Dark Moon Wolf

by Sarah E Stevens

  “Dammit, Jimmy, that bitch is going to kill us as soon as they leave. Answer their goddamn questions,” the guard shouted.

  I had the feeling the guard wasn’t used to yelling at his boss.

  “I’ll answer your questions, really. Just don’t leave me alone with her,” Jimmy said, his eyes wild with terror.

  “I tell you what,” Tim walked over to Jimmy, “I’ll stay for a while, for as long as you answer our questions. If you stop cooperating, I will leave Kayleigh to guard you.”

  “Tim, call us on Julie’s cell,” Eliza said over her shoulder as she and I hurried out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Twenty minutes back to the hotel. Twenty minutes of me quietly ripping my cuticles to shreds. The last ten minutes were just on the damned Strip which needed about ten lanes if it was going to hold all the damned cars. Dammit. Eliza drove, a good thing, because if I’d been behind the steering wheel, I was pretty sure I’d have driven on the sidewalk. If the cops came after us, I was also pretty sure we had assorted bloodspots on our clothes that might be hard to explain.

  We didn’t engage in small talk during the drive. Or big talk, either.

  When we finally arrived at the hotel, we drove up to the door and I hopped out, leaving Eliza idling the car. Sheila and Ian stood close inside the front door, pretending interest in someone’s slot machine. Sheila saw me in an instant, elbowed Ian, and strode toward the door. I realized Eliza was going to blow a gasket if Ian came with us, but came to the almost instantaneous conclusion I didn’t care. Ian was one more strong Were on our side, he was Carson’s uncle, and I would take all the help I could get.

  When Sheila reached me, she held out her closed hand. I extended mine and she dropped Carson’s ducky pin into my palm.

  “Found it on the floor,” she said.

  I closed my fist around the pin, wishing it would spring open and impale my hand, wishing I could have some physical injury to take my mind off the pain I felt.

  I’m not sure if it was the set of my jaw, the mulish look on Ian’s face, or the innocent expression worn by Sheila that elicited Eliza’s quiet “Damn you all” as the three of us slid into the car. She either decided we had no time to waste or decided she didn’t want to argue, because she pulled the car out of the drive without another word.

  As we turned onto the Strip, she said, “Ian, if you get hurt, I’ll kill you. Julie, if he gets killed, you are telling Erin.” That out of the way, she asked Sheila, sitting in the navigator’s seat, “Which way?”

  Sheila looked at her cell phone and proceeded to give precise directions to the Painted Desert Golf Club. Luck was actually with us as we took the most direct possible route and managed to locate the precise house Sheila saw in her scrying.

  “There,” Sheila said, followed by, “No, don’t slow down.”

  Eliza drove on for a block, made the first right, and parked the car.

  “That one, part brick, white siding, number 578.”

  “Okay,” I said and pulled out my phone. “Shit, I don’t have Tim’s number. Why don’t I have Tim’s number?”

  Sheila rattled off the number.

  “Uh, Sheila?” I raised my eyebrows at her. “Why the hell do you have Tim’s phone number memorized?”

  After a moment of hesitation, Sheila turned and beamed a smile into the backseat. “Why Jules,” she said, “you know how numbers get stuck in my head.”

  Actually, I knew no such thing, but I wasn’t going to argue. Instead, I had her repeat the number more slowly and dialed Tim. When he answered the phone, I asked, “What did you learn from Jimmy?”

  “Well, first, I learned he lives at 578 North Painted Desert Drive.”

  “Oh.”

  “His friend and co-conspirator, a guy named Joey Daniels is there. He’s Dr. D. Three or four mafia goons will likely be in the house.

  “From what our friend Jimmy says, there is a lot of infighting between the different mafia families in Vegas right now, hence the heightened guard. The plan to create Werewolves serving the mafia was Jimmy’s bright idea to ensure his future—and his father’s, but he hasn’t shared the plan with his dad yet. He wanted to make sure the procedure worked first.”

  “Okay,” I said, “so, the doctor and three or four guards.” Yes, I cared about the big picture, but I focused on essentials and right now getting to Carson was the only thing that counted. “Dave will be there, too, we can’t forget Dave. But no other Weres?”

  “No. Ken was the only Were working with Jimmy. There were two others—both lone wolves, one from California and one from rural Nevada—but they’re both dead. Killed by the doctor’s experiments. They weren’t strong wolves to begin with. Ken, full name Ken Martinone, was actually a dark moon wolf, turned by a bite. He was the one who brought all of this to Jimmy, the mastermind behind it all, if you will. Ken met Dave when he was in Vegas with his sister during the winter holidays and I guess he convinced him. Anyway,” Tim stifled a sigh, “I’ve learned all I’m going to from our friend Jimmy Bianco. I’m leaving Kayleigh here; I think I’ve impressed upon her the need for restraint. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  I summarized the information for three in the car and then said, “We can’t wait for him, though. He might be half an hour—I’m not waiting half an hour.”

  No one contradicted me.

  “All right,” said Eliza, “Ian and I will go in, either through the front door or a back entrance, we’ll figure that out on the ground. I’ll cloak us in darkness, but Dave will scent us through that. Ian,” she turned to search his face, “I know Dave is—was—your best friend. We may have to fight him. He might get hurt or even killed. Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  I saw a muscle move in Ian’s jaw, but his eyes and voice were steady as he answered, “Yes.”

  Eliza gave one decisive nod.

  “Julie and Sheila, you come in behind us. Stay out of any direct fighting as much as possible. We’ll try to disable or distract as many guards as possible—after all, we’ll heal from bullets—”

  “Unless they’re silver.”

  Eliza continued over my interruption, “Even if they’re silver, unless they hit something vital. Just takes longer.” She pointed at me. “Julie, your sole mission is Carson, find him and get him out so he can’t be used as a hostage.”

  Good, my mission accorded with my actual plan.

  ****

  Sheila and I waited near a large hedge and tried to judge when we should follow the two Weres. Every atom of my body craned in the direction of Carson.

  “Let’s give them two more minutes,” I said, looking at my watch. Sheila nodded, with her head twisted to see the house.

  After not quite two minutes, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer, but Sheila didn’t quibble. We checked our guns, neither of which had actually been fired since I hadn’t managed to participate in the fighting earlier. I felt as confident as possible. Which meant not very confident, but I hoped I faked it well. I watched a lot of crime shows, after all. I read a lot of mysteries. Some with Werewolves.

  Given the late hour, or maybe super early morning, we didn’t have to worry about nosy neighbors and we crept to the back door of the house. We hadn’t quite reached the stoop when we heard a crash, followed by cursing and Dave’s voice yelling, “I told you that Witch bitch would find us.”

  The kitchen door stood ajar and, with a gesture of my head to Sheila, I bumped it open with my foot, gun held at the ready. The kitchen was empty, except for a dead body I attempted to ignore after a cursory glance. I motioned Sheila to follow me. When she came abreast, she whispered, “You know, I’m the one who knows how to shoot. I’m going first.”

  We followed the sound of fighting toward the living room. As we stalked down the hall, pieces of the action came into view. A pair of legs jutted from behind a plaid couch, legs with jeans and cowboy boots, so not one of ours. Eliza faced the downed person, a snarl twisting her mouth, and, just as we arrived, a
clap of thunder and a red bloom suddenly appeared on her right shoulder.

  Immobile silence, like the shock after a camera flashes. Then Eliza crumpled to the ground, forcing my lungs to convulse in a gasp before she twisted into her wolf-self and disappeared from my sight as she called the moon. The next thing I saw, she flew through the air, a vengeful wolf, lunging at the shooter, whom I only saw for a split-frame, his own face morphing from satisfaction to terror.

  She was going to be okay, our girl. She’d heal. I repeated the thought, then realized I had spoken aloud as Sheila responded with a fierce, “Yes.”

  Yips and growls and crashes sounded from the other part of the room, the part still hidden by the wall, and I was about to peer out when I heard the other noise. My whole self was pulled straight and taut, as if by a dog whistle.

  Carson, crying.

  Looking at me in alarm, Sheila started to mouth, “What?” before she heard it, too. Her eyes narrowed. “Go,” she said, “I’ll help out here. Go!”

  I didn’t need to be told twice. Actually, I didn’t need to be told at all. Without pausing to let my fears catch up with the rest of me, I darted straight through the living room and down the other side of the hallway. Carson cried hysterically with a note in his voice that said I-need-mama-right-now and I trembled, literally trembled in eagerness to reach him, pulled by a magnetism that had reset my compass on the day of his birth.

  When I reached the closed door that kept me from my screaming baby, I still didn’t pause for thought. I smashed open the door, gun held in my hand but certainly not at the ready, more likely to bodily jump any goon in the room than have the presence of mind to take aim and fire. I was only momentarily disoriented by the scene, a low-lit bedroom obviously meant to soothe. Not some mafia thug, but a round-faced woman, hair pulled into a bun, gray hairs sticking out randomly from among the black, her face creased with worry, crooning at Carson and doing the two-step baby bounce. At my entry, she stopped moving and held my baby—my baby—close to her chest, as if to protect him. Protect him from me.

  “Give me my baby,” I yelled and stormed forward.

  “No, no!” The woman’s eyes focused on my gun first, then rose to my face. “No. Who are you people? Leave our sweet baby alone.

  “Dave.” She cried, “Mr. Dave. Someone is trying to take your brother, help, help.”

  “Give me my baby. Dammit!”

  Carson screamed loudly, that baby scream where his lips turned blue and his face turned red and mottled. The woman hugged Carson to her, sidestepping me and dodging around a rocking chair.

  I screamed. Yes, I threw my head back and screamed, pouring my rage and desire and frustration into a scream that left me hoarse and panting. The woman’s eyes widened and she crossed herself, praying quietly under her breath. Abruptly, Carson fell silent, perhaps awed his mama made that sound. Something to which he could aspire.

  In the relative silence after my explosion, I looked the woman dead in the eyes, raised my gun, and fired a shot into the ceiling. The percussion made us jump, all three of us, and drywall fell down in a small landslide.

  I said, “Give. Me. My. Baby.”

  She did.

  In romance novels, the author often uses phrases like “the world stopped” or “her heart only then began to beat” when the male and female lead characters first see each other. I don’t know about that kind of love, if it really exists, if it’s any truer than the love where you work together, where you accept each other’s annoying habits, where you roll your eyes inwardly at your partner’s occasional stupidity. I mean, I loved Mac, but I never felt he was the whole reason for my existence, that his appearance was like rays of sunlight piercing the clouds or any such thing. Our relationship was much more complicated.

  But this? This. Taking Carson into my arms made me whole. He still gave those little shuddering sighs that end a fierce crying jag, and my heart shook, gasping along with him. He was so small, so small I could envelop him entirely, cradle him against my chest, smell his head, that sweaty-sweet baby smell, breathe in his little breaths. His cheek was so soft. Leaning my face against him felt like touching nothing at all, like putting soapy fingers through a bubble. My baby, my Carson, little Carson. He had been gone forever, the absence inside me had swallowed me alive, yet it had only been hours, a few scant hours. My whole life.

  The woman in the room moved and my attention jerked, a spasm of alarm, but, no, she just sank down into the rocking chair.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, “Mr. Dave, he said their parents were dead.”

  “Mr. Dave said a lot of things, I’m sure. Look,” I said, clear this woman wasn’t involved in the greater plot points. “This is not a very safe place right now. If I were you, I would leave as soon as possible, go home. And don’t mention anything about any of this to anyone.”

  “I never talk about Mr. Jimmy’s business,” she said and I wasn’t sure if she reassured me or felt affronted.

  “Good, then.”

  Ninety percent of my brain soaked in Carson, through every possible sense. The other ten percent decided my job—my only job at this point—was to get him out of the house to safety. I wasn’t likely to be any help in a fight, anyway.

  I might need both hands, though. In the absence of my sling—why hadn’t I brought the sling—I grabbed a throw from the top of the chest footing the bed. Sage green chenille and would do in a pinch. I wrapped Carson to my body and tied a knot at my left shoulder. Fashioning a temporary sling made me feel fairly competent for the first time tonight. I fished out a spare pacifier from my pocket and gave it to Carson, hoping to soothe him until he could nurse. I kept my left hand on Carson’s back, unwilling to give up that touch even as his body nestled against me, and kept the gun in my right hand.

  When I crept into the hall, I didn’t see anyone, friend or foe. I heard fighting in the living room and I sent a fervent prayer into the universe. I told myself over and over I couldn’t help and, in fact, Carson and I would be a huge liability. Nothing assuaged the guilt I felt as I walked to the front door. The hall was empty, as were the front steps, and I stepped out into the night feeling an absurd letdown. I hesitated on the front walkway, then turned to wait near the same hedges where Sheila and I had lurked earlier.

  Carson stirred and I sat down in the midst of the brush to comfort him. Probably my most surreal parenting experience ever: shouldering aside prickly branches, untying my make-shift sling, setting the gun down within easy reach. This neighborhood was definitely pricey, large well-irrigated yards, cultivated trees and bushes for privacy. Which I guess was just as well, since a bunch of Werewolves and mafia fought in good old Number 578. I couldn’t hear the battle from where we hid.

  When Carson finished feeding, his body was limp and soft with sleep. I carefully bundled him up again and tied him against me firmly. I weighed my options, wait longer? Go back into the house? Then a car turned onto the road, a car I recognized, Tim’s car. I rose slightly as he continued down the road and parked farther from the house. He stepped out of the car, closed the door firmly but quietly behind him, and slipped into wolf-form. He loped toward the house and flicked an ear as he caught my scent, quickly detouring to my side.

  When he reached me, he didn’t change form, but poked his nose into my hand. Taking this as a normal wolf-greeting and a prod for information, I updated him as best as I could: some guards down, still fighting inside, Eliza shot but healing, I’d grabbed Carson, obviously, and headed out to wait for them.

  “Do you—should I come in with you?”

  The wolf shook his head adamantly, a human gesture that looked odd on a wolf but intelligible. He pawed the ground near my feet, glanced upward to make sure I understood, and turned to dart toward the back of the house. I watched his gray tail flick around the corner and bounced on my toes in that automatic baby-soothing motion.

  Then, I heard a muffled crack. I ran to the back of the house, gun in my hand. After I’d taken half a dozen steps,
my mind finally categorized it, “Gunshot, silenced,” and I extended both arms, holding my weapon, and darted closer to the side of the house. I hesitated at the corner, then bit my lip, exhaled, and rounded the corner, gun first.

  Tim lay crumpled on the ground, close to the back steps, in human form. A clinical voice in my mind said, “That doesn’t bode well,” while the emotional voice said, “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” and focused on the man approaching Tim’s downed body. The half-moon illuminated him briefly and glinted off the weapon in his hand, the gun pointed steadily, oh-so-steadily, at the fallen Were.

  I’m not sure if I made a noise or not, but I remember the man jerked his head in my direction, right before I shot him. I remember his head in the next instant, jolted back with the impact of the bullet, blood and bone and other things spraying out the back of his skull. I stood there, paralyzed as if I had been the one shot. Instead of the shooter. Holy fuck.

  My gun had no silencer, and I noticed a light flick on in the neighbor’s house. Carson also began crying in protest and I had the horrible fear I’d somehow deafened him.

  My mind blurred, but later, when I reflected back on the night, I felt overwhelming gratitude the recoil from the gun hadn’t harmed Carson. I managed to keep the gun steady without jerking into my baby—perhaps even in such a moment, my instinct to protect Carson outweighed anything else. Sheila couldn’t get over the fact I’d shot the man in the head. The next day, she repeatedly asked, “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to aim for the head?” Even once I explained I hadn’t aimed for his head, I’d been trying for something down on his torso; she just shook her head at me. Hell, maybe the lucky cow pin helped after all.

  But at that moment, my ears still ringing, I found myself unable to construct any clear thoughts at all. I bounced Carson, soothing him automatically, and stared at the two crumpled bodies in the grass: Tim and the man I’d shot.

  Sheila ran out the back door first, and gave an inarticulate cry as she skidded down on her knees next to Tim. The next second, she yelled, “Eliza, Eliza!” The buff-colored wolf launched from the back steps. She landed in human form, kneeling next to Tim, and my breath caught at her gracefulness.