by DD Barant
We’re standing in the middle of an alley, while Bethel’s entire population seems to be busy partying a mere two blocks away. We were taking a shortcut from the inn to the middle of town proper—only someone, it seems, was waiting for us.
None of them are in were form, but that hardly matters. The three facing Charlie are on their bikes, the two facing me on foot. All are armed: the three riders with nasty, long-handled axes, the other two with a weighted chain and an honest-to-God scythe. From the way the thrope’s handling it, I’d say he knows his way around a wheat field.
I recognize the zerker with the scythe by his helmet, with the long crest of butcher knives along the top; he was with Bearbreaker at the crime scene on the tundra. His human form is lanky and weak-chinned, with squinting black eyes.
“Well, if it isn’t the local Fed,” Squinty says. “You smell good enough to eat, in more ways than one.”
“Sorry, but you just stink,” I say. I’ve got the Ruger aimed squarely between his eyes. “That’s not even an insult, just a description. Seriously, invest in some soap and burn your clothes.”
“I like alpha females. It’s so much more satisfyin’ to break ’em.”
“I don’t break easy—”
I’m drowned out by the roar of another blizzard bike at the end of the alley. Full throttle, tires squealing, barreling toward us like a bat out of Hell.
Bearbreaker. Going for the dramatic entrance, no doubt. I wonder what he’ll have to say when—
He’s not slowing down. And even more bizarrely, he’s riding sidesaddle.
The other three bikes more or less take up the width of the alley. He can’t go around, and unless his bike can fly, he can’t go over. So what—
Charlie and I both realize what his plan is and flatten ourselves against one wall of the alley. The zerkers on the bikes don’t have enough time—or maybe they just don’t believe what they’re seeing.
Down to ten feet away and moving like a rocket, Bearbreaker twists the bike sideways, hard. It broadsides the backs of the other three bikes simultaneously, but without its rider; he kicks off against the frame an instant before impact, using the bike’s momentum to launch himself into the air.
The crash is amazingly loud. Blizzard bikes are large, heavy, and have many chromed bits that break off easily. This all goes tumbling down the alley toward Squinty and his friend a split second after Bearbreaker soars over their heads like a flying squirrel who’s been pumping iron for twenty years.
The zerkers on their feet are both fast enough to get out of the way. Two of the riders aren’t so lucky—they wind up as the filling in a motorcycle sandwich. The last one manages to leap clear, leaving Charlie and me facing three extremely disgruntled thropes who are already shifting into half-were form. Guess tradition doesn’t count for much when your most important possession has just been trashed.
Charlie fastballs some silver at the one in the lead, but the ball glances off a piece of armor. I have my gun out and leveled at Squinty, who’s charging straight at me. He’s not quite as fast as Cassius, but there’s no time to think, no time to do anything but react.
I shoot him.
The slug takes him high in the chest, punching through his chain mail like it isn’t there. He skids to the ground at my feet, his snarl rising to a high-pitched whine as his brain figures out that his heart has just exploded. One of the butcher knives on his helmet clips my shin, but I barely feel it. I’m staring at the dead man at my feet. The man I just killed.
His features revert to human, just like in the movies. His eyes are wide open, and look more confused than anything. If he could still speak, I bet he’d be saying, “What the hell was that?”
“You all right?” Charlie’s voice. Sounding concerned, not tense. Fight must be over.
I look up. Another thrope sprawled on the ground—Charlie’s second pitch must have been in the strike zone. The third one is nowhere in sight—guess he hightailed it when he realized the odds were against him.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” Farther down the alley is a twisted pile of metal, rubber, and fur, which is already starting to curse.
A little past that is Bearbreaker, facedown on the ground and motionless.
“Looks like he broke his fall with his head,” Charlie says. “Knocked himself out. Funny, I always thought that was just a saying.”
I walk, none too steadily, over to where Bearbreaker lies. “Give me a hand,” I say. “We’ve got to get him out of here before the others pry themselves free.”
Louder cursing, sprinkled with dire promises and ungrammatical threats. “Yeah, all right,” Charlie says. “But he’s not staying in my room.”
We—well, Charlie, mostly—get Bearbreaker back to the inn. As soon as he dumps Bearbreaker on my bed, Charlie heads out the door.
“Where are you going?” I demand. The adrenaline is starting to wear off and I’m feeling a little shocky.
“Roof. If the zerkers decide to storm the palace, I’d like to have some warning. And the chance to pick off a few before they get too close.”
“And you’re okay with leaving me alone with this?”
“Hey, it was your idea. You want to adopt a stray, you walk and feed him.” And then he’s out the door before I can come up with a clever reply.
I look down at the giant sprawled on my bed. Knowing how quickly thropes recover, I can’t imagine he’ll be out for too long. I hope not, anyway.
Because the longer he’s unconscious, the more time I’ll have to think about what just happened.
I don’t have to worry—no more than a minute passes before he groans and his eyelids flutter. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling for a second before saying, “Where am I?”
“The exotic Jace Valchek Suites, where Your Comfort Is Our Extreme Inconvenience. You might want to consider a helmet in the future.”
“Why? It’s not like I own a bike. Anymore.”
“Sure you do. It’s just gotten married to three others.”
“I think the word is ‘welded,’ actually. . . .”
“Why the hell did you do that?”
He winces. “Please don’t yell. And you’re welcome.”
“We could have handled it. All you did was force a confrontation.”
“No, I delivered a pre-emptive first strike. Maybe you could have taken those five, maybe not, but they were going to attack, no matter what you said—”
“I could have handled it!” I shout. “It didn’t have to . . . I didn’t have to—”
He’s looking at me strangely. Why is my face wet?
Everything’s gotten all blurry, and I quickly sit down on the edge of the bed, afraid I might be having another RDT episode. I’m not dizzy, though; it’s just hard to see, with all this stuff in my eyes. . . .
And then I just let it go, all at once.
I don’t break down like that very often, and when I do I kind of lose track of everything outside of my own head. I don’t cry very loud, but I cry hard; afterward my ribs are always sore and my throat hurts.
I gradually become aware that I seem to be leaning against a wall. A big, musky wall that has a catcher’s mitt gently pressed against the small of my back. I take a deep breath, already scripting the verbal barrage I’m going to unleash to show him I don’t need his sympathy.
“I’ve never killed anyone before,” I say. I can barely hear myself.
“I’m sorry,” he says. And the most amazing thing is, he sounds sorry; they aren’t just the meaningless words you repeat to comfort someone when you don’t know what else to say. He sounds even sadder than I do.
“You wrecked your bike.” I don’t want to talk about my own pain, so I try to bring up his. Zerkers carry everything they own on their bikes; they treat them like their own children, they—
“It’s only a bike,” he says. “Was, I mean.”
I pull back and stare into his eyes for a second. A little part of my brain is whispering that maybe this isn’t such a
good idea.
Or maybe it is, counters a different part of my brain. Maybe exactly what you need right now is a good old-fashioned mattress dance, with no strings attached.
Getting involved with a thrope biker isn’t—
Isn’t what? Responsible? The last thing you need right now is more responsibility. This is about pure release, not hearts-and-flowers. He’s here, he’s hot, and he definitely won’t call you in the morning.
Unlike Tanaka?
That stops me. It’s a little soon to be contemplating another bad decision. And besides, Bearbreaker’s connected to the suspect—and not as a member of law enforcement.
That doesn’t mean he’s guilty of anything. But he was at the crime scene—
“Oh, the hell with it,” I say, and there’s a knock at the door.
“Jace?” It’s Charlie. I’m suddenly on my feet, feeling as guilty as any teenager busted by her parents.
“Yeah, come on in.”
“The door’s locked.”
When did I do that? “Just a second.”
Charlie strides into the room, glances at the bed. “Still out cold, huh?”
I look over, see that Bearbreaker is lying motionless with his eyes closed. I utter a silent thank-you and say, “Yeah, hasn’t moved a muscle.”
“Thought I’d let you know I just talked to Duvalier on the phone. He says he’s got the situation under control and we probably won’t see reprisals.”
I frown. “Why not? I mean, we wrecked three of their bikes and killed two of them.”
“Yeah, there’s going to be paperwork on that. I don’t do paperwork.”
“I’ll do the damn paperwork. Why no reprisals?”
“Zerkers aren’t organized like a regular pack. Each one takes responsibility for their own actions. Even when they ride together, it’s just for convenience—the only loyalty they have is to their own individual survival.”
“So the ones we busted up have had enough, and the others don’t give a crap?”
“More or less.”
I’m not sure how far I trust that assessment, but right now it’s a gift horse I have no urge to perform exploratory dentistry on. “That’s good. Uh, I still think it’s a good idea to keep watch, though—you mind playing lookout a while longer?”
He studies me for a second more than I’m comfortable with. “Sure. Give me a call when I can come down, all right?”
“What? No, I mean, just give it a few more minutes, that’s all—”
He’s already gone, closing the door softly behind him. I sigh.
“Smooth,” Bearbreaker says.
“You should go.”
“Sure. Mind giving me a lift? My wheels are in the shop.”
“Oh, crap.”
“And by ‘shop’ I mean ‘graveyard.’ ”
“I’m sorry about that. Looks like you’ll just have to do the four-legged thing—I think the sun’s almost down, anyway.”
I stride over to the heavy drapes and pull them open. The moon has been up for hours, but it looks like the sun only set a few minutes ago.
It takes a second for it to sink in.
Bearbreaker is up off the bed and halfway to the door by the time I get my gun out. “Hold it!”
He stops, looks back. It’s the first time I’ve pulled my gun in weeks that anyone’s even hesitated, though he doesn’t seem exactly frozen in fear.
“Why haven’t you transformed?” I demand.
“Why haven’t you?”
Neither of us answers—neither has to. Same question, same answer.
“You’re not the only one with access to artificial wolf pheromones,” Bearbreaker says.
“You’re no pire.”
“I’m as human as you are, Jace.”
“Who are you?”
“You already know.” He grins. “Call me Aristotle, please.”
My God. I’ve got him. My ticket home, right here in front of me. “Get down on the floor.”
“No. I wanted to meet you, Jace. Talk to you, get to know you. Now that I have, I’m going to leave. I have things to do . . . and you have things to think over.”
“The only thing I have to think over is where I’m going to shoot you.”
“You’ll have to kill me, Jace. I won’t let them take me alive. And somehow, I don’t think you’ll do that.”
I stare at him, my gun aimed squarely at his chest. He stares back.
Oh, crap.
ELEVEN
Afterward, I feel kind of sick.
It’s understandable, I guess. I mean, I almost made out with the guy. I didn’t know who he was at the time, but—
None of that matters now.
I go to the bathroom, clean up a little. Wash my hands and face. Stare at myself in the mirror and think about the fact that I’m not the same person I was when I got up this morning. I talk pretty tough, but a wolf that snarls doesn’t have to bite.
Can’t remember who told me that—probably a thrope. Anyway, it means that as long as I had a gun to wave around, I didn’t have to actually shoot anyone. That worked pretty well until I came to a world where they weren’t afraid of guns . . . until someone called my bluff and forced me to lay down my cards.
I did. Turned out I was holding a dead man’s hand.
“A dead thrope’s hand” would be the more accurate turn of phrase, but I don’t think the zerker I killed would care much about that. He’s beyond caring about anything but what they carve on his tombstone.
Not Stoker, though.
I couldn’t shoot him. I don’t know why, exactly—partly because I was still in shock over my first shooting I guess, partly because I realized that if he were dead, I might have one hell of a time proving to Cassius he was Aristotle Stoker. Bye-bye, ticket home.
But it was Stoker. I knew it in my gut. And even though I don’t want to admit it, the last part of the reason I couldn’t shoot him was simply my refusal to reduce the human population of this place by one more soul.
So I let him go, and now I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do. What am I going to do next time, wave as he rides off into the sunset? Shoot him in the leg and hope he survives after the Ruger’s blown open his femoral artery? Or hope I survive when he hops over, takes my gun away, and uses it on me? He said he wouldn’t be taken alive—and after what he went through at that Yakuza blood factory, I believe him.
No. Next time, it’s him or me. I can’t let him keep slaughtering thropes and pires. They’re people, dammit, people with kids and families and friends. They’re not monsters, and I have to get my head in the game if I want to save any of them.
When Charlie comes back, I tell him Bearbreaker felt better and left. I don’t tell him anything else.
“I can’t believe you let him go,” Cassius says. His voice is around the same temperature that the tundra was back in Alaska.
I meet his eyes defiantly. “I didn’t think he was a flight risk. His bike was totaled; we were in the middle of nowhere. I’d established a relationship of trust and planned on using it to gain more information.”
If my Urthbone mojo worked on pires I could tell just how angry Cassius is, but this subzero routine is like watching a glacier and trying to figure out how fast it’s moving. He taps a few keys on his computer without taking his eyes off me, which is a little unnerving. “You should have brought him in.”
“I could have,” I admit. “But I didn’t think he’d give us anything. He’s a professional hired gun—mercenary, I mean—and I doubt even an accessory-to-murder rap would scare him. I figured the cautious approach was better.”
“You were wrong. Learn from it, do better next time.”
He looks down and starts typing. After a moment I realize that he’s done talking to me. I get up and leave, hoping I haven’t come down with frostbite in the last five minutes.
Two days later there’s another victim.
I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of me. True, serial killers almost always
escalate—but Stoker has a specific agenda, and he’s organized enough to stick to it. So did he move his timetable up because of me?
If so, he needn’t have bothered. I haven’t told anyone about his posing as Bearbreaker, mainly because I’m not sure it would do any good. Yeah, a seven-foot muscleman tends to stick out, but he’s got a werewitch on his payroll and she could probably make him look like anything. Well, anything but the bogus description he gave us in the first place.
The one thing I do know is that what I saw wasn’t a trick. Eisfanger’s little ghost rat told him Bearbreaker wasn’t using any kind of glamour, so I guess he really is that . . . large.
The next victim is a lot closer to home—Montana, to be exact. By now I’ve got it down to a routine: study the video of the previous vic on the way there, try to get as much data as possible from local law enforcement already on the scene, have Gretchen crunch the numbers and look for patterns on the fly.
This time, though, it’s a little different. For one thing, Cassius and Gretchen come with me.
The message is clear: I’ve screwed up and need supervision. I wish I could argue with that, but I can’t. I’m kind of glad, actually—Gretch is the closest thing I have to a female friend in this world, and I could use someone to talk to.
Not that there’s a lot of talking on the way there. We’re taking a chopper this time, and since it’s daytime we’re basically flying inside a sealed, windowless bubble separate from the pilot—who apparently thinks that a helicopter ride should duplicate the experience of a roller coaster as closely as possible. It’s extremely noisy, too; I feel like I’m in a barrel going over Niagara Falls again and again.
“Here’s the situation,” Cassius says. I have to ask him to speak up; my hearing isn’t as keen as Gretchen’s. “The signal is coming from a small cabin just outside of Missoula, Montana. It’s not as isolated as the previous sites. We have the cabin surrounded by agents, but nobody’s gone in yet. Windows are sealed; nothing’s visible from outside.”
“He’s deviating from his pattern,” I say. “Getting closer to population centers. There’s an implied threat, there. And this is only the second time he’s left a victim inside a building.”