by Sharon Joss
The big black dog moved behind the counter to greet the owner, and Mike saluted to him as he walked past. He edged his way through the cluster of fishermen gathered around the four-pot coffee station, past the glass-fronted refrigerators full of beer, soda, and sandwiches toward the back of the store.
“Hey there, boy, how’s it goin’? I got it right here,” he heard Frank cooing to the mutt. Mike grinned as he heard the top of the jerky barrel twist off; a ritual repeated at nearly every bait shop on their morning route. “There you go, Farley. Good boy.”
A genial aura of quiet humor pervaded the store. The sound of chuckles faded away as he halted in front of the Minnow Master bait refrigerator. Mike restocked the supply of night crawlers from the portable Styrofoam cooler of fresh inventory he’d brought with him. After checking the sales tally posted on the door, he recorded the numbers with a stubby pencil in his spiral notepad. Tom was right; business was booming. He strode back to the front, called to Farley and they headed out the door.
As he neared the truck, a voice called out from behind him. “Hey, Mikey. Mike Bane. Is that you?”
He turned and did a double take. The amber eyes were a dead giveaway for ALVS. Not to mention the guy had a neck like a water buffalo. The guy was a were; there was no doubt. In fact, they were both wearing the same Velcro-seamed shirt.
Mike searched his memory, but didn’t recall meeting any other werewolves besides Silas. “Do I know you?”
Buffalo-neck grinned and punched him square in the chest. “David Stripe, man. Remember me?”
Recognition slammed home, as he coughed and rubbed his sternum. He grinned ear to ear and punched back. The guy was as solid as a bag of cement.
“Striper Dave, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you?” Farley danced around them, his tail wagging gracefully. The mutt remembered, too.
“I never thought to see you back here again.” Dave rubbed Farley’s ear and the hound moaned with pleasure.
They’d practically been joined at the hip when they were kids. Enlisted on the same day. Dave didn’t look a day over twenty-five. Obviously he’d been a were for a good many years. A lot of military veterans came home from serving in the Middle East with ALVS. He’d probably gotten it in the service. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
“You livin’ in your dad’s old place?”
“My place now. I moved in a few weeks ago.”
“I heard you were NYPD.”
Dave knew, then. Hell the whole town must know. He shrugged. “Not any more. I’m back for while, at least. Queens is no place for man nor beast; if you know what I mean.”
Dave made a face. “Yeah. Well, a lot of weres end up here.” He gave Mike a puzzled look. “Funny, you don’t look were.” He took a deep breath and grinned. “Don’t smell were either.”
Mike met his golden gaze. “I’m not a were.”
Dave grinned and shook his head. “Take it easy, Mikey. I know that.” He wrinkled his nose. “What is that smell?”
Mike hooked his thumb toward the truck. “Night crawlers.”
Dave looked askance at the battered truck and grinned as he shook his head. “You haven’t changed a bit, you old worm charmer. You used to start up that damn worm farm every summer, remember? I can’t believe you’re still doing this shit.”
“Doing what?” Another guy with ALVS came up to Dave with a twelve-pack under one arm and a box of Tom’s night crawlers in his other hand. “Let’s go,” he told Dave, and got in the passenger side of Dave’s truck.
“Oh hey. Mikey, this is Steve-o. We work security together over at Mythica.”
Mike nodded to the new guy, who answered with a stony stare.
Yeah, well, same to you pal. “Is this your rig?”
“Yeah,” Dave slid his hand along the dent-free door panel. “Jealous?” He opened the door of the black truck and reached inside. “Check this out.” He pulled out a box of filled with ornately carved fishing rod handles and offered him one. “I made these myself.”
Mike examined the beautifully crafted pieces. Even as a kid, Dave had been crazy about fishing. They’d been shop partners in junior high, but these were a work of art. He flexed his wrist, simulating casting action. “Nice. You making custom rods now?”
“Yep. That one is Gabon Ebony. This one here is Red Heart, from Mexico. I use all kinds of exotic wood.” He pulled out a cardboard box from of the back seat and pulled out several two-by-two-by-twelve-inch blocks of wood. “This is the raw material stock. Everybody wants custom gear these days,” he explained. “It’s just a hobby, mostly.”
Mike gave the handle back and grinned. “I can’t picture you as a security guard. They must pay pretty good.”
“Yeah, but they make you earn every penny.” Both were-men laughed, as if at some private werewolf joke. “Hey, we’re heading out to the tournament.” Striper Dave ran a proprietary hand across the smooth finish of the BassCat’s fiberglass hull. “Wanna come along?”
Mike was tempted, but Dave was a werewolf now. It was going to take some time to get used to that idea. And his old buddy had a new vibe; an aggressive kind of energy that didn’t feel right. “Thanks, but I’ve got deliveries to make. Maybe some other time.”
The two men drove north out of the parking lot. Mike headed south, still in shock at the sight of his childhood friend’s amber eyes. Striper Dave in the flesh. Werewolf flesh. No shit. This place was crawling with them.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, he rounded the bend and turned into the nearly deserted parking lot of Jolley’s Outdoor Outfitters. He pulled the Chevy to a stop in front of the store and waited for the billowing dust to settle. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the horizon was light with the coming dawn. Where are all the cars?
In the big plate glass window, all the neon beer signs were lit, but the sign on the door indicated the place was closed. With the tournament starting today, the place should be hopping, just like Fat Frank’s, but the only other car in the lot was a white van. Something wasn’t right. Years of undercover work had taught him to listen to his instincts. He got out of his truck and cautiously approached the store entrance.
Beside him, the mutt whined, his attention riveted toward the corner of the building, his ears pricked forward. A second later, a pair of wolves came trotting around the corner, followed by a third were, in human form.
Adrenaline flooded through him at the sight of the three weres. The guy, dressed in Velcro-seamed leather, held a tranquilizer dart gun in one hand and a pair of silver handcuffs tucked into his belt. The two wolves spread out in a clear attempt to circle around behind him and Farley.
He backed closer to the building. “Hey pal, what’s the deal here?”
“You Mike Bane?” The leader’s feral expression leaked through his eyes as he neared; the two wolves with him held their position, about a dozen feet away.
It wasn’t really a question. The guy already knew. Even with his limited werewolf experience, he knew it was hard for them to maintain human form in the company of other wolves. Werewolves emitted pheromones when they changed that made it nearly impossible for other nearby lycanthropes to remain in human form. If this guy lost his control, he wouldn’t be able to hold onto that weapon. The guy must be pretty confident, given all the leather he was wearing.
“Sorry. Don’t know him.” He kept his eyes focused on the were-man’s face, in spite of his concern for the dart gun aimed in his direction.
“Name’s Randall. There’s a guy in Queens looking for you.”
At the mention of Queens, the jaguar inside his head screamed. He sent the cat soothing thoughts and tried to remain calm. Clemente is dead. He can’t hurt us anymore. Queens was the past. There was no way anyone could have traced him here. Not so soon. He never should have said anything to that damn mover.
“You remember Hector Clemente, doncha? Seems ol’ Hector has a brother who is mucho special to the Pomp.”
Randall had a hard face. One of the sid
e effects of ALVS was a slowdown in the aging process, but this guy looked like a forty-year-old escapee from a chain gang; all hard muscle and weather roughened skin. He had to be pushing ninety or more. Most guys couldn’t take it that long.
“You’ve got the wrong guy, pal. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t know anyone named Clemente or Pomp.” Farley growled. The sun would be up any minute. He wondered where Tom was, and his stomach lurched. He should have had the place open for business by now. Oh god.
“You know, the Pomp. The Pomp of Queens? The head Vampire of the borough. Hector’s brother Diego is the Pomp’s new Number One. And Diego would very much like to chat with officer Mike Bane about Hector’s unfortunate demise.” Randall opened the sliding door of the van, revealing a four-by-four-foot steel cage.
The first rays of the sun pierced the horizon; the glare hit him like a slap in the face. Only a few cars had gone by. Stall for time. “You don’t sound like you’re from Queens, Randall.”
“Nah, my people are Texan.” He nodded at the battered truck with the bright new decal on the side. The logo had been Tom’s idea. “Night Crawlers, eh? Well, Diego’s put out an open contract on you. Guess I’m the early bird, worm boy.”
“Hey you’re funny.” He prayed that Tom was okay.
“What’ll it be, Bane? Ketamine or the cage?”
This can’t be happening. Maybe someone driving by would see something and call the sheriff and this whole thing could disappear before somebody got hurt. If it wasn’t already too late. He pulled his shirt off over his head in a single motion and threw it to the ground. “You didn’t bring enough muscle, cowboy.”
The wolves edged closer, and Randall adjusted his stance. “Easy Bane. There’s no reason to get so het up about this. Clemente is going to get you one way or another. Says he’s got a pair of pliers and a truck battery with your name on it. I’m giving you an opportunity to come along quiet and maybe give him your side of the story.”
The cat screamed again. “What can I do to persuade you I’m not your guy? What’s this Diego guy paying you, anyway?”
Randall clicked the safety off the pistol.
Damn. “You pull that trigger, you’ll never live to collect that bounty.”
Randall didn’t even blink. “Maybe you can talk your way out of it.”
Not likely. “We both know that’s not going to happen, asshole.” The Velcro-seamed shorts tore off in a single motion, and before they hit the ground, he reached for the cat. The melting sensation flowed through him; as fluid as a swallow of cold beer on a dusty day.
Both wolves leapt forward, and Randall shouted at them to stay out of his shot. The big cat batted the first wolf through the plate glass window of Jolley’s Outdoor Outfitters like a ball of yarn, setting off the alarm. The second wolf was smacked straight back at Randall, and took the dart meant for the jaguar. The wolf’s body hit Randall square in the chest, and their momentum slammed them both back into the van. The metal door buckled on impact. The first wolf staggered out from Jolley’s and went for Farley. The dog took off with the werewolf in hot pursuit. The number two wolf was out cold, and Randall, his control gone, began to shift. The jaguar pounced. He grabbed the bounty hunter by the skull just as three sheriff cars raced into the parking lot.
A uniformed officer raced up, weapon drawn, and assumed firing position just beyond the cat’s reach.
“Freeze,” he shouted. “You’re under arrest, kitty-cat. I’ve got silver-tipped ammo here. Now let go of that werewolf or I swear I will shoot you in the head. What’ll it be?”
CHAPTER 7 : BAD COP, BAD COP
Bare-assed, Mike crouched on the cement floor of an end kennel. The arresting officer told him their clothes and shoes had been confiscated for their own safety, as people with ALVS didn’t do well in captivity. No shit.
He gripped the steel mesh with his fingers and rocked back and forth. The image of Tom’s bloody body flashed before him every time he closed his eyes. It looked as if Tom’s throat had been completely torn out. He’d never seen anything so horrible. He’d begged to be allowed to accompany Tom to the hospital, but the officers had refused, assuming he was one of Tom’s attackers. They were right in principle, if not in fact. The assault on Tom had been all his fault.
He wanted to kill Randall, but they had him locked up at the far end of the row. Across the aisle, the ketamine-drugged wolf lay in a puddle of drool. In fourteen police precincts covering all of Queens, there were only three holding kennels for people with Acquired Lycanthropy Virus Syndrome; the Kennel Room at the Ontario County Sheriff’s Office held eight.
Hours later he was given his clothes and led to a beige cubicle to face a still-bristling Criminal Investigation Officer, Lieutenant Bill Dixon. Mike struggled to maintain a calm demeanor, but all he wanted was to get to the hospital.
“How is Tom?” He asked.
“I’m asking the questions here, Bane. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner we’ll get this mess straightened out.”
“Hey, I didn’t ask to be attacked. I’m a victim too.”
“Can it, Bane. There’s nothing you can say that will convince me this wasn’t your fault. I don’t care what you animals do to each other, but Tom Jolley is a citizen.”
Mike closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I am not a frickin’ werewolf. Losing his temper wouldn’t get him out of here any sooner. Dixon wanted answers. “Okay, I get it. Let’s get this over with.”
“Every town in the region depends on tourist dollars in the summer months to carry them through the winter. The human citizens are in an uproar over this. We’ve got an assault on a local businessman and attempted kidnapping in broad daylight. I’ve taken a dozen calls from the local lycans, many of whom I know and trust, disavowing you as an outsider. They’re terrified of the backlash against weres. They say you’re a menace. What the hell are you doing here?”
Mike felt the heat rise in his face. “I live here. Tom Jolley is my godfather. Is he still alive?”
Dixon ignored the question. “You live here? Why aren’t you registered as a resident? Lycanthropes are required to register their current address, just like the sexual predators.”
Mike’s forced himself to unclench his fists. “I already told you. I don’t have Lycanthropy. I’m not ALVS positive. Legally, I don’t have to register.” He held up his hand to forestall the interruption. “Okay, okay. My legal status is hazy at the moment; it’s working its way through the courts. Until there’s a final ruling, I don’t have to have a green card. I was planning to stop in and introduce myself, but I hadn’t gotten around to it yet. My bad.”
“Failure to register your address with local law enforcement is a misdemeanor.”
The tension in his shoulders eased. If Dixon was threatening him with a misdemeanor, he sure as hell wasn’t going to arrest him for assault. “You know I didn’t attack Tom Jolley. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. Please. Tell me what happened to him.”
“We found him in a dumpster behind the bait shop. The EMTs told me his throat was crushed. They had to do an emergency tracheotomy. He made it to the hospital and was taken directly into surgery. I called twice, but there’s no news yet. That’s all I know.”
He swallowed a moan. “Look, I need to get over there. Are we done here or are you really planning to arrest me?”
Dixon’s irritated look turned to one of concern. “When we searched the van, we found a large quantity of Ketamine and a nine millimeter Ruger loaded with illegal silver ammo. Gabe Randall’s wolf buddy is wanted in three states. Why did they come after you?”
Mike debated how much to tell him. He didn’t want to talk about any of it, but the detective would have little trouble finding out the truth on his own, anyway.
“A few months ago I was working undercover on a narcotics case in Queens. Ecstasy, ketamine, narcotics, you name it. The ass-wipe we were looking at was a middleweight dealer in the Magos biker gang. The case went south; the dealer didn’t
survive the arrest. Randall told me the dealer’s brother has a contract out on me.”
The cat screamed silently at the memory, still as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Easy boy.
Dixon smirked and closed the file folder. “Yeah, I heard about that. Got a buddy worked narcotics with you a few years ago. Said you were a good man to have in a tight spot, but you lost it.”
“I didn’t lose it.” Dixon was just yanking his chain, and they both knew it. The urge to get to the hospital was nearly overwhelming. “Are we done here?”
“You shifted on duty, man. The way I heard it, your beast took out Clemente and was about to help himself to some of Hector’s brain puddin’ when your partner shot you. Twice. You don’t call that a melt down?”
Mike struggled to keep the expression off his face. Only the fresh scent of his own blood had finally conquered the ketamine-induced stupor the cat had been kept in for two weeks. “You can’t believe anything you read in the newspapers about that case, Lieutenant. Clemente trapped me in beast form and was in the process of skinning me alive with a silver-edged blade. Internal Affairs exonerated me. The DA called it justifiable.”
“So why walk away? What made you move down here?” A sneer crept into Dixon’s voice.
Because when the big cat is unhappy, everybody’s unhappy. And when the cat is threatened, Tehuantl takes over and people die. In a moment of clarity, he realized he’d spent most of his life running away from one problem or another. “You already know the answer. I was forced out on a technicality. I don’t have ALVS, but it didn’t matter. My cover was blown.” This conversation wasn’t going anywhere. “I had a chance to start over here, and I took it. If people think I’m lycan, fine. I’ll live with the wolves. And this part of New York is the frickin’ Garden of Eden for werewolves, isn’t it?” His voice cracked. The sight of Tom’s broken, bloodied form flashed before him. “What’s not to like?”
“The wolves don’t want you here, for one thing. And neither do I.” Dixon’s expression hardened. “Other hunters are going to come sniffing around here looking for you, and I can’t have that. We have a sizable population of lycanthropes living in this county. Most of them keep a low profile. But every time a werewolf causes a problem, it reinforces the stereotype for everyone with ALVS.”