Calling the Wild

by Lila Dubois

  Careful of her fishnets, for though ripping them would have been perfectly acceptable for the outfit it would make them hard to use again, Moira opened the door and pulled out the ramp.

  Moira watched the centaur climb up the ramp, his upper lip pulled back in a sneer of disgust. Once inside he turned around, the process again taking several minutes as he tried to navigate his big body in the small space.

  When he faced her, his hands raised and braced on the ceiling above his bowed head, Moira slid the ramp back in place and closed the door.

  Scrambling into the cab, she cranked the engine on and then backed down the alley. She’d gotten pretty good at maneuvering the van and didn’t hit a wall as they inched tail first out of the space between the buildings. She navigated out of the maze-like warehouse district, where the dark shells of derelict buildings leaned threateningly over the road, windows gaping like plucked eyes, doors sealed tight, though there was nothing within to protect.

  Once on the highway, Moira drove cautiously. Though the night seemed to have lasted for days, in reality it was only 1:30 a.m., but on a Saturday night that meant that the cops would be on the highways looking for drunk drivers. Following the directions that Drak had given her, Moira pulled off the highway and wended her way through a small business district. The business park was dark and quiet, with less life than her decrepit warehouse district. These places were truly dead at night. Dead save for one small building, hidden behind a three-story strip mall of medical and office supply stores. The parking lot around this place was full, and pulsing music leaked from the cracks around windows and doors. The building looked like it had originally been a restaurant, for there was a covered patio and cute sculpted arches above each window.

  How sad to see that after the restaurant failed, probably driven out of business by the lunch-only clientele, the building had been reincarnated as something far different than its original purpose. Moira hopped out of the truck, stashing the keys under the seat after twisting off the cab door key and tucking the cold uncomfortable bit of metal down the outside of her right breast. She locked and closed the door, then crept to the rear.

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going inside, I’ll be out as soon as I can. I’ll come back and let you know I’ve returned. If the van starts moving and I haven’t come to talk to you, it means it is not me driving and you have a problem.”

  “I can take care of myself if it comes to that.”

  “I hope that it won’t, but I wanted to warn you.”

  “Go, so we can get back, and I can get out of here.”

  Moira opened her mouth to apologize, but swallowed the words. Instead she pressed her palm to the door, then walked away.

  Halfway to the front of the building she found she was still thinking of the centaur. Shaking herself, Moira focused on the task at hand. This was the start of her quest to get her life back.

  Keeping her expression cool and serious, Moira walked up to the bouncer, who perched on a stool on the defunct patio, one massive leg, covered in de rigueur black pants, braced on the ground.

  “It’s a bit late to show up to the party, girlie.”

  “Since I just got here, it can’t have been much of a party.”

  He smiled at her cheek and held out his hand for her ID. Moira leaned forward and slowly extracted it. She made sure that he got an eyeful of boob, but didn’t see the knife. She stroked his palm with the small plastic card before carefully dropping it in his hand.

  The bouncer brought it to his face, pressing it to his cheek.

  “Hot. You may be right that the party just started. I may have to come in and find you later.”

  “Maybe you should.” Moira held out her hand for her card, but he shook his head at her, instead tucking it back into her corset. Moira held her expression still as he accidentally jabbed her with the card, and then gave him a sultry look before turning and sashaying in to the club.

  Just inside the dark foyer she readjusted her ID, releasing the grimace she’d been holding in. A little bit of fondling was worth not having to pay the $20 cover.

  Flipping her head forward Moira scrubbed her hands through her hair, tousling it, and then pulled the green streaks forward to frame her face. Taking a deep breath, she tugged the corset into place and pushed through the black curtain, entering the heart of the club.

  Out in the parking lot, the rear doors of the van slid up, then down. If anyone had seen they would have been left to puzzle out why and how the door opened, because there was no one around. They would not have seen The Wild move across the parking lot, or slip past the bouncer into the club, silent on invisible feet.

  Moira pushed through the drunk and strung-out crowd. The problem with arriving at this point in the night was that everyone here, besides her, was already well on their way to obliterated through either drugs or alcohol, most with a combination of both. She fended off several people, turned down offers of drinks and drugs and kept wending her way through the club. The main room had a small stage where the DJ was set up, thumping electronica filling the room.

  The DJ was surprisingly good, weaving different songs together, A Perfect Circle’s cover of “Imagine” riding at the tail of a Red Lily song. One small side room had a mock heaven-and-hell theme. There were glittering red flames climbing the walls and a roaring fire in the small Spanish-style fireplace, which someone had tried to inexpertly mask by painting it black. An upright crucifix hung on one wall, while an inverse one hung on the other. They’d set up a small cash bar in one corner, and the bartender wore white angel wings. Across from that room was the long main bar. The shelf of alcohol in the back was lit by red lights. The glasses that hung over the long wood bar from racks were clear glass laced with ribbons of black and red. But the best and most elaborate decorations were the people themselves. The majority were dressed in black, and there was enough fishnet to dredge a lake.

  Moving further into the club, Moira saw an arch leading to another room, this one more private than the rest of the club. Rather than push her way in, she made several passes in front of the doorway, getting a good look. The long thin room held black leather couches, bathed in red light. A huge black iron chandelier dripped with white candles.

  Only half of the couches were occupied, which seemed weird considering the press in the club. The music was quieter in the room free from the pulsing beats, and as she made her third pass Moira heard a familiar voice. Drak was in there.

  She made it across to the far side of the door and paused to collect herself. Her repertoire of defense and attack spells was respectable, but the setting was not ideal for working magic. Frankly, she had no problem showing people that magic still existed, but there were too many things in an unknown environment that might affect her magic, plus an unknown number of other magic workers. After the time she tried to use an earth-based spell while unknowingly standing on a forgotten graveyard, she’d been careful about using magic in unknown environments. Moira rolled her shoulders and flexed her arms. Old school hand to hand would be her first choice if things went bad.

  She spun and stepped through the arch. A hand caught her arm, and Moira gave the woman attached to that hand a cold look.

  “Private party,” the woman sneered.

  “I’m invited,” Moira said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why don’t you ask Drak?”

  The woman, whose bright pink bob was a wig, turned and looked at a man seated in the darkest corner. All Moira could see were his legs, a blonde woman knelt on the couch beside him, her back to Moira. Pink bob went to him, bending forward, giving Moira a good idea of what kind of underwear she had on. Pink bob motioned to Moira, who lifted a hand and placed it on her hip, striking a pose.

  Pink bob came back to Moira, jerking her head towards the corner. Moira started across the room, nervous that she still hadn’t seen Drak’s face. The blonde who’d been kneeling with her back to Moira shifted out of t
he way. The blonde’s breasts were bare, held up like pale round mounds of dough by a stretch shirt, which had been pulled down. The tops of both breasts were smeared with blood. The blonde shifted to lie on her back, head resting on the leg of the man she’d been concealing.

  Drak was skinny, his thin frame emphasized by his British punk clothing. Tight black jeans hugged his legs, disappearing into calf-high black boots studded with buckles, much like her own. He wore a Union Jack T-shirt with huge rips in it. One of the slashes exposed his pierced left nipple. Other piercings graced his face, including a hoop that hugged his lower lip, another through his nostril and several bars through each eyebrow.

  There were smears of red around his mouth.

  Moira stopped in front of him, bracing her feet apart on the floor and cocking one hip, letting him look his fill. He started with her tits, then moved down to her tiny, shiny shorts, and finally to her face.

  “Drak.”

  “And you must be Moira. They neglected to mention how delectable you were.” He drawled in a probably fake British accent.

  “Why would they?”

  “I’m known as something of a connoisseur.” Drak slid his hand to his companion’s breasts and smeared the drying blood over her nipples, roughly fondling one until she cried out. Moira repressed a sneer and took a seat on the couch perpendicular to Drak’s.

  “You have some information I want.”

  “I wonder what such a delectable woman would want with such dangerous information.”

  “My reasons are my own and not part of our bargain.”

  “What if I want to make them part of our bargain?”

  “Then I’ll leave. If you have the information, then I’m sure someone else does too.” Moira smiled as she delivered the insult.

  “You’re awfully bitchy for someone looking for a favor,” he snarled, voice gone Midwestern drawl. He paused, then smirked, “Then again, I like my women to be bitches.” He gave the blonde’s nipple a savage twist and she cried out, a high wavering sound that continued until he released her.

  “I really don’t care how you like your women, and I’m paying you for the information, so I wouldn’t call it a favor.”

  “How true.”

  “Where are they?”

  “So forceful. I need to fortify myself before this conversation can continue.”

  With a poorly concealed covert glance at Moira, Drak urged his companion up. The blonde straddled one of his skinny chicken legs, kneeling up so that her breasts were face level to him. Drak pulled a razor blade from the pocket of his jeans, thought they were so tight she was surprised he could fit anything in there.

  He pulled the razor blade from its paper casing and used it to make a long shallow slice on the inner curve of the blonde’s right breast. Fresh red blood welled, mingling with the darker dried blood from the other cuts he’d already administered.

  Looking away would mean she was uncomfortable, staring could mean she was excited by watching him lap blood from the blonde’s breasts. Moira settled for watching, but keeping her expression bored.

  Drak finished, pushing the blonde away with impatient hands. He seemed disappointed by her lack of reaction and didn’t even notice when the blonde slipped one hand between her own legs, the other playing with the sticky blood on her breast.

  “Don’t you like the taste of blood, Moira?” he asked, licking the razor.

  “I don’t play vampire.”

  His mutinous expression said she’d gone too far, been too insulting, so Moira lifted one leg, setting it on the seat beside her. His eyes traced from her boot up her fishnet clad leg to her shiny crotch.

  “The prophecy scrolls are in a library.”

  “Scrolls in a library isn’t good information. Whose library?”

  “A troll, a scholar. She took all the Dark Prophecy scrolls and divided them up, each prophecy bound into its own book. No one has seen them since they were placed in her library, and no other copies exist.”

  “I have to steal them? There is no possibility of buying them?”

  “Not that I’ve heard of.”

  “What’s the troll’s name?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked away, watching the blonde play with herself. Moira’s mind raced. There was something else. She could feel it.

  “What else do I need to know?”

  Drak looked at her, head tilted to the side. Next to him the blonde, her fingers coated in blood, moaned as she brought herself to orgasm. Moira held Drak’s gaze.

  “What a clever question, but my question is, what is it worth to you?”

  “A thousand dollars should cover it.”

  “No, the thousand dollars was for the location of the scrolls. I gave you that information, we are now going to strike a different bargain.”

  “How do I know that this information you claim to have is worth it?”

  “I’ll tell you a piece of it, as a sign of,” he leaned forward, stroking Moira’s leg, “good faith.” The troll locked each of the books, and scattered the nine keys.

  “Why?”

  “She read them, and what I’ve heard is that there are so many dark and,” Drak licked his lips, “delicious things, in the scrolls, that she didn’t want anyone else to be tempted by what was inside.”

  “Where are the keys?”

  “That is information I have, and that you have to pay for.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A taste. Of you.”

  “A kiss?”

  “Tsk, tsk, Moira. You know that’s not what I want.”

  “Blood is too valuable.”

  “You think highly of yourself.”

  Moira slid closer to Drak, loosening her hold on her magic and even drawing on her connection to the centaur so the air around her prickled with magic.

  He reached out, tracing his hands over the halo of her power, greedy eyes feasting on the visible sparks in the air. He reached out to grab a bright sparkle that hovered near her cheek and Moira clamped down on her power, sealing it tight inside her.

  “I think very highly of myself. My blood is worth more than you know.”

  “I must have a taste,” he whispered, seemingly to himself.

  “I will give you a taste, but that will be payment for both the location and information on how to unlock the book.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Ten seconds.”

  “A minute.”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “From your breast.”

  “From my finger.”

  “From your breast. I want to be close to your heart when I taste you.”

  Moira swallowed her revulsion. If she didn’t need every penny she would have given him the money and run, but as revolting as she might find this bargain it was the lesser of the evils.

  “You will swear an oath to me no harm with my blood.”

  “I will swear any oath you want.”

  “And you will give me the information first.”

  “After.”

  “No. You will be power drunk, and I won’t risk it.”

  “Fine.”

  Moira sat back, now anxious to get her information, let him have the blood payment and get out of here.

  “There are amulets, one for each book. They are keys. Each amulet is in a different location. If you want those books, you’ll have to collect all nine amulets before you even bother to look for the troll.”

  “What if I only want one? How do I know which amulet I need?”

  “That, I can’t tell you.”

  Moira had saved the most important question for last. “Do you know them? Do you know what the nine prophecies are?”

  “No, no one does. Someone so deliciously powerful should know that,” he licked his lips and Moira leaned forward, giving him an eyeful in the hopes of keeping him talking. “Every grimoire had the pages regarding the Prophecies removed long ago, and those old enough to remember are smart enough not to tell.”

  That confirmed
Moira’s fear. She had a vague memory of the witch she’d apprenticed with mentioning a set of prophecies, which, if they came true, would spell an end of days for the world. The magical community had bound together a hundred years ago to destroy every record of them, worried that there were those out there so disgusted by the world as it existed that they would use the prophecies to bring about the end of days. At the time the Dark Prophecies had been of no interest to Moira, who’d been more concerned with glamour spells, so she hadn’t been sure if what she remembered was correct. Drak had been the first one she’d been willing to ask.

  “There’s no way to know what they are?”

  “Ahhh, I wondered if you would ask that. I don’t know what they are, but I’ve heard there’s a list of the titles.”

  “Where?”

  “For another ten seconds of your blood I’ll tell you.”

  “Done.”

  “Some art historian got a hold of it, and put it in a museum in Chicago.”

  “Which museum?”

  “Don’t know.”

  That was something at least. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “I know many things about many things, but you didn’t pay for all that.”

  “Anything else about the Dark Prophecies?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Will you keep me apprised of anything you might hear? Let me know if anyone else comes asking the same questions I have?”

  “For another—”

  “No more blood. Just as a favor, between friends.”

  “Friends?” He smiled, and his lip ring winked in the dim light. “I am thinking decidedly unfriendly thoughts about you right now.”

  He reached for her, and Moira took a deep breath to calm her heartbeat.

  “Time to pay, pretty girl.”

  Chapter Six

  Long fingers slid around her waist, pulling her onto his lap. Drak feathered his fingertips across the plumped mounds of her breasts.

  “You get blood, not to play slap and tickle.”

  “So defensive. I hardly think my fingers matter, when soon I will have my lips here.” He pressed the pads of his fingers into the swell of her left breast.