13 Bites Volume I (13 Bites Anthology Series)

by Lynne Cantwell

  He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The interior of the barn had the same abandoned air as the rest of the place. “Okay,” he said, feeling anger rising, as she turned to face him. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? There’s no livestock. You set me up so you could fight me. That’s why you tracked me down the other night, isn’t it? To fight me? To battle to the death, for honor and glory?”

  “I don’t want to fight you,” she purred. “We can do this nice and easy.” She began walking toward him.

  As she approached, he felt Coyote awaken inside him. He grinned fiercely to himself. This woman might think she knew what he was capable of, but she didn’t know he had a Trickster God on his side. Oh, sweetheart. You ain’t seen nothing yet.

  “I bet you don’t even have a brother,” he went on, letting Coyote begin to take over.

  She laughed. “Say hello, Miguel,” she said, looking over Joseph’s shoulder. He stepped to one side and looked back toward the door — where a chupacabra held George with one scaly forearm across his throat. George’s eyes bulged with fear.

  “Let him go,” Joseph said quietly. “I’ll give you what you want, but let him go. He’s of no use to you.”

  “Oh, but he is,” Dolores said. “He is our insurance that you will cooperate.”

  Cooperate? “I don’t want to fight you”? What the hell? “Look,” he said, “what is this all about?”

  Her eyes glowed blood-red. “Our kind were never very numerous. Now, we are fewer every year. We must improve our bloodline in order to survive. And you have a certain…flexibility…we lack.” She gave him a sultry smile.

  Joseph’s eyes widened as her meaning dawned on him. “You want to sleep with me?”

  “We need your versatility. Miguel said you put on quite a show the other evening.”

  Joseph glanced again at the monster holding George. The creature seemed to be grinning at him.

  Mentally, he threw up his hands. Go for it, he told the god, surrendering control. This is more Your kind of thing, anyway.

  Gleefully, Coyote complied. “Well,” He said, shaking Joseph’s head, “I’m flattered, but I don’t date outside My species.” Then He whipped off Joseph’s clothes and shifted into as close an approximation of a chupacabra as He could manage. “There. That’s better,” He growled.

  The woman’s face registered shocked delight. Then she, too, shifted. In the blink of an eye, she was a slightly smaller version of her brother. She bounded toward him on all fours and presented her backside to him.

  Oh, this is too easy. A split second later, Joseph Coyote had become Joseph Grizzly, and Dolores was flat on the ground under Him. She screeched, flailing her limbs, as He held her in place with a single massive paw. Her brother roared, clenching George’s windpipe tighter.

  “If you want your sister to live,” He growled, “let My friend go.”

  With another roar, the male chupacabra released George and came at Him fast.

  Joseph took back control, and made sure George was out of the way before he shifted again. Miguel grabbed at the air where the bear had been; then he grabbed futilely at the boa constrictor that had wrapped itself around his chest. Dolores was on her feet by then; still screeching, she began pounding on the snake, trying to get it to let go. Then she took a step back and unsheathed two claws on her right forepaw, which she tried to jam through the boa constrictor’s scaly hide. In response, Joseph Boa uncoiled his tail, threw it around her hand, and tightened it until he felt the bones crack. He released her just as Miguel lost consciousness and dropped to the floor.

  “You killed him!” Dolores shrieked, cradling her now-useless hand. She was back in human form. Miguel, too, had shifted as he fell; a dark-haired youth, who looked all of fourteen, now lay on the dirt floor of the ruined barn.

  “He’s not dead,” Joseph said, willing it to be true, as he bent to pick up his clothes. But a vicious boot toe connected with his chin; he flew backward and landed against the post of a horse stall, seeing stars.

  “You killed my baby brother!” she shrieked now, shaking the boy. “You — you monster!”

  And the pot calls the kettle black. “I might have cracked one of his ribs,” he admitted. “Or two.”

  Dolores turned to him, her face distorted with rage. “He has stopped breathing. I will kill you for this!” She shifted again and threw herself at Joseph.

  Ah, shit. I didn’t mean to kill him. Cursing himself for his carelessness, he became a pigeon and flew up to the rafters, well out of her reach. He shifted back and straddled the crossbeam, hoping he didn’t end up with a splinter in an unfortunate place.

  She screamed her frustration for several minutes. Joseph let her get it out of her system. Then, when she seemed to be winding down, he said, “Look, Dolores. We can keep doing this over and over again, but I’m always going to be able to escape.”

  She sat in the dirt next to her brother, cradling her broken hand and weeping.

  “How did you find out about me, anyway?” Joseph asked.

  “We could smell you,” she said harshly. “As soon as we got near Denver, we smelled skinwalker. You were easy to track — you never think to hide your scent.”

  “And yet you decided I’d make a terrific father.”

  “We wanted your seed only.” She spat. “Now I would not even take that.”

  “Good,” Joseph said, “because you’re not getting it.”

  That brought on a fresh bout of weeping. Joseph waited with his arms crossed, shivering now and then. The temperature was dropping as night came on. He glanced out the open barn door; golden hour was over and dusk was falling fast. Very soon, he was either going to have to get down and get dressed, or shift into something furry, if he didn’t want to risk hypothermia.

  Then he heard sirens, and rolled his eyes. Thanks a lot, George. Thanks one hell of a lot. Now I’ve got a dead body to explain to the cops.

  Dolores heard the sirens, too. She stopped crying and raised her head in a panic, looking toward the barn door.

  Joseph took the opening. Shifting into an owl, he glided to the floor on silent wings. Then, human again, he picked up a rusty horseshoe and used it to knock Dolores flat. As he quickly donned his clothes, he spared a glance for the two chupacabras lying side by side on the barn floor. Then he blinked and stared, as Miguel’s body dematerialized before his eyes. In a moment, there was nothing but a damp spot in the dirt next to Dolores.

  He checked to make sure she was still breathing. Then he stepped outside and, exhausted by all the shifting he’d just done, slumped against the wall of the barn to wait for the cavalry.

  ~~~

  The county deputy was dubious of their story. Joseph didn’t blame him, even as he spun it up with as earnest a face as he could manage: “We met her at a party in Denver the other night. She lured us out here to do some repairs for her. Said she was an heiress and she’d pay us twenty thousand dollars to get the house back in livable shape. Well, we got out here and found it like this, and when we told her she ought to tear the whole thing down and start over, she went crazy on us.”

  “And attacked you with the horseshoe.” The deputy was writing it all down, but it was clear he wasn’t buying it.

  “Right. So I wrestled it away from her and whacked her on the head with it.”

  The deputy looked up at him. “And how’d her hand get crushed, again?”

  “I told you,” Joseph said patiently. “She got it caught in the truck door while George was getting away.”

  George nodded in corroboration.

  The deputy sighed and shut his notebook. “All right. You two are free to go for now. We may call you with more questions later.”

  George and Joseph thanked him and shook his hand. Then they got in the truck, maneuvered it around the ambulance into which the paramedics were still loading Dolores, and hightailed it home.

  “I’m surprised they let us go,” George said, once they were well across the county line. “They could hav
e booked you for assault.”

  Joseph gave a crooked grin. “Yeah. It would have been better for our story if one of us had been hurt.” His smile faded. “They still might, you know. Depending on what she says when she comes to.”

  “Maybe not,” George said. “It’s our word against hers. They may just drop the whole thing. What happened to Miguel, anyway?”

  Joseph’s guilt came back in a rush. “I turned into a boa constrictor and squeezed him to death,” he said miserably.

  “Jesus.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted to knock him out.”

  “Where’d his body go?”

  “It… dissolved.” Joseph saw the image in his mind again, and shuddered. “Pretty gruesome to watch.”

  “I bet it was,” George said, his face lit by the glow of the truck’s instrument panel. “Good thing, though, huh? You’d be facing a murder rap otherwise.”

  Joseph nodded and sighed. They were quiet for several miles, during which Joseph sent a silent appeal to the gods to lead Miguel home. Then he leaned his head against the door and fell into a doze.

  He woke up fast when George said, “So about that shifting thing you do.”

  Joseph felt his face grow warm. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

  “I did. And….” George cleared his throat. “And while I knew you could do it, because I’ve seen the end result numerous times, I’d never seen you actually do it before.” He paused. Joseph dreaded his next words, but all he said was, “It’s quite a talent.”

  Joseph snorted. “That’s one way to put it.” He waited out another pause, his anxiety increasing with each passing second. Finally, he said, “I can find another place to live.”

  “Oh, hell, Joseph. That’s not why I brought it up.”

  He breathed a bit easier. But still he asked, “Then why did you bring it up?”

  George fiddled with the heater for a second. “It’ll just take some getting used to, is all. The reality of it, I mean. For me.”

  Joseph nodded. The rest of the trip passed in silence, until they pulled into the driveway. Then Joseph turned to his friend and said, “It’s not over, you know. With her.”

  “I know.” George shut off the truck. “But she’s not coming back tonight. And I don’t know about you, but I’m dead on my feet. Let’s get some sleep.”

  ~~~

  Joseph slept the deep, dreamless sleep of the exhausted shapeshifter. But the situation must have been percolating in his mind all night, because a new thought occurred to him as soon as he awoke.

  “I need to help her,” he told George as they sat down to breakfast.

  George paused in the act of putting a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “No, you don’t.” He ate the eggs, made a face, and reached for the bottle of hot sauce. “That’s just your guilt talking.”

  “Maybe,” Joseph allowed. “But now she’s alone, and it’s my fault. And I know what it feels like to be one of a kind.”

  George put down his fork. “Look, Drama Boy. She’s alone because she and her brother dreamed up some cockamamie scheme to get you to have sex with her, and it backfired on them. Okay? You don’t need to play do-gooder. She got what she deserved. Are you gonna eat those eggs?”

  Wordlessly, he handed his plate over to George. Maybe he was being dramatic, he thought. But she’s not going to go away. I need to either help her, or kill her. And I’m tired of killing.

  ~~~

  Late that night, a great horned owl flew silently across the plains. Careless night creatures caught his eye as he flew, but his goal wasn’t dinner.

  He landed on the ground outside a hospital building, then shrunk to the size and shape of a field mouse. Clambering up a drainpipe, he found a crevice big enough to squeeze into. Soon he was scooting into a closet.

  A few minutes later, a tall, ponytailed man in scrubs walked out of the closet. He grabbed a stethoscope from an unattended desk and hung it around his neck as if he knew what to do with it. Then he made his way briskly to Dolores’s room. He glanced over the chart on her door, noting the word “combative.” Great. Just great. Taking a deep breath, he walked in as quietly as he could and pulled the door shut behind him.

  She was asleep — sedated, he assumed. Her broken hand was set in plaster; her hair was shaved where he’d clocked her with the horseshoe and a bandage covered the wound. He found himself awash in an odd mixture of tenderness and guilt. Gently, he shook her undamaged shoulder. “Dolores,” he murmured. “Wake up. We need to talk.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. Then she leaped from the bed, tearing the IV out of her hand. The flimsy stand clattered and tipped over onto the bed as she backed into a corner. “You,” she breathed.

  “Don’t make so much racket,” he said, casting a worried glance at the closed door. “I only want to talk to you.”

  “You killed my brother!” she shrieked.

  “And I want to apologize for that,” Joseph began, pushing at her with both hands. “Keep your voice down.” He glanced back again at the door. When he turned back, he was looking at the chupacabra.

  Her leathery skin was a delicate blue, but that was the only girly thing about her. Her hands had become claws with three razor-sharp tips apiece. The cast that had been formed to her human right hand now dangled, split asunder, from her forepaw. Her pointy teeth gleamed as she roared. Then she lunged for him.

  He dodged her, trying to keep the bed between them. But she cleared it in one bound, knocking it askew, the braked wheels scraping the tile floor. The tray table went down, dumping water from the plastic pitcher it had held. Joseph slipped in it and did an inadvertent somersault across the bed, fetching up against the wall in the far corner.

  The door opened, and a frowning orderly poked his head in. Then he paled. “What the hell is that?” he yelled to Joseph.

  “I don’t know, man,” Joseph yelled back as he struggled to his feet. “I came in to take the patient’s vitals and found this thing!”

  Dolores roared and went for Joseph again.

  “Security!” the man at the door yelled. “Room 223, stat!” He slammed the door and ran.

  Terrific. Thanks a lot, pal. Joseph dodged her yet again, then tried to maneuver her into a corner so he could push the bed up against her. He thought that might hold her for a few moments. But she was wise to him. She shoved the bed against the door, leaving a clear path between her and Joseph. Hissing in pleasure, she leaped.

  He shifted.

  She landed on an empty pile of scrubs, coming down hard on her injured forepaw. She shrieked in pain and fury.

  Joseph Fly lit on the ceiling and watched the rest of the scene upside-down. The orderly came back with a security guard, and together they pushed their way into the room. The guard was clearly out of his league; he drew his pistol and yelled, “Put your hands up!”

  Dolores roared. She tried to leap toward the guard from a crouch, but one of her feet slipped on the wet floor and she went sideways. If she hadn’t, the guard might only have winged her with his shot. Instead, she took the bullet in the eye. Joseph was sure she was dead before she hit the ground.

  “What the hell…?” the orderly said as the monster resumed Dolores’s shape. Blood wept from her ruined eye.

  “Is that your missing patient?” the guard asked.

  “Yeah,” the orderly said. “Yeah, it is.”

  “But it was a monster, right?” the guard said. “I mean, we both saw it.” Joseph felt for the guy. He’d been in the same situation just the day before.

  “Yeah, it was,” the orderly said again. “Hey, I wonder what happened to the other orderly. The guy who was in here with her.” He skirted the dead woman and picked up the scrubs and stethoscope. “Did he leave naked?”

  “Oh, my God,” the guard said. “Would you look at that.” The orderly turned, and Joseph watched both of them stare bug-eyed at Dolores’s dissolving corpse. The spent bullet made a tink as it hit the floor where her head had been.

  They s
tared at one another for a few moments. Then the orderly said, “I think the patient checked herself out.”

  “I’m good with that,” said the guard as he holstered his weapon. He sounded relieved. “Why don’t you straighten up in here?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get a mop.” The two of them spent another minute or two just looking at each other. Then the guard shook his head slightly and bent to retrieve the bullet. When the men finally opened the door, Joseph Fly buzzed out behind them.

  ~~~

  “You look chipper this morning,” George said as a bleary-eyed Joseph poured himself a second cup of coffee.

  “Didn’t sleep well,” he mumbled.

  “Still think you need to go and help Dolores, huh?”

  Joseph winced at her name. “Too late. She’s dead.”

  George motioned his friend to sit down. “What happened, pard?” he asked gently.

  Joseph told him.

  At the end of it, George sat back and said, “Well, I know you’re not gonna agree with me, but I still think she got what she deserved.”

  Joseph took a sip of his coffee, grimaced, and poured it down the sink. Then he sighed. “I know. I just… She was one of a kind, George.”

  “She was.”

  “Is that the only good end for a creature like her?” He felt as if he were pleading with his friend. “Do we have to kill them? Is that the only answer?”

  “It’s the only answer for the crazy ones,” George said. “But you’re not crazy.”

  Joseph could feel Coyote grinning somewhere inside him. He huffed a laugh. “Some days,” he said, “I wonder.”

  Catherine L. Vickers lives on the borderline of North and West Yorkshire, the gateway to the Yorkshire Dales in England.

  She is a mother of four grown children and a grandmother of two. She has two dogs and a cat. Her wonderful husband assists her with the complicated world of computers, to enable her to publish her works for the world to view.