Werewolf Smackdown

by Mario Acevedo

  I gave the crystal a twist and it loosened about the gold band around the middle. For an instant I thought it might contain a fragment of vampire parchment. The crystal came apart. Smelled like nothing. No parchment.

  A piece of gold foil slipped out and hit the desk with a distinct ping. The foil unfolded in the manner of a raft inflating, becoming a solid-looking ring of golden metal, about two inches in diameter and thick as a pencil.

  I grasped the ring. It weighed more than it should, even if made of solid gold. I pinched the ring, expecting it to deform, but it remained hard as steel.

  I studied the inscriptions along the flat sides of the circumference. Some kind of runes. No clue about the meaning.

  This hoop of gold was too small to be a bracelet—for someone of regular human size, that is.

  I set the ring on its rim to see if it would balance. The ring fell over with a crisp ping, louder than before. The ping lingered for a moment before trailing to silence.

  I held the ring an inch off the desk and let it drop. It bounced and pinged louder, the sound as sharp as the crack of breaking glass that faded to a lingering hum. The ring fell over and wobbled in a circle to lie flat. The space inside the ring began to glow blue.

  I sat up, amazed. The ring settled still, and the glow disappeared. What was this device?

  I dropped the ring again; it slipped from my fingers and I put an inadvertent spin to its fall. The ring bounced, pinged louder than ever, and began to spin on its vertical axis. The space inside the ring again glowed blue. The ping modulated into a voice.

  Wendy’s.

  CHAPTER 56

  My room phone buzzed, bringing me out of my trance. I must have sat there an hour, mesmerized the entire time by Wendy’s magical talking ring.

  I now had proof that Bourbon had murdered Inga Latrall. Was this the reason Wendy had come to the Atlas Mortuary? To show me this ring?

  The phone buzzed again. I picked up the receiver and answered.

  The concierge confirmed that it was me and added, “You have guests arriving in the lobby. Please come down and receive them.” She clicked off.

  The only guest I expected was King Gullah. By “guests,” I’m sure the concierge meant Gullah and his parade of gangsters.

  I took the talking ring and slipped it into a front trouser pocket. The ring pressed against my thigh, heavy in weight and importance.

  I stuck the Webley into my waistband and fluffed my shirt to hide the pistol.

  When I got to the lobby, the two bellhops, the desk clerks, and the concierge were staring anxiously at the front door.

  One of Gullah’s sidekicks stood outside, eyes covered by sunglasses, hands clasped in front of him like a guard from the Nigerian secret service.

  A white Escalade was parked at one end of the drive. Gullah’s green and gold Impala cruised to the curb and halted. The second Escalade waited behind.

  His two female chalices—still looking as well fed as before, in matching shocking-pink hot pants and tiny bikini tops—tottered to the hotel entrance on gold platform stilettos. They carried what I first thought were push brooms, then realized were frames, which they held upright before the door. They propped a haint blue cloth over the entrance. Gullah loved his hokey ceremonies.

  The gangsters had dismounted from their Escalades and formed a cordon around the Impala. Yo-Yo opened the car door. Rooster stood beside him.

  King Gullah unfolded himself from the Chevy. Instead of a skullcap, today he wore a straw porkpie hat. And rhinestone-studded sunglasses. Today’s dashiki was red, printed with brown human figures of an African design. Rooster and Yo-Yo nodded in a salute of respect, as though Gullah had just arrived from another continent.

  He strode for the hotel entrance, his bearing imperial, with Yo-Yo and Rooster trailing. Yo-Yo carried a cardboard box big enough for a six-pack.

  Gullah tipped his head forward to walk under the haint blue cloth. Rooster stopped beside the girls. Yo-Yo continued after Gullah.

  The concierge sidled close. She bleated, “Will there be trouble?”

  “Not if you do what he says.”

  She wrung her hands and an anxious wheezing came out of her throat.

  “Relax,” I said. “He’s a good tipper.”

  Gullah entered the lobby, his right hand outstretched like a politician after my vote. We shook hands.

  I was eager to show him Wendy’s talking ring but didn’t want to return to my suite. Didn’t feel safe. Too paranoid. That would be the obvious place for Gullah and me to meet.

  I turned to the concierge. “Can we get some privacy?”

  “We have a special room.” She hurried us through the empty main dining room to the wooden paneling on the back wall. She pushed against one of the panels, and it sprang open like a door.

  “Interesting,” Gullah remarked.

  “It’s from the Prohibition days,” she explained.

  We entered a small room paneled in dark wood. Antique bureaus and cabinets crowded against the chairs surrounding a dinner table in the middle of the floor. Paintings of hunting dogs and sailing ships hung on the walls. The room smelled of whiskey and cigars and secret deals.

  Gullah panned the room and mugged in approval. We took adjacent chairs at the table.

  “Drinks, if you please,” he said to the concierge. “I’ll have a Crown Royal. Neat.” He aimed the lenses of his sunglasses at me.

  “I’d like a manhattan.”

  “And the Crown Royal he didn’t order…” Gullah added, “bring it to me.”

  The concierge said, “Of course,” and left.

  Yo-Yo set the box on the table. Gullah signaled for him to leave. The door closed behind him.

  Time for our secret deals.

  CHAPTER 57

  Gullah removed his sunglasses. His eyes shone with a red vampire glow. He opened the box. He pulled out two plastic straws, two bags of blood (type B-negative), and paper napkins. “Wasn’t sure about the feeding arrangements in this hotel.”

  He offered a bag and straw. I thanked him. The bag was warm. I wasn’t hungry, but a snack of human blood should help me stay calm. After my days of getting slammed around Charleston like I was in a pinball machine, Wendy had given me information I could use to get Paxton. But how?

  Gullah fanged his bag and inserted a straw. I did the same thing. The blood had a stale taste. The donor ate too much processed food.

  Gullah sucked on the blood. His expression remained as inscrutable as looking into a dark well. “It’s your nickel. Bring me up to speed.”

  There was much to share. What had happened during the costume ball, how I forced one of the would-be assassins to reveal Paxton’s presence in Charleston, the visit by the bat-wing vampire, and my discovery of Wendy’s talking ring.

  The room grew so quiet I could hear our watches tick. Gullah put his bag of blood on the table. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and left a crimson stain. “You’re taking a long time to answer. You got that much to tell?”

  “Where do I start?”

  “With what’s most important.”

  The ring. As soon as I showed him the ring, I knew everything about it would come gushing out. I reached for my pocket.

  Gullah’s eyes gave a look I didn’t like. I remembered his words: I’d slit the throat of my own brother if it bought me an extra day. Gullah’s pledge of survival had another name: treachery.

  When I’d called Gullah last night, I couldn’t wait to discuss a strategy to find Paxton. But the ring had changed that plan. The ring contained valuable information, information that might tempt Gullah, I now realized, to turn on me.

  So I told him about the attack in the jail. I elaborated on the vaccination gun loaded with garlic.

  Gullah said, “You can skip that. I’ve done heard all about it.”

  “Anybody mention the haint, Deliah?”

  Gullah’s facade of stoicism cracked. His mouth curled pleasantly. “You saw her?”

  “She saved me.�
� I told him what had happened.

  “How is she doing?”

  “She’s still dead.”

  Someone knocked. Yo-Yo opened the door and entered with a tray. A manhattan for me, a pair of shot glasses with Crown Royal for Gullah. He set the drinks on the table and left. The door closed.

  I put my bag of blood on the table. My lack of trust in Gullah had soured the taste and I’d lost my appetite and my thirst for the manhattan.

  Gullah raised one of the shot glasses. “To survival.”

  “I’m interested in more than survival.”

  “I can see why you’re such a dangerous vampire. You are more than an enforcer.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’re a crusader. A vampire on a mission. A vampire with a conscience.”

  He gestured with the shot glass. “Here’s to crusades.”

  I raised the manhattan. “What are your crusades?”

  “Other than keeping my black ass upright, aboveground, and in style”—Gullah emptied the shot glass in one gulp—“ridding the world of Crown Royal one drink at a time.”

  I toasted, “To crusades,” and sipped my manhattan.

  A plan came to me. The blond assassin knew Paxton. Calhoun said she’d needed help from a were to get into the costume ball. She was the link between Bourbon and Paxton. I knew exactly what to do with the ring. It would be valuable to Calhoun but even more so to Bourbon. I’d trade the ring for information on Paxton’s whereabouts.

  Gullah drank the second Crown Royal and I finished the manhattan. My mood was like that of a kamikaze pilot drinking his ceremonial sake before the final mission.

  I told him about my interrogation of the blond would-be assassin from the costume ball. “She confessed that she worked for Paxton and that he is in Charleston.”

  Gullah grunted, pleased. He waited for more details.

  “That’s all I have. Paxton must’ve put a psychic block on her subconscious. Calhoun took her from me before I could get through.”

  Gullah looked about the room but his gaze was far away. “If Paxton’s in Charleston, I’ll find him.”

  “How?”

  “How would you?”

  I put my hand over my pocket and traced the outline of Wendy’s talking ring.

  “Are we done?” Gullah held his sunglasses in both hands.

  “For now.”

  He slipped the sunglasses on. “Later, then.”

  He reached over his shoulder to the door and knocked. Yo-Yo opened the door.

  Gullah said, “Mr. Gomez and I have concluded our business. Tell the crew to get ready to leave. Get one of the boys to police this.” He motioned to the bags of blood, the straws, and the bloody napkins.

  I followed Gullah out the room and through the lobby. I halted at the entrance.

  The two gangster chalices held up the haint cloth on the other side of the threshold. As soon as Gullah cleared the cloth, he pulled a cigar from the pocket of his dashiki. He put it in his mouth and angled his head toward Yo-Yo.

  The gangster flicked a butane lighter and lit the cigar. Without breaking stride, Gullah puffed. Rooster and the gangsters formed a square around him. One of the gangsters hustled ahead to hold the door open to the Chevy Impala.

  Gullah got into the car. The girls folded the haint cloth and clip-clopped on their stiletto heels to the street. Together with the gangsters, they climbed into their respective Escalades. The convoy pulled away from the hotel curb and headed toward Ashley Avenue.

  The concierge and the bellhops clustered around me. When Gullah’s caravan cruised out of sight, the concierge released a grateful sigh. She raised an arm to wipe her brow and the armpit of her jacket was dark with perspiration. She held a binder clip of hundred-dollar bills. Gullah’s tip.

  Time to talk with Bourbon.

  I called his office. His receptionist said he was gone for the day.

  “Know where I could find him?” I asked.

  “He went home. Something about…are you that guy from Colorado?” With every word in her question, I could hear the spite build in her voice. “The one who was here four days ago?”

  I wasn’t going to stoke her resentment and dodged the question by asking, “Something about what?”

  “Why don’t you go fuck yourself.” The phone disconnected with a click.

  Not the best example of Southern manners.

  Bourbon lived a few blocks from the hotel and I could walk to his house in minutes. I took Lenwood Boulevard. Tourists wandered the sidewalks, strolling at a relaxed pace, reading guidebooks and taking pictures. Oblivious to the werewolf war that rumbled beneath their feet like a volcano about to explode.

  I stopped beside a hedge where I could observe Bourbon’s house unseen. I had to assume that the receptionist had warned him.

  There was no one on the street. I slipped off my sunglasses and contacts. I didn’t spy any sentries. No telltale auras in the windows.

  I circled the block to approach the house from another direction. From this new perspective, I could scan the other side of the house. No guards masquerading as groundskeepers. No auras in the windows or lurking in the shadows of the house. Bourbon’s BMW was in the carport. A couple of sedans and the H2 Hummer were in the driveway.

  Who was he meeting?

  Werewolves?

  Paxton?

  Or both?

  Bile floated up my throat, a bitter scum that tasted of anger, treachery, and violence.

  The wrought-iron gate of the driveway clattered open.

  A Maserati turned into the driveway.

  Angela?

  CHAPTER 58

  My kundalini noir about leaped out of my aura in astonishment.

  Angela was in Calhoun’s clan. What was she doing at Bourbon’s house?

  Her Maserati halted behind the Hummer. She got out. Her penumbra bristled with anxiety. She wore a platinum-colored dress, low back, thin shoulder straps. High heels as usual.

  She climbed the steps of the piazza and rang the bell. The door opened, revealing the glimpse of another were’s aura. Angela went in and the door shut behind her.

  Why was she here?

  I found a place along the fence hidden from view by a magnolia tree. A quick look around to make sure no one watched, and I levitated over the fence between two sections topped with chevaux-de-frise.

  Once on the other side, I picked my way to the house and climbed a drain spout to a balcony on the second floor.

  The door had a window and no curtain. The room inside was a study, with a globe and a brass sextant atop a vintage rolltop desk, a brass telescope on an adjacent nightstand, a swiveling wooden armchair in front of the desk. The room appeared seldom used. The bric-a-brac was meant to look like faux heirlooms. Why have a past when you can buy history?

  I put my hand on the window and rubbed my palm over bumpy imperfections in the antique glass. I forced my kundalini noir to remain still and rigid like an antenna.

  I collected vibrations transmitted through the glass. A jumble of voices. Footsteps on wooden floors. Footsteps muffled by carpet.

  I couldn’t determine the exact number of occupants. Counting Angela, at least five. Maybe six. Maybe more. I couldn’t tell where they were. On this floor? Below? The third floor?

  The important thing, no one had sounded the alarm. I had gotten this far undetected.

  I readied my revolver. My talons extended midway.

  The door was unlocked. When I opened it, a canine smell wafted out. I levitated, glided inside, and closed the door behind me.

  Voices echoed down a hall from my right. Male voices. One woman’s.

  Angela. Her voice quaked with nervousness.

  My skin prickled at the thought that she might be in danger. I brought the revolver up and crept down the hall in the direction of the voices. My feet slipped quietly above the floor. I hadn’t yet been able to sneak up on a were, so I had to take it extra slow and careful. The hall continued past a stairwell and several rooms.r />
  Some of the doors were closed. The open doors revealed rooms filled with more vintage junk.

  My fingertips and the rims of my ears buzzed in alarm. My sixth sense wasn’t alerting me to a specific threat, only that I was in danger. Like I wasn’t aware of that already.

  The voices echoed louder.

  Angela. Sounding more nervous.

  And Bourbon. His voice derisive and skeptical.

  I halted at the corner. My shoulder hugged the wall.

  The air was thick with adrenaline and male wolf musk.

  Angela said, “You can’t be that blind to the consequences.”

  Bourbon replied, “I expect consequences. You’re talking to me like I haven’t put much thought into this.”

  This what?

  “If Calhoun wants to avoid a war, let him submit to me,” Bourbon said. “When he rolls on his back at my feet, then I’ll know he’s sincere.”

  “He won’t do that,” Angela said.

  “And you expect me to?” Bourbon asked, his voice gruff and mean. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  I sprang from the corner, pistol raised, talons and fangs extended.

  Angela was facing Bourbon, her back to me.

  I recognized two weres, Sean Moultier and Jerry, the engineer I’d run into twice before. Four more weres stood about the room, which looked like a gaudy interpretation of Victorian fussiness. Lots of velvet, tassels, and more bric-a-brac.

  Bourbon and his goons put their stares on me and growled. Their red and orange auras burned in fury.

  My gun had six bullets, one each for the goons. I’d have to take care of Bourbon fang to fang.

  But his weres were carrying guns. And they were transforming into werewolves. Coarse hair. Hulking muscles. Long claws. Fiery auras.

  My ears picked up an intense buzz. More danger.

  Behind me, three werewolves approached from the hall. From a door at the other side of the room, another three werewolves appeared. Two were dressed as groundskeepers and trained their leaf blowers on me. The blower nozzles hooded the muzzles of triple-barrel, rapid-fire shotguns.