Moonshine

by Rob Thurman

  Let daytime TV sort it out. My concern was George and only George. To get her back, I would take any help Flay would give me and be grateful for it. Right up until George was safe and Flay a badly skinned rug on my bedroom floor. As he noticed my attention and met my gaze, I tapped my fork against the edge of my plate and gave him a smile cold enough to burn my lips. White eyebrows lowered and a lip lifted just enough to reveal one jagged tooth. Genius or idiot, either one would know what I was picturing doing with that fork. Niko was more than capable of killing someone with the most innocent of kitchen utensils. I don’t know if I could or not, but I was perfectly willing to throw myself into the spirit of experimentation and find out.

  “More beer!”

  Jaffer’s slurred voice shifted my attention. He was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled so far over his face that I could see only the faint glitter of his eyes and the wet shine of his nose, which seemed to be getting progressively more damp. I shook my head and hoped I wasn’t going to end up washing dishes before this was over. The alcohol tab alone was going to be staggering. “More beer it is.” I held up five fingers for the waitress, then pointed at an empty pitcher. “Cerberus doesn’t mind the liquid lunches?”

  “Not so much,” Fenrik grunted. “Most of our work is done at night. During the day we just make ourselves available in case anything comes up. Consider us on call.”

  “Like doctors,” Jaffer said with a happy slurp of tongue. The spray of saliva hit me all the way across the table and I reached for a napkin to blot my face.

  Yeah, just like doctors. All they were missing were the stethoscopes. Dropping the napkin, I looked to my right, where Lijah had finished his third steak while I was still working on my first. Thin as a rail, but damn if he couldn’t pack it away. “You guys been with Cerberus long?”

  There was a shrug of the lean shoulders. “Long enough. He’s a good Alpha, as long as you do what you’re told.” He said it with a confidence tinged faintly with uneasiness.

  “And do it well,” Mishka added glumly, raising a hand to reveal three missing fingers. Doing what you’re told was easy enough . . . if that’s what you wanted. Doing it well was sometimes a little harder.

  “Looks like you screwed up at least once there, Mish.” I pushed my plate away, my stomach tight with food. “Or Cerberus is seriously into the finger foods.”

  “Cerberus is a good Alpha,” Fenrik repeated stone-faced. “He gives many a chance that no other Kin would touch.” He pointed his own fork at me. “Many like you.”

  The thing was . . . it was true. Well, not that there were many quite like me, but I got his point. There were all sorts of monsters, layers upon layers and always one worse than the next. Monsters being monsters, there was also prejudice, blatant and severe. If you were different, in any way, someone would be happy to eat you for it. The nonhuman were completely honest in their hatred, no government mandate required. Cerberus was a change from the norm. Overcoming his own difference—by sheer force and a river of blood, I was guessing—he’d gathered other outsiders around him. And he’d made it work. He’d made the Kin accept him and his pack. That was one helluva feat, even for a cold-blooded Kin murderer.

  “You’re right,” I admitted as I reached for my wallet and turned it inside out over the table. “No one likes the Auphe. No one respects a human. And no one, but no one, wants to work with either one. Cerberus is the Alpha in my book.” I thumbed through the pile of cash. There was enough, barely, and I wedged it under an empty pitcher. “You guys finish up the beer. I’ve got some business to take care of.”

  “What kind of business?” Fenrik asked with immediate suspicion.

  I aimed a leer at the gaggle of waitresses by the bar. “Guess.”

  “Back . . . eight.” Flay scowled. “Business . . . too. Cerberus business.”

  “Eight. Gotcha.”

  “Human?” Mishka looked at the waitresses and made a hissing sound of disgust. “They’re soft. No fire.”

  “Hey, unlike your gals, humans are in heat all the time.” I tried for a Goodfellow tone, salacious and carnal. I’d heard it so often I could probably do a reasonable imitation in my sleep. “And they make a nice snack afterward.” Slapping the table, I headed out . . . just your average cannibalistic ladies’ man. Nothing to see here. Outside, lunchtime had faded into late afternoon. The sky was blue tinged with yellow, the air heavy and thick. It glued my jacket to me with a wallpaper paste of my own sweat. It would’ve been a relief to sink into the dubious air-conditioning of a taxi, but in this instance comfort would have to be sacrificed for caution. Wiping at the back of my neck, I trudged into the crowd and hopefully disappeared.

  The hostel room was several layers below disgusting. Or it had been. Now, thanks to my visitor, it was immaculately neat and as sterile as an operating room. Nik, only Nik. He couldn’t do anything about the bedspread and carpet of hideous, clashing colors that only a clown on acid could love or the junkyardcheap furniture, but the dirt was a different matter. He’d apparently scrubbed the place down with ruthless efficiency and an entire vat of bleach. I closed the door behind me and gave a low whistle. “Dr. Obsessive-compulsive, I presume.”

  “You stink of beer and red meat.” He sat cross-legged on the bed, a serene statue repeatedly tossing and catching his knife so quickly that it was a silver pinwheel spinning in the air before him.

  “Bonding with the boys.” I grabbed the desk chair and straddled it. “They ravaged my liver and then my wallet.”

  The long nose wrinkled fastidiously, but he let it go. “You weren’t followed?”

  “No.” Which was why I’d walked, taken the subway . . . doubled back at several stops, then walked some more. Rubbing at my eyes, I asked, “Promise or Robin get any information on Caleb or his crown?”

  “Not so far.” Catching his knife, he uncoiled and moved to the edge of the bed. Tapping my knee with the point of his throwing blade, he asked quietly, “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, dismissive. “So far I’ve just eaten steak and been hit with about a gallon of drool. Nothing to write home about.”

  There was one more tap, oddly reassuring; then the knife vanished. “And Cerberus?”

  I grimaced, caught in the lie. “I didn’t need a change of shorts, but it was a close thing. He’s a cold son of a bitch. Or they are. Hell, I don’t know.”

  “Ah.” His mouth twitched, Niko’s equivalent of a smug grin. “We may have come up empty on Caleb’s location or the history behind the crown, but getting a background on Cerberus was easily enough accomplished. He has no secrets he wishes to keep hidden—on the surface, anyway. And the word you’ve no doubt been searching for is ‘dicephalus.’ One body, two heads.”

  “Smart-ass.” The air of industrial-strength cleaner clung to the plastic and imitation wood of my chair and I swallowed a sneeze. At least it smelled clean . . . for the first time. I’d been staying at the hostel on the Bowery for two days now. I needed to be well and truly separated from the others if Cerberus did some cursory checking of his own. I could’ve stayed someplace a little more upscale, but I also wanted to give the impression I was in this for the money. Just your average working stiff willing to kill, mutilate, and wreak havoc for the Kin’s version of minimum wage.

  “How is Flay living up to his felonious end?” he asked, his austere features tightened with minute distaste. A traitor and a kidnapper’s accomplice—neither would appeal to my brother’s code of conduct, and Flay was both.

  “Believe it or not, pretty well.” I frowned, then straightened to shrug off my jacket and holster. A gun that size was good for one thing and one thing only, and carrying it under your armpit wasn’t that one thing. Massaging the chafed area through my shirt, I continued. “Either he’s smarter than we thought or he’s hell on wheels in the instinct department.”

  “It could be both. Either way, don’t be tempted to turn your back on him.”

  “Grandma, please,” I snorted. “Who are
you talking to here?”

  “You’ve been under too long already. You’re speaking like a thug.” He reconsidered dryly, “Then again, you’ve always spoken like a thug. That’s one thing we can’t lay at Caleb’s door.” Standing, he held out his hand. The throwing blade had reappeared to lie flat across his palm. “It’s balanced for you.”

  I took it and hefted it. Nik’s were normally featherlight, but this one was significantly heavier. Myself, I’d never owned one. I had my talents, but knife throwing wasn’t one of them. “How do you know?” I said skeptically. “I don’t use the toothpicks.”

  “It’s weighted for a beginner—a rank amateur. I believe that would cover you.” With a resigned exhalation, he patiently manipulated my hand into the correct position. “Not that it matters. This one isn’t designed to do much damage. All you have to do is hit something . . . anything with the tip. It’s silver-painted glass. Under that is a bit of electronic elegance that will let us know you need help.” Satisfied with my grip, he let go. “That you’re in trouble.”

  “Ye of little faith,” I said absently, tucking the altered blade away. He was right, though. There was little chance that I would find the crown, steal it, and make it out without running into some sort of trouble. We both knew it, and Niko had to know it from a powerless distance. “Thanks, Cyrano. Worse comes to worst, I’ll break it over my own head.”

  “It would be gratifying to see you use it for something,” he retorted, leaving no doubts to what he was referring.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Pushing the chair away, I headed to the bed and flopped onto my stomach. I was still chronically short on sleep. There were dreams. Dreams of red hair soaked with redder blood. I was tired. So goddamn tired. I pillowed my head on my arms, closed my eyes, and delivered the bad news, “There’s a job tonight. Eight. No idea what.”

  “Not unexpected.” His tone said “not unexpected, but certainly unwanted.” There was the light squeeze of fingers on my shoulder. “I’ll be there.” Niko already had the address of the warehouse from Flay. He would be able to follow us on whatever little job Cerberus had in mind. George wouldn’t thank me if I hurt someone innocent while trying to save her. And she would know. Hell, I would know. I rolled over and grimaced at the sight of a cockroach trundling happily across the wall.

  “Why didn’t she see it coming?” I asked abruptly.

  The change in subject didn’t throw him. Knowing Niko . . . or better yet, knowing Niko knowing me, I realized he had to have been aware the question was lurking in my mind somewhere. There was a moment of silence as he considered the question. “Difficult to say,” he said thoughtfully. “I would say that perhaps Georgina can’t ‘see’ herself. At the center of her own psychic nexus, there could be a natural blind spot that surrounds her. But . . .”

  “But what?” I prompted, when he paused.

  There was the warmth of affection underlying the next words. “But knowing Georgina, she most likely simply didn’t look.”

  Hadn’t looked. And the thing was, I knew that was exactly what had happened. I’d known it all along, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. If I admitted it, then I also had to admit that it could’ve been avoided. It meant that if George had managed to overcome that whole “what’s meant to be is meant to be” crap, even for just a minute, she might be safe now. If she had for once recognized like the rest of us that life was brutally short and mercilessly chaotic, she might have used a little goddamn common sense. She might be safe.

  Blaming George for her own kidnapping—how much of a bastard did that make me? Maybe I deserved those dreams. From the exhaustion creeping in, I wasn’t going to be able to avoid them much longer anyway. I rolled back over, subject closed. “Nap time. See you tonight, Nik.”

  “Doubtful.” The mock disdain was a shade less convincing than usual. “I’m the wind, invisible. Untouchable. Unknowable.” Then he made a subject change of his own. “How’s your arm?”

  “Fine,” I murmured, voice and thoughts equally thick. “What arm?”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  He might have said something further, but I was out.

  10

  I woke up to the near-simultaneous sounds of a quietly closing door and the less subdued beeping of the alarm clock. Spitting out a mouthful of bedspread, I silenced the squealing box on the bedside table with a slap. I rolled out of bed and trudged to the door to check the hall, but Niko was already gone. As he’d said . . . the wind. He’d stayed to watch over me while I slept, and I vaguely remembered the occasional touch to my shoulder that had brought me out of nightmares into blissfully empty sleep. He’d also left a present for me on the table beside the clock. Hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and a happily informative note telling me to clean my gangrenous arm before he was forced to chop it off. Brotherly love, the original sweet-and-sour dish.

  I did as I was told. Contrary I might be, but truthfully the wounds were reddened and puffy. And the last thing I needed was for an infection to slow me down while I was in the midst of the dog pound. First I showered and took care of my arm, and then I made my way back to the warehouse for my first day on the job. I couldn’t say that I was exactly showered with camaraderie when I stepped through the doors, but a beery burp and perfunctory growl instead of sincere ones let me know I was one of the gang. A handful of murderous lupines, and I had their acceptance. I didn’t want it, but I needed it. I needed it badly.

  What I didn’t need, however, was the foul and stinking breath ruffling the hair at my nape, but it was there all the same.

  “Do ya mind?” I snapped. “I’m half-human, and I need the oxygen, okay? Your funky stench isn’t quite satisfying the lungs.” It was a revenant. If you could say one thing about Cerberus, it was that he was down and dirty committed to the equal-opportunity concept. A revenant . . . Jesus. Forget their pleasing and well-rounded personalities for the moment; their stink alone could clear a city block. Eat the dead, smell like the dead; it was a logic that couldn’t be escaped. Not that they were above a warm meal once in a while. Dead was just a preference.

  There was a hiss like an angrily deflating balloon, but the heat retreated from the back of my neck. I felt the iron stiffness of my spine relax slightly. The situation was tense enough; it didn’t need poisonous gas emanating from this shithead’s filthy pores to make it worse. Cerberus had personally given us our marching orders for the night. It had been in the office again, but this time he was alone . . . except for his meal. The succubus was nowhere to be seen, which was too bad. Whether she would know any deep, dark secrets such as where Cerberus kept his jewelry box was questionable. The head honchos didn’t strike me as the types to spill the post-coital beans, but who knew? One thing I did know was that Goodfellow would be better qualified to find out. At the end of that exchange, if anyone were sucked dry of their life force, I’d bet my first Kin paycheck that it wouldn’t be Robin. A dirty job, he’d say, is the very best kind.

  My dirty job, a much less enjoyable one, was watching Cerberus eat. Wolves liked to eat, big surprise, almost as much as they liked mating and killing. They gave a new twist to the old adage: If you can’t eat it or screw it, you may as well kill it. Fine as far as it went, but wolves were of a mind to do at least two at once . . . if not all three. The whole species wasn’t psychotically bloodthirsty, not entirely. But as I watched a liver ripped from a gaping wound and shredded under bloodstained fangs, I found that truth hard to hold on to.

  Cerberus hadn’t completely changed to wolf form, which was too bad. That might not have been as disturbing. The hands had thickened and gnarled, sprouting claws and a fine downy coat of black hair. Teeth had elongated to fangs as thick as my thumb and half again as long. The two skulls had flattened into wicked wedges with overgrown jaws, low foreheads, and moist flaring nostrils. Otherwise, the mostly hairless faces and ferociously intelligent eyes still looked human. The body itself was nude and faintly sheened with the same misting of black hair found on the hands. T
he nudity was a combination of a wolf’s natural lack of shame and a convenient way to avoid ruining the expensive suit folded off to one side. Cerberus wasn’t what you’d consider a tidy eater. As the body crouched over its dinner, blood splattered onto its broad chest. Still, if it weren’t for the hands and faces, it would be possible to take them for men . . . hairy men, but just men. Yeah, let’s revisit disturbing. Disturbing just wasn’t doing the job in the description department. It was a night-and-day contrast to my morning meeting with the wolves. Cerberus had been all business then . . . coldly powerful and deadly, yes, but restrained. Now . . . now the savagery was so matter-of-fact, so casual, that you knew ripping apart a still-warm body was nothing more than supper, mundane as a tuna fish sandwich was to me.

  “I have business for you,” the head on the right spoke, the words dropping like stones from bloodstained lips.

  That wasn’t news. It was why we’d been called into the principal’s office, to get the details. But when the one on the left gave us those details, I wished I’d stayed in the hostel and played count-the-cockroach. I’d known it might be bad. Hell, I was the last one to wallow in delusions of optimism, but I hadn’t realized how grisly it could be. Would be. Swallowing the bile that burned bonfire hot in my throat, I exited the office with my partners in crime. Behind me the sounds of feeding resumed. There was one poor son of a bitch who should never have signed his donor card.

  And that’s how I ended up outside a homeless shelter picking out people to die.

  I was also wondering fairly frantically what Niko was going to do about it. A hard, painful grip on my injured arm ended my wondering for the moment. “Choose. Lazy,” Flay hissed in my ear. “Lazy . . . work.” If he was overheard, and with the wolf ears around us he would be, it would look as if Flay was only giving a slacker a boot in the ass. A slacker was better than a spy any day of the week. I jerked my arm out of his grip and did as ordered. I chose. Randomly. I couldn’t look at the people and I didn’t . . . only pointed at them and then the bus. The others, on the other hand, were selecting by size, wanting the plumpest of prize pigs. We’d brought a bus for the livestock; it was dingy white, beat-up, and old, but scrupulously clean. The story was that we were a charitable medical organization busing a lucky group of the homeless to a new free clinic in Brooklyn where they would be given a physical. The ones that were sick would be promptly treated, also at no charge, and all provided with a nutritious box dinner. Yeah, it was a load of crap, but it would work. It was working.