by J. R. Rain
“You bet your ass,” he croaked.
34.
Jacky and I were in a corner of the ring.
The little Irishman was doing some last minute adjustments to my head gear. The headgear felt big and clunky. I didn’t think I needed it, but having it on seemed to make the others happy. The Marine, in the opposite corner, was also wearing head gear. I assumed he, too, felt the gear was unnecessary.
I stared down at Jacky’s bald head as he now worked on my gloves. From this angle I could just make out some old boxing scars above his brow. Many, many old boxing scars. There was a wicked little gleam in Jacky’s eye whenever he looked up at me; he was breathing hard and fast, face red with excitement.
“Remember what I always tell you,” he said, “keep your gloves up.”
“Keep them up? Or down? I get confused.”
But Jacky wasn’t listening. In fact, he had this sort of dreamy look on his face. Perhaps he had regressed back to the backroom fighting halls of 1950s Belfast, when he was a young prize fighter with something to prove. His fighting days were long gone and I had a feeling I was his outlet, but that was okay. I wanted to fight. I wanted an honest-to-God slugfest. Sometimes you just need to beat the crap out of something.
“Focus on your jabs, doll.”
“Don’t call me doll, and I’ll focus on whatever I want. This isn’t a real fight. I’m just going to beat the crap out of him and then pick up my kids.”
Jacky pushed me away and held me at arm’s length. “Don’t get too cocky, kid. You’re strong as hell, and to be honest, a little freaky, but this guy knows the fundamentals. I’m not sure you realize what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“We’ll see.”
Jacky held up a white towel. “I’m throwing this in if things turn ugly.”
“For me or him?”
“Either.”
* * *
“Ding ding,” said Jacky.
Desmond Beacon stood nearly a foot taller than me. In the center of the ring we touched gloves. Now that the pain was gone from his groin, he didn’t look so eager to fight a woman—especially now that we had a few female onlookers.
So, to get him back into the spirit of things, I hit him with a quick jab that landed on his chin and snapped his head back. When his head settled back into place, there was a suitable look of irritation in his eyes.
Behind me, Jacky screamed, “Yes, yes!”
Desmond now bounced on his toes and worked his neck, and suddenly flicked his glove out at me much quicker than I was prepared for. I tried to dodge right, but there was no escaping it. His glove hit me square in the jaw and I staggered backwards and promptly landed on my ass, skidding to a halt near the ropes.
“Sammy, you okay?” Jacky’s worried, ruddy face peered down at me through the lowest rung of rope.
I got up. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t like this, Sammy. He’s too good.”
“Don’t call me Sammy.”
“Then what the hell do you want me to call you?”
“Just Sam.”
We touched gloves again. Desmond wasn’t smiling. In fact, he didn’t seem to be enjoying any of this. I think he was hoping I would’ve gone away by now. We circled each other. I was wary of his hand speed. His face was expressionless, although his cheeks were pinched together because of the headgear. He kept his gloves up like a good boy. His fist shot out again, another jab. I blocked it with my own glove, but the force of the punch knocked my own glove back into my forehead. Luckily the head gear is thickest at the forehead. He jabbed again. I blocked it and side-stepped. He was waiting for me to side-step. His next punch rung my bell, and I staggered backward again.
I caught a glimpse of Jacky. Or, rather, two Jackys. The old Irishman looked stricken. His interest in seeing a real fight had long ago dissipated. He was holding the white towel up. I shook my head at him, and he reluctantly lowered it.
Back in the ring, Desmond looked a little surprised to see me still on my feet. We circled each other some more. It seemed apparent to me that the Marine and his manager, and perhaps even Jacky, had agreed that I would only receive jabs. Harmless enough, and not too brutal. Wouldn’t bode well for Jacky’s female clientèle to watch a woman get pulverized by a semi-professional male boxer.
Now even more people were watching. A small crowd of mostly women were standing around the sparring ring, all dripping sweat, their workouts finished or abandoned. They were talking amongst themselves and watching me closely. I didn’t like close scrutiny, but I needed to pound something, and the Marine was the biggest thing in the gym.
I focused entirely on the Marine. Sweat dripped steadily down his cheeks and into his headgear. The muscles in his right shoulder flexed and I took a step back just as his lightning-fast jab swished through the air. Focus on the shoulder. The deltoid muscles flinched again and I moved back again and avoided the next punch as well. We circled, and he stopped bouncing on his feet and lowered his hands. The moment he lowered his hands, I delivered a combination of left jab and overhead right. Both landed. I am quick when I want to be and strong when I want to be, and I wanted to be both now. The punches staggered him backward and he landed against the ropes. A chorus of cheers erupted from the milling crowd of sweating women. The Marine pushed himself off the ropes and approached me, fists raised. He was looking at the crowd of women out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t know what to do. He was in a hell of spot. He didn’t want to hurt a woman, yet here was a woman in front of him who was hurting him. I decided to make that decision for him, and came at him like a bull. I faked a left jab and then came hard over his gloves with a straight right that hit him square on the nose. His knees buckled. I hit him again. He gathered himself and quit looking at the crowd. Good. Now he danced around the ring like he meant it. Good. He lifted his gloves and delivered a powerful combination that I used my gloves and arms to absorb. His punches hurt. He was throwing them hard. He didn’t give a damn who was watching him now or how bad this might have looked. He was tired of some woman taking potshots at him.
Except I wasn’t some woman.
Even with the sun still out in the late afternoon sky, my reflexes were better than average. But only slightly better. I still felt weak and sluggish—and that damn sun couldn’t set fast enough.
The Marine suddenly threw a wild punch that veered off my shoulder and I used that opening to deliver a rocking uppercut. I caught him under the chin and his head snapped up. He might have even lifted off the mat. Either way, he landed hard on his back. The crowd went wild. Alright, maybe not wild, but definitely a few cheers. The Marine got up and we touched gloves in the middle of the ring again. His eyes seemed a little unsteady. The big boy had taken a few hard blows to the head from a very healthy vampire. He raised his fists, did a little boxing dance, and sort of refocused himself.
And came out swinging.
Holy crap! Hell hath no fury like a man embarrassed by a woman. His punches were powerful and numerous; some landed, but most missed entirely. I soon found myself backed up against the ropes. Spit and sweat and blood flung from the Marine. His arms were a blur of punches. I heard gasps behind me. Surely this looked horrible to Jacky’s female clientèle: a woman being beaten to a pulp by a hulking Marine. I’m sure Jacky was about to throw in the towel, when it happened.
I didn’t see it happen, granted.
But I felt it.
The late afternoon soon had finally set, and I felt alive.
So damn alive.
I slipped under his onslaught and backed into a corner. He was about to follow me in but must have seen something in my eyes and paused. He should have kept pausing. Instead, he charged ahead. As he came at me, I timed my punch perfectly. A hard right to the jaw.
Too hard.
Never had I hit something so squarely and so hard. I floored him. No. I lifted him off his feet and over the surrounding ropes. He landed in a heap on the padded floor. Women screamed and rushed over to him. I saw Jacky run over t
o the Marine, too. He looked at me, horror on his face.
What had I done?
I stood dumbly in the center of the ring as the Marine lay on his back, unmoving.
35.
I almost killed a man today.
Tell me about it.
So I wrote it up for Fang. As usual, he read like a demon on crack, and posted his reply almost instantly.
The Marine might be re-thinking his boxing career.
I suddenly felt indignant, perhaps to mask my guilt. Good. He was a pig, and boxing’s certainly no way to make a living. Getting your brains beaten to a pulp day in and day out.
I see, so by knocking him out of the ring, you actually did a service to him.
Yes. He could think of it as career counseling.
Through the school of hard knocks.
Haha.
I think you are trying to assuage your guilt, Moon Dance, to justify your actions.
Okay, fine. I feel horrible! You happy?
No. At least you can admit your guilt.
He didn’t deserve what I did to him.
Probably not. Then again, he sounded like he might have needed to be taught a lesson. Did you really kick him in the balls?
Argh! I’m horrible!
Yes, wrote Fang. You were today.
You don’t let me off easy, do you?
Do you want me to let you off easy?
No, I wrote, thinking about it. I want you to always be dead honest with me. It’s why I keep you around.
Gee, thanks. So what happened to the Marine?
They took him away in an ambulance. The paramedic said it looked like a concussion. I sent him flowers and a card apologizing.
Perhaps you should find other outlets for your anger, wrote Fang.
Perhaps.
You might have to be a little more, um, discreet with your gifts. You don’t want to keep attracting unwanted attention.
I think you’re right. I paused. But why call it a gift, Fang?
It’s how you choose to view it, Moon Dance. You could focus on either the negative or the positive. As in all of life.
Thank you, Tony Robbins.
No, I’m not Tony Robbins but I’m certainly as tall.
Really? What else do you look like? I wrote, eager for more information.
As usual, he ignored any personal questions. Let’s take a look at these gifts of yours. You have enhanced strength, night vision, speed and endurance. Not to mention the ability to shape-change.
Whoa! I wrote, sitting back. No one’s ever said anything about shape-changing.
You’ve never shape-changed, Moon Dance?
Ever recall me mentioning turning into a bat?
There was a long pause, then he wrote: Most texts, resources and personal accounts are unanimous about this. You should be able to shape-change. Into what exactly, is open to debate.
I found myself laughing at my computer desk. Well, if your resources can tell me how to shape-change, then I’ll give it a shot.
I’ll look into it. Maybe you should look into it, too.
How?
Another pause: Maybe you need to look into yourself.
The doorbell rang. The babysitter was here.
Goodnight, Fang.
Goodnight, Moon Dance.
36.
It was late and I was restless.
Earlier in the day, I’d dreamed of Kingsley again, and now I couldn’t get the big son-of-a-bitch out of my thoughts. In my dream, we were in the woods again, but this time we weren’t playing a game. This time he had captured me early on and I was on my back. I distinctly remembered the pine needles poking into my bare back and the sound of small animals scurrying away in the woods. Scurrying away in fear. Kingsley was in his half man/half wolf mode, dark shaggy hair hanging from his huge shoulders, down his long arms. A tuft of it sticking up along the ridge of his spine like a hairy stegosaurus. He was on all fours and he was above me. I was pinned beneath him, distinctly aware that he was far too strong for me to push off. I was submitting to him. Body and soul.
In my dream, he was still wearing the medallion, hanging freely from his thick neck, suspended just inches above my face. Whenever I opened my mouth to ask about the medallion, he simply shook his great head and I knew I was not to discuss it, and so I didn’t, although I wanted to. Badly.
Then he lowered his face to mine, a face that was still magnificently human and handsome, although in bad need of a shave. His breath was hot on my neck, my ears, through my hair. He was touching me with his lips or tongue, I didn’t know which, nor did I care. I only knew I had not felt this good in a long, long time.
Then the alarm went off, and I could have cried.
A hell of a dream, I thought. I think you might like the big guy.
Ya think?
The question was: what did I do about it? I didn’t know. Even though I knew in my heart my marriage was over, I still felt guilty for having feelings for another man.
You shouldn’t. Your husband is long gone. You can’t keep living like this, and nor can he.
But the moment I quit living like this—the moment my husband and I officially separated—would be the moment my kids are taken away from me, and I can’t have that.
I can’t have that.
So quit thinking about Kingsley.
Easier said than done.
It was late, and I was restless and I couldn’t for the life of me keep Kingsley out of my thoughts. Damn him. What right did he have kissing a lonely and hurting woman? What right did he have of putting me through this?
I nearly laughed. It had, of course, been just a dream.
37.
“You home?” I asked.
“Of course I’m home,” said Kingsley, “it’s two-thirty in the goddamn morning.”
“Don’t sound so dramatic.”
“Dramatic? If anything I sound tired.”
“I’m coming over. Where do you live?”
There was a long pause. I wondered if Kingsley had fallen back to sleep. Then a thought occurred to me, maybe he had a woman with him. If so, I didn’t care. I wanted to talk, and not with a mortal. Either way, last night had been the full moon, so tonight Kingsley should be his old self.
“Okay,” he said, and gave me directions. “Oh, and remind me when you get here that there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“That makes two of us.”
Kingsley lived in Yorba Linda, just a few cities over. At a quarter to three, I drove east down Bastanchury Blvd. The night was still and quiet. To my left were empty rolling hills. Beyond was the county dump, well hidden from curious eyes and sensitive noses.
Here on Bastanchury was some of the best Orange County had to offer. Beautiful homes slightly removed from the hustle and bustle of the county.
I turned left into a long driveway, drove through a tangle of shrubbery along a crushed seashell drive. The seashell drive, reflecting the near full moon, was as bright as a yellow brick road to my eyes. The driveway continued for perhaps an eighth of a mile, until it curved before a massive estate house.
I parked in front of the portico, and briefly admired the huge structure. It was a Colonial revival, complete with two flanker structures on either end. Nearly the entire facade was covered in dark clapboard, and the windows were enclosed with paneled shutters. All in all, a fitting home for a werewolf.
Shortly after I rang the bell, a porch light turned on and a very tall and dour man appeared at the door, who looked down at me from a hawkish nose. He was frowning. Probably wasn’t in his job description to be receiving guests at 3:00 a.m. There was something disjointed and odd about the man. It took me a second to realize what it was. One ear was clearly larger than the other.
“This way,” he said. “Master Kingsley is waiting in the conservatory.”
“With Professor Plum and the candlestick?” I asked.
Big Ear was not amused.
38.
Kingsley was lounging on a leather
sofa with a drink in hand.
He looked like hell: scruffy beard, hair in disarray, serious bags under his eyes.
“Um, you look good,” I said.
“Like hell I do.”
“Just what I was thinking.”
The conservatory was octagon-shaped and faced the expansive backyard which spread out into the hills beyond like a vast estate. Through the French window, I could make out an alabaster fountain gurgling away, depicting a naked nymph blowing water through her cupped hands. The sculptor went a little crazy with her breasts. Men and breasts. Sheesh.
“Would you like a drink?” Kingsley asked.
“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
Kingsley motioned to his butler. A moment later, a drink appeared before me.
“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said.
Kingsley grinned. “His name is Franklin.”
“Franklin the butler?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t have quite the same ring.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Kingsley said, “but he’s a good butler, and can pour a hell of a drink.”
“It’s true,” said Franklin. “I almost never spill.” His enunciation was clear and precise with a slightly lilting accent that could have been English. When he spoke, his face appeared completely still, as if the muscles were inert, or deactivated. I couldn’t help but notice an ugly scar that ran along his chin and extended back to his hairline, as if Franklin had at one time or another lost his entire head.
Kingsley said, “Thank you, Franklin. That will be all. Sorry to rouse you out of your sleep in the dead of night.”
“I am made to serve.”
“And you do it so well. Off you go. Good night.”
Franklin the Butler nodded and left. Curious, I watched him go. His strides were long and loping, as if his legs were disproportionate to his body.
“Franklin is an interesting fellow,” I said when he was gone.