The Urban Fantasy Anthology

by Peter S. Beagle; Joe R. Lansdale

  You can get out of bed now, and you do, but you can’t leave the room. You howl, but if Jonathan’s here, if he hears you, he doesn’t come.

  There’s no food in the room. You left the master bathroom toilet seat up, by chance, so there’s water, full of interesting smells. That’s good. And there are shoes to chew on, but they offer neither nourishment nor any real comfort. You’re hungry. You’re lonely. You’re afraid. You can smell Jonathan in the room—in the shoes, in the sheets, in the clothing in the closet—but Jonathan himself won’t come, no matter how much you howl.

  And then, finally, the door opens. It’s Jonathan. “Jessie,” he says. “Poor Jessie. You must be so hungry; I’m sorry.” He’s carrying your leash; he takes your collar out of your underwear drawer and puts it on you and attaches the leash, and you think you’re going for a walk now. You’re ecstatic. Jonathan’s going to walk you again. Jonathan still loves you.

  “Let’s go outside, Jess,” he says, and you dutifully trot down the stairs to the front door. But instead he says, “Jessie, this way. Come on, girl,” and leads you on your leash to the family room at the back of the house, to the sliding glass doors that open onto the back yard. You’re confused, but you do what Jonathan says. You’re desperate to please him. Even if he’s no longer quite Stella’s husband, he’s still Jessie’s alpha.

  He leads you into the backyard. There’s a metal pole in the middle of the backyard. That didn’t used to be there. Your canine mind wonders if it’s a new toy. You trot up and sniff it, cautiously, and as you do, Jonathan clips one end of your leash onto a ring in the top of the pole.

  You yip in alarm. You can’t move far; it’s not that long a leash. You strain against the pole, the leash, the collar, but none of them give; the harder you pull, the harder the choke collar makes it for you to breathe. Jonathan’s still next to you, stroking you, calm, reassuring. “It’s okay, Jess. I’ll bring you food and water, all right? You’ll be fine out here. It’s just for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll go for a nice long walk, I promise.”

  Your ears perk up at “walk,” but you still whimper. Jonathan brings your food and water bowls outside and puts them within reach.

  You’re so glad to have the food that you can’t think about being lonely or afraid. You gobble your Alpo, and Jonathan strokes your fur and tells you what a good dog you are, what a beautiful dog, and you think maybe everything’s going to be all right, because he hasn’t stroked you this much in months, hasn’t spent so much time talking to you, admiring you.

  Then he goes inside again. You strain towards the house, as much as the choke collar will let you. You catch occasional glimpses of Jonathan, who seems to be cleaning. Here he is dusting the picture frames; here he is running the vacuum cleaner. Now he’s cooking—beef stroganoff, you can smell it—and now he’s lighting candles in the dining room.

  You start to whimper. You whimper even more loudly when a car pulls into the driveway on the other side of the house, but you stop when you hear a female voice, because you want to hear what it says.

  “…so terrible that your wife left you. You must be devastated.”

  “Yes, I am. But I’m sure she’s back in Europe now, with her family. Here, let me show you the house.” And when he shows her the family room, you see her: in her twenties, with long black hair and perfect skin. And you see how Jonathan looks at her, and you start to howl in earnest.

  “Jesus,” Jonathan’s guest says, peering out at you through the dusk. “What the hell is that? A wolf?”

  “My sister’s dog,” Jonathan says. “Husky-wolfhound mix. I’m taking care of her while my sister’s away on business. She can’t hurt you: don’t be afraid.” And he touches the woman’s shoulder to silence her fear, and she turns towards him, and they walk into the dining room. And then, after a while, the bedroom light flicks on, and you hear laughter and other noises, and you start to howl again.

  You howl all night, but Jonathan doesn’t come outside. The neighbors yell at Jonathan a few times—Shut that dog up, goddammit!—but Jonathan will never come outside again. You’re going to die here, tethered to this stake.

  But you don’t. Towards dawn you finally stop howling; you curl up and sleep, exhausted, and when you wake up the sun’s higher and Jonathan’s coming through the open glass doors. He’s carrying another dish of Alpo, and he smells of soap and shampoo. You can’t smell the woman on him.

  You growl anyway, because you’re hurt and confused. “Jessie,” he says. “Jessie, it’s all right. Poor, beautiful Jessie. I’ve been mean to you, haven’t I? I’m so sorry.”

  He does sound sorry, truly sorry. You eat the Alpo, and he strokes you, the same way he did last night, and then he unsnaps your leash from the pole and says, “Okay, Jess, through the gate into the driveway, okay? We’re going for a ride.”

  You don’t want to go for a ride. You want to go for a walk. Jonathan promised you a walk. You growl.

  “Jessie! Into the car, now! We’re going to another meadow, Jess. It’s farther away than our old one, but someone told me he saw rabbits there, and he said it’s really big. You’d like to explore a new place, wouldn’t you?”

  You don’t want to go to a new meadow. You want to go to the old meadow, the one where you know the smell of every tree and rock. You growl again.

  “Jessie, you’re being a very bad dog! Now get in the car. Don’t make me call Animal Control.”

  You whine. You’re scared of Animal Control, the people who wanted to take you away so long ago, when you lived in that other county. You know that Animal Control kills a lot of animals, in that county and in this one, and if you die as a wolf, you’ll stay a wolf. They’d never know about Stella. As Jessie, you’d have no way to protect yourself except your teeth, and that would only get you killed faster.

  So you get into the car, although you’re trembling.

  In the car, Jonathan seems more cheerful. “Good Jessie. Good girl. We’ll go to the new meadow and chase balls now, eh? It’s a big meadow. You’ll be able to run a long way.” And he tosses a new tennis ball into the backseat, and you chew on it, happily, and the car drives along, traffic whizzing past. When you lift your head from chewing on the ball, you can see trees, so you put your head back down, satisfied, and resume chewing. And then the car stops, and Jonathan opens the door for you, and you hop out, holding your ball in your mouth.

  This isn’t a meadow. You’re in the parking lot of a low concrete building that reeks of excrement and disinfectant and fear, fear, and from the building you hear barking and howling, screams of misery, and in the parking lot are parked two white Animal Control trucks.

  You panic. You drop your tennis ball and try to run, but Jonathan has the leash, and he starts dragging you inside the building, and you can’t breathe because of the choke collar. You cough, gasping, trying to howl. “Don’t fight, Jessie. Don’t fight me. Everything’s all right.”

  Everything’s not all right. You can smell Jonathan’s desperation, can taste your own, and you should be stronger than he is but you can’t breathe, and he’s saying, “Jessie, don’t bite me, it will be worse if you bite me, Jessie,” and the screams of horror still swirl from the building and you’re at the door now, someone’s opened the door for Jonathan, someone says, “Let me help you with that dog,” and you’re scrabbling on the concrete, trying to dig your claws into the sidewalk just outside the door, but there’s no purchase, and they’ve dragged you inside, onto the linoleum, and everywhere are the smells and sounds of terror. Above your own whimpering you hear Jonathan saying, “She jumped the fence and threatened my girlfriend, and then she tried to bite me, so I have no choice, it’s such a shame, she’s always been such a good dog, but in good conscience I can’t—”

  You start to howl, because he’s lying, lying, you never did any of that!

  Now you’re surrounded by people, a man and two women, all wearing colorful cotton smocks that smell, although faintly, of dog shit and cat pee. They’re putting a muzzle on yo
u, and even though you can hardly think through your fear—and your pain, because Jonathan’s walked back out the door, gotten into the car, and driven away, Jonathan’s left you here—even with all of that, you know you don’t dare bite or snap. You know your only hope is in being a good dog, in acting as submissive as possible. So you whimper, crawl along on your stomach, try to roll over on your back to show your belly, but you can’t, because of the leash.

  “Hey,” one of the women says. The man’s left. She bends down to stroke you. “Oh, God, she’s so scared. Look at her.”

  “Poor thing,” the other woman says. “She’s beautiful.”

  “I know.”

  “Looks like a wolf mix.”

  “I know.” The first woman sighs and scratches your ears, and you whimper and wag your tail and try to lick her hand through the muzzle. Take me home, you’d tell her if you could talk. Take me home with you. You’ll be my alpha, and I’ll love you forever. I’m a good dog.

  The woman who’s scratching you says wistfully, “We could adopt her out in a minute, I bet.”

  “Not with that history. Not if she’s a biter. Not even if we had room. You know that.”

  “I know.” The voice is very quiet. “Wish I could take her myself, though.”

  “Take home a biter? Lily, you have kids!”

  Lily sighs. “Yeah, I know. Makes me sick, that’s all.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that. Come on, let’s get this over with. Did Mark go to get the room ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. What’d the owner say her name was?”

  “Stella.”

  “Okay. Here, give me the leash. Stella, come. Come on, Stella.”

  The voice is sad, gentle, loving, and you want to follow it, but you fight every step, anyway, until Lily and her friend have to drag you past the cages of other dogs, who start barking and howling again, whose cries are pure terror, pure loss. You can hear cats grieving, somewhere else in the building, and you can smell the room at the end of the hall, the room to which you’re getting inexorably closer. You smell the man named Mark behind the door, and you smell medicine, and you smell the fear of the animals who’ve been taken to that room before you. But overpowering everything else is the worst smell, the smell that makes you bare your teeth in the muzzle and pull against the choke collar and scrabble again, helplessly, for a purchase you can’t get on the concrete floor: the pervasive, metallic stench of death.

  The Coldest Girl in Coldtown

  Holly Black

  Matilda was drunk, but then she was always drunk anymore. Dizzy drunk. Stumbling drunk. Stupid drunk. Whatever kind of drunk she could get.

  The man she stood with snaked his hand around her back, warm fingers digging into her side as he pulled her closer. He and his friend with the open-necked shirt grinned down at her like underage equaled dumb, and dumb equaled gullible enough to sleep with them.

  She thought they might just be right.

  “You want to have a party back at my place?” the man asked. He’d told her his name was Mark, but his friend kept slipping up and calling him by a name that started with a D. Maybe Dan or Dave. They had been smuggling her drinks from the bar whenever they went outside to smoke—drinks mixed sickly sweet that dripped down her throat like candy.

  “Sure,” she said, grinding her cigarette against the brick wall. She missed the hot ash in her hand, but concentrated on the alcoholic numbness turning her limbs to lead. Smiled. “Can we pick up more beer?”

  They exchanged an obnoxious glance she pretended not to notice. The friend—he called himself Ben—looked at her glassy eyes and her cold-flushed cheeks. Her sloppy hair. He probably made guesses about a troubled home life. She hoped so.

  “You’re not going to get sick on us?” he asked. Just out of the hot bar, beads of sweat had collected in the hollow of his throat. The skin shimmered with each swallow.

  She shook her head to stop staring. “I’m barely tipsy,” she lied.

  “I’ve got plenty of stuff back at my place,” said MarkDanDave. Mardave, Matilda thought and giggled.

  “Buy me a 40,” she said. She knew it was stupid to go with them, but it was even stupider if she sobered up. “One of those wine coolers. They have them at the bodega on the corner. Otherwise, no party.”

  Both of the guys laughed. She tried to laugh with them even though she knew she wasn’t included in the joke. She was the joke. The trashy little slut. The girl who can be bought for a big fat wine cooler and three cranberry-andvodkas.

  “Okay, okay,” said Mardave.

  They walked down the street and she found herself leaning easily into the heat of their bodies, inhaling the sweat and iron scent. It would be easy for her to close her eyes and pretend Mardave was someone else, someone she wanted to be touched by, but she wouldn’t let herself soil her memories of Julian.

  They passed by a store with flat-screens in the window, each one showing different channels. One streamed video from Coldtown—a girl who went by the name Demonia made some kind of deal with one of the stations to show what it was really like behind the gates. She filmed the Eternal Ball, a party that started in 1998 and had gone on ceaselessly ever since. In the background, girls and boys in rubber harnesses swung through the air. They stopped occasionally, opening what looked like a modded hospital tube stuck on the inside of their arms just below the crook of the elbow. They twisted a knob and spilled blood into little paper cups for the partygoers. A boy who looked to be about nine, wearing a string of glowing beads around his neck, gulped down the contents of one of the cups and then licked the paper with a tongue as red as his eyes. The camera angle changed suddenly, veering up, and the viewers saw the domed top of the hall, full of cracked windows through which you could glimpse the stars.

  “I know where they are,” Mardave said. “I can see that building from my apartment.”

  “Aren’t you scared of living so close to the vampires?” she asked, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

  “We’ll protect you,” said Ben, smiling back at her.

  “We should do what other countries do and blow those corpses sky high,” Mardave said.

  Matilda bit her tongue not to point out that Europe’s vampire hunting led to the highest levels of infection in the world. So many of Belgium’s citizens were vampires that shops barely opened their doors until nightfall. The truce with Coldtown worked. Mostly.

  She didn’t care if Mardave hated vampires. She hated them too.

  When they got to the store, she waited outside to avoid getting carded and lit another cigarette with Julian’s silver lighter—the one she was going to give back to him in thirty-one days. Sitting down on the curb, she let the chill of the pavement deaden the backs of her thighs. Let it freeze her belly and frost her throat with ice that even liquor couldn’t melt.

  Hunger turned her stomach. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything solid without throwing it back up. Her mouth hungered for dark, rich feasts; her skin felt tight, like a seed thirsting to bloom. All she could trust herself to eat was smoke.

  When she was a little girl, vampires had been costumes for Halloween. They were the bad guys in movies, plastic fangs and polyester capes. They were Muppets on television, endlessly counting.

  Now she was the one who was counting. Fifty-seven days. Eighty-eight days. Eighty-eight nights.

  “Matilda?”

  She looked up and saw Dante saunter up to her, earbuds dangling out of his ears like he needed a soundtrack for everything he did. He wore a pair of skintight jeans and smoked a cigarette out of one of those long, movie-star holders. He looked pretentious as hell. “I’d almost given up on finding you.”

  “You should have started with the gutter,” she said, gesturing to the wet, clogged tide beneath her feet. “I take my gutter-dwelling very seriously.”

  “Seriously.” He pointed at her with the cigarette holder. “Even your mother thinks you’re dead. Julian’s crying ov
er you.”

  Matilda looked down and picked at the thread of her jeans. It hurt to think about Julian while waiting for Mardave and Ben. She was disgusted with herself, and she could only guess how disgusted he’d be. “I got Cold,” she said. “One of them bit me.”

  Dante nodded his head.

  That’s what they’d started calling it when the infection kicked in—Cold—because of how cold people’s skin became after they were bitten. And because of the way the poison in their veins caused them to crave heat and blood. One taste of human blood and the infection mutated. It killed the host and then raised it back up again, colder than before. Cold through and through, forever and ever.

  “I didn’t think you’d be alive,” he said.

  She hadn’t thought she’d make it this long either without giving in. But going it alone on the street was better than forcing her mother to choose between chaining her up in the basement or shipping her off to Coldtown. It was better, too, than taking the chance Matilda might get loose from the chains and attack people she loved. Stories like that were in the news all the time; almost as frequent as the ones about people who let vampires into their homes because they seemed so nice and clean-cut.

  “Then what are you doing looking for me?” she asked. Dante had lived down the street from her family for years, but they didn’t hang out. She’d wave to him as she mowed the lawn while he loaded his panel van with DJ equipment. He shouldn’t have been here.

  She looked back at the store window. Mardave and Ben were at the counter with a case of beer and her wine cooler. They were getting change from a clerk.

  “I was hoping you, er, wouldn’t be alive,” Dante said. “You’d be more help if you were dead.”

  She stood up, stumbling slightly. “Well, screw you too.”

  It took eighty-eight days for the venom to sweat out a person’s pores. She only had thirty-seven to go. Thirty-seven days to stay so drunk that she could ignore the buzz in her head that made her want to bite, rend, devour.