Deadtown d-3

by Nancy Holzner

  He turned and saw me, then waved. He held up a finger in a “wait a minute” gesture, then bent his head and spoke into the phone. I waited, enjoying the chance to watch him. It was no accident that Kane spearheaded the campaign for PA rights. Besides his passion for the cause, he had the good looks and charm to be its perfect poster boy. The All-American Werewolf. When he appeared at a rally, leaping onto the stage with the animal grace that powered his every move, women cheered and swooned. I couldn’t blame them. Watching him pace back and forth, I felt a little weak in the knees, myself.

  After another minute, he shut his phone and clipped it onto his belt, beaming at me. God, that smile. Kane had the most dazzling, gorgeous, feel-it-all-the-way-down-to-your-toes smile. It made his gray eyes sparkle from within, like they had a light of their own. I smiled back. He picked up his briefcase, then came over and kissed me on the cheek. I inhaled the woodsy, musky scent of his aftershave.

  “Hi,” I said. “What are you doing out so early?” Most Deadtown residents were night creatures, but Kane, whose office was near Government Center, kept human hours.

  “Early day at the office. But on my way out the door I realized it’s been, what, over a week since I’d seen you.” Actually, it had been two weeks, three days, and fifteen hours, but who was counting? “I hoped maybe you’d be putting on a pot of coffee.” He nuzzled my neck. With his slightly rough lips exploring my skin, not only did I stop counting—I stopped seeing, stopped thinking, almost stopped breathing.

  “What do you say?” he whispered. “Can I come up?”

  For some reason, when I opened my mouth no sound emerged except heavy breathing. So I nodded, then grabbed Kane’s arm and pulled him into the lobby. We stumbled inside, intertwined, trying to move forward and grope each other at the same time.

  A harrumphing noise pushed its way through the lust-filled haze. “Good morning, Miss Vaughn. Mr. Kane.” Clyde, the zombie doorman for my building, poured about a hundred gallons of prim disapproval into his voice.

  “Oh, um, hi, Clyde.” I put some distance between Kane and myself, feeling like a cheerleader who’d been caught making out under the bleachers. Kane, who never got frazzled, merely nodded at Clyde, then winked at me.

  Clyde harrumphed again. His face remained blank enough for a poker tournament, but he managed to glare his reproach from behind his sunglasses. Clyde had been a minister while alive—Presbyterian, I think, or maybe Lutheran—and he frowned on public displays of affection. At the moment, he was frowning on us big-time.

  I pressed the button for the elevator, and Kane and I waited side by side, not speaking and not quite touching. After a second, I forgot about Clyde’s gaze burning holes in my back. Kane stood to my left; my body was so aware of his closeness that sparks of electricity skittered up and down my side.

  The elevator door had barely closed when we pounced on each other, coming together in a full-body embrace, our lips hungry for each other’s flesh. My hands sought the warmth inside his coat, inside his suit jacket, the smooth compactness of hard muscle under the Egyptian cotton shirt. By the time the elevator pinged at the fifth floor, I was half out of my leather jacket and Kane’s necktie was on the floor.

  As the doors opened, we came up for air. “I hope your roommate’s asleep,” Kane’s voice, at once husky and breathy, sent tingles to places I didn’t even know could tingle.

  “Juliet hardly ever stays up past six.”

  “But I hear voices in there—don’t you?”

  “She probably left the TV on again.” I don’t think he understood what I said. It’s hard to talk, nibble someone’s ear, and turn the key in a lock all at the same time.

  Finally, I got the door open. Inside, Juliet’s huge television blared PNN, the Paranormal News Network. Kane’s eyes locked onto the screen, his hands dropped away from my shoulders, and he stepped around me to get a better view. Damn. So much for the heart-racing promise of our ride up in the elevator. I walked to the coffee table and picked up the remote. Watching Kane’s intent gaze, I was tempted to click the damn thing off; instead I lowered the volume to something slightly below “wake the dead”—which is pretty damn loud if you happen to live in my neighborhood. Juliet was nowhere to be seen.

  Kane glanced at me. “Sorry, Vicky. I’ll turn it off in a minute. I just want to see what’s happening with this story.” The reporter was talking about the zombies’ application for a group permit to march in Boston’s Halloween parade. Mayor Milliken had denied it. “This is why I’m going in early today,” Kane said. “I’m filing an appeal as soon as City Hall opens. I was up half the night working on it.” He flashed a half-apologetic smile and turned back to the screen.

  So. There I stood, all revved up like an idling sports car with no one to slide into my driver’s seat. For a moment I contemplated yanking Juliet’s TV from the wall and hurling it out the window. The fantasy gave me a rush of pleasure—the only pleasure I was likely to get this morning, now—and my fingers itched to do it.

  But I know a lost cause when I see one. I abandoned Kane to the news and went into the kitchen, where I measured coffee beans into the grinder. It was satisfying to hear the blades pulverize them into powder. I’d like to do the same thing to that giant, sixty-three-inch plasma monstrosity that dominated the living room like a yeti at a pixie convention. Juliet was fascinated by television and had insisted on buying the biggest, flattest, highest-definition set she could find. Even though she loved her TV, like most vampires, she couldn’t maintain much of an interest in what was on it. After a few hundred years, the current pop culture trend or “crime of the century” news story just doesn’t have the same impact, I guess. So Juliet was always turning on the TV and then wandering off to do something else. It was an annoying habit. Today, I’d promote it to super-annoying.

  Not to mention Kane’s ability to go from red-hot lover to news junkie in about one-point-three seconds. I sighed, then focused on inhaling that delicious coffee aroma. Nothing like freshly ground, freshly brewed coffee to lift a girl’s spirits. Besides, I couldn’t really complain about Kane’s devotion to his job. It was my fault as much as his that we hadn’t seen each other in two weeks (three days and fifteen hours). We were both workaholics; it was one of the reasons we got along.

  By the time I carried two steaming mugs into the living room, I was feeling better. Kane, sitting on the sofa, clicked off the TV and turned to me. I handed him a mug. He put it down on the coffee table and pulled me to him.

  Mmm, I thought, snuggling in. This was more like it.

  It wasn’t the two sips of coffee making my heart race as Kane’s lips moved from my collarbone and up my neck, then to my ear. His breath warmed my skin and made me shiver—both at the same time.

  “Vicky,” he whispered.

  Instead of answering, I kissed him. Joined at the lips, our bodies pressed their full lengths against each other. This was definitely more like it. After a minute, he drew back—just a little—and again I felt his warm breath at my ear.

  “You know . . .” His murmur brushed me like a caress. “Saturday’s the full moon. Are you coming with me?”

  Ever have a nice, steamy shower suddenly go ice-cold? That’s the effect his words had on me. I sat up, pushing him away.

  “Not this month. I’m busy.”

  Kane wanted me to go with him on his monthly werewolf retreat. As a condition of getting limited legal rights in Massachusetts, werewolves were required to spend three days each month—the time of the full moon—at a secure werewolf preserve: in Princeton, in Athol, or out in the Berkshires in Savoy. For those three days, werewolves were free to unleash their inner beasts, as long as they stayed inside the twelve-foot-high electrified fences topped with silver-coated razor wire. The surveillance towers, staffed by sharpshooters, made the local townsfolk feel secure enough that they didn’t show up with torches and pitchforks.

  You’d think that Kane—campaigner for PA civil rights— would object to what amounted to a three-day
imprisonment of all werewolves every month. But that wasn’t how he talked about it now.

  “You have no idea how beautiful it is. The moon shining over the hills, almost as bright as day. Not a human anywhere. You can run and run, feeling all the raw power and strength that you’ve held back all month, let go of everything you’ve kept coiled inside.” He moved back in, so close his lips brushed my ear as he spoke. “And making love is amazing. We can be who we really are.”

  He reached for me, but I pushed him away again. “Who youreally are. I’m not a werewolf.” I slid over to the far end of the sofa.

  “But you can change into a wolf. You’d be just like one of us.”

  “Just like,” I repeated darkly, reaching for my coffee. Just like nothing, I thought. Sure, I could change into a wolf. But I could never be one of them. I was a shapeshifter; my instincts were different. I didn’t wantto be a sham werewolf.

  Why was it so hard to explain that?

  Kane sighed, then picked up his coffee mug. We both sipped in silence for a minute.

  “Besides,” I said. “I already shifted once this month when I was doing a job over in the Back Bay. I’ve only got two left.”

  “So come on Saturday instead of Friday. Stay for two days.”

  “But then—” I tried to think of another excuse and came up dry.

  “What are you afraid of, Vicky?” he asked, not looking at me.

  “Nothing,” I said, hoping the bright, professional voice I used on the phone would cover up the lie. “This month doesn’t work for me, that’s all.”

  His look—brows raised over skeptical eyes—said I didn’t fool him for a second.

  I opened my mouth, but he held up a hand. “Don’t answer me now—not if you’re going to say no.” He scooted next to me and lightly stroked my thigh. “We’ll talk about it later, all right?”

  “Later won’t make any difference.”

  Another sigh. Then he sat up straight, checking his watch. “Damn, I’ve got to go.” He was on his feet. “I’m giving a press conference in front of City Hall, and I need to get there early. There’s a rumor that Baldwin might show up.”

  Seth Baldwin was running for governor on an anti- “Monsterchusetts” platform, vowing to take away the few rights PAs had won and drive us from the state. “You think he’s going to crash your press conference?”

  “I’d love to see him try. It’d be the perfect place to show the world what a bigoted ass he is, in front of all those rolling cameras.”

  Kane left so fast it was hard to believe he’d been panting for me a few minutes before. A quick peck on the cheek and he was gone.

  IN BED, I BURROWED UNDER MY TWO LAYERS OF THICK down comforters. Juliet needed the apartment cold when she slept the sleep of the dead. In spite of the coffee, I was dead tired myself. Between Tina crashing George Funderburk’s dream, me getting almost trapped inside his dreamscape, and now the feeling that I’d let Kane down—it had been a long night.

  I tossed to one side, then turned to the other, sleep hovering just beyond the edges of my consciousness. Kane’s disappointed face floated against my eyelids, even when I buried my head under the pillow. He was asking too much. I wasn’t going to alter my nature, not even for him. I was a shapeshifter, not a werewolf. I was Cerddorion—part of a long line of Welsh shapeshifters stretching all the way back to the goddess Ceridwen—and I was proud of my heritage. Like others of my kind, I could change into any sentient creature, and I could do it just three times each moon cycle. So if I started hanging out with Kane and his lupine buddies every month, I’d be stuck in wolf mode. Each retreat was three nights—that’d be it for my three changes.

  What are you afraid of? he’d asked. There was the answer. I was afraid he wanted me to become something I wasn’t.

  But I was also afraid that if I didn’t, I’d lose him.

  Sleep swallowed me suddenly and deeply, like I’d tumbled into a pitch-black well. No dreams. I’d had enough of dreams for one night.

  Or so I thought. Like any self-respecting demon-fighter, I have lucid dreams—I know when I’m dreaming and I stay in control. But somewhere in the depths of my sleep I heard a hammering. Loud. Insistent. And I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. No images, just blackness. I went deeper into sleep, searching for the cause of the sound. It got louder, but I wasn’t getting any closer. The sound eluded me, always just around the corner. But there were no corners. Was something wrong with my dreamscape?

  Wham! The crash of a redwood falling, an avalanche booming, a cannon firing—or something that loud—resounded through the apartment. I half-leaped out of bed, getting tangled in the sweaty sheet and falling onto my side. The room, darkened by blackout shades, was as inscrutable as my sleep. Was I still dreaming? Was I awake? How the hell could I not know?

  My bedroom door burst open, and light stabbed into the room. Two shapes hulked in the doorway. Somehow, I didn’t think they’d stopped by to wish me sweet dreams.

  4

  “FREEZE!” SHOUTED A MAN’S VOICE. “THIS IS THE HUMAN-Paranormal Joint Task Force!”

  The Goon Squad? What the hell was the Goon Squad doing in my apartment? I squinted toward the doorway. Pointing two guns at my head, that was what.

  “Whoa, whoa. Take it easy.” I slowly raised both hands. “What’s the problem?”

  Somebody found the light switch. A blinding glare, and I could make out the features of my visitors: one human, one really big zombie. The human stepped forward, his gun steady. “You’re the problem, you damn freak.”

  The zombie behind him, so tall he stooped in the doorway, growled. Not a pleasant sound.

  “Shut up, Sykes,” said the human, who seemed to be in charge. “And cuff her.”

  “Hey, wait a minute—” I began, but the zombie picked me up and flipped me over like he was a short-order cook making flapjacks. In two seconds he’d cuffed my hands behind my back. In another three, I was half-standing, half-hanging from Sykes’s superhuman grip as he dragged me over to his partner. Thank God I’d put on sweatpants and a T-shirt. Often I didn’t bother with pajamas.

  The human cop holstered his gun. He was short, ugly, and mean-looking. He put himself right in my face, so close I could see the pores that pitted his oily skin. His breath smelled like onions and cheap cigars.

  I was scared as hell. The Goon Squad meant business—police business. The Boston cops sent the Goons into Deadtown to do the dirty jobs. But I wasn’t going to let this bozo see one drop of fear. Squaring my shoulders as much as I could, given Zombie Sykes’s death grip on my arm, I glared at the human and said, “You’d better tell me what this is about. My attorney is Alexander Kane, and he’ll—”

  “Hah!” Sykes snorted again. “Hear that, Norden? Your favorite lawyer.”

  Hatred dimmed Norden’s eyes. He leaned in even closer. “I don’t care if he’s the Attorney General of the United States. I don’t have to tell you a goddamn thing.”

  It was true. Paranormals didn’t have the same rights as humans. The cops could haul us in for no reason at all—which appeared to be happening to me at the moment.

  I slumped, and Norden grinned. His smile didn’t make him any prettier. “Goddamn monster,” he said.

  “Hey,” said Sykes. “Cut the ‘goddamn monster’ crap, blood bag. All right?” Norden glared at blood bag—undead slang for human—then stomped out of the bedroom.

  I looked up at Sykes, which took a bit of neck-craning. He wasn’t bad-looking for a zombie. The flesh on his face was barely rotted, his color only slightly green. To tell the truth, he was better looking than his partner. I smiled in what I hoped was a buddy-buddy kind of way—we monsters gotta stick together and all.

  “So what’s this about?”

  He opened his mouth, paused, then closed it again. After a glance over his shoulder into the living room, he said in a low voice, “Some out-of-town cops have a couple of questions they wanna ask you.”

  Norden rocketed back into the room like h
e’d been shot out of a cannon. “Shut up, Sykes.” For a minute, I thought he was going to smack the big zombie. That’d be interesting. But instead he took a slow, deep breath and jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s get her out of here.” He strode out of the bedroom like he wanted to show us how it’s done.

  Sykes tugged my arm, but I dug in my heels. It wouldn’t do much good except for maybe surprising him enough to buy me three seconds of time to think. My mind was reeling, so much that I still felt like I was dreaming. Out-of-town cops? I hardly ever left Boston. Other than last night’s demon extermination in Concord, I hadn’t been out of the city for a month. What could they possibly want to ask me?

  “Come on, Ms. Vaughn,” said Sykes, his voice almost gentle. “Don’t make me carry you.”

  He could, of course. A zombie that size could juggle three of me with one hand. But he wasn’t using his full strength yet. As he hesitated, a thought pushed its way through the confusion buzzing in my mind. I was not going to let anybody, not even the Goon Squad, drag me out of my home in handcuffs.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on slimness. I thought only of skinny things: drinking straws, uncooked spaghetti, beanpoles (not that I’ve ever seen an actual beanpole). My pulse sped up, and energy bubbled under my skin. I felt my limbs contract. Not too much—I didn’t want to shift all the way into a snake or something—just enough to make myself a bit more slender. It’s a neat trick when I want to fit into a skintight little black dress. Or get out of a pair of handcuffs.

  The cuffs dropped to the floor with a clatter.

  “What the hell are you doing in there, Sykes?” Norden reappeared in the doorway, and I gave him a friendly wave. His eyes bugged out when he realized my hands were free.

  In a second, he’d pulled his gun and was pointing it at my chest. But now that I knew the cops needed answers to some questions—and thought I could provide them—I was ready to call his bluff.