Love Bites

by Adrienne Barbeau

  The Philip Morris girl was feeling no pain; she’d obviously been sampling her wares. She wasn’t going to see the new year if she kept it up. I put both my hands on either side of her face and stared into her oh-so-tiny pupils. Blocked out the images I got before they became too clear. Someone had burned her as a child; I didn’t want to see it. She closed her eyes and sank to the ground, quite gracefully for someone so loaded. I took the tray from her and proceeded down the hallway, trying doorknobs. Two of the rooms were locked; I could hear the sounds of sex coming from within. The third was a meditation room, complete with altar and jade Buddhas. There was a fire in the fireplace. Perfect. I tossed the pills in first and then a few cigarettes at a time. On the altar, a dish of sand held sticks of incense. I replaced some of the sand with the cocaine, mixing it to disguise the color a bit, and stood the sticks up again. Set the empty tray on a low table, decorated it with a candle and one of the Buddhas, and stepped into the hallway.

  “Oh, Ms. Moore, I’m such a fan!”

  She was a tall blonde in a short dress, with feet big enough for a circus clown. I couldn’t think of her name. One of those skinny girls who are always in the gossip magazines. There are two or three of them who seem interchangeable to me; I can never keep them straight. Celebutantes. All wealthy, all cadaverous, all completely devoid of talent. But incredibly successful, if you measure success by notoriety. Her picture is everywhere, even on a DUI report. She’s everywhere. Of course she’d be at this party.

  “I can’t believe you’re here, that is just so cool,” she continued. “Are you getting a kickback from the paparazzi? Mick didn’t pay you to come, did he? That lady, Madelaine, who works for him? Told me I was the only celebrity he could afford, and then I showed up and I can’t believe it, Tori Spelling’s husband is here. I wonder what he’s getting paid. I haven’t seen Tori, though. Are you actually a friend of Mick’s? You must be. Oh, I know, I’ll bet you were his client when he was big.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  I found Ovsanna in a hallway, with the cigarette girl stretched out on the floor in front of her. The girl had that same dazed expression my aunt Addie had on Christmas Eve after Ovsanna took her outside to talk to her. I wondered what was going on, but I didn’t take the time to ask. Instead, I guided Ovsanna farther down the hall and through an open door into some sort of meditation room. It smelled as if someone had been in there, smoking.

  “Charlie just called me,” I said. “I was waiting at the seafood station. The chef there has peacock feathers attached to his crotch. You ought to see him trying to sear tuna.”

  “Where was he?” Ovsanna asked.

  “Next to the smoothie station with the papayas and bananas, which is where he should have been to begin with—with his feathers away from the flames. Whoever designed these costumes didn’t have cooking in mind.”

  “No, I mean Charlie. Where was he when he called? Did you just have another Guinness?”

  “Yes. And you don’t have to worry. I’m half Welsh, remember. We have saints who turned water into beer to cure the plague and feed the multitudes. And my other half is Italian. I was drinking watered-down wine when I was nine. Believe me, I can hold my own.”

  “Peter! What about Charlie?”

  “Charlie said he and Tyrone and James had gotten to the wild animal preserve. It starts about ten miles up the mountain. They took an electric train that circles the property. There was no one else on it.”

  “Are they still up there?”

  “No. He couldn’t get phone reception on the mountain. They came back down about halfway and they’re exploring the property around the castle. He said to tell you Erzatz has all kinds of beasts on the preserve and some of them aren’t human. I mean, they aren’t mammal. You know what I mean. Some of them are werebeasts.”

  “I suspected as much. They’re probably the surviving weres Lilith had with her in Palm Springs. We killed a lot of them before she died, but once her gooey body dribbled into the pool, the remaining weres and dhampirs disappeared into the desert. You didn’t get there in time to see that.”

  “I saw enough, believe me. I don’t ever want to see anything like that again. Olive Thomas, nude, with snakes coming out of her skull and goat haunches for legs, is an image I’ll never forget.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Peter and I went back into the ballroom to tell Solgar what Charlie and the others had found out. Ernst had set Mary on one of the cocktail tables with a bowl of water in front of her for verisimilitude. It’s one of the reasons he’s such a good lawyer, his attention to detail. I didn’t expect to see Mary lapping at the bowl, though. When we shift to another form, we don’t necessarily take on the needs of that being. I can become a bat, but I won’t spend my time searching for insects.

  I wanted to get away from Peter. What I really wanted was to get Mick Erzatz off by himself so I could confront him, but Peter must have known that—he was on me like white on rice. He wouldn’t leave my side. He kept me with him while he got a bite to eat, and then we went downstairs to watch the female mud wrestlers battle it out in the nude.

  We ended up outside by the pool, watching six synchronized swimmers in abbreviated fish costumes do an Esther Williams extravaganza. Mary jumped out of Solgar’s arms, landed in the pool, and, before we could stop her, peed in the shallow end. Fortunately, no one noticed. It was almost midnight and most of the guests couldn’t see through a ladder.

  “Ah, here you are.” Mick Erzatz approached us with a young woman on his arm and a paparazzo in tow. I looked for a talisman around the pap’s neck, but he had on a hoodie and I couldn’t tell what it might be hiding. The woman looked slightly familiar. She had short orange hair, truly orange, like a Satsuma mandarin. Her top was cut loose and low, and without a bra, when she leaned forward to shake my hand, I could see both breasts and her stomach. That’s what I recognized. She was the girl from the threesome I’d seen in the bedroom earlier. “I’ve got a client who wanted to meet you. This little hottie is Nicky.” He turned to Miss Tangerine. “Say hello, sweetheart.”

  “Oh, Ms. Moore,” she said, staring at Peter the entire time she spoke, “I’ve been watching you since I was a kid. And I can’t believe you’re here with the detective who solved the Cinema Slayer case.” She turned to Peter, offering both hands and an even better view of the previously cocaine-laden nipples. “You’re Detective Peter King, aren’t you? You saved that boy from being drowned last year. Oh, my God, I can’t believe I’m meeting a real-life hero. Could I have my picture taken with you? Oh, please?”

  I stepped to the side, like the chopped liver Miss Nicky obviously thought I was, and the paparazzo moved forward to snap a couple of stills. Nicky had her arm around Peter for the photos. Somehow she managed, with her free hand, to pull a business card out of her purse and hand it to the photographer, begging him to e-mail them to her as soon as possible. She never let go of Peter, just kept flirting her little heart out.

  “Jeez, I think she’s gonna offer to blow him right in front of us,” Mick said, pulling me away from the two of them. “Let’s get outta here, I want to show you my pets.”

  He was my attacker, all right. As soon as he touched me, I saw an ancient old woman with dessicated skin and a short black tongue, her teeth worn down to nubs by thousands of years spent devouring human flesh. It was Lilith, the Night Hag. In my vision, Mick was fucking her.

  I pulled my arm away from his hand and followed him outside.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  I couldn’t get away from the orange-haired girl. She pulled off her top and insisted I sign my name across her heart. Swore she was never going to shower again. By the time I caught up with Ovsanna and Mick, they were boarding the electric tram. I wasn’t going to let them go anywhere without me. Ovsanna had her own agenda, and I knew it.

  Mick had the same paparazzo with him. He introduced him as Blink. Mick said he wanted a photograph of Ovsanna for his office wall, posing with his giraffes. Blink was al
ong to take the shot. I checked his neck for a collar, one of those boxenwolf talismans, but I couldn’t tell; he was wearing a hoodie.

  The tram was designed like a San Francisco cable car. Two open-air cars with wooden benches running back to back lengthwise, seating six on a bench. The cars weren’t attached to each other. I guessed Mick took one up at a time and left the other at the house in case someone needed to follow him.

  Solgar and his Pomeranian were right behind me.

  “May we join you, Mick?” he said. “I’ve heard so much about your vineyards and your animal preserve, I’d love to see them for myself.”

  Mick pressed a couple of buttons on a control panel and the tram started up the mountain. He kept up a running commentary as we made the climb, peppered with fucks and bitches and jerk me offs. The guy must have had a lot of power to be able to get away with running a business using that kind of language. No wonder when he fell, he fell hard. He was an easy man to dislike.

  The higher we climbed, the more we could see of the castle. It was twice as large as I’d originally thought. Mick pointed out the onsen—the hot baths. “You put your dick in there and you don’t need any bitches to make you feel good,” he said. There was a group of men near it, setting up fireworks for midnight. We passed the tennis courts and a lake, and then we were out of sight of the house. The terrain was high mountain, rocky, covered with chaparral and oaks, pines, and sycamores. The Pacific Ocean spread out in the distance like a roll of black velvet.

  After about ten minutes, we came to the vineyards. Mick had low-wattage solar lights running down every row, so even without the moon and the stars, which were hidden by rain clouds, you could see all the vines. He didn’t have a lot of acreage planted, but what I could see looked healthy and thriving.

  Ten minutes later, we came to the end of the line. Another station to match the one below, this time with a restroom attached. Beyond it, a chain-link fence, twenty feet tall.

  “This is my fucking beautiful baby,” Mick said. He pressed a few buttons to shut down the engine and then stepped off the train. He must not have known about Ovsanna’s ability to read people when she touched them, because he offered her his hand to help her down. She didn’t take it, and I stepped between the two of them. I don’t think he noticed. He was at the fence, unlocking the gate. The five of us walked through.

  There were peacocks roaming the preserve, dozens of them. They weren’t shy. They came within feet of us. Spider monkeys hung from the blue oaks. Nasty little buggers, hissing and spitting. One of them jumped down from a tree, squatted over his hand, and threw a steaming lump of feces at Solgar, just missing his tuxedo. Mary went nuts. She jumped out of Ernst’s arms and ran at the thing, teeth bared, snapping viciously. The monkey raced back up the tree, making that high-pitched monkey bark sound, and the rest of the monkeys joined in. Mary took off through the gate and raced down the hill, out of sight. Ovsanna caught my eye. I figured Mary was on her way to let the other vampyres know where we were.

  “Sorry, Ernst,” said Mick, “I didn’t expect that. Good thing the little cocksucker can’t pitch. Blink, will you go after the dog? See if you can keep it in sight, at least. And call someone down below when you get in phone range; have them come up on the other tram to find it. You three come with me. I’ve got a herd of llamas to show you, and giraffes, bison. . . . I’ve even got an elephant. I get hard just thinking about him.”

  Ernst took two more steps and got hit with another wad of shit.

  I had to give him credit; he stayed a lot calmer than I would have.

  “That’s it,” he said, backing away and staring at the brown glop running down his chest. “I’m not going any further. I don’t give a damn about seeing a bunch of animals. I’ve already seen their shit. I am going back to the restroom and I’ll wait for you on the tram.” With that, he walked through the gate and closed it behind himself, with a lot more dignity than I would have had. I clamped my lips shut to keep from laughing.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Good. That just left Peter and Mick and me. And a collection of wild animals, none of whom appeared to be of my kind. I was certain I was right, though. These mountains were home to Lilith’s offspring. Mick might be showing off his lions and tigers and bears, oh my, but the real werebeasts were waiting in the wings.

  I could smell them.

  We walked about a half mile, down one hill and up a second, out of sight of the train station. The path was dimly lit, but my vision made it easy to see the zebras in the distance, drinking at a small vernal pool.

  Suddenly the sky was filled with exploding red lights. Fireworks. The zebras spooked and ran. I heard the bellow of an elephant, and then the monkeys drowned it out with their howling. More explosions rocked the night and the sky turned white.

  Mick screamed over the cacophony, “It’s midnight, bitches! We’re celebrating New Year’s! Top o’ the world, Ma! Happy fucking New Year!”

  Green and gold fireworks topped each other, lighting the mountain like daylight. The noise was deafening. I turned to Peter to give him a kiss, but he had moved closer to the pool to watch the zebras. He was thirty feet away from me.

  And tracking towards him, through the grasses and the underbrush, was a Bengal tiger.

  I turned on Mick. He was smiling. “What the fuck, Ovsanna . . . are you frightened? It’s just a pet.”

  “Peter!” I screamed, turning back to him.

  He couldn’t hear me. The fireworks were too loud. Another display shot into the sky, the lights forming a blue champagne glass. At that, Peter started towards me, grinning and yelling, “Happy New Year!”

  I had already begun the change. My eyes were red, my fangs in place. “Your gun, Peter!” I screamed. “Behind you!”

  The cat was running. Five hundred pounds of death speeding towards Peter at forty miles an hour. This wasn’t a werebeast, this was one of Mick’s Wild Kingdom menagerie—the most powerful killer in the animal world. I shifted to put myself between Peter and his attacker. The Bengal was in midair when I appeared before him. He wrenched his body and his front paw swiped past me, mauling Peter’s shoulder, taking him down. I heard the crack of Peter’s skull against the rocks beneath him.

  He moaned and rolled on his side. I couldn’t believe he was still conscious. His tuxedo was shredded from his collarbone to his ribs. His right arm looked useless. I knew his gun was trapped beneath him. He was trying to raise his body enough to get it with his left hand.

  “Don’t move!” I yelled, and leapt over him to keep him behind me. The cat had landed fifteen feet away and turned to face us. He was growling at me. Pacing. He wanted to get at his prey, wanted to get his teeth into the neck of the two-legged creature on the ground, snap its spine, and carry it away to devour at leisure. But I was in the way, and he didn’t recognize my scent. I wasn’t like anything he’d ever tracked before. I stood with my talons ready and my fangs ready and I watched his mind work. Peter had stopped moving. He was silent. Probably unconscious. I couldn’t take my eyes off the tiger to check.

  I called out to Mick, “A pet, huh? Are you going to do something?” He hadn’t moved from the spot he’d been standing in when the fireworks began. He was thirty feet from me, with the Bengal pacing between us. But the animal wasn’t interested in Mick; he was facing Peter and me.

  “Oh yeah, bitch. I’m going to do something. I’m gonna pull out the big guns.” He pinched his lower lip between his thumb and middle finger and sucked in sharply. The air split with a deafening, high-pitched whistle. “I gotta lotta pets, Ovsanna. You met them in Palm Springs, remember? And you killed one of them in Silver Lake night before last—one of my favorites. They’re gonna make you fucking pay for what you did to Lilith.”

  From out of the trees, Mick’s other menagerie began to emerge. Werebeasts—that hybrid race of vampyre that can only change into a specific beast shape. I was surrounded by Lilith’s progeny: hyenas, foxes, a dog, wolves, even an ape. There must have been twenty of t
hem, at least. They were misshapen, grotesque looking, which told me they were old—so old, they could no longer change out of their beast form. But not so old as to be less of a threat. Weres grow more powerful as they age.

  If Mary had reached my clan and if they got here anytime soon, we might be able to take down all of Mick’s beasts, but I wasn’t sure. We’d have to do it fast. Peter needed help. I could smell his blood draining into the dirt.

  It was the Bengal tiger I wasn’t sure I could survive. He’d stopped pacing and was crouched, ready to spring.

  The hyenas started whining, making that peculiar laughing sound. Mick yelled over them, “Don’t you need to take on another form, bitch? Like you did with Lilith? Maybe put on a strap-on? Well, forget about it, you could turn into Sasquatch and the Loch Ness monster and you wouldn’t survive. What a shame your Vampyres of Hollywood aren’t here to watch you die, you slimy cunt!”

  “Language, old man, language! I wouldn’t talk to our chatelaine like that, if I were you.”

  Orson appeared behind Mick, just long enough to be recognized, and then he was shifting to his favorite form. A werebull, twelve hundred pounds at least, with huge curling horns and iron hooves nine inches wide. Trust Orson to choose girth over fangs. The man who once said, “Ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what’s for lunch.”

  The tiger saw the werebull and turned rabid. He sprang for me. Instead of leaping to meet him, I shifted out of the way—so fast that he landed off balance, inches from Peter’s head. He stumbled on his front paws and Orson came crashing down on his back with his hooves. I heard bones cracking as Orson jumped off him, away from the deadly swipe of his paws. His front paws, only. Orson’s attack had crippled his hind legs. He struggled to lift himself and only managed to roll over onto his back.