by DD Barant
“That’ll change, though,” he tells me. “Moondays start tonight.”
Moondays. Right. Now I remember what Dr. Pete told me about Anchorage, how it was one of the places that could get out of control during the monthly festival. And if that was how urban thropes behaved in Alaska, what would a bunch of feral Hell’s Angels do out in the middle of the tundra?
“Your plane is all fueled up and ready to go. I’m getting Willy here to fly you instead; you understand I’m a little busy at the moment.”
A pire bundled in bulky, grease-stained rain gear—big black gum boots, yellow rubber slicker, ridiculous wide-brimmed hat, and a face mask that seems to be made out of duct tape and welding goggles—shuffles forward and nods hello; he reminds me of Paddington Bear after a horrible car accident.
“Much appreciated,” I say, “but only Eisfanger’s leaving. Charlie and I are going to hang around, do a little sightseeing.”
The look on Duvalier’s face makes it plain he thinks this is a very, very bad idea, but he doesn’t protest. He’s going to need all the help he can get over the next three days, and he knows it. He nods and says, “I’ll see you have a place to stay.”
“Thanks. Can you get me a vehicle to use, too? I’d like to go out and take a look at that camp.”
He hesitates; the look on his face now says this is a much worse idea than the previous one, and maybe he should also supply me with the number of the local undertaker to save time.
“Okay,” he finally says. “You want a snowmobile, or something on four wheels?”
“The second one.” I turn to Eisfanger. “Tell Cassius I’m playing a hunch, and I’ll keep him apprised of the situation.”
Eisfanger looks apprehensive, but he just shrugs and says, “Will do.” He and Count Paddington board the plane, it roars to life, and a minute later I’m watching them get farther and farther away in the sky.
“Let’s go,” I tell Duvalier, and he leads us off the dock and into town.
Bethel is mainly an Inuit village, people who make their living from hunting and fishing. Hunting is largely a thrope endeavor, while fishing is the mainstay of the local pires, who trade their catch for caribou blood. I wouldn’t have thought of vampires as being especially able fishermen, but apparently it’s just as feasible to catch fish after the sun’s gone down. The long winter nights coincide with the fishing off-season, which gives the local pires lots of free time to spend in the great outdoors, under a sky lit only by the stars and the aurora borealis.
And the moon.
The village has lots of children, which shouldn’t surprise me; in small communities like this the concentration is usually on family. Sure, it has the untamed, dangerous feel of the frontier, but the frontier has always been defined by its colonists, and colonists mean children. So there are children—all thropes, at the moment—running around the streets, making snowmen, and having snowball fights. What’s disturbing is that almost all of them are barefoot, half of them are wearing shorts, and quite a few are riding bicycles with smaller versions of the wide, spiked tires on the zerkers’ bikes. Some of the kids are in were form, of course, running and rolling in the snow and snapping at each other playfully. Not as many of them are in half-were form as I would expect—I guess they don’t actually need fur to be immune to the cold, which would explain why Bearbreaker seemed perfectly at ease conversing in a blizzard while dressed for Arizona.
Duvalier finds us rooms in a small lodge on the outskirts of town, full of thrope tourists in the summer but almost empty now. It’s a nice place, a small restaurant and roomy lounge with a big fireplace on the main floor, seven or eight rooms on the second. Duvalier says he’ll get someone to drop off a vehicle, and I tell him to contact me when he knows the situation and what he’ll need in terms of additional manpower.
“Thanks,” he says. “Hopefully that won’t be necessary. We’ll see, I guess.”
“Uh, there’s one more thing you should probably know.” I pause, then steel myself and say, “I’m not a thrope.”
Duvalier frowns, his nostrils flaring as he checks my scent a little closer. “But—”
“Artificial. I’m . . . unenhanced. But I can still handle myself in a fight, and I have these.” I show him the eskrima sticks, flash the blades.
He sighs. “That’s just great. You know what zerkers like to fight with? Other than their claws and teeth, I mean?”
“Biting sarcasm?”
“Axes. Custom-made battle-axes, with stainless-steel heads that weigh ten pounds or more and sport twelve to eighteen inches of striking edge. When they’re serious about fighting they bolt an extended, razor-sharp silver blade to that, but for you they won’t have to bother. They keep their ax heads dull—they cause more damage that way—but I’ve seen one chop through a parking meter with a single stroke. I don’t think your little hand scythes are going to be much good against that.”
I don’t even bother telling him about the gun. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He nods, and then he’s gone. I get the feeling I haven’t exactly put his mind at ease, but better to tell him now than have him throw me into a situation unaware. Still, his attitude annoys me; the underlying assumption that brute force always ultimately wins out is just a little too gendercentric for me. Or maybe it’s speciescentric or just Alaskansheriffcentric. Or it could be I just like the suffix “centric” too much.
It doesn’t take either Charlie or me long to get settled, though Charlie does change his clothes. When he leaves his room and joins me on the railed catwalk that runs around the perimeter of the second floor, he’s put on a simple pair of jeans, boots, and a navy blue windbreaker that hangs loose enough to conceal his sword and ball-bearing holsters.
“Dressing down?” I ask.
“Trying to blend in. Not a lot of lems around here.”
“Your people don’t like the cold?”
“My people don’t feel the cold.”
“But you still wouldn’t live here if you had the choice.”
“It’s not exactly a thriving hub of sophistication. And me, I like a little sophistication.”
I lean back on the polished wood of the railing, cross my arms, and frown. “Really? Fine wines, French cuisine, exotic women? Doesn’t seem your style.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth I know they’re a mistake. Too late—he gives me a look that’s colder than the temperature outside.
“Doesn’t seem within my abilities, you mean. You’re right. I don’t eat, I don’t drink, I don’t have sex. But my eyes and ears and brain work just fine. And exactly what do you think “my people” fill their time with, since we don’t have to deal with the constant entry and exit of various substances into and out of our bodies?”
“Uh . . .”
“I like art. I like music. I like books. I’ve even been known to loosen up and enjoy a laugh or two. But I guess to you I’m nothing but a weapon on loan.”
“Not true,” I snap, and now I’m the one who’s irritated. “Maybe I haven’t been exactly touchy-feely when it comes to getting to know you, but I’ve had a lot on my mind. Plus, I have no idea what you do when you’re not at work—you’re the first golem I’ve ever met, remember? For all I know, you stand in a closet and turn yourself off. Any attempt I have made at asking questions of a personal nature you’ve either deflected with an answer of one syllable or tried to see how gullible I am.”
“That’s not exactly—”
“But that’s not what really pisses me off.” I’m on a roll, now. “Maybe you’re not used to this, but where I come from we don’t have living weapons that follow us around and keep us from harm. What we have are partners. A partner is a person who watches your back, points out when you’re screwing up, trusts you completely and occasionally saves your life. They do that for you . . . and you do that for them.”
We glare at each other for a long moment.
“Problem is,” he says at last, “we’re here, not there.”
He considers this. “You know, that’d be a lot more reassuring if you weren’t so damned fragile.”
“I’m fragile? At least I don’t burst into tears when I’m feeling underappreciated.”
“True. You’re more likely to shoot something.”
“I find it therapeutic. You should try it sometime.”
“No thanks. I’ll stick to knitting tea cozies and sobbing into my pillow.”
“We done?”
“Pretty much.”
I nod and head downstairs. Charlie follows, close behind.
My plan is to drive out to the zerkers’ camp, find Bear-breaker, and intimidate him into giving up Stoker.
Sure.
My backup plan is to challenge Bearbreaker to single combat, defeat him, become Queen of the Zerkers and spend the rest of my life riding a giant motorcycle over frozen tundra.
Much more likely.
My backup backup plan is to hang around, talk to as many locals and zerkers as I can, and see if I can dig up any evidence that Stoker was here. That one is at least half-doable—assuming the locals are more friendly than the zerkers—but the person I really want to talk to is Bearbreaker, and I have no idea how feasible that will actually be.
I get my answer a few minutes later. Bearbreaker’s motorcycle is parked outside the Sheriff’s office and he’s leaning up against it, drinking a beer and looking very relaxed. When he sees Charlie and me walking toward him, he smiles and waves.
“Hey there,” he says.
“Hello,” I say. I stop in front of him and meet his eyes. “You here to talk to the Sheriff?”
“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you.”
“Yeah? Funny, I was planning on doing the same thing.”
“I won’t make the obvious joke about you talking to yourself.”
“Think you just did.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
I grin despite myself. “What do you want, Bearbreaker?”
“Same thing you do. Conversation.”
“I talk better when I’m drinking coffee.”
“Me, too. If by coffee you mean beer, and by better you mean louder.”
“How about we sit down together and do both? You can yell at me and I’ll pretend to listen.”
“Okay. There’s a diner up the street, but the booths are kinda small.” He flicks a glance at Charlie, who looks back as impassively as a glacier.
“I don’t drink,” Charlie says. “I prefer standing a stone’s throw away and watching.”
Bearbreaker nods, noting the threat but not responding to it. He motions us to follow him and heads up the sidewalk, leaving his bike where it is.
We get our share of looks on the way, from the merely curious to the downright hostile. I imagine I can hear doors slamming and bolts sliding into place all over town, and wonder just how wild tonight is going to get.
The diner is small, with booths of cracked red vinyl and Formica-topped tables edged in peeling chrome. Bearbreaker slides into one and nods at the waitress, a wrinkled Inuit woman who looks neither impressed nor hostile. She shuffles over and takes our order—two coffees, surprisingly. Charlie’s elected to stay outside, hands in his pockets, staring through the window at us like a wooden cigar-store Indian facing the wrong way.
“Nice statue,” Bearbreaker says. “Does it do tricks?”
“A few. Usually pretty hard on the audience, though.”
“I’ll bet. How about you? You talented, too?”
I stare at him, trying to gauge where he’s going. He’s trying to provoke me, that much is obvious, but in which direction? I can feel his interest in me, but it’s more than sexual—it’s both less intense and more complex than Tanaka’s lust.
“Oh, I’m hell on wheels. Or do your people already have that trademarked?”
He chuckles. “We’re not that bad, really. I mean, there’s the random acts of violence, the total disrespect for the rule of law, the cannibalism . . . but other than that we’re real sweethearts.”
“Uh-huh. Well, sweetheart—you know a guy named Aristotle Stoker?”
He cradles his coffee just below his chin, blowing on it to cool it down; his massive hands make it look like one of those tiny Japanese teacups.
“Maybe I do,” he says. “Or maybe I just know a guy who might be this Stoker character. Wouldn’t want to get the wrong man in trouble.”
“Who said he was in trouble?”
“If he isn’t there yet,” Bearbreaker says, pausing to drain half the cup in a single swallow, “I get the feeling he’ll find himself in downtown Disaster after talking to you.”
“I can’t be that bad. You’re talking to me.”
“I got a thing for dangerous relationships.”
“Is there any other kind?”
He leans back in the booth, resting the elbows of his massive arms on top of the padded back. “Let’s say I know this Stoker. Why would I tell you anything about him?” He meets my eyes, his grin turning into a lazy smile.
That’s a damn good question, and there’s only one answer I can come up with. “You want something.”
“Everybody wants something.”
“Yeah. I want Stoker.”
“And I want . . .” He pauses, long and slow and deliberate. “An ice-cream cone.”
“Funny time of year for it.”
“I’m a funny guy.”
“Vanilla?”
“Not since I was thirteen.”
“Do I have to run through all thirty-one flavors?”
“Oh, there are a lot more than that. Guess you’re not from around here.”
That sends up warning signals, but it’s a little late for caution. “This is fun, but I have things to do. I’ll get you a banana split sprinkled with cocaine and doused in brandy if you’ll tell me where Stoker is now.”
“Offering cocaine to a thrope? Interesting approach, but I prefer my nose to function, thank you—and I’ve never cared for brandy.” His tone is gently chiding, as if I’ve made a mistake but not a serious one. “Tell you what—we’re both strangers here, right? But the locals don’t cross themselves and spit when you walk past. Spend some time with me, let the natives see us together, and maybe their hackles will go down.”
“Hang out together? In public?”
“Wouldn’t be much point doing it in private.”
“Long as you don’t mind an escort.” I motion with my head toward Charlie.
“Fine with me. But he buys his own ice cream.”
Bearbreaker won’t commit to giving me any definite, specific information on Stoker, but he’s serious about the ice cream. We wind up wandering across town—well, to the other end of the street, which is pretty much the same thing—to a general store. The locals are busy setting up booths lining the thoroughfare; people stare at us but don’t say anything.
The store yields a surprisingly good flavor of blackberry from a large cardboard tub in the same freezer they keep frozen bait. The owner, an Inuit man with long, jet-black hair, is busy hanging crescent moon–shaped lanterns from the eaves when we arrive, and he goes back to it after serving us. We stroll down the street, shadowed by Charlie.
“Moondays in Alaska,” Bearbreaker says between licks of his cone. “Ever done it here before?”
“Uh . . . no.”
“It’s fantastic. The snow, the smell of the tundra . . . really talks to the hindbrain, you know? All the stuff they do in the cities to celebrate seems kind of silly and pointless when you’re out here.”
“Sure. I know what you mean.”
“Yeah? Where’d you grow up?”
It’s an innocent enough question, but I have to consider it carefully before I answer. “The Midwest. Small town you wouldn’t have heard of.”
“Try me.”
“Roadside.”
“You’re right; I’ve never heard of it. Whereabouts is it?”
“I don�
�t mean to be rude, but I kind of thought I’d be the one asking the questions.”
He shrugs, a movement that reminds me of boulders shifting. “I don’t mind rude. Ask away.”
“This guy who may or may not be Stoker—what’s he look like?”
“Oh, you want proof I’m not just stringing you along? Okay. He’s a little guy, maybe five four. Sharp face, like a weasel. Real smart, heart like an ice cube. Dresses like crap.”
Bingo. Our first description of Stoker—I’ve finally got something to work with. I keep my face and voice neutral. “Might be our guy, might not. Know where I can find him?”
“Not now. But he said he’d get in touch during Moondays, and that starts tonight. You could hang around with me, see if he shows up.”
Right. When the full moon comes out tonight, every thrope beneath it is going to go full, all-out hairy—all except yours truly. Who, despite what she smells like, isn’t a thrope at all and would like to keep it that way.
“Sorry, but partying with a pack of zerkers isn’t really my style. I’ll be in town, but my wild time is my own time.” The last remark is out of my mouth before I have time to think about it, but it feels right.
He smiles. “I can understand that. Maybe I’ll run into you out on the tundra—I like to spend at least one night on my own under the stars, too.”
“Maybe you will.” Good. If he’s spending his nights roaming around out in the wilderness, he won’t be searching for me in town.
“Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. We’ve strolled back to where his bike is parked. “Thanks for the ice cream.”
He gets on, fires it up, and takes off. He nods at Charlie as he passes him, but doesn’t look back at me.
Charlie walks up and joins me. “How’d it go?”
“Hard to say.” I frown. “But the next three days are going to be interesting.”
The first night is incredibly boring.
I’d kind of expected a whole Wild West thing—you know, where the saloons are filled with bar brawls that spill out into the streets and result in drunken gunfights, with guys being shot off balconies and into horse troughs? Except there’d be blizzard bikes instead of horses, axes instead of guns, and all the yee-hawing would be replaced by growls, howls, and the occasional yip.