by Rob Thurman
“Why wouldn’t he be ambidextrous?” Goodfellow muttered under his breath. “I am, a master with both hands in the art of war.”
“I don’t think being able to jack off with either hand makes you an expert in anything.” I craned my head to scan the alley, what I could see of it. There was something . . . something besides the guy with the crossbow, but what? I couldn’t have said what told me, but I felt it all the same. And then I saw it from the corner of my eye, a pale glimmer at the rooftop. “What the hell is that?” I started to say. I managed to get about half of it out when a titanium bolt furrowed a raw path across my jaw. It was a rude wake-up call to my complacency, and Robin’s snapped “I told you so” didn’t improve matters either. Scattering garbage like runners in the surf, we careened around the corner to safety. I started to stick my head back around for a last look when another quarrel came flying by.
“Is he coming?”
I wiped a hand across my jaw. It came away wet and red. “I don’t know, Loman. Why don’t you lean over and take a look? A nice long look. I’ll wait right here for you.”
“Never mind, then.” Struggling into his suit coat, he leaned on me and made pretty respectable time through the crowd for a man with one good leg. You didn’t get to be as long-lived as Goodfellow without a healthy survival instinct. “What did you see on the roof of that building?”
I frowned. I didn’t know what I’d seen. It had been too fleeting a glance and the distance too far. There was something indefinable . . . something I couldn’t quite put my finger on that made me think it wasn’t human. But, hey, in this city that wasn’t so unusual. You think a human invented the falafel stand? Yeah, right. “It was the Easter Bunny, Loman, come to plant an egg up your ass if you don’t get moving.” He grumbled and complained but hopped a little faster. And that suited me just fine. The more distance between us and the thing on the roof, the better. I had a feeling, one of those goddamn feelings, that whatever it was up there was far from bunny territory.
Unless the Easter Bunny was one nasty son of a bitch.
6
Two days later I was experiencing the drawbacks of a mirror-free life. I didn’t much mind. After nearly a year, fumbling around had become second nature. With short careful strokes, I applied the liquid bandage to the three-inch cut on my jaw. It was long and ugly, but not particularly deep. Other than cleaning and disinfecting it I’d left it alone. But tonight was poker night. Walking into a building full of wolves when I smelled of raw flesh wouldn’t be conducive to anything but becoming a doggy treat. The clear liquid would dry in seconds and seal off the wound and the scent.
“Do you need help with that?”
Niko stood in the bathroom doorway already dressed and ready for the game. It would be hard to guess that this grim figure, all in black with an expression nearly as dark, didn’t own a mirror either, out of respect for my twisted little phobia. A doorway was a doorway, whether it was mounted over a bathroom sink or tucked away in a purse. And Darkling had come through just such a doorway to fuck me up but good.
“I think I’ve got it.” By feel I applied one last stroke, sealed the bottle, and gave my brother my full attention. “Jesus, Cyrano.” I grimaced at the set look on his face. “Who pissed in your wheat germ?”
“You did,” he said calmly. “You and Goodfellow and Promise. You’ve taken what was an iffy situation to begin with and actually managed to make it, if possible, more hazardous.”
“All three of us, huh? That’s a lot of piss.” He was right, though. Between my shortcut, Robin’s leg, and Promise’s stubborn will, we had managed to screw things up more than a bit. “Hey, I was willing to go in by myself.” Unfortunately, being lousy at poker ruled that out. I knew what a pair was . . . barely. With that in mind, getting in a game with Boaz would be a neat trick. And being on point on this one wasn’t an option for Goodfellow now. He could hobble at a fair speed, but when you’re running from wolves, fair isn’t good enough. Promise had offered to step into his place. Actually, “offered” wasn’t quite the word. Promise had laid down the law. She was a full partner too and she was determined to carry her load.
Robin had sat the two of us down and played a hand with us. Before that hand was over, there had been a knocking at the door. George didn’t need to be buzzed in on the rare occasion the front-door lock worked. Anyone who saw her would just open the door. It was impressive, uncanny, and, at that moment, a pain in the ass. George had given us all a smile, stood at my side, and said she would just watch. Anything else wouldn’t be fair, she’d added cheekily. And Robin, who could say no to anyone and everyone, couldn’t say no to her. She had pulled up a chair next to mine, and as we’d played, brown eyes peeked at my cards, warm fingers meandered up and down my arm, and explosive red hair lurked in the periphery of my vision like a field of poppies. Probably the same field of poppies that had taken Dorothy down on her way to see the Wizard.
Needless to say, I hadn’t done so hot. At the end of twenty games Robin had decided that when it came to gambling I was unsalvageable, unteachable, and borderline mentally challenged. Promise was a competent player and he’d decided to concentrate his efforts there. Truth was, she’d never be half the player Goodfellow was, but she would pass. More importantly, she was nonhuman. She could walk into that bar at my side and raise fewer eyebrows than I would.
I stood and said seriously, “Don’t worry, Nik. I’ll take care of your girl. Nothing will happen to her.”
“Strange. She said the same of you.” From behind his back, he revealed a thick roll of white tape and stretched out a long piece with a ripping sound. “What portion of skin do you mind losing the least?”
I eyed him with suspicion. “This isn’t revenge, is it?”
“Vengeance is a petty endeavor.” With quick and efficient motions he taped the tiny microphone just below my chest. “Petty,” he repeated, slapping on several more completely unnecessary pieces of the adhesive stuff, “but enjoyable. In any event, Promise is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. And she can fly. Can you?”
“She can . . . ,” I started, then finished up with a scowl, “You’re shitting me, aren’t you?”
He put the tape aside and studied his handiwork. Satisfied, he passed me my shirt. “You watch too many movies, little brother.”
The shirt was courtesy of Goodfellow. Black silk, it was worlds away from my more casual style, but the scent would match that of the silk tape on my chest. It should fool curious wolf noses. I buttoned it, lifting my upper lip. “Who said disco was dead?”
“Actually I thought it more of the gigolo genre, but whatever lets you retain your self-respect.” He looked me up and down, his own lip twitching slightly. “Such as it is.”
Robin’s silk shirt was the only exception to my normal look. I was still in my ever-present jeans with my hair pulled back. Hardly charging-for-it wear. “I’m beautiful and you know it.” I grinned.
“You have been spending too much time with Goodfellow. Far too much time.”
I ended up spending even more time with the puck. We all did. An hour later the four of us sat in a van from Robin’s car lot, the same lot where he let us park Niko’s ancient car, and went over last-minute details. Niko tested, retested, then tested again the reception of the microphone taped to my chest, while Goodfellow, wrinkling his noble brow in manfully concealed pain, propped his leg on a crate and pillow. I’d already fetched him two aspirin and then a bottle of water. I drew the line at the requested leg massage. “The wolves are looking better and better all the time,” I commented to Promise.
“The growling and snapping will certainly be less,” she said solemnly, her gaze candidly aimed at Niko.
“I do not growl or snap.” Niko didn’t need to look up to register her glance. How telling was that? “I am centered and at peace.” Deciding there was too much tape muffling the sound quality, he jerked off a piece with no consideration for my pained yelp. “Perfectly at peace.”
I
rubbed my chest gingerly and let the shirt fall down into place. Maybe it would keep my peaceful brother’s hands to himself. “I think we’re more than ready here, guys. How about we get the show on the road while I still have some skin left?”
The place was out in Jersey . . . Newark. And while that made living with yourself harder, it did make parking somewhat easier. The van was parked about two blocks away, close enough for Niko to come to our aid if needed, and far enough not to arouse wolfish suspicions. Humans didn’t tend to frequent this type of establishment; when the bouncer at the door has raw-meat breath, rabid eyes, and the personal hygiene of Sasquatch on a low-deodorant day, you tend to move on. It was called a social club, a private one. What that actually meant was a gambling “den” for the unnatural, den being a remarkably apt word, all things considered. Wolves loved to gamble. A chance to throw their money away had tails wagging like nothing else but a good juicy massacre, and this place promised to give them just what they wanted.
Moonshine did look to be your typical wolf hangout. I hadn’t been to but the one; still, the pups seemed to have a theme going. Seedy, smelly, and probably wall-to-wall fleas. Absently I scratched my arm in anticipation. A split second later a can of flea and tick spray was slapped in my hand. Always prepared—it wasn’t a personal mantra for my brother; it was programmed into his genetic code. Slipping the small canister into the pocket of my jeans, I reined in my usual sarcasm. “Thanks, Cyrano. Last time I was scratching for days.” Before Goodfellow could open his mouth, I aimed a warning glare at him. “No smart-ass cracks.”
His mouth, already open, snapped shut and he returned the glare with an added helping of wounded hurt that I wasn’t buying for a second. Ignoring him, I turned my attention to the shirt. Normally I would’ve left it hanging loose. I wasn’t a tucked-in kind of guy, but for extra security for the microphone, I shoved the silk under the waistband. The shirt wasn’t skintight or gigolo tight, but it was snug enough that you couldn’t have fitted a weapon beneath it, and I didn’t even try. Instead I wore my holster outside the shirt. One side held my Glock, and the other side was modified for my knife. The leather was black, but that hardly had the whole setup blending in with my shirt. It didn’t matter. The bouncer would’ve been more suspicious if I hadn’t been carrying. There wasn’t a creature alive who would walk into that place unarmed.
Holding out my arm, I said formally, “Is milady ready?”
Amused, Promise tucked a hand into the crook of my elbow. “How gallant you are, sir.”
“When you’re dressed like you charge five dollars an hour, you have to be,” Robin observed caustically, the moratorium on sarcastic comments apparently having passed almost instantaneously.
Never mind, it was his shirt. I gifted him with the finger, then stepped down to the street after Niko slid back the cargo door. Promise followed. Her hair floated loose to her hips, a stained-glass banner in the red and green of the neon lights. Looking over my shoulder at Niko, I taunted lightly, “If we come back engaged, you have no one to blame but yourself.”
Pale brows pulling together in an annoyed V, he shut the door firmly and silently in my face. “Cranky, cranky,” I murmured, and started walking.
“He’s worried,” Promise said after a long moment of contemplation. She rarely said anything without considering it from all angles, and this was no exception.
“He’s the only grandma I have.” I grinned. “Now the same goes for you.”
Surprisingly, the bouncer at the door was female and petite. That only meant she was more dangerous, a buck five of ass-kicking fury. Inky black hair pulled back in a long tail was paired with arresting yellow green eyes. To your casual human eye the split upper lip could’ve easily been mistaken for a cleft lip and not the beginnings of a muzzle. It kept her from being classically beautiful, but that didn’t mean she still wasn’t gorgeous. Exotic and strange, but gorgeous nonetheless. As we approached the door, she looked us up and down, sniffed, and then wrinkled that bifurcated upper lip in disgust. It was the same reaction I’d gotten from the albino wolf at Cerberus’s office. The wolves I’d come into contact with last year, when I was possessed by Darkling, had been fascinated with my scent. The combination of human, Auphe, and Darkling had been a canine potpourri, a feast for the senses. Apparently plain old half-human, half-Auphe wasn’t nearly as pleasing.
Tainted or not, we were allowed to pass. And lucky us, there was no cover charge. The club was smaller than I would’ve guessed from the outside. That indicated either a helluva lot of walk-in closets or a few back rooms set aside for more interesting activities. Taking a look around, I didn’t see too many fashion plates in the immediate area. All right, then . . . back room it was. No doubt that was where the poker game went on. The rest of the place was typical for what it was. Roulette and blackjack tables, occasional slot machine, tables and chairs, suspiciously wet floor, empty makeshift stage, poor lighting. Except for the regulars, it looked like every bar I’d ever slung a brew in. “Drink?” I asked Promise.
Raising her eyebrows, she declined. “That adventurous I am not. But, please, help yourself.”
At the bar I ordered a beer, less for drinking and more for blending in. Not having had my rabies shot, I made sure it came in a bottle. The bartender was a surprise. A big one. Bored green eyes, wavy brown hair, and a foxlike face that was all too familiar. I couldn’t help but stare. It didn’t go unnoticed.
“You seem to have a problem, freak.” It was Goodfellow’s voice, only arctic and empty. Goodfellow’s face, although set with a supercilious sneer. His eyes, lacking even a sliver of a soul. “Shall I cure you of it?” The blade he laid on the counter beside the beer was a Spanish poniard, more ice pick than dagger.
“No problem,” I said evenly. Now was not the time or place for a fight. Not if we hoped to get in a game with Boaz. Pissing off the bartender—and, if I knew pucks, the owner of the club—wasn’t the way to go about that. “It’s just been a while since I’ve seen a puck,” I continued on, lying smoothly. “Hard to believe this city is worthy of your presence.” Complete sincerity over unadulterated bullshit.
The toxic ennui in his eyes was eddied momentarily by conceit and self-satisfaction. “None is worthy. What can one do?” He tossed a towel over his shoulder and said dismissively, “Take your drink and go, freak. That shirt is an assault to my eyes.” Freak. He was even quicker to pick up on the Auphe in me than Robin had been. Maybe like called to like. I’d never thought of Goodfellow as a monster. Annoying, vain, arrogant, glib, unscrupulous . . . and, yeah, an out-and-out crook, but never a monster. This guy was. It came off of him in waves. A rapacious predator, an utterly amoral sociopath . . . this particular Pan would gut you in a heartbeat for a penny. He did have better taste in shirts than Goodfellow, though. I had to give him that.
Picking up my beer, I left as ordered. I, better known as the freak, would’ve preferred to take the poniard and pin his hand to the bar or at the least plant a fist in his face. But neither was an option, not right now. Undercover work, let me count the ways in which it sucked. Promise tilted her head as I approached. “Peculiar, is it not?” she said as her eyes rested on the puck across the room. “How identical they all are . . . what few that are left.”
“Trust me,” I responded soberly. “They’re not identical.”
We chose a table close to the back of the room. We sat side by side, both of our backs to the wall. Niko would’ve been proud. The place was half-empty; it was still fairly early. Within the next hour that began to change. Moonshine might’ve been a predominantly wolf hangout, but it attracted all kinds. Sprinkled among the lupines were an afreet, a few ghouls, succubi plying their dangerous trade, and three lamias on what looked like a girls’ night out. There were others, creatures I didn’t recognize. Promise probably did, but quite frankly my curiosity just wasn’t high enough to ask her. I was more concerned with Boaz. When Niko had called Caleb to accept the assignment, he’d gotten a description of our mark, but
so far I hadn’t spotted him. Around us the wolves, some in human form and some not, drank, laughed, howled, cursed, and fought. It brought back memories, not particularly good ones. The last time I’d been in a bar like this had been to hire a pair of assassins. And although I hadn’t been behind the wheel of my own body at the time, it was hard to forget that except for Niko and Robin, George would be dead now.
“Niko is a fabulous lover.”
It was a good thing the beer was only for decoration. Otherwise I would’ve choked on it, or at the very least spewed it a few feet. As it was, I felt my face take on a hunted expression. As subjects go, this was not one any brother wanted to discuss. “Jesus, Promise,” I said with not a little desperation, “that’s the kind of information that could scar a man for life.”
A dimple appeared in an ivory smooth cheek. “I’m sorry, Caliban. I was only testing you. Your attention seemed far from here.”
“Yeah, it was. Sorry.” Rolling the now-warm bottle between my hands, I scanned the crowd again.
She gave a gracious nod before speaking again. “Actually, Niko and I have not yet—” I groaned out loud, cutting her off. Amused, she relented and changed the subject . . . sort of. “Tell me, what was Niko like as a child?”
What had my brother been like as a child. It seemed like a simple question. But like most things that seem simple on the surface, what lurked beneath was a different story. Niko was two years older than I was, although when we were children he’d been four ahead. Neat trick, eh? When the Auphe had kidnapped me at the age of fourteen, they’d taken me to a place where time ran differently than it did here. For Niko it seemed as if I were gone only a day, but I had come back approximately two years older. I’d also come back a raving lunatic, but that was beside the point. Niko dealt with it, just as he always had.
