Werewolf Smackdown

by Mario Acevedo

  Calhoun looked at me and the despair I felt was mapped on his face. “This is my fear.” His voice was dour. “We may come to terms with humans, but in the meantime, they will turn on us like they have done to the Neanderthals and the biblical giants. Humans will tolerate our existence only after we’ve been reduced to pitiful numbers, if they allowed us to exist at all. Imprisonment in zoos, fiendish experiments in cages, and mass graves loom in our future.”

  His eyes hooked mine. “I know what you are, Mr. Gomez. An enforcer. It is your job to protect the Great Secret. A vampire gets compromised—put in jail or hospitalized by humans—it’s up to vampires like you to either rescue…or destroy.”

  Calhoun didn’t mention the other circumstances when I’d been called to action. Such as to locate and eliminate renegades like Paxton. Or zombies who attack humans without regard for the consequences to the supernatural world. For that reason, in a previous assignment, I had wiped out an army of zombies and their creator.

  Werewolves safeguard the Great Secret for the same reason as vampires: a mistrust of humans. But weres are prone to mass violence on a scale that would attract the attention of blunt-tooth society.

  The Araneum can’t police the werewolves. One-on-one, a vampire can handle a were. But they fight in packs. Werewolves would also resent our meddling in their affairs even if the intent was to prevent compromising the Great Secret. The implication would be that weres weren’t competent enough to take care of themselves.

  In the event of a werewolf war, the Araneum would pull back and protect the vampire world. Standing order: Do not interfere in the affairs of werewolves.

  Nevertheless, I felt like my feet were in a pan of water set on a stove. Moment by moment, the water was getting hotter.

  “A war starts, doesn’t Eric Bourbon have as much to lose as you do?”

  “That’s what this is about. Blackmail. First, Bourbon murdered Miss Latrall. When he realized I’d be chosen over him, he instigated a campaign to fan the discontent werewolves have about safeguarding the Great Secret.”

  “What discontent?”

  “Living with humans. The need to hide our true selves. The need to compromise. A compromise that grows more oppressive as humans become more numerous and sophisticated. A belief that it’s a matter of time before we supernaturals are ‘outed.’”

  Calhoun’s words lay heavy in my mind. “A lot of vampires feel the same way.”

  His brow furrowed. “Many werewolves say the time to reveal the Great Secret is now, on our terms. Start with a preemptive strike on the human centers of power. Economic. Cultural. Political. Military.”

  “Forgetting,” I replied, “that all this time we supernaturals have lived with the belief that humans fear us because we’re evil. If we reveal ourselves and attack, then we’ll have justified that fear.”

  “Exactly,” Calhoun said, as if hitting a nail. “Humans would counterattack and we’d have total war. A war you vampires won’t be able to sit out for long. Some bloodsuckers would join us werewolves. The humans would learn how to fight us all.”

  “If you werewolves want to start a war that could reveal the Great Secret, you’re on your own. It’s not my job to keep you guys holding hands and singing ‘Kumbaya.’”

  That was the Araneum’s party line. The fear was that a war could pull vampires into whatever mess the werewolves created. Foreboding made my mouth go dry.

  I needed a drink and paused at the liquor table on the terrace. I put my hands on a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and raised an eyebrow. May I?

  Calhoun said, “Make it two.”

  I scooped ice from a bucket and into two old-fashioned glasses. “Since the cops seem to be in your hip pocket, why don’t you have them take care of Bourbon?”

  Calhoun smiled politely and shook his head. “Weres in the police represent many packs and both of our clans. They must remain neutral at all times. Werewolf presence on the force simplifies keeping the supernatural world hidden from humans.”

  “Won’t make any difference if there’s a war.”

  “True. But if the police act against a clan alpha, it would only aggravate the situation.”

  “Why don’t you and the other clan alphas gang up on Bourbon and take him out? After all, he killed Miss Latrall.”

  “Which I can’t prove. Besides, werewolf combat at the clan level is the same as war.”

  I made gin and tonics and offered Calhoun his drink. We clinked glasses and mumbled, “Cheers.” Here’s mud in your face.

  I made a sweeping gesture across the terrace and the mansion. “I can see why Bourbon has his furry little heart set on this place.” I took a sip. The drink tasted too cold and mellow. Not enough of a kick. Needed a blood chaser. “Now, what do you want from me?”

  “Help me prevent his war,” Calhoun said. “Meanwhile, I’ll do what I can to find Paxton.”

  “Back up. I’ll find Paxton on my own. But there is only one way I see to prevent your war. Kill Bourbon, which I won’t do.”

  “There is another way. Find proof that Bourbon caused Miss Latrall’s airplane to crash. Bring that proof to me and I’ll make sure Bourbon gets the werewolf justice he deserves. I’d reward you well.”

  “I’ve already said I don’t want your money. Besides, how do you want me to help? I haven’t gotten the red carpet since I’ve been here. I’m no werewolf. I don’t like being around you guys any more than you like being around me.”

  “You won’t be inconvenienced for long.” The statement was heavy with sarcasm.

  “I don’t follow.”

  Calhoun set his drink on the table, raised his hand, and spread his fingers. “Four days, Mr. Gomez. Four days is all we have before this”—he swept his arm across the panorama—“is destroyed.”

  “Why four days?”

  He scratched his neck again. “Because in four days it will be the most dangerous time for us werewolves.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The full moon.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “I’ve seen Lon Chaney Jr.,” I said. “I get the whole full-moon-and-you-guys-go-feral routine.”

  Calhoun raised his hand to signal that I listen. “Unlike the movies, we can control the shape-shifting. But this full moon is special. We will convene Le Cercle de Sang et Crocs. It means—”

  “The circle of blood and…crocs?” I interrupted. “Crocs, like the shoes?”

  “No, crocs is French for ‘fangs.’”

  Circle of Blood and Fangs. They got points for drama.

  “It’s the council that chooses the new alpha of the territory,” he explained. “The selection of a new top alpha is a big occasion. While only pack and clan alphas of the territory may vote, werewolves from all over the country come to witness the ceremony.”

  “And this Cercle has to occur during the full moon?”

  “It’s tradition and it’s when our werewolf personas are at their strongest.”

  “Once your circle thing makes its pronouncement, then what’s the problem?”

  “Bourbon may not submit to the decision of Le Cercle.”

  “You say that as if you’ve been chosen.”

  Calhoun didn’t correct me.

  “What if the vote goes the other way?”

  “I will abide by the decision of Le Cercle.” He said this like he had to.

  I asked, “If Bourbon is threatening war, then why not strip him of his power and boot him from the territory?”

  “There is a process for that as well,” Calhoun answered. “We can banish him. That means no clan. No pack. No family. Hell for social creatures like us.”

  “I get the impression Bourbon wouldn’t accept banishment.”

  “Not without causing a war.”

  “And if Bourbon doesn’t submit to the pronouncement of this Circle of Blood and Fangs or shoes or whatever, then what?”

  “Anarchy.”

  “What about the werewolves in Bourbon’s clan? Is their loyalty to him or to the t
erritory alpha?”

  “Bourbon wouldn’t challenge the authority of Le Cercle unless his werewolves are behind him.”

  “Those weres who ambushed us,” I asked, “they came from another clan?”

  Calhoun nodded. “Sympathizers from outside the territory. Bourbon recruits them to encourage others to challenge clan and pack authority.”

  “Why is this seditionist spirit focused here in Charleston?”

  “Because werewolf clans from all over the country are looking to us as an example. If we break apart, we can expect were hierarchy to crumble. But if we hold together”—Calhoun made a fist—“then we’ll avoid disaster.”

  “I’ve noticed that everyone in Charleston thinks highly of themselves. What makes this place so important?”

  “We’re a symbol. We’re the first community of werewolves to settle in America.”

  “Weren’t there indigenous werewolves?” I asked, annoyed by the typical gringo attitude that overlooked everyone else. “What about the Spanish? Their settlements predate those of the English.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Calhoun said. “Our conquest of this land was as rapacious as that of the humans. The indigenous alphas were replaced.”

  “Replaced? Or murdered?”

  “Past is past, Mr. Gomez. My ancestors mated with the surviving families and absorbed their bloodlines. There are a few indigenous wolf packs here and there. Up in Maine, there’s even a Nordic pack that stayed intact after the Vikings left.”

  “One big happy family, aren’t you?” I said.

  “I wish it were,” Calhoun replied. “A rebellion in Charleston will initiate the breakdown of werewolf structure below the pack level. That’s why this Cercle is so important. If hierarchy and territorial control cannot be maintained, then every werewolf in the Lowcountry could go feral. They would attack regardless of species. Chaos would spread from territory to territory, clan to clan, pack to pack, werewolf to human.”

  Calhoun gazed at me. “And werewolf to vampire. The coming full moon could be the last we’ll see in peace.”

  Once again, he raised his hand and spread his fingers. “Four days, Mr. Gomez. Four days.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Four days to werewolf Armageddon.

  Werewolves at war with each other. Add humans. How long before we vampires get drawn into the disaster?

  The consequences of that scenario spun around me. Total interspecies warfare. Death and misery would bury us all.

  I looked from the terrace and across the harbor to Charleston. Where was the Araneum? And the local nidus, what were they doing?

  “It’s happened before,” Calhoun said, as if to underline the grimness of what he’d just explained. “During the War Between the States, at the battle for Vicksburg, an interclan fight for werewolf dominance took place along the Mississippi River. If you examine the history books, that battle was noted for a preponderance of night casualties. Soldiers from both sides claimed to have witnessed savage night stalkers raiding their outposts. The few survivors babbled incoherently about men torn to pieces. The mutilated remains prompted ugly reprisals.”

  “All because of werewolves?”

  “Yes. Fortunately, the chaos of the battle was enough to mask our numbers.”

  “But this time,” I said, “there is no war for you to hide this scale of were-on-were violence.”

  “Now you understand my worries.” Calhoun stirred abruptly. He pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his robe and glanced at the display. He opened the phone and tapped the keypad.

  “If you don’t mind”—he turned to the French doors at the back of the mansion—“I’ve made arrangements for your return to the city. You’re staying at the Atlas Mortuary on King Street, yes?”

  The question pricked like a needle. “How do you know?”

  “Please,” he said, as if my question had insulted him, “it’s my job to stay informed.”

  “Meaning you have weres that can alert you of everything?”

  “Not everything. Today’s incident on the way here was proof of that. I look forward to your help.”

  “Which you’re not getting.”

  “But I’ve explained the situation.”

  “Which I understand. But I’m not getting involved for two reasons. One, I’m not going to be your proxy in the fight between you and Bourbon. And two, the Araneum has a rule about vampires meddling in werewolf business.”

  “But the war?”

  “I fear the Araneum more than I do a werewolf war.”

  Calhoun stood quiet for a moment and opened one of the French doors. I couldn’t read him. The were was a master at cloaking his emotions.

  His attendant waited in the room. Calhoun took my hand and gave a lukewarm shake. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Gomez.”

  The attendant waved that I accompany him. Calhoun stayed behind and remained framed by the doorway, as if boxed in by his circumstances.

  I was taken to the foyer, where a woman waited for me. She was tall with swirls of brunette hair falling to her shoulders. She gave an easy, sunny smile that was a relief from the gloom-obsessing Calhoun. The tight cut of her white strapless dress showed off every delectable curve. An inviting line started at her high-heeled mule pumps and went up one slit on the side of her dress.

  All that tanned skin made her eyes seem an intense electric blue. Full lips parted to show teeth as shiny and precisely aligned as pearls on a necklace. I had seen her in another photo, back in Bour bon’s office, one in which she was arm in prosthesis with Calhoun.

  She introduced herself. “Angela Cyclone.” She wore lots of jewelry, gold and diamonds, including a tennis bracelet.

  A very beautiful woman. A sniff added the caveat: Were.

  I replied with my name, then asked, “Are you a cyclone before or after you shift into a werewolf?”

  “Vampire, I’m always a cyclone.”

  The difference between us pulled at me like we were opposite ends of magnets. Which surprised me. Never thought I’d be attracted to a were, even one as pretty as her.

  She guided me out of the foyer to a black Maserati Gran-Turismo sports coupe in the porte cochere. “Hop in.”

  “With a name like Cyclone, does Calhoun trust you to drive these wheels?”

  “He trusts me with you,” she replied.

  “You work for him?”

  “I’m on his staff.”

  “He must pay very well, judging by this car.”

  “Since you asked, the car was a gift.”

  I wouldn’t doubt it. Calhoun acted like he had the money to dole out cars like they were party favors.

  “For?”

  “An acknowledgment of my loyalty. Not that he needs to buy it.”

  “What’s your job?”

  “I do whatever he asks, but my formal job is as his expert on Lycanthrope Law.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  “Can be very complicated.”

  “You went to law school? Or was it through correspondence?”

  Her eyes narrowed as if she debated whether I was curious or sarcastic. “It’s informal. There’s a lot of reading and discussion. Most of what we do is set by precedent.”

  We got in and buckled up. She started the engine. We eased from under the porte cochere and veered around a line of big SUVs.

  I’d never been in a Maserati and admired the leather-and-wood interior. “Makes quite an entrance.”

  “And an exit.” She mashed the gas pedal, and the coupe shot forward, fast enough to press me into the seat. We slalomed through the estate gates and pounced onto the public road, the Maserati as sure-footed as a leopard.

  She asked, “You don’t have much experience with werewolves, do you?”

  The question set off an alarm. My ears tingled. “Are you asking for you, or are you asking for Calhoun?”

  “Are you always this paranoid?”

  “Only when I’m around werewolves.”

  “I’m curious about the vamp
ire detective from Colorado.”

  “How come everyone knows so much about me? Did someone post my visit on craigslist?”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” she answered. “It’s a big rock that makes a big splash.”

  “It’s a big rock that sinks straight to the bottom.” Angela was far too easy on the eyes and I had to be careful not to let my guard down. It wasn’t a coincidence that she was my ride back to Charleston. “Did Calhoun put you up to this?”

  “He asked me to give you a ride.”

  “Knowing that we’d talk?”

  “If you say something I think is important, I’m obligated to tell Mr. Calhoun.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “For being honest.”

  The expensive car, the way Angela drove it, her toned body, extroverted expression, and no-nonsense manner reminded me of my vampire friend Carmen Arellano.

  Carmen was deep in space, a prisoner of alien gangsters. I had no way to free her—hell, I had no idea where she was other than “up there.”

  But Angela was taller, her frame less compact, a smaller bust, her pretty face a long rectangle with a chevron of a chin.

  We reached Coleman Boulevard, close to the scene where I’d been ambushed with Calhoun. I put my sixth sense on maximum alert to scan the traffic and the landscape. I detected nothing. Being among werewolves was like shadowboxing, only sometimes the shadows hit back.

  Angela slowed enough so that we merely passed cars instead of whipping around them. “I have something else I want to discuss with you. Off-the-record.”

  There was no such thing as off-the-record. But if she wanted to talk, I was ready to listen. “Go ahead.”

  “It’s this trouble between the clans.”

  I asked, “The war?”

  Sadness clouded her eyes. “I don’t understand why this is happening. There is always this tension between the alphas, but conflict has a benefit. Keeps the juices flowing, the strongest pushing their clans forward. Now this ridiculous competition between Calhoun and Bourbon threatens to tear everything apart.”