The emcee asked, “Are you Pamela Abedon?”
The woman said nothing.
A werewolf shook her hair. “Answer.”
She sobbed and said, “Yes.”
The emcee asked, “Were you a servant of Eric Bourbon?”
Silence. Another shaking of her hair. Another “Yes.”
“Did you not collude with him to start a werewolf war?”
The woman whimpered and grew limp in the grip of her captors. “Yes.”
Calhoun stood, took a deep breath, and shouted, “I’ve interrogated Pamela Abedon. The accused has confessed all her transgressions.”
Werewolves howled in acknowledgment. Others growled in protest.
He shouted again, “Had she violated the Great Secret, her sentence would’ve been death.”
“Death, death,” chanted the werewolves. The mood turned black with the expectation of unleashed bloodlust.
The emcee raised her paw. Everyone went quiet.
Calhoun shouted, “Even though Abedon colluded with the vampire Julius Paxton…”
Werewolves hissed and whispered “vampire,” like it was a disgusting thing to say.
“…she acted as a trusted assistant to the late Eric Bourbon. She acted out of loyalty to him. As a human, she broke no Lycanthrope Law. I find her guilty of nothing.”
Nothing? I squirmed against my restraints. “Nothing,” I muttered to myself. “She tried to kill me,” but the words slobbered over the bit in my mouth.
“Based on her loyal service and willingness to serve her chosen clan, I offer her the Turning.”
Calhoun motioned with his prosthetic to Sean.
He stood and nodded. “As the newly chosen alpha of the Palmetto Clan, I agree.” No mention that the former alpha had been the late Eric Bourbon, whose severed head now baked like a potato in the bonfire.
Calhoun returned to his chair. Sean waited for him to sit first. The emcee addressed Abedon. “Do you accept?”
Dan brought his mouth to my ear. “Not much of a choice—either she accepts or we kill her.”
The woman’s captors let her go. She staggered before the platform. She wrung her hands and panned the hundreds of red eyes fixed upon her.
She kept her head down and said in a faint voice, “I want to be one of you.”
“Is it yes or no?” the emcee asked.
Abedon raised her head. “Yes.”
The emcee lifted both paws. “She said yes.”
Howls erupted. The stamping of feet shook the ground.
The emcee waited for the pandemonium to settle. “Now for the honor.”
The circle became mysteriously quiet. A werewolf ran up from behind the emcee and handed her an envelope. She ripped it open.
Dan and the werewolf holding me reached into their pockets and pulled out red carnival ticket stubs. So did every werewolf except for the emcee and those on the council.
The emcee fished a red ticket stub from the envelope, gave it a turn, squinted, and bellowed, “Number 797166.”
“Me. Me,” shouted a squeaky voice far to my left.
Dozens of werewolves groaned and tossed their tickets to the ground.
A petite werewolf bitch sprinted from around the bonfire. She pranced and waved to the council. Her hind legs were midway between human and wolf. “My first Turning.” She stopped before Abedon.
Flanked by the council and their standards, Calhoun looked like a Roman emperor at the Colosseum. He raised his good arm and werewolves barked and howled. He dropped his arm to signal the start of the Turning.
The werewolf sank to all four paws. Her snout drew into a canine muzzle. Thick fur covered her skin. The clothes drooped from her body. A shaggy tail sprang up when her jeans slid off her hips. She shook loose of her clothes and emerged no longer werewolf but a supernatural wolf.
Abedon recoiled in fright and turned to run away. Her captors snagged her. She cried out as they ripped off her clothes and pushed her naked to the ground.
One of her captors grabbed her hair and pulled her upright. “Make your Turning worthy of the honor we are bestowing on you. If not, then you die.”
He pushed her away. She stumbled toward the crowd. Suddenly she stopped and whirled about. Fear had left her eyes and I saw the same cruel expression she wore when she had attacked me.
“You want me?” she shouted at the crowd. “You want me?” she shouted at the council. “You want me?” she shouted at the wolf. “Then come get me.” She thumped her fist between her breasts. “Bitch to bitch.” She dropped into a wrestler’s crouch, extended her hands like a pair of claws, and growled.
The wolf growled back and bared her fangs. She sprang to initiate the attack.
Abedon connected with a roundhouse punch. The wolf’s head snapped to the right.
Werewolves whooped and howled in glee.
The wolf and Abedon tangled on the ground, a blur of fur and naked human skin. Based on Abedon’s first blow, I thought the fight would last several minutes. But it was over in less than ten seconds.
The wolf backed away, licking the shiny crimson stain on her snout. The crowd gave a collective disappointed “awww.”
Abedon lay on her back, blood seeping from a bite mark on her left clavicle. The exact spot to induce the Turning.
Werewolves ran forward and grabbed Abedon by her ankles and wrists. They lifted her and jogged to the circle, which broke ranks and let them through.
The circle re-formed. Hundreds of eyes swiveled toward me. The night was quiet. The bonfire and the torches crackled.
The emcee stood in the center of the platform and stared at me. “Now for you, Felix Gomez, vampire. It is your turn to receive werewolf justice.”
CHAPTER 70
Justice? I chewed at the metal bit. Clumps of spit flew from my lips. I managed to say, “What justice?” If it wasn’t for me, Calhoun and Angela would be dead. At best, Eric Bourbon would be sitting up there on the platform. At worst, all these weres would be slaughtering one another in a prelude to the ultimate total war.
Dan wound a chain around my waist and fastened the chain to the cable securing my wrists. Another werewolf brought a long iron bar.
What did they plan to do?
I struggled against Dan, but he and his accomplice held me firm. The werewolves fit the bar between my back and the crook of my elbows. The cold iron scraped against my skin.
To my left, werewolves were sinking metal poles on opposite sides of the bonfire. The top of each pole was fashioned into a deep yoke. The iron bar on my back was long enough to reach across the bonfire and fit into the yokes.
They were going to cook me alive.
I thought I’d already hit the bottom floor of my fear, but now it felt like my insides had discovered yet a lower level and sank into greater terror. My kundalini noir withered into a tiny ball. I bucked from side to side, hoping to break loose.
Dan and the other werewolves had no trouble holding me in place. I gnashed my teeth against the bit, gagging on spit, cursing, damning the werewolves, damning Gullah, damning the Araneum for bringing me to this hellish end. I gnashed and cursed until my mouth went dry. The bit remained stuck to my tongue and a fierce thirst rasped my throat.
Werewolves tossed more logs onto the fire. Every spray of embers prompted cheers and joyous howls.
This couldn’t be the end. I couldn’t die like this, abandoned by everyone, forsaken by the Araneum.
I strained against the iron bar, feeling it give, doing to my best to channel Samson. But as soon as I relaxed, the bar flexed straight.
I was hoping for a miracle. Perhaps King Gullah and his posse would shoot up this place and rescue me. Perhaps the Araneum would parachute vampire enforcers to spring me free. Perhaps Deliah the haint would appear and go “Boo!” and all the werewolves would drop from heart attacks. Perhaps Angela—where the hell was she?—would miraculously show up and save me.
I stared at the moon hovering over us and realized I was alone. Beyond hop
e. Beyond mercy.
Calhoun nodded. Dan and the werewolves lifted the bar and jerked it into my armpits. I dangled on tiptoes, helpless as a gaffed fish.
“Burn. Burn. Burn,” chanted the werewolves.
I was done, out of options, and about to be well done.
CHAPTER 71
A female voice shouted above the chanting. “Stop”.
Angela Cyclone stepped into the circle. A white shirt and jeans clung tightly to her half-wolf, half-woman figure.
She was my miracle. A sudden rush of hope electrified my resolve and strengthened my kundalini noir.
Werewolves glowered and snarled, frustrated by the interruption of watching me turned into smoke and ash.
Angela marched close. The crowd grew more hushed. She exuded an authority that made Dan back off. Her right hand turned into a paw, extended the claws, and clipped the cord holding the bit in my mouth. She whispered, “I’m here to cash my rain check.”
I spit the bit out and began working my tongue to bring the saliva back.
“I’m going to argue the nuances,” she whispered again. “Remember what happened that night at the Blind Tiger Club?” Angela’s paw shifted back into a hand. She faced the council and declared in a firm voice, “Spare him.”
Werewolves cried out, “He must die.”
Calhoun’s eyes showed the thoughts worming through his mind. Surprise. Anger. Curiosity. Guile. That familiar opaque curtain fell across his face. Sean tipped his head to whisper, but Calhoun cut him off with a brisk wave of his paw.
I’d killed Bourbon, his rival, a powerful alpha. The fact that I’d prevented an idiotic war from breaking out had no bearing on the matter. Since I was a vampire, my actions had stained the reputation of the werewolves. My public execution would prove to Le Cercle that Calhoun protected them and preserved their honor.
The cries for my death grew louder. The werewolves shouted curses. The circle undulated as weres surged forward before the pack alphas scolded them back into formation.
The furry hearts and minds of the were masses had to be appeased. My pending death was intended to satisfy a twisted delusion.
The emcee’s troubled gaze swung from Angela to Calhoun. She said, “The vampire must die for the murder of a clan alpha. That is the law.”
Angela stood between the platform and me. “I invoke the rule of sacrifice as stipulated by Lycanthrope Law. One werewolf may accept the punishment of another.”
“Of another werewolf,” the emcee rebuked.
“No. No.” The werewolves demanded my hide. The orderly circle threatened to disintegrate into a lynch mob.
All the panic and fear I’d let go of came flooding back. My bones turned to rubber. The iron bar I’d been lashed to seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. These werewolves would tear me to pieces. What was left of me wouldn’t be more than vampiric hamburger.
Angela countered, “That’s not what the law says. It doesn’t define who may be the recipient of the sacrifice. Werewolf. Human.” Angela pointed to me. “Vampire.”
The emcee started to reply, but she faltered.
I whispered to Angela, “You don’t have to do this Pocahontas routine for me. I’ll find a way out. You go.”
She spoke out the side of her mouth. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Don’t do it,” I protested. “I won’t let you burn for me.”
“Felix”—Angela snipped the words—“shut the fuck up.”
The council huddled around Calhoun and, after a moment, returned to their seats.
Calhoun rose and nodded to the emcee. She nodded in kind and, with a bow, stepped back.
He said, “Angela Cyclone, you’ve been a loyal assistant and trusted confidante. An expert in our law. I grant you the right of sacrifice.” He gazed cruelly, Pontius Pilate before the Crucifixion. “You accept the vampire’s guilt?”
“I accept his guilt.” Angela walked forward.
“His guilt is now yours. Release the vampire.”
The circle of werewolves howled and hollered in disapproval. The pack alphas barked for the weres to remain in place and respect Le Cercle. The dam was about to burst.
Angela turned left, right, and tossed an anxious look around, as if buffeted by the waves of anger.
Calhoun signaled to the council. They sprang from their seats and hurried down the steps to control their weres.
Dan unfastened the chain around my waist and the cable binding my arms. The iron bar clanged to the ground. I massaged my wrists.
“No hard feelings.” Dan rested a paw on my shoulder. “I was only following orders.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. “If you ever get to Denver, I’ll return the favor.”
I was free? Relief buoyed me, but only for an instant. Werewolves kept their muzzles trained on me and hate spilled from their eyes. They weren’t going to let me escape.
What about Angela? What did it mean that she accepted my guilt? If she had a plan, what was it?
She dropped to her knees on the grass before the platform.
Werewolves went crazy with howls. “No amnesty. No amnesty.”
Calhoun glowered at his clan alphas as he waited for them to quiet their minions.
When silence returned, Angela lifted her head to Calhoun. “I petition you as the top alpha of Le Cercle to grant me amnesty.”
Her request signaled another riotous outburst.
Dan whispered gruffly into my ear, “It’s tradition to grant amnesty during this ceremony. He can’t refuse without losing face.”
This was her plan. Accept my guilt, then get amnesty. Ballsy. Clever.
Calhoun raised his prosthesis as if to give Angela a blessing. “As the alpha of the territory and Le Cercle, I grant you amnesty.”
The howls faded to disappointed murmurs.
Angela’s shoulders slumped in relief.
Calhoun lowered his arm but remained in place. He kept his eyes on the fire. Angela’s gambit had robbed him of the chance of presiding over a great spectacle, watching his werewolves revel as a vampire roasted for the transgression of killing one of their own. With the fire reflecting off this shirt and face, he looked like a statue burning from within.
Angela waited for him to speak, and when he didn’t, she glanced over her shoulder at me and flashed a victory grin.
Calhoun’s snout wrinkled to give a sharp, calculating smile.
I recognized the expression. Powerful men rise to their station by outmaneuvering their opponents, either by force or by cunning. Whatever Angela planned, he was one step ahead.
Calhoun motioned that she stand. Angela hopped to her feet.
“Angela Cyclone,” he said, his voice clear and confident, “did you offer yourself to the traitor Eric Bourbon?”
Angela straightened in shock. “I…I did. But—”
“And with that offer, you turned away from your clan, correct?”
“That’s true, but…” Her voice cracked. “I did it to prevent a war. To stop Eric Bour—”
Calhoun raised his voice. “You left one clan for another without the permission of your clan alpha.”
“The law,” she shouted. “The law allows me to do that.”
“Did Eric Bourbon accept your offer?”
Angela’s posture began to wilt. “No.”
I knew nothing of Lycanthrope Law but could see Calhoun’s logic. Angela was in limbo between clans. She had spoiled his big show and this was his revenge.
Calhoun shouted, “Sean Moultier, alpha of the Palmetto Clan, do you accept Angela Cyclone?”
“No.”
Calhoun turned his head. “Theresa Hogan, alpha of the Magnolia Clan, do you accept Angela Cyclone?”
“No.”
Angela’s shoulders trembled. Her head bowed. She began to cry.
Calhoun’s eyes brimmed with revenge and satisfaction. “Angela Cyclone, you are without a clan. You are without a pack.” His words pounded her. “You are without the family of your Turning. You are ba
nished.”
“Banished.” The word rippled from were to were.
“No.” She gasped and doubled over. She sank to her knees.
“Banished,” I whispered as we began another spin on this carnival ride of horror.
“You are banished from this territory.” Calhoun drove home the point like he was hammering a stake. “Your name will be forever chiseled into the Wall of Goness.”
She clawed the grass and sobbed.
Calhoun climbed down from the platform. He hunched over Angela. His voice was low, his words barbed and stinging. “How dare you shame me? Tonight’s Cercle was to be my celebration. Instead, what will be remembered about this gathering is that you came to save a vampire at the cost of avenging the death of an alpha werewolf. You snatched the laurels from my head. How dare you use the law against me.”
Angela pressed her face to the ground and continued to cry.
Calhoun kept flailing her. “You robbed me. You shamed me.”
Angela looked up at him. “Are you so vain?”
Calhoun tipped his head toward the platform. “You sit up there as a territory alpha and then tell me.” He brought his snout close to her ear. “You chose to befriend that vampire. Then go. Let us be.”
Angela lay prone in anguish. I wanted to get back at Calhoun. I was exhausted, but not too weary to take him on.
If I killed him, everything I’d fought to avoid would come to pass. There would be a war. Then so be it. Let a war start with me. Here. Now.
I tensed. My talons extended.
Two big paws seized my arms. Dan on my left. An even bigger werewolf on the right.
“Cool it, Felix. You rush Calhoun,” Dan warned, “and you’ll end up as undead rotisserie. Better that you and Angela cut your losses and get.”
Angela pounded a fist into the dirt. Her gaze remained hooked on Calhoun as he returned to the platform. Her eyes were shiny, crimson welts of fury and pain. “Bastard. I’ve given him everything, and now that he’s at the top, he throws me aside. His vanity is worth more than my loyalty. I’m left with nothing.”
I gave her a hug. “You have me.”
Angela sobbed harder.
The emcee walked to us. The flickering light from the bonfire animated the wrinkles on her face. Her expression was brittle with empathy and sorrow. “Calhoun won’t enforce the banishment until dawn tomorrow. You have tonight to say good-bye to your family and pack.”
Werewolf Smackdown Page 29
