by Kevin Wright
Whether or not Lord Brudnoy would survive what could probably be referred to as the biggest hack/Mickey Mouse surgery performed since cavemen invented trepanning was the question Benjamin Salazar tactfully posed to Peter.
“It’s a miracle he’s still breathing.” Peter tore off the rest of the poncho. “But, if I had to give Vegas odds…”
Not many surgeons will give Vegas odds on patients, especially to the friends and family.
Peter searched the cluttered floor, scuttling around the three despondent men who stared down at their fallen leader.
“Yes!” Peter said as his eyes lit upon the two pieces of equipment that lay yet unsullied on the concrete floor.
* * * *
“Can you feel this?” Peter squeezed Elliot’s hand. “Wiggle your fingers. Good. Okay, let me just wrap it up.” Peter wound a long piece of cloth around Elliot’s bloody forearm. “That too tight? Wiggle your fingers again. Good. They feel okay?”
“Yes, they feel fine. I heal quickly.” Elliot flexed his hand. “How is Lord Brudnoy?” He glanced at the hulk in the corner, unconscious. Elliot raised an eyebrow. “Is that a lampshade?”
“Two lampshades, actually, stapled together,” Peter giggled. “So he doesn’t lick his stitches, er, ah, staples.”
“Are you alright, Peter?”
“Yeah, yeah, hang on one second,” Peter crouched by Lord Brudnoy’s side, “I’m getting better at this.” He pressed his fingers into the fur at the base of Lord Brudnoy’s neck, beneath the silver collar. Peter pushed the lampshades around the werewolf’s neck up a bit. He felt for a pulse. “Keeps getting stronger. Wish I had a BP cuff, not that I’d know where — whatever. Well, Elliot, while you were outside carving up the dead, I was carving up the living.”
“Are you sure you’re well, Peter?” asked Elliot.
Peter took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay, Elliot, thanks,” he said. “I just feel a little weird, light-headed, I guess. But okay. Thanks.”
“Do you think he’ll survive?”
“I have no idea,” Peter said. “In the movies, only a silver bullet to the heart can kill a werewolf, right? He seems to be getting better, though.” He scratched his chin. “If you’d asked me that three hours ago, I’d have said he had no chance in hell. That’s what I told Salazar, anyways. But now I’m not so sure. His wounds, even the neck one, are already closed. I had my arm in up to the shoulder in it, too.”
“Incredible.” Elliot knelt. Across his shoulder, he held the sword, three and a half feet of forged-steel death. “They were grave…”
At this, Lord Brudnoy coughed. Amber crescents appeared between his fuzzy eyelids. He grumbled something, then muttered something, then tried to raise his head.
Peter knelt and scratched him behind the ear, “It’s okay, boy. Just rest. Rest.”
“My people … are my people?” Lord Brudnoy’s voice was a whisper.
Elliot strode forth and knelt upon one knee. “Your people live to see yet another sunrise, my Lord,” Elliot said, his voice clear light fending off the dark.
“This … your doing?” asked Lord Brudnoy, eyes open, out of focus. A huge paw of his came up, wavered, and fell. “They — my people thank you. What … what be thy name, sir knight?”
“Elliot Speares, my lord, though I am no—”
“Then I dub thee, SIR Elliot Speares.” Lord Brudnoy’s voice grew clear and strong. “Knight of the Underside, Paladin of Tara, opponent of Sliggtown, faithful protector of the … hmmm? From whence do you hail, Sir … Elliot?”
Elliot glanced at Peter, who shrugged.
“From Lawrence, my Lord,” said Elliot.
“And what brings you to my realm?” Lord Brudnoy’s head wavered. “Be it damsels, Sir Elliot, or dragons?”
“My damsel is dead, my Lord,” Elliot said. “Murdered. I … I failed her. I awoke too late.” His gaze fell. “I can hear her scream. I came for the sword.” He held it out.
“The sword? Ah, yes, of course, the sword. A knight should be not without his sword, and a fine sword it is, too. Ahhhrrrmmmm, my good knight,” Lord Brudnoy said. “And … and if your lady be dead, Sir Elliot, then it must be dragons, for those are the dual purposes of knights, Sir Elliot. Yes, damsels and dragons.” His eyes glazed over, his voice faltering along with his head. “Knights and, er, hmmm? What was I saying, old boy?”
“He said rest, my lord.” Salazar stepped into the room. In his arms was a large brown-paper bag.
Lord Brudnoy’s eyes twitched to Salazar, “Ah, Benjamin,” and then rolled to Peter. “The … Lord Tyr?” Brudnoy muttered as he slid back into a misty sleep.
“Yes, rest, my Lord.” Salazar placed the bag down. “You must heal and regain your strength. Tonight is but half a day away.” Salazar looked up. “I brought food.”
“I don’t eat rat,” Peter muttered, turning away as Salazar pulled some doughnuts from within the bag.
“Excuse me?” asked Salazar.
“He would love one.” Elliot took a doughnut and devoured it in two gulps. He took another.
Peter took a bite, but a wave of nausea gripped him as he chewed, swallowed. He nearly gagged.
“Help yourself to more.” Salazar pulled some cups from the paper bags. “Coffee? Juice? Not hungry, Peter?”
“Coffee, please,” Elliot said.
Peter took a glass of juice and managed to choke it down; it tasted awful.
“I brought some chairs.” Salazar stepped out and back in. He handed some rickety folding chairs to Elliot and Peter. The chairs unfolded with a creak, but despite appearances, were sturdy.
“Well, I can’t begin to thank you, gentlemen,” Salazar said, quite officiously, taking his own seat. “Why, last night was almost the end of it all. The citizens of Tara thank you, Elliot, especially. Last night, you saved us all.”
Elliot shifted uncomfortably.
“And Peter, without you, we would have no tomorrow. Your brilliant surgery has given us all a second lease on that wonderful gift we call life.”
“Brilliant?” Peter muttered beneath his breath. “Uh, thanks. Look, I have to go. Now. If Lord Brudnoy wakes up—”
“Go? But wait. Why? You only just arrived. Why, I could find you a bed, food, good food, some feminine companions perhaps?”
“Look, Salazar,” Peter whispered, “the last time Lord Brudnoy was awake, he said he was going to eat me. Now, I’ve done all I can for him and despite that, he’s getting better. And as for you and your people, they were about to convict me of murder. If you hadn’t overdosed—”
“You mean,” Salazar said, raising a finger, “if I hadn’t saved you?”
“You? Saved me?”
“You are still alive, are you not?”
“Now wait a second, you accused me of murder!”
“I am a lawyer, Peter.”
“But you were my lawyer!”
“The world is not black and white.”
“What the hell does that mean?!”
“It means I was protecting you.” Salazar rolled his snake eyes. “You don’t live down here, Peter, so you can’t know. You’re ignorant. No, no, don’t apologize, it’s not your fault, entirely. I had to protect myself, as I was protecting you. Can’t have my own people thinking I’m protecting a murderer, now can I? Especially Ringo’s murderer.”
“But I wasn’t — he’s not — I’m not a murderer.”
“Of course you’re not a murderer.”
“So then why did you accuse me?”
“Look, Peter, I was drunk and high. Besides, Lord Brudnoy thought you were a murderer,” Salazar said, “and that’s more than enough to convict you in his courtroom. Trust me.”
“Trust? Yeah right.”
“Peter, down here it’s not smart to rule against the beliefs of the one person that keeps out the night. Got it? Very bad manners. Lessens the life expectancy dramatically.”
“Bad manners? Life expectancy? So the trial was fixed,” Peter said. “
I was dead, no matter what.”
“Absolutely, and sort of. But, no, the trial was not fixed.”
“But, how can you say that?!” Peter said.
“Because you’re alive right now,” Salazar said. “Lord Brudnoy’s is one of the most demanding courtrooms in the world for two reasons. Number one, he knows jack-shit about law,” Salazar lowered his voice. “Courtroom protocol he gets from old Matlock reruns. And number two, he’s crazier than a shithouse rat. Makes up whatever suits him, whenever it suits him. No rhyme and even less reason. And he doesn’t play by any rules, but neither do I.”
“So, why do you stay here?”
Salazar straightened, straightening his lapels. “Lord Brudnoy was — is my best friend. Best man at my wedding, and I at his. Before he was a werewolf, of course. And besides, on the upside, we’re both marked men.”
“Marked? Like people want to kill you?”
“Jesus, kid, yeah! Don’t you watch any TV?” Salazar gasped. “Yeah, they want to kill us; what the hell you think that was tonight? A junky-suck social? No, it’s the same old story; once the corpses build up, and the hunger hits critical mass, they come a-calling.”
“How long’s it been going on? How long you guys been down here?”
“Ahem, well, we founded this place … what was it? Sixty- nine, yes, November 12th, 1969. Cold autumn night, if I remember correctly, just like this one. It was the night Lord Brudnoy changed.”
“He wasn’t always a werewolf, then?”
Salazar shook his head.
“So, how’d he become one?”
“The mayor.”
“Okay, so who marked you?” Peter asked.
“The mayor.”
“Which mayor? The mayor right now?”
“Yes. He’s been around for quite some time, Peter. Lord Brudnoy ran against him in sixty-nine. Perry was the incumbent even then. His family’s ancient. Town’s named after one of them, way back, and I’m talking pilgrim-way-back.” He rubbed his eyes. “Had some witches in his bloodline back then or at least some that were hung for witching. Some who did the hanging, I imagine, too. He’s from a long line of back-stabbing-opportunist-inbreeding-ass-maggots who currently never fail to run for and win office. Lot of money. Pirate money, no doubt.” Salazar said ‘pirate money’ like most people say ‘summer’ during winter. “Perry was universally hated even before he took office. A gift from his predecessors.”
“So, wait a second, a werewolf ran for mayor?”
“He wasn’t a werewolf at the time; he was a man.”
“What was his name?”
“Terry.”
“Terry? His name was Terry Perry?”
“No, it was Terry Brudnoy.”
“The mayor?”
“No,” Salazar said. “Lord Brudnoy’s name was Terrence Brudnoy. The mayor’s name was, and still is, James Perry III.”
“Is the mayor a werewolf?”
“No, he just hired one.” He noticed the look on Peter’s face and shrugged. “He has some strange connections.”
“Are you serious, cause it’s late? I can’t tell.”
Salazar nodded slowly as though talking to a two-year-old.
“So, Lord Brudnoy, the werewolf lord’s name is, Terry?”
“Terrence, but yes. Why?”
“Just seems a little wussyish. For a werewolf lord. Y’know?”
“Wussyish? You dare call my liege wussyish?” Salazar bolted from his chair. “Why if I weren’t half the man — no, a quarter of the man. Well, I shouldn’t get hasty. I am old. Where was I?”
“The mayor was an asshole.”
“No. The mayor is an asshole,” Salazar said. “Y’see, the Tribune took a poll on the coming election. Lord Brudnoy — er Terry, was ahead. Way ahead.”
“How ahead?” Peter sat back and rotated his arm around in a circle. It was getting stiff.
“Ahead so much that there was no way he could lose. Ahead so much that even Perry’s campaign staff weren’t going to vote for him. His mother wasn’t going to vote for him.” He settled back into his chair. “So he took desperate measures. First, he tried changing his image. A kinder gentler Perry. Then came smear campaigns. Neither worked, so logically the next step was vampires.”
“Vampires?”
“What? Stuff happens like that all the time. Look at the Kennedy’s. So maybe it’s not always vampires, but anyways… They failed. Killed Terry’s wife Alicea, though. Wonderful woman. Simply awful. Terry got real sick afterwards. Who wouldn’t?” Salazar removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. “About a week later, in the dead of night, the mayor’s cohorts broke into Terry’s campaign headquarters while we were still there, working late. Abducted both of us. Dragged us down here to the sewers. Set their werewolf on us.”
“Their werewolf? How—?”
“Well, he’d had some previous elections polled and going the same way. Those opponents were usually gunned down. Bodies create problems, though, speaking as a lawyer, for the defense, anyways, and after the werewolf was done with us, bodies wouldn’t have been an issue. They’re about as finicky about diet as garbage disposals,” Salazar said. “Politics is deadly in this town, most towns.”
“So how do you fit into this?” Peter asked. His shoulder and arm were throbbing. He clenched his fist.
“As I said, he was my best friend. I was also his campaign manager,” Salazar said. “We were going to change this city. Rejuvenate it, fix the roads, the schools, get a minor league baseball team, a four-ring-circus.”
“Four-ring?”
“Okay, two rings, but that’s not the point. The point is, it’s all gone now.” Salazar bit his knuckles. “They chained us down here and set the wolf on us. It was a full moon that night, I remember. Huge, it was huge, like Lord Brudnoy is now, but crazy, a slavering beast, no reason. It just sprang, all saliva, hair, hate. Tore Terry apart. I mean, it was horrible. I remember screaming the whole time. It just ripped him down, and then as it came for me, I just closed my eyes … and crapped my pants.” Salazar wiped his forehead with a pair of old briefs from his case. “I remember thinking I was dead. Then suddenly there was snarling, snarling and fighting. I opened one eye, and there were two werewolves fighting! One was all torn up and bleeding but holding his own. And boy, did he hold his own. Terry. Grabbed that other wolf by the neck and shook him like a god-damned rat. It was beautiful, beautiful.” Salazar shook his head slowly and glanced at Brudnoy on the floor. “Well, anyways, the mayor and his people saw which way it was going. They ran. I prayed. And I’m not a religious man. I prayed a lot, though.
“Terry won, or the beast that was Terry.” Salazar shuddered. “Then he ate him. Every last ragged chunk, bones and all. Crunch crunch crunch. Thought I was next. Closed my eyes again, and well, next thing I know, Terry’s curled up on the ground napping like some puppy, some giant mutant puppy.”
Peter’s stomach growled.
“Way I figure it, werewolf bit him and turned him into a werewolf. Turned just in time before he died, or something. Only took a few seconds. Saved my life that night, though. More than a few times since.”
Peter turned to Elliot. The old man, his arms wrapped around the cross-guard of his sword, snored softly. He looked like an old man again. He was an old man.
“Let him sleep,” Salazar said. “Fought long and hard tonight. Saved a lot of lives. Leeches came in force, twice. Biggest raid in years, organized, too, for them. Knew they’d hurt Lord Brudnoy in that first wave. Came back to finish it. I thought it was over. Knew they’d be back once they regrouped. Your friend turned them back, though, with Lord Brudnoy’s sword. Some of them had guns, too. Getting smarter. Where’d you meet him?”
“I don’t really know him.” Peter shrugged. “Just met him tonight. He’s been in a coma for a while, I think.”
“A coma? Him?”
“Yeah, I think so. He doesn’t talk much, even when he’s awake.”
Elliot snored.
&nb
sp; The two sat in silence.
“What’s a werewolf need a sword for?” Peter picked up a doughnut and forced himself to take a bite. Nausea hit him again. He gagged it down, though, and reached for another.
“He likes shiny stuff.”
“So, Lord Brudnoy protects you from the vampires.”
“And whatever else comes along. There’re worse things in this city than vampires, let me tell you.”
“Like what?” Peter dropped the doughnut as his hand began to spasm. “RRRRrrrg…” The dark cloud seized his hand, and the gray lightning streaked down his fingers.
“You’ve been bitten.” Salazar stood.
“Yeah.”
“How long?” Salazar asked from behind his chair.
“Two days…” His stomach twisted. “God, I’m gonna puke.”
“You haven’t got long, then.” He peeped from the doorway. “Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“You were right, before,” Salazar said. “You have to go.”
“Gee … Rrrg … thanks.”
“It’s for your protection, Peter. You don’t know the people down here. Psychos, all of them, ingrates, degenerates, murderers, barbarians. They find out, they’ll kill you. Not that it’d change much, in your particular case…”
“Have you, have you ever heard of a cure, or an antidote, or something, anything?” Peter wiped drool from his chin. “Does anyone know anything?”
Salazar shrugged, holding the chair in front of him, a bulimic lion tamer. “I can ask around, but you’ll have to leave today. Now. The sooner the better.”
“If you find out anything…?”
“I will see to it that someone contacts you, though it most assuredly will not be me.”
“Right,” Peter scowled, “let me just check on Lord Brudnoy again. Then I’ll go.”
Salazar watched him go. “Doughnuts,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Chapter 16.
“I’VE BEEN A FAN of his work for yearsss,” Lil said, softly, sibilantly, sensuously. She couldn’t help it, not that she would have tried to help it if she could. Her voice was like a cool night wind wafting against his ear. Shivers ran up and down his spine, good shivers. Demure, quiet, but he could hear it without straining. It was refreshing, memories of dark summer nights in late September. The warmth was there, but a chill touched it, on the horizon, promises of things to come.
