Urban Allies: Ten Brand-New Collaborative Stories

by Joseph Nassise

  She carefully made her way up the creaking steps of the front porch, and wrinkled her nose at the smell of mold that had seeped into the fiber of the wood around her. She didn’t encounter that smell much in semi-arid Colorado. She could spend a day cataloguing Louisiana smells.

  Quickly, firmly, she knocked on the weathered front door before she could change her mind. If the guy answered with a shotgun in hand, she was fully prepared to run. Her werewolf healing meant a shotgun blast wouldn’t kill her. But it would still hurt. Likely Dwayne was a perfectly reasonable, grief-stricken young man. No need to go inventing horror stories around here.

  A white guy in his twenties opened the door. She recognized him from the old newspaper photo. He wore a gray T-shirt, scuffed jeans and sneakers, and had a cautious gaze. He held on to the edge of the door as he looked Kitty up and down. He did not appear to be holding a shotgun.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi. Are you Dwayne Fontaine?”

  “Yeah?” His caution deepened; he probably didn’t like the idea of strangers showing up knowing his name.

  “I’m sorry, I just wanted to offer my condolences. I’m really sorry about the loss of your friend.”

  “What?” the guy said, apparently startled.

  “Your friend, James. The car fire. My husband and I reported the accident, and I found out it was your car he was driving, and I’m really sorry.”

  “Oh. Um. Thanks. Who are you again?”

  “My name’s Kitty Norville, I host a late-night talk radio show.” She offered a business card. She always kept a few in her pocket for such occasions. A nice card with the KNOB logo on it lent a startling amount of authority. “I don’t really know how to explain this, but I think something weird’s going on with your friend’s accident. Some things about the scene—well, they didn’t make a whole lot of sense. I thought I’d track a couple of things down. You know, for my own curiosity. Was he into anything weird? Or, like, supernatural?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And he didn’t. His brow was furrowed. “Like, ghosts or some shit?” He had a strong Southern drawl that didn’t seem to fit with the expletive.

  “Can I come in?” she said and proceeded to push her way in. As she hoped, Dwayne stepped aside and reflexively closed the door behind her.

  The house’s front room was that of a typical midtwenties bachelor: secondhand sofa, worn coffee table bearing a few scattered beer cans, hardwood floor that was probably a decade past needing a good refinish. The large flat-screen TV was by far the nicest, most expensive thing here. She was betting the house was a rental. An air conditioner rattled out back.

  “Thanks for talking to me,” she continued quickly, trying to win him over. “I know this is intrusive. But I’m kind of serious. Did the police tell you that James had been killed before the fire started?”

  “What?”

  “Just based on some things I saw there”—no need to explain to him that she’d actually smelled it—“and I can’t leave stuff like this alone, my husband’s always getting after me about sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I figure if I can help—”

  “What are you tryin’ to say?”

  She took a deep breath. “Was he into anything that might have gotten him killed in a . . . weird way?”

  Dwayne’s expression shut down. He started sweating, a thick tang of fear rolling off him, and his heartbeat sped up. What was he scared of? Was the thing that killed Nunez after him as well? Had the thing gone after the car, and not Nunez?

  Kitty remembered the strange woman, and all the hideous signs of murder.

  But Fontaine was done talking to her. “I reckon you oughta get on out of here and talk to the cops about this.”

  “Why? Is there something the police should know?”

  “I don’t know anything about it, ma’am.” The guy was nervous. Like, really nervous. Sweating buckets, even in the air-conditioning. His lips were pressed in an angry line. There was a story here; she could always tell.

  Frowning, he stepped past her to open the door. And a scent from outside intruded, more than the damp and the mold and the background of swamp and vegetation. That cold, living dead smell that made her hackles jump. That same smell from the car fire.

  Well. This was going to be interesting.

  “Thanks again for talking to me,” she said. “And I really am sorry.”

  She stepped out and Fontaine slammed the door after her, muttering curses under his breath.

  Which left her looking across the dirt drive to the skinny, punked-out woman from the coroner’s office, leaning on the hood of Kitty’s sedan, her arms crossed, and a look of joyous murder in her pale eyes.

  The front door opened and Kitty Norville stepped out. Her gaze locked onto Angel, strong and sure. Angel tensed for an attack—whether physical or verbal—but Kitty simply gave her a bright smile.

  “Hi!” Kitty said as she descended the steps.

  “Er, hi,” Angel replied, scowling at herself for being caught off guard by congeniality, of all things. This was the South, for chrissakes. Then again, there was caution in Kitty’s eyes, so it wasn’t all fun and games.

  “My name’s Kitty,” she said, still smiling though it was clear she was sizing Angel up. She tilted her head. “And you are . . . ?”

  “I’m Angel.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Do you get teased by the other werewolves with that name?”

  “I do actually,” Kitty replied without a flicker of hesitation. “They’re just insecure.”

  “Uh-huh.” She gave Kitty her own once-over. “I saw you out at the crime scene.”

  “Yeah. We called it in.” Kitty’s smile didn’t change, but a note of caution laced her voice. “But you already know that, given your job.” Her stance shifted, back tensing. “A lot of bodies in your line of work.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen lots of dead people.” Angel stepped closer. “Y’know, I thought at first you might’ve done it.”

  Kitty didn’t sprout fur in response to the accusation, but a subtle change came over her bearing. Her smile widened to show teeth, and her shoulders lifted, giving the impression of raised hackles.

  Yep, she’s a werewolf, Angel thought, pulse quickening.

  Kitty held up her hands, fingers bent like claws. “Wanna check my fingernails for blood?”

  Angel held her ground and returned a tight smile. “I figure you’d have licked them clean by now.” She casually pulled a packet of protein gel from the side pocket of her cargo pants. If this was going to turn into monster vs. monster, she was going to need a little help. “Why are you here?” She gestured toward Dwayne’s house, kept her eyes on Kitty as she sucked the contents of the packet down. The best kind of protein: pureed brains, and exactly the boost Angel needed in case this bitch decided to go full werewolf.

  Kitty’s eyes widened on the “protein gel.” “What is that? What are you—that’s human! Oh my god, you’re . . . What the hell are you?”

  Angel blinked. “Huh. Thought your doggie nose would’ve figured it out by now.”

  “Wolf, thank you.”

  “I’m a zombie.” Angel shrugged. “Why the hell do you think I work in a morgue?”

  Kitty stared in disbelief. “Zombie?” She shook her head. “The last zombie I met was the Haitian voodoo slave kind. You’re saying you’re like the brain-eating shambling kind? I thought that was only in the movies.”

  “Yeah, well I thought werewolves were only in the movies. And I only shamble when I haven’t had brains in a while. Or coffee.” Angel scowled and tugged a hand through her hair. “Look, did you kill Jimmy or not? Because if you did, that’s way uncool. And if you didn’t, I wanna find out who did.”

  “I thought maybe you did it. I mean, you don’t exactly smell . . . right,” Kitty replied. “Then you set the fire to cover it up.”

  Angel laughed. “Oh, no. His skull was still intact. If I’d done it, I’d have taken the brain. ‘Waste not want not,’ and
all that shit.”

  A pained look swept over Kitty’s face, and she put a hand to her head. “So you eat people. Should I be worried?”

  “Nah, your brain smells funny,” Angel said, wrinkling her nose. “Besides, I get plenty from the morgue—after people are legit dead. You’re safe from me.”

  “Coffee,” Kitty said as if seizing a lifeline. “You mentioned coffee. Is there anywhere around here we can get some and maybe hash this out like normal people?”

  “I know just the place,” Angel said, then grinned. “Good thing you didn’t want a beer. Sounds like a bad joke. A zombie and a werewolf walk into a bar . . .” She stopped at Kitty’s look and cleared her throat. “How ’bout you just follow me.”

  Angel eyed Kitty over her mug. The “monster” took her coffee with lots of cream.

  “Does Maylene often throw flowerpots at Dwayne?” Kitty asked.

  “Only when they fight,” Angel said, then gave a wry smile. The two women had spent the last ten minutes exchanging notes, and were now trying to make sense of it all. “Which means at least once a month. Though it’s not always flowerpots. Just whatever’s closest and throwable.” She snorted. “Welcome to the deep South.”

  “Oh, it’s not just the South,” Kitty said. “We have plenty of redneck drama in Colorado. My husband’s father’s in jail on weapons and conspiracy charges.”

  “Good to know it’s universal.” Angel wrinkled her nose. “You said Dwayne was a fidgety wreck when you talked to him?”

  Kitty nodded. “He was afraid. Sweating. He didn’t like that I was asking questions.” She tilted her head. “Is it possible he was involved in some sort of illegal activity? Jimmy was driving Dwayne’s car . . .”

  “You think maybe Jimmy was killed by mistake, and it was supposed to be Dwayne?” Angel tugged a hand through her already rumpled hair. “Shit. I guess anything’s possible, though Dwayne’s always seemed like a real straight arrow.”

  “Even straight arrows get blown off course,” Kitty pointed out.

  “True.” Angel shifted in her seat. “I, uh, can put out some feelers about what kind of stuff he might’ve gotten into.” She swirled the coffee in her mug before taking a sip.

  “There are rumors of an . . . underground mob-type organization around here,” Kitty said.

  Angel spluttered her coffee, then grinned as she grabbed a napkin. “You sure dug deep to hear those rumors.” When Kitty merely gave her a bland look, Angel continued, “Trust me, Dwayne’s not involved with them.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Completely.” Angel met Kitty’s eyes. “They’re my version of a wolfpack. I used to call them the zombie mafia. We look out for each other.”

  “Huh. Well, how about that?” Kitty said.

  “That said, there are plenty of other ways Dwayne could’ve gotten in over his head,” Angel said. “God knows he ain’t rich.”

  “And doesn’t Maylene want a big wedding?” Kitty sat back and gave the waitress—“Hazel Lou” according to her nametag—a smile as she refilled their coffee.

  Angel made a face. “Ugh. Yes. Six bridesmaids—so far—and a couple of weeks ago I heard that she was angling for a string quartet and live doves.”

  Hazel Lou hmmfed as she dropped fresh sugar packets into the bowl on the table. “Live doves? Guess now I know why she up and decided to have an outdoor wedding in the middle of July.”

  Angel looked up with a frown. “Wait. I thought she was using Motel Deux Banquet Hall. She told me she gave them a deposit last week.”

  Hazel Lou set the coffeepot down. “Uh-huh, and three days ago she asked for it back. Lucky for her Jimmy Nunez—rest his soul—had just called asking if the Turkey Club could have their annual dinner there that same day she’d reserved, otherwise I can’t imagine Mr. Emmet would’ve given her any of her money back.”

  Kitty and Angel exchanged a look.

  “Could we have the check, please?” Angel asked Hazel Lou. As soon as the waitress walked off, both women leaned in and lowered their voices.

  Kitty said, “I’ve only been in Louisiana a couple of days and I’ve already sweated through my entire wardrobe. Maylene can’t have an outdoor wedding in July here.”

  “Right. No one is that insane,” Angel agreed.

  “So she asks for that deposit back before Dwayne runs over wanting to elope . . .” Her brow furrowed, making her look less monstrous.

  Angel tapped her hand on the table, thinking hard. The timing was so close—one event had to have triggered the other. “He must have gotten wind that something was up. Thought maybe she was getting cold feet.”

  “And he was hoping to rush her into getting married before things fell completely apart. So I’m guessing Jimmy wasn’t really going over to her house to patch things up between her and Dwayne, was he?” She got this narrow focus to her gaze, like she’d put puzzle pieces together.

  It was like she figured out this sort of thing all the time. “What’s your radio show about again?” Angel asked.

  Kitty donned a sly grin. She handed over a business card from her pocket like it was a habit. “I offer relationship advice to supernatural creatures. Like, if your vampire boyfriend is a pain in the neck? Turns out a lot of these problems are universal.”

  Angel arched a brow. The card had a radio station logo on one side, and the show title on the other: THE MIDNIGHT HOUR: TALK RADIO WITH BITE. Well, it took all kinds . . . “Werewolves, zombies . . . rednecks?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then what happened? Maylene got tired of Dwayne’s shit and set her sights on Jimmy?”

  “Or Jimmy set his sights on her. This might have been going on a long time and Maylene just couldn’t bring herself to break it off with Dwayne.”

  “And Dwayne found out,” Angel said, expression darkening. She had a sudden urge to get her hands around his good-ol’-boy neck.

  “And now he’s spooked,” Kitty said.

  “Grab him before he runs?”

  “Damn straight.”

  The two women lurched up from their chairs, threw bills onto the table, and ran for the door.

  Angel drove. Angel the zombie. Kitty still had a hard time wrapping her brain around that one—and wasn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? This second trip to Dwayne’s house went a lot faster than the first one, and she was ready to hunt.

  The crunch of their tires on the gravel driveway gave them away. Dwayne dashed from the back of the house in a sprint for the tree line when they were still a hundred yards from the house, and disappeared into the marsh before they were out of the car. It might have been Kitty’s imagination, but he seemed to be holding something that looked like a machete. Something anyone in these backwoods might own to hack back encroaching vegetation. Or, you know, to take out one’s frustrations on an old friend.

  Angel let out an impressive stream of curses. “We lost him!” She turned a worried look on Kitty. “What if he goes after Maylene now?”

  “I can track him,” Kitty said, also thinking of Maylene, who might have been confused and flighty but sure didn’t deserve what had happened to Jimmy. This Dwayne was an angry guy.

  “Wait. What?”

  “I mean, I’m pretty sure I can track him. I’ve never hunted in a swamp before, and I gotta tell you it smells kind of rank. But his trail’s fresh, he’s in a panic, shouldn’t be too hard.” In fact, she was already tracking. She’d gotten a pretty good whiff of the guy before. That scent formed a strong trail behind him. She pulled off her shirt and zipped down her jeans while Angel looked on, startled. Well, she’d just have to be startled.

  “You mean like some kind of a bloodhound?” Angel tugged a “protein gel” from her pocket and sucked the contents down. And there was another thing Kitty couldn’t quite wrap her brain around. Her head itched thinking of it.

  “Um. Sort of not really? Keep my clothes dry, would you?”

  “Sure thing. Got your back. Even if it’s . . . furry.”

 
Kitty’s bra and panties came off, and she folded the items neatly with the rest of the clothes. She placed a chain with a ring on it—a wedding band—carefully on top of the pile, patting it gently, fondly. She was unself-conscious, moving gracefully across the front yard, hands at her sides, poised on the balls of her feet like she was ready to run. Some kind of prehistoric hunting goddess, her blond hair loose and eyes gleaming. She loved the feeling of strength. Her vision was blurring into Wolf’s heightened senses.

  “You might not want to watch, this really squicks some people out,” she said. “Oh—and stay back. We wouldn’t want to confuse her.”

  “Her?”

  Despite the warning, Angel watched as Kitty’s skin seemed to blur. A million needle-pricks itched along her skin, fur sprouting. Pain clenched her limbs, bowed her back, and she grunted. Experience taught her that this hurt less if she let it wash through her, let the Wolf out of its cage in her gut, let it roar through her—

  She shakes off her skin and runs, four legs stretching, sinuous body reaching. She hunts, and the hunt feels good. Even if this isn’t home—home is hard ground, granite hills, endless pines, and air that smells of old ice. This place is wet, mud seeping up around the pads, making her feet itch and her gait stiff. The air here smells of moss and a million crawling things.

  None of that matters. This is a hunt, and through the thick mess of foreign smells, the prey’s scent is fresh and strong: tobacco smoke, alcohol, old rubber. Steel with old blood on it. She flies after the creature, sure of little but that he must be stopped.

  She is fast. Even splashing mud up on her belly, even with it caking on her fur and pulling at her, she flies. Her nose is up, depending more on the air than the ground to show her the trail. The smell is strong; the prey is so close she can hear it now as well as smell it: splashing along the path, knowing it’s being hunted, panicking.

  “Oh, Jesus! Gawdalmighty!”

  It changes course, like prey always does at this stage, angling as if it can distract her, dodge her. But she anticipates and zigs to keep pace, cutting off its new path. The prey screams. Cornered now, it turns to face her and lashes out, slashing with a weapon, sharp metal. She ducks. It catches her shoulder. She hardly notices. It’s not silver, so it doesn’t matter. Mouth open, tongue hanging out to taste air, she prepares to leap, mouth around throat, anticipating the wash of blood—