“By the Light!” Contingency A made the sign of a cross against his chest, saying a small prayer for the made-up woman. The young man role-played an undead priest of some sort, which meant he was always giving blessings, saying ancient rites, and then running off to do something for the light as part of a redemption quest to regain his mortality. “Are you going to turn her?”
“Can’t. She’s dead.”
“Are you going to avenge her death?”
“Nah.”
“Well. Okay.” The agreeable fellow didn’t say anything else after that.
As far as Garvey was concerned, Contingency A’s circle was nothing more than a depressing talkative shrub—behind which he hid—covered in velveteen, faux leather, and long, baggy shirts tied at the waist to simulate tunics. Shrubs with what had to be the most soul-crushing fantasies he’d ever heard. One battled to regain mortality, another searched for the vampire who had killed a first cousin of all things, and then just some poor idiot who got bitten by a werewolf and spent the rest of his time searching for a cure.
Garvey’s team was the bottom of the barrel. Colt was at another table with the cool kids, who had real metal swords, real leather accessories, leggings, and tunics. Real tasty. They were knights, wizards, and mighty orcs. Garvey watched Colt with growing hunger. It had been far too long since he fed. The processed food smell coming from of the lawn furniture was appetizing at this point.
“Can I borrow a dollar fifty?”
Contingency A gave him a you-must-be-joking look. “What for?”
“The vending machine. I want some Cheetos.”
“No way.”
Cheap prick.
Colt was still talking. From where he sat, Garvey could barely make out the man’s wagging jaw. He could hear and smell him perfectly, which didn’t exactly feel like a perk of werewolf membership at the moment.
Soon, hopefully, Colt’s little group would go out to play out a magic battle. Pew pew. Magic missiles and such.
When the troupe finally left, it took what little bit of self-control Garvey had left not to follow them immediately. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Thirty. That was probably good enough. “Excuse me for a moment, boys. Nature calls.”
The trail wasn’t difficult to pick up. By now Garvey knew Colt’s scent as well as he knew his own. And his habits. After about an hour of LARPing, the group said their good-byes—long bouts of verilys, doths, and fare thee wells that Garvey gritted his teeth through—and Colt went to smoke.
To hunt was to wait, albeit with impatience and concern as Colt’s cigarette got shorter. Time constricted with each huff, puff, wheeze. There were too many people around to make a move—mostly young men and women relieving themselves, or farting now that they thought they were alone. There were a few, off in the distance, fucking. One human peed on the bush right next to him. The man was far too drunk and caught up in a song to notice. Sharp, flat, and then off-key. Garbled and slurred to the point where all the words just melded together, the song was barely recognizable as such.
Maestro finally moved on. Garvey and Colt were alone at last. “I hear you’re the man to talk to about medieval shoemaking,” Garvey asked him.
Colt did an excessive amount of double takes before hastily putting out his cigarette on the tree trunk. “Sorry. What? Who’s there?”
“Just me.” Garvey stepped out from the shadows and gave him a little wave. The man visibility relaxed when he saw Garvey. Dress for the job you want, as the old saying went. Outer appearances were calculated to send the signal that everything was fine, just fine. To humans, he was a man in his midtwenties with brown eyes; strong features; dark, shoulder-length wavy hair; and a lopsided grin where one tooth poked out playfully. He looked affable, even somewhat dopey, and wholly harmless. “Hi, there.”
“Yes, greetings.” Nonthreat established Colt immediately went to putting on airs. “I am the man you seek. I am the top expert on medieval footwear.” Garvey nodded with encouragement, as if he believed that was a thing. “Mark Birch, Joseph Colvin, and Annabela Veneto all come to me for my advice.”
Garvey could only imagine the legions of people who wanted to know how shoes were made. “Well, fantastic then. I’d hate to ask for information from someone those people didn’t chat with. Tell me all about it. My character is a shoe guy.”
“A cobbler.” Colt corrected him. “No wonder you hang out with James. You don’t even know the proper names.”
James was probably Contingency A—good to know. “I thought cobblers only repaired shoes?”
“A common misconception. Did you know that…”
Here it was. Colt would be good and distracted for a while, leaving Garvey to give the area one final scan. There were a few couples off in the distance going at it. Garvey could hear their moans, some fake and some real. It seemed like they’d be caught up for a bit at least.
It was important not to give someone time to react. Abracadabra-ing the prey to sleep was usually the safest bet, which was why most wolves who hunted preferred this method. Spineless amateurs in Garvey’s view. Much like having an affair, the thrill of the hunt was bound up in the risk of getting caught. Also similar to an affair, the thought of getting caught was generally more appealing than the reality of it. Caution was necessary. Garvey waited until the man closed his eyes, took in his last deep breath before he began what he probably thought would be a masterful lecture. “Did you know that…”
He swept the man’s leg, Cobra Dojo style. As Colt went down, Garvey added his own body’s weight to ensure that hitting the rock below would, at the very least, render him unconscious. Bam. Dead. No fuss, no muss. Features that were already cramped closed together whirlpooled toward the center, awash in blood, gore, and dirt.
Technically, he only needed the blood. Garvey drank as quickly as he could until the clawing hunger receded. The moon was the easiest way to track the cycle. Humans got that partly right at least. Not much else.
Garvey looted the man’s body for murder swag. Only five dollars? Colt was lamer than he thought. Garvey pocketed it and then fished his backpack from the tree above. It had been sitting there for months now—a change of clothes, some sanitary wipes, and he was good to go.
Cheery after feeding, Garvey made his way back to his own little LARPing group with a spring in his step and a dead man’s blood in his heart. He’d probably have to endure a few more weeks of dress-up princess rescue in order to avoid suspicions, which made him a little less jubilant, but eventually, they’d all go their own ways naturally.
Today was a good day, a productive day. He’d done some sinister plotting and taken care of his monthly feeding.
One more stop. Two dollars for a bag of Cheetos? Unbelievable.
CHAPTER TWO: WORRISOME GLOATING
Mazgan gave Kijo a succinct ultimatum: decide if she wanted to rip Lavario apart or if she wanted to be ripped apart alongside him. Mazgan was done protecting her from challenges. He was through making excuses. Her unwillingness to side against Lavario with the rest of the Varcolac pack was unforgivable. Indifference was complicity. Complicity was guilt. Soon, the guilty would be punished.
Mazgan’s chest puffed up but he softened his voice a bit after the tirade. “I know he became your father when he made you wolf, but there was a reason for his exile from the Isangelous pack. I tried to make him welcome here amongst the Varcolac, but he refuses to abandon his Boo Hag ways.”
Boo Hag was a pejorative term the other packs used for Isangelous wolves, given because they waited until nighttime to feed, creeping in like the beasts of lore to siphon blood while humans slept. Calling Lavario by that name pegged him as weak, sentimental, privileged. Amongst the Varcolac, strength was an end in and of itself. They sparred for rank, for possession, for sport. Boo Hags fought for nothing. Their leaders were born. Their possessions given. Their altercations mere tussles, done more for fun than any practical purpose.
Mazgan stressed the point. “Your father stands in the w
ay of our progress. He is caught up in the old ways of the Isangelous. He’s tried to teach you the same.”
“Yes, he is very old-fashioned, Alpha Guardian,” Kijo agreed. As her maker, Lavario had tried to pass down his legacy. He’d also made it clear Kijo was Varcolac. Because of him, she’d never be Isangelous.
Her anger simmered. Perhaps her father had once been a guardian of another pack, but his power was undeniable. He belonged here. The fact he’d risen to the rank of second by defeating all other wolves in single combat proved it.
Mazgan reached out to touch the side of her face. “I know it hurts you to hear such things about your father. You must understand I’m only here to protect you.”
“Of course, Alpha Guardian,” she responded with as much gratitude as she could muster. It might have been a bit too dry if the sudden twist of his lips was anything to go by. Rather than deal with an argument over proper decorum, Kijo rushed to placate her alpha’s bruised ego. “Such is your duty as my superior.”
Eyes brimming with overwrought sweetness, he grabbed her upper arm and pulled her toward him. Possessively, he bound her in his embrace. “My beloved one. All I’ve ever wanted was to have you with me.”
Mazgan wore a ceremonial sword, a blunted decorative token with no use other than to dangle at his side. She felt certain he’d like her to do the same. Kijo kept her face expressionless, her tone neutral. “Yes, I know, Alpha Guardian.”
“Then you must know how much it breaks my heart to tell you this. But if you won’t submit, you’ll be destroyed alongside Lavario.”
“Naturally.”
“It does not have to be that way.” One of his massive, clumsy hands brushed a loose strand of hair back from her face. “You will see how weak he is before too long. Remember, my beloved, your association with him is tangled in the minds of your brothers and sisters. They need you to choose the pack. You must.”
“Understood, Alpha Guardian.”
Pleased, he stepped back. “Good. Your father’s new servant…”
The suspense. Kijo did her best to mask her impatience with the way he tried to protract the moment. She flipped her hand up in the air, suggesting he should get on with it. “What about him, Alpha Guardian?”
Suddenly, he turned serious. His teeth protruded. “I have arranged an accident for him. It will be the perfect opportunity for you to distance yourself from Lavario. It will be the last one I give you.”
* * *
“I watered your plants.” Kijo told her father the same lie whenever she entered his chamber. He gave her the chore to help her see beauty in the world. She failed to do it because she was Varcolac, above such things.
Although he knew she lied, he did his steps in their dance. “Excellent, did you enjoy the roses? The lovely orchids?”
“No,” she said simply.
He gave her an appreciative chuckle. He loved how she got right to the point.
Normally, this was her favorite part of the day. She’d sit on the chair beside Lavario’s and they’d discuss politics. Though her father gave up on trying to influence the pack directly, he loaned her his sharp mind whenever she needed it. Today, he needed hers as well.
“Mazgan told me I have to choose. You or the pack. Challenges are coming.”
Lavario didn’t seem particularly worried. “Nonsense,” he said. “Have they decided to attack me all at once? Or at least five of them at one time?”
Ritual surrounding challenges mandated one-on-one combat, a tradition her father thought helpfully stupid. “No. Challenges are the same as they’ve always been. Single combat.”
“Well, then. My shows are on.”
He settled back down in his chair. The television screen in front of him flashed with images. Engrossed by the human drama, her father leaned back and propped his feet up on a cushion.
Lavario didn’t just enjoy a Boo Hag lifestyle; he flaunted it. His expensive clothes, his lavish apartment, his human pets, his plants. All of it proudly on display. Worse, he’d used pack rules to obtain it all, twisting their might-makes-right mentality to his own desires as though he didn’t have a care in the world. Mostly, he didn’t. Ancient, he’d lived through a long line of challengers—dogs barking at his door as he called them.
Kijo knew she was not like the rest. She stood in front of the TV to get his attention. “This is different, Father.”
He gave her a dismissive hand wave similar to the one she’d given Mazgan. Bored but listening, it said.
“He wants me to challenge you. He said he was going to humiliate me through you, something to do with your bloodservant and that would be my last chance to side against you.”
“And if you don’t challenge me, what does he have?” Her father snorted. “That blunt sword he lugs around with him?”
“My family. He’ll take them from me.”
Finally, her father stopped his show. To him, the pack meant very little. He’d come to it as an exile from the Isangelous and lived here as an outsider. No matter what he did, they hated him. Wherever he went, they turned their backs. However much he advocated for their interests, they treated him with measured disdain. He would never be one of them. But she was. And she loved them.
“I will call Yuri about Tovin.”
“Forget the human. You do not even know him. Most likely he’s stupid, dull as all your other pets have been.”
“His features spare him from the necessity of being interesting.”
Kijo gritted her teeth, irritated for having to repeat common sense. Had her father been a lesser wolf, she would have walked away. “Forget the boy, Father.”
Lavario dialed numbers on his phone. “I will talk with Yuri. I am sure she would not plot against me with Mazgan, him of all wolves. Try not to worry, my daughter.”
Frustrated, Kijo left. Lavario would do what he wanted. Part of her admired the Varcolac fearlessness, the measured confidence that allowed him to believe no one could stop him from getting whatever he wanted. Uneasiness within her fretted it was arrogance, stubbornness. As Mazgan said, Lavario was stuck in his ways.
Kijo went to her father’s garden, noting with a wry twist of her lip how well maintained the area was. Perhaps it should have bothered her. Instead, Kijo momentarily ached for her childhood, for tiny hands her father once placed a simple daisy into. It felt so wondrously delicate then, its petals smooth. Her adult eyes saw things much differently. Tiny, delicate blossoms sunbathed. Fragrances she couldn’t identify crawled up her nose. There was a pointless sweetness to all of it. She left with the same mentality she had before going there. She had no more use for flowers.
CHAPTER THREE: MOONDOGS
No streetlights. Narrow roads. Cramped buildings. In the dusk light, the shadows of the apartment buildings pointed like helpful fingers to the secret nooks and crannies where a predator like him might hide. Garvey took note. “This neighborhood would be a good place to hunt,” he concluded.
Phil, the alpha of Garvey’s Moondog pack, nodded briefly and continued to fidget in the passenger seat of Garvey’s truck. Nervous as always, the chronic worrier checked and double-checked around for some sign they were being watched. Eventually, he got around to asking, “Why am I here?”
Garvey dodged the question. Instead, he bragged, “Stole Yuri’s phone.”
He held it up to show Phil. Outdated, it was a blue flipper that could only receive calls and voice messages. Judging by her call history, she wasn’t going to miss it anytime soon—three in the last week, all of them from Lavario. Geesh. He pressed the speaker button so they could both listen to the exiled guardian’s laconic requests for Yuri to get in touch. The last one was a simple command, “Call.” And then silence.
“Ah, darling Kijo told daddy,” Garvey laughed. “Poor heartbroken Mazgan.”
Phil’s features looked buggish and swattable. Whenever he was in a panic, which he was now, his tick eyes, mantis nose, and slug mouth jittered around enough to remind Garvey of what it was like to lift up a
rock and watch whatever was under scamper for cover. Good guy, though.
“Shit, you stole the phone of an Isangelous wolf? Were you followed?”
“Does Kijo in the black sedan behind us count as followed?”
Phil jumped in his seat, hitting his head on the roof of the car.
“Ha!” Garvey laughed at him a bit before sobering. They were False Moons in the eyes of the two great packs, no better than talking dogs. No true wolf would follow them. “No one cares what we do, Phil. Relax, you don’t even know why you’re here.”
Unamused, Phil rubbed his bald spot hard enough to summon a genie. “With you, secrets are never a good thing.”
Fair point.
What Garvey needed to say couldn’t be sprung on someone. For a polite amount of time, he made small talk. Family first. Nieces, nephews, extended family who would hopefully die before too long. Pack politics went on for a bit until some guy in orange biker shorts slung a used condom on the hood of the car. Then they talked about the rough neighborhood. The two of them chatted and grinned a good hour before Garvey thought he’d done enough.
Time to pull the Band-Aid off this mess.
“Mazgan wants me to bring back vampires. He’s going to use them to kill off free-range humans and take over the distribution of bloodservants. First, he wants me to get rid of Lavario. I assume it’s related.”
Phil looked like a child who’d been thrown into the deep end straight from the kiddie pool. Garvey clicked the door-lock button so he couldn’t skedaddle. The man floundered for a bit. Once he tried the doors, his head whipped around like an owl addicted to meth. Seeing no escape, he blurted, “Vampires are extinct!”
That was the current story. Manufactured by powerful magic to kill humanity, vampires were no more than a pestilence designed to hunger, feed, and destroy. Werewolves were created to combat the threat but ended up being a different version of the same problem.
“Nope,” Garvey assured him. “They’re alive, smelly, and gross.”
The Worst Werewolf Page 2