Hair of the Wolf (3 page)

Throughout his entire childhood the nuns had all beaten him for reasons he couldn’t understand. Three of the priests had used him and then, feeling guilty over the act, had him beaten for being the temptation that led them to sin. He remembered the faces of all the nuns and priests. In fact, he remembered with a perfect clarity every single face that had ever caused him pain over the course of his short life.

Someday he would … he would get even. Someday he would do much worse to them than they had to him. After all, was he not taught that what you cast unto waters you receive back tenfold? He would have his revenge. And right now he was starting it. He was going to tag this church with his name. He was going to make this house his spiritual property and take it away from a useless God … and he would do it to every church in London.

He quickly scanned the alley. It was filled with cardboard parodies of those homes never owned and of owners nursing their soulless futures. It was obvious that the homeless often tried to camp here, but were booted out by the coppers. Right now the only life sharing this space with Skid was a wretched old vagrant, dirty and pale, asleep under a pile of newspapers. Skid walked up to him and planted his steel tipped toe right into the old geezer’s ribs.

“Oi, granddad. Shove off!” Skid panicked. The streets were eat or be eaten, and he wasn’t about to get eaten. He planted another kick into the man’s midsection. Much to Skid’s surprise the old man didn’t budge. He didn’t even groan at the force of the kick.

Skid was young—he knew that he didn’t have much muscle—but his life had made him tough. He knew how to throw his entire weight into a kick so he would break bones—a trick he learned quickly so that whoever he was fighting would not be getting back up. Skid looked again at the man, this time a lot more closely, and realized that his chest wasn’t moving. Well, the skagger was stone cold dead. What d-ya’ know, it was turning out to be Skid’s lucky night. He could roll the body and at least come away with a decent pair of boots. If he were really lucky the old-timer would have a half-consumed bottle of booze. Anything to warm up the foggy night, he thought with a grin.

Skid knelt next to the man and started pulling the newspapers off. One of the headlines, briefly glimpsed, amused him. It read “London’s Abused Homeless Population: Death Rate Up By Twenty Percent.”

Sure enough the man was clutching something to his chest. He began to pry at the man’s cold stiff fingers, eager to see what prize tonight’s treasure hunt would reveal. But the corpse’s fingers—locked as tightly as they were—wouldn’t budge despite Skid’s best efforts. Skid braced himself and yanked with all of his fourteen-year-old’s strength, not caring if he ripped the guy’s hand off. He wanted whatever it was the old man had valued so dearly. He wanted it very badly. And finally the death embrace of the old man’s hands broke—without tearing off any body parts.

Skid looked in awe at what he saw revealed. The old fart had been hiding a fragging sword under his coat. The blade was some type of blue gray metal and it looked sharp and really old. The hilt was leather wrapped, and there was some writing etched into it in a language Skid didn’t even recognize. The symbols looked vaguely like Sumerian, or at least what Skid vaguely remember Sumerian looking like from the ancient history course he had been in right before he ran away. He couldn’t even begin to read the fragging letters. Talk about luck! This was an awesome find—hell, this was probably his best find ever.

Skid’s greedy little eyes lit up—he should be able to pull at least fifty or sixty pounds out of this find at the right place—and that was a whole lot of dosh to someone like him. He reverentially reached down and let his fingers wrap around the hilt. It was cold to the touch and seemed to slightly pulse, almost like a heartbeat.

The old man’s eyes fluttered open the second Skid touched the sword, and his hand shot out, faster than lightning, seizing Skid’s lapel. Skid jerked back in surprise, and the fingers of his free hand tore at the old man’s fist. Again Skid found that he couldn’t break the codger’s grip.

“Let go of me you old arse!” Skid was panicking. “I’ll cut your hand off and bloody well kill you if you don’t let go of me!”

This guy should be a corpse, not alive and stronger than Skid—but he remembered through the haze of fright to not shout. Never do anything to attract the attention of the coppers. Old Bill stalked the streets, waiting for the people who owned the Night to step out of line. Then, all in the name of protecting what the gentle folk of the day had to see, they would make people like Skid just disappear. Always keep your head enough to stay off the jam wagon’s net.

Skid took a breath and tried to find his cool as the codger began to speak. The old man’s voice sounded like the creaking of an ancient door, rusty and feeble but with faint hints of golden times that were so much greater. “Listen to me … please … please … Oh gods … the caves … I remember them so very well. You were so young … so innocent … so naïve and trusting … So simple—and yet you were so beautiful.”

Cloudy and dull eyes, which should have been blind, drifted to Skid’s hand and locked their feeble gaze on the sword. “Please … You can have the sword; just listen to my story. I have to tell my story before it passes from this world.”

***

Elizabeth Bathory

Claws ripped through metal as the tie-dye wearing werewolf launched herself forward. Dragging her nails through the Dumpster, she flipped her wrist at the Vampire, flinging sparking scrap metal and trash at her.

Elizabeth didn’t even flinch. Casually lifting her hand, she let the sparks fly around her as she tore through the Dumpster and caught the wolf-girl’s wrists in her hand. Elizabeth stopped her cold, and the two women were face to face. “Tabitha. You aren’t ready for me yet. You are nowhere near the diversion I want. Not at all the satisfaction I crave.” She locked her gaze onto the wolf’s eyes.

Tabitha focused as she saw the Elizabeth’s eyes start to swirl, red and lavender. Tension ripped at her shoulders forcing her hands apart. She recognized the feeling, and knew that they were sharing mind-space, battling with will alone.

She had once watched her family die, slaughtered before her by the very vampire fighting with her in this alley. At the end of that night, she had been caught in the Gaze, and she felt herself slipping into it again.

The night streets of New York vanished, a vast plain appearing in her mind instead. Blood dripped from the Vampire’s mouth as she walked forward to where Tabitha was bound. The werewolf struggled; to no avail. Shadows rippled across the mindscape, with only the two, vampire and werewolf, clear—the rest of the shapes around them enshrouded, obscured from their sight.

As Tabitha struggled, control slipped away and she shifted to full wolf. It didn’t help. Her bindings grew tighter as Elizabeth watched, one fang softly biting her own lower lip, and a crucifix grew out of the shadows behind the wolf.

“
Tsk
.
Tsk
. I told you that you were not ready, child.”

As the Vampire spoke, the wolf’s eyes focused on her, radiating hatred. The white polyester pantsuit was gone, replaced with a flowing gown of deepest blacks and reds. Her fangs had lengthened, out of her mouth and over her lips. The eyes were the worst though, ember red instead of white with bright green irises. Tabitha struggled anew as she saw that the elegant and charming woman was gone, replaced by an evil bitch-monster from Hell.

Fire started to lick at Tabitha’s paws, springing up from nowhere and everywhere, caressing the base of the crucifix. She whimpered, writhing in pain. Flames climbed higher.

Elizabeth shook her head. “Nowhere near ready. Sleep, child. Be ready for me next time we meet.” With a wave of her hand, the mindscape vanished.

In the alley, Tabitha collapsed limp and discarded, a pile of tie-dyed rags and dark reddish-brown fur on the edge of the shadows. The man, still clutching the child close, watched the vampire. He stepped forward, calmly walking until he was standing between Elizabeth and the downed werewolf. “You will not touch us, foul beast.” His voice had an Old World lilt, too, but his accent wasn’t easily placed.

“Oh, my. I think you may have hurt my feelings.” Elizabeth glided forward disco platforms of shadow. “So, what have we here? Another wolfling?” She sniffed the air, then frowned. “Wait … What? How?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Foolish of you to assume the wolves were protecting me, when it was the other way around. You think of yourself as a great hunter, but sometimes you really miss the obvious, hunter of children.” He gently rocked the child. “They are refugees. You’ll not harm them. What you have done to her,” he nodded towards Tabitha’s supine form, “is as far as you will take things tonight.”

Elizabeth’s stance became guarded as her hands evened out before her, making her look as though she was holding an invisible ball. As her gaze drifted down, firmly watching his belt buckle, and her left foot slid forward as she backed away, toe digging into the ground. Concrete cracked. Her knees flexed, centering her balance. “You will die, Unblooded. I’ll not meet your eye, and your physical prowess is not that of any full blood.”

“You think so?” He sounded curious. “How many of my kind have you fought? And I don’t mean exterminated as they were born, I mean fought once we have reached maturity. We do not labor under your curse of the Night. We do not have the constant fight of the blood as do you. I know you, Lady Bathory. But you do not know me. Come, test me. See what I can do.”

He spun in place, still gently cradling the child, foot lashing out in a kick that landed on the back of the already claw-marked Dumpster. Metal crumpled inwards as the six-foot long canister shot forward. Elizabeth swirled her hands in a circular motion, catching the brute force of the Dumpster mid-flight, and redirecting it into the wall beside her. As it struck, the pre-stressed metal erupted, splattering trash against the bricks like a giant foul-smelling snowball. What was left was a heap of scrap metal and refuse. Elizabeth was crouched after the motion, one hand up in the air shielding her face, trying not to gag on the stench.

The man raised an eyebrow. “Disco kung fu vampire, eh?” He danced back a step, still protectively embracing the child. “Let’s do this. Come on, Lady of the Night. You are young, and weak.”

Bathory rolled back, closing her fingers over Tabitha’s throat. “I think not, asshole. I’ll rip her throat out.”

“And spoil your fun? I see into your heart. You don’t want her dead. You want her to suffer a lifetime of doubt. A lifetime of pain.”

“True, whoever the hell you are. Very true. But even more than that, I will do so on my terms, at my time. And I think that tonight, you are not worth the trouble. Very much not worth the trouble. Or the risk. So back up, against the wall. Back at the dead end.”

The man backed himself up till his shoulders touched the brick wall.

“Good. Now sit down.”

He sat, still smiling. “You think that you are the only one who can bring a lifetime of pain and uncertainty on someone?”

“You must think you are a hell of a lot more than you are. I will come for you, Unblooded. I have your scent now, and nothing will stop me.” She vanished.

Elizabeth didn’t stop running till she was several blocks away. Ducking into another alley, she grabbed a fire escape railing and flipped herself up onto the metal balcony, climbing till she got to the roof. If she had a beating heart, it would have been racing.

It is rare for an elder vampire to get shaken to the core, but the speed with which she had found her role of hunter reversed to prey was beyond unsettling. Never before had she felt hunted, like she was the one in mortal danger. She stood on the edge of the rooftop, a white silhouette against the dark night, watching the stars in a vain attempt to calm herself—but she was feverishly thinking.

There was a war on between the supernatural powers that be. She was one of those powers. And her side had been winning for a century. At least, they thought they had been. But the existence of a powerhouse like this unblooded … and they hadn’t even known. What other surprises didn’t she know about? She ripped a chunk of brick from the edge of the roof she was perched on and ground it to dust in frustration.

She had never heard of an unblooded vampire who had survived any length of time. It was chilling to think of one so strong in themselves that they could resist making a compact with the blood for so long that they could become that physically powerful. The unblooded were powerful mentalists, but they were easy prey for full vampires because they didn’t develop the same speed and strength. Unsettling, and worse. New York was fun, it was a playground; but meeting a creature like this changed that; it changed everything.

She sighed. There was nothing for it but to go back to the old country. Researching, training, and focusing on her strength would have to replace her current plans. This creature could be a threat to the entire Nation of Night and their seat on the cabal of the Gray Ones.
He
would want to know about this too. Perhaps she could return to the States after a few years.

But first, she would have to track the wolf pup. Find out how she had found this creature. How the wolves had secured its help.
Then
back to the old country. Yes, that would work for her. She turned and walked across and off the rooftop, and vanished into darkness.

***

Loki the Coyote

The events between Skid and the old man were locked in now, and Loki needed to make sure everything else was on track with the werewolves in New York. Lilith was more powerful than him, and monitoring the minor details he needed to keep going to ensure his survival was exhausting and nonstop work. Luckily travel between these two particular locales was fairly quick.

London to New York was a simple step for him. The human mentality was so close in both cities that the travel time for a god was that of a fleeting thought, stepping from idea to idea.

Loki emerged on a rooftop, quietly so as not to alert Lilith. Events unfolding the way they were meant she would be watching closely. All Gods had a fascination with the Strings of Fate. There was a time, long past, when they would gather in Greece and play games to alter those strings. These days those same skills had to be employed to fight their own Divine Fates. It was all rather droll to him, despite the implied threat to his existence. Throughout history the gods had played games with mortals. The only difference these days were that they had to use themselves as pieces too.