Werewolf Smackdown

by Mario Acevedo

  A gigantic blast rocked the Maserati.

  CHAPTER 39

  The roof of the mortuary broke apart into flames and smoke. Fire blew out the front door and shattered windows. A tongue of flame reached from the building and engulfed Wendy’s coupe. A fireball swelled over the car and twisted into the air.

  Dust and smoke slapped the Maserati’s windshield. Glass and debris showered the street. Car alarms blared in a chorus announcing disaster.

  Everything happened so fast I could only watch in disbelief.

  Shock and fright washed over me. But I was safe. So was Angela.

  There was an instant of relief; then the fright surged back, stronger, concentrated, toxic. Not simply fright but terror.

  What about Wendy? Lemuel? The intern, Shantayla?

  Halfway down the street, I shouted, “Stop.”

  The Maserati slammed to a halt.

  I bolted from the car screaming their names.

  The front of the mortuary collapsed into a pile of broken bricks. I ran past Wendy’s burning Ford and the smoldering debris—wood framing, parts of a desk, shattered caskets, embalming supplies—that littered the sidewalk and the front lawn.

  My kundalini noir trembled in desperation. My mouth dried. I had to tear into the building and search for survivors.

  In the back lot, dust and pieces of bricks covered the hearse and the limo. The Mercury’s windshield was broken, its dented hood and roof piled with dust and pieces of brick.

  I could think only of Wendy. I grabbed the lid of a coffin and used it to pry open a break in the mortuary wall and enter the inferno.

  Fire singed my face and hands. Luckily, I didn’t have to breathe and that kept the flames from torching my lungs. My vision glazed over from the heat, and I navigated the fire as though looking through wavy, distorted glass. I discarded my contacts but that didn’t help.

  Who could have done this? Was this attack meant for me?

  I found a charred lump heaped in the corner where Lemuel’s office had been.

  Wendy? Lemuel?

  If this was a body, there was no aura. The life was gone. Flames spurted from the blackened, crooked limbs and the roasted torso.

  Fire whirled around me. Hurriedly, I kicked at one of the twisted smoking stumps to turn the body over so I could get an ID.

  Not Wendy. Please, not Wendy.

  The body rolled over. A smoldering tie curled across the front of the chest. Lemuel.

  Another charred body rested under his. The fire had burned off the blouse and bra. A woman. No aura. Also dead.

  Lemuel had thrown himself over her in a vain gesture of valor. Wendy? Shantayla?

  My kundalini noir seized in cold dread, a chill so strong it made me forget the fire.

  The head and hands had shrunk into black lumps. Something glittered on what had been a finger. A ring. A big engagement ring.

  Shantayla.

  Shameful relief chased away the dread.

  Heat and smoke roared around me. I shielded my face and crouched to hop between gaps in the fire.

  I followed an open trail between the flames toward the back of the building and reached the coffin prep room. I kicked the door open.

  Superheated air blasted me. I dropped to my knees and crawled over the hot floor.

  Over to my left, a faint green glow. An aura.

  Wendy.

  CHAPTER 40

  Wendy lay under a pile of debris. Her aura glowed; she was still alive.

  The ceiling groaned. Embers rained through the smoke. The roof was about to collapse.

  I scrambled toward her. I flung aside the debris covering her body. I cradled her head. Her eyes were closed and her skin, blouse, and jeans stained with black smudges.

  The ceiling groaned again. Another warning. Perhaps my last.

  I didn’t know if Wendy had any broken bones or internal injuries, but I had to get her out now.

  I scooped her in my arms and stood. Where was the exit? I couldn’t escape back through the hellish heat of the mortuary.

  There was a door at the opposite side of the room. I held Wendy tight and ran toward it. At the last second, I spun around and smashed backward against the door.

  The metal door held firm. Wendy bounced in my arms. I beat against the door. The dead bolt and hinges squealed in protest.

  More embers showered me. The smoke was thick as paste. I gave the door another bash with my shoulder blades.

  The door swung loose and clanged to the concrete sidewalk. Smoke whooshed past me. I staggered outside into fresh air.

  We were on the south side of the mortuary. I laid Wendy on a patch of grass alongside the driveway. Acrid smoke clung to our bodies.

  She settled on the ground, limp. Her aura trembled like a weak, meager flame.

  But she was alive.

  A set of keys had fallen from her jeans pocket. I scooped them up and stuffed them into my trouser pocket. I would return the keys later.

  I settled next to her. My kundalini noir relaxed. Why was she here? To see me? For what reason?

  The screams of fire engines and police cars echoed through the neighborhood. Bystanders congregated in the street. Their red auras blazed with awe, curiosity, and fear.

  Someone grabbed my shoulder.

  Angela. Her face was taut with dread. Her red aura roiled with orange spots of alarm.

  “Are you okay?”

  I tried to talk. Smoke puffed out my mouth and nostrils. I tasted scorched wood and plastic.

  At last the words came. “I’m fine.”

  Angela knelt beside Wendy and released a sigh heavy with distress. “Why was she here?”

  “To see me, I think.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cops and firefighters rushed about us. Too late to do anything except keep the fire from spreading to the surrounding houses.

  Lemuel was dead.

  Shantayla was dead.

  Wendy had barely survived.

  Guilt and sorrow pushed the strength out of my body.

  I slid my hand across Wendy’s temple to her forehead. I felt for a pulse, a twitch of her eyes, a tiny spasm of life.

  Nothing.

  But her aura glowed, so she was still alive.

  Angela got to her feet. “I’ll get help.”

  Exhausted, I closed my eyes. I breathed deep, the remaining smoke circulated in my lungs, and I exhaled the malignant odor of fire and destruction.

  Someone tapped my shoulder.

  Angela again. She motioned that I get up.

  A police officer came toward us from the line of patrol cars on the street. It was Sergeant Kessler, the were who had arrived when Calhoun and I had been ambushed over in Mount Pleasant.

  Things moved around me in a slow drama like the world had been drenched in thick syrup. Shouts and the blare of sirens sounded distant and muted. Firefighters pulled hoses and aimed streams of water. Police in safety vests held the onlookers back. Emergency cars and trucks crowded the street, their light bars flashing red and blue in frantic, spastic fits.

  Kessler grasped my arm and pulled me aside for a couple of EMTs to hustle past. She flicked open a pair of sunglasses and handed them to me.

  I looked at the glasses in confusion, then realized—of course, to hide my eyes.

  I brought the glasses close to my face and hesitated. The EMTs set their bags down and attended to Wendy. Her aura still shone green. I put the glasses on and the tinted lenses made her aura vanish.

  One of the EMTs examined her eyes and face. The other unbuttoned Wendy’s blouse.

  The first EMT fit an air bag mask over Wendy’s mouth and nose. The other EMT readied a syringe and gave Wendy an injection in the arm. They took a box from their bag, unwrapped wires, and attached them with sticky pads to Wendy’s chest and arm. The screen on the box lit up and showed her vital signs scrolling across a grid.

  I felt panic. Wendy was a dryad. If she was taken to a hospital, the doctors wo
uld discover her supernatural identity.

  I started for the EMTs. Kessler grabbed my arm.

  I blurted, the words slurring from my mouth, “You can’t take her. Not to a hospital.”

  Kessler shouted in my ear, but her words sounded faint, like they’d come over a faulty telephone connection. “She’ll be with family. The Secret is safe.”

  I struggled to get away, but Kessler held tight.

  Wendy would be taken care of.

  The Great Secret was safe.

  I’d done all that I could. Fatigue enveloped me and my knees weakened.

  Another EMT pushed a gurney to Wendy. The three EMTs slid her onto a backboard, which they placed on the gurney, and covered her with a blanket. They pushed her away, ignoring an ambulance, and trotted down the street.

  The cops parted the line of bystanders for the EMTs to pass. Where were they going?

  Kessler pulled me along. Angela grasped my arm and jogged beside us.

  We passed the Maserati.

  There was a note stuck under the wiper on my side.

  Who had taken the time to leave a note? I halted, jostling Kessler and Angela. I pulled loose of their arms and approached the Maserati.

  I snatched the note.

  It was an index card, blank on the front.

  I flipped the card over.

  Words had been scrawled in blue ink.

  They read:

  Felix,

  You still own me. Next time

  Paxton

  CHAPTER 41

  I’d just crawled out of an inferno, my breath still tasted of smoke, and yet the chill of terror made me shiver. The mortuary explosion was no accident; it had been arson and murder.

  I reread the note, thinking I had hallucinated the message.

  I rubbed my thumb along the card stock and left a gray smudge across the words.

  The fear became rage.

  Paxton. I could feel the tendons of his neck breaking under my grip.

  I removed my sunglasses and jerked my gaze about the neighborhood, searching for anything suspicious.

  Werewolf. Vampire. Human.

  A telltale aura glowing in the shadows. A pair of eyes glittering from a dark window. A reflection on the lens of a telescope. A silhouette where one shouldn’t be.

  Nothing. Only the mobs of people drawn to the burning mortuary.

  Angela came up to me. “What’s wrong?” Her question sounded loud. My hearing was back to normal. She retreated abruptly. I realized my talons were out.

  I pushed the anger down and forced my talons to retract. My fangs were out as well and I drew them in.

  I showed her the card. She looked back at the fire, then to Wendy on the gurney. “What does this mean?”

  “It means there’s going to be a next time. Paxton will strike again.” I stepped back. “Get away. I don’t want you close.”

  “And I should be scared?” Angela showed her fangs. Her nose darkened. “Don’t forget that I’m a werewolf. Your enemies should be scared of me.”

  CHAPTER 42

  The EMTs pushed Wendy and the gurney to the end of the street. Cop cars blocked the intersection.

  The drumming of rotor blades reverberated over the neighborhood. A shadow passed over us. Something sleek vanished behind the trees.

  Angela morphed back into human shape before anyone noticed. She and Kessler grabbed my shoulders and led me to the EMTs.

  A helicopter banked over the neighborhood, then leveled and descended toward the intersection. Wheels and struts extended from the trim fuselage.

  The helicopter slowed, came to a high hover, and inched its way to the middle of the intersection. The rotor blast swirled dust and trash. The EMTs grasped the loose ends of the blanket covering Wendy. The police clasped their hands over their caps and turned their backs to the wind.

  I recognized the helicopter. It was an S-76, identical to the one I’d seen at Latrall’s estate.

  The helicopter wheels touched the asphalt. The struts compressed as the S-76 settled to the ground. There was a change in pitch to the rotor blades and the wind stopped slapping around us. The cargo door on the fuselage slid open. A crew member in a blue flight suit and headset hopped out. He waved to the EMTs.

  Heads bowed, the EMTs raced the gurney to the cargo door.

  Kessler pulled the radio mike from her shoulder loop. She covered her mouth to isolate the helicopter noise. She hooked the mike back on the loop and patted my arm. “You go,” she shouted. “You know Wendy best. She’ll need you by her side.”

  Angela kissed my cheek. “Take care of her.”

  I shouted, “Why don’t you come along?”

  Kessler shook her head. “They can only take one extra passenger.”

  The EMTs lifted the backboard into the helicopter. The crewman fixed the backboard in place along the cargo floor. A second aircrew member, this one a female medical tech judging by the red crosses and colored patches on her flight suit, took the monitoring equipment and positioned it alongside Wendy. The med tech and EMTs put their heads together for a quick discussion.

  The EMTs hustled their gurney away from the helicopter. The crewman waved at me from the open door.

  I sprinted with my head low. The last time I’d run to a helicopter like this was in Iraq. The emotions flooded back. Excitement. Anticipation. Fear.

  I hauled myself into the compartment. Wendy rested across the middle of the deck, her head toward the cockpit. A pair of straps kept the blanket tight around her torso and legs.

  I was directed to the left side of the floor. The crewman shut the door and joined the med tech on the right.

  The rotor blades renewed their loud drumming. The helicopter became light on its wheels and floated upward.

  We rose above the rooftops and the trees. Cars and people shrank to the size of toys and miniature dolls.

  The air-bag mask on Wendy’s face trembled from the vibration. Wisps of her hair flicked across her brow.

  Her complexion had a frightful anemic pallor. She looked fragile, close to the edge of death.

  The med tech wore a bulky headset and big safety glasses. I couldn’t read her expression as she studied Wendy’s vital signs on the monitor.

  I peeked over the rims of my sunglasses. Wendy’s green aura simmered like the weak flame of a gas burner set on low.

  I checked the crew’s auras. The med tech and the pilot had the red-and-orange psychic envelopes of werewolves. The crewman and the copilot were human.

  We passed over the wharves. Tall ships cut through the harbor. More werewolves.

  I slipped my hand under the blanket and found Wendy’s right hand. I interlaced my fingers in hers. Her touch was abnormally cool.

  I remembered when I’d done this before.

  In the early days of our invasion of Iraq, my M2 Bradley Fighting Vehicle had run over a 152mm howitzer shell buried in the road. The Bradley weighed thirty tons and had been tossed onto its side like a cardboard box. The blast had sheared the armored skirt, the track, and wheels from the right side of the hull.

  That’s what I was told. At the time I’d been hunkered inside the hull, perched on a seat and commiserating about the filth, the discomfort, the lack of hot chow when…

  I woke up lying on my side, buried under equipment, my ears ringing, a horrific pain pounding through my skull, smoke burning my nose and mouth.

  The rear hatch of the Bradley was flung open. The sudden light blinded me. O’Brien and Washington scrambled in and grabbed the straps of my load-bearing equipment. They dragged me through the dirt to the side of the road. Soldiers ran beside us, yelling that the Bradley was about to catch fire.

  The warmth and sounds of the world receded from me. I became very cold. One of my squad members was laid next to me. It was Specialist Price, who looked wasted and pale despite the fact that he was a muscle head and blacker than Miles Davis.

  A UH-60 landed beside us. Dust blasted my face and I had to tell myself to close my eyes. I took
a seat on the left side of the cargo compartment, next to Price. The medics had him juiced up and an IV dangled from a bag hooked to a strut.

  We took off and I looked down on the squalor of Karbala.

  Price had seemed so frail. I thought that if I touched him, some of my life force would travel into him. I gripped his fingers. They were cold as Popsicles.

  I concentrated on pushing my energy through my hand into his. I’d keep Price alive with unrelenting willpower.

  I prayed. Don’t let him die.

  The UH-60 started its descent to the MASH landing pad.

  Price’s fingers curled against mine.

  He was alive.

  I rubbed Wendy’s fingers. I concentrated on pushing my energy into her. I had kept Price alive, and back then I was only a human. Now, as a vampire, I had more power, more awareness of my psychic energy. I would keep Wendy alive.

  I put my other hand on her forehead. The more of me that touched her, the more power I could transmit from my body into hers.

  The med tech pushed my hand off Wendy’s forehead. The woman frowned, admonishing me not to touch.

  I kept my other hand hidden under the blanket.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated.

  Death would not win.

  The helicopter banked to the right.

  Death would not win.

  The med tech shifted. She talked with great animation into her headset and scribbled on a notepad. Even through the lenses of her safety glasses, I could see a sheen creep over her eyes. She pushed a finger under the safety glasses to blot away the tears.

  My kundalini noir pulsed. A dull spark of dread ran up my spine.

  The med tech switched off the monitor and disconnected the wires. She removed the air-bag mask, reached for the blanket, and pulled it over Wendy’s face.

  The med tech looked at me and shook her head.

  I gripped Wendy’s hand and sought for a signal, a twitch, anything that would say the medic was wrong.

  Wendy’s fingers remained cold and limp.