Werewolf Smackdown

by Mario Acevedo

  “Regrettable. He killed one of my weres and I had to respond. It’s a matter of honor. Is it my problem that his boss is a mangy son of a bitch?” Calhoun paused. “And I mean that in the best possible way.”

  He kept quiet, a cue that I was supposed to laugh. I didn’t. “How you weres handle your affairs, I don’t care.”

  “I might tell you something to make you care.” His claws flexed and relaxed. “Miss Inga Latrall.” Calhoun said the name with exaggerated reverence.

  Inga Latrall? The name rang dimly. I paged through my memory. Maybe she was big news here, but all I remembered was a brief mention of her. NPR maybe. Or an Internet news feed. “She was a high-powered local socialite, right? Died recently? Plane crash?”

  “High-powered local socialite?” Calhoun huffed like this was an insult. “That label diminishes her significant business and philanthropic accomplishments.”

  More details came to me. Latrall was the guru queen of self-improvement. Tony Robbins and Suze Orman went to her for advice.

  I remembered Bourbon mentioning the death of the territory alpha. Which prompted me to ask, “Was Latrall—”

  “Miss Latrall,” Calhoun corrected.

  “—a werewolf?”

  “A very remarkable were. She was our alpha.”

  My kundalini noir knotted in amazement. What would the media have said if they learned that this celebrated font of advice and touchy-feely wisdom had been a top werewolf?

  Before I could say anything else, Calhoun added, “She didn’t just die. She was murdered when her airplane crashed off Seabrook Island.”

  “Bourbon told me it had been an accident. Why do you say murdered?”

  A malicious glint returned to his eyes. “Because of my position as the chief executive of operations for Latrall Worldwide Holdings.”

  Which had made him her go-to man—make that go-to were.

  The limo got on the highway ramp for the bridge going east over the Cooper River.

  “Miss Latrall’s unfortunate plane trip was the opportunity,” Calhoun said. “Let me explain the motive. A year ago, Eric Bourbon took on a client, a developer from Myrtle Beach. They approached Miss Latrall with an offer for a partnership to develop portions of her estate. Miss Latrall said the Lowcountry had enough strip malls and gated communities. What was needed was more pristine land. After she refused their offer, Bourbon’s client floated the idea of using eminent domain to take her property, but Miss Latrall had the connections, and more important the money, to scuttle those plans.”

  The comments about the Lowcountry compelled me to look out my window and down from the bridge. Soft, luscious humps of the Carolina shoreline faded into the humid haze about the Cooper River. I agreed with Latrall: keep the landscape.

  “Bourbon’s failure to deliver the deal cost him reputation and money.” Calhoun opened the claws of his prosthesis and made it rotate. “Now here’s the sinister twist. If he got Latrall out of the way, his legal business could again pursue its case against her estate. And his supernatural ambitions would be satisfied when he took over Latrall’s were dominion, the Lowcountry Territory.”

  I saw what Calhoun was getting at. “You’re telling me Bourbon killed Miss Latrall?”

  “I have no proof. It’s a serious allegation, especially on the werewolf side. Miss Latrall was much beloved and any were, even a clan alpha, would face the wrath of werewolf justice if it was murder.”

  “Bourbon told me it was an accident.”

  “Miss Latrall’s airplane crashed into the Atlantic shortly after it took off. The investigation was inconclusive. The wreckage showed no signs of unexplained structural failure, no sabotage. There were no radio transmissions of distress. The airplane simply dropped from the sky.”

  I asked, “What about the black box recorder?”

  “Those are only required for commercial aircraft. Miss Latrall was in her private jet.”

  “You’re not buying it was an accident?”

  “If you knew Eric Bourbon, neither would you.”

  “He told me you had as much to gain from her death as she did.”

  Calhoun grimaced as if the comment had wounded him. “Miss Latrall’s death is a tragedy I cannot undo. The best way I can honor her legacy is to dutifully manage her estate, though I could never take her place.”

  “What about the issue of the new territory alpha?”

  “Bourbon’s problem was that his plan backfired. After Miss Latrall’s death, he thought he could bully the other clan alphas into joining him.”

  “But they chose you instead?”

  Calhoun nodded and tried not to smile.

  “What kind of arm-twisting did you do?”

  “I prefer to call it gentle persuasion.”

  The limo reached the other end of the bridge. The highway forked and we passed a golf course. The limo followed West Coleman Boulevard, made a right onto a deserted road, and halted for a blinking red light on a temporary stop sign.

  My ears tingled. Danger.

  I put one hand on the upholstery beside me and the other on the window. My left hand felt the engine’s purr through the seat. My right hand felt cool glass.

  Now my ears and my right fingertips buzzed in alarm.

  Lots of danger.

  From outside.

  To my right, a cargo truck barreled at us from a side street.

  I yelled a warning. I pushed away from the door and shoved myself against Calhoun.

  The limo driver accelerated.

  Time slowed.

  We moved inches while the truck moved in feet. The front of the truck followed us like a charging buffalo. The chrome grille with the Freightliner logo filled the limo’s window.

  My insides contracted and my shoulders hunched in preparation for the impact.

  The truck rammed us broadside with a monstrous crunch.

  CHAPTER 10

  The truck smashed into the Mercedes.

  I bounced against Calhoun.

  The right doors and panels of the limo telescoped into the cabin. Glass sprayed across the interior. The female were was thrown from her jump seat and knocked against us like a bag of sharp sticks.

  The limo swerved across the pavement and stopped. Calhoun lay beside me, his mouth clutching for breath. The female were sprawled over us, her eyes empty, her open mouth dripping blood.

  I groped for the door lock, released it, and pushed the door open. Calhoun and I spilled onto the road, piled against the side of the limo, followed by her corpse.

  Gears meshing, the truck’s engine bellowed, and it bulled forward to give the Mercedes another bash. The limo was shoved across the pavement and pushed us along. The two goons trapped in the limo howled in panic.

  I shoved the female were off my shoulder—she was as dead as a cold steak—and slid my legs from under Calhoun. The Mercedes shook as the truck’s front tires clawed over the wreckage. The roof of the limo collapsed. The sheet metal buckled around my shoulders.

  Any second now, the truck would grind us into the asphalt. I hadn’t come to Charleston to be roadkill. But I didn’t have time to free myself and get away.

  Vampiric strength charged my body. I locked my legs and heaved against the limo.

  The truck’s engine grunted as its rear tires spun against the asphalt. The odor of burned rubber thickened the air. More meshing of gears and the driver gunned the engine.

  The Mercedes pressed against me and metal folded over me like a giant hand. I planted my heels in a crack in the pavement. My legs quivered in the effort of holding back the truck.

  I clenched my teeth and pushed my shoulders into the limo. My kundalini noir hardened into a bar of steel.

  The truck’s engine grunted.

  I grunted.

  The weres trapped in the limo howled louder.

  My legs trembled. My heels pressed divots into the asphalt. The pain felt like I had the whole world crushing my lower back.

  My vision dimmed from the strain.

>   My kundalini noir flexed and pushed through my psychic column like a piston of energy. The exertion boiled into anger.

  I was angry at the driver of the truck, at Freightliner for making the truck, at Calhoun for putting me here, at the werewolves for their damn howling, and most of all, at myself for thinking that going mano a mano against a three-ton diesel truck was a good idea.

  The truck climbed farther onto the limo and put more weight against me. My knees weakened. The anger transformed into fear. The truck was winning.

  My kundalini noir flexed again. My legs locked strong.

  I heaved again.

  The truck kept coming.

  I had power for one more shove. I heaved once more.

  The engine stalled. The truck rolled backward and its front tires slammed the pavement. The weight lifted and my spine straightened.

  I’d won.

  Some victory—tell it to my back.

  My legs collapsed and my side of the limo crashed to the ground. I tore the sheet metal away from my shoulders.

  Calhoun lay by my feet.

  Now for my counterattack.

  But I couldn’t move my legs. My lower back had cramped solid as concrete. Pain shot from my hips through my legs.

  The doors of the truck banged open. They were coming to finish us off.

  I rolled onto my belly. I dragged my legs behind me as I crawled alongside the limo to the rear bumper. Reaching into my cargo pocket, I tore the bag open and grasped the snub-nose.

  The driver of the truck vaulted over the limo’s trunk and landed beside me. Hair had sprouted along his jaws and around his ears. His nose had darkened and turned into a doggie’s snout.

  Werewolf.

  He gave a fanged scowl and aimed a sawed-off shotgun at me. He let loose with both barrels.

  Ignoring my pain, I sprang from the ground.

  Buckshot pinged against the limo.

  The werewolf broke the shotgun open—the spent shells twirled in the air—and reached into his shirt pocket for fresh ammo.

  I dove at him. He swung at me with the butt of the shotgun, but I deflected the blow with my arm. I grabbed his belt, pulled tight against his waist, and jammed the revolver into his gut. I’d make him eat all five bullets belly-buster style.

  The were’s eyes clamped shut in terror.

  I worked the trigger. The revolver went click, click, click.

  Damn.

  Click. Click.

  Useless piece-of-crap pistol.

  The werewolf opened his eyes. They crinkled in amusement. “You lose, vampire.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The werewolf’s leer turned into a deep, pissed-off scowl, and he tried to knee my crotch. I put the snub-nose to better use by slamming it against his kneecap. He doubled forward, making it easy for me to smack the pistol against his chin.

  His teeth clacked together as his face scrunched in pain. He dropped the shotgun and his legs folded. I held him upright to smack him again.

  A deafening blast slapped the back of my head. My muscles locked up in fear.

  The werewolf shook in my grip. A rope of blood looped from his chest. I hopped back and let the blood splash beyond my shoes.

  Calhoun’s were bodyguard held a humongous Desert Eagle .50 AE pistol. Smoke curled from the muzzle. A spent thumb-size cartridge pinged on the asphalt. He stood where he’d crawled from the driver’s door of the limo. His suit and shirt hung in bloody tatters from his muscular chest and arms like he’d been worked over by an industrial cheese grater. Blood seeped around the glass bits stuck to his face.

  Beside him, the limo driver clutched the twisted remains of the door and pulled himself to his feet.

  I let my werewolf drop. Smoke curled from the hole sizzling in his chest. He’d been shot with a silver bullet.

  His body crumpled to the ground next to Calhoun and the dead female were. Calhoun extended his leg to push the attacker’s corpse away as if it could contaminate him.

  Calhoun’s bodyguard shifted aim to his left and fired again. The bullet cracked into the truck. Something—or someone—plopped to the asphalt.

  I stepped around the rear of the limo and looked at the truck. The passenger door was open, a bullet hole the diameter of a nickel in the center. The other werewolf lay on the road, blood pooling around his torso and smoke feathering from his shirt.

  The were bodyguard gazed at his victim. He grinned and nodded to himself. Satisfied by his marksmanship, he stuffed his big pistol into a shoulder holster and brushed the glass from his face.

  The fight was over. My blood quit churning with adrenaline. My kundalini noir relaxed. Pain returned to my lower back. I leaned against the limo to ease the discomfort. I was immortal, had superpowers, yet at this moment, I’d kill for ibuprofen.

  My guts simmered from a low burn of anger. Screw these werewolves for dragging me into their bullshit.

  The driver helped Calhoun to his feet. Calhoun shrugged him off. He used his prosthesis to straighten his tie and his good hand to smooth his hair.

  The bodyguard nudged his shoe against the dead werewolf’s chest. “One of Bourbon’s pups?”

  Calhoun massaged his right thigh and stood with his feet astride the corpse’s head. “I’m sure of it, Dan.” Judging by the contempt on his face, I thought he was going to unzip and pee on the dead werewolf. “Take him out of my sight.”

  Dan the bodyguard grasped the werewolf by the ankles and dragged him around the limo.

  Calhoun limped to the female were and knelt beside her. He snapped his fingers at the driver, who returned to the limo.

  The driver rummaged through the remains of the front seat. He came out with a gray metal box bearing the markings of a first-aid kit. After unsnapping the two clasps on the lid, he opened the box and withdrew three stubby cardboard tubes.

  Calhoun said, “Give one to Felix.”

  The driver handed me a tube and took the rest to Dan.

  The tube was waxy cardboard with a short red cellophane ribbon dangling from one end. The tube had FRAGILE stenciled along its length but no indications of its contents.

  Calhoun beckoned me. He stroked the female were’s hair. Blood seeped through her clothes. Her nose shrank into a wrinkled black knob. The hair on her face and arms grew dense with a speed that mimicked time-lapse photography. Her hands curled into gnarled paws with her fingertips growing long and yellow. Must be werewolf rigor mortis.

  Calhoun said, “Open the tube.”

  She was beyond the help of first aid, no matter what was in the tube. Better fast-forward to last rites.

  I tugged on the ribbon, unwinding it until the paper cap fell off one end. I upturned the tube over my other hand. A black rubber bulb the size of a miniature bottle of liquor slid out. An olive-green plastic nipple jutted from one end of the bulb. This…bulb thing was in new condition but appeared to be a vintage medical device.

  Calhoun unbuttoned the female were’s blouse. He spread the blouse to expose her sternum and the soft mounds of her breasts swelling from a white brassiere. A brown fuzz covered her skin.

  The blouse flapped across her chest. He used his prosthesis to fold the blouse open, but it kept sliding closed. Frustrated, he said, “Little help.”

  I was going to ask, You mean, give you a hand? but decided against it.

  I took a knee beside him and held the blouse open. Her skin was cool, the hair on her chest fine as lint.

  Calhoun ran a fingertip along her sternum until he found a gap in her rib cage. “Right here. Insert the needle and pump the bulb three times.”

  I pulled the plastic nipple from the bulb and exposed a syringe needle. I steadied the needle over the spot on her sternum, then pushed the syringe until the needle disappeared into her flesh. There was no reaction.

  I squeezed the bulb until it collapsed with a soft crush. That was one pump. I released the bulb and gave it two more squeezes. I withdrew the syringe. A drop of blood clung to the needle’s tip and a second tiny drop welled
from the puncture.

  Calhoun sighed and put his weight on his heels. I stuck the plastic nipple back on the needle and returned the bulb to the cardboard tube.

  The were’s skin turned a shade lighter. The change in color was due to the fuzz on her chest curling and fading. The hair on her face and hands shriveled and dropped like dust. Her nose lost its black color and grew back into its previous shape. Her fingernails shrank and her hands returned to human proportions.

  I shook the tube. “What’s the serum?”

  “A distillation of a potion made from herbs and the dissolved shell of the Moroccan hirsute beetle.” Calhoun stared at her. “Destroys the werewolf enzymes. As far as anyone can detect, she was always an ordinary human, even at the molecular level.”

  Though she was dead, there was more dignity in this ceremony than in the ways we vampires got rid of supernatural evidence: roasting our dearly departed under the sun and vacuuming the ash.

  Calhoun caressed her cheeks with the back of his hand.

  “Who was she?” I asked.

  “A faithful servant. A dutiful messenger.” He closed her eyelids and stood awkwardly by bracing his prosthesis against one knee. “A clan sister.”

  He said this with reverence. Why did these werewolves harp on clan allegiances? I saw it simply as one more excuse to kill each other.

  Dan the bodyguard came back holding a cell phone. “Sergeant Kessler’s on the way.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “Cops? The army?”

  “Kessler’s one of us in the Charleston police. She’ll make sure to cover this up.” Calhoun motioned to the wrecked limo, the truck with the smashed grille, and all the debris around us. Werewolves had to hide their supernatural tracks same as us vampires.

  Calhoun tapped my shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “Can’t say I welcomed the opportunity.” I palmed the revolver, grateful that I had gotten some use from its metal bulk.

  Calhoun’s gaze followed the pistol. “You had that gun the whole time?”

  “Yeah. Should’ve searched me.” I dropped the gun back into my cargo pocket. “But no worries. Did as much good as carrying a rock.”