by Ryk E. Spoor
"Werewolves," I answered, "and if you're smart you'll get out of the hospital."
"I'm history," one said, "But I've gotta go through where you are."
"If you aren't one of them, go ahead. Otherwise you'll be number one with a bullet."
He had more guts than I would have. He just walked out, crossed the hallway to the nearer door, and started down the stairs. Once his friend had gotten across safely, the other one walked across with his hands up, then bolted down the stairs.
Just then I heard the hall window shatter. A tall blond man, rather like a young Robert Redford, dropped lithely into the hall from outside. He straightened and looked at me. "You are most extraordinarily annoying, Mr. Wood. I have been considering how best to kill you." The deep, strangely resonant voice was chillingly familiar.
I raised the pistol, centered it on his jacket. "Virigar, I presume."
He bowed. "At your service."
If Virigar was here . . . God, had he already killed Verne? "What are you doing here? I thought—"
"Yes, you thought I would be at the warehouse." For a moment the good-humored mask dropped. My blood seemed to freeze at the sheer malevolence in his face; had he attacked then, I couldn't have moved a muscle to stop him. Then he regained control. "In point of fact I was; then that thrice-damned vampire began his attack and I knew precisely what you had planned. I, also, believe in keeping my word, so I came to make sure the young lady was killed." He glanced around at the two bodies. "A wise choice, it would seem."
He inclined his head. "You have been lucky and resourceful so far. I look forward to tasting your soul; it should be a strong and, ah, heady vintage. Then I will finish with Domingo. Your interference has been really quite intolerable."
"Aren't you overlooking something?" I asked.
"Such as . . . ?"
"The fact that I'm going to blow you away in the next two steps?"
He laughed. "I doubt you could hit me. I am not one of these younglings."
I wasn't going to dick around with him. Before he could react, I put three shots in the bulls-eye where most people keep their hearts.
His eyes flew wide; he stared at me, then down at the three neat holes in his suit. He sank to his knees, muttered something like "Impressive aim . . ." and then his eyes rolled and he fell.
I waited a few minutes, keeping the gun on him; he didn't move. I went forward a few feet just to check.
Something hit my hand so hard it went numb, picked me up and hurled me down the hallway. I fetched up against the far wall, disoriented. When I focused my eyes again, I saw Virigar standing there with my gun dangling from his hand. Grinning pleasantly, he shrugged off his coat, revealing the bulletproof vest beneath.
"I should have blown your head off." I shook my hand, trying to get feeling back into it.
He nodded cheerfully. "Yes indeed, but I depended both on legend and training. The legend of three silver bullets to the heart for a Great Werewolf, and the fact that most people are taught to shoot for the body rather than the smaller target of the head." He tossed the gun aside. "Your friend Renee lasted for a few minutes, Mr. Wood. Let us see how well you do."
He began to change. I froze. I had seen another werewolf change . . . but this was not another werewolf.
This was Virigar.
This was no transformation like a morphing, but more; a manifestation of the truth behind the facade. The air seemed to thicken and condense, becoming black-brown shaggy fur. The eyes blazed with ravenous malevolence, flickering between blood-red and poison yellow. The head reared up, seven feet, eight, nine towering, hideous feet above the floor, the marble sheeting cracking and spitting powder from the energies that crackled about Virigar like black lightning. It drew a breath and roared, a shrieking, bellowing, rumbling impossible sound that shattered every window on the floor and deafened me. The head wasn't really wolflike . . . wasn't like anything that had ever lived. Dominating it was the terrible mouth, opening to a cavernous diameter, unhinging like a snake's, wide enough to sever a man in one bite, armed with impossibly long, sparkling diamond fangs like an array of razor-sharp knives . . .
For a moment all thought fled; all I had was terror. I ran.
Virigar let me get some distance ahead before he began following; I remembered what Verne had told me, that they fed on fear; obviously Virigar wanted a square meal. I ran down the steps, taking them two, three at a time . . . but I could hear his clawed footsteps closing in on me.
I remembered a trick I'd first read about in the Stainless Steel Rat series. If I could do it I might gain a few seconds.
I jumped as I reached the next flight of stairs and hit them sideways, one foot raised above and behind the other, both slightly tilted. My ankles protested as the stairs hammered by underneath me like a giant washboard; I hit the landing, spun, and repeated it, then banged out the doorway, sprinted down the hall, ignoring the ache in my feet. It worked!
My heart jumped in panic as Virigar smashed out of the stairwell fifty feet behind me, the metal fire door tearing from its hinges and embedding itself in the opposite wall. Nurses and orderlies scattered before us, screaming. Oh, the bastard must be gorging himself now.
Somewhere in the distance I thought I heard gunshots. Too far away to make any difference now, though . . .
Around the corner, trying to find another stairwell. Oh, Christ, I'd found the pediatric wing!
A young girl with dark hair in two ponytails blinked bright blue eyes at me in surprise as I raced past her wheelchair, her attention to her late-night sundae momentarily distracted. With horror I recognized her: Star Hashima, daughter of the artist Verne was a prospective patron to. Virigar skidded around the corner after me, growling in a grotesquely cheerful way. I faltered momentarily, realizing that the monster was already trailing blood; he wouldn't hesitate to kill again.
Her face paled, but at the same time I could swear there was almost an interested expression on her face as she saw the huge thing bearing down on her. Then Star calmly and accurately pitched her sundae into the King Wolf's face.
The laughter in its growl transformed instantly into startled rage and agony; blinded, Virigar stumbled and cannonballed into a wall, smashing a hole halfway through and clawing at its face. Star spun her chair around and rolled into one of the rooms, slamming the door behind her.
Virigar roared again, shaking the floor. "Bitch! I'll have your soul for that!"
I ran, praying this was the right decision. Would Virigar waste the time taking care of Star right now, or would he chase me first because of what I knew? And what in the name of God had that girl done? As I half ran, half fell down the back stairs, I suddenly remembered a faint sparkle from the ice-cream bowl. Silver-coated decorations.
No, Virigar couldn't afford to waste his time now. If I got out to Mjolnir, I could draw him off, outrun him probably, and then too many people would know too much. I shoved open a door, ran out.
Oh no. I'd come down one floor too many. This was the basement! Ammonia and other chemical smells from the labs filled the air. Above me I heard the stairwell door smashed open.
I ran.
Technicians and maintenance gaped at me. Signs flashed by, Hematology, Micro Lab, Urinalysis, Radiology . . .
At Radiology I scrambled to a halt, dove inside. A last-chance plan was forming. Behind me screams sounded as Virigar charged after me.
I shoved the technician there aside. "Get the hell out of here!"
Hearing the screams, and the approaching snarls, the tech didn't argue; he split. I ducked into the next room, grabbing a bucket that stood nearby, slammed and locked the door. I worked fast.
Heavy breathing suddenly sounded from the other side of the door. "Dear me, Jason; you seem to have cornered yourself."
I didn't have to fake terror; I knew my chances were hanging on a thread.
The door seemed to disappear, ripped to splinters. "It's over, Mr. Wood!" Virigar leapt for me.
That leap almost finished
me; but the door had slowed him just enough. With all the strength in my arms, I slung the contents of the pail straight into Virigar's open mouth. The sharp-smelling liquid splashed down the monster's throat, over his face, across his body, soaking the fur. Even as that pailful struck, I was plunging the bucket into the tank for a second load.
Virigar bellowed, a ragged-sounding gurgling noise of equal parts incredulity and agony. He was still moving too fast to stop; one shaggy arm brushed me as I leapt aside and he smashed into the tank itself, tripping and going to his knees, one arm plunging into the liquid. The metal bent, but then tore as he scrabbled blindly at the thing he'd run into, disgorging its remaining contents in a wave across his thighs and lower legs. Momentarily behind him, I doused him with my second pailful, soaking him from head to toe.
The Werewolf King's second scream was a steam-whistle shriek that seemed to pierce my head, but lacked the awesome force of the roar that had shivered hospital windows to splinters. Foul vapors like smoke were pouring from him, obscuring the hideous bubbling, dissolving effects the liquid was causing. The monstrous form staggered past me, mewling and screaming; incredibly, I felt the earth itself heave as it wailed wetly, and a flash of yellow-green light followed. Lamplight poured through a ragged gap in the far wall and was momentary eclipsed by the horrific silhouette of something half-eaten away as Virigar clawed his way to the outside . . . and disappeared into the night.
Cautiously, a patch of light approached. The flashlight ranged across me, then went to the tank, broken into pieces and leaving its sharp-smelling contents flowing harmlessly across the floor. The light showed me the way out, its beam illuminating the wall just enough to show the sign painted there:
X-Ray: Developer, Fixer, Silver Recovery
27
Winthrope waved me past the yellow barricade. I pulled up a hundred fifty feet farther on. I got out, went around and helped Sylvie out into the wheelchair. She still looked pale and weak, but it was good to see her moving at all. She smiled at me, then looked up and gave a little gasp. "Verne did that?"
I felt as awed as she looked. The hundred-foot-long, three-story warehouse was nothing more than a pile of charred boards and twisted steel, still smoking after several days. The last rays of the setting sun covered it with a cast of blood. From the tangled mass of wreckage, two I-beams jutted up, corroded fangs, mute testimony to the power of an ancient vampire's fury.
"You still haven't heard from him, have you?"
"No. It's hard to believe, but . . . there were dozens of them in there. Winthrope's still finding bodies. They must've gotten him somehow, maybe by sheer numbers." I felt stinging in my eyes, blinked it away. "And Renee . . ." This time I couldn't blink away the tears. Syl said nothing, just held my hand.
It was hard to believe I'd never see her again. But Renee had been found in her house, her body sitting in a chair and her head on the table in front of her.
"I'm so sorry." Syl said finally. "All I remembered was looking over, seeing her, and knowing it wasn't really her at all. What about Star?"
"I got to see her the next day. She made me promise not to say anything to anyone about her helping me; her dad was already throwing a fit that she'd even been in the hospital when it happened. She thinks her father is the greatest thing in the world, and doesn't want to worry him. I just hope she'll be all right; that was quick thinking on her part, but I don't believe any kid that age could see that monster coming at her and not at least get some nightmares out of it."
Syl started to say something, but suddenly choked off; her hand gripped my arm painfully. I turned fast.
A man was standing next to Syl. He looked at me.
I knew that face, with the dark eyebrows, crooked grin, streaky-blond hair, and green eyes. I should know it; it looked at me every day in my mirror.
I went for my gun, found to my surprise that it wasn't there. The man before me smiled, his face shifting to the Robert Redford lookalike I remembered all too well. He held up his hand, my gun sitting in it. "Good evening, Mr. Wood. I believe we have some unfinished business."
"Never mind the dramatics," I choked out, hoping he'd prolong them, "Finish your business, then. Nothing much I can do."
"Dear me. No respect for tradition? I must congratulate you; I haven't been hurt that badly in centuries; even our mutual acquaintance, Verne, failed to injure me as grievously. Why, I'm genuinely weakened. A clever, clever improvisation, Mr. Wood. I'm minded to let you live for a while."
I blinked. "Umm . . . thanks. But why?"
The urbane smile shifted to a psychotic snarl. "So you will suffer all the more while everything you value is destroyed before your very eyes!"
I read his intention in his eyes, leapt hopelessly for his arm; he tossed me aside like a doll. His hand came up and the fingers lengthened, changed to diamond-glittering blades. Sylvie stared upward, immobile with terror.
Something smashed into Virigar, an impact that flung him a hundred feet to smack with an echoing clang into one of the two standing girders. The girder bent nearly double.
Virigar snarled something in an unknown tongue. "Who dares . . ."
"I dare, Virigar. Will you try me, now that I am prepared?"
Between us stood a tall figure, with a streaming black cloak, seeming to have materialized from the gathering shadows of night. "Verne!" I heard Sylvie gasp.
Virigar began to snarl, wrenching himself from the beam's grip. Then he stopped, straightened, and laughed. "Very well! Far be it from me to argue points with Destiny." He bowed to Verne, who made no motion to acknowledge it. "You have won a battle against me, Mr. Wood. And your friend here has surprised me. This game is yours. Your souls are still mine, and shall be claimed in time. But for now, I shall leave you. One day, I shall return. But no other of my people shall touch you, for that which is claimed for the King is death for any other who would dare to take it." He turned and began to stride off.
"Freeze! Hold it right there!" Jeri Winthrope had the Werewolf King in her gunsights, and I had no doubt that this time it was loaded with silver bullets. Even with the cast on her arm, I was sure she wouldn't miss.
Virigar turned his head slightly. He ignored Jeri entirely, looking at Verne. "My patience is being tried. Tell the child to put her weapon away now."
"Do it," Verne said.
Jeri glanced at him, startled. "But—"
"Do it!" Verne's voice was filled with a mixture of loathing, fury, and a touch of fear.
Slowly Winthrope lowered her gun. Virigar smiled, though the expression was barely visible. "Wiser than you look. Until later." He turned a corner around a large chunk of warehouse.
"Why?" Jeri demanded after a moment of silence. "I had him right there!"
Verne glared at her. "Think you that something as ancient as he didn't know of your approach? I heard you as soon as you turned from your post. Your bullet would never have found its mark, and he would have killed us all. Even the fact that he spared us was a whim. Something to amuse him," Verne spat the word out as though he could barely tolerate the taste, "until he has an artistic way to destroy us."
"I thought," I said, "he spared us because he wasn't sure he could win against us."
Verne shook his head. "If he appeared here, he was ready. Perhaps I could have defeated him." I noticed that he didn't say "we." "But I believe he left because . . ." Verne seemed to be searching for the proper way to describe something. " . . . because he had lost the game as he himself put it. This battle, even your injuring him, was to him nothing more than a game. The object was vengeance against me, and then against you once you became an impediment of note. But we managed to meet some . . . some standard he set for his opposition. You injured him; I reappeared from the dead. He is as immortal as I, and older; he must find his own amusement where he can. But where I find mine in the elegance of art, in friendship, in more ordinary games, he finds his in the dance of destruction and death, in evil versus good." Verne shuddered, a movement so uncharacteristi
c of him that it sent chills down my spine. "Perhaps I could have defeated him," he repeated softly. "But I very much wish never to find out."
Jeri shrugged. "Not my problem now. Okay. We'll talk later." She walked off.
I grasped Verne's hand, realizing how much it would have meant to lose him. "Jesus, it's good to see you. We thought you were dead!"
"Hardly, my friend." He looked even stronger, more assured and powerful than he had ever been. "Though not for want of trying on their part, I assure you. How does it feel to have changed the world?"
Sylvie spoke up. "Verne, pardon me, but I don't understand why any of them died in there. I thought—"
"That only silver could harm them? Quite so, my lady." He gazed at the wreckage. "Once I knew the werewolves had returned, I laid in a supply of diverse forms of silver—although I must confess," he bowed slightly to me, "it never occurred to me that preparations—compounds—of silver would be efficacious as well. Part of my armament was a large supply of silver dust. I hurled this into the warehouse from several different points with sufficient force so as to disperse it throughout the interior rather like a gas."
I winced at the mental picture. "Instant asthma attack. Ugh."
"Precisely. In addition, since nearly all surfaces then had silver upon them, even falling beams became capable of causing harm."
"That still doesn't explain where you've been the past few days."
"Ah, yes." He looked somewhat embarrassed. "Well, in the end the battle degenerated so that I was reduced to physical confrontation. By the time the last of them came for me, I found myself without silver of any kind. Your rings, I am afraid, were not meant for combat. They . . . ah . . . came apart. So when the last one attacked, I was unarmed against her great natural weaponry. I was thus forced to a course of action whose results I could not foresee."
"Well?" I said when he hesitated.
He coughed and examined the ruby ring studiously. "I . . . drained her."