“You sound more like an architect than a law man,” Pallida said, shaking her head in admiration.
“Well, I did major in city-planning back in college,” Roy admitted bashfully. “But I never dreamed I would be attempting to build a community from the ground up—especially not one like this!”
The front door banged open and Kasa and her twin brother, Hoke, thundered into the house. Both children were grinning ear-to-ear; their eyes glowing like freshly minted gold coins.
“Mama! Daddy!” the twins chimed. “King’s back!”
A shaggy, four-legged shape the size of a young adult bear stood on the front porch. The beast lifted its massive head and thumped its tail in greeting, red tongue lolling from the corner of its mouth like velvet sash.
Roy grinned and knelt before the creature, scratching it behind the ears. “You old bastard! Where’ve you been, boy? Out huntin’ antelope and bighorn in the high country again?”
As Pallida stepped forward to join Skinner, the great beast’s hackle rose and a low, throaty growl rumbled in its chest.
“She’s okay, King!” Roy took a double handful of the animal’s nape so that they were eye-to-eye. “She’s a friend,” he said, stressing the last word. He motioned for Pallida to draw closer. “Ms. Mors, I’d like you to meet King. He’s one of my closest and most trusted friends. King, say hello to the nice lady.”
King looked at Roy, then back at Pallida, before offering his front paw. Pallida’s eyebrows lifted when she saw the opposable thumb.
“You didn’t mention there was a half-wolf amongst your number. Your friend is very rare, indeed.”
“Yes, I’m aware of the Werewolf Eugenics Council’s stand on half-wolves,” Roy said with a sigh. “They don’t want them polluting their precious pedigrees. Werewolves mating with true wolves is viewed as bestiality.”
“And werewolves raping humans is normal?” she shot back.
“I don’t agree with their policies, I only know of them,” Skinner said firmly. “I’d appreciate it if you would remember that.”
“You’re right, Sheriff. I spoke out of turn. Please forgive me.”
Bonnie stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Kasa! Hoke! Go wash your paws. You too, King! Dinner’s ready!”
***
Neal McClain was awakened by the sound of horses screaming. He looked to Little Bird’s side of the bed, and then remembered she and their son had gone to stay with relatives on the reservation. The incident with the stranger in the barn had spooked his wife in a way nothing else in this strange land had before.
Nine years ago, while on a rare trip to Albuquerque, Roy Skinner had spotted a band of young toughs in a culvert kicking around what looked like a scarecrow. The scarecrow was Neal. Roy scared off the punks and offered to drop him off at the hospital. Neal begged him not to because there was bench warrant out on him for drunk and disorderly.
So instead of leaving him to die in a ditch of internal injuries, Roy took Neal back to Limbo, where he was nursed back to health by a collection of Native Americans, social rejects, werewolves and were-coyotes. Neal had not left Limbo since, outside of a brief foray into the Navajo Nation to find a wife.
In the years since Roy Skinner dragged him out of the culvert, Neal McClain had achieved more than he had ever dreamed possible. He had a home, a wife, a son, friends, neighbors, and a respected place in his community. While he wasn’t living the life of a Rajah, he had enough livestock and food to provide for his family and their simple needs; which was pretty damn good for a down-and-out drunk who used to live under a highway overpass. And he would be damned if some vampire was going to scare him off his land.
He threw back the blankets, snatching up the pair of pants draped over the foot of the bed. He grabbed the loaded thirty-aught he kept behind the front door and hurried out across the yard. The noise coming from the barn was horrific. The last time he heard animals make such a sound was when he’d worked as day labor at a dog food factory. He remembered it had taken a gallon of Mad Dog to wash the echoes of the mustangs’ screams from his head.
As he drew closer, Neal saw that the barn doors were standing wide open. Cloverleaf, his prize mare, suddenly bolted out into the yard, her eyes rolling in terror. Neal leapt out of the way, narrowly avoiding being trampled by the frightened horse as it fled into the night.
“Who’s there? Show yourself! I got a gun!” He shouted as he stepped inside the barn. He could barely hear his own voice over the frantic lowing of the agitated cattle and the horses and mules kicking at their stable doors. He pulled out his flashlight and played the beam around the interior of the barn. Panicked livestock stared back at him, their eyes showing white. He focused the flashlight beam on Cloverleaf’s stall. The mare had reduced the slats to splinters in her escape.
He then pointed the light at the next stall over, which housed one of his plow mules. At first he thought it was empty as well, but then he saw a dark bulk sprawled in the hay. He moved closer to get a better look, and saw that the poor beast’s mouth hung open, it tongue dangling to one side, bloody froth covering its muzzle. As the beam of the flashlight played across the dying mule’s glazing eyes, Silas Samuels raised his head, his face smeared with blood and straw, and hissed at the rancher like an angry possum.
Neal cried out in alarm and dropped the flashlight. Never in his life, not even during his days hanging out drinking hooch under the overpass, had he seen such bestial hunger in a fellow man’s eyes. It was as if every last vestige of humanity had been stripped away from the old prospector, leaving only stark, staring madness.
“Stay where you are, Silas!” Neal said, leveling his gun at the gore-covered figure crouched before him. “I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if I have to!”
Silas grinned up at Neal, bloody drool dripping from his quivering lips. The flesh of the mule was good, but nowhere as tender as the flesh of man. The ghoul no more knew why this was true any more than a bird knows why it’s warmer down south. But as the thought of eating the man crossed the dark, cold clay of his mind, the ghoul felt something twitch in his hindbrain. Something that told him that the man was not meant to feed his hunger, but destined for another’s need.
***
Bonnie and Roy cleared the after-dinner dishes from the table while the twins finished their homework. After checking Hoke’s math and Kasa’s biology papers, Bonnie escorted the twins. Roy dispensed good night kisses to his son and daughter, then returned to the great room, to find his guest seated in a chair, staring at the fire in the kiva, her chin resting on steepled fingers. The half-wolf, King, was sprawled before her feet like a bearskin rug.
“I’m impressed,” Roy said. “King doesn’t normally relax in front of strangers.”
“We understand each other,” Pallida said simply. “He knows I pose no threat to the pack. In fact, he cut short his hunting trip because he caught wind of Varrick.”
“How did you figure that out? Read his mind?” Roy asked half-jokingly.
“To a certain degree,” Pallida replied. “You are right. There is much we have to discuss if we are to work together. I’m interested in learning more about you and this town of yours.”
“Why don’t you just read my mind? That would save some time, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes it would, but I doubt you would find the experience very pleasant. The difference between you and King is that King doesn’t have an id, ego or super-ego. He simply is what he is. That makes reading his mind far less intrusive. Besides, I would rather hear it from you, in your own words. Tell me about yourself, Roy Skinner.”
Skinner shrugged his shoulders and sat down in a chair opposite his guest. “If you insist. But, remember, you asked for it. I was born a werewolf, but I was raised human. I don’t know who my biological parents are. When I was a year old, I was adopted by the people I grew up believing to be my parents: Bill and Edna Skinner.
“The Skinners cherished me as only those who know the true value of a child can. I nev
er once doubted their love for me, no matter what. They knew I was different from other children, but it never changed how they felt towards me. Like most weres reared amongst humans, I had a hard time being accepted by my peers, and was often the butt of cruel jokes and vicious pranks. I could have become embittered and twisted, like so many others of my kind, but the love of my parents kept me strong.
“ I never knew how incredibly lucky I was to have been adopted by the Skinners until I went out into the world and met others like myself who had known nothing but abuse at the hands of humans. My mother, rest her soul, loved me even after she discovered the truth. I was only ten years old at the time...”
Skinner fell silent and his gaze became distant, as if he was looking at something far away. After a few seconds he swallowed hard and resumed speaking, but there was a hitch in his voice.
“My father took me deer hunting. When I bagged my first buck, he said it was rite of passage, marking my transition from boy into man. He blooded my cheeks—smearing my face with the fresh viscera of the deer I had brought down. And, without meaning to, I changed for the first time in my life.
“My mother found me crouched over his dead body, gnawing on his carcass like a rabid beast. Instead of killing me for the monster I was, she took me home, cleaned me up, and protected me, not only from others, but from myself as well. I was all she had left, and she didn’t want to lose me, too. I had no memory of what I had done until I shape-shifted for the first time as an adult.
“When I discovered the truth about myself, I decided to find others of my kind. I thought I might fit in better with werewolves than I did with humans. But I discovered that I could never truly fit in amongst them, either. The purebred werewolves I fell in with were ravenous, blood-drunk maniacs who used humans to sate their basest appetites. Faced with the possibility of centuries of life as a cannibal and serial rapist, I was on the verge of suicide...
“It wasn’t until I met my wife’s people, the Coyotero, that I realized there was hope for myself. The Coyotero know how to live in balance with their world and those who share it with them. That is why werewolf society hates them so.
“The Coyotero taught me that just because I have wild blood in my veins, that does not mean I must live like a beast. The were-coyotes have co-existed in relative harmony with the native peoples of the Southwest for millennia. While they might eat the occasional human now and again, their relationship with the desert tribes has been largely benevolent—hence the importance of the trickster-god Coyote in Native American mythology.
“Thanks to the Coyotero I saw how it was possible for human and supernaturals to live together, work together, and fight together against a common enemy. I know from personal experience that the role of monster is a cruel one. To live the life of a predator means you can never truly be at peace, either with the world or yourself. You are constantly on the prowl, fearful of exposure or challenges from more powerful, deadlier predators.
“All the shadow races play at being human, but not all of us do so just to prey upon the flock. Some of us do so simply because we dream of having a family and a home and a place in a society where we can live without fear.
“Limbo was born of that dream. We have worked hard to make this a place where human lives beside werewolf, where werewolf hunts alongside were-coyote. Any supernatural who has wearied of the endless cycle of hiding and killing and living in fear is welcome to join us and start a new life, one free of predation and exploitation. We hope as word of what we’re doing spreads amongst the underground that more and more supernaturals will find their way to us. In fact, there are those on the Council who still think we owe this Varrick a fair hearing.”
“Believe me when I tell you, Sheriff Skinner: never trust a vampire.”
“Does that include you as well?” Roy asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes,” she answered. “I could not hunt and destroy these creatures like I do if I did not carry some of their darkness inside me. I can be a very dangerous woman, Sheriff, even when I don’t wish to be.”
“Perhaps that is true,” Roy said with a shrug. “But I have learned to trust my instincts when it comes to people, whether they’re human or not.”
“And what do your instincts say about me?”
“That you’re conflicted. And I have no doubt in my mind that you can be lethal. . But, basically, I believe you are a decent sort. Whatever that sort may be”
Before he could continue, a muffled ringing sound came from the roll-top desk.
“Excuse me. It’s the hotline,” Roy explained, levering himself out of his chair. “We don’t have telephone service, per se, but there are a few army-issue field telephones scattered amongst the older human citizens. My phone rings automatically the minute someone on the other end picks up their receiver.” He rolled the cover of the desk back and pulled an old-fashioned telephone receiver from an olive-drab canvas case. “Sheriff speaking.” Skinner frowned, as if having trouble identifying the voice on the other end. “Mrs. Connors--? Is that you? What? I’ll be right out! Daisy, I need you to lock your doors and stay away from the windows! Do you hear me? Don’t let anyone in until I get there! Now stay put—help’s on the way.” He glanced up at Pallida as he returned the receiver to its case. “Daisy Connors says there’s something in her chicken coop and, whatever it is, it’s laughing.”
***
The Connors place was a small parcel located a mile or so up the road from Neal McClain’s spread. A couple of weeks ago, Daisy’s husband of forty-seven years, Kerwin, died of gut cancer, leaving her to raise chickens and candle eggs on her own. As Roy pulled up in front of the Connors’ house, King leapt out of the back of the vehicle. The half-wolf loped over to the chicken coop then went on-point, like a bird dog in the presence of hidden quail, his teeth bared and hackle raised from nape to tail.
Taking his gun from its holster, Skinner motioned for Pallida to flank him as he kicked open the door. He glanced inside and grimaced.
“Whatever was after Daisy’s chickens has flown the coop. No pun intended.”
“Could it have been an animal?” Pallida asked.
“You tell me,” he said, motioning for her to look inside.
The walls of the coop were coated with blood, matted feathers, and the dripping yolks of shattered eggs. Chicken carcasses, fifty in all, lay scattered about like gory feather dusters. Each and every bird was missing its head. The nesting boxes were overturned and what few eggs not hurled against the walls had been trodden underfoot. Pallida turned to speak to Roy, but he was already running towards the farmhouse.
“Mrs. Connors! It’s me! Sheriff Skinner!”
As he stepped onto the front porch, he could see the front door was hanging from busted hinges. Whatever had raided the chicken coop had kicked open the door, despite the heavy crossbar. All the furniture in the front room was smashed to kindling. Skinner dashed into the kitchen and then into the bedroom, only to find each dark and empty.
He returned to see Pallida standing in the middle of the demolished furnishings, studying a shattered piece of Blue Willow china she had picked up off the floor.
“She’s gone,” he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice.
“Varrick’s minion has claimed her for his master,” Pallida said. “If your friend is lucky, she’ll die of a heart attack before the bastard has a chance to feed.”
“Damn it! This ain’t how it’s supposed to be!” Skinner spat, kicking the gutted remains of the Connors’ sofa. “I promised them a safe place for humans and supernaturals alike, and they trusted me!”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sheriff,” Pallida said. “There’s no undoing what has been done here. Once Varrick converts a few humans, though, you can kiss your little attempt at utopia goodbye. We’ve got to find his lair and take him out before he can surround himself with others. But where to begin? This territory is full of abandoned mines and old graveyards... ”
“Mines--?” Roy took his hat off
and hurled it to the floor. “Damn it! The old copper mine! I was there earlier today, just before I got the call about Neal’s barn! I knew something was wrong out there, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it! Damn it! I should have followed my instincts and gone into that fucking mine! If I had, this never would have happened!”
“Chances are you would have simply gotten yourself killed. Being a werewolf isn’t much help in a vampire’s lair—especially if he’s got a minion with him. And judging from the mess in the coop, our friend didn’t waste any time replacing his ghoul.”
“Do you think there’s a chance Daisy’s still alive?”
She shook her head sadly. “The only humans they keep alive are psychics who serve as their watchdogs during the day. Unless your Mrs. Connors is a telepath or clairvoyant, her only use to Varrick is as an addition to his brood.”
Skinner shook his head. “Her late husband was a medium, but Daisy’s just plain ol’ human. Silas probably didn’t know Mr. Connors was dead—that’s why he came here. You’re the vampire hunter--what do we do now?”
“We wait for the sun. There’s no point in trying to find him before then. As long as he remains underground, Varrick is capable of moving about during daylight hours. If he’s not asleep during the day, he’ll at least be sluggish, as will whatever by-blows he’s got down there with him.”
“Political correctness be damned! I’m rounding up the rest of the humans tonight and bringin’ ‘em inside the perimeter for the duration. I’m not gonna let that son of a bitch claim another life on my watch! Filthy bloodsucker! Uh, no offense, ma’am.”
“None taken, Sheriff.”
***
As dawn arrived, two vehicles pulled up to the old abandoned copper mine. The first was the Wrangler, with Roy at the wheel and Pallida riding shotgun, King wedged in between them. The second vehicle was a pick-up truck, containing Uncle Johnny and Sis, with Tully riding in the bed.
Roy hopped out of the Jeep and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Silas!” he shouted. “Where are you?”
Nancy A Collins - 2010 - Population - 666 Page 4