Moonshine

by Rob Thurman

  Flay shrugged, showing little interest in Robin’s business affairs. He was still wearing the baseball hat he’d picked up in Florida. It didn’t make him look any less deadly. “Mine now.”

  And who was I to argue with that? My body was craving more carb- and sugar-induced energy and I was reaching for a second bun when the phone rang. Niko had it in hand before I managed to drop the bear claw. I couldn’t deny a sliver of craven relief that he reached it before me. George was only a girl I knew, no more and no less, but I didn’t want to hear her pain. Not again. My sticky fingers clutched the edge of the table until the metal bit into my flesh. No, not again.

  Niko placed the receiver to his ear and his face hardened instantly. He listened for several minutes before saying remotely, “I understand.” He then hung up the phone with a violence that was so carefully restrained, it said volumes.

  “Caleb.” I didn’t bother to phrase it as a question.

  “Caleb,” he verified tightly. “We meet tonight.”

  “Did you talk to . . . ?” I didn’t finish, instead prying my fingers from the table and wiping the syrup on my sweats with studious attention.

  “No. I didn’t think it wise to push.”

  “You’re probably right.” He would have to keep her alive, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t be able to transfer her psychic abilities if she were . . . if she weren’t alive. I wiped harder. The goddamn syrup wouldn’t come off—as hard as I scrubbed. I stood jerkily with an anger far out of proportion to the situation and moved to the sink. Squirting dish detergent into my skin, I scoured my hands. “Where’s the meet?” I asked deliberately.

  “At that werewolf club, the one he pointed us toward for Boaz. I suppose he thinks he’ll have a better chance if we’re surrounded by those who don’t precisely love us.”

  He was right. The clientele there didn’t care for humans, Auphe hybrids, or Kin traitors. We’d have to be on our guard against not only Caleb but every other living creature in the building as well. “Gee, a challenge,” I commented with a darkly false cheer, watching the water wash over my skin. “I hope I have enough hardware to make it interesting for them. You have any more of those explosive rounds like you gave me for the bodach?”

  “I was saving it for your birthday,” he responded wryly, “but, yes, I have a few boxes.”

  “You’re better than Santa Claus.” I dried my hands and held on to the subject with something close to desperation. “What are you bringing to the party, Snowball?”

  Both arms and hands grew larger, bunching with muscle, hair lengthening to a pelt, as Flay raised a fist and punched four-inch talons through the wood of the table. The piece of furniture shivered and threatened to fold up like wet cardboard. “Elegant in its simplicity.” Niko nodded as we both looked under the table to play peekaboo with at least three inches of claw. “Inexpensive and you can take it through a metal detector.”

  I leaned on one end, stabilizing it as Flay pulled free. He took a large chunk of the wood with him. “And this is why we buy the cheap stuff.” I shook my head. It was all a good attempt at distraction and naturally it didn’t work worth shit. Giving it up, I asked somberly, “You’ll make the calls?”

  “I’ll notify Promise and Goodfellow,” Niko verified. “Go ahead and start gathering your weapons. Tonight will come sooner than you think.”

  I wasn’t sure which to hope for: that he was right and it would fly by or that he was wrong and it would creep. Either way, we were headed toward an uncertain ending and I didn’t know if I wanted to race toward it or drag my feet every step of the way. If only I could know what would happen—if only I could see . . . but I couldn’t.

  I wasn’t the psychic one.

  19

  It flew.

  The day was a blur, running on feet that scarcely touched the ground. I should’ve taken it as a sign. Good things take forever to come. Bad ones chase you down with a speed that leaves cheetahs in the dust.

  I was pulling on a black T-shirt when Promise came to the door of my bedroom. It stood ajar, but she gave a discreetly soft knock regardless. I grunted and she chose to translate that as “Come in.” Anyone else, I think, would’ve interpreted it along the lines of “Stay the hell out and mind your own damn business.” But, as I’d noticed many times before, Promise wasn’t just anyone.

  “Caliban, I have something for you.”

  “Really?” I slipped on the holster and filled it with an Eagle loaded with explosive rounds and the bodach knife, as it was now permanently labeled in my brain. “A happy ending maybe? I’d pay some big bucks to see one of those.”

  She wilted my sarcasm instantly with what she had coiled on her palm. Coming up beside me, she held out her cupped hand. In it was copper hair, woven into a tiny plait.

  I took a step back in silent denial.

  She snagged my arm with her other hand and held me still without mercy. “I know you’re quite good at running, little brother, but before you do so again I want you to think on something.” Her grip tightened. “Georgina wasn’t chosen because of you. It’s far more likely that you were chosen because of her. Caleb needed a psychic, and Georgina is the sun among the lesser stars when it comes to talent. That you and Niko have a different talent of your own, one that would help you find one of the crowns, was but a fortunate bonus to him.” Her hand traveled down my arm to my wrist. “You didn’t get her into this, Caliban. Try to remember that.”

  My wrist was then tugged toward her and she deftly tied the delicate twist of red hair around it. She said in a voice true and firm, “To keep close to your heart what you’re fighting for.”

  I touched it with a hesitant finger, then exhaled and dropped my hand. Grabbing a long-sleeved gray shirt off my bed, I shrugged into it, leaving it unbuttoned over the T-shirt. I’d chosen it to cover the shoulder holster, but it would cover something else as well. I pulled the sleeve down over my wrist. I didn’t have to see the bracelet, but I couldn’t do anything about the feel of it against my skin. As hard as I was working to keep her far, George kept creeping back. Stubborn for a girl who wasn’t even here.

  “Thanks,” I said woodenly. I didn’t even know myself if I meant it or not. Bracing a foot on the edge of my bed, I strapped on an ankle holster. “Want a gun? I have some extras.”

  “No, thank you. I’m happy with the weapons I already have.”

  I thought she meant her natural ones, fangs and uncanny agility, but when I looked up it was to see her holding a small but wicked-looking crossbow that had materialized from behind her. The weapon had been slung on her back with a tooled leather strap. It was an odd choice and I said so. “I thought that’s what people used on vamps, not vice versa.”

  “True.” She hefted it and sighted a distant spot on the wall. “But back in the day there tended to be so many lying about. Free. No self-respecting woman could pass up a bargain like that.” Unsaid was that there were the same number of dead vampire hunters lying about as well. “Of course no one believes in us in this enlightened age and I now have to purchase them, but it’s difficult to give up the familiar.”

  “Just don’t puncture Goodfellow’s ego with it,” I said as I jerked the leg of my jeans down over the holster.

  “I heard that,” snapped Robin’s voice from the living room. He then said in disbelief, “You did what?”

  I assumed he wasn’t talking to me with that last bit and I was right. When I entered the room, he was standing by the couch with his face shoved inches from Flay’s. The wolf was sprawled on the cushions and seemed unimpressed. “Over two hundred thousand dollars, you mangy cur. That tacky conglomeration of metal and plaid costs over two hundred thousand dollars, and I am not eating that wad of cash.”

  Flay gave an exaggerated yawn. “For Slay.”

  “Yes, I heard you the first time, and while I appreciate your desire for a playpen on wheels, I’m not footing the bill. Now where is the hrithia RV?” Goodfellow might have believed English among the best languages to curse i
n, but he made Greek sound nasty enough in its own right.

  About equally as nasty as the growl spilling from Flay. “For Slay. For son.”

  I had thought all along that Flay was showing a remarkable equanimity regarding his son’s kidnapping, and Caleb had had the kid for weeks longer than George. But it seemed that the wolf was simply good at hiding his pain. He was leaking emotion now, though. There were serious contents under pressure and they were about to explode all over Goodfellow.

  “Children, let us save our violence for someone more deserving.” Niko’s hand fastened on Robin’s shoulder and steered him firmly away.

  “I always have more than enough violence to share,” the puck informed us haughtily, but he allowed himself to be ushered off. He was still limping, but his leg had improved enough that he was going with us. Not that he didn’t bitch and moan and profess undying cowardice. He did . . . at great length. We paid no attention. It was just the Goodfellow way. In a fashion, it was calming. I wouldn’t say it compared to a lullaby or anything, but it was dependable. And in the knife-edged world we lived in, the dependable could be reassuring, soothing.

  It didn’t last. The bitching did—there was an infinite supply of that. But by the time we pulled up blocks away from Moonshine, I wasn’t in the mood to be soothed by anything or anyone. We’d driven past the werewolf club once and it was dark. We’d thought that there would be a crowd for Caleb to use against us, but the place appeared to be closed. Not surprisingly, I wasn’t reassured. I tightened my grip on my knife. I’d unsheathed it the second we’d gotten in the van and hadn’t turned loose of it yet. The van itself was the same one Robin had obtained for us previously, wolf dents and all. From behind the wheel, he’d given Flay a glare that burned with the searing power of a green-tinted laser. “In case you get any ideas, you leg-humping thief,” he’d offered between clenched teeth, “there’s a LoJack on this one. Drive all you want. I’ll find you.” I was beginning to think Goodfellow was more annoyed that someone dared steal from him, he who considered himself the ultimate thief, than at the actual loss of goods.

  After we parked, I was the last one out of the van. From the curious quirk of white eyebrows, I could tell that Flay had thought I would be the first . . . or, at the very least, fighting him for the honor. Sorry, Snowball, think again. In my mind, good things didn’t come to those who waited. No, I was more of the opinion that bad things couldn’t find you if you didn’t show up. Stupid and impractical, but for a second I embraced the theory. Maybe, deep down, you wanted them over, those things couched in bad expectations, but what would happen when expectations became reality? Caleb needed George alive, but who was to say what he might do if his back was to the wall? I had hundreds of guesses and not one of them was pleasant.

  I didn’t want to face the way this might go. I wasn’t too sure how long my little trip to denial land would last then. All that great, fun-time counterfeit calm that surrounded me might give up the ghost. No one wanted to be around when that happened—most especially me.

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped out onto the asphalt. One step and it felt like jumping from a plane with only the spit-handshake promise of a parachute. “Let’s go.”

  On the phone to Niko, Caleb hadn’t bothered to tell him to come alone. He was too wily for that, knew it wasn’t going to happen no matter what lies we told him. That combined with the closed club didn’t bode well. Caleb was a confident son of a bitch behind that literal shark grin, but he had the right to be. He’d turned Flay into a lapdog and had manipulated us from the beginning. Neither of those were particularly easy tasks, but he sure as hell made them look that way. Just because the club looked empty didn’t mean it was. Even if he didn’t know we’d found out what the crown could do, he would know we weren’t leaving without George and Flay’s kid.

  It was too bad he was somehow watching us so closely. It would’ve been nice to have Flay held in reserve. . . . As it was now, we had to hope Flay didn’t find his kid in the first two seconds and leave us in the lurch. And he’d probably take the van with him, LoJack or no.

  Promise took out the streetlights ahead of us as we moved. There would be the subdued twang of the crossbow, followed immediately by an explosive pop and the bell song of falling glass. It didn’t make it dark. In the city, nothing could do that, not a true darkness. But it did spread the shadows and we disappeared into them. By the time we reached the club no one could’ve seen us coming. Smelled us, yeah, if that’s the way you were built. Heard us? Possible, but not as likely. Seen us? No. Not even pale Flay, who was dressed in all black including a jacket with a hood pulled down low over his face. We were all good at hiding. Training, genetics, the skills of a hunter, the habits of a thief—whatever the reason, we knew our way around the night.

  Niko was going in the front carrying the crown. Flay and Promise were in the alley and Goodfellow and I were taking the back. Before I slithered off, my brother barred my path with his sword. Designed for night combat, the blade was coated black and I felt it rather than saw it. The flat of it rapped my shins smartly, halting me in my tracks. I had only the shine of his eyes to zero in on. The olive skin didn’t show and the lighter hair was covered by his own hood.

  “Do not do anything stupid,” came the warning, so faint it could only hope to grow up to be a whisper.

  Easier said than done, but I nodded and reached over his shoulder to tap him on the shoulder blade. He got the message instantly. Watch your back. I felt the familiar tug on my ponytail as his agreement and then he melted away. If anyone needed to watch his back, it was Caleb. Given the faintest of opportunities, Niko would cut him down like wheat. I only hoped I got to see it.

  In the back Goodfellow had already jimmied a window. There was no alarm system that I could see, but if there were one, Robin would have handled it and probably without breaking stride. He disappeared inside and I followed on his heels. I slid through and carefully placed feet on what felt like the surface of a desk. It was darker in here than outside and I relied on my sense of touch to find my way to the floor. I didn’t bother to try to catch the scent of anything. The place was so soaked with alcohol and the imprint of thousands of different creatures over time that there was no way to pick out one. Maybe Flay could—a wolf’s nose was more discerning than mine—but if Caleb was here, I couldn’t tell.

  I pulled a penlight from my pocket and shielded it with my palm. The trickle of red light that seeped past my flesh was just enough to tell we were in a storage room. The desk was actually an unopened crate. The space was full of boxes, some empty, some not. They were mostly containers of food or different types of alcohol. Goodfellow bent over one already-opened crate and reverently lifted out a bottle. In the gloom all I could see was that it was dusty, squat, and, to me, a complete waste of time.

  Moving toward the closed door, I elbowed him in the ribs. “Put it down,” I hissed.

  He gave a pained grimace but put it down with the same utmost care and pried reluctant fingers from its neck. “Do you know what that’s worth?” he whispered wistfully.

  “Not George’s life,” I answered with rigid control. I started to put my hand on the doorknob, then hesitated. Looking up, I considered the cheap tile ceiling and said slowly, “You think?”

  Goodfellow followed my gaze. “I do.” He grinned. “I do so think.”

  Alone I walked out into the tiny hall that was off the storage room. The floor was brown industrial carpet, the walls a dingy cream. Floating in the midst of the stale lanolin-colored paint was a single pristine handprint. Dark red, it hung about the height of my shoulder. Fresh enough that I could see its still-liquid shimmer, it was a grim halt signal frozen in time.

  It was too large; I knew it. That didn’t stop me from putting my hand beside it in measurement. It was the same size as mine, not small or delicate like George’s. My fingers pressed against the plaster, then fell away. No matter what the size, the blood could belong to anyone. It didn’t have to belong to the finger p
ainter who had left it.

  I moved on, leaving the lonely print behind. The carpet, stained beyond repair, kept my solitary footfalls silent. The hilt of the knife was fast in my hand with the blade lying flat against the underpart of my forearm. Appearing unarmed, if only for a moment, could lead attackers into believing you were vulnerable. It made them arrogant, and it made them careless. Arrogant I could do without, but careless I liked.

  As I slid up to another door off the hallway, I got my wish. My first opponent was careless, left himself wide open, and either didn’t notice or didn’t care that I had a knife. Despite all that, he put his all into taking me down. And I let him; I didn’t have much choice. The door was pushed open and something flashed through. Immediately following, searing pain tore though my calf and I fell on my hip. As I landed, I flipped the knife in my hand and sent it flying downward in one swift, continuous movement. I only managed to stop by millimeters the point from impaling the furry head. Feeling the cold steel ruffle across the top of his head didn’t faze Slay in the slightest. He continued to gnaw at my leg was if it were the choicest of soupbones.

  He wasn’t white like his father, but a shade of apricots and cream, with large liquid eyes that were rich as chocolate and twice as sugary sweet. That is, they were until you noticed your blood on his muzzle and the tatters of your pants tangled in needle-sharp baby fangs. Hands down, he was the cutest little flesh eater I’d seen, but I still needed my leg. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, I tried to pry him off. It didn’t work. He snapped again, and more nerve endings howled in pain. Swearing, I shook my leg hard and pulled harder. The small fangs sliced flesh as they went, but I finally managed to get him off. He snarled in pure disappointment and twisted in my grip. He weighed only forty or so pounds, but he was as slippery as a weasel and I nearly dropped him from my one-handed grip. Tucking the barrel of his body under my arm, I held him as still as possible and whispered firmly, “Hold still, you little fur ball. Your father sent me. He’s here. Flay’s here.”