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

by Charles L. Grant

  She nodded again, staring at her fingers, once in a while shifting her gaze to his face, to prove that she was listening.

  He sat back and sighed, unbuttoning his tweed jacket as if it were too tight across his middle. “I know better now, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said. “With age comes wisdom.”

  “Exactly.” He chuckled, tilted his head. “And foolishness, too, I fear, my dear. Because every so often, when I am feted at one of these outlandish conventions, I allow myself to taken along for the ride. Caution to the wind and all that, you see.”

  “Why not? You work hard, so you ought to be able to kick up your heels once in a while.” She ducked her head and smiled. “You must clear out the brain cells while letting your ego have its day.”

  He smiled expansively. “Absolutely! Absolutely!”

  The restaurant was nearly empty. Only a handful of people sat in the booths. A lull, she thought. It was just past nine; in a while there would probably be a rush to beat last call. She looked around Spiro, down the length of the room. All right, a dribble. It’ll fill up, but it won’t get hectic.

  “You know, my dear Ms. Strand,” Spiro said, keeping his voice low, “I am surprised, quite frankly, to find someone not a part of this circus who actually seems to understand what it’s like. Being someone like me, I mean to say.”

  A waitress brought them another round without having to be asked, followed by a tall, bearded man, who came up to the railing and, after an apologetic glance at her, tapped Spiro on the shoulder.

  “Ah, Leon!” A hand waved vaguely. “Leon, please make sure this young lady gets a medal, won’t you? She has graciously allowed me to intrude on her solitude for the past hour, and bore her to silent tears.”

  Wanda nodded politely at the newcomer, who couldn’t quite meet her eyes, and for no reason at all, she found that charming. Nevertheless, as she drank, a faint disturbing chill made her check the window, thinking that perhaps it might have started snowing.

  “Mr. Spiro,” Hendean said deferentially, “will you need me anymore tonight?”

  Spiro shook his head. “Of course not, Leon. I’m going to get a little more drunk, check a party or two, and retire early. It’s been a long day.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Do you want a wake-up call or anything? Room service breakfast?”

  “God, no!” Spiro shuddered dramatically. “I have a panel at eleven, I think. I’ll be there, don’t worry.”

  The two men conversed quietly, and Wanda looked away, toward the lobby door. Bored was absolutely the right word. Spiro had invited himself to her table, and she’d been too distracted to discourage him. By the time she realized what a monumental bore he was, news of the latest murder was on the large-screen TV down by the bar, and she didn’t want to move, didn’t want to miss a thing.

  It was easy to split her attention between the news and the writer-, all Spiro required was a nod and smile now and then—his ego took care of the rest.

  “My dear?”

  She blinked, smiling automatically as she rubbed one arm against the persistent chill. Leon was gone, and Spiro had changed. His dark eyes were bright, his posture more relaxed, and she groaned silently when he damn near winked as he suggested that they retire to his room with a few of his close friends. A private party. Intelligent conversation. Wit and repartee. Surely, he said, she would find that more stimulating than sitting alone in a bar.

  He leaned closer, and she leaned away without thinking.

  He’s on something, she thought then. His eyes, the way he tilted his head, the way his tongue touched his lips, not really moistening them.

  Without reason, he made her nervous.

  And when he repeated the invitation, all she could think of was, come into my parlor said the spider to the fly.

  There was no telling how much time had passed before the pain subsided.

  He breathed with open mouth, tasting the salt from tears and sweat, blinking in the dark, trying to see.

  “Damn.”

  It was as if someone had stabbed him with an ice pick between his shoulder blades. And kept it there, every so often pushing it in a little.

  He tried to reach the spot with one hand, then both, but all he succeeded in doing was push his face deeper into the pillow, and threaten a cramp in his legs. When he tried to get up onto his forearms and knees, the pain shoved him back again. “Jo,” he whispered. No one answered.

  Blanchard set the empty tumbler on the night table and pushed himself out the chair.

  He couldn’t sit here any longer.

  He switched on the television in case there was any late news he needed to know, and went into the bathroom. Once his vision adjusted to the overhead light, he opened the kit and checked himself in the mirror.

  It had occurred to him that maybe Turpin didn’t have to be on Lookout Mountain until dawn. That maybe muddying the waters was exactly what was needed. If for no other reason that to piss Crimmins off.

  He grinned.

  Time, he decided, to do his job.

  So he steadied himself, reached up, and began to take off his face.

  Spiro was visibly disappointed when she declined his invitation, but he was nevertheless gracious about it. A murmured apology for taking up so much of her time, a slightly drunken bow, and he was gone, immediately latched onto by a handful of younger people, who followed him chattering out of the room.

  Wanda stared at her glass, only vaguely aware that he had left.

  There was a quiver to her left hand.

  Her right gripped the stem lightly with the pads of her fingers.

  The chill had begun to fade, but there was no mistaking it. None.

  She had never pretended to be anything else than what she was—a paid assassin whose credentials were inarguable, and whose loyalty could be counted on. She had few skills in diplomacy, fewer in politics, and paid no attention to whatever subtleties Crimmins tried to attach to her job.

  She didn’t much care.

  She killed. Simple as that.

  Like this job. A last-minute thing, a phone call in the middle of the night that had rousted her from bed so she could listen to Crimmins vent his rage and demand retribution for damn near an hour. When she had finally calmed him down, he told her what he wanted.

  Nothing fancy, nothing cute.

  Just make damn sure Miles Blanchard didn’t leave Chattanooga alive.

  She was surprised, but she didn’t ask questions. Blanchard was a walking ego trip, and from the first time they had met, she had had a feeling Crimmins and his people weren’t going to carry him forever.

  She hadn’t counted on this, however; she hadn’t counted on being able to locate a rogue without half trying.

  It almost made her laugh aloud; instead, she gripped the stem more tightly.

  Blanchard, the son of a bitch, had once laughingly called her a Seer because of her hunches, most of which were right when it came to hunting the Garou. She didn’t really believe it, mainly because she had never been able to summon the skill—if that’s what it was—at will. Didn’t believe, that is, until it happened. Even then she didn’t waste time trying to figure it out.

  It happened.

  It was right.

  Almost always, someone died.

  She felt the chill deepen briefly, bone-deep and dry, before it faded completely, and knew it wasn’t from the weather outside.

  Once she realized that, she realized something else—that she actually might know who it was.

  All right, he thought, accepting momentary defeat; all right, it’s all right.

  He lay on his stomach, arms at his sides, and stared blindly toward the sitting room. Movement brought the pain, so he didn’t move. All he had to do was wait. Sooner or later, Jo would be back. He suspected with a smile she wasn’t being terribly effective out there tonight, not after what she had seen happen to him, and she would take the first opportunity to get away.

  When she did, when she returned, he would h
ave her check his back, to find what had to be a sliver of silver still lodged there, and get it out somehow. It was the only explanation. Nothing else would cause him this much agony.

  All he had to do was wait.

  Which he did until he remembered that he’d latched and bolted the door. Even if she came back, she wouldn’t be able to get in.

  All right, then, he thought, you have no choice.

  He moved, and cried out softly, and moved, and tasted the bile, and finally collapsed back onto the bed, sweating through the chills that stiffened his muscles.

  All he had to do now was wait.

  There was nothing else he could do.

  He was dying.

  Wanda emptied her glass in a single, long swallow, and declined the waitress’ offer of a refill. The restaurant/bar was empty save for a couple in a booth midway along. There was basketball on the television. A check proved the lobby was deserted.

  She leaned back and pulled the ivory wand from her pocket, keeping it below the table’s edge. Pressing a hidden button snapped out a blade made of silver, serrated and barbed. She lay it across one palm, then drew it back and forth as if sharpening it on her skin.

  The big man or the writer?

  One of them was Garou.

  Annoyed with herself now for not recognizing it sooner, she folded the blade back into the ivory, snapped it out, folded it in, over and over, while she sorted the possibilities and the options.

  Ten minutes later the weapon was back in her pocket, and she was on her feet.

  Realistically, there were no options, at least not for tonight. The argument with Blanchard had sent her to the bar, to the wine, and her reflexes weren’t nearly as sharp as they ought to be. Her right hand touched the back of her head absently, and she hissed silently when she felt the small bump hitting the wall had caused. Even if Blanchard hadn’t been her primary objective, that shove would have made him so, no matter what Crimmins thought.

  Now she had two targets.

  The payment wouldn’t increase, but that was all right.

  From all she had gathered, Blanchard, when he had to, killed coldly, without emotion.

  Wanda, when it happened, made sure it was fun.

  She made her way to the exit, touching booths and chairs as she walked to keep her balance grounded. The lights were bright, the noise outside loud, and she hoped she could make it back to the room without falling over. Once there, and once sleep had gotten rid of the effects of the wine, she would figure out when and where the best times would be.

  It didn’t take that long.

  She spotted an easel set between the elevator doors, holding a placard announcing the next day’s big event at the convention: an evening-long masquerade that would culminate in a huge party in the ballroom upstairs.

  She grinned, and turned to a man waiting beside her, black hair, skin-tight jump suit, enough rhinestones and bangles to blind the blind. Pointy ears. “Who are you supposed to be?” she asked, wide-eyed, Southern belle.

  The man smiled shyly. “Vulcan Elvis.”

  Oh my God, she thought, this is gonna be a snap.

  In the last hour before dawn, a slow wind rising outside the window, Richard opened his eyes and smelled the blood. His blood.

  She was gliding.

  The wind held her above the mountain, cried in her ears, made her eyes water. It was terrifying, and it was great, and she couldn’t stop herself from yelling aloud.

  She was gliding.

  Below was mostly brown and tan, with smudges of green where the pines muscled in. Winks and flares of light from reflections off glass, off the roofs of cars, off the river that tucked the city into its bend.

  She was flying.

  Listening to the wind and to the flutter of the airfoil and to the creak of the frame and to the groan of her arms as they steered her slowly, then rapidly down the side of the mountain.

  Up here she had no troubles; up here the only shooting she did was along a current that wanted to take her away. No place special.

  Just … away.

  The problem was down there.

  In the trees she could see something pacing her, something large and black, and she knew it wasn’t a bear and she knew it wasn’t a panther and she knew that the lieutenant’s face had no business being at her right shoulder.

  “Hey!” he called. “Hey, Minster!”

  Go away, she thought; damn it, I’m flying.

  He grabbed her shoulder and shook it gently.

  Jesus, she nearly yelled; are you trying to kill me?

  “Hey.” Gently now. “Hey, Joanne.”

  She blinked, blinked again, and she was in the passenger seat of her car, no longer flying, grounded in front of the Chestnut Street bus station. Rubbing her eyes with her knuckles, she swung her legs around when he opened the door.

  She tried to focus on her watch, shivering so hard her teeth almost chattered. “Damn. What time is it?”

  He squinted at the sky. “If it weren’t for the clouds, it’d be a bit past dawn. Come on. wake up.”

  It came back to her in wisps: a call, another killing, this time a washed-out hooker named Nina Sue Losi, a regular around here, discovered by a half-stoned friend at the back of the narrow parking lot between the station and the hotel next door. Millson had grabbed Joanne and a few others, and they’d made a screaming convoy into the city. Too late, as usual, but not too late to see the slices the killer had taken out of the woman before he had dumped her.

  No one had seen a thing.

  “Hey.”

  “I’m awake, I’m awake. Jeez, Lieutenant, gimmie a break.”

  He grinned, wiped a gloved hand under his nose, and straightened. “No sense sticking around. I got the boys on it now.”

  She nodded.

  More wisps; it hadn’t taken them long to see that this wasn’t the Task Force beast. Although the wounds were similar, there hadn’t been anything missing. Nina Sue was all there. What was left of her, that is, sprawled in all her blood.

  Once Millson understood that, he called in the regular Homicide crew, asking her to wait in the car until they arrived.

  She scratched vigorously through her hair, eased out of the car, and stretched. The wind had died down, but the clouds remained. She sniffed the sharp air and cursed—there’d be snow before long, lust what they needed. Hell, for this kind of weather she might as well be living in Chicago.

  Crime ribbons rippled; lights flashed; a patrolman stood on the pavement, keeping a crowd of hotel guests away from the area. A TV van parked nose-in a few feet away, a weary reporter standing with a mike in a wash of vivid light.

  Joanne yawned so hard her jaw popped, and Millson laughed.

  “Go away,” he told her with mock severity. “Sleep in a real bed for a couple of hours for a change, be back at the office by noon.” He gestured toward the street. “The others are already gone.” He took a step away and turned. “Forget the office. Be sure that Fed hasn’t died while we were playing first. Then come in.”

  “But—”

  “Joanne,” he said, exhaustion making his voice hoarse and his face haggard, “we didn’t find anything out there, and we sure ain’t gonna do it walking around like zombies.”

  He turned his back, and she decided not to argue A muttered “thanks,” and she slipped back inside, closed the door, and squirmed across the seat behind the wheel. The car was frigid, the windshield already beginning to fog over, and it took three tries before the engine fired.

  A real bed sounded real good about now, but she couldn’t help thinking about Richard. That blood. She rubbed her eyes again, slapped herself gently on her cheeks, and decided it wouldn’t hurt to do what the lieutenant had asked. The Read House was only a few blocks away. A finger touched her jacket’s breast pocket, making sure she still had the room key. A look in, that’s all. Get him something if he needed it.

  That all? she asked sarcastically as she pulled away from the curb; you sure that’s the only reason?<
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  The streets were still, only a few cars moving, no one on the sidewalks at all. She pulled into the parking entrance, straight into an area marked off by orange traffic cones, directly in front of the entrance.

  “Hey,” the attendant called. “Hey, lady, that’s reserved. You can’t—”

  “Oh, yes, I can,” she answered brightly, holding up her badge. “Thanks,” and she was inside before he could say another word.

  The building was eerily quiet.

  A coatless bellman vacuumed the lobby carpet. There were no clerks behind the counter. A teenager in a fatigue jacket slumped in one of the couches, reading a paperback book.

  Joanne held her jacket closed with one hand, feeling a slight chill that didn’t leave her until the elevator let her off on the third floor.

  Silence, still.

  Despite the carpeting, it seemed as if her footfalls echoed.

  When she stood in front of Turpin’s door, key card in her hand, she hesitated. Yes, he was hurt; no, she wasn’t his nursemaid. Yes, he was a grown man; no, she had a murderer to catch, and baby-sitting wasn’t part of the investigation.

  Yes; no.

  The faint ring of the elevator bell made her jump and look guiltily around.

  Damn it, she thought. She inserted the card and entered the room quickly, closing the door while she waited for her vision to adjust to the gloom.

  He was still in bed, but the covers had somehow landed down around his ankles, and she could see a dark stain in the middle of his back.

  He stirred, and groaned.

  Oh my God, she thought, and hurried around the bed, looked down, and gasped aloud.

  “Jo?”

  Blood on his back, some of it dried to a crust, some of it fresh.

  “Jo?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” She knelt beside him, a hand hovering over the wound. “I thought you were … you said . .

  With great effort he turned his face on the pillow, and she swallowed heavily. His face was drawn, old, eyes retreating deep into their sockets, cheeks gouged with hollows.