City Under the Moon (45 page)

“Get in the van, little boy,” she rasped. “I have candy—“

A terrible scream ripped through the speaker system.

Valenkov’s infant son lay splayed on the grass under the fake moon. His mouth hung agape and his little limbs thrashed as he choked on a helpless wail.

He rolled onto his side, and now they could see the fur sprouting on his back. His legs broke into canine form, his jaw swelled, his ears curled.

He came to all fours, shivered one last time and then howled at the moon. A werewolf in a diaper.

Tildascow racked the slide on her pistol.

She wobbled toward the airlock door, catching the wall to prevent a spill. The injuries to her face masked her emotions—if she had any—as she stepped through the door, steadied herself on the guardrail, and took aim at the child.

The baby werewolf hopped in a circle, yipping with self-discovery.

Lon looked away.

EPILOGUE

Magister Lon “Mythos” Toller

Lon Toller had always suspected that one day he’d discover his destiny,
and it would be a momentous and onerous one indeed. He knew that he
would be called upon to lead the unenlightened, and tasked with a
nigh-impossible challenge of ambiguous moralities. But he also knew
that bravery was forged between shades of grey.

—Opening passage from
Of Wolves and Men:

The Autobiography of Lon Mythos Toller

Lon Toller was an American hero.

The United States government was generous in its gratitude. Officials bestowed upon him their two highest civilian awards: the Presidential Medal of Freedom and the Congressional Gold Medal. They also expanded the scrawny occult section of the National Archives into the Lon Mythos Toller Wing (Lon legally changed his name so that his countless awards and medals weren’t besmirched with the loathsome moniker “Boris”). And the president took several opportunities to publically laud Lon and stoke his flourishing celebrity.

He became a symbol for the American spirit, the heroic face of the country’s triumph over the “Full Moon Massacre” (a title created by Fox News, which unfortunately stuck).

After a Herculean internal struggle, Lon decided to take just about every offer that came his way. A publishing house advanced him three million bucks
(Three! Million! Bucks!)
to write his account of the Full Moon Massacre. There were also endorsement deals from Nike, Gatorade, Cadillac, and Gillette (they digitally added scruff so it looked like he had something to shave); a lucrative multiplatform partnership with Apple to become the new face of their iPod commercials; and, coolest of all, a marketing deal with Wizards of the Coast, the publishers of
Magic: the Gathering
, which included a stake in the company and consultation on the game’s future expansions.

Hollywood called! Lon created and executive produced a syndicated pop culture show, “Lon Toller’s Grimoire Daily,” covering videogames, collectible card games, horror, fantasy, and vintage sci-fi. He also began working with a major film producer to develop a trilogy of movies about Demetrius Valenkov, and he presented at the Academy Awards. Best Picture, naturally.

These were but distractions, however.

For Lon had a greater calling, one that he alone could answer. His new resources had to be put to their proper use. He was compelled to learn more about the curse that had befallen the House of Drăculeşti and to prevent such evil from ever rising again. And he was still haunted by that portrait, hanging so prominently in Valenkov’s laboratory, of the beautiful Gypsy woman.

Indeed, his work was far from done.

His most intriguing offer of all came from a renowned university in Massachusetts, which offered him a professorship. Just imagine: a class full of students who
wanted
to listen to him lecture on the mysteries of the occult. He needed to brush up on his medieval witchcraft and Book of Revelations lore. Hell, if werewolves were real, what might he uncover next?

And which distinguished organization sent him a personalized invitation, written in deer’s blood calligraphy on weathered parchment? None other than the A
∴
A
∴
! (
The Arcanum Arcanorum
, thankyouverymuch). He was also consecrated
Magister Templi
in
The Order of the Silver Star
. You might not know what that means, but it’s a big-ass deal. His students would refer to him as “Magister Toller.” Had a ring to it.

As a signing bonus, Nike bought him a duplex townhouse in Brooklyn. His new home, christened
Solomonari Manor,
served as both living quarters and business offices for his Solomonari Corporation. This all happened before he even went back to visit Ohio for his personal effects (of which his hand-painted pewter miniatures were his primary concern). He created a trust for his mom that stepfucker Frank couldn’t touch, and he told her he’d be waiting whenever she was ready to break free. In the meantime, he hired a former Secret Service agent as her personal security guard.

Shockingly, Lon escaped the Full Moon Massacre with no major injuries. Just a couple of cuts and bruises, some minor frostbite and, of course, extreme exhaustion. They kept him in a hospital for a week, but all he needed was some good sleep.

He awoke to a phone call from the president, who was on live television to thank him on behalf of the entire nation.

But Lon only had one person on his mind: Elizabeth.

She was, after all, the love of his life. Sure, Agent Tildascow had tempted him for a moment in the heat of the battle. In another life, they’d probably have made a go of it. But Lon’s heart forever belonged to his bitch witch Elizabeth. Love triangles were always messy, but he would let Tildascow down easy.

Cell service was out, and Elizabeth had no landline. Since Lon was a national hero, the president sent an official state car to her home at Broome & Orchard, along with a full-time nurse to look after Mrs. Golden while Elizabeth would be gone.

Lon waited impatiently for word that his dark beauty was safe. He passed hours scanning Nike and Apple catalogs, but still he received no word of his gothic goddess. His mind wandered toward the maudlin; if Elizabeth had perished before they’d had a chance to taste each other’s physical pleasures, he would forever be tormented by the tragedy of their doomed love.

And then, late into the evening of January the fourth, a perplexed and grateful Elizabeth Anne arrived at Nassau University Medical Center, escorted by Secret Service and a crew from Entertainment Tonight. Lon struggled from his bed to greet his love in person at last. That she towered more than a foot above him was… discomforting, but their love knew no obstacles. They kissed and held hands while Lon listened to her haunting tale of terror and hope.

When Elizabeth finished her narrative, Lon asked for her hand in marriage.

Then everybody had to leave so they could get busy.

FBI Special Agent Brianna Tildascow

Tildascow’s concussion was so severe that she underwent an emergency craniotomy to relieve hemorrhaging in her brain. She was provided the best neurosurgeons in the country, and each of them remarked at her outstanding recuperation, often shooting distrustful glances at her DARPA overseers.

When the time came to return to the field, she passed her psych evals on her first go-round.

But before that, she spent long hours in the hospital considering the state of Brianna Tildascow. The little girl who was turned into a predator. The predator who turned into a monster. The monster she still might become if she couldn’t hold on.

Ooo. It was all so… so…

So Vagina Monologues.

Tildascow did a lot of sighing in the hospital, waiting for some cosmic answer. But none ever came. Shouldn’t this episode have taught her something? Counterbalanced the loss of her parents? Healed those scars, dulled the pain?

And then
poof
, she’d be a “normal” person.

Right?

They offered her a wig to cover the scars while her hair grew back. She refused at first, but when she saw their judgmental looks (
yep, she’s gone crazy)
, she decided to go with it. No need to give any trickydick psychologist an excuse to keep her off her feet. She even picked out the curly blond one and said hi to Mom in the mirror.

After her release, she threw on some “normal person” clothes and took the train down to Washington to have lunch with Rebekkah Luft.

They laughed a lot, but their only common ground was the werewolf apocalypse and the time
before
. Not exactly levity in motion. But she managed to hold her tongue every time Luft called her “Brianna.”

After lunch, Tildascow made herself personable for a private meet and greet with the brass, where she shook the president’s hand and pocketed so many awards that she thought they’d made some of them up on the spot. The president laughed when she asked for his phone number, and, yeah, he might’ve gotten a bit uncomfortable when she pushed the issue. He finally gave her a line to his secretary, so mission accomplished.

She lied to Rebekkah Luft when she told her they’d do it again soon, and then she caught the last train back to New York. There was a stop less than a mile from her apartment in Hoboken, but she kept going. She felt like sleeping in the office, which had just re-opened after weeks of reconstruction.

Reading still gave her a headache, so she passed the train ride watching the winter’s last snow collect on the trees. It reminded her of that trip through Transylvania, with the werewolves howling in the forest. And then her cosmic answer came.

And the answer was Fuck It.

She
had
the life she wanted. Sure, it would’ve turned out differently under other circumstances, but now she was who she was and she fucking
liked
who she was. She’d wanted the drugs and the training and the procedures and she was looking forward to whatever goofiness DARPA threw at her next.

It’d be (
really
) nice if her next enemy wasn’t a supernatural monster, but no matter what came, she wanted to protect her home.

She wanted to get back to the hunt.

Yannic Ilecko

Ilecko awoke in a luxurious hospital, sunk into a warm nook in the most comfortable bed he’d ever laid upon. His first visitor was the Romanian Ambassador to the United States, Gheorghe Bălăceanu, who presented him with a medal.

It was a few weeks before he was released from the hospital, with a brace on his left knee and a cast on his right ankle. He went to physical therapy, during which a doctor asked him to do things that he normally did a hundred times within the course of a day. And for this he had to fill out endless amounts of paperwork. If only his hand had been broken, all of this writing would serve as therapy for that too.

There were more awards to come, many of which he was forced to accept over ridiculous dinners with politicians. Thankfully, Lon attended each of them by his side, working the media with a professional verve far removed from the self-defeating child he’d first met.

Lon would often ask what Violeta would think of people they met. He would have expected it to feel intrusive, but instead it was comforting. Lon came to know her so well that they could both speak her thoughts.

Slowly, his memories were cleansed of her death. In a manner of speaking, Violeta was blessedly returned to him.

He had money now, and new opportunities in America. There was no reason to return to his cold grave in Romania, so he donated his farm to a charity and sent money to ensure proper care for his animals. They sent a few things from his home, and then his old life was but a memory.

Every damn one of the Americans felt they were entitled to his time. Unfortunately, they did not speak the language of physical intimidation. They did not speak any language at all, in fact. They simply yelled at each other in English, without ever listening in return. Perhaps they learned this from their television programs, which were incapable of focusing on one image or conversation for a single considered moment.

He learned to appreciate the television for the electronic golf on his Nintendo Wii, a gift from Lon. The technology was beyond anything he’d ever seen—how they could put this money and effort into a time-wasting device was enough to make him grieve again for Zaharius and Demetrius Valenkov and their ignored plight.

And yet he could not deny the pleasure of watching the squat digital representation of himself cheer when his ball sank in the cup.

Lon helped him purchase a home in Brooklyn so they could be close to one another. Ilecko didn’t understand the legal details of such a transaction; the mortgage and insurance and taxes seemed unnecessarily complicated. Would they not be content to agree that the house cost a certain amount, and that amount was less than the government had awarded him? It should have been a simple issue of subtraction.

Often while Lon was busy, Ilecko would walk through the city of Brooklyn. One day he spotted a man giving rides on a horse-drawn carriage. It felt nice to see this reminder of his life in Romania. And so he asked the driver for information—it was interesting that Americans did not feel as though
he
was entitled to
their
time—and soon he took a job with the company. They paid him a modest amount of money—less than it cost for his monthly electricity, which was only important for his golf—but it gave him something to do. Lon convinced him to buy the company, which became another complicated legal matter and resulted still in less money than it cost for his monthly electricity.

Ilecko spent a great deal of time with the American woman while she recovered from her injuries. He still could not pronounce her last name, but she permitted him to call her “Brianna.” He appeared to be the only one with such a privilege. He did not know what was growing between them, but he wasn’t prepared to replace Violeta in his heart.

When he broached this subject with Brianna, her response was quite surprising, and not altogether unpleasant.

“That’s fine,” she said. “It’s not like I’m gonna
love
the shit out of you.”

President William Weston and America

Only hours after giving the command to murder a million souls, William Weston was branded as the country’s savior. He won the hearts and minds of the people with his frank talk about the losses in New York, verbalizing the peoples’ survivor’s guilt even as they silently basked in relief that the werewolves hadn’t reached their doorsteps. Soon his official portrait was commonly found in American homes, next to the vacation pictures, family portraits—and wolfsbane.

The Weston administration hardly emerged scot-free, however. There were questions about Valenkov’s visa and suspicions about his ulterior motives. The press demanded the opening of the sealed White House records while scrutinizing the official timeline, the involvement of each staff member and, particularly, the government’s potentially morbid contingency plans.