Hair of the Wolf (2 page)

1977

***

Peter Criss

Peter held the baby boy, rocking him gently. Sunlight warmed the steps of the church. This wasn’t the first time he had been in this situation. Peter was just one of many supernaturals who worked together to create an underground railroad of protection for orphaned children with special needs. The priest looked at the two of them, eyebrows raised. “Aren’t you that cat man from the band Kiss?”

Peter nodded. “I’m also a Felinthrope. I know that you provide protection. Coyote sent me to you. This boy needs protection. He needs a home.”

“Why does he need a home? What has become of his family?”

Peter stroked the boy’s check, calming him to sleep. “He is a shifter that didn’t carry the bloodline. His pack cannot protect him. They are mostly dead.”

The priest rocked back on his heels as his eyebrows went up. “No wonder you came to us.”

Peter nodded. “The church can protect him. We cannot. If we keep him in the community of the supernatural, he will be known for what he is. He will be used for what he can be. His destiny needs to be his own. He needs a chance to grow as a normal boy.”

Reaching out, the priest took the baby boy. “What is the child’s name?”

Peter blinked. “No clue. Uh … I’ve always liked the name Ian. And maybe, since I’m into rock … Stone?”

The priest nodded. “He will be cared for and protected.”

***

Lilith

Lilith savored the shape of events to come, anticipating the story’s unfolding with relish.

It started, where most stories paradoxically start, not at the beginning but long before. But in the case of this story, it also started in two places. With two individuals. Yet despite the vast miles that separated the two critical events, those tied to them were more intertwined than a double-helix strand of DNA. One helix, a vampire’s destiny, carried through a bloodline; the other, an angel’s. Two stories, divorced by time, space, and more … inexorably linked.

And Loki was playing right into her hands. She could taste the conflict with the Gray Ones. The supernaturals who were beyond death, beyond the control of the Sisters of Fate … Besting the Gray Ones was a must, of course, but she would emerge the dominant divinity. So few of them were left. Only the clever gods had made it this far. History was a vicious bitch, and it was felling them all in its inexorable course. All but her.

Delicacy would be her byword. This war would take a toll, and each battle would be key, and in each battle were individual conflicts. Conflict … How easy it would be to lose the personal stories in the heat of rage and blood. But the stories, the lives, the prayers, that was where she and Loki derived their power. But Loki … the Angel was the key to Loki’s survival, and she had made sure that the trickster god, by his own hand, had sealed his own Fate.

New York glittered below her throne in the night’s clouds. The show was about to begin.

***

Elizabeth Bathory

Elizabeth straightened the lapels of her white polyester suit. Her rich, dark curls cascaded down her back, bouncing as she walked. The suit, straight out of
Saturday Night Fever,
shimmered as she strutted down the dark street. Despite the shadowy alleys lurking between stately gray high-rises, each trying to feign nonchalance, she walked by unconcerned.

Her hips swayed from side to side as she walked, daring the nightlife to come out and play. Most of the worst cutthroats and night crawlers had the sense to stay hidden. They fancied themselves predators, but they were bottom feeders. New York streets at night had a living feeling to them, that pulse-quickening quality also shared by predators and prey. No. Shared between predators and prey.

Those intuitive or sensitive enough could feel the untamed, hungry heart of the Night emerge. To Elizabeth, the bond had no real meaning. A time when she had to understand the prey, when she had to think like the prey, had never been, nor would it ever be.

She was the Night, capital N. Blood from a thousand virgins, and one immortal, had kept her young and powerful throughout the centuries. And her hungers, her lusts, had not diminished. On wings of seduction and guile, she floated through the streets, till she came upon what she was seeking.

Before the gaping mouth of one darkened alley, she saw feral promise in the glass shards of a broken streetlamp. She glanced up at the jagged teeth of the shattered light, running her tongue over her lips and briefly revealing fangs.

Yes,
she thought,
this will do nicely.

Walking into the alley, she stepped to the left, letting the shadows envelope her. Growling greeted her distantly, a soft echo from the far end of the darkness.

The growl came from around a dimly lit corner. Hmm. Now this was interesting. She had found another predator in here, though not of her kind.

There was a mugging in progress down the alley. Four street thugs, all in their mid-twenties, stood surrounding what appeared to be a family of three. Predatory instinct was obviously lacking in them, and they had chosen the alley for ease and apparent invisibility. Dirty to a man, the muggers were grimy from the wear and tear of life on the streets. Grey clothing, which might have once been white, or just as easily black, adorned them. None of them was clean shaven, ranging from scruffy to scraggly full bearded. Bathory smiled. Bottom feeders. Focusing further on, she turned her attention to the family instead.

A woman with flowing dark red tresses, in her early twenties, stood protectively in front of a man holding a child. She was wearing a tie-dyed sweater, sun dress, and high heels, obviously dressed for a night out, but her stance and physical tone gave lie to the outfit. She was a fighter, and experienced.

The man was in his late twenties, perhaps even early thirties, and dressed in bellbottom jeans and a flannel work shirt. The lines of his face were strong and chiseled, handsome even, but he had a rough look about him, like someone used to physical labor. Curly light brown locks, almost dirty blond, framed a deeply tanned face. His arms were wrapped around a toddler, an incongruous sight for the time of night. Who brings a child out for a night on the town?

The three of them were backed up against a Dumpster, with the claustrophobically tight walls of the buildings hemming them in on either side. The four dark-clad muggers were spread around them, herding the victims towards the dead end.

Elizabeth smiled to herself. It was bad planning on the mugger’s parts. Always leave an untested opponent a difficult way out, that didn’t require going through you.

The trapped girl illustrated the reasoning behind that point. Her growl deepened to something bestial. It went straight through the ear to a part of the brain that polite society had long since covered with decorum and etiquette. Eons ago, the human race somehow stumbled upright, and the parts of the brain that raged against the Night got covered by tea, manners, conversation, and other niceties. Elizabeth smiled as she watched that growl freeze the muggers.

A single heartbeat of inaction was all the woman in the tie-dyed outfit needed. Shadows blurred and the woman sprang forward. Watching from the mouth of the alley, Elizabeth saw the young man jerk, pulling the child close. Floral colors erupted into a whirlwind as the tie-dyed virago quickly swept the legs of one mugger, destroying his left kneecap with a loud crunch. As he went down, she sprang to the side, delivering a fierce uppercut to the second man. His knife clattered to the ground as his jaw shattered. Mugger number three peed his pants, turned around, and ran for it.

He never even saw the clawed hand reach out of the shadows. One moment he was running, the next he was on the ground, sans throat. Elizabeth was intrigued by this werewolf who didn’t use her claws.

The woman spun to face the shadows. “Smell you, Vampire.” Her voice came out gravelly, half growling.

Elizabeth stepped out of the shadows, frowning as she glared at the lapel of her suit. “Do you know how impossible it is to get blood out of white polyester? This suit is ruined. Simply unacceptable.”

“You!” Spat the other woman. Her body blurred slightly as fur grew out from the back of her hands. Her fingers lengthened and nasty claws sprang out, shinning despite the dark. Despite the shifting of her body, she still only stood 5'6". Finally the claws were out. “I remember your smell. Decay. Death. Milk and honey. Sweet rot.”

“Good,” the Vampire idly flicked at the blood. It was a surprise to run into Tabitha here on the streets of New York. This wolf pup was one that was marked for torture. “You should remember me. And I must say, I’m pleased at how much control you are showing over the change. I haven’t seen one as young as you with that much finesse in my four hundred years. I’ve only heard rumors of one; a thousand years ago. Good for you youngling!”

“Bitch. Kill you.”

“Now, now. When I slaughtered your family in front of you, it wasn’t so that you could throw your life away this early. Mature some. Learn. Refine your skills, my pet.”

The werewolf launched herself at the vampire.

***

Loki the Coyote

Morning fog gathered around the God, obscuring him. Pain and disillusionment flavored the air, the reek of a young man disenfranchised with his lot in life.

The alley … Loki whispered to the fog.

Glancing furtively around, the boy paused, trying to pierce the depths of the waiting corridor.

There was a resonance between this alley here in London and the alley in New York. That bitch Lilith was controlling New York, only she wasn’t. She forced Loki to use his powers, draining his essence, while she sat and watched. He grinned. She was awesome.

Focusing on a memory, Loki stretched his fingers out. The ghost of a pearl appeared in his palm, coalescing from the fog. He blew gently on it. Candescent lights flared in the pearl in response to his breath, and the stone dissipated into dust drifting down the alley.

Loki couldn’t return the Angel’s memories in full without alerting Lilith, and he was sure she was at least partially right. The Angel’s corruption, the madness, would be purged with his memories being stolen. But he needed the roots of who he was.

Loki smiled softly as the dust vanished. The fog pulsed and shadows peeled away. The pearl, fully formed, drifted through the air until it settled gently in Loki’s outstretched palm.

***

Skid

Skid stood in the mouth of the alley that ran behind the Westminster Chapel. His languid gaze casually strolled both ways, trying to pierce the damp fog that shrouded the London nightlife around him. He couldn’t see any cozzers patrolling the area, not that Old Bill was all that bright; if he couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see him. He grinned.

A manky trollop quickly walked past him, speeding her pace near the mouth of the alley, wrapped in a thick fake fur coat with her shoulders slumped. She gave the impression that she was ragged and beaten, and didn’t care enough to show her wares on this cold night.

Her jaded and tired eyes quickly looked him up and down—sizing him up as she passed. But she saw only a fourteen-year-old scrote wearing torn jeans, a ripped shirt, and a frayed gray trench. To top it all off was a mop of unruly black hair that made him look like he had just been jolted by a live battery. He was definitely not a punter to her, at least not for a few more years.

Then she looked back to the pavement before her feet, not wanting to stare too long—afraid of baiting him into attacking her.

He thought about rolling her for a moment, but shrugged the idea off. Juicing the street walkers always pissed off the pimps, and they were real trouble. Those guys where colder than ice and they would as soon slit your throat as look at you. Besides, she had obviously been at her job for far too long and was losing what looks she may have once had. The hag probably wouldn’t have much dough on her anyway.

The slags were always fairly broke—but they stayed alive because there was always some guy who couldn’t afford to buy anything better. Skid laughed quietly to himself, thinking about how dulled the streets made the world seem, especially at night.

Once she was a bit further down the block, he reached into the depths of his faded and beaten trench pulling out two cans of stolen spray paint. One was black and the other red. Now, to do the job that he was really here to do. He turned into the beckoning corridor.

The alleyway was dank and smelly. The fog was dampening everything there, and as a result a fine layer of dew was covering the trash. The added moistness only made the trash rot—which added to the putrid stench. Skid grimaced and tried to only breathe through his mouth. He was used to the smell of decay that seemed to go along with the dreary world he lived in, but something about this particular alley and this particular night was really bad.

As thoughts ran through his head about the tagging he was about to do, adrenaline started pumping into his blood, and he began to get a bit giddy, which made it easier to ignore the fetid smell. Tagging the house of God. There was no act deemed greater in Skid’s skewed reality.

Skid hated God, and his hatred coursed and flowed in his veins with a dark passion love could never equal. He had grown up mostly in orphanages and Catholic charity boarding schools. His parents hadn’t wanted him, so had given him up—and he hated them too for not loving him. As a young boy Skid had been naturally trusting and full of love to those around him. In a lot of ways, betrayed love built a much stronger hate than malice alone ever could. And Skid felt betrayed by a lot of people in his life.

But the lord of mankind held a special place in Skid’s hurting heart.…The way he figured it his heart was no worse than anyone else’s. After all, look at all the messed up things people do to each other every day. He had witnessed enough of them first hand to know just how people could use each other. But God he definitely hated most of all.

It was hatred so deep even Lucifer Morningstar would envy it and place it on display for all in Hell to see. God had hurt Skid more than any other. God had given him every piece of pain in his life. Every shard of Skid’s shattered soul, every wasted tear, shed only to mingle with his own blood, was God’s responsibility.