Werewolf Smackdown

by Mario Acevedo

  Sunblock protected me, but the sight of their immolation filled me with a dread of my own vulnerability.

  I stared at the piles of clothes.

  Who were they?

  Why had they attacked me?

  Were they acting alone or with someone else?

  I searched the pockets of the first vampire. I found change, a set of keys, and loose dollar bills. I patted his coat and trousers and poured the remaining ash out of his shoes before feeling inside. Nothing else.

  I turned to spiky-hair vampire, finding more change, a key ring, and a wad of cash bound with a rubber band around a couple of business cards.

  I wiped the ash from my fingers. I undid the roll of money and counted twenties and hundreds—a thousand forty total—which I pocketed.

  I examined the business cards. One belonged to Eric Bourbon.

  Not much of a surprise. The werewolf couldn’t have been more oily if he bathed in 30-weight. At least with this clue, I knew where to direct my questions.

  I read the second card.

  A chill of astonishment screwed through me. My kundalini noir—a coil of supernatural energy that animates my body instead of a pulsing heart—felt suddenly unbalanced, like I was skittering on ice. My mind tumbled in incredulity.

  Quiz me for a thousand years and I would’ve never guessed the name on the card.

  That of a former lover.

  Someone who had once saved me.

  Wendy Teagarden.

  CHAPTER 4

  I stood on the rooftop level of the garage, the empty clothes of the dead vampires gathered about my feet. I held the business card with Wendy’s name.

  My mind stalled on the question. What the hell?

  I’d come to Charleston hoping for a break from my past. Now here’s Wendy.

  Was she in trouble? My kundalini noir sank into my belly, heavy and sickened.

  Wendy is a dryad. We had met when I arrived in Denver years ago, a new vampire, struggling with my undead nature and the guilt of my turning, and I’d refused to drink human blood. That weakened my powers, and I was almost snuffed out after being wounded by vampire hunters. Wendy fed me her blood and that rescued me from oblivion to plant me firmly in the world of the undead.

  Strong. Healthy. Dangerous.

  I pictured her sweet face, her smooth skin and beautiful freckles, those curls of exquisite red hair. And that grade A rump.

  Wendy was the first supernatural I’d ever slept with, a forest sprite who loved pot and had flowers growing magically from her hair. The sex was more than supernatural—it was amazing and raunchy and left me floating on a euphoric buzz of satisfaction.

  Our brief time together had ended when the Araneum sent her to Indianapolis. We parted on good terms and managed one last quickie behind a gas station on the way to the airport.

  After that? Well, absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder: out of sight, out of mind. And now we were in the same city.

  I kicked at the vampire’s clothes. Ash puffed from the folds. What was he doing with Wendy’s business card?

  Hopefully, this was a different Wendy Teagarden.

  The card listed her name, a business name—Pirate Coast Tours—a phone number with the local 843 prefix, and a Web address.

  I pulled out my cell phone and tried the number.

  The phone rang twice, then a message began: “Thank you for calling Pirate Coast Tours. Your call is important to us. We’re either closed or on another call…” Yada, yada.

  Irritated, I snapped my cell phone closed.

  Why did the vampire have her business card? Was she a victim?

  The thought rang through me like the ominous peal of a distant bell.

  What about Eric Bourbon? What was his connection?

  A moment ago I’d been certain I was pinched between rival factions of werewolves. Now I had vampires after me.

  Why?

  Who knew I was in Charleston? Only Bourbon.

  I flipped the business cards to read the backs. Wendy’s was blank. But a name had been scrawled across Bourbon’s card.

  I had to think about the name for a second before it registered. When I realized who the name belonged to, the sensation was like a cold hand clasping my throat.

  Julius Paxton.

  It could only mean Julius Paxton, another vampire who had once tried to kill me.

  CHAPTER 5

  Julius Paxton. Formerly a deputy chief in the Los Angeles Police Department.

  And formerly the undead henchman of another renegade vampire, the head of the Los Angeles nidus, Latin for “nest.” That vampire sought to break away from the Araneum. He and Paxton wanted to reveal the Great Secret and partner with humans to form a new society, according to them the next step in the evolution of civilization. Despite their pretensions to create a better world, the foundation of that new society was poured from the blood of both humans and vampires.

  The Araneum had sent several enforcers to L.A. to bring the renegades to justice. All these enforcers had disappeared. Then the Araneum sent me.

  Julius Paxton had been the leader’s muscle. Despite his efforts to assassinate me, I managed to destroy the cabal of renegades and stake the leader. Once their little empire had collapsed, Paxton ran away to save his ass. I caught up to him, but he proved tough and gave me the slip. But he didn’t get completely away. A psycho human who was part of the conspiracy had run him over and almost killed me. When I returned to the scene to get Paxton, he had disappeared.

  That had been years ago. Now Paxton was back from the sewer he had sunk into? To get me? And was he working with Bourbon?

  Whatever that scumbag Bourbon knew about Wendy, Paxton, and this attack, I’d use my vampire mojo to yank the truth out of him.

  I picked at the remains of the cell phone that had fallen from the first vampire. Too bad the phone was in pieces, I could’ve read the directory for clues.

  I tucked the business cards into my shirt pocket.

  Now to get rid of the vampires’ clothing. First I broke the spear into pieces. Standing upwind to keep the remaining ashes from smudging me, I bundled the clothes around the fiberglass eyestalk from the crab and the pieces of the spear.

  I glanced over the railing. Two police cruisers blocked the street on either side of the broken crab sculpture. A crowd lingered on the sidewalk, taking photos and pointing at the fiberglass remains and up the garage to show where the sculpture had fallen over the railing.

  I pulled my head back. Better leave before someone came up. I ran down a stairwell at the other side of the garage to avoid the gawkers and the cops. On the way to Bourbon’s office, I tossed the bundle into a Dumpster. Setting fire to the clothes might draw attention, so I walked away.

  Once at Bourbon’s address, I took the elevator up to his office and removed my contacts. Wearing contacts masked my vampire eyes but at the cost of preventing me from using hypnosis or seeing auras.

  Every living creature emits a psychic aura. What’s useful about seeing auras is that each psychic envelope is as expressive and unique as a face. The color of an aura corresponds to the chakra where the owner’s psychic awareness resides. Human awareness seldom rises above the lowest chakra—material concern—so their auras are red. Vampire awareness, like that of most other supernaturals, resides at the next level—connection of the physical world to the spiritual—and our auras are orange.

  Werewolves? Their awareness bounces between the first and second chakras.

  Vampire hypnosis didn’t work on other supernaturals, but it might on werewolves. They were practically human except for the occasional need to grow fur and lift one leg to pee.

  When the elevator door opened, the two were bodyguards were at their stations, janitor by his bucket, the coffee lady behind the cart. Their auras glowed suspiciously, red with flames of orange. They hadn’t expected to see me again so soon. I didn’t bother using hypnosis on them. I’d wait for Bourbon.

  “Call your boss,” I said. “Tell
him I’m back.” I proceeded to his office.

  His receptionist waited for me by her desk. She stood with her arms crossed. Her aura covered her like a cloak of red syrup. Resentment at my return made a prickly fuzz grow from the penumbra of her aura.

  I looked through the window into Bourbon’s private office. He and another man were hunched over documents on a table. The second man wore a fitted shirt and dress trousers. He had neatly trimmed red hair and long sideburns that followed the line of his jaw.

  I gave the receptionist a hard gaze. Her irises dilated into a pair of blue O-rings. Her aura flashed as my hypnotic power surged into her. Feathers of anxiety fanned from her aura, then retracted, and the shroud of her psychic penumbra glistened smooth. She froze in place, her shoulders slumped forward, her eyes vacant. Besides paralyzing her, the hypnosis would erase the memory of my visit.

  I stepped around her and banged open the door to Bourbon’s office. The air stank of werewolf musk. Hadn’t they heard of cologne?

  Bourbon and his guest’s auras flared with annoyance, then anger. Neon-orange tendrils lashed from their red penumbras. They snarled and squared their shoulders.

  I gave Bourbon my most focused glare, one strong enough to zap a platoon of marines.

  He scowled. “What’s with the goo-goo eyes, bat-breath?”

  Okay, hypnosis didn’t work.

  I pitched Bourbon’s business card on the table. “Explain this, hair bag.”

  He picked up the card. “The hell you talking about?”

  The other were pushed his shirt cuffs back. He had the muscular physique of a pro hockey player. The hair on the back of his hands thickened. His fingernails extended into claws.

  My talons sprang out.

  Bourbon growled. “Not now.” He pointed to the other were. “Sean, wait for me outside.”

  Sean grimaced angrily and shifted weight from foot to foot.

  “Go,” Bourbon insisted.

  Sean morphed back into human form and jerked the door open to leave the room. The door snicked closed. I saw him through the window when he startled the receptionist, who broke out of her trance. She glanced about, confused, then joined Sean to glower like they wanted to see me tossed headfirst onto the street.

  “Who’s your goon?” I asked.

  “Sean Moultier is the alpha of my favorite pack. My number one assistant.” Bourbon read the business card. His aura grew thorns of irritation. “What’s this about?”

  “Two vampires attacked me.”

  “So?”

  “I found that card on one of them.”

  Bourbon’s mouth tightened in annoyance.

  I said, “Turn the card around.”

  He flipped the card over and read the name. “Julius Paxton? This somebody I’m supposed to know?”

  “You tell me.”

  The thorns of his aura glowed orange like fire.

  His eyes twitched. “You’re reading my aura, aren’t you?”

  “So what if I am?”

  “Let me give you a little insight into werewolf-vampire etiquette. You want to talk, put on your contacts.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you can talk to yourself. Meanwhile I got things to do.”

  I’d come here to bust his chops, and he’d just slapped me on the wrist. All right, I’d play his game if it kept him talking. Pissed that I’d let him gain the advantage, I put my contacts back in.

  He walked to his chair and sat. “And because you found my business card, you think I know something?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  He offered a chair. I remained standing.

  He picked up the card again and reread the back. “Who is this Julius Paxton?”

  “If it’s the guy I’m thinking about, he’s a vampire. A real vicious one.”

  “Was he one of the vampires who attacked you?”

  “Not today. But I’m convinced he had a hand in it.”

  “You and this Julius Paxton have a history?”

  “We go back. What puzzles me is, why is he here? The last time I saw him was in Los Angeles.”

  Bourbon laid the card on the desk. “What happened during the attack today?”

  “Those vampires dropped a giant crab from the top of the public garage on Horlebeck.”

  One corner of Bourbon’s lips twitched in amusement. “What kind of crab?”

  “Fiberglass.”

  “I meant: rock, blue?”

  The question made my neck stiffen. “Forget the goddamn crab. What matters was that it was huge, and the vampires pushed it off the garage to squash me against the sidewalk.” I explained about the trailer and the vampire ambush.

  “What about Julius Paxton?”

  “That’s my question,” I replied. “What about him? Did those vampires work for him?”

  Bourbon pulled a Montblanc fountain pen from his shirt pocket. He scribbled notes across a pad on his desk as he mumbled. “Huge. Fiberglass. Crab. Julius. Paxton.”

  He turned his attention to me. “What happened to the vampires?”

  “I killed them.”

  “Did you question them first?”

  “That was the idea, but neither cooperated. Happens,” I said. “There’s more. You know Wendy Teagarden?”

  A tiny smile crossed his lips. He capped his pen. “Why do you ask?”

  He knew Wendy. “Just answer the question.”

  Bourbon put his elbows on the desk, gripped the pen in both hands, and leaned toward me. “Mr. Gomez, you need to tone down the antagonism. If you want my help, then we must proceed on a more amicable footing.”

  He motioned again that I sit.

  I took the chair and smiled, not because he’d won but because I was looking forward to smashing his face. “All right. Could you please tell what you know about Wendy Teagarden?”

  He clipped the pen to his shirt pocket and grinned: That’s better. I expected him to reach across the desk and pat me on the head. If he did, I’d bite him.

  “Met her once,” he said. “About a month ago. The party of a mutual friend. She’s a professional tour guide. I know she’s a supernatural. A dryad.”

  “Where is she?”

  “It’s tourist season, so she should be working. Try asking one of the tour companies.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “I have no reason to think otherwise.” Bourbon’s eyes gave a quizzical glint. “Why are you asking?”

  “I also found this on the vampire.” I pulled the Pirate Coast Tours business card out of my pocket. “It’s got her name.”

  Bourbon cupped his chin and dropped his gaze. Was he thinking of Wendy…or himself?

  “You think she’s in danger?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But if she’s a friend of yours…” He brought his eyes back up and they were filled with foreboding.

  “I did my best to keep your visit with me under wraps, but Randolph Calhoun’s weres have got sharp eyes and sharper ears. They’ll want to know why you’re here. Calhoun may see you and me as in bed together. Rhetorically speaking.”

  “I’ve thought of that. But I’m not getting mixed up in this business between you and Calhoun.”

  “Might be too late for that. Think someone, this Paxton character for example, dropping a crab on you was coincidence?”

  “’Course not.” Whoever put those vampires up to the hit was hoping for an easy mark. Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble setting up the trailer and crab on the garage. I had been more than a target of opportunity. They knew I was in town. Who had they worked for? Why come after me? I was sure there would be a next time.

  “What are you going to do?” Bourbon asked. “Leave Charleston?”

  “You kidding? Someone tried to flatten my ass and I want to know why. I’m not leaving until I get answers.”

  Bourbon’s expression turned sly. I knew he was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.

  “Seems to me, Mr. Gomez, that despite your earlie
r refusal of my offer, you and I are working together.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Eric Bourbon let the wily expression ease from his face and his eyes softened with empathy.

  I didn’t buy into his act. He was gloating behind that facade, smug that he’d talked me into his corner.

  What did he know about the assassination attempt on me? My questions about him, other werewolves, the vampires I’d killed, and Julius Paxton thickened into muck.

  “Don’t look so hurt, Mr. Gomez, werewolves and vampires have cooperated before.”

  “When?”

  Bourbon sat straight in his chair. “That truce you referred to earlier comes from that cooperation. The truce started during the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent. You know who he was?”

  “The head of the Ottomans. A sultan who had most of Europe shitting their pants.”

  Bourbon quirked his head to one side and smiled. “A vulgar interpretation but accurate. During the last Crusades, the Christian and Muslim armies crisscrossing the Balkans almost captured some of our ancestors. Just before Suleiman became caliph, weres and vampires negotiated a truce and approached him with this deal: We will help your conquest if you repress the truth of the supernatural world. Shape-shifters and the undead served as Janissaries.” Bourbon paused to make sure I followed.

  I nodded impatiently. “They were the sultan’s secret army. Spies, scouts, assassins. I watch the History Channel.”

  “Very good,” Bourbon congratulated me in his offhand way. “Their service explains Suleiman’s prowess as politician and commander. Unfortunately, that was the last time weres and vampires have worked together as equals, but the truce has held.”

  “For the most part,” I replied. “I can think of a half-dozen violations, of vampires and werewolves going fang to fang. The 1894 Amazon River riots in Rio de Janeiro. The 1913 wharf brawls in Seattle. The 1955 mountain mayhem in Bern, Switzerland. The 1971 urban rumble in…”

  Bourbon made a halt signal with his hand. “I get your point.”

  I added, “The Araneum pulled out all the stops to keep mention of that supernatural violence from humans.”