Watcher: Based on the Apocalypse (World of Darkness : Werewolf)

by Charles L. Grant

“What the hell did you … Jesus!”

  “Well, how was I supposed to know, Sergeant? I heard all the commotion, I go running over, I—”

  “Enough, officer, enough.”

  “What’s he doing out here, anyway?”

  “FBI.”

  “Fucking Beanpod Idiot, you mean.”

  … blood …

  He heard her before he saw her, smelled her before she knelt beside him.

  “Oh my God, look at your head.” Tires shrieking on the road, voices in the woods, the deafening slap of a helicopter’s rotors.

  “Sergeant, you want me to get an ambulance?”

  “Good Lord, you didn’t call one yet?”

  “Thought he was dead. Ain’t no hurry if the guy’s not breathing.”

  Richard pushed himself up on one elbow, trying not to scream. “No ambulance.”

  She leaned closer. “What?”

  “No ambulance.”

  “Sure. And tomorrow, you’re gonna walk on water.”

  Fireflies sparked across his vision, rising from the conflagration rising from his back. With his free hand he braced himself against her knee and rose farther.

  “No ambulance.”

  “Richard, this isn’t the movies, honey, you’re bashed up, bashed in, and there’s no way I’m going to let you die out here.”

  Christ, he thought, why won’t she listen?

  He squeezed, and she gasped. “Your car?”

  “Right here.”

  Another push, and he was upright. Swaying. Bits of leaf and twig dangling from his hair, clots of dirt and mud clinging to his jacket.

  “The hotel,” he said, trying to focus on her face.

  “Now that’s just plain dumb.”

  He wanted to yell at her, but the longer he stayed here, the more danger he was in.

  “Tell them,” he said, gesturing toward the others hovering near the road, “it’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “Richard—”

  He glared at her. “Tell them, Jo, tell them it’s just a scalp wound and get me out of here.”

  He saw the rebellion, automatic and justified, but she must have seen something as well, because she stood, gripped his arm, and helped him to his feet.

  “Sarge?”

  “It’s all right. Damn Yankee can’t fall down a mountain without scraping his knees, bunking his thick skull on a damn stump.”

  Someone he couldn’t see snickered.

  Someone else declared there was movement up the road, haul ass, they needed reinforcements.

  “It’s all right,” Joanne insisted, when the last one hesitated. “You want to miss being in on the kill?”

  The patrolman half saluted and took off.

  Richard wiped an arm across his eyes, and would have toppled backward if she hadn’t kept her grip.

  “You will explain.”

  “Hotel. Hurry.”

  … he could feel the blood …

  He lay on his side across the back seat, swaying with the car’s movement as she raced toward the city. She had put a light blanket over him, covering him to his shoulders. It didn’t help much; he couldn’t chase the cold.

  “You get blood all over my car, Turpin, you clean it up, you understand?”

  He grunted.

  The fireflies wouldn’t leave, the conflagration wouldn’t subside. He bit down on his lower lip, one pain for another, but it didn’t do any good.

  Joanne snapped into the radio, arguing with her lieutenant. She couldn’t be in two places at the same time, she told him. Stay at the scene, stay with the FBI, why doesn’t he make up his goddamn mind?

  For a change there was no static: “Language protocol, Detective.”

  She apologized flatly, and told him what she had told the others, that Turpin had injured himself a good one, am ambulance would be too slow so she was taking him to the hospital herself.

  “How bad is he you got to play nursemaid, Minster?”

  “Government, remember?” was all she said. “Your idea, not mine.”

  Silence and static.

  “Drop him off, come right back, Detective.”

  She acknowledged, dropped the mike on the seat beside her, and glared at the rearview mirror. “If I lose my shield because of this, Turpin, I’ll kill you.”

  He grunted again, not daring to speak, not knowing if he could speak, and not caring about her goddamn shield. He was hurt, and hurt badly, and it wasn’t healing the way it should have.

  Awkwardly, he reached behind his left ear, touched his hair, then checked his hand in the intermittent light that flowed through the car.

  It was thick, barely flowing, but it was still his blood.

  He couldn’t think.

  He didn’t understand.

  “Hang on, Richard,” she said gently. “We’re coming up on the bridge. Bumpy ride.”

  Why the hell was he still bleeding?

  The fireflies flared into a solid white wall when the car slammed into a pothole.

  … he could smell the blood …

  “Talk to me, Richard,” she said quietly and urgently. ‘Talk to me, don’t die on me, talk to me, come on, talk to me.”

  He began to appreciate the fireflies. At least they were proof he was still alive.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Yes.”

  He heard the sighed “Thank God.”

  The car slowed, and he slid toward the door as she swung around a corner.

  “How the hell did you get down there so fast?”

  He swallowed, his throat feeling as if it were packed with sand. “Flew.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Luck.”

  “Miracle, you mean.” A glance over her shoulder. “How’d you get hurt? A tree, rock, what? Keep talking, Richard. Christ, I must be nuts. Momma always said I’d go nuts one of these days, dealing with all the scum of the earth. I’m nuts, that’s all there is to it.”

  The fireflies danced.

  “Richard, talk to me, come on, talk to me.”

  “He …” He tried to sit up, but the motion of the car kept him down. “He hit me.”

  Her voice rose: “You saw him? Jesus, Richard, you saw him?”

  He shook his head, and groaned at the explosion that threatened to swamp him. “No,” he said. “No. Came from behind me.”

  His eyes fluttered closed; he saw himself charging like a fool through the trees, following the scent, feeling the explosion, unable to …

  His eyes snapped open.

  Doubled back, the bastard doubled back on his own trail and just stood there, waiting for him.

  He knew I was coming.

  He groaned again, this time in frustration.

  “Richard?”

  “How soon?”

  “Two minutes. You going to die on me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what’s this all about?”

  “You’ll see. Be patient.”

  Southern and deadly: “Honey, this damn well better be good.”

  * * *

  … he could taste the blood …

  He gripped the back of the seat and hauled himself up, bracing himself for the fiery detonation in his skull, the one that mercifully didn’t come. His stomach roiled bile into his throat. The fireflies merged with the lights outside as she pulled into the parking entrance, flashed her badge at the attendant who wanted to stop her, and turned sharply left, bringing them down one level. Below ground. Where it was silent.

  Once she had stopped, she jumped out and yanked open the back door, suddenly unsure of what to do next.

  He half crawled, half slid out to his feet, looked at the ramp and said, “I’ll never make it.”

  She was pale and couldn’t keep from staring at his head. But she said nothing. She kept the blanket around his shoulders, hauling it up to cover his neck, and most of the blood; there wasn’t much she could do about the blood that matted his hair. An arm slipped around his waist, an order to lean on her, she was stronger than sh
e looked, and they began the upward climb.

  “You’re drunk,” she whispered when they came out at street level.

  He didn’t need to act. His legs weren’t working, the fireflies were blinding him, and the throbbing in his head trebled every noise and deafened him. He stared at the ground, then at the carpet, seeing feet pass him, hearing some disgust, some giggles, someone ask if the little lady could use some help with her friend.

  The little lady declined. Politely.

  Richard would have laughed had he had the strength.

  At the elevators she showed her badge again, clearing everyone out. When a pair of pointy silver boots complained bitterly, she suggested he talk to the management. Not very politely this time, and the doors closed.

  “You’re not gonna die, right?”

  He stared at the floor, and said nothing. Right now, there was nothing he could say to chase the fear in her voice. He had to concentrate on standing up, concentrate on walking when they reached the third floor, concentrate on not screaming when she leaned him too heavily against the wall and searched him for the key card to let them inside.

  “The bed,” she said when the door closed behind them.

  “No.” He pushed her gently toward the couch. “Sit down.”

  “But—”

  “Sit down. This’ll take a few minutes, but … just sit, Jo, just sit.”

  He made his way into the other room without falling, used the bed to help him keep his feet, and tried not to stumble when he entered the bathroom. Before he turned on the light, he looked out and saw her, on the couch but sitting forward, trying to see him through the dark.

  “Don’t leave,” he said hoarsely, and closed the door, turned on the light, looked in the mirror over the small porcelain sink.

  He knew then, and raised a weak fist.

  Silver; the son of a bitch had hit him with something heavily laced with silver.

  “So why aren’t you dead?” he asked his reflection. “Why didn’t he finish it?”

  He grabbed the edge of the basin with both hands, lowered his head, and closed his eyes.

  The shift was agony.

  He confined it to his head and shoulders as best he could, and didn’t look up, didn’t want to look up, just waited until all the fireflies died and the conflagration died and he could think again without wishing he were dead.

  … blood …

  … on the jaws of Anubis …

  Stiffly, moving an inch at a time, he stripped off his jacket and shirt, splashed cold water on his face, and grimaced at the blood and woodland filth that swirled down the drain. It took the face cloth and two hand towels before the water ran reasonably clear; then he washed again, and stripped to his shorts.

  He was still dizzy, could still barely walk. He needed to rest, needed sleep. The rogue was out there—and close, so damn close—but the way he felt now, he wouldn’t be able to fight his own shadow.

  Maybe Poulard was right; maybe he was getting too old for this job. if that second blow had hit his head instead of his shoulders ..

  He turned off the light and opened the door.

  Joanne was on her feet in the middle of the sitting room, a single lamp burning behind her. “I thought… I was going to come in. I thought—”

  He pulled back the quilt and blanket, and slipped under the sheet, with a slight groan not entirely just for her benefit.

  She took a step closer. “I’ll get a doctor now, okay?”

  “No,” he said weakly. “I’m all right. Like you said to that cop, it looked worse than it was. Cold water does wonders, believe it or not.”

  She came into the room then and stood by the footboard. “This is nuts. You need a doctor. You need stitches. Damn, Turpin, you practically fell down a goddamn mountain, then got yourself nailed by a killer.”

  “I’ll be all right,” he insisted gamely, and added with a smile, “If it’ll make you feel any better, I’m going to feel like hell in the morning.” He laughed tightly. “Hell, I feel like hell now.”

  “This makes no sense.”

  He could feel himself slipping away, down where the healing was. He wanted to say something to her, to ease the concern so clear in her voice, to clear the fear for him he could see in her eyes.

  All he could do was sigh.

  “I can’t stay,” she said suddenly, sidling toward the sitting room.

  “I know.”

  “He’ll kill me. And that—”

  “You’ll catch him.”

  Her laugh was bitter. “Yeah. Right. Like I’m Superwoman or something, huh?” Angrily she snatched up her coat, switched off the lamps, and grabbed for the doorknob. “Maybe I’ll stop by later.”

  “Thanks, but you’ll be working all night.”

  A shrug.

  “Jo?”

  The door was open, light slipping into the room. She looked at him, frowning because she couldn’t see anything but a vague lump in the bed.

  “You are, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Super.”

  Did she blush? He couldn’t tell because she was gone too quickly, and his vision was as well. There were no fireflies, but there was a insistent dull throbbing, and a faint burning across his shoulders that forced him to lie on his stomach, hands buried under the pillow.

  He would heal, but he’d been lucky.

  Right now he was furious at himself, for running off like that, for letting the damn rogue catch him in such an amateur trap, and for wishing )o didn’t take her job so seriously.

  He closed his eyes and waited, groaned and got up, chained and bolted the door, and returned to bed.

  Still angry.

  Still aching.

  Until the healing dark took him, and all he could see was his own blood.

  Blanchard sat in his room, alone, darkness relieved only by the light that seeped around the edges of the draperies.

  In his right hand he held a half-empty tumbler of Southern Comfort, while his left dangled motionless over the arm of the chair. The only time he moved was when he heard a burst of activity outside his door. Whatever passed for an evening’s entertainment at this place must have begun, and he had a feeling it would last most of the night.

  There was no temptation to wander the hotel, to visit any of the dozen parties announced in garish flyers taped to the walls.

  Once he had seen Turpin and the lady cop hurry out of the building, once his flare-up at Strand had subsided, he had retreated here. To calm down. To consider.

  After an hour he turned on the television and flicked through the channels, shaking his head in disgust until the bulletins had started.

  Another killing on the mountain, just as brutal as the others. Police from two states were out in force, an immediate curfew had been clamped onto the city, and more information would be delivered as it was received.

  The television went off when it obvious the local news had nothing but pissant speculation and rehashed history to give its viewers.

  He sipped.

  He considered driving out there just to see what was really going on, and discarded the notion instantly. The rogue was gone; and the odds of finding Turpin alone were too long to take the chance. The man would probably be out there until dawn.

  The fingers of his left hand twitched.

  He sipped, letting the single ice cube settle briefly against his teeth.

  His problem now wasn’t really a problem at all: normally, he would have found a way to confuse the issue, as he had usually done before, not bothering with the rogue because, in the long run, it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. Once the waters had been muddied, his job was over.

  But that was normally.

  Now he had to decide if the rogue really didn’t matter. Crimmins the Prick would probably tell him that they both had to go, the rogue and Turpin. The rogue, because capture by others would surely rend the Veil, and Crimmins and his people didn’t seem ready to let it go that far yet; Turpin, because simple cap
ture was out of the question.

  He sipped.

  Normally, others came in after him and took care of the rogue, made it vanish or whatever, and whatever Crimmins did with it was his business, not Blanchard’s. Unless there were too many killings, which generally caught the Warders’ attention. Those he stayed away from; those brought Turpin, and normally, he didn’t want anything to do with the Strider.

  But that was normally.

  Crimmins had stepped over the line, both here and in San Francisco.

  “Ignorant little man, my ass,” he muttered into the tumbler.

  Then he thought about Wanda Strand, and his left hand became a fist.

  He woke up with a silent cry, and to sweat drenching his hair and pillow, blanket and sheet tangled and shoved to the foot of the bed.

  A second passed before he remembered where he was, and another before he realized something wasn’t right, that he hadn’t been dreaming.

  Until he felt the pain that shouldn’t have been.

  It wasn’t all that bad, he’d felt worse, much worse, but the fact was, he shouldn’t have been feeling any pain at all.

  He should have been healing, and he wasn’t.

  Slowly, almost holding his breath, he swung his legs over the side and sat up, slumping, waiting for his mind to clear, passing a hand over his face and back through his hair.

  “Damn,” he whispered. “Damn.”

  He straightened and rolled his shoulders, and the pain slammed him back onto the mattress, legs jerking uncontrollably, fists tucked tightly under his chin, arms pressed to his ribs as if they could squeeze the pain out.

  He waited for it to pass.

  It didn’t.

  “It’s quite easy, you see,” Marcus Spiro explained as if imparting a great secret, “to let all this go to your head. I’ve seen it a hundred … no, a thousand times in a thousand cities. A few autographs, a few speeches, and the less disciplined begin to believe that they’re special.” He leaned over the table. “That they’re actually somebody if you know what I mean.”

  Wanda nodded solemnly, letting her fingers caress the stem of her wine glass slowly.

  “Not that I wasn’t immune in the beginning myself,” the writer admitted with a sad smile of self-deprecation. “I rather enjoyed the fuss, don’t you see. in many ways, in those days, it validated all the sacrifices one makes when one has to work at such a truly lonely occupation.”