Dead Easy

by Mark William Simmons

  I turned to Camazotz. "Why have you brought him here?" I think the unspoken subtext was pretty clear: Why haven't you killed him?

  "Well, um, we didn't exactly capture him. He approached us. Asked us to bring him to you."

  I turned back to Silas. "What? You wanted me to kill you personally?"

  The old werewolf gave me a defiant look. It was pretty good: he'd probably been working it for years. "I came here to deliver a message and an ultimatum," he snarled back. "My death will gain you nothing. If I do not leave this boat in the next five minutes, my people will attack." Then he howled.

  A werewolf's howl will do more than make your skin crawl. Under a full moon with the night mist covering bloodblack ground, it will positively turn your epidermis inside-out. Even so there's a special sort of creepiness having an old dude do it in your living room—even with all of the lights on while under restraint.

  It didn't hurt that a chorus of howls answered from outside.

  Though the windows, we could now see dozens of wolves lining the riverbank and crowding the first boards of the docks. There were at least as many here on the east bank as we'd left behind on the west bank.

  His look went from defiant to smug.

  I sighed. Doing more sighing than shrugging these days. "Okay, boys, let him go."

  Setanta looked doubtful; Zotz looked thoughtful. Neither seemed inclined to release the arm they were grasping.

  "Seriously, guys. I've got better things for you to do. Zotz, I want you topside in the pilot's station. Goldilocks, I want you with me on the side deck in two minutes. Bring the letter opener."

  Setanta scowled. "Don't call me Goldilocks."

  Silas straightened his garments as they turned him loose. "Here are the conditions—" he began.

  I interrupted again. This time by backhanding him so hard he flew across the salon and cracked the wood façade on the cabinets where the galley began. Fifteen minutes ago I hadn't been able to lift my own head off of the pillow. Now I had just lifted a one-hundred-eighty pound man off of his feet with the back of my hand. Elfsblood: it does a body good!

  The others stared at me, stunned.

  "We're casting off in three minutes," I announced. "Zotz, when you hear the signal, open the throttles. Head for the middle of the river and give me warp nine. Goldilocks—"

  Setanta was still staring at Silas, suddenly ten feet away from where he'd been grasping his arm. "Yes?" he asked distractedly.

  "The moment Zotz guns the engines you've got to cut the mooring ropes. How are you at running with scissors?"

  The Hound of Fand hefted the archangel's sword and smiled as if emerging from a pleasant memory. "I have been practicing."

  Silas sat up groggily. "You can't—"

  "Save it, Gramps," I snapped. "You've got one minute to deliver your message and your punk-ass ultimatum. Don't waste it trying to jump-start a dick waving contest: I've got bigger monsters to bitch slap and otherworld fish to fry." I turned to Fand who was closest to the galley. "I need duct tape. Third drawer down, next to the sink." I turned back to Silas who was still sputtering and trying to find his balance in more ways than one. "Tick-tock, Akela; forty-five seconds."

  "Where is my granddaughter?" he growled.

  Okay. Wasn't prepared for that one.

  "Are you telling me that you don't know where she is?"

  "We were sure you had smuggled her off to Seattle but we're now convinced that you've secreted her elsewhere. We no longer have the luxury of time to search for her. Her time of confinement grows near and this child must not be born!"

  My first impulse was to backhand him across the salon, again. Instead, I put my face in his and said: "Oh yeah. Like I'd turn her over to you. She'd be better off with a back alley abortionist and dirty coat hanger than 'family'. So now it's time for you to do your big bad wolf shit, threaten to huff and puff and blow us all down."

  "I have troops on both sides of the river!" he thundered. "As soon as you come ashore—"

  "Time's up," I roared. I pounced on Silas just as he was getting to his feet. The old man was strong. Being a lycanthrope, he had additional body mass to bring into play. It wasn't a fair fight: I had just ingested the blood of an elven sea goddess, had a million micro-transformers (more than meets the eye) swarming my tissues, was half-undead with a silver-laced touch that was anathema to his kind, and—most importantly—was royally pissed and in family protection mode. It was short, brutal, and he made no further resistance as I slapped duct tape over his mouth and dragged him to the outer, port-side door.

  "Wait, what's the signal?" Zotz asked, on his way to the forward ladder.

  "Tom Hanks' first big breakout movie," I snarled, throwing the door open and hauling the Alpha Wolf Pack Master for the Eastern Enclaves: Tribes and Confederations outside and onto the side deck.

  I didn't give anyone time to think. More importantly, I didn't give anyone time to act on impulse.

  "All right!" I yelled, hauling Silas to the railing. "You've probably all heard the rumors! Guess what! They're true!" I grabbed the blade of the sword as Setanta passed next to me and then held up my hand so all the bad-ass doggies could see that it was good and bloody. It also took everyone's attention off the sound of the engines starting up.

  "Let me give you a little demonstration of what any of you might expect in a one-on-one confrontation from here on out!" I ripped the duct tape off with my good hand and then slapped my bloody hand over the old man's mouth before he could yell something stupid, like "Attack!"

  He began to yell anyway. Nothing coherent. Just screams of pain and agony as the flesh of his lower face began to smoke and melt.

  "You want my family?" I bellowed. "You'll have to go through me! It will be bloody! I don't think you'll like me bloody! Right, Gramps?" I shoved him over the railing. "Here's your leader! Now, go fetch!"

  At the sound of the splash, the throttles opened wide and the New Moon strained against the mooring ropes. As Setanta sliced through the first rope, I plucked up the gangplank and positioned myself to repel any boarders. No one moved except Setanta who swept past me to cut the second tether.

  As we shot away from the docks and out into the river the only movement I could see close to the boat landing was an old man with a ruined face struggling to reach the shore. No one made any move to assist him.

  My guess was the Eastern Werewolf Enclaves: Tribes and Confederations would have a new Alpha and Pack Master by tomorrow's moonrise.

  * * *

  I went topside almost immediately.

  "Heh," said Zotz as I approached the pilot's station, "I got it. Tom Hanks. Splash. For a moment I thought you were going for a Turner and Hooch smackdown kind of thing . . ."

  I flipped off the running lights. "Night-vision only till further notice."

  "They'll still follow us."

  "Maybe," I said. "Silas doesn't know where Lupé's stashed."

  "Still . . . Boat. River. Not a lot of choices for your getaway route."

  "Silas may not be in charge come sunrise."

  "Either way," the demon mused, "I'll keep an eye out for an open landing. Enough clear ground to guarantee our escape, we ditch the boat, steal some wheels, and drop off the radar."

  I shook my head. I've got to get into New Orleans and get my people back out before the storm hits. The roads out will be choked in another day. The river is the best way in and back out, again."

  "You're the captain." He said it without a trace of irony.

  "Thanks Zotz. Ease back on the throttle in about five minutes to lose the engine noise across the water. Run silent, run dark. Find us a concealed place to drop anchor out of the traffic lanes and close to shore in the next twenty if you can, and then join me down below for the bon voyage party."

  "Aye-aye, sir. But, beggin' the captain's pardon, you might want to reconsider. Big'n'beefy isn't half-bad in a fight. We could use him if things get hairy down south."

  I shook my head. "It's already hairy up here. O
n both sides of the river. And it's likely to get a lot worse before we arrive. I can't have people around me that I can't completely trust."

  "Does that mean you trust me?" he asked. "Completely?" And he batted his eyes mockingly.

  "Just find me a secluded off-loading point," I growled. "We're dropping ballast, whether they leave willingly or not!" I turned and stalked to the aft stairs.

  I descended to the main deck but remained outside, taking a circuit of the boat to check "the perimeter".

  Aside from the lights of distant traffic and clusters of illuminated buildings, the banks of the Ouachita revealed very little to either side. If wolf packs were running along the shores, keeping pace with our furtive course, they were well-hidden by the night. I tried shifting to infra-vision but we were too far out for anything man or wolf-sized to register at this range.

  It didn't matter. There wasn't anything I could do about that at the moment.

  The question was what could I do? About anything?

  I was headed down river. But laying aside the obstacles of werewolves from the New York Demesne following me and more werewolves from the New Orleans Demesne waiting to intercept me, a river full of the Black Lagoon Irregulars, and possible visitations from the tentacle-faced and seafood-in-a-barrel monsters, I wasn't sure I could get back to Lupé in time. I was no meteorologist and the weather map on the TV was nothing more than a guess built out of momentary readings. But a tropical depression so close by in the Gulf was beyond ominous. Most hurricanes, birth to landfall, offer days to plan and execute a proper evacuation. This wasn't a typical storm cell and the depression vectors in the Gulf were much closer than the storms that gestated out in the Atlantic.

  As of right now, an hour's delay could make a crucial difference.

  So the sooner I jettisoned my problematic passengers . . .

  The door to the Salon opened and Liban came out on deck. "Christopher? Are you all right?"

  I stared at her. "No." Staring at her was a mistake: she really was beautiful. And I could no longer trust my own physical responses.

  "Is there something I can do?"

  "Yeah." My voice was a little hoarse. "Get your sister and get off my boat."

  She took a step toward me. "About that—"

  "My son will not be a sacrifice!"

  She stopped and looked at me as if I had slapped her. "I do not understand the exact meaning of The Telling," she said slowly. "Elvish words can have many meanings and both of us may have very different ideas as to what a prophecy means and still be both wrong."

  "I'm not taking any chances," I said, noticing how the collar of her wetsuit rose up from the shoulder seams to cover the lower slope of her neck. The front closure was more than half undone. It wouldn't take much movement—a flick of the wrist, really—to pull the zipper down to the parting point. The neoprene top could be pulled open, the collar folded back . . .

  I felt the ferro-carbon fangs start to extrude from my gums.

  "Your sister needs to find some other child to adopt. Someone who needs a parent. My son has two." At the very least.

  Liban shook her head and took another step toward me. "My sister owes you her life, now. She will swear you a blood oath that from this day forth, your child is safe from her and her lieged."

  "Wow," I said, "an oath. "Well then, I guess I can trust anything she would swear to seeing as how she's never lied to me before."

  Another step and it was becoming more difficult to read her facial expressions seeing as how her throat kept getting in the way.

  "Prophecies are vague," she murmured. "There may be many ways to set them aside, create alternative outcomes."

  "For example?" I asked harshly.

  "We will accompany you to New Orleans. We will assist you in rescuing your family and evacuating them to a safe place. We can assist you in avoiding your enemies. Or join you in extracting them if necessary."

  "Why?" I asked, trying to ignore the hotness of an elf chick in a form-fitting wetsuit, talking like Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. "What's in it for you?"

  "Any other time it would be sufficient that you had saved my sister's life. A debt is owed. But now we stand on the cusp of time and your success or failure may be the hope or doom for your world and ours. Why would we not seek to insure your success?"

  I shook my head as she took another step toward me. I suddenly had the feeling I was being stalked. "There's more to it than that, isn't there? Even if you're not planning to betray me, you have other reasons . . ."

  Liban slipped her long, slender fingers into the gap above the zipper of her orange top. Slowly, she drew her hand down, the zipper sighing as the last few inches of the foam-like material separated. Her top parted like the stage curtains of a wondrous burlesque show, moonlight, mystery, and madness lay just beyond the footlights.

  "You fascinate me, mortal," she sighed. "Fand has had her Cuchulainn for two thousand and four hundred years—save those lost centuries during the Great Confounding. I have found no one worthy since my parting with Labraid over the coming of the Fisher King. Are you my Tam Lin? My Thomas the Rhymer?"

  She slid the neoprene jacket from her shoulders and was all pearlescent in the moonlight, all orbed and fulsome. "Of all the men born of mortal woman there has been no one of your like who was not part god. A goddess needs a god," she said, coming up against me and tilting her head back to expose her creamy throat, "even one who brings her pain."

  The fangs slid from my gums in a flash and I was leaning down without thought, without will, without hesitation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  My lips came to rest upon the creamy slope of her neck.

  I was a man and weak, with a goddess pressed against me, offering up her perfect flesh to my desires.

  My fangs dimpled her creamy skin, pressing on the artery that trembled, hot and turgid, with heart's blood pounding through that feast of flesh now willingly offered.

  But the monster in me was not yet ascendant: I wanted the blood—but I did not yet need the blood.

  And her offer was forced—not at gunpoint nor by external coercion but by the betrayal of her own endocrine system.

  It was a false gift, born not out of desire but out of pheromones and hormonal triggers. Yeah, I know that there are those who would argue that desire is nothing but biochemical soups and aerosols but I have to believe in something more. Love is a chemist's nightmare, to quote Saperstein, but if we were nothing more than glands and nerve endings the social contract would not stand. It is broken every day by acts of will and lack of will but we still exercise degrees of choice.

  If my pheromones had been "weaponized" Liban's choices were illusion. My response was simple predation with a complex camouflage. And the end result potentially more evil by making her complicit in the act. Taking her against her will and by brute force would be a lesser crime.

  I dug down deep and found just enough humanity to push her away and say: "No."

  "No?" A freight train of emotions rumbled across her face as she dealt with the unthinkable: a mortal turning down a goddess. There was heat in those cool features, now. I suddenly realized how much punishment Fand was happy to deliver to those who had thwarted her. Could my nano-driven elf-defense system handle tag-team payback from the Sidhe Sisters as well as a one-man-army of Celtic legend?

  Then her face darkened like the moon going behind a cloud. She turned and walked away. Her pride would not let her run but she moved with all deliberate speed, passing the door to the salon's interior, and sought the solitude of the New Moon's open deck at the prow.

  I started to bend down to retrieve her top and then thought the better of it. What was I going to do? Return it to her? Best to leave it where she could find it. I turned around and practically collided with Suki.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. She, on the other hand, stood there impassively, like a recently sculpted manikin, staring at me with those empty eyes. Those lifeless orbs, devoid of spark or sparkle. Eyes like the gl
ass fakes utilized by doll makers and taxidermists. She looked at me as if she saw nothing and everything. She stared as if she were looking clear though me and into another space, another dimension. Another possible culmination.

  I finally stepped around her and, as I did, she moved forward and bent down to pick up Liban's wetsuit jacket. I watched her carry it toward the front of the boat.

  God, I was tired!

  Even now with the crackling surges of fresh energy from Liban's blood thrumming through vein and artery, nerve and muscle, I was newly weary. Every day brought fresh pain—every day I brought fresh pain. Fully turned vampires had the advantage of operating without conscience, without emotion. Without regret. Stuck somewhere between warm-blooded human and cold-blooded predator, I was screwed—coming and going. If not for the obligations of family . . .

  I turned and went into the salon.

  The main lights were turned off to preserve everyone's night vision for going out on deck. A single lamp near the sliding glass doors leading to the bow gave just enough illumination to keep us from stumbling about inside. Added bonus, it was very film noirish: Bogart would have approved.

  Setanta and Fand were sitting on the couch, holding hands. They looked at me as I came in and Fand rose to her feet, pushing her big, muscley shadow back down when he tried to rise with her. For all of that she still looked a little shaky.

  "I know you bear me much ill will," she began. "And I know it must seem that I have acted out of the worst motivations. But I ask you to believe that I have always had the best intentions concerning your son. And I have been careful to see that you came to no actual harm."

  I held up my hand. "Your sister explained. Okay. Doesn't matter. He's still not up for adoption. So here's what happens next. Zotz is bringing us in close to shore and you're all going ashore. Good luck with the next round in your family-planning cycle but just remember that times have changed. These days it takes a village. That, and a small militia, as well as the GNP of a small Mediterranean country. So, good luck, adios, and please return your seats and tray tables to the upright position. I want you out of my house and off my boat as soon as we can lower the dinghy."