Werewolf Smackdown

by Mario Acevedo

I swung my Webley from Paxton to the man and back to Paxton. He was the bigger threat.

  The man crawled out from under the counter. His hair and beard were unkempt, giving him a hermitlike appearance. He wore jean cutoffs and a dingy T-shirt. A leather collar hung around his emaciated neck. The collar held a small box against his throat. It looked like a device used to discipline a dog against barking.

  He had a mealy complexion like all of his blood had been wrung from his flesh. His eyes turned up to me. They shone dully from the bottom of black cavities. Vampire fang marks covered his body. An ugly purple rectangle filled with pus sores sat on his right shoulder blade. I guessed the dimensions of the rectangle. About the same as a playing card. His skin has been cut away to use as material for the note the poisoned crow had brought to Wendy’s home.

  The note sent by Paxton. I glared at him with loathing and anger.

  The man tried to get closer, but one ankle remained chained to the counter. His shin and foot were green and purple with gangrene. His hands pawed tracks through the dusty floor. The fingers on one of his hands, the same color as his foot, flopped uselessly. Whoever had chained him here had broken these fingers and let them rot.

  Something scratched inside one of the cubbies. I leaned close to look.

  A young woman, brown hair frazzled and chopped to look like a broom that had been set fire, wearing a soiled T-shirt and even dirtier gym shorts, squirmed in the bottom of the cubbie. The sewer odor was strong enough to make my nose twitch. The floor under her looked like a used bedpan. Dark, crusty stains covered her bare legs.

  I faced Paxton and my voice was heavy with disgust. “These your minions?”

  “What’s left of them. Now they’re mostly sustenance and even that won’t last long.”

  “You should treat your chalices better. Not only is it good karma, but they’ll be tastier.”

  Spikes of irritation churned from Paxton’s aura.

  “What about Orville Wright out there?” I nodded in the direction of the parking lot. “The one with the bat wings. He one of yours?”

  “Was,” Paxton growled, aware of what I’d done.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Obvious, isn’t it? Revenge.”

  “You should learn to let go. Grudges are never easy to carry.”

  Paxton ground his teeth. His hand tightened around the control handle.

  I asked, “What about the vampires who dropped the crab on me? Who were they?”

  “Acolytes.”

  “Fancy term for your incompetent help. Whose idea was it to murder Wendy Teagarden?”

  Paxton’s withered face relaxed. “Couldn’t be helped. We were going after you.”

  Couldn’t be helped? Paxton talked as if Wendy’s death was a minor inconvenience. Anger pulsed through me in waves of painful shocks.

  I’d lost Paxton once before. He wouldn’t escape this time. This time I wasn’t just going to kill him. He would know my visit was about justice and his death was going to be an execution.

  “Why here?” I asked. “Charleston?”

  Paxton wheezed, a rusty mechanical sound. “Because it’s taken me this long to heal well enough to come after you.”

  “How did you and Bourbon find each other?”

  “Where else in this wired age? The Internet.”

  Okay. “How?”

  “He needed a supernatural private detective. I needed to find you. Eventually we connected. Do a Google search on ‘people who hate Felix Gomez’ and you’ll be surprised by the number of hits you get.”

  “I’m flattered by the attention. And your plan?”

  “Our plan was to destroy everything. Get you to kill Calhoun. Start a war between the werewolves. Pull in the vampires.” Paxton wheezed like an old tractor motor. “Destroy the Great Secret. Destroy the Araneum. Free us vampires to live as undead kings instead of timid little serfs.” He relaxed and fought for strength. “But as before in Los Angeles, you fucked everything up.”

  “It’s a talent. But I don’t see how this master plan of yours had much of a window of opportunity. Right after I refused Bourbon, you tried to kill me.”

  “It was those imbeciles at the garage jumping the gun. The crab was for after we had goaded you into starting trouble with the werewolves.”

  “And now you have no plan.”

  “I have the reason I came to Charleston. You.”

  The male chalice crawled toward me, his movements sluglike and repulsive. In the cubbie next to the one with the girl, something inside made a thump, then scratched on the plywood.

  A hand gripped the edge of this cubbie. The fingernails were broken and dirty, the fingers caked with filth.

  These poor chalices had been drained to the edge of life, starved, and kept in squalor. “What’s your problem, Paxton?”

  “I have to run a lean operation. Not much room for overhead.”

  “If you’re counting on Bourbon for help,” I said, “forget it. He’s dead.”

  With a weak shrug, Paxton replied, “Then I’ll get a day job. What’s important is that you’re here.”

  The female chalice struggled to get upright in the cubbie. Like the first chalice, she also wore a leather collar with a box against her throat. Her eyes were distant. Bite marks crisscrossed her neck and forearm. Her shirt was mottled with yellow stains and dried blood.

  “What are the collars for?” I asked.

  “To keep them under control.”

  “Maybe if you treated them right and used the pleasure enzymes, you wouldn’t have to keep them in these pigsty conditions.”

  “I lost the pleasure enzymes.” He answered bitterly and thumped his elbow against one armrest of his wheelchair. “The injury.”

  “What about the other vampires? You could’ve taken turns.”

  “Didn’t work. The chalices wouldn’t answer to me. But no matter. They are simply domesticated animals. We’re mistaken to elevate humans above that.”

  The male chalice used his arms to pull himself across the floor toward me. His legs barely moved to push him along.

  The third chalice propped herself upright in her cubbie. Her face was bright pink like the flesh of cooked salmon. Her blond hair lay in stringy bunches over her face and temples. Bite marks covered her neck, shoulders, and arms.

  My sixth sense amped up the alarm. About what? These chalices were almost comatose. Zombies had more life to them.

  The chalice closest to me leaned in her cubbie and tumbled over the front to the floor. Her face smacked the concrete and her body collapsed in a heap. She pushed her head off the floor, showing a nose that looked like smashed clay.

  The third chalice did a similar move and also performed a face-plant on the concrete. She rolled to her butt and levered herself to her feet in awkward movements like she had forgotten how to stand. Skin hung from her lacerated cheek.

  Something touched my ankle. The male chalice put a forearm and his rotted fingers over my foot.

  I’d had enough. I’d shoot Paxton and then see what I could do to rescue the chalices.

  The brunette chalice stood. She fell to one side, aiming her fall on me.

  I tried stepping aside.

  A sharp pain stung my left thigh. The male chalice held a syringe in his good hand and pressed the needle against my leg.

  I swatted the syringe away. A warm flush radiated from the puncture. My muscles became limp. My head swam in a growing daze.

  The brunette snagged my right arm and grasped my pistol.

  The world receded from me. Everything moved in slow motion.

  Whatever caused this, fight it. Fight it.

  The blond chalice opened her mouth and I think she shrieked, but her voice sounded distant and muted. She brandished another syringe and lurched for me.

  CHAPTER 66

  I had all three chalices after me, a trio of disgusting automatons.

  Paxton gave an evil, triumphant leer. He held a video-game controller and manipulated the buttons.
He set the controller into a bracket on the arm of the wheelchair. Lights on the front of the controller blinked and the chalices kept attacking on automatic remote control.

  He reached behind the wheelchair and slowly withdrew the barbed shaft of an antique whaling harpoon. Reflections from the overhead lights sparkled across the polished edge. Sharp. Shiny. Silver.

  Panic slashed through my kundalini noir. My throat tightened in terror.

  Fight the drug. Keep alert.

  I tried to pry the Webley from the brunette, but she held tight.

  The gun went off. The bullet ricocheted with a whine off the concrete floor.

  She tugged on the Webley. My brain sent the signal to wrestle the gun free and shoot her. By the time my fingers started to react, she’d pulled the gun away and let it drop to the floor.

  Time began to speed up. The effect of the syringe ebbed. Hold on a few more seconds. I drew strength from a deep reserve within me.

  The blond chalice raised her syringe to plunge the needle into my chest. I slapped the syringe out of her hand.

  I flexed my right arm and lifted the brunette chalice off the ground. I snapped my arm and flung her to the floor.

  Paxton’s expression collapsed in dread. Every passing second, I grew more coherent.

  He tapped the butt of the harpoon against the game controller. The chalices grabbed the front of their collars and yowled in pain. They let go of the collars and paused, shoulders stooped in relief. They turned their eyes back to me.

  One of the female chalices lunged with a syringe. I leaned from her, too late, and the needle stuck me in the side. I grasped her hand and pushed it away. The syringe dangled from my shirt. I yanked it free and threw it on the ground. A wave of drowsiness dulled my mind and my eyelids grew heavy.

  The three chalices swarmed over me. I tired to shake them loose, but my limbs were weak and numb.

  My kundalini noir thrashed, futilely broadcasting signals for my body to fight.

  Paxton cradled the harpoon in his lap. He grasped the control handle on the armrest. The wheelchair jerked forward and rolled straight at me.

  I struggled to get away, but my body felt like it’d been packed with cotton wadding. As weak as they were, the chalices still overpowered me.

  Paxton halted a few feet in front of me.

  His frown deepened into a scowl. He wrapped his right hand around the harpoon. His left hand gripped under his left knee. He lifted the leg past the edge of the footrest and set his foot on the floor. His eyes never left me, as if he’d been rehearsing this movement for years. He lifted the right leg and set his right foot on the floor.

  He adjusted his grip on the harpoon. His left hand grasped the end of the armrest. His eyebrows bunched. His muscles tightened and—legs quivering from the effort—he slowly raised himself from the wheelchair.

  I tried to wrench my arms from the chalices.

  His left arm reached for me. His fingers clasped a handful of my shirt. He pulled forward and leaned against me. A foul cadaver odor swirled from him.

  Paxton’s head shook as he struggled with the effort of standing. He raised the harpoon’s barb to his face and pressed the silver edge against his cheek. His skin sizzled like meat dropped on a hot skillet and smoked and curled around the edge of the harpoon. He lowered the harpoon, revealing the shape of the barb branded into his cheek. His eyes stayed on mine, taunting: You’ll never be this strong or dedicated.

  He tucked the harpoon’s shaft into his right armpit. He pressed the silver point against my sternum. The harpoon sliced through my shirt and the silver tip nicked my skin.

  The touch of fire shot through the numbness. My fingers and toes curled from pain.

  My kundalini noir hardened, defiant.

  I wasn’t going to die. Not now. Not here. Not by Paxton’s dirty hand.

  I pushed the veil of numbness out of my consciousness. Every detail—each wrinkle, each open pore, each scar—on Paxton’s face came into sharp focus. The dull smell unraveled into distinct odors. My arms and legs, once heavy, became limber and vigorous.

  Paxton was growing tired. His grip relaxed and the harpoon drew away. He steadied his grip, wrapped both hands around the shaft, and pushed into me.

  My kundalini noir pulsed like a heart. Every beat sent new strength into my limbs. My bones felt like they were made of steel. My muscles like dynamos.

  I shook my arms free of the chalices and grabbed the harpoon around the shaft.

  The silver tip burned as it cut into my chest. My legs weakened. My blood oozed around the harpoon point. The tip touched bone. The pain burned like fire.

  But I wouldn’t give in.

  We stared at each other in a test of wills. He pushed against me. I pushed against him. The harpoon trembled between us.

  The acid burn from the silver sapped my power.

  The chalices grabbed my legs and I kicked them away.

  Paxton frowned and set his jaw. His muscles tightened even more. He put his weight against the shaft.

  I would not let him kill me. With a grunt, I pushed against the harpoon.

  Slowly, the shaft pulled from my chest. Tendrils of panic and alarm writhed from Paxton’s aura like a halo of frightened snakes.

  Inch by inch, as the harpoon drew back from me, I became stronger. With the harpoon free of my chest, I twisted the shaft and brought the sharp end against Paxton.

  He let go and dropped back into the wheelchair. The tendrils withdrew into his penumbra and his aura bubbled with defeat and terror.

  I grabbed Paxton by one shoulder. “Remember your boss in California? This is how I killed him.”

  Paxton grabbed my arms. The halo of snakes burst again from his aura.

  I held Paxton steady to run him through with the harpoon. The point jammed against his sternum.

  Smoke curled from the wound. Blood spurted and wet my arm. I twisted the blade to crack open his rib cage.

  I gave the harpoon an extra shove, pushing hard enough for the blade to poke out the back of the wheelchair. He clenched his teeth, as if it were possible to absorb all this pain and survive.

  His shoes kicked against the footrests. His hands let go and his arms flopped against the tires of the wheelchair.

  Blood gurgled from his mouth and spilled down his chin and neck, and into the collar of his shirt. His head fell forward, limp. His aura tightened like shrink-wrap.

  I grabbed a two-by-four and shattered the dingy glass of the window. Sunlight, bright, searing, more deadly than garlic, bathed Paxton.

  I tucked myself into the shadows along the wall.

  Flames flitted over his body like orange moths. Smoke jetted from his collar and coat sleeves. His mouth opened into a maw of torment as smoke curled out and his body burst into fire.

  Smoke splashed against the ceiling. The water sprinkler above him clicked. Water sprayed out, drenching us. A fire alarm screamed. More sprinklers kicked on. Torrents of water showered the room, soaking me.

  The chalices lifted their faces to the spray. They cupped their hands under their mouths to funnel water through their lips.

  Paxton’s body smoldered as the spray sizzled on his burning flesh. His head began to disintegrate. First the scalp sloughed off. Then his skull collapsed. Water mixed with ash inside the bowl of his cranium and formed a gray mud. His eyeballs shriveled and rolled back into his head, leaving the sockets empty. With each passing second, his head softened into a doughy mass that melted off his shoulders.

  Water pooled in the smoking cavity of his collar. Mud slopped out his jacket sleeves and trouser cuffs. His suit coat drooped around the harpoon holding up the disintegrating remains of his body.

  The alarm went silent with a be-boop. The sprinklers sputtered, the sprays turning into drips, the drips turning dry.

  Why had the alarm turned off? The fire department hadn’t arrived. Was the system automatic?

  The chalices crawled over each other and remained still, locked in a group hug.

&
nbsp; Paxton was…nothing much. Muddy ash circled the wheelchair. His clothes settled into a grimy pile on the seat and footrests.

  It was a ghastly spectacle, but the mood lifted when I heard from behind me, “I’m melting.”

  King Gullah walked into the room, swinging his cane, left hand still in the glove, and picked his way across the floor to avoid the deeper puddles. “Just like the Wicked Witch,” he added.

  I pressed my hand over the harpoon wound to stanch the blood. I felt embarrassed, shamed that I was sharing my pain and weakness.

  Blood dripped from my hand, each drop flaking and smoking before reaching the floor. I’d survive the wound, but in the meantime, it burned like hell.

  Gullah stepped on a board and shook the water off his shoes. His aura burned serenely like the flame of a candle.

  He walked around me and stabbed the tip of his cane into the pile of clothes. He lifted a soggy pant leg and let it drop, then snapped his cane to fling away the wet ash. “You are thorough.”

  I started to bend over to pick the Webley out of a puddle. Gullah pressed the cane against my chest. “Leave it.”

  I grasped the cane. He pushed hard and levered me upright. I was still weak and slow from the drug.

  “What’s this about?”

  Gullah kept the cane against my chest, making me shuffle backward until he pinned me against a wall.

  “First of all, you owe me and my gang brand-new tires to replace the ones you shot out. But there’s more.”

  Dan, Calhoun’s bodyguard in werewolf form, came through the door. Two more werewolves followed. All muscles, hair, and fangs. They kept their stares fixed on me.

  Gullah said, “Calhoun wants to talk with you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Charleston is my home. If I’m to live in peace among Calhoun’s werewolves, I have to cooperate with him. Remember what the Araneum said? That you were expendable?”

  Gullah’s treachery buried me in rage. He pushed the cane harder. “Ironic, isn’t it? You killed Bourbon and averted a werewolf war. Plus you left Calhoun as the uncontested alpha of the territory. But the rank-and-file werewolves don’t see it that way. They only see that a vampire killed a clan alpha. The werewolves want werewolf justice and Calhoun has to give it to them.”