by Brian Meehl
“Why?”
“It’ll show the world that even when you’re surrounded by a bunch of wild and crazy wolf-heads, you don’t have a wild bone in your body. It’s the playbook’s major theme.”
He shot her a curious look. “And what theme is that?”
“Four words: ‘I’m not a monster.’”
He resisted the urge to tell her Birnam’s take on the same theme. It all gets down to how I treat your daughter.
While Penny went over the details of his appearance, Morning yawned. She didn’t take it personally. “Since you didn’t get a full night’s sleep, and you’ll be introducing Lycanthrope pretty late, you should grab a nap.”
As he headed for the couch at the back of the cabin, he had to pass Portia. Her head bobbed to the music on her iPod. It wasn’t the same head he’d been avoiding a few minutes before. She’d gotten into the Lycanthrope swag bag, which was filled with all the stuff you needed to turn yourself into a wolf-head for the concert. She now wore three colored hair gels, two shades of mascara, orange and black lipstick, and was busy applying purple eye shadow with the help of a compact.
He chuckled at her Halloween-punk look. It was partially from relief. It’s easier to look at your object of craving when it’s camouflaged. He started to say something, but sensing Penny right behind him, he kept moving to the back of the cabin.
Penny stopped and frowned at her daughter’s cosmetic chaos. “What are you doing?”
Portia talked loudly over her music. “It’s a Lycanthrope concert, Mom. I have to find a look.”
“What happened to the dispassionate observer, the neutral filmmaker?”
“Oh, she’s still shooting tonight, but to blend in, I have to go as a wolf-head. You know, when in Rome.”
Penny gave her a wary look. “Fine, as long as you don’t hook up with any ‘Romans.’”
Portia laughed and shouted over her iPod. “Gimme a break, Mom, you’re the one who hooks up with the weirdos!”
Morning felt like she’d jumped up, turned around, and nailed him with a dart. It confirmed what he’d been thinking ever since she boarded the jet and was so aloof. He had misread last night. Their handhold, their eye-lock, was probably just something she did with guys. To toy with them.
The second the word popped out of her mouth, Portia wanted to jump up and take it back. She wanted to shout something clever, like Present weirdos not included! But she couldn’t. Not if she was going to stick to her morning-after-mooning-over-Morning plan. Play the dead hand!
Morning stretched out on the couch and tried to look on the bright side. If what happened last night had been a one-way street, it was for the best. This way he wouldn’t get another visit from the dentis eruptus fairy. This way he wouldn’t have to go into major bloodlust-management mode. This way he wouldn’t ruin Birnam’s grand scheme by plunging headfirst into the forbidden well.
29
The Music Scene
After sunset, when Golpear stopped at a roadside diner on the edge of Las Vegas, DeThanatos slipped from the back of the truck, took the form of a Flyer, and headed into the city.
By the time the truck arrived at the concert stadium, the Volcano, DeThanatos had secured a parking permit in the restricted area near the stage. He’d also found time for a light snack. In vampire parlance, “a light smack.”
Golpear edged the truck toward the restricted area through a steady stream of wolf-heads moving from tail-gate parties in the parking lot and into the stadium. With wigs, elaborate makeup, and canine ears, every fan had their own werewolf look, from arctic foxes to saber-toothed wolves.
DeThanatos met the truck in front of the security gate. He now wore a set of black motorcycle leathers “borrowed” from a biker who had changed into a Chewbacca werewolf suit. DeThanatos climbed into the cab. A few moments later they parked the truck behind the stage, next to an ambulance.
DeThanatos reached under the passenger seat, pulled up an odd jumble of titanium and graphite, and put it on the seat between them. “Do you know how to use one of these?”
Golpear answered the insult to his expertise in weaponry by lifting the assemblage, unfolding it, and swiveling it into a sleek crossbow. “Where’s the arrow?”
DeThanatos pulled up a smaller version of the stake he had given Golpear the night before. Despite the twisted grain of the wood, it looked like it would shoot straight and true.
Golpear took it with a smile. “Maybe this installation will be worth the drive after all.”
DeThanatos scowled. “No improvising this time. Take your shot from the wolf pit at the front of the stage. Then get back here as soon as possible. After the EMTs put Morning in the ambulance and take off, we’ll follow and finish the job on the way to the hospital.”
“How do we finish the job?”
DeThanatos remained all business. “Church secret.”
Golpear gave his athletic-looking client the once-over. “You sure don’t look like a monk.”
“And you don’t look like a wolf-head. But you will when I’m done with you.”
Lycanthrope’s bodyguards surrounded Penny, Morning, and Portia and escorted them through the tunnel up to the stage. Penny wore a Lycanthrope hat, with its snarling wolf logo. Morning was dressed in blue jeans and a Lycanthrope T-shirt. He wasn’t wearing his stake-proof vest because he was about to perform another CD.
Behind them, Portia was filming a tunnel-to-stage shot. She wore black leather pants and a T-shirt with a mottled pattern of brown, black, and white. The pattern of her “coat” matched the wolf-head she was going for: an African wild dog. Her nose, cheeks, and eyes were blackened, and a black stripe ran up the middle of her yellowish white forehead. Her hair was gelled to the max and streaked with yellowish brown. The only thing that betrayed her sinister look was one of her dog ears. The ear flopped forward as she walked, lending her badass look a touch of goofy puppy.
They reached the wings of the stage as the last warm-up band, Iron Rage, screamed its death-growling, Cookie Monster vocals. The band was dressed in cavemen fur and armed with guitars resembling wooden clubs. They rode a strangulated whammy-bar bridge to their feedback-frenzied finale. Morning jammed his fingers in his ears against what sounded like a head-on clash between pods of armored whales.
As Iron Rage stormed off stage, they wielded their guitar-clubs against the light arrays, which showered the stage in fiery cascades of exploding lights and smoke. Forty thousand wolf-heads howled their approval from the craterlike stadium.
Penny turned to Morning and screamed over the reverb still shaking the speaker towers. “Don’t you love the music scene?”
He managed a grimacing smile.
Having escorted the trio to the wings, the bodyguards disappeared back down the tunnel to fetch Lycanthrope.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” boomed a voice. The crowd quieted to a droning roar. “Brothers and sisters of the wolf pack!”
Portia turned her camera to the man onstage, addressing the audience. Lycanthrope’s manager was a towering black man with dreadlocks down to his waist. His face was covered with gray and black fur replicating a gray wolf. His name was Alpha Male.
He raised an arm and bellowed, “Who do ya wanna smell?”
The crowd hushed as their arms rose in unison.
Morning squinted at the fans jammed against the front of the stage in the wolf pit. They were all holding something. At first he didn’t believe what he was seeing. They all held up a toy version of the Lycanthrope wolf. He watched as forty thousand toys were turned on their heads, and their squeeze-box innards emitted a collective roar. It sounded more like forty thousand groaning doors than a full-throated roar, but to the crowd it was the call of the wild. They answered with a bellowing “Lycanthrope!”
“Who do ya wanna stalk?” Alpha Male yelled back.
Having reset their toys, the wolf-heads flipped them again, emitting another pathetic roar.
“Lycanthrope!”
Morning laughed at th
e absurdity of it. Forty thousand werewolf-wannabes holding toys with squeaky roars.
“Who do ya wanna eat?” Alpha called out.
Fists and toys pumped the air. “Lycanthrope!”
“And I will serve ’em up,” Alpha answered. “But tonight, we’ve got a little appetizer. A surprise guest to start the feast. Put your paws together for Morning McCobb!”
The crowd fell silent in disbelief.
Penny gave Morning a push. He stumbled into the light and found his stride.
The murmur of recognition started in the wolf pit, then rippled through the stadium. Before it reached the nose-bleed seats it was drowned out by thunderous applause.
At the back of the wolf pit, a burly man made up to look like a jackal squeezed past several wolf-heads as he pushed his way closer to the stage. Golpear only had one shot, and he wanted to be front and center when he pulled the trigger.
30
Audience Request
Morning joined Alpha Male center stage.
Alpha greeted him with a toothy grin. “Ever been to a Lycanthrope concert?”
Morning shook his head. “No.”
“You haven’t seen nothin’ yet.” He gestured to the cheering crowd. “And they haven’t either.” He dropped a hand on Morning’s shoulder as the crowd quieted. “All right, Morning, the world’s seen your Fog Prince, your Johnny Appleseed, and your Flipper. But if you wanna be down with Lycanthrope, you gotta check your face at the door and be a wolf-head.”
The crowd took up a thundering chant. “Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!”
As the chant reverberated around him, Morning watched a cameraman rigged with a Steadicam move into position at the front of the stage. He glanced into the wings.
Penny threw him a thumbs-up. Portia continued to shoot.
The audience’s chant pounded against his chest like a drumbeat. He raised his hands and asked for quiet so he could concentrate. The chant bellowed louder. “Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!”
Morning cringed at the sound. He opened his mouth in protest. A roar exploded from him like a sonic boom.
The bone-shaking explosion stunned the crowd, reducing them to a frieze of terror. They’d heard death-metal growls before, but never one like this. The only thing still moving was the blinking light on Portia’s camera.
Morning’s hand flew to his mouth, as if he’d released a ripping belch in the middle of church.
“Whoa,” Alpha said, taking a step back. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Morning muttered. “I just need quiet so I can focus.” He shut his eyes and plunged into the dark labyrinth.
The great herd of wolf-heads craned forward, waiting breathlessly. The cameraman in front of Morning pushed to a close-up.
Morning’s T-shirt and jeans collapsed to the stage. A wiggling shape, led by a white tail, struggled out from under the shirt. A lanky Dalmatian popped into view and celebrated with a bark.
The crowd answered with tepid applause and murmuring disappointment.
At the back of the wolf pit, DeThanatos listened intently. His outrage over Morning’s commandment-breaking shape-shift had given way to curiosity about the crowd’s discontent. A frisky Dalmatian was not the fearsome wolf they’d hoped for. DeThanatos realized the crowd’s displeasure was the perfect cover for Golpear’s shot. He shouted over the fading applause. “You call that a wolf-head?”
“No!” someone bellowed. “We want a wolf!”
Onstage, the Dalmatian’s tail drooped.
The crowd resumed their booming chant. “Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!”
In the wings, Portia swung her camera to get a shot of the agitated audience.
The Dalmatian’s wet eyes swam with confusion.
Alpha leaned down. “C’mon, Morning. Be a wolf-head, not a puppy-head.”
Golpear squeezed to the front of the wolf pit just below the stage. He reached under his long coat and began manipulating the crossbow to lock and load.
DeThanatos snatched the Lycanthrope toy from the fan next to him and hurled it at the stage.
The toy flew over the cameraman’s head, bounced, and slid past the Dalmatian. The dog flinched. The cameraman kept shooting as toys pelted the stage, emitting their squeaky roars.
The Dalmatian cowered. Alpha scurried out of the way, scolding the crowd. “Hey! Wolf-heads don’t turn on each other!”
The pack howled back, launching a new salvo of toys.
The Dalmatian tried to juke and dodge, but several toys bounced off him. One stung him on the nose. He yelped.
Portia didn’t have to ask What would Christiane do? She ran onstage.
“Portia!” Penny yelled after her, but it was too late.
Moving and shooting, Portia scooped up a toy with her free hand and fired it back at the audience. “Leave ’im alone!”
Pressed in the dark shadows at the front of the stage, Golpear lifted the crossbow from under his jacket. The Dalmatian was only thirty feet away.
Morning tried to yell at Portia to go back, but it came out as a strangled bark.
She grabbed another toy and rocketed it at the wolf pit. “Stop!”
The wolf pit answered with escalating fury, and whatever else they could throw.
As the barrage of bottles, cans, flasks, chains, and coins arced toward her, Portia ducked and thrust her camera in the air to get the shot. The camera went untouched, but not her head. An unopened can of beer nailed her with a sickening thud. Her camera clattered to the stage.
Golpear exhaled and slowly squeezed the trigger.
Seeing Portia drop to all fours fired the twin barrels of Morning’s shadow-conscious and animal instincts. He crouched to leap—the stake-arrow knifed over his head and impaled a three-thousand-watt floodlight in a geyser of sparks.
No one noticed. They were riveted by what the Dalmatian had exploded into as it sailed through the air: a massive wolf not seen since the Ice Age.
A dire wolf.
The huge wolf, with thick legs and an enormous head, landed between Portia and the crowd. Its black lips snapped open, exposing a massive prow of daggered teeth. Its yellow eyes blazed with carnivorous rage.
The crowd recoiled, then, realizing that its request had been granted, detonated with a guttural roar.
Golpear threw the crossbow under the stage in disgust and cursed DeThanatos for not giving him a quiver of stakes. His target was now gigantic and only ten feet away.
The cameraman with the Steadicam rushed toward the wolf for a tighter shot. Big mistake. The wolf answered the threat. He lunged at the cameraman with a bone-chilling roar.
Morning felt the roar quake through his body and knew something had snapped. His shadow-conscious had no more control than a driver whipping around a corner and hitting black ice. Bestial instincts had taken the wheel.
For the cameraman, zooming in on what looked like the ripping jaws of a T. rex triggered his own instincts. He staggered backward. Bigger mistake. To a wolf, a retreating body meant prey.
The wolf lunged toward him.
The cameraman tripped and fell on his back. His Steadicam pointed uselessly upward.
The wolf sprang into the air with a slavering roar and landed between the man’s splayed legs. The beast sank its teeth into the Steadicam and ripped it away like a loose button.
The man’s terrified face contorted as he clutched his chest.
The wolf’s head suddenly cocked, perplexed.
As Morning stared down at the man’s twisted face, his dim conscious felt a tug of pity. The feeling gripped him, pulling him out of his wild spin. He shuddered as the full realization of what was happening sank in.
Behind him, Penny pulled Portia, still conscious, to her feet. “Are you okay?”
Portia barely heard as she touched the swelling knot on her head and squinted at the bizarre events unfolding at the front of the stage. The huge wolf leaped off the cameraman. In midair it distorted and contracted into human form.
Morning dropped to the man’s side and raced th
rough the CPR steps from his EMT course. He bent close to the man’s ear. “Can you hear me?” No answer. He checked the man’s face for movement. His eyes were open but lifeless. He checked for breath. Still breathing. For a pulse. Faint. He ripped open the man’s shirt.
Despite her mother’s steadying arm, Portia felt woozy and sick. Not just from the blow to her head, but from the sight of the man sprawled on the stage and the knowledge that it was her fault. If she hadn’t rushed out and provoked the crowd, none of this would have happened. The man’s life wouldn’t be hanging in the balance.
Every eye in the house remained fixed on Morning kneeling over the cameraman and pumping his chest. Every eye but the two most familiar with death. DeThanatos was riveted to Portia. This teenage girl, with her long legs and long locks, had triggered something in Morning that he thought Leaguers were no longer capable of: shape-shifting into a beast of terror, reacting with the cruel ferocity of a true vampire.
His lips snaked into a leer. This girl, the beauty who brought out Morning’s beast, was the perfect weapon to use against him. Not only to destroy Morning McCobb, but to expose Luther Birnam for the fraud that he was and annihilate the Leaguer movement.
31
Dentis Eruptus
In a penthouse suite in Ducats, the largest hotel-casino in Las Vegas, Penny looked down through one of the corner windows at the dancing lights of the casino’s pirate theme park. In Hangman’s Square, police held back thousands of fans longing for a glance of Morning McCobb. Many scanned the hotel’s lighted windows with binoculars, spyglasses, and telephoto lenses. Penny was on her cell phone, fielding requests from companies clamoring for Morning to be their spokesman. Or, as the CEO of a major auto company put it, “to go claw to claw with Tiger Woods.”
On the other side of the suite, a large screen aired a shot of EMTs wheeling the cameraman on a gurney toward a waiting ambulance. Morning was walking beside it, giving the revived cameraman his undivided attention. A reporter added voice-over. “Earlier tonight, while introducing Lycanthrope, Morning McCobb’s newest shape-shift went from hairy to heroic. After his wolf stunt gave a cameraman a heart attack, Morning helped resuscitate him. The man got a near-fatal scare, and Morning got a few million more fans.”