Better Off Undead: The Bloodhound Files

by DD Barant

  “Tair and the Don,” Charlie says.

  “You think?”

  “Eyewitnesses are scared, but we got a partial description from a woman. She only saw one of them and he was in half-were form, but it sounds like the Don. Said he was swinging a baseball bat wrapped in metal wire. Mob guys call that a Silver Hammer.”

  The word swinging reminds me of my wrist, and I touch it gingerly. The splints—which I suspect are actually thin teakwood stakes designed to inflict suffering, not alleviate it—are still firmly in place, held there by some of Charlie’s black duct tape.

  “Still hurt?” Charlie asks gruffly.

  “Not really. Itched like hell for a while, but it’s calmed down now. Just a little sore.”

  “We should get that looked at.”

  “After we’re done here, okay? I’m fine.”

  And I am. Still feeling sort of wired, but the pain’s almost gone. We go back to the kitchen and take a closer look—the arterial spray from the decapitation was messy, but once the body hit the floor it mostly made a single large pool. The killers avoided that, but they weren’t perfect; there’s enough spatter to outline two sets of bloody footprints leading to the loading dock in the alley.

  “Must have had a vehicle parked there,” I say. “We’ll see what Eisfanger can turn up once he gets here.”

  While we’re waiting, I take a look at what’s in the cages. They’ve mostly got smaller animals, ranging from mice—mice? What the hell do you make out of mice, rodent McNuggets?—to bigger animals like pigs. But not all of the livestock is quite as mundane. “Charlie? Is that what I think it is?”

  “It is if you think it’s a kangaroo.”

  “Kangaroo. This place serves kangaroo?”

  “Either that or the owner got shorted on his order of koala.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe it. I mean, who could eat that?”

  “I don’t know. I have a hard time with the idea of eating, period.”

  Considering that Charlie’s animated by the life force of a long-dead T. rex, that’s kind of strange—but his body is made out of minerals, not meat, and lems have no stomachs. I do, though, and it feels like forever since I last ate …

  My gut gives a strange little lurch. Magic has a way of shaking up your assumptions, Charlie and his distaste for meals being a prime example. Here’s another: I’m a vegetarian—with the notable exception of sushi—and right now I’m starving. Why?

  Because the smell of blood is making my mouth water.

  “You all right?” Charlie asks.

  “Yeah, fine. Hey, why don’t we wait outside, huh?”

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  THIRTEEN

  I get an NSA field medic to take a look at my wrist when we get back to the office. He tells me my wrist is fine, that the break has healed nicely.

  Which took about three hours.

  Eisfanger verifies what we deduced and is going to run further tests once he gets the bodies back to the lab. Gretchen tells us that Phil was an important capo, one of the Don’s trusted inner circle, and at one time even in line to be consigliere. He made his living as a loan shark, the old-fashioned kind that breaks your legs when you miss a payment; looks like he’s moved down a few links in the food chain.

  We do all the usual stuff you do when you’re trying to break a case, but none of the other witnesses knows anything—not that they’ll admit, anyway—the physical evidence has all been collected, and speaking to Phil’s associates is a waste of time and energy. It’s been a long day and I should be exhausted, but I don’t feel the least bit tired.

  My co-workers are all worried about me. I can smell it on them. Nervousness, affection undercut with fear. I don’t know what it’s like for a normal person experiencing imminent thropehood, but for someone with my training in spotting psychological cues it’s as blatant as them screaming in my face. Even Charlie’s restrained body language seems exaggerated and grotesque, a parody of concern. I bolt for the security of my apartment like a wounded animal hiding in a cave.

  Charlie escorts me home, then bids me good night. Which might seem odd, considering how protective he’s been lately—but then I realize he hasn’t gone home himself, he’s just sitting outside in the Crown Vic, parked across the street from my building. Maybe I should get him a baby monitor for his birthday.

  I’m too wound up to sleep, too restless to read or watch TV. It’s still dark out, so Gally is in human form and asleep. I’m tempted to wake him up and take him for a walk, but then Charlie would insist on coming along.

  These cravings are driving me crazy. I pour a can of tomato juice into a bowl, add as much salt as I can stand, and heat the whole thing up in the microwave. Drinking three glasses of it in a row calms my stomach down a little, but does nothing to settle my nerves.

  I call Xandra.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Jace? I just got up.” She sounds a little sleepy.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Yeah, I guess. What’s up?”

  “Ah, nothing. I’m just feeling a little—I don’t know, jumpy. If you need to get ready for school that’s okay—”

  “No, there’s no school today. I can talk.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure I can. Howl at the moon, sure, but anything more civilized might be beyond me.”

  “You sound pretty amped.”

  “Amped? Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Yeah, amped is pretty much where I am. Also wired, charged, and high-voltaged. Plug me in and I could probably power most of the eastern seaboard.”

  “Wow. You sound like my friend Sonya when she’s had too many Red Bulls.”

  “Red Bull. That’s funny. We have Red Bull on my world, too, did you know that? Except ours doesn’t have any bull blood in it. At least, I don’t think it does—I’ve never actually checked the ingredients. But that would be highly bizarre and probably clot since our anticoagulant technology is nowhere near what yours is. Hey, do you know what kangaroo tastes like?”

  There’s a pause. “Umm,” she says. “Bouncy?”

  “That’s kind of what I was thinking. Bouncy. Springy. Jump-up-and-downy. Probably give you hiccups. Ha.”

  “Jace. You’re freaking me out a little.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yeah. I really think you should talk to Uncle Leo.”

  Uncle Leo. Everybody calls him that, except for the kids who call him Grandpa. If I become a thrope and join the Adams pack, will I start calling him Uncle Leo, too? That wouldn’t be so bad.

  “Jace!”

  “What? Huh?”

  “You were whining.”

  “I was not! I bitch, I fume, I rant—sometimes I even pun—but I do not whine!”

  “No, I mean you were actually whining. High-pitched whimpering sound?”

  Oh, God. “Uh—that was Gally. He wants to go out. So do I.” I realize how that sounds and add, “For completely different reasons, okay?”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe you should come over.”

  “Maybe. No. I don’t want to bother anyone. Would it bother anyone? Maybe I could.”

  “You’ve gone from whining to dithering.”

  “I have, haven’t I? That’s not like me. But then again, neither is thinking about kangaroo steaks.” I force myself to focus. “All right, all right. I’ll come over, talk to Leo. He’ll know what to do, right?”

  “Of course. Uncle Leo always knows what to do.”

  I sneak out of my apartment the back way, through the stairs.

  There’s no good reason to ditch Charlie, but I do anyway. Part of me recognizes that this is not entirely rational behavior, but that part seems distant and not terribly important. What’s vital is to keep moving, keep hidden, and search out what I need.

  No, not search out. Hunt.

  I wave down a cab a few blocks away and get it to take me to the Adams suburban enclave. It’s all I can do to not leap out and run instead.

  It’s dawn by the time I
get there, and the household is awake and bustling. The air seems full to bursting with early-morning smells, everything from wet grass to brewing coffee. I guess Xandra must have told Leo I was coming, because he’s waiting for me at the front door. He’s wearing an oversize purple bathrobe, and his feet are bare.

  “Jace,” he says with a warm smile. “I’m glad you’re here.” He doesn’t go inside, but instead steps off the porch and motions for me to follow him. He leads me around the house and into the backyard, where the pool is now hidden by a white plastic cover.

  Leo sits down in a lawn chair, beside a patio table, and I do the same.

  “What, you’re afraid I’m no longer housebroken?” I say. It’s chilly enough that I should be shivering, but I feel more overheated than anything. I shrug my jacket off and drape it over the back of my chair.

  “No, but I sense you’d be more at ease outside.” He’s watching me carefully, with a look I recognize: He’s trying to figure out just how far gone I am. I wish I could tell him.

  “Yeah, good call,” I admit. “God, I’m starving—”

  The back door opens and one of the many small, grandmotherly women who seem to live at the Adams residence appears. She’s got a plate piled high with—

  “Though you don’t eat meat, I understand that eggs are okay?” Leo asks. “And cheese?”

  “Yesthatsfine,” I croak, and then I’m digging into what looks like an omelet made from a dozen ostrich eggs and about a pound of cheddar. God bless you, Leo.

  He keeps his eyes on me while I chow down. I never thought protein could taste so good—I finish the whole thing in a disgustingly short period of time and then sit back, panting like I just ran a marathon.

  “Feeling a little better?”

  I burp. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “It’s difficult, this part,” he says. “The urges, the cravings. The feeling of being out of control. But it will pass.”

  “Sure, along with my interest in salad bars. But I’m not ready, Leo.”

  “Are we ever ready for the truly important changes in our lives? No. Marriage, the birth of a child, the death of a loved one—they are all things that must be experienced to be understood, and no matter how much we prepare, we are always surprised. And this is a very good thing, Jace. It is the essence of freedom to be surprised. Without the new there are no challenges, nothing to be learned, no way to grow.”

  “Yeah, absolutely. Got any more eggs?”

  He laughs. “Give it time to settle in your stomach. The hunger you feel, it can be controlled. Mastered.”

  A horrible thought strikes me. “Is this what it’s like to be a thrope? To be hungry all the time?”

  “No, no—these are temporary symptoms, I assure you. Your body is changing, and that requires energy. Fuel.”

  Which means the more I eat, the more ground the thrope virus gains. Suddenly I’m not quite as ravenous. “Right. Of course.”

  “It’s not all bad, Jace. There are advantages, too, many of them.” He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, inhaling hugely through his nose. “You smell that?”

  Hesitantly, I do the same thing. An explosion of scents fills my head, so abrupt and overpowering that I gasp: chlorine tang from the pool, grass damp with dew, a hundred flavors of pollen as the plants wake up and yawn; food aromas from my plate and inside the house; insect pheromones in a bewildering array of odors I have no names for; the animal musk of a houseful of thropes, each with their own distinct signature. Leo, being the closest, is the strongest, and carries the indefinable but definite smell of authority.

  But that’s not all. There’s another scent, masked somehow, wrapped in a nullifying cloak like a thick quilt thrown over a ticking clock. And now I’m getting a sense of direction, of distance; the house full of thropes is over there, and Leo is here, and that annoyingly faint, muffled scent is that way, at the edge of the wooded area—

  My eyes snap open.

  It’s Tair.

  I expect him to bolt as soon as I become aware of him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps out from behind a tree and regards me calmly. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a black fleece hoodie, sneakers on his feet. He looks more like he’s out for a morning jog than running from the law.

  I’m already on my feet, but Leo stays seated. He growls. It’s a deep, menacing sound, and its meaning is clear: This is my turf.

  “Calm down, Leo,” Tair says, but I notice he doesn’t come any closer. “This is a friendly visit.”

  “Jace Valchek is under the protection of the Adams pack,” Leo says. His eyes have gone bright yellow, his canines are longer, and both his hands are now hairy claws. “You will not harm her.”

  Tair smiles and holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it. And hey, what’s with the cold shoulder, Leo? I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

  “You are not who you appear to be,” Leo says. “And you smell like you’re not even here.”

  “Ah, that. Just a charm to keep me off the radar—didn’t want to run into any problems while Jace and I have a little chat.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I say. I have my gun out and pointed at his chest in a second. “You’re under arrest. Lie flat on the ground and put your hands behind your head.”

  Tair chuckles. “Yeah, no, I can’t really do that. You know why I’m here, don’t you, Leo?”

  “I never imagined you’d be so foolish.”

  “Foolish? Hey, that’s no way to talk about tradition.”

  “Get on the ground. Now.”

  Leo shakes his head. “You can’t be serious.”

  “As a case of Hades Rabies, Leo,” Tair says. “I invoke sange ucenicie.”

  I’ve experienced it before, but there’s nothing quite as frustrating as aiming one of the largest handguns in existence at someone and being treated like I’m holding a pickle. Not even a big pickle, more like a sad little gherkin the other pickles tease. “Lie down, goddamn it! You know what this weapon can do!”

  “Jace,” Leo says, turning toward me. “I’m sorry, but he has invoked sange ucenicie. It is his right.” He looks deeply troubled, but his eyes have faded back to their old color.

  “I don’t care if he’s invoking the ghost of Christmas past! Now get down on the ground or I swear I’ll shoot you—in the knee, if I have to. You wouldn’t be the first mobster I’ve put a bullet in—not even the first in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “No, you won’t,” Tair says. “In fact, you can’t.”

  I aim at his foot. Not as bad as the knee, but still guaranteed to put him in a world of suffering and blow off several toes at the very least. I pull the trigger.

  I pull the trigger.

  I pull the trigger, goddamn it, except that I don’t. It’s not that I’ve had a change of heart, either—I still want to, I just can’t. My finger refuses to tighten, no matter how hard I try.

  Leo gets to his feet. He stalks toward Tair, who takes a few oddly formal steps toward Leo. They stop, practically nose-to-nose.

  “You will do this thing right,” Leo snarls. “By the old rules, by the ancient standards. You will not use her, you will not abandon her. She is your responsibility, and I hold your life hostage to her well-being. No matter who you once were, no matter what you once meant to me, my pack will hunt you down and rend you throat-tobelly if you fail her in any way. Do we understand each other?”

  “We do.”

  “Well, I don’t,” I say. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Leo mutters something in another language under his breath. It doesn’t sound complimentary.

  “Now, Leo,” Tair says. “That’s uncalled for. Whatever you may think of me, I take my responsibilities in this matter very seriously. I mean, I’m risking a lot here.”

  Maybe it’s just his foot that’s got the magic whammy on it. I point the gun at his elbow and try to pull the trigger. No good. I try the chest, the head, the crotch. I try using my other hand, different fingers, my thumb.
Nothing works.

  “Stop that,” Tair says. He sounds more annoyed than threatened. “Look, I’ll tell you what’s going on if you just quit waving that thing around, all right?”

  I shove the gun at Leo. “Here. It’s easy to use. Just point it at him and yank this little lever here.”

  “Listen to him, Jace. He has important things to tell you, and I cannot interfere.” Leo gives Tair a scowl that a thunderhead would be proud of, and stalks back toward the house, his purple bathrobe flapping in the early-morning breeze.

  “What?” I’m stunned. Leo would never turn his back on me, that much I’m sure of.

  “Ready to listen, Valchek?” Tair says. He settles down in the lawn chair Leo just vacated. “You may not want to hear this, but it’s got to be said.”

  I surrender to the inevitable and sit down myself. I shove my useless, rebellious firearm back in its holster. “Talk.”

  “The lycanthrope pack structure is more than just an imitation of wolf hierarchy. It’s mystical as well as biological, and like all magic systems there are rules. Magical rules—just like evolutionary ones—tend to be based on principles of survival. Not just survival of the individual, but survival of the species. And midway between the two, survival of the pack.”

  “I’m not a thrope, Tair. Not yet.”

  “No, but you have had blood drawn by one—me. I’m sure others have explained to you the mystic link we have as a result, and what that entails.” He grins. “Sorry, unintentional pun.”

  “Nobody told me that meant you could control my actions.”

  “Then you weren’t talking to the right people.” He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “To be fair, it’s something that’s been mostly forgotten. Hundreds of years ago, if a thrope attacked a human he’d make sure to finish the job; survivors were rare, because the last thing a pack wanted was a transformed human murdering his own kind every full moon and giving them a bad name, or worse yet tagging along after the group and expecting to be adopted like a stray puppy. But, as thropes and humans became integrated, that happened more and more often. So procedures were established to fix the problem, procedures that were implanted mystically and passed down from generation to generation. Sorcery-enhanced instincts, you could call them.”