“Hardly. I see you riding on the back of life’s motorcycle.”
She scowled playfully. “Like hell. I don’t ride bitch. I’m up front with my hand on the throttle.”
Something clattered in the kitchen. I sat up, surprised. Wendy raised a hand for me to remain where I was. My sixth sense gave no alarm, and if there had been an intruder, I’m sure that army of trained mantises would’ve sprung from the plants and strangled the unlucky bastard.
A crow limped onto the kitchen counter.
Wendy explained, “There’s an entrance in the window by the sink.”
Normally, messenger crows are shiny and sleek. This bird had the appearance of a frazzled dust mop. Broken feathers jutted in dull, frayed clumps from its head and body. Its normally beady and luminous eyes looked like buttons made of charred wood.
The crow staggered across the countertop, a small white container dragging from its leg.
Wendy rushed from her seat to the bird. “What the hell happened?”
I bolted from my chair and joined her.
The crow fell to its side, chest contracting in rapid spasms.
Wendy cooed and clucked and stroked the black head. The crow closed its eyes and rubbed its beak against her hand. The bird flexed one leg and the object wired to the shank—a plastic 35mm film can—clattered against the countertop. Blood smeared the inside of the translucent container.
I’ve seen crows carry the Araneum’s messages only in capsules the size of my little finger and made of filigreed platinum and gold. Why use this film can?
“Take that off,” Wendy ordered, her voice sharp with distress. She caressed the crow’s body and cooed and clucked some more. The bird replied with a soft cackle.
Baling wire held the film can to the crow’s leg. I extended a talon and cut the wire. The film can fell into my hand. A length of cellophane tape secured the cap. I slit the tape and pulled the cap off.
An odor puffed out. The Araneum wrote their messages on parchment made from the skin of condemned vampires and it stank of rancid meat. But this odor had a freshly spoiled smell, like hamburger that had been left out too long. What remained inside the can was not a folded piece of desiccated vampire hide but a scroll of recently flayed skin, slimy with blood.
I got lost in my questions. Who had sent this? Why? Where did the skin come from?
Wendy remained focused on the crow. She ran her hand across its body. The bird’s breathing slowed to a shallow diminishing cadence. Wendy’s eyes seemed to melt into tears.
I used my talon to pull the skin from the can. I unrolled the swatch, bloody side against my palm. It opened to the size of a playing card. The sender was familiar with the Araneum’s message procedure, so I expected to see a note written on the skin.
I wasn’t disappointed.
The handwriting was not neat calligraphy but a crooked, angular scrawl.
Felix,
I will kill you
Paxton
CHAPTER 32
If I were still human, the breath would’ve shriveled in my lungs and my heart would’ve stopped.
But I drew no breath. My heart had stopped long ago. Instead, my kundalini noir compressed from the weight of astonishment and dread.
Paxton was alive. And he was after me.
I stared at the message, astounded, speechless. I returned to my chair and sank into the cushions.
I reread the message. I examined the letters. They were black marks singed into the dermis as if the author had written them with a soldering iron.
Paxton wanted to get my attention and he’d succeeded with ghoulish precision.
If this swatch was untreated vampire skin, it should’ve crumbled to dust by now. The Araneum used a special process to preserve undead skin as parchment.
I sniffed the skin. Definitely human. I pitied the donor.
It was no big deal that I held a piece of flayed human skin in my hand. Hell, I could’ve chewed it like gum. Remember, I am a vampire.
The swatch had crooked sides like it had been carved free-hand. Other than the burned letters, there were no other marks. No tattoos. No scars. No freckles. No zits.
I offered the skin to Wendy to examine. But she remained busy with the crow. Wendy laid her hand on its chest. She closed her eyes and mouthed words. A prayer? Tears squeezed from her eyelids and trickled over her cheeks.
I didn’t like the pesky birds. They never brought good news. Still, this crow deserved better.
“My condolences, Wendy.”
She lifted a kitchen towel from a hook on the wall behind her. She wiped her tears and spread the towel on the counter. Wendy laid the crow in the center of the towel. “She was part of the flock I had sent on reconnaissance to find information on Paxton and the werewolves.”
“I’ve seen crows around town. They were your birds?”
“Might have been. Did you ask them?”
“Not all of us are Dr. Dolittle.”
Wendy wrapped the towel around the crow. “She was the first to return and she comes back poisoned.”
“How do you know?”
“She complained her blood felt like fire.”
“Who did this to her?”
“She never said.” Wendy wiped another tear. “Poor thing was in too much pain.”
I held the piece of skin. “Take a look—”
Wendy waved to cut me off. “Not now.” She sniffed.
“That’s what I’m getting at,” I said. “Paxton. Look.” I angled the skin so she could read it.
Wendy’s gaze latched onto the swatch. Her tears evaporated. “What the hell is that?”
“Human skin. Paxton copied how the Araneum sends messages. He must’ve captured the bird and attached the film can.”
Wendy nodded, concerned, angry. “He gave her just enough poison to make sure she’d deliver the message.”
“How did Paxton know I was here?”
“Maybe he doesn’t. He could’ve told her to find you. That’s the crows’ job.” Wendy ground her teeth and her cheeks turned danger red. “What’s that asshole up to?”
“His idea of a mind fuck.”
Wendy rubbed her temples. “It’s working.”
On me, too. I imagined Paxton looming in the unknown, invisible, powerful, as menacing as a bomb about to drop from the sky. I felt cold. Naked. Isolated.
Wendy leaned against the wall. Her face mirrored my apprehension. Fear should’ve pulled us together. But instead it lodged between us, another wedge forcing us apart.
Her eyes flicked at me and then away. In that fleeting glance, I read that she blamed me for her anguish.
I said, “Look, I’m sorry…”
Her eyes cut to the swatch. “Throw that in the disposal and wash up.”
“We might want to keep it as evidence.”
“Does this look like CSI?” Wendy pushed from the wall.
I went to the sink and rinsed the piece of skin and the blood from my hand. I ran the disposal and the skin disappeared with a slurp.
Wendy asked, “When was the last time you contacted the Araneum?”
“Last night.” I washed and dried my hands. “I gave them an update about the werewolves.”
“Any reply?”
“Not yet.”
Her cell phone chimed. She pulled it out of a cargo pocket of her shorts. She read the screen and slipped the phone back into her pocket.
“You don’t want to hear this, but that was Calhoun.” She tried to keep her tone light.
“Another date?” There was no point in being jealous.
“Like you said, it’s how I do my job.”
“Mind if I wait until Calhoun shows up? I’m worried about what Paxton might do.”
“It would be better if you didn’t stay. I can take care of myself.” Wendy went to the front door and grasped the knob.
We exchanged bittersweet glances. I found it hard to move.
Wendy opened the door and positioned her body behind it. She peeked
around the edge. “I’ll see you soon. Maybe tomorrow.” She didn’t try for a kiss or a hug. We may have stood close enough to touch, but it felt like we were a thousand miles apart.
“Tomorrow for sure.” I lurched out the door. The dead bolt clicked.
Whatever we had was over. I had no soul, so what part of me felt like it had just died?
I stood on the porch, drenched in misery and self-pity, my guard down. At this moment I’d be the perfect target.
Wendy had a job to do. So did I.
Find Paxton.
I drove back to Charleston. I kept my head and awareness on a swivel, like a fighter pilot cruising above enemy territory. Trouble could strike at any time, from any direction.
Bourbon and Paxton were connected. They had to be.
Bourbon. Damn werewolves. The less I had to do with them, the better. I wouldn’t let any of them get close to me.
I arrived at the Atlas Mortuary. A luxury coupe was parked in the back lot by the hearse.
Angela Cyclone’s Maserati.
CHAPTER 33
I entered the mortuary extra quietlike. Just in case. I hadn’t expected Angela. Being in Charleston made me feel like I was wearing crosshairs for a hat. My sixth sense detected nothing unusual.
I found Angela in Lemuel’s office, both of them drinking coffee. He was behind his desk, feet propped by his computer monitor. She was in the chair in front of him. Angela sat crooked, looking over one shoulder at the door, meaning that she expected me despite my stealth. Had to be that werewolf hearing.
Lemuel took his feet off the desk and stood to greet me.
Angela had a smile waiting for me. After the ache of leaving Wendy, I found Angela’s warmth both welcome and disconcerting.
The neckline of her red dress was cut extra low. She wore a fresh set of expensive spangles and different open-toed pumps with tall heels. I got the impression that Angela was the kind of woman (and were) who would consider any heel less than three inches as too casual. She was dressed to make heads turn and keep eyes locked on her.
After I had told myself I didn’t want to get close to a werewolf, Angela was making me eat my words.
Lemuel’s phone chimed: “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” He snatched the phone off his belt and flicked it open. He stared at the screen and slid the phone back into its holster on his belt. “Gotta run, kiddos.”
He patted my shoulder. “Hold down the fort.” He glanced knowingly from Angela to me. “If there’s any hanky-panky, please keep it at a tolerable level. Felix, don’t tear this place up and make me regret my hospitality.” He left Angela and me alone.
The hanky-panky comment hung in the air like a piece of awkward. Wendy and I were kaput, she was getting ready for a date with Calhoun, and I wasn’t up for the rebound. Not with Angela. Not with anyone else.
I broke the silence when I asked, “Did Calhoun send you?”
“No, I’m here on my own. To see you.”
I liked the reply. But I was among werewolves and wasn’t about to be duped by a femme fatale, no matter how friendly or desirable.
“Is that a problem?” The cheeriness in her face disappeared. She stood and reached for her purse. “Maybe I misread you earlier. I should go.”
No, she hadn’t misread me. This funk I was in made me talk like a jerk. I was about to tell Angela, Stay, but as a werewolf, she’d find that insulting, I was sure. “Don’t go. I appreciate you coming to see me.”
I gestured that she sit down again. “Please.” I leaned against the front of Lemuel’s desk.
She crossed her legs and my gaze traced along the inside curve of one calf to her ankle.
I drummed my fingers along the edge of the desk mainly to break focus and redirect my thoughts. “I saw Bourbon again. I’m not optimistic about peace among you werewolves.”
Angela’s face turned solemn. She looked much prettier with a smile.
“You could leave Charleston,” I suggested.
Her cheeks flushed and her brow knit like I’d insulted her. “Leave my family? My pack? And go where? At what cost? Werewolves are part of a family. We are each links in the chain holding the packs and clans together.”
“Chain? Meaning you can never leave?”
“You make it sound like a prison, which it’s not.”
“Suppose you’re not happy? Can you switch clans? Divorce your pack?”
“You can, but only when it’s done with the blessing of the appropriate alphas. I’m not going to be a rogue. A loner. One of those who’ve been banished.”
“There’s a lot I don’t understand about werewolves. Does this visit to see me violate a rule in your Lycanthrope Law about your fraternizing with the undead?”
The smile finally returned to Angela’s face. “Don’t worry, Felix. You’re legal.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I’m not looking to put another notch on my bedpost.” She shrugged demurely—an act, I was sure. “Both Calhoun and Bourbon are keen on keeping an eye on you. I’ve never seen them so concerned with a vampire and I want to see if you’re worth the attention.”
“I’ll try not to disappoint.”
Wendy was with Calhoun. Angela was with me. I liked the symmetry.
She turned her head in the direction of the front door and perked her ears in a decidedly canine manner.
The doorbell rang.
My sixth sense had not detected a thing. Her were hearing was damn sharp.
The bell rang again. And again.
With Lemuel gone, I had to answer the door. My sixth sense gathered clues. The shifting of feet. The faint patter of a human heart. But no danger. No trouble.
I hesitated at the door, wondering if I should use the peephole. But what was I? An old maid or a vampire? A flush of embarrassment heated my face.
Angela came around me and jerked open the door. She didn’t act afraid. My talons remained on a hair trigger, ready to extend.
A young man in a uniform—black military shirt over gray trousers—waited on the porch. He stiffened to attention. He was ruddy-faced, with reddish-blond hair clipped close to his scalp. He wore a tentlike garrison cap that matched the gray of his pants. Both of his shoes shone like obsidian mirrors. A cadet. From the Citadel nearby.
He held a box in one arm and used his free hand to snatch the cap off his head. “I have a package for Mr. F. Gomez.”
“If the F means Felix, that would be me.”
He pushed the box into my hands. It had a heft like it contained a brick.
Now that he’d completed his mission, the cadet replaced his cap and did an about-face off the porch. He double-timed to a waiting Hyundai sedan, driven by someone also in cadet uniform. The car backed away and turned north.
I closed the door. Angela peeked over my shoulder.
I held the box to her nose. “Let’s test your were powers. Smell anything? Explosives?”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s no bomb.”
I gave the box a sniff. Gun oil. I grinned. “You’re right.”
I extended a talon and cut the shipping tape. The box held a smaller carton and this one, in turn, under wads of newspaper, contained the Webley I’d ordered.
Gullah wasn’t kidding when he said this pistol had been stored under military lock and key. Seems Yo-Yo’s inventory was kept in an arms room at the Citadel.
In the corner of the carton I found a second smaller box. I put my fingers around it and sensed a warmth, like what I’m sure plutonium felt like.
I slid the box open.
Silver bullets.
Eighteen of them. Big fat ones. .455 caliber.
We returned to Lemuel’s office with the carton. I grasped the Webley and worked the mechanism. The pistol was made of blackened steel and seemed as solid as an engine block.
“You really need that?” Angela asked.
“Unfortunately I do. Someone’s trying to kill me and I need my questions answered.” I pointed the Webley at a trash can in
the corner. “Consider this gun a conversation starter.”
“With who?” she asked.
I told her about Paxton and the vampires I’d killed. Like the others I’d related the story to, she smiled when I described the crab attack.
“You’ve got vampires after you? And werewolves?”
I picked up the box of silver bullets. “That’s why I bought these.”
CHAPTER 34
Angela cast her eyes downward. A firmness settled around her mouth.
I put the box of silver bullets on the desk, next to the pistol. “You don’t like guns?”
Her gaze lifted. “You have a right to defend yourself.”
“I’m way past defending. I’m on the offense.”
I wanted to impress her with the dramatic punch of what I’d said. Instead, her ears quirked and she turned away.
I put my sixth sense on alert. Nothing.
The lock of the side door clicked. Lemuel announced himself. Loud. Like he didn’t want to surprise us.
He came into the office carrying a package of powdered mini-doughnuts. “You guys still dressed? I made all that damn noise so I wouldn’t catch you buck naked in the middle of business. Damn if you two aren’t taking a long time to know each other.” Lemuel opened the center drawer of his desk and took out a small white bottle of pills which he rattled. “Felix, you need Viagra or something?”
My kundalini noir twitched. The pills were aspirin, but he’d made his point. Angela twisted her lips together to keep from chuckling.
Lemuel dropped the bottle in the drawer and closed it. He looked at the pistol. “I see you’ve been shopping with the King. What did you pay?”
“Three hundred bucks.”
“That all?” Lemuel shook his head. “I won’t get much of a finder’s fee.” He paced behind his desk and turned on the computer. He sat and tore open the package of doughnuts. “You guys can hang around as long as you don’t bother me.”
In other words, scram.
Angela retrieved her purse from where she’d left it on a filing cabinet. I gathered the pistol and ammo.
Werewolf Smackdown Page 14