by DD Barant
We switch tactics, both Charlie and I grabbing the cable-snake and pulling it away from the window. It doesn’t work. Two of us, putting all our weight into it, straining every muscle, and it still manages to drag Doctor Pete across the floor inch by inch. If only Charlie were in his regular body—golems are strong enough to lift cars. But he isn’t, and it looks like we’re going to lose this insane tug-of-war.
We get right up to the sill. Doctor Pete’s gone limp, his face purple, but he’s still alive. I think.
I look out through the window to where the snake-thing is taking Doctor Pete and see that the cable simply disappears into the ground.
A tremendous yank pulls him right through the window, showering Charlie and me with glass. Doctor Pete’s limp body slides across the dew-wet grass, then disappears head first into the ground like a swimmer diving for the bottom. The ground swallows him in a second, legs grotesquely pointing straight up just before they sink into the earth.
Charlie and I stare through the broken window.
“Should we get a shovel?” Charlie asks.
“Waste of time. He’s in the tunnels by now…”
* * *
“You’re not going to turn into a werewolf,” Charlie tells me.
We’re driving back to his place, trying to regroup. Cassiar’s AWOL, Silver’s dead, and Doctor Pete’s gone, all in the space of a less than an hour. I’m feeling a little shell shocked; at this point, any good news is welcome. “What do you mean?”
“You got clawed, not bitten, right? You’ve got an immunity to that.”
I think about it for a second. “I do, don’t I? I remember. I got slashed once before and survived it. Cassius did some kind of pire voodoo and managed to save me. Said I’d be safe from that particular danger in the future—but only from thrope claws, not fangs.”
“Yeah. So you got lucky, there.”
Did I? I’m not so sure it was luck. The werewolf that clawed me did so very deliberately, like it knew what it was doing. Or maybe like it had done it before …
“The thrope that clawed me the first time,” I say. “It was Tair, wasn’t it?”
“That it was. During a jailbreak.”
“Huh. Maybe the thrope that attacked the police station didn’t bust in from outside. Maybe it was already there.”
Charlie glances at me. “Could be. But I don’t think it’s a good idea to go back and ask if Terrance is still locked up.”
“No. Probably better if we avoid Stoker for now.”
My phone rings. Unknown caller: I answer it anyway. At this point, talking to anyone, even a telemarketer, who isn’t trying to maim or mutilate me would be a relief. “Hello?”
“Jace.”
It’s Cassiar—or is it Cassius? Did the memory treatment work? “What happened to you? Where are you?”
“I’m not sure what happened. There was a flash of light and I lost consciousness. When I regained my senses I was outside and several blocks away. Are you still in custody?”
Damnit, it doesn’t sound like he’s remembered a thing. “No. Charlie and I are on our way back to his place. Listen, I need to bring you up to speed on a few—”
“No time. Come to the parking lot beside the grocery store.” He hangs up.
“Change of plans,” I tell Charlie. I give him directions, and we’re there in moments.
Charlie’s headlights fall on two figures next to the brick wall of Zhang’s store. One’s sprawled unmoving on the ground; the other’s crouched beside it. Cassiar straightens up as we park. The look on his face is grim.
Charlie and I get out of the car, but he leaves it running and the lights on. We look down at the figure on the ground.
It’s Vince, our friendly neighborhood alcoholic, and he’s taken his last drink.
I kneel by the body. Cause of death isn’t hard to pinpoint; he’s got something slim and metallic sticking out of his chest. “Looks like someone raided the good silverware drawer,” I murmur. “It’s sunk in pretty deep, but I think the murder weapon’s a fork.”
“Silver,” Charlie says. “Think he was a thrope?”
“Or someone wants us to think he was. I need to take a closer look at the body.”
“Forensically, you mean?” Cassiar asks. “I didn’t know you had the skills—”
“Well, I do,” I snap. He should know that, and the fact that he doesn’t is pissing me off. “Charlie, think you can get us inside the store? Zhang’s truck isn’t here, so I know it’s deserted.”
“I’ll check my trunk,” Charlie says.
I’m not too surprised when Charlie produces a pair of bolt cutters—both the human and lem versions of him like to be prepared. He snips through the lock on the loading bay door and Cassiar helps me carry the body inside. Charlie grabs the shotgun and does a quick recon, making sure Zhang hasn’t returned to his nest. He’s back in a moment and gives me the all-clear.
We put Vince’s body on a big wooden table in the back room and turn on an overhead light. I remember the last time I was here, and Zhang’s sibilant voice hissing from the shadows. Yeah, perfect place to conduct an impromptu autopsy.
“What are you hoping to learn?” Cassiar asks.
“Whatever I can,” I mutter.
I rummage through Zhang’s tiny, cluttered office and find a pair of scissors and a box cutter. I use them to cut Vince’s clothes off his body, then examine every square inch of skin.
Once again, the death of one of Thropirelem’s citizens triggers a memory cascade; I remember who Vince represents. He was a rich and powerful man when I first met him, a shaman who specialized in a very particular kind of magic: Kamic books, which looked just like the comic books from my reality but were actually powerful, reality-altering magic items. Ahaseurus must have harbored some severe professional jealousy to have stuck him in the body of the town drunk, close to the lowest rung on the social ladder—which, of course, was me.
Charlie’s on guard over by the back door, but Cassiar is hovering at my shoulder, clearly intrigued. “Well?” he asks.
“He wasn’t killed in the parking lot.”
“How do you know?”
“There was very little blood on the ground—but there’s very little left in his body, either. He was exsanguinated, postmortem and in another location.” I point to wounds on both wrists. “From the flushed color of his face, I’d say he was hung from his heels and bled.”
“Somebody drained the body of blood?”
“Yes. I can’t be one hundred percent sure of why, because the rules are different here—but the pires I’m familiar with prefer blood from a living victim, and wouldn’t drink the blood of a thrope, anyway; that suggests the killer’s motivation wasn’t hunger.”
“Then what was?”
“Same as whoever killed Therese Isamu and left her body in your bed. To send a message.”
“But to whom?”
“Each other. Two different killers with two different modus operandi, but each saying the same thing.”
“Which is?”
I look up from the corpse, having found the confirmation I was looking for. “This is our town. Get out or die.”
He thinks about it, then nods slowly. “We’re not the ones being targeted. The werewolves are threatening the vampires, and the vampires are responding in kind.”
“Yes. Therese Isamu was killed because she was married to a pire. Vince here was killed because he’s been infected by a thrope. The killer’s species was made obvious in each case.”
“Good lord,” Cassiar says softly. “This town is on the verge of a war.”
“One between pires and thropes. And guess who’s stuck right in the middle.…”
FIFTEEN
We leave the body where it is and go back to Charlie’s place. We’re pretty subdued on the way, all of us lost in thought. It’s late, and I’m exhausted and more than a little overloaded. I’m trying to think of this as just another case, but I’m not having much luck. This isn’t somet
hing I can solve so much as something I have to survive.
Charlie recons the outside of the house before letting us in. Cassiar and I sink into chairs in the living room while Charlie roams from room to room, exploring his territory like a cat in a new home. Galahad follows him, trying to figure out what the rules of this new game are.
I explain to Cassiar what Azura and I were trying to do to awaken his memories. “Sorry I couldn’t give you a heads-up, but I didn’t know how Stoker fit into all this or how he would take it.”
Cassiar nods. “So you had no luck accessing my mind?”
“Oh, no—I was in there, all right. You’re exactly who I said you were. But some kind of dimensional interference was causing problems. Azura said it might be all the illusion spells embedded in this place, or maybe it’s just that your mind is so powerful Ahaseurus had to go to extra lengths to brainwash you.”
Cassiar nods, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “I see. You understand that I’m still having trouble with the idea that I’m not really me, don’t you?”
“Sure. So did I, at first.”
He stares at the tips of his fingers. “And yet … I’m starting to think you’re right. No, I’m starting to feel that you’re right. Every time I look at you, that feeling gets stronger.” He glances at me with those blue eyes I know so well, bracketed now by crow’s-feet that look all wrong.
I want to go to him, kiss him, do my best to drag his soul out from under the layers of lies Ahaseurus draped over it. But I can’t; the look he’s giving me is still wary and unsure. Shocking him didn’t work last time, and I’m afraid trying it again will just push him further away.
“It’s all right,” I say. “It’ll come back to you. Don’t rush it.”
He nods, but says nothing.
It’s been a long night, and we all need to get some rest. We work out a rotation for standing guard with Charlie taking the first watch, and then Cassiar and I try to sleep. I take the couch, he takes the bedroom.
It seems like I just closed my eyes when a pounding on the front door jars me awake. I raise my head and look around blearily. “Charlie? Cassiar?”
Charlie steps out of the bedroom, wearing only boxers. Galahad starts barking excitedly. “Where’s Cassiar?” Charlie asks.
“You tell me—I just woke up. Is that him outside?”
Charlie looks out the spyhole. “No, it’s—hey, I recognize her. It’s Xandra.”
The name means nothing to me. “Well, the sun’s up, so I guess she’s not a pire. Let her in, let’s see what she wants.”
I get to my feet as Charlie opens the door. Alexis charges in, teary streaks of mascara trailing from the edges of her black-rimmed eyes. She’s all punked out today: ripped jeans with fishnets underneath, combat boots, Sex Pistols T-shirt, denim vest covered with band buttons and held together with safety pins. “Jace,” she says, her voice a sob, “you gotta help me!”
I shoot Charlie a quick glance. “Find Cassiar. And put some clothes on.” I motion for Alexis to sit.
“This guy doesn’t own any,” Charlie growls, and stomps off.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
“It’s Neil,” she says, sniffling. “The sheriff arrested him. They think he killed somebody!”
“Who?”
“I don’t know! Stoker just came and dragged him away in the middle of the night! And Neil—he just—” She breaks down again. I let her cry it out a little before I sit down next to her on the couch and put an arm around her. “What about Neil?” I ask gently.
“He’s been acting so weird! He just—he won’t eat, he sleeps all day, he’s so pale … I thought he had some kind of drug problem, but he doesn’t even seem high!”
“How does he seem?”
She shakes her head miserably. “He hardly touches me. He disappears in the middle of the night. And he’s … meaner. It’s not like him at all—he’s such a nice guy, you know? But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is crazy. I don’t even know if I should tell you.”
“It’s okay. I know crazy, remember?” I give her what I hope is an encouraging-and-not-crazed smile.
“It’s what happened when Sheriff Stoker came to arrest him. He just laughed and said he wasn’t going anywhere. I thought the sheriff was going to threaten him with his gun, but he didn’t. He threatened him with something else.”
“What was it?”
“A cross. He pulled this stupid silver cross out of his pocket and held it in front of him, and backed Neil right into a corner. Neil looked angry and terrified and—and his eyes went all red, and the sheriff made him put the handcuffs on himself, like he didn’t want to get too close to him—” She bursts into tears again. “I don’t know,” she wails. “I mean, I know how it sounds, but that’s crazy! And I didn’t know what to do or where to go and something made me think you could help, I don’t even know why—”
“Take it easy,” I say. “Look, you’re not going to be able to help Neil if you’re this upset, right? So just calm down.”
It takes a minute, but she gets herself under control. I find a box of Kleenex and hand it to her, and she wipes her eyes and blows her nose.
“I get it,” I say. “You’re confused and scared and want to know what the hell is going on. Well, what’s going on is so convoluted and bizarre I can’t really explain it, but here’s what you need to know. Yes, Neil is … exactly what you think he is. And he’s not the only one. You know what I’m talking about, right?”
“Vampires,” she whispers.
“Yes. And—believe it or not—werewolves, too. Which, once you’ve wrapped your head around vampires, isn’t that much of a stretch, right?”
She’s staring at me, not blinking, trying to see if I’m kidding or out of my mind. I meet her gaze as evenly and sincerely as I can. “The two groups are about to go head-to-head, Alexis. Two gangs, same turf.”
“So Sheriff Stoker’s a werewolf?”
“I’m not sure.” I consider telling her about the cult but decide it’s too much to hit her with all at once. “He’s in the middle of things, but I don’t know whose side he’s on. What you need to know is that this town is now very, very dangerous; the best thing you could do would be to leave.”
“I can’t. The roadwork crew has the highway shut down and nobody can get out.”
Charlie returns, now dressed in khaki pants and a white button-down shirt. “Cassiar’s gone. Must have taken off during his turn standing watch.”
“Who’s Cassiar?” Alexis asks.
“A friend,” I say. “I hope.”
“Let’s say I believe you,” Alexis says. “If Neil’s a vampire, who turned him into one? And who’s a werewolf?”
“We don’t know for certain,” I admit. “Except for a few people. Jimmy Zhang and Phil Isamu, for instance—they’re both vampires. Well, Phil was, anyway.”
“He got better?” she asks, a pathetic gleam of hope in her eye.
“He got deader. Believe me, that’s a good thing.”
“Who else?”
Charlie’s giving me the “are you sure you want to do this” look, but I plunge ahead regardless. “Brad Varney and Don Prince are both going to be hairy and howling at the first full moon. Vince Shelly and Ken Tanaka would round out their little unbarbershopped quartet, if both of them hadn’t met unfortunate accidents involving things that are either very sharp, very silver, or both.”
“Uh-huh.” She looks a little overwhelmed, and I’ve only touched on the actual situation. “So all of these people were bitten?”
“That’s the traditional way, yeah—”
“So why don’t I know about this? How can all this biting be going on without anyone noticing?”
“Because it’s not being done in the traditional way—not the werewolf part, anyway.” I point to one of her exposed shoulders. “That little red dot on your arm—you got an innoculation recently, didn’t you?”
“What? Yeah, I got a flu shot from Pete—my da
d made me go. The whole family got them—”
Her eyes go very, very wide. “Oh, no,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I think Doctor Pete was infecting his patients with the lycanthrope virus. Vince Shelly had a mark just like it on his shoulder.”
Oddly, the news that she’s now a werewolf-in-waiting calms her down. “This is why he was acting so weird toward me,” she says wonderingly. She touches the innoculation mark with a single index finger, like it’s an on/off button she can press. “I was feeling it, too, only I thought I was just angry at him.…”
“Pires and thropes don’t generally make good couples.” At least not where I’m from. “But there’s a solution. Kill the alpha wolf—the one that’s doing all the infecting—before the first full moon, and none of the people bitten will transform.”
“Kill Pete? But he’s family!”
“It may not come to that. Doctor Pete might be the alpha wolf, but he might not.” I’m thinking of the attack in Doctor Pete’s clinic—if he were the alpha, why didn’t he transform and defend himself against the Gallowsman? No, it makes far more sense for somebody else to be the alpha, somebody with a more aggressive, take-charge personality. Don Prince fits that description, as does Mayor Leo, but both seem too obvious to me. I’ve got someone else in mind, someone who’s only a minor thug here but a lot more ambitious in his natural habitat.
Tair.
If so, then he’s really here in the flesh; he’s not just a memory-implant imposter. But if the person I know as Terrance is actually Tair, then who is Doctor Pete? Did Ahaseurus manage to isolate each personality in a different body?
That actually makes sense. Tair as the alpha—powerful, aggressive, ruthless—with trustworthy-but-thoroughly-brainwashed Doctor Pete secretly infecting people until he’s dragged into the bowels of the earth by the Gallowsman.
Sure. Unless Ahaseurus decided to be tricky and set things up the other way around. Hide the alpha inside Doctor Pete’s unassuming, helpful facade, while parading Terrance around as a big fat red herring. That works, too.
Either way, they may have both been taken off the board: one locked up by Stoker, the other abducted and possibly killed by an evil creature the cult summoned.