An owl screeched in the woods, startling Genna into spilling her brandy. She put down her glass and wiped her hand.
Joshua said nothing until she was settled again. “And then one night, Francis, one of the few remaining Wolfkind, stole some cash and took off. Barlow traced him to a town in rural Pennsylvania. That’s where the renegades reappeared. This time we were too late – the infection got away from us.”
Taking back roads and frequently driving in random circles, they drove Nathan to a nondescript building huddled among equally nondescript warehouses and walled up store-fronts in a back-alley district of Venice Beach.
Outside the car the gangsters’ point-of-a gun escorted him across the cracked pavement to a dark green door. With a scree of un-oiled hinges the steel-plated door swung inward and tobacco smoke drifted from the entrance and up into darkness.
Serefini jabbed Nathan in the back with his gun. “After you, tough guy.” All five gangsters, two in front and three behind, escorted him into the building. The door slammed heavily behind them, resonating in its reinforced-steel frame.
They led him down a corridor that terminated at a windowless room. The dimensions roughly fifteen by twenty feet, and furnished only by a cup-ringed card table and a couple of tubular-steel chairs. A naked light bulb dangled from the ceiling, its flex festooned with cobwebs. On the wall behind one of the seats Nathan saw several bullet holes and blood splats. He poked his finger into one of the holes and fished out a spent round.
Serefini grinned. “Something fluster you?”
“Only the thought that you guys can miss at this range,” he tossed the bullet over his shoulder. Serefini grunted.
The remaining gangsters fanned out to the four walls. All kept their weapons raised; not for a moment did anyone let the tip of his gun barrel stray from Nathan’s head. Wherever he moved, or swayed, the guns unerringly followed. Two of the men exchanged puzzled glances.
Serefini dragged out a chair and sat down. With his gun he indicated the other chair. “Have a seat.”
After blowing the plaster dust from his fingers and rubbing them briskly together, Nathan took hold of the other chair, sat down and leaned on the table. His presence thrummed like a generator, sending a ripple of tension through the room, eliciting grunts and intakes of breath from the guards.
Nathan made eye contact with a few of the gangsters. “Little pigs,” he said, redirecting his gaze at Serefini. “So, where’s our…fee?”
Serefini patted his breast pocket, a quizzical expression on his face. “Damn,” he said. “Appears I’m short on green. Hey Franco, you got two hundred and fifty thousand bucks on you?”
Franco, his gold tooth shining brightly, took a hand away from his gun in order to pat his pockets, his movements stiff and wooden. “Left my wallet at the office,” he said, returning his hand to his weapon. His knuckles were white.
Nathan looked calmly at Serefini. “My Capo will be most upset.”
Serefini jerked himself to a standing position. The backs of his knees sent the chair grating across the concrete floor. “Cut the horseplay, kid,” he said. “It’s over. You’re busted. There ain’t no ‘Capo’, no Leader, no super assassin sending kids to collect the spoils. What do you think we are, idiots?” He leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones, as though imparting a secret. “It’s you, wiseass – you’re the assassin. You’re doing the hits. You wasted Kelvecion.”
Nathan raised his eyebrows comically. “Me?”
“How?” Serefini shrugged. “Is a great question.” He cocked his pistol and prodded Nathan’s forehead. “But that makes no difference ‘cause we got you nailed you cocky little shit.”
“So the Jamaicans had a premonition?”
Serefini smirked, reclined in his chair, feet up on the table. He caressed the corner of his mouth with the muzzle of his gun. “I am curious about one particular detail...” All of the gangsters reacted as one and leaned in together.
“What detail?”
“How the hell did you take out Fletcher Regan?”
Nathan laughed softly.
“The other hits are a still mystery,” Serefini said. “But tough as they were, compared to Regan they were side-salad. The Jamaicans were well armed, but hey, strip away the western clothing and all you got is one step up from the missing link that doesn’t knows the butt end of a rifle from the business end – Regan surrounded himself with professionals. Taking him out was simply brilliant.”
Nathan’s smile was absolutely genuine. And when he smoothed back his hair, his hands did not shake. “Sounds to me like you’re getting kinda tense up there in Santa Monica.” he said. “Well, let me disappoint you: the secret of my success is the victim’s privilege.”
“Really?” Serefini aimed at Nathan’s head and pulled the trigger. The bullet passed within a few inches of its target and buried itself in the plaster. In the enclosed space the noise was deafening. Several of the gangsters jumped in shock. Franco yipped like a puppy and discharged his automatic weapon. Three bullets plucked splinters in the table six inches from Nathan’s hand. Serefini recoiled, all but falling out of his chair. He threw Franco a look of unbelief. Franco shrugged an apology, his gold tooth glinting.
Nathan didn’t flinch. Such was his manner he might have been deaf and blind. “If I told you how we did Regan I’d have to kill you.”
Serefini’s composure slipped a notch; his lips thinned out, went bloodless. He pumped another round into the chamber. “I’ll take you apart piece by piece.”
“Regan was easy,” Nathan said. “His house was sticks and straw, little man, sticks and straw.”
Serefini rapped on the grimy walls with his knuckles. “Bricks and mortar in here, dead man, bricks and mortar. If the big bad wolf slides down my chimney Mr. ’45 will be waiting for him. Come now – enthrall me.”
Nathan sat up straight, planted his elbows on the table, leaning toward Serefini. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “You wanna feel privileged, piggy? You want the secret that bad?” His voice had deepened and several of the gangsters exchanged uneasy glances. Something in Nathan’s eyes made Serefini flinch. They glared at each other across the table. Neither backed down. A minute crawled by.
One of the gangsters, his face slick with perspiration, said: “Let’s kill this fucker and get the hell out of here.”
Nathan drummed his fingers on the table. “Little pig…little pig…let me come in…”
Serefini jerked forward and jammed the barrel against Nathan’s forehead hard enough to draw blood. Nathan did not complain. His mocking became more derisive: “Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin!” With each subsequent word his voice grew deeper and harsher. Music from elsewhere in the building rose and thumped with bass so deep the door vibrated against the frame.
“Fuck you.” Serefini pulled the trigger.
Joshua stared into space, his eyes slipping out of focus. “The story was covered on the six o’clock news. Three brothers; fishermen. Found in the woods. Newspapers likened the killer to Jack the Ripper.”
“The McNally brothers’ murders.” Genna said, the color draining from her face. “I remember the story.”
“Barlow now saw it as his vocation to hunt down renegades. Even when he came to us all those years ago he was religious, and as the years went by, he became obsessed. Believed tracking the renegades was his penance. A year and a half ago he developed intestinal cancer; he believes God is punishing him.”
Genna nodded grimly.
“Soon after the New Hampshire murder, there was a copycat killing in Michigan. Barlow sent out the last Wolfkind to track the killers. But each time a renegade was found and killed, another popped up elsewhere, always one step ahead. They spread across the country, infecting others, moving on.
“My brother’s first assignment finally came and he left for a neighboring town. He returned within four days. Hunting, tracking and killing came naturally to him – as to us all, I guess – only Nathanial expressed a passion fo
r it. And this impressed the hell out of Barlow. Only Nathanial and I were left by this time. Whenever Nathanial left I prayed for his return. I dreaded his not coming back because I was next in line.”
“I guess he didn’t return,” she said.
“A year ago he left for Los Angeles. That was the last I saw of him – until tonight.”
She stood up and started to pace alongside him, taking up the story. “So he abandons you and starts a fresh life of his own.” She quit pacing to look at him. “Barlow figured he was dead. So he sent you.”
Joshua stepped up to the window, pressed his forehead to the glass, and squeezed his eyes closed, as if ashamed at facing his faint reflection. “Barlow suspected your father was behind the assassinations – but only renegades could pull off the hits.”
“Which brings us up to date,” Genna circled the table. “Where you arrive in the city and infiltrate my father’s organization.”
“On the day we met, right after you left me at the diner, I was abducted and driven to his mansion and questioned. I was there long enough to discover that none of them were infected. They hadn’t a clue who I was, or why I was there. They were concerned only about you.”
“Ha!” Genna said. “That’s a hoot.”
“One of them, Serefini; he was particularly aggressive.”
“Serefini is a snake and the only reason he picked you up was that he probably thought you were sleeping with me. My father’s people are all the same – scum in expensive clothes.” She eased her fingers into her hair and massaged her scalp, wincing.
Joshua stood watching her. Clouds drifted across the moon’s face and the distant lights of the city faded under a blanket of mist.
“Okay.” Genna took a moment to re-align her thoughts. “You arrive in LA to hunt these...things. Why come to me? Why not one of my father’s men?”
Joshua blinked. “It wasn’t something I planned.”
“So you jumped in front of my speeding car?” Her eyes went skyward. “If that don’t break the mould. You score for originality, even if I hold back a few points for ruining my bumper, but wasn’t that foolish? Or are you indestructible?”
Unsure how to take Genna, he continued. “We can be beaten, shot, stabbed, and walk away from car wrecks. But enough bullets will kill. Injuries caused by the occasional hit will heal almost instantly, just as long as the body can still function. Once the cycle of cellular rebirth is sufficiently interrupted, then we’ll die.”
“And that’s your only weakness?”
“Fire will kill us. And…” He produced the Beretta.
Genna lowered her gaze to the weapon.
“A single shot from this...” He offered her the Beretta and when she refused to take it he placed it in her hand. “...will kill a Wolfkind in seconds.”
The report from Serefini’s gun was shockingly loud in the confines of the windowless room. Nathan’s head snapped back like the tip of a bullwhip, the momentum almost toppling him backwards; the chair teetered briefly on two legs before gravity pulled it back onto all fours, shoveling Nathan’s limp form onto the table like a passed-out drunk. Dark blood pooled from beneath the tangle of thick hair. One of his hands quivered like a rattler’s tail, vibrating on the greasy table.
Serefini stood over the body, breathing heavily, an almost erotic expression on his face. “I’ve wanted to do that for six months you two-bit punk.” He raised the gun and put two rounds into the back of the kid’s head. Nathan’s body bucked with each shot.
Smoke from the barrel formed a haze over the table, drifting lazily over the slumped form. Serefini stood triumphantly over his kill, a lock of hair from his ponytail dangled in front of his eyes, beads of sweat pimpled on his tanned face, and a tiny string of saliva hung from his bared teeth.
The men dotted about the room lowered their weapons and issued a collective sigh. “Can we go now,” Franco said, wiping his forehead.
The bluish gun-smoke above Nathan slowly started to rise, spiral upwards, like steam over a heat source.
Franco stepped toward the table. “You feel that?” he inquired. “The hell’s it coming from?” Two of the other gangsters exchanged alarmed glances. Franco held his palm face down a couple of inches over Nathan’s body. “It’s coming from-”
Nathan raised his head and snapped upright. The color of his eyes now matched the dark red of his spilled blood. Air hissed through his gritted teeth. “For Melissa,” he said.
“Fucker’s alive.” Franco squealed and stumbled backwards into another guard.
Serefini was first to react. He brought up his gun and squeezed the trigger.
But the kid was slick. Serefini saw the familiar blurring hand speed and before he could discharge his weapon a fourth time, the gun was yanked from his grip. Nathan jumped frog-like onto the table, and with Serefini’s gun, smashed the solitary light bulb overhead.
The room plunged into complete and unbroken darkness.
Serefini dropped blindly to his haunches. As he fell, his chin clipped the edge of the table; he bit his tongue and he fell backwards, catching his head on the chair. Pain exploded in his skull and stars burst before his eyes, spangling the room with illusory light. He smelled gun smoke, tasted the coppery tang of his blood. Dimly he heard voices cry out. Men bumped into one another. Feet shuffled past him. Someone stepped on his fingers. He yelled and scrambled backwards until his head cracked against the wall.
Three seconds of darkness delivered the first scream. Off to his right, loud and brief and chilling. He recoiled and quickly shielded his face. Something heavy and wet thumped the floor in front of him. A guard shouted and opened fire. The noise was deafening. Muzzle flash lit the room in manic, strobe light spasms.
In the glow of intermittent light he saw rapid snapshots of a dark shape ghost around the room, leaping from guard to guard, almost too quick for him to follow. The darkness finally slammed into the guard pulling the trigger. The shooting abruptly ceased. The scream was brief. Thump! Another man down.
“Shoot!” Serefini found himself screaming. “Shoot the son of a bitch.”
Instantly the room flickered with muzzle-flash, the noise earsplitting, the stench of gunpowder overpowering. One of the men screamed he had been shot.
Serefini remained on the floor, his hands scrambling for a dropped weapon. His probing hands sank into something warm and wet, and he shuddered.
Two guards from outside burst into the room, their silhouettes sharply defined from the string of corridor lights behind them. “There!” one of them shouted. Like a jack in the box the dark shadow sprang away, the gunfire carving a trail in the plaster two feet behind.
Then Serefini caught a glimpse of the kid. He grabbed the nearest man and threw him against the wall, knocking him unconscious. Then turned toward the other, who promptly dropped his weapon and yipped in fear. Nathan drove his fingers into the struggling gangster’s lower abdomen, grabbed a fistful of his jacket, and then with what surely was an impossible show of strength, slammed him up against the ceiling, smashing the already cracked plaster into a network of spider webs. Half the crumbling ceiling rained down onto the table.
Serefini observed everything from the floor.
Though the room was semi-dark and he was dazed, he knew the dark figure killing his men could not be the kid they brought in minutes earlier. This walking nightmare stood much taller and broader. Its features had somehow acquired sharper angles. Its skin ten shades darker, almost black. And the eyes. Christ, they glowed under their own luminance.
Now those ferocious red eyes locked with Serefini’s, and the gangster, who killed so frequently he found murder tedious, felt his bladder loosen, threatening to release its contents on a wave of pure terror.
“Feel privileged, little pig?” It was the voice of a dragon: deep and resonant, from vocal cords of rusty piano wire, heavy and grinding and dense. Then the face changed; melted, metamorphosed into something entirely alien. Those red eyes moved apart. With cracking, squelching
sounds, the face became a snout. Black lips stretched taut across canine teeth and slaver fell steaming to the floor. Then the snout lashed forward with snake’s speed and tore out the throat of the terrified gangster held in its grasp.
It spat the mass of steaming flesh in Serefini’s face. Serefini recoiled, his back to the wall, sliding along the plaster away from the horror.
As quick as it had turned bestial, the face reassumed a quasi-human form. Moving slowly, he closed on Serefini, hands raised high, morphing them into claws. “Privileged?” Serefini understood; he averted his eyes.
“Look at me.” The snout reappeared amid the sound of cracking, shifting bones. Prominent veins pulsed at over two hundred beats a minute. Heat radiated off him as though he were afire.
Serefini fumbled for a discarded Uzi by his feet. As his fingers played over the barrel, the creature opened its mouth and roared. Hot breath and specks of spittle stung his face. He gagged on the metallic aroma of fresh blood.
Sudden activity in the corridor alerted the beast. Within a second it was moving, rising, spinning away and rushing toward the doorway.
Pain corkscrewed through Serefini’s shoulder. Only when he slammed against the door frame did he realize the Wolf-kid thing had grabbed his lapel and dragged him across the room. By good fortune he struck the door casing; his lapel tore free and he fell to the floor, the wind knocked out of him.
A draft from the adjacent room cooled the sweat on Serefini’s forehead. He glanced in and saw that the window, though boarded, hung slightly ajar. Without further thought he struggled to his feet and fled. He felt slow and cumbersome, as though he were running through treacle, that any moment now he would be dragged back into the darkness to suffer the dreadful fate of his men. If the beast tore out his throat, would he live long enough to see his Adam’s apple clasped in its jaw?
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