by S.J. Finch
Chapter 11
Aged wood. Musty books. Burnt popcorn. Ryan followed Dr. Webster through the entryway and stepped over the raised threshold. The solid steel door closed behind them with a soft clang.
It had been a wild few days for Ryan, filled with expectations that were met by the unexpected, and the contents of the warehouse were no different. This was nothing like the big, shadowy, industrial warehouses Ryan had seen on TV. It was a motley collection of tiny details that added up to one big picture: it felt friendly.
The whole place was one, wide-open space, with a few exceptions. The garage doors that Ryan had seen from the outside weren’t visible here, but instead, immediately to his left, a pair of giant, floor-to ceiling aluminum sliding doors separated the garage from the rest of the space. At the other end of the warehouse, the corners jutted inward, which created two more separate, enclosed spaces.
The building had two levels, but the upper level merely ran around the border of the building, leaving a large rectangular hole in the middle that gave the entire place a much more open feel and allowed virtually the entire interior to be seen from anywhere in the building. The second level extended ten or fifteen feet inward from the wall and the rest was open space, with a metal safety railing running the length of the edge. High on the second level a row of windows also ran around the entire building, but it looked as though they had been blacked out by several layers of paint. They still managed to let in some diffused natural light, as did the few large skylights in the ceiling that had been left unpainted.
There were four metal stairways that led to the second level, one in each corner of the rectangular building. The tiny room through which Ryan had just entered was directly beneath one of the staircases on the street side, nearest the garage doors. Ryan didn’t have the proper angle to see much of the upstairs, but for the moment he didn’t care. The lower level was more than enough to keep his eyes and his mind occupied.
The floor was bare concrete but it was covered by a clashing assortment of rugs that made the space feel cozy. It reminded Ryan of Eli’s basement, but these rugs were in much better shape than Eli’s discarded carpet squares.
The center of the ground floor was shared by two main fixtures: the first was a collection of mismatched sofas and chairs arranged in a wide, loose, inward-facing circle. The second feature, beyond the circle, was a pool table whose green felt looked like it hadn’t been replaced in decades. Farthest from Ryan and the street were the two enclosed spaces that ran the height of the building. He could see now that even though they looked like uninterrupted columns, they were actually divided at the second floor, which created four separate rooms.
The wall closest to him held a line of tightly-packed bookshelves. Past the bookshelves was a small kitchen area complete with stove, microwave, counters, sinks, and a large refrigerator. The wall opposite Ryan was one long counter, and it held a vast medley of scientific and industrial equipment, from beakers, flasks, and burners to a circular saw and an electric furnace.
Soft natural light filtered through the windows and skylights and fell in hazy, contorted shapes over the most mismatched collection of stuff that Ryan had ever seen. Coming to the warehouse was supposed to have provided answers, not prompted more questions. Ryan was even more baffled than before. Finally, Dr. Webster spoke.
“I know it doesn’t look like much.” He began. “But it works for what we need it to.”
“Well whatever it is, it’s…amazing.” Ryan replied, and he meant it. “What on earth is this place?”
The doctor regarded Ryan for a moment. The corners of his mouth turned upward in a small smile and he opened his mouth to speak. As he did however, a voice crackled over the intercom. Mrs. White’s tone was full of urgency.
“Robert, I’ve just received word. They’re on their way back.” Her voice dropped. “It doesn’t sound good.”
The smile vanished from his face and he spun around to shove open the door behind him. Dr. Webster stuck his head through into the small lobby they had just come through..
“What is it?” Webster demanded.
“Evelyn, over the radio. It wasn’t a clear signal but it sounds like something went very wrong.” The elderly woman answered.
“Lockdown?” Webster asked.
“I don’t know, but it sounds like they’ll definitely need the infirmary prepped.”
The doctor nodded. “Let me know as soon as you get more information. ETA?”
Mrs. White shook her head. “Couldn’t say.”
Dr. Webster pulled the door closed behind him. He spun around to face Ryan. “With me. Now.”
The doctor raced across the ground floor of the warehouse. He vaulted over furniture and obstacles and Ryan struggled to keep pace. Webster was fast and agile and he moved like a hurdler half his age.
It took Ryan a few more seconds than Dr. Webster to get to the other end of the warehouse. They were at the enclosed room in the far corner from the entrance and the doctor dashed inside. When Ryan caught up and entered the small room himself, he saw that it was a miniature infirmary.
There were beige countertops on both sides, and between them was a single, adjustable hospital gurney with white cotton sheets pulled tight. The far countertop held a variety of small medical equipment and instruments, and the nearer countertop had a sink and small refrigerator full of differently colored vials and tubes. A large observation window was set into the wall, and it looked out onto the rest of the warehouse.
Dr. Webster fumbled with something at the far counter and then deftly reached up behind him, without looking, and flicked on a large surgical lamp on a wide-swinging arm above the bed.
“Ryan,” the doctor began quickly, “do you know anything about first aid?”
“No, not really.” He replied.
“Does the sight of blood make you queasy?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.” Webster responded. “We have no idea what we’re going to be dealing with when they get back, so I might need you and I might not.” The doctor turned back to face Ryan. “If I tell you to do something, I need you to do it immediately. Do not ask why, and do not doubt yourself or me. Understood?”
Ryan nodded.
“I know you have a lot of questions, and I’m sorry this had to happen right now, but I promise I’ll sort everything out once this is over.”
“Okay.” Ryan replied. He was nervous. He had no idea what was going on or what the doctor might ask him to do.
“First, I need you to go back out there and open those big metal doors at the front. Did you see them on the way in? You know what I mean?”
Ryan nodded again and hurried out of the infirmary. He made his way back across the ground level of the warehouse to the gigantic double doors. When he got there, he saw they were on rollers. It took most of his strength to move them, but threw his weight behind it and the first door began to give way. It slid open with a metallic screech and gave Ryan his first look into the darkened garage.
There were over a dozen vehicles parked in two rows on either side, and there were empty spaces for a few more. Against one wall stood a workbench, and an array of mechanical tools hung from the pegboard above it. The cars themselves were a bizarre assortment: two windowless white service vans stood next to a small number of nondescript commuter sedans and SUVs. Ryan saw a pair of dirt bikes parked a careful few feet from a very expensive-looking sport bike that, even in this light, glinted a fiery, polished red.
On the other side of the garage stood a large RV, and next to it, a pair of SUVs more rugged than the other cars. Nearer to Ryan rested a large, dark-colored American muscle car in a model that Ryan figured to be at least thirty years old. There was also a sleek, silver, two-door convertible that looked just as old as the muscle car, but much more lavish and European.
The rumbling sound of a large engine reached Ryan’s ears. He snapped out of his admiration and rushed to get the other door open. As he did, the
outer garage door began to whirr and the large steel door to the outside began to retract.
He heard the van long before he saw it. The motor was being gunned down the street at what sounded like a breakneck pace, and when it screeched into Ryan’s view, he was sure it would not be able to stop before it crashed into him.
The driver veered into the garage and skidded the van to a stop. It was a service van, like the other two in the garage, and Ryan saw the rear doors burst open and the massive frame of Daniel emerge. He carried in his arms a younger man with fair hair and a great splotch of blood spreading slowly from the middle of his chest. Daniel was followed by the forms of two other people, a man and a woman, then the drivers’ side door swung open and she emerged.
Ryan had heard the term “thunderbolt” before, but until now he had never known exactly what it meant. The events unfolding around him were terrible and terrifying, but in this moment, frozen in time, they all faded from his thoughts like a wisp of smoke carried off on a sudden wind.
She sprang from the cab with a liquid grace and her chocolate hair bounced once as she landed. Her clothes were simple: dark jeans and a black tank top, but even if she had been wearing a burlap sack, this would have been the most beautiful woman Ryan had ever seen.
Her long, slender frame was svelte without being lanky, and lithe without being willowy. Slender abdomen was set precariously atop the narrow, rounded triangle of her pelvis and widened slightly into the lean shoulders and chest that made up the top half of the hourglass.
It was her face, however, that had truly captivated him. Long brown hair fell past high, pronounced cheekbones that formed into a dainty, pointed chin. Perched just above it were her deep scarlet lips, which stood in crimson contrast to the brilliance of her eyes. They were framed by long quizzical eyebrows and the dark, smoky makeup around them made the electric green of the irises stand out even brighter. Ryan’s own eyes were a forest green with streaks of brown, but hers were of a hue and intensity he had never before seen. They were the color of sun-dappled leaves of mid-morning May, and they shone from beneath her brow like the eyes of a cat reflecting the glint of an evening fire.
Their eyes had met only for a moment, a moment that seemed to last an hour, and then the spell was broken. Sound and sensation rushed back to Ryan much the way they had after waking up from the sedative.
Daniel and the others sped past Ryan, too focused to acknowledge him. He followed nervously behind the hasty procession, acutely aware of the fact that he had no idea of what was going on, and at the same time petrified that he might be called upon at some point to help try and save this man’s life.
The doctor met the group halfway, then hurried back with them to the infirmary.
“What happened?” Webster asked anxiously. “I thought this was a milk run.”
“So did we.” The beautiful brunette said. “Renart disagreed.”
“What?!” Dr. Webster asked incredulously. “Renart wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near this, this was way too small-time for him!”
She shook her head. “He had a guy there, a new guy.”
“Kitsune.” Daniel growled as he lowered the young man onto the gurney.
“Calls himself Mr. Ito.” The girl said.
“And he did this?” The doctor asked.
It was then that Ryan got his first glimpse of the wound. A six-inch hunting knife was buried in the center of the man’s chest. The blood still flowed freely.
Daniel nodded. “One of the others, a human, distracted me and Ito surprised Miles from behind.” He replied. “Ito escaped.”
“Don’t worry about that now.” Dr. Webster instructed. “Everybody out but Daniel. Ruby,” He looked at the older woman, “go upstairs, see if you can put something together to stop the bleeding. Ev, help her.”
The brunette nodded and everyone filed out of the tiny infirmary.
The two women took the nearest staircase to the upper level and disappeared from sight. Ryan and the remaining man stood helplessly outside the infirmary and watched the progress through the observation window. Ryan watched as Daniel applied towel after towel to the man’s chest, and each one came away soaked through and dripping with blood.
“You must be Ryan.” said the man standing next to him.
He was tall, even compared to the five-foot eleven-inch Ryan, but still not as tall as Daniel. Unlike Daniel, this man was thin, almost too thin, and Ryan thought he looked rather sick. The skin on his hands was stretched tight over the bumps and ridges of bones that seemed to Ryan a little too visible. His clothes hung loosely on his angular, rickety frame and, though they looked clean and new enough, the clothes themselves looked far out of fashion, even to someone who owned as many blank, solid-color t-shirts as Ryan did. The man wore a crisp white collared shirt beneath a navy sweater vest with an argyle print. He wore freshly-ironed khakis that seemed to ride too high, and dark brown wing-tips.
His voice was soft and kind and, though he hadn’t taken his eyes off the infirmary window, it made Ryan feel more at ease, despite the horrific things happening before them.
“Yeah, I…is there anything I can do to help?” Ryan asked quietly.
The man gave a kindly smile. “I doubt it. Doc Webster is the most capable surgeon in the hemisphere. If there’s anybody on this side of the Pacific that can heal Miles, it’s him. I’m Tom, by the way.”
The man’s face was as spare and gaunt as the rest of him. Dark circles accented sunken gray eyes that seemed to be set too close together above his large, hooked nose. His steel-gray hair was combed and parted distinctly to one side in a style that, like his clothes, gave the impression that he had just walked out of a very different time and place.
“Nice to meet you.” Ryan extended his hand.
For the first time, Tom took his eyes off the three men in the infirmary and looked down at Ryan’s hand. Then he turned his gaze back to the grisly scene. His hands remained in his pockets.
“It’s nothing personal, Ryan.”
“Oh…okay…” Ryan replied and an awkward silence fell that Tom didn’t seem to notice. “You seem very calm, considering.”
“Death is not something I fret about.” Tom replied. “And as I said, Miles’ chances are quite good with Robert here. I have seen much worse.”
Ryan watched as Daniel’s hands, glistening crimson, applied pressure to the gaping wound. “So have I.” Ryan muttered, almost to himself.
“I can imagine.” Tom replied. “I wish I could tell you it gets better, but obviously,” he gestured to the bloody mess beyond the glass, “that would be untrue.”
“Why not ‘fret’ about dying? Doesn’t it worry you?”
The man seemed to smile, but it was as if the expression had only gotten to his eyes, not the corners of his mouth. “I’m worried about Miles, of course. But death, as a concept?” He shook his head. “It’s like the big roller coaster at the carnival: it’s only scary the first time.”
Without another word, the man turned to Ryan and extended the hand he had refused him earlier. Ryan looked at the outstretched hand, puzzled, and extended his own to shake it.
Ryan watched as his own hand met Tom’s and then, as he was about to grasp it, nothing. Ryan saw his hand pass through the older man’s as if there was nothing there at all. He waved his hand back and forth through the man’s palm and felt only air.
Ryan looked up at Tom inshock. Tom gave a sad smile. “I rode that roller coaster long ago.”
“You’re telling me you’re dead?”
“Showing you.” The man corrected. “People don’t tend to believe you when you just tell them you’re a ghost.”
“Incredible.” Ryan said softly.
“Not on this end.” The specter replied as he turned back to watch Dr. Webster and Daniel’s progress. “Dull is more like it.”
“How long?” Ryan asked.
“November, 1943.” Tom replied.
“If you don’t mind me asking,�
�� Ryan began hesitantly, “…how?”
Tom gave the same sad smile that started at his eyes but ended before it got to his lips. “I was walking home from campus, looking forward to a long night of grading term papers. I felt someone tackle me from behind and he lifted my billfold. I chased after him, he pulled a gun and fired a few random shots over his shoulder. I guess one of them caught me, because I ran another fifty yards before I turned back to see my body lying in the middle of the street. Strange feeling, looking at yourself like that. I’ll never forget it.”
Ryan was dumbstruck. “What about an…I don’t know, an afterlife? Do you mean that everyone who has ever died is wandering around somewhere, like you?” His thoughts leapt back to Frank Spalding and he resisted the urge to check over his shoulder.
Tom shook his head. “I don’t have many more answers than you do. Not everyone becomes a ghost, but I don’t know what was different about me or my situation. I’ve been searching for the answer to that question for nearly seventy years. If there is an afterlife, I suppose I didn’t make either guest list.” He sighed, then smiled. “Of course, the real head-scratchers are the little things: why can I ride in a car but not shake a hand? If I’m intangible, why don’t I plummet right through the ground? After a while you just have to accept a certain level of ignorance. You just have to go with it. Especially in this place, with all of us.”
At first Ryan wasn’t sure what the man had meant, but then,“You mean that everybody here is some kind of…”
Tom smiled again and Ryan thought he saw the slightest twinkle in the ghost’s dim eyes. “Yes. All of us, in one form or another, children of the night. What music we make.”
Ryan’s mind raced as to what that could mean. A ghost stood before him, a warrior-shapeshifter in the next room, and he himself contained a beast that would send the fiercest human man screaming. Ryan couldn’t help but wonder: what was the doctor? What was the woman, or the dark-haired girl? What was the young man bleeding to death on the table? What else was out there that wasn’t quite so welcoming? The shadowy man Isaac sounded like he worked for somebody, somebody worse. The fair-haired man, Miles, had a hunting knife buried in his chest. Buried up to the hilt. What had done that?
Ryan gestured through the window to the injured man. “Who…what…attacked him?”
“The textbook answer is a creature from Japanese mythology called a kitsune, but the first thing you have to understand, Ryan, is that our ancestors were a little overzealous when it came to characterizing the supernatural. With a few, very notable exceptions,” he nodded his head in Ryan’s direction, “most ‘creatures’ from world folklore were, and are, actually quite human.”
Ryan wasn’t sure he followed. Tom continued.
“In myth, the kitsune was a fox, a trickster who could assume human form and cause mischief among villagers or play pranks on samurai. In reality however, the kitsune is merely a human with certain psychic abilities: the ability to implant suggestion or mentally bend the will of another. Apart from a few sects of monks, the Japanese had no idea what was truly happening, so to them it made more sense to attribute their misfortunes to these mischievous animals. Psychic suggestion, in fact, is one of the more common abilities we’ve seen manifest, even throughout the ages. Anansi the Spider in West Africa, the coyote or raven in Native American culture, much to Daniel’s chagrin.” He smiled again, but it faded quickly into a cold, set jaw. “You’ve heard of Reynard, or Renart, the Fox?”
Ryan shook his head.
“He is a trickster character from French literature in the middle ages. As a matter of fact, the character was based on an actual trickster, a very gifted psychic, a lesser baron who used his powers to work his way into the position of duke. Nearly overthrew Louis VI, from what I’m told. Regardless, the man we know as Renart is a crime lord with similar gifts. He gave himself the name ‘Renart’ and has been employing his power to carve out his own section of the criminal underworld, though I’m not entirely sure he’s even French. Evidently he’s brought in a new lieutenant, this Mr. Ito, who also has the same psychic ability.”
“Renart, this man, is everyone working for him a psychic?” Ryan asked.
Tom shook his head. “No, we wouldn’t stand a chance. There are a great many people out there with paranormal abilities, but they’re too spread out, and most of them too afraid or ignorant of what they truly are to come forward. The others are snatched up by people like Renart. Or, if we’re very, very lucky, by us. But no, Renart employs mostly humans from what we know of his operation.”
“Does he employ a man named Isaac?”
Tom’s dim eyes darkened even further and they narrowed as he appraised Ryan with a critical stare. “What do you know about Isaac?”
“Nothing. But he approached me tonight, right outside, before I came in.”
The ghost’s eyes never left him, but the sudden apprehension in his face had vanished. “Isaac. Hm. I suppose it fits. What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t tell him anything. I don’t know anything.”
Tom nodded, pleased. “Make sure you tell Doc Webster that he spoke to you. We should have known they’d approach you, I’m sorry no one told you to expect it. Did he offer you something?”
“A job, more or less.” Ryan said. “Though it didn’t sound like I’d be wearing a tie to work…”
“And you refused?” Tom inquired.
Ryan nodded.
“Good. That makes me very happy, Ryan. That’s a very good sign.” He exhaled, or at least, it appeared that way. “To answer your question, no. Isaac does not work for Renart. Truthfully, Isaac doesn’t ‘work’ for anyone. Closer to freelance. Recently, however, he’s been working for a man called Anthony Hess. Well, at least that’s what he’s calling himself nowadays.”
This was a name Ryan did recognize, though at first he didn’t believe it. Hess was one of the city’s elite, a real-estate mogul who bought and sold city blocks over lunch every day of the week.
“The Anthony Hess?” Ryan asked.
Tom’s eyes narrowed once again. “Renart has carved out, perhaps thirty percent of this city’s underworld. Ten percent is controlled and scrabbled over by your run-of-the-mill human criminals. Ten percent is fought over by less powerful or less organized supernatural criminals. Anthony Hess is the one man who controls absolutely everything else.”
“And you’re telling me that Anthony Hess, the shoe-in at the next mayoral election, is actually some underworld boss?”
Tom smiled a mirthless smile. “Hess doesn’t run the underworld, he is the underworld. And he won’t run for mayor, it’s too public. He likes to be known, but he doesn’t like drawing attention to himself. If Hess becomes mayor, people might start to take too close a look. They might start thinking that he looks a lot like Ivan Mills, the newspaper tycoon who ran most of Chicago during the 60’s, or Henry Sutton, the energy magnate out of Philadelphia in the 40’s.”
“What are you saying?”
“Anthony Hess is all of those people. He’s been collecting and trading power and wealth like baseball cards, and he’s been doing it for decades: both above and below the table. Now, with the Internet, he’s stuck as Anthony Hess. His face and name are out there, so he isn’t able to pack up and move to a new city under a new identity. We’re stuck with him.”
“What is he?” Ryan asked. “I mean, how is it he’s survived so long?”
“Hess is a vampire.” Tom replied. “One of the few who can control the bloodlust enough to think straight, and that makes him even more dangerous.”
Ryan’s thoughts were interrupted by the metallic thuds of the two women coming down the stairs.
The older woman led the charge. She was at least a few years older than Tom appeared to be; Ryan guessed she was in her mid fifties. Her skin was creased, leathery, and deeply tanned. Although she carried only a bit more weight than most women her age, she appeared much larger than she was because of the sheer amount of cloth
ing and accessories she wore. A massive collection of gaudy necklaces, bangles, and rings jangled in time as she made her way down the stairs. The jewelry was of all shapes and sizes, but featured mostly gems or polished stones threaded with leather or twine rather than any chains of gold or silver. Over this she wore a great brown, canvas duster that flapped behind her as she moved. It was a bizarre mishmash of clothing that seemed to give the impression of equal parts cowboy and gypsy.
Her hair was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail that did little to contain the wild frizz that seemed to stick out at odd angles. The hair itself was silvery gray with a few lingering streaks of dark, burnt red. Her face was creased and lined, but they were lines of laughter and smiles rather than struggle. Light brown eyes twinkled behind plump, rosy cheeks. At the moment her face was set in a scowl of determination, but it looked to Ryan as though this was one of the few times when she wasn’t laughing jovially.
As she neared Ryan and the infirmary, he saw a small leather pouch clutched between her jeweled fingers and she rushed into the room before he could get a closer look.
Evelyn sidled up next to Tom and, much to Ryan’s disappointment, said nothing. He mentally shook himself and tried to keep in mind that there were much more important events unfolding.
The older woman had entered the infirmary and set to work doing something Ryan couldn’t see. They all waited breathlessly for some sign, any indication that things were going well. No one spoke.
Ryan watched as Dr. Webster moved around to the head of the gurney. The doctor closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he put his hands gently on the bleeding man’s temples.
“What’s he doing?” Ryan asked Tom, his voice hovering just above a whisper.
“Doctor Webster possesses a rather unique psychic gift: it’s a type of mind control that allows him to send mental commands to a person’s body.” Tom replied. “He is instructing Miles’ unconscious mind to stop the bleeding and heal its body at an accelerated rate. It doesn’t always work as well as he needs it to, but without it Miles wouldn’t stand a chance.”
They watched in silence as the doctor stood over the young man, both of them as still and silent as sculpture. After a moment, Daniel and the older woman filed out to join Ryan and the others as they watched through the infirmary window.
“It’s up to Robert now.” The older woman said with a distinct Southern drawl.
Silence fell over them once again as the seconds ticked away.
Tom continued in a whisper. “He’s too humble to have told you himself, but Doc Webster is the reason you’re here too. The only people that don’t die instantly from werewolf attacks are the ones that die five minutes later. The doctor healed you far more than you knew. His power is the only way anyone could have survived.”
Ryan felt a great swell of gratitude, as well as a renewed, and very deep, respect. The silence returned and Ryan watched the unmoving figures in the room beyond, finding himself truly concerned for the well-being of the young man he had never met. Then Ryan’s knees buckled.
In the chaos, Ryan had forgotten the one thing he knew he could never forget: tonight was the last night of the cycle. The beast was stirring, awakening in his chest and in mere moments it would be clawing its way out of him to wreak havoc and death on all those nearby. Ryan sprawled to the ground as he felt his stomach and internal organs contracting and shifting. He knew the pain, the unimaginable pain, would be next.
He was only dimly aware of what was happening around him. They had seen him collapse but only Daniel seemed to know what was happening and he rushed to get everyone back. Ryan screamed in his own head for them to run, to get out, or to kill him, but he couldn’t vocalize any of it. When he felt his bones begin to lengthen and grow, when he felt the discomfort turn to unbearable agony, the only thing to come out of his mouth were the long, piercing screams.
The pain blurred his vision and shadow began to swirl together with light as he felt the beast’s mind, the bloodlust of pure instinct, begin to poke and jostle for position with his fading human consciousness. A blurred shadow fell over him and what was left of the human Ryan felt a sharp prick in his neck. The momentary pain was nothing compared to what was happening to the rest of him, but it registered in his brain all the same. It was a threat, an enemy, an attack. It was a challenge for dominance that he would answer in blood. Long, wicked fangs grew in his snout and he released a fierce snarl, a challenge back to his attacker. Then everything went black.