheromones and a trace of perspiration teased my nose like the aroma from a hot grilled steak. My stomach rumbled.

  The attendant moved to the door. “Anything else?”

  I loved that question.

  “Do you know anything about vampires?”

  She undid the top button of her blouse. “Mostly that their feeding habits are different from werewolves.”

  “Good, because I’d like something to eat.” I removed my contacts. “And information.”

  CHAPTER 46

  The woman’s aura lit up like I’d cranked up the electricity to a lightbulb. Her pupils dilated and her mouth sagged open.

  I pulled her toward me and nudged the door shut with my foot.

  I towed her to the sofa, her feet dragging on the carpet. I undid her uniform blouse midway and exposed a white lace bra.

  I wrapped my left arm around her waist a
nd held her in a clinch like we were about to tango.

  I ran my fangs across her throat, using the tips to explore the curves of her neck. I knew where to bite, but I wanted to prolong the anticipation. I studied her smells and guessed her blood as type A-positive.

  She shuddered and her breath puffed against my cheek.

  I pulled away from her to again make eye contact.

  Her irises were thin rings of hazel around the circular chasms of her dilated pupils. There were no barriers between her mind and mine.

  I asked for her name, in case it sounded familiar. It didn’t.

  I asked, “Do you work for Randolph Calhoun?”

  “Yes.” She turned her head, offering more of her neck. She wanted to get fanged. Bad girl.

  “How did you know I’m a vampire?”

  “I was told.”

  Damn. My hunger faded. Only a chalice is allowed to live with that knowledge. Lemuel Cohen had been the exception. According to vampiric law, to protect the Great Secret, I had to convert her into a chalice, turn her into a vampire, or kill her.

  But she didn’t answer to me; she answered to Calhoun.

  “What happens if you tell anyone about werewolves? Or that I’m a vampire?”

  Tendrils lashed from her aura. The penumbra grew bumps of fear. “I can’t. It’s forbidden.”

  “What happens if you do?”

  “I’d be judged.”

  “What happens at this judgment?”

  “Nothing good.” Her muscles tensed and the bumps on her aura broke apart into a rash of blisters. “You don’t come back the same, if you come back at all.”

  So weres did enforce protecting the Great Secret. I decided that if the woman did run her mouth, Calhoun would take care of her.

  My thoughts turned back to my hunger. I brushed my teeth against her neck.

  My fangs found the spot as if by divination. I pressed my fangs into her flesh. I wanted her blood to seep into my mouth, not spurt in.

  The first drops welled around my fangs. A-positive, rich with metallic tones. I tasted fish—salmon?—lime, asparagus, bay leaves, a good Sauvignon Blanc. A fleeting oily trace of hemp.

  The blood was no longer an appetizer, I wanted a full meal. Now.

  I clamped my fangs hard. The blood shot into my mouth. Warm. Heavy. Delicious.

  I gulped one mouthful, then another.

  The rich taste swooned through me like an orgasm.

  I wanted more. I wanted her to share my pleasure.

  I pumped enzymes into her. The woman gripped tight and pressed her neck against my mouth. A shudder ran though her shoulders. Her chest heaved against mine. One breath puffed from her nose against my face. A second breath. A third, and she went limp.

  The puncture wounds on her neck were larger than they should’ve been. I’d been too rough and careless. My fangs had gone too deep. I lapped an extra dose of healing enzymes into the wounds. That would help, but she still needed time for the bite marks to heal.

  My amnesia enzymes would erase most of what had happened. She might remember seeing the Webley. No problem, let her tell the weres and their human servants that I had a gun. One more reason to stay clear of me.

  I laid her across the sofa and slid a cushion under her head. I rebuttoned her blouse and placed a tissue on her punctures to soak up the blood until the wounds scabbed over.

  I wanted the taste of her type A-positive to linger on my palate, but I had to wash the remaining blood down my throat. I finished the screwdriver.

  Her blood collected in my belly, a satisfying mass like a sixteen-ounce slab of prime rib. My eyelids grew heavy. My mind no longer spun with my concerns. The fatigue returned and I was glad for the opportunity to cast off my worries.

  I needed a nap. A quick one would do.

  I got the pistol and returned to the bedroom. The woman could sleep off the effects of my fanging in the front room. The sofa looked comfortable enough.

  I locked the door, cinched the blinds and the curtains, and let the room grow dark. I went to the bed, tucked the revolver under the pillow, and lay down on the covers.

  I meditated on the sensations of feeding on the woman. I kept looping through the memory of my fangs punching through her skin, the warm liquid filling my mouth, the drenching of meaty, coppery blood. Each cycle of the loop was like counting sheep.

  The next thing I sensed was my name being called. I opened my eyes and saw the muzzle of the Webley pointed at my nose.

  Angela Cyclone held the pistol. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  CHAPTER 47

  The Webley pointed right at my face. A half-dozen silver slugs waited in the cylinder. My kundalini noir jumped right to self-preservation mode. I flung my arm in an arc to swat away the pistol.

  Angela stepped out of harm’s reach and moved to the foot of the bed. She tossed the pistol in the air and caught it by the barrel.

  She laid the gun on the mattress. “Anyone else, and you’d be coughing up silver right now.”

  The door to the front room was open, but I’d left it locked. “How’d you get in?”

  “Your lunch, that woman”—Angela cocked her head to the empty sofa—“let me in. She has a staff key.”

  I settled against the mattress. Angela was right. For the last three days, I’d been the center circle of someone’s target. Angela was no assassin and yet I’d been careless enough that she’d gotten the drop on me.

  “Thanks for the lesson.” I slid off the bed and put on my shoes.

  I parted the curtains. The day was in the last throes of twilight. I took my watch off the nightstand. The time was 8:47 P.M.

  Angela held a plastic garment bag. “We’ve been invited to a party.”

  “Tonight?”

  “It’s a soiree for the alphas from the tall ships. Remember the sign for the Werewolf Costume Ball?”

  “I’m going?” A ball? What to expect? Boozing. Wild dancing? The images flipped through my head in a kaleidoscope of writhing bodies.

  One hitch. “Werewolves.” I made a seesaw motion with my hand to indicate my ambivalence. “Any problem that I’m a vampire? The last time you invited me out, I was the guest of honor at a riot.”

  Her smile made a sly curve. “Not for what you have to do.”

  “What? Dance. Have fun? I’m all over that.”

  Angela studied my waist. “You’re a thirty-two around the middle. Thirty-four inseam?”

  “That’s right. What’s this about? How did you guess that?”

  “I know plenty about men’s pants.”

  “An expert, I’m sure. What have you got for me? A costume?” I sounded like a little kid at Halloween. “As what? The king of the carnal carnival? The dean of debauchery?”

  “Whoa, pony,” she said. “You might want to change your expectations.”

  “About what?”

  She opened the plastic bag and dumped new clothes on the bed: a white shirt, black trousers, and a gray vest.

  “Try waiter.”

  CHAPTER 48

  The costume ball was in the Old City Jail, not far from my hotel. We could’ve walked but Angela wanted to drive.

  “Standing, dancing, whatever in these heels”—she pointed to her stiletto mules—“I can handle. But walking, even for a were, no freaking way.”

  The jail was a three-story building made of stone. Two towers guarded the front. With typical Charleston pride, Angela explained that the jail had originally been built in 1802 and had served as a military prison during the War Between the States, then was rebuilt after the 1886 earthquake.

  “Not surprising, considering its notorious history, that the jail is known for its ghosts.”

  “Should I be afraid?” I asked. “The place will be full of werewolves. Compared to them, what’s a couple of ghosts?”

  We turned off Magazine Street for the yard behind the jail. A man dressed all in black trotted up to the Maserati. Angela rolled down her window.

  I sniffed to see what kind of a
creature he was.

  Were.

  He pointed to a row of luxury cars and SUVs in the middle of the yard. “Park over there.”

  Angela eased the Maserati between a BMW sedan and a black Suburban.

  She was dressed in an abbreviated black sheath dress that covered her body like a whisper. Beads dangled from the hem. Angela explained it was what flappers would’ve worn if they’d had access to spandex. She got out of the car and tossed a shawl of gauzy gold material over her bare shoulders.

  My waiter’s outfit was polyester dork wear with extra points for the black bow tie.

  I tried various ways to hide the Webley on my person, sticking it in the front of my pants, the sides, the back. I ended up slicing the lining of the vest and slipped the pistol inside, where it would ride shoulder-holster style between my rib cage and left arm.

  We were in historic Charleston, yet the neighborhood was decidedly downscale. Lots of apartments. All well kept but none particularly fancy. The curious aspect was that all the doors facing the jail were painted haint blue in a vote of unanimous confidence in their belief in ghosts.

  I followed Angela to a flight of concrete steps and up to a back door.

  Once inside, Angela introduced me to Elizabeth Piexotto, the caterer and a were. She was on the reverse slope of middle age, blond hair in a pageboy cut, with a figure appropriate for someone with a craving for dumplings, meatballs, and petits fours. Her outfit was made of black leather with a tiny gold apron and big, fringed epaulets decorated with black skulls and crossbones. She wore turned-down patent-leather boots and waved a serving fork like it was a saber.

  Angela said she had to attend to guests and left me with the doughy pirate dominatrix. Piexotto wrinkled her nose and slapped the fork against the top of her boot. “A vampire. Good. You’re strong and won’t sample the appetizers.”

  She rapped the fork on a stack of ice blocks, twenty in total. “Take these to the third floor.”

  I asked, “Where are the ice tongs?”

  “Use your talons.”

  I couldn’t carry more than two blocks. It wasn’t the weight, but I could use my talons on only one block at a time. They sank into the ice, and cold shivers ran up my forearms.