The Bad Hour lost its little dog shape, returning to that of living darkness. And just as it flowed toward them, about to encroach upon the barrier of Divine light that had been placed between it and its prey, there was a flurry of movement, and Remy saw Marlowe bounding to his aid.
Both the Bad Hour and Patricia reacted to the dog’s sudden appearance, recoiling from his frantic barking.
The Labrador charged at the Bad Hour, with not even the slightest hint of hesitation, his jaws snapping at the living shadow, attempting to bite the thing that was threatening his master.
“Marlowe, no!” Remy said, torn between leaving Jackie and going to his best friend’s side.
The living darkness swatted at the attacking beast, knocking Marlowe across the room where he landed upon his side. The Bad Hour surged at the Labrador, and Remy tensed to leap into the fray to prevent his dog from being harmed, when he heard another voice.
“Stop this,” Patricia commanded, a sudden strength in her voice that had not been evident before.
Marlowe jumped to his feet, moving back toward the kennel cages, the dogs within them still carrying on. The Bad Hour hung above him like a frozen wave of oil, its master’s command halting it in mid-attack.
The demonic entity spun angrily in the air, turning its fluid mass to confront the old woman.
“No more,” she said with a shake of her head. “This is done now. . . . We’re not going to hurt anybody else.”
The Bad Hour again transformed itself into the injured Petey, but Patricia looked away.
“Don’t show me that anymore,” she said. “Petey is gone, and as much as that hurts me to admit, nothing’s going to bring him back.”
The Bad Hour did not care to hear this, swirling around the older woman, trying to get her to look at it, trying to get her to reconsider her words.
But Patricia refused.
“I’m done with this,” she said. “Done with feeling this way . . . done with all the violence that my pain has caused. . . .”
The Bad Hour’s roar was deafening as it gripped the old woman in hands crafted in shadow.
“I’m done with you,” she said, looking into the bottomless hollows of its empty eyes.
Something seemed to pass between them, a conversation not meant for anyone else.
“I know there’s a price to pay,” the old woman said, still looking into its churning face. “I knew that when I called you to me, and it was a price I was willing to pay.
“And one that I’m still ready to pay to send you back to the Hell that I summoned you from.”
The Bad Hour roared once again, feeding upon the anger exuded by the older woman that had caused it to grow larger, and larger still. It held her in its nightmarish grasp as a terrible mouth formed upon its indistinct shape and it lowered itself down onto her, swallowing her up in one tremendous bite.
The thing of darkness hovered there above the kennel floor, digesting its latest meal.
Remy watched the shapeless thing, curious as to whether or not its hunger had been sated. The demon surged toward him with a thunderous growl, and a rush of air, but Remy stood his ground, still managing to keep the angelic power inside him under control.
The Bad Hour kept its distance, as if the glow of Heavenly fire radiating from Remy made it reconsider what it might do.
Then the revenge-fueled beast suddenly turned its amorphous head to one side, and with a sound akin to a chuckling laugh, the undulating mass of darkness seemed to collapse in upon itself until only the tiniest dot of the deepest black remained.
And that was soon gone as well.
Confident that he could now control it completely, Remy pulled back upon his angelic nature, quickly returning to his human guise, and checked on the health of the dog trainer. Her pulse was steady, and she didn’t appear to be physically injured in any way, but she moaned in the grip of delirium, repeating the words I’m sorry over and over again.
The dogs in the kennel had ceased their barking, as if sensing that the danger had passed, and Remy turned to see Marlowe cowering in the corner by the open back door as if preparing to flee.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Bad dog,” Marlowe said, hanging his head in shame.
“Why are you a bad dog?”
“Not listen,” Marlowe said. “Remy told Marlowe to stay . . . good dogs stay.”
Remy smiled, raising his hand to motion the dog to come to him.
“You’re not a bad dog,” Remy told the Labrador as he came, muscular tail wagging crazily. “You’re a very good dog.”
“No more school?” the dog asked.
“No more school,” Remy repeated with a laugh, the dog lovingly licking at his face and ears.
As only a good dog could.
Pirate Dave and the Captain’s Ghost
TONI L. P. KELNER
Toni L. P. Kelner coedits urban fantasy anthologies with Charlaine Harris—including the one in your hands right now. She is also the author of the “Where are they now?” mysteries and the Laura Fleming mysteries. Kelner was awarded a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for the Laura Fleming series, and an Agatha for Best Short Story. She’s also been nominated for the Anthony, the Macavity, and the Derringer awards. You can find more of her bragging on Facebook, on Twitter, and at www.tonilpkelner.com. “Pirate Dave and the Captain’s Ghost,” her contribution to this anthology, is the second short story featuring Joyce and her beau, Pirate Dave. “Pirate Dave’s Haunted Amusement Park” was published in the Harris/Kelner anthology Death’s Excellent Vacation.
“Hello?” I said into my phone. “Is that Pirate Dave, the hottest vampire to ever sail the seven seas?”
“Arrrr!” he growled in reply, which was a lot sexier than you might think. Or maybe growls are just more appealing to werewolves.
We indulged in a few moments of witty banter, then David said, “Not that I’m not delighted to hear your voice, Joyce, but I thought the full-moon run was tonight.”
“I went out for a while but the weather isn’t that great.” Before he could remember that the chance to run with other werewolves had been the part of the seminar I’d most been looking forward to, I said, “Have you looked over that list of ideas for the park?”
Our home and business was Pirate Dave’s Adventure Cove, an amusement park in Bartholomew Lake, New Hampshire. I adored the place, but it needed major updating to bring in more business. With the park closed for the winter, David and I had had plenty of time to discuss options. Unfortunately, those discussions could be awfully loud—fortunately, the makeup sex was worth it.
“I’m not docking the Brazen Mermaid,” he said flatly.
“Look at the numbers. When you add up insurance, maintenance, and operation costs, and compare that to how many guests actually ride—”
“How can we have a Pirate Dave without a Brazen Mermaid? It’s the park centerpiece. It’s on our logo!”
I sighed. “Fine. But check out my other ideas, okay?”
“I will. Tell me, how have you been getting along with the other wolves?”
“Good. Great. Making lots of friends. And today I found out how I became a werewolf.”
“Didn’t we already know that? You were bitten.”
“Yes, but it turns out that only people with were blood can Change after being bitten. Vanilla humans aren’t affected. Well, other than blood loss, scarring, and a newfound fear of canines, of course. But if the bitee has enough werewolf in the family tree, his or her body will try to Change at the next full moon.” I didn’t mention what happened if the person didn’t have enough were blood—the slideshow had been pretty gruesome.
“Then you have werewolf kin?”
“I guess so. I should find out where it came from.” My parents were dead, but there was a family Bible and other records.
David paused just long enough to be significant before asking, “Would finding your ancestry link you to a pack?”
“God, no! I’m still
footloose and fancy-free.”
“Ahem.”
“From the werewolf perspective, that is. No pack affiliation.”
“And nobody has been bothering you about that?”
“No, they’re all on their best behavior. With representatives from so many packs, they kind of have to be. Anyway, I haven’t had a problem with a single wolf.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. But I need to get going. There’s going to be a midnight buffet—”
“It’s only eight.”
“But sometimes they run out of food.” With werewolf metabolisms, especially when said werewolves had been on a run, that was definitely a possibility.
We exchanged mushy words, then I hung up with only the slightest twinge of guilt. I hadn’t exactly lied to David—the other werewolves really had started out friendly. It was the ghost of Captain Bob who didn’t like me, and it was only a matter of time before he found my cabin so he could haunt me some more.
—
The week had started out well, despite my initial qualms. Though I’d been a werewolf less than a year, I was already making waves in the Lupine-American community: I’d survived a bite, which was unusual; I’d refused to affiliate with a pack, which was unheard of; and I was living in glorious sin with a vampire, which was appalling. Given that, it hadn’t been easy to meet other werewolves.
And as much as I loved my red-hot, red-headed lover, I did occasionally want somebody else to talk to. Sure, I had human buds back in Boston, but there were so many things I couldn’t discuss with them that it was hard to keep a real relationship going. Plus I’d nearly starved when I tried to go out to brunch with some girlfriends—even at an all-you-can-eat place, they’d eaten next to nothing.
So when I got the letter inviting me to the Talbot Seminar, I didn’t hesitate. The annual weeklong event was sponsored by the Pack Council to help interpack relations and share what they called “wolfen wisdom,” so all packs were asked to send representatives. It had been decided that I was a pack of one, so I was representing myself. The politics didn’t interest me. What did was the chance to meet other werewolves, go on runs, eat without worrying about how my appetite looked to normals, and learn more about the supernatural world in which I’d found myself. Plus it was only a two-hour drive away, in Pine Tree, Vermont.
The venue was the Cahill Resort, an isolated, werewolf-owned operation. There was a big main building that held all the public spaces, and guest cabins nestled in the woods. The decor was big on logs and faux rustic accents. I had a cabin to myself, but didn’t plan to spend much time in it. I’d come to socialize. And at first, the seminar was everything I’d hoped it would be.
Sure, there was some curiosity from the other wolves, but it wasn’t overly rude. I didn’t mind talking about David, and when I pointed out the advantages of dating a man who’d spent centuries perfecting his techniques, some of the other wolves looked intrigued.
With that out of the way, we wolves compared notes, gossiped, and ate massive amounts openly. It was great. At least it was until the second day, when Dr. Angie Hogencamp took the stage in the auditorium.
Her program bio described her as a supernatural researcher, though I didn’t know if that meant she researched supernatural creatures, conducted research by supernatural means, or both. The first presentation was the aforementioned discussion on why some biting victims became werewolves and some didn’t, which was interesting, and the nasty slideshow didn’t stop us from enjoying a hefty mid-morning snack.
Then Dr. Hogencamp took the stage again for the second session. “We have a very special guest today. Captain Robert Antonelli, a former ferryboat captain from my hometown, is going to talk about his experiences.”
She stepped back from the podium and waved her hand, inviting the speaker to come forward. At first I thought the man had walked through an entrance in the back wall I hadn’t seen, but no, he’d walked through the wall. In fact, I could see the wall through him—he was translucent.
“Jesus,” I heard somebody behind me say. “It’s a ghost.”
I tried to look blasé, as if I encountered ghosts all the time, but the fact was I hadn’t even known there were ghosts. I was too new to the werewolf world to know which other supernatural denizens actually existed.
The ghost was tall, though hunched with age, with a weatherworn face and a bit of a potbelly. Though the nautical cap on his scraggly gray hair could have been from any age, his khakis and polo shirt were modern, so I guessed he hadn’t been dead that long.
“You can call me Captain Bob,” the ghost said, his voice surprisingly normal. He surveyed us as if looking over a particularly unimpressive batch of naval recruits. “The doc here invited me to come tell you what it means to be a dead man walking. Or floating.” He slowly lifted from the floor until the tips of his deck shoes were at the height of the microphone.
When he was satisfied he’d caused enough of a stir, he settled back down again on the floor of the platform and went on to describe his life after death, or maybe instead of death.
Ghostly abilities were pretty much as advertised: floating, walking through walls, making unearthly noises, appearing and disappearing. Some ghosts were big on haunting, ranging from being tied to a location but able to interact with people to just replaying a moment in time. Captain Bob seemed disdainful of what he called anchored spirits—he said he went wherever he wanted and could even appear however he wanted, as long as it was a look he’d had in life. He demonstrated by changing shirts and pants. On the other side of the spectrum, he seemed embarrassed to admit that he couldn’t affect the physical world the way some ghosts could—I had a hunch he would have enjoyed playing poltergeist-y tricks.
After he covered the basics, he invited questions, the first of which was from wolves afraid they were being secretly spied on by ghosts. Captain Bob leered a bit for form’s sake, but pointed out that werewolves could see ghosts and that there weren’t many free-range ghosts around.
Then came the question that caused me so much trouble. Shannon, a gal who liked the same TV shows that I did, said, “Can you tell us how you died?” I’d been wondering the same thing, but thought it might be impolite to ask—supernatural life has situations that aren’t discussed by Miss Manners.
Captain Bob said, “I’m happy to tell you—I want to put it out as a warning.”
The ghost’s appearance shifted, and instead of a normal see-through man, he looked like something out of a splatterpunk flick. His throat was so thoroughly savaged that his head was barely attached, and gore drenched his clothes. Only the lack of scent kept the auditorium full of werewolves from reacting to that much blood.
Captain Bob spoke, which just seemed wrong given the horrible damage. “This is how I looked just before I died. If you don’t remember anything else about this session, I want you to remember that this is what a vampire does to people.”
I froze, and I could tell most of the eyes in the auditorium were on me.
Being dead didn’t mean that Captain Bob couldn’t sense awkwardness, and when he looked at Dr. Hogencamp for an explanation, she whispered something in his ear. “For the love of God, what kind of woman would live with a vampire?” he demanded.
“That would be me,” I said.
The people to either side shrank away as Captain Bob wafted in my direction, his head bobbling along. I wouldn’t have expected werewolves to be so squeamish.
“Are you insane?” he asked.
“Is that a rhetorical question? Because if I were, I probably wouldn’t know it.”
“Then why are you living with a monster?”
“I’m a werewolf and you’re a ghost. It’s pretty much monster central casting around here.”
“There’s monsters, and then there’s monsters,” he said, as if that meant something. “How long do you think it’ll be before that bloodsucker does something like this to you?”
What was I supposed to say? A week from next Friday? “I
’ve already been bitten almost that badly.”
“You see? Vampires are killers!”
“Oh, it wasn’t a vampire who bit me. It was a werewolf.” The wolves around me suddenly found other places to look, and in retrospect, I realized it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to bring up. It wasn’t as if the other werewolves didn’t know that I’d been mauled by a rogue, but they didn’t like to have their noses rubbed in the fact. It embarrassed them.
I don’t know what stupid thing I’d have said next if Dr. Hogencamp hadn’t come fluttering down the aisle. “Captain Bob, please come back to the platform.” She was waving her arms as if she could blow him in the direction she wanted him to go. He seemed completely unaffected, but did go with her, though not without turning to glower at me.
Unsurprisingly, there were no further questions, so we broke for lunch.
I didn’t enjoy my food. Nobody spoke to me while I was in the buffet line, even though I was right behind a woman I’d traded iPhone apps with over breakfast, and when I went looking for a table, every chair was suddenly filled or saved for somebody else.
Eventually I found an empty table, and sat to choke down my lunch. Had I been human, I probably would have lost my appetite, but shunned or not, I was still a werewolf. Nonetheless, I only toyed with my second dessert, and looked up happily when I noticed somebody was standing next to me. The pleasure didn’t last long. It was that damned ghost. At least he’d changed back to his non-gross form.
“Fattening yourself up for the vampire?” he asked.
“Who are you calling fat, tubby?”
He sucked in his gut or performed some sort of ectoplasmic trick to make it look as if he had. “I want to talk to you.”
Since nobody else was lining up to chat, I said, “Pull up a seat.”
He glared at me.
“Sorry.” I pulled a chair out for him, and he floated into it as if actually sitting.
“Listen,” he said, “maybe I came on too strong before, but you don’t know what you’re dealing with. Vampires are vicious killing machines.”
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