by Tricia Owens
I didn’t laugh. “’The Wolf howls.’ Got it. Catch you around…Wolfie.”
He howled.
~~~~~
Windy Hook was a neighborhood in the east part of town, near the ocean but at a higher elevation than the rest of Victory City. It was what had saved the majority of its homes and businesses when the flooding struck.
I found the shop after a half hour of looking. It wasn’t actually in Windy Hook but balanced on its periphery, where the neighborhoods began to decline. The sign above the shop depicted an illustration of an alarm clock with an arrow pointing from it to a television set. IMT on Demand was painted in bold letters beneath the illustration. I did my best not to curl my lip as I stepped inside the shop.
At first glance, it resembled a regular retail shop, with shelves holding household goods and electronics. Everything appeared brand new and top of the line. Since no one was at the counter at the moment, I drifted along the aisles, checking out the wares. I picked up a toaster that looked like a toaster, but when I shook it, I heard a faint buzzing sound, as though a loose gear were spinning inside.
My inspection of a desk lamp showed me an odd, square kink in the electrical cord near its base that ninety-nine percent of people looking at it would miss. But I recognized the tiny signs of shoddy IMT work. As a non-graduate without a certificate, this could have been my place of employment.
I went to the counter. There were more shelves behind it, holding what appeared to be trade-ins which had been tagged with customer names and notes on what the final transfigured project should be. I was able to read one tag on a floor fan that indicated it should be transfigured into a countertop grill.
Beside the shelves was a doorway covered by a wrinkled curtain. The fabric hadn’t been pulled all the way shut and I could see beyond it into a large room filled with two long tables where people were hunched over, working on piles of what looked to me like junk. I didn’t feel like hanging around, waiting for someone to help me, so I rounded the counter and slipped behind the curtain as though I had every right to be there.
No one looked up at me except for a girl around my age. In front of her were piles of broken pieces of plastic and aluminum, and random bits and bobs like coils and bolts and tubing. A paper diagram of a handheld calculator was taped to the table at her elbow. The line between her eyebrows suggested she was completely bewildered by the schematic and relieved to be distracted by my entrance.
“Hey,” I greeted with a smile. “I’m looking for Juju. He told me to come find him.”
“Juju!” she shrieked, startling me into slapping at my belt where a carabiner hung that I could meddle into a weapon.
At the far end of the table, a head covered with dark dreadlocks jerked up. Thick glasses turned my way. “What?”
“Customer!” the girl shouted before bending over her pile of junk again.
“Who’s running the front?” Juju yelled back, but no one answered him so he sighed loudly. “What’re you trading in?” he called to me. “Just drop it off with a note or something. Jesus. Is it that difficult?”
Slightly intimidated by the attitude, I walked down to him. “I’m not dropping anything off,” I told him. He sat by himself at this end of the table, but I still lowered my voice. “The Wolf howls.”
He blinked large brown eyes at me from behind his thick lenses. I realized they weren’t normal glasses but were magnifying lenses. On the table before him, separated from mounds of broken and dirty toothbrushes, sat the makings of a small camera. The case was a pale turquoise blue streaked with bright yellow—the same colors of the used toothbrush handles.
“The Wolf what?” He impatiently shoved aside a loc that had fallen over his face. “Are you selling inhalants or something? We don’t do trades here. Cash only.”
“No. The Wolf—” Irritated, I pulled over a battered stool on wheels and sat on it so I could speak to Juju at his level. “Wolfgang Wagner sent me, alright? He said you could help me with something.”
“That kook?” He snorted and bent over the plastic camera. “Let me guess—you want me to transfigure a spy device for you. Or better yet, you want me to make you something that’ll make you invisible to military satellites.” He tossed back his head and yelled to the ceiling, “Next!”
“Listen, you jerk,” I snapped. “He sent me here because he said you know something about blood.”
The camera flew out of his hands and skittered off the other end of the table along with a handful of toothbrush handles. Juju didn’t seem to care as he stared at me with his magnified perception. “Did you say blood?”
His intensity made me wary for a new reason. I kept my hand near my carabiner, though there was plenty of potential weapons to be made in this IMT sweatshop.
“I’ve got a sample,” I told him after a quick look at the other four workers. None of them were paying us any attention. “I need you to take a look at it for anomalies. And I can pay,” I added, though by the eagerness that had come over his face at my speaking the world ‘sample’, I had the hunch he’d do it for free.
“I got a thing about studying blood,” he admitted to me.
“I can tell. Why is that?”
He just shrugged before grabbing my wrist. “Come with me.”
I let him drag me out of the work room and through another cloth-covered doorway into a small room. I pulled free and slowed to a stop, amazed.
“Are these all—your projects?”
Juju tripped over pieces of metal that looked like they might have been torn from a car and then he fell against a smashed washing machine before finding his balance against a halved dressmaker’s dummy. “Yeah,” he grunted as he forged through a shin-high sea of junk. “I try out all sorts of things and keep whatever the guys make that isn’t sellable. ‘Cuz you never know.”
“You never know what?”
“You never know when it may come in handy. I’m IMT, you know. Well, a novice. We all are.” He sent me a dark look. “You think someone with a real certificate would work in this chop shop?”
I grimaced as I imagined myself meddling imperfect objects out of garbage heap finds. “You don’t worry about being busted by the cops? Your work isn’t that good.”
“People who come here wanting us to transfigure a shoe into a steering wheel are fine with crappy work. They’d never report us. They need what we can do for them.” Juju struggled through the mounds of junk to reach a tall, blue box. “Besides, I got the blood to keep me going.”
“What does that mean?” I asked him as he opened a panel in the box and pulled out something that looked like a flare gun but with a compressed gas tank attached to it.
“Give me what you got.”
I tossed him the plastic bottle containing the blood from Dr. Day.
He stared at it. “Seriously?” With a disgusted shake of his head, he opened it and patiently waited for a gummy thread of blood to drop into the top of the gun. “Probably all sorts of contaminants,” I heard him mutter. “Good thing I’ve got a healing factor.”
That caught my attention, but before I could ask him about it, he raised the muzzle of the gun to his neck and pressed it against his skin and pulled the trigger. We both jerked at the loud pfft sound that came from the gun.
“What did you just do?” I demanded.
He shoved the gun back in the box while he rubbed at the red spot on his neck where he’d shot himself. “Jet gun. It’s not to spec, but it works just fine.”
“You injected blood from an unknown source into your body.” I shook my head. “Healing factor or no, that’s just suicidal.”
“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” He pointed to my right. “I shot myself up with all those, too, and I’m just fine.”
A few feet away stood a small, battered refrigerator. I opened its door and studied with dismay the racks of glass vials holding liquids that sat on the shelf within. Most of the liquids were dark red as I’d expect of human blood, but I was disturbed to note the vials of go
lden and green liquid. Those definitely hadn’t come out of a human.
After I’d shut the door again, I studied him dubiously. “You’re trying to become something else.”
“Trying to become better,” he corrected me smugly. He kicked at the junk around him. “You think I wanna be here fooling around with all this crap for the rest of my life? I guess you don’t know there’s a big market for enhanced blood and engineered DNA.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Lotsa stuff came out of the war, you know. Stuff that wasn’t supposed to get out. But leakers gonna leak and now there’s a whole market for war biologicals.”
“War biologicals meaning what? Like viruses?”
“Think bigger. Think monsters and stuff. Or superhumans.”
Or super witches, I thought as Rogette’s face came to mind. Or Code Evergreen.
“People say some of those things got out on the street, that they’re in hiding or mob guys are using them for enforcement, but I don’t believe it. Where you gonna hide a giant with ten eyeballs? That’s just talk.” Juju pointed at the injection mark on his neck. “It’s the small stuff that got out. The money’s in designer hybrids. Nobody’s interested in turning into a seven-foot ice demon, but come up with a way to gain a healing factor without having to make a baby? Yeah, there’s big money in that. So I need to find a way to market my biggest asset. To do that, I need to find that special mix, the one blood that magically combines with my blood to create marketable solid gold.”
“Plenty of doctors have tried to replicate the healing factor without success,” I told him, though I pointedly didn’t mention the DNA enhancements made on my grandmother. Those were supposed to be secret, and in a rarity, I agreed with not informing the public that such a thing was possible. “What makes you smarter than them?”
“Guarantee you they’re not injecting anything and everything into a guy with a healing factor to see what creates the perfect cocktail.”
“I hope not. Like I said, it’s suicidal.”
“Gotta take a risk for the big rewards. One day I’m gonna be harvesting my own blood and cashing in every time I do.” Juju shook out his arms again and then swayed. “Feeling funny.”
I studied him worriedly, noticing the sheen of his skin. “You look pale. Are you sweating?”
“I think…that blood you gave me…wasn’t clean.”
Juju pitched forward.
He couldn’t hit the floor since it was covered with so much junk, so he sort of slumped over a mound of objects and lay there in an ungainly heap.
I scrambled over the junk to reach him and carefully tipped him backward so he was mostly upright. Sweat streamed down his face and his skin was ashen. He groaned and then turned his head and promptly vomited.
“Shit,” he gasped after he’d purged. “Definitely poisoned.” He blearily focused on me. “You tryin’ to kill me?”
“Don’t be stupid. I’d be gone or you’d be dead if that were the case.” I looked quickly around the room. “What can I do? Do you have an antidote or—?”
He groaned in the negative as his eyes fell shut. “Just gonna ride it out. But I…wish I could—breathe. Can’t breathe. Going numb…” He passed out.
I shook him but he didn’t respond. “Juju!”
He began to convulse. It took all of my strength to control his limbs so he didn’t thrash them against the heavy metal objects around us and break bones. By the time he stilled, I was drenched in sweat and breathing hard. His pulse, when I finally managed to find it in his throat, barely tickled my fingers. He was going to die any second.
It would have been smart to sneak out of the shop and leave the mystery of his death for the authorities to figure out—something they probably wouldn’t bother with since Juju wasn’t considered a benefit to the citizenry. I was already blamed for two murders. This would ensure I received the death penalty no matter what.
But I couldn’t leave him like this, like a piece of trash thrown out with the garbage.
I kept him upright, and good thing, too, because he threw up again and would have choked and suffocated on it had he been lying down. Using a corner of his shirt, I cleaned his face, giving him at least the dignity of that. I watched my hand shake as I did it. As well as I was handling this, I’d never held someone who was dying. I flashed back to Aaron Peerage and the look of hope in his eyes when he decided to trust me, and frustration brought a sting to my eyes.
“Don’t die, Juju,” I gritted out. “You still have more shitty cameras to meddle.”
Someone yelled for Juju from the workroom. I tensed and stared apprehensively at the cloth-covered doorway. As the curtain was swept aside, I tried to imagine how this must look—
“Shit…” Juju groaned.
I jerked, startled, and looked down at him as his eyes opened. Just then, one of the other workers poked their head into the room. The guy’s eyes bulged. “Yo, Juju, what’re you doing on the floor?”
“I’m dying, what do you think?” Juju muttered. He sat up gingerly.
His co-worker gaped, unsure whether or not to believe him. “Uh, customer is here.”
“Then deal with ‘em! Shit. I gotta do everything around here? I’m not the boss.”
“Sorry,” the guy squeaked and ducked out again.
I leaned away from Juju but not far. I was afraid he’d pass out again. “You okay?”
“That took longer than usual,” he mumbled. He smacked his lips and made a face. “Blech! What’s that taste?”
“You threw up. I thought you were going to die.”
“Don’t tell anyone, but I thought I was going to, too.” He laughed weakly. Color seemed to be returning to his cheeks. “But never count out a guy with a healing factor. Ugh. Puke everywhere. Get me away from it.”
He struggled to stand, and although I didn’t think it was a good idea, I helped him up and kept close in case he keeled over. Since I was familiar with how healing factors worked, though, I could tell within a few seconds that his was working as it should.
Juju took a deep breath as if luxuriating in the ability to breathe freely again. Then his face fell. “Damn. That sucked. I didn’t pick up any cool powers.” He scratched at his arm, turning the skin red. “Probably no use testing myself, either. That blood was dirty.”
“What do you think was wrong with it?”
Juju shuddered as if in remembrance of what he’d just barely survived. “Definitely poisoned. Whoever you got that from—I bet he’s dead, and not in a pretty way, either.”
I pictured again the bite marks on Dr. Day’s throat. I’d assumed that the Count hadn’t completed his feeding because he’d been spoked by someone or something. But what if he’d stopped because he’d tasted the poison in Day’s blood?
“What would this poison do to a vampire, do you think?”
Juju took his time in answering. I could tell he was trying to figure out my angle. “What’s this got to do with them?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Juju scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Guess you’re right. As to what poison could do to one…vampires don’t breathe, so they wouldn’t suffocate, but the poison would slow them down. Make them weaker, so they’d be more like a human when it came to strength. Easier to kill. The trick would be in getting them to drink it before they noticed the blood was bad.” He snorted. “But that’d be crazy, trying to kill a vampire. They’re mean suckers. You’d get just one shot.”
I nodded absently. One shot had been taken and it had failed. Who would the Count target in retribution?
Chapter 6
Elliott yawned as he brushed his hair. He’d slept hard after coming off last night’s shift thanks to the sleeping inhalant Tower supplied him with, but he probably shouldn’t have paired it with a beer. He felt like he could lay down and sleep for at least another hour.
“Next day off, I’m sleeping all day,” he promised his reflection. But he’d skip the beer. That had been a stupid att
empt to take his mind off what had happened last night.
When his hair was tamed, he reached for his nametag to clip it on his shirt and nearly yelled when pale fingers curved over his hands and took the tag from him.
“Allow me, pet,” purred a male voice from behind him. “Yesterday, you pinned it crookedly.”
Elliott spun and pressed his back to the dresser as the Count loomed over him. “What are you doing here?”
The other male smirked as he reached forward. Elliott was too stunned to move as he felt dexterous fingers pin his nametag to his shirt. But the Count’s fingers lingered, stroking across the fabric, feeling the muscle of Elliott’s pectoral.
“Don’t,” Elliott whimpered.
“Why not?” the vampire asked in a low voice. His dark eyes were gripping, but he hadn’t put Elliott in thrall to him. They both knew the supernatural compulsion was no longer necessary between them. Resisting the vampire took superhuman strength, and Elliott was very aware of how weak he was. Weakness was his middle name. Especially when it came to the Count.
“You’re p-playing with me,” Elliott stammered, though he forgot why that was bad when the vampire’s fingers drifted up to his throat and caressed the side of his neck. Without even realizing it, Elliott tipped his head to the side, baring more of his skin to the vampire’s touch.
“Maybe I am.” The Count’s black eyes were searing, but still, they didn’t hold compulsion. It was a small victory in Elliott’s mind, and he was proud.
But keeping the vampire in this state would only prolong the tension between them and as eager as Elliott was to finally explore the energy between them, this wasn’t the time. He was due to begin his shift with Arrow.
“I have to work,” he gasped out and then moaned as fingers stroked across his fluttering pulse. “Arrow w-will be here any minute.”
The hand vanished from his skin. Freed, Elliott opened eyes he’d been unaware of closing and straightened up. The Count was across the room, standing beside Elliott’s bed, though the vampire didn’t appear interested in it.