The Frenzy War

by Gregory Lamberson

  Now she watched her other customer, a tall man wearing a long coat and a knit cap. He seemed determined to examine every book in the store.

  Rhonda glimpsed her reflection in the convex mirror mounted high in one corner to help catch shoplifters. She wore her dark hair short, like a boy, but her slender neck and angular shoulders were decidedly feminine. Her mother told her she was too skinny, but she was perfectly happy with her pixie-like body, which was just her human shell after all. Unfortunately, living in the city rarely afforded her the opportunity to assume her Wolf Shape. She wore a navy-blue hoodie over a black T-shirt and tight, faded jeans tucked into short boots.

  Jason pressed his feet along the outside of the ladder and slid down it to the scuffed wooden floor like a sailor on a ship. Wearing loose-fitting carpenter’s pants and a New York Giants football jersey, he came behind the counter and retrieved the bathroom key, which was secured to a wooden block so it wouldn’t get lost.

  Rhonda felt his free hand slide around her waist. His touch sent a tremor of excitement through her body, but she swatted his hand away. They stood the same height, and when she looked at him, she saw straight into his brown eyes. She had to admit her heart skipped a beat as he grinned at her. They had not had sex yet. Wolves mated for life, and they agreed they were too young to make that commitment, but they had pleased each other in other ways.

  “You want to see a movie tonight?” Jason said.

  “What movie?”

  “I don’t know …”

  Rhonda smiled. He never had a movie in mind; he just wanted to spend time with her in the dark. “Sure.”

  She watched him hurry to the back of the store, admiring his butt as he unlocked the office door. They intended to go to Europe together, and she accepted the possibility that they might sleep together then, whenever then was. She fantasized about seeing him in his Wolf Form.

  The customer turned and exited without saying anything. His abrupt departure caused Rhonda to raise one eyebrow, but she shrugged it off. She had long ago become accustomed to strange behavior from her fellow New Yorkers, especially those humans who frequented Synful Reading. She glanced at the clock beside the register—10:05. Shit, time was crawling.

  The bells on the door jingled. The customer who had just left returned, followed by two men garbed in similar long coats. They wore knit caps of different colors, and Rhonda estimated their ages ranged from twenty-five to thirty-five. One had black skin, and he twisted the lock on the door and strode across the store. The fine hair on Rhonda’s body prickled. The other men stood before the counter, their eyes locking on her. The black man removed a can of spray paint from his coat pocket and unleashed a hissing black mist at the lens of the security camera mounted on the wall.

  “Hey!” Rhonda wanted to scream for Jason.

  The man closest to her had a black beard. He reached inside his coat and withdrew a gun unlike any Rhonda had seen in movies or on TV: a pistol with a wooden grip and two barrels, one of them more than a foot long.

  She felt her eyes widen as her heart raced. “What do you want? Money?”

  No. They know what we are.

  The bearded man pulled back a spring-loaded mechanism on the gun, cocking it.

  Rhonda reached for the alarm button beneath the register. She heard a muffled sound come from the gun—not a shot, really, more of a snap followed by a rush of air. Pain needled her chest, stopping her forward momentum, and when she looked down, she saw a dart protruding between her small breasts. Curling her fingers around the dart, she jerked it out and felt a burning sensation in her chest. The dart slipped from her fingers in slow motion and clattered on the floor. The room rocked back and forth, and the bearded man lowered his gun.

  Rhonda’s mind clouded, and her body undulated.

  Jason emerged from the back of the store. At first he looked puzzled, then concerned.

  Help me, Jason!

  Jason charged forward, and suddenly Rhonda realized that might not be such a good thing after all. The black man and the man who had been in the store first drew identical tranquilizer guns. Jason opened his mouth to scream, but Rhonda could not hear him. He leapt into the air, wild-eyed, just as the men fired their guns. His body twisted in midair as the darts penetrated him, and he crashed on the floor between the men.

  Rhonda staggered forward to see over the counter’s edge.

  Jason snarled at the men, his irises expanding so they blotted out the whites of his eyes. Rhonda prayed he would complete his Transformation and tear the men to pieces.

  The black man raised a leg to kick Jason, but Jason slashed at the air with one hand, and the man jerked his leg back. The movement caused Jason to topple over, like a table with one leg removed, and he fought to get back on his hands and knees, his face contorted with equal parts rage and pain.

  Seeing the darts in his torso, Rhonda realized he had received double the dosage she had of whatever chemical flowed through her veins.

  Holstering his gun, the bearded man moved beside the black man and looked down at Jason.

  Rhonda slumped over the counter and clawed at its edge to keep from sinking to the floor. She fought to remain alert.

  The bearded man drew something from his coat, but it wasn’t a gun. It was long and shiny.

  A sword!

  Rhonda opened her mouth to call to Jason, but she had no idea if any sound came out.

  Using both hands, the man raised the sword high. Jason looked up, fear evident in his eyes even as his face contorted. The sword sliced the air in a downward swing.

  One moment Rhonda saw Jason’s transforming countenance, and the next she saw blood gushing out of the stump of his neck as his body lurched forward. Then she blacked out.

  Michael moved away from the pool of blood spreading across the dirty wooden floor, then slid his Blade of Salvation into the scabbard fastened to the inside of his coat without bothering to first wipe the blood from it.

  Standing at the counter, Myles nodded his approval.

  Michael gazed at the head on the floor. It belonged to a creature neither wolf nor human but something in between. He had killed it just in time; in another few moments it would have completed its transformation into something almost unstoppable. “Let’s get that bitch out of here. Watch out for the blood.”

  Henri joined Myles. They holstered their tranq guns and went behind the counter.

  Michael spied a key attached to a wooden block on the floor, where the beast boy had dropped it. He snatched it and hurried to the rear of the store, where he unlocked a door that admitted him into a cramped office. Walking between a safe bolted to the floor and a desk with a computer terminal upon it, he seized a digital recorder deck connected to a security monitor. He unscrewed the connecters, his movements restricted by the blue latex gloves he wore, and pulled the recorder away, leaving cables dangling. On his way out, he pushed the button lock in the doorknob, threw the key and its block on the floor, and shut the door.

  His men stood at the front door, supporting the girl monster between them. Her head rolled limp on her neck.

  “Let’s go.” Michael stepped over the headless corpse on the floor and hopped over the crimson pool. Reaching past the female wolf, he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  Eun, the Korean woman he had stationed outside the door as lookout, revealed herself. She caught the door and waved to the white cargo van idling at the curb.

  Michael peered outside, looking each way up St. Mark’s Place. He saw the usual eccentrics on the sidewalk and civilian traffic but no police. “Go!”

  Henri and Myles ran outside into the crisp morning air, dragging the female between them. The van’s side door opened, and Valeria crouched in the darkness within it. Henri and Myles shoved the wolf into her arms, and the three of them hauled her into the van and laid her upon the sofa inside it.

  Michael crossed the sidewalk without glancing at the pedestrians milling about. Feeling an electric current in the air, he opened the passenger
door and got in beside Angelo. A moment later, the side door closed behind him. Then he heard manacles snapping shut and his comrades zipping the unconscious female into the body bag they had brought.

  “Move it!” Eun said.

  With his steel-grey eyes focused on the traffic ahead, Angelo turned into the street.

  “Nice and easy. We don’t want to be pulled over.” Now Michael glanced at the pedestrians. Those watching the van’s departure seemed more confused than alarmed.

  “What happened in there?” Valeria said.

  Henri answered, his English accented in French. “Michael slew the other beast.”

  Only Michael’s nerves prevented him from gloating.

  “That’s one for Pedro,” Valeria said.

  Michael thought of their fallen comrade who had been sent to the United States two years earlier to retrieve the Blade of Salvation that Valeria now carried. He had been slain in Central Park, along with an American priest who served as his contact, by one of the beasts. Pedro had the heart of a true warrior and had been dedicated to their cause. He had died a hero. Now his demise had been avenged.

  Angelo turned right onto a one-way street. Two blocks later, he double-parked beside a second van, this one a black GMC Savana.

  Michael got out and climbed into the driver’s seat of the Savana, started its engine, and unlocked its doors. In his side mirror, he saw Henri, Myles, and Eun jump out and run to the back of the vehicle. Then Angelo moved the white van ahead, giving Michael room to pull out. Valeria joined the others, and the four of them carried the sofa, their captive invisible in the secret compartment within it, to the Savana. They loaded the sofa into the cargo compartment and got in after it.

  After the doors slammed shut, Michael turned into the street. Halfway up the block he stopped where Angelo had parked the first van.

  Angelo hopped into the passenger seat. “Nice and easy,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “We don’t want to be pulled over.”

  Driving forward, Michael tore the false beard from his face as he heard sirens in the distance.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Willy Diega guided his department issue SUV past the police cruisers parked along St. Mark’s Place and double-parked in front of a red Toyota at the corner of the block.

  His partner, Karol Williams, shook her head. “How do you expect this guy to get out?”

  “If he knows what’s good for him? Very carefully.”

  “That’s no way for a police lieutenant to treat the public.”

  “Tell me that again when the department actually unfreezes the promotions list.” Willy had passed his lieutenant’s test with flying colors, but the brass had placed all promotions on hold due to budgetary woes. He remained a detective first grade in Homicide South, training detectives new to the unit. Karol was the second detective third grade to serve as his partner since Patty Lane’s murder two years earlier.

  “What’s your big hurry to move up? Are you that anxious to get rid of me?”

  In truth, Willy wanted to leave Homicide. He had witnessed enough mayhem during the Manhattan Werewolf case to turn him off being a murder police. But Ken Landry, his lieutenant, had advised him to stay put until his promotion came through. “I’m that anxious to get the pay grade that goes with the promotion. Besides, once I leave Homicide, you can’t use being partners as an excuse not to see me.”

  Karol gave him an exasperated look. “We’ll still be in the same department. I don’t date cops—ask around.”

  “I have.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “The guys in your old unit think you’re a dyke.”

  “What if I am?”

  “That’s cool. We can go watch girls together.”

  “That’s why I won’t date you. You’re a dog, and you’re too old for me to teach you new tricks.”

  “Maybe I could teach you some.”

  “You never give up, do you?”

  “I’ve got to be true to myself.”

  “Then how about this: you’re my training officer. You’re using your position of authority to pressure me into submitting to you.”

  Willy stared at her for a moment, uncertain what to say. Karol got out of the SUV, and he did the same. Had he taken the game too far? He liked Karol but not enough to risk his career over. Staring across the top of the vehicle at her, he saw her face split into a big smile, her white teeth dazzling against her dark skin. He wagged one finger at her. “You had me going.”

  “Good. Because if I didn’t like you I just might file a complaint, and people would pay attention. You just want what you can’t have. Your macho Latin ego can’t handle that I’m not interested.”

  Willy joined her on the sidewalk, and they started forward. “Hey, don’t stereotype me.” Upon seeing their destination, he stopped in his tracks: Synful Reading.

  Two police officers stood outside the door, one of them speaking to three civilians. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off the sidewalk, forming a square around the store’s entrance and forcing pedestrians into the street.

  “Is something wrong?” Karol said.

  “Our crime scene figured into an old case of mine.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Manhattan Werewolf.”

  Karol raised her eyebrows. “How involved?”

  “The woman who ran the store witnessed one of the homicides. We considered her a person of interest. She disappeared. We put out an APB for her, but she never turned up. Her brothers own the store now.”

  “No shit? I’m sure there’s no connection.”

  I’m not so sure.

  They ducked beneath the tape, and Willy pulled his three-quarter length coat back, allowing the PO stationed at the door to see his gold shield. “Willy Diega and Karol Williams.”

  The PO recorded their names on his clipboard.

  “No press. I don’t care how pushy she—they—are.”

  The PO nodded. “CSU is here.”

  Pulling on his latex gloves, Willy looked over his shoulder at the Crime Scene Unit van pulling up to the curb. “Who are the civilians?”

  “The woman says she saw some guys drag a girl out of the store and throw her into a white van that took off. She went inside and found the vic. The two men went in after she came out screaming. We got here two minutes after Dispatch called us. We put out an APB on the van, but no luck so far.”

  Karol put on her gloves, and Willy opened the door for her and followed her inside the bookstore, where two other POs stood guard. Exotic scents unfamiliar to Willy filled his nostrils, and he wanted to gag: incense. A pool of blood spread across the floor from the gaping neck stump of a headless body. Willy experienced déjà vu. He had seen more than his share of headless corpses on the Manhattan Werewolf case. Glancing at the wall units he saw only books, not messages scrawled in blood. Karol froze in her tracks, the first time Willy had seen her affected by a crime scene, and he stepped around her. The corpse’s head lay tilted on one side on the floor. He caught himself sighing with relief. The Manhattan Werewolf’s victims’ heads had all been missing.

  “You guys touch anything?” Willy said.

  “Not us,” one of the POs said.

  Willy pulled on rubber shoe covers and circled the pool of blood to see the victim’s face. His heart skipped a beat. The unblinking eyes were completely brown except for their pupils. Like a dog’s, he thought.

  “What the hell?” Karol said beside him.

  A sick feeling grew in the pit of Willy’s stomach. He circled the corpse and stood straddling it. Sneakers, carpenter’s pants, a football jersey—all soaking in blood. Seeing the bulge of a wallet in a back pocket, he bent over and removed it. He parted the leather and examined the photo ID, which showed a handsome boy with curly hair matching that on the head staring back at him.

  “Jason Lourdes.” Willy did some quick math. “Age eighteen. Queens.”

  Karol pointed at the corpse’s neck stump. “That’s the cleanest wound I’ve ever seen.
”

  “Like it was made by a sword.” Willy took out his cell phone and struck auto dial.

  “Lieutenant Landry,” a voice said after the second ring.

  “It’s Willy. I’m over at Synful Reading on St. Mark’s. The bad news is we got a headless stiff.”

  “Ah, shit,” Landry said in a low voice. “What’s the good news?”

  “The head’s right here.”

  Landry released an audible sigh.

  “The vic’s only eighteen. Someone cut off his head, possibly with a sword.”

  “Please tell me that’s the worst of it.”

  “Witnesses say a young woman got snatched too. We have to ID her. I need you to find the contact info for Angela Domini’s brothers and get them down here.”

  “Oh, shit,” the PO said behind Willy, who shot him a disapproving look.

  “Copy that,” Landry said.

  Willy read the address on Jason Lourdes’s ID, and Landry hung up. Willy looked at Karol. “The Dominis own a funeral home too. At least they did when we shut down the previous investigation.”

  The bells on the door chimed as Hector Rodriguez from CSU entered with Suzie Quarrel, a member of his team. They wore blue jumpsuits with yellow rubber boots and gloves, and Suzie had dyed her razor-sharp hair purple.

  “Somebody call for Rodriguez’s Cleaning Service?” Hector’s mustache undulated as he spoke. “Oh, madre.”

  “Bag it up,” Willy said. “Everyone in the store is forbidden to discuss this with anyone but a superior officer.”

  “Why are you looking at me?” the PO said.

  Willy turned to Karol. “You want to interview the witnesses?”

  Sitting at his desk in the K-9 Unit, located at Floyd Bennett Field, where NYPD maintained its Aviation and Emergency Services units, Captain Anthony Mace filled out an online requisition for dog food.

  Ever since being removed from Homicide South in the wake of the Manhattan Werewolf killings, which he had been unable to solve to the satisfaction of his superiors, Mace had been relegated to pushing paper in one of the most unglamorous units in the department, his rank largely meaningless, with no chance of escape or promotion. He followed the same routine day after day, scheduling training sessions, assigning new dogs to human partners, and acting like a bottom level administrator in any bureaucracy. In the span of one case, he had gone from being a celebrity cop with a promising future to a forgotten soldier gathering dust in an office. Now technically part of the transit police, he looked forward to retiring in two years.