Love Bites (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Even over the growls and howling, I could hear someone coming, and then I smelled Peter—his scent and his blood. It was flooded with endorphins and adrenaline. He’s worried about me, I thought as I kicked the wolf closest to me in the ribs and heard bones crack. I didn’t want to call out to Peter because I didn’t want the boxenwolves to know he was there.

The wolf I’d kicked retreated behind the mangy brown one that had been a paparazzo minutes earlier. I understood now why he’d been on the beach: to get me out of the house and lure me down where his buddies could tear me apart. He lunged at me, teeth bared in a rabid snarl. I let loose the muzzle of the gray male and rolled to the left, just as a gun fired. The brown boxenwolf crashed onto the sand, all two hundred pounds of him, right on the spot where I’d just been. He was bleeding from his shoulder; Peter had hit him from the back, behind his right foreleg.

I used my claws to hamstring him, then threw myself on his back and tried to sink my teeth into his neck. The talisman was thick and wide, like one of those collars African tribeswomen wear to elongate their necks. I shredded it with my teeth and tore the thing off with my hands, spitting out flesh and fur. I had a momentary image of a blond woman in a fur coat, playing video games.

Peter fired two more shots. Either he trusted himself as a marksman or he wasn’t worried the bullets would harm me. He aimed past me at the three remaining beasts. They’d turned tail as soon as the brown one went down. They were racing down the beach. Faster than a speeding bullet, I guess, because Peter’s shots missed. The Grey with the crushed muzzle was gone, too. I didn’t see the female in the ocean. I don’t think she could have survived that undertow.

The brown boxenwolf was still alive, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Except back to his original shape. Peter got to my side just in time to see the wolf’s body shift back to its human form: pale-skinned, tall, and narrow-chested, with a round beer belly protruding over his skinny legs and little penis. No wonder he needed magic.

Peter covered him with his jacket, bent down, and shone his flashlight on his face. “What’s your name?” he asked, but the man was beyond speaking. Blood frothed out of his mouth and washed away in the surf. I sheathed my fangs, retracted my claws, and helped Peter pull his dead body onto dry sand.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I holstered my gun and kept the flashlight on the body. “What the hell just happened?” I asked. “I was shooting at a wolf and there’s a dead man on the ground.”

“He’s the photographer we saw from the house. He was a boxenwolf, Peter. He was using magic to transform into a werewolf.”

“Magic? What kind of magic turns someone into an animal? I thought he was one of you. What the hell, Ovsanna? Are there more weirdos around than just vampyres and those things in Palm Springs? How much more of this supernatural shit am I supposed to buy? Goddamn it to hell!”

“I don’t know if I’d call it supernatural. It’s magic. He was using a talisman and a mantra. I saw him mumbling to himself before he changed. That wolf pelt was the talisman.” She motioned to a shredded strip of drenched fur lying next to the dead body. I picked it up and studied it. Looked like roadkill to me.

“And what about those other guys? I counted three wolves around you and one on the ground. Did they start out as humans, too?”

“Yes, I think so. There was another one in the water. I threw her out there, and I don’t think she made it back. They all had fur collars around their necks—pelt belts, I guess you could call them. Talismans. They were all boxenwolves, Peter. Five men and a woman using magic to shift. Running in a pack, just like regular wolves.”

“Who do you think they are? And why were they after you? Are they all paparazzi? Have you sued some tabloid lately?”

“The last time I had a problem with a tabloid was when the
Enquirer
printed I was using Botox to get rid of my wrinkles. Pissed me off. I can’t watch these actresses who distort their faces with that stuff. They can’t move their muscles and they expect to emote? They’re even using it on their children! And what’s the message they’re giving society—you’re only valuable if you’ve got an unlined mask for a face? I wouldn’t use it even if I needed it. I sued the damn magazine for a retraction.”

“Well, somebody’s out to get you. And this guy was a photographer, so that’s where I start.” I searched the area for a wallet or some kind of ID, but if he’d been carrying anything before he changed, the tides had taken it. There was no sign of anything that had just happened, except for his body. And that gave me an idea.

“Ovsanna, I’m going to go back to my car to get my gym bag out of the trunk. I’ve got a pair of sweats and a warm-up jacket that should fit this guy. Then we’re going to talk about what just happened. How you called me because you’d found a threatening note from the Cinema Slayer in your mailbox out on the highway, and how you’d taken a walk while you were waiting for me to arrive, and I’d gotten here just in time to see someone attacking you on the beach. Thank God you’d left the gates open.” I could see Ovsanna’s mind working as she understood what I was planning. She shook her head in surprise.

“I thought I was the horror writer,” she said. “Are you sure this is what we should do?”

“Look, this guy tried to kill you. We don’t know who he is, but we know he was running around as a werewolf. No one’s going to believe that. Just like no one will ever believe the Cinema Slayer was a Baby Jane look-alike who was born before Christ and has a bunch of werecreature kids running around. I can’t produce her body, even if I wanted to try to convince someone. And without a body, I can’t close the case. Well . . . here’s a body. A human body. He was after you, just like Lilith was, and I can’t think of one good reason why he won’t work as the Slayer in her place.”

I pulled out my cell phone to call the Coroner. “We’ve just got to get our stories straight.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Peter and I went over the details of our version of the attack. The waves had washed away the pack’s paw prints and the photographer’s clothes, so there was no crime scene to explain. A chunk of my leg was either in the ocean or some wolf’s stomach. It didn’t matter; my body was already healing. In an hour, there wouldn’t be any sign I’d been attacked. Peter stripped down in the dark and put his briefs on the dead body for verisimilitude. I don’t think he realized what a heightened sense of vision I have when I choose to use it. I chose, all right. I’m glad I did.

Peter’s warm-up jacket was way too big on the guy. We soaked it in the water, along with the sweats. By the time the Coroner cut them off, they’d still be wet and clinging. We could easily explain Peter’s DNA—he’d carried the body out of the waves. Peter held the jacket in the sand and fired a bullet through it to match the spot on the body where his bullet had entered. The water was a blessing. They wouldn’t expect to find much blood; most of it would have been washed away. Along with the threatening note I would say I’d received. I’d had it in my hand when the man had attacked me.

I “remembered” what it said, though, almost verbatim: “I’ve killed your friends and your partner. You’re next. Aren’t you sorry you never hired me to take your head shots?” And it was signed “C.S.”

If that didn’t convince Peter’s Captain he’d killed the Cinema Slayer, I didn’t know what would.

The only thing we had trouble explaining was how I’d managed to sever the man’s hamstring. It took a while, but I finally found a broken abalone shell with a sharp edge. I sliced it deep along the cuts my claws had made on his leg.

We were going to have to find out who the photographer was, to make sure there was nothing about him that wouldn’t fit with our story. Peter had to go back to his office to write up the report. He didn’t want me to stay at the beach alone, and I didn’t argue. I sort of liked having him think he was the boss.

We’d just been through our second battle with beasties and he didn’t seem to be running for cover. I decided it was safe to tell him about the earlier attack.

He didn’t run for cover, but he sure got pissed. “You fought off one of these things an hour before I picked you up and you never told me?! Why not?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly one of
these
things. These things are boxenwolves. The thing that attacked me Saturday night was a true were.”

“It was a
werewolf,
Ovsanna, a fucking preternatural monster that was trying to kill you! I don’t care what
breed
it was! You should have told me!”

“Well, I didn’t know how you’d react. And there wasn’t anything you could do about it, the thing took off. I haven’t seen any sign of him since.”

“Yeah? Maybe I have. There was animal hair all over my walkway this afternoon. I thought it was a dog or a coyote, but it could have been one of these freaks. If I’d known you were being tracked, I would have paid more attention. Jesus, Ovsanna, you’ve got to keep me in the loop. I’m on your side here. I told you on the phone—take advantage of me. This may not be what I had in mind when I said it, but it’s what I do. I want to keep you safe.”

Isn’t that sweet? In 450 years, no one’s ever said that to me. Of course, they’ve never had to. I wasn’t about to disabuse Peter of the thought. It was fun having a knight in shining armor. Just like I said—Doc Ford and Jack Reacher, only in real life.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I changed into dry clothes, left Peter waiting for the Coroner’s van, and drove back to Bel Air. The fog never let up until I got inland, and by the time I got home, it was almost one o’clock.

Maral was awake and waiting. She looked luscious in her long-sleeved nightshirt, but I was too distracted by the boxenwolves’ attack to do more than notice. Besides, she was loaded, which didn’t help my mood any.

Driving home, I’d gone over and over the story Peter and I had concocted to see if it was believable. The surprising part to me was that it was Peter’s idea to begin with. I didn’t think there was anything too morally wrong with it, but it was definitely outside the law. I knew it went against his nature, but really, what was the alternative? Blaming the murder on werewolves and vampyres was a stretch, even in a town that buys Anne Heche as Jesus’s half-sister Celestia.

“It’s late, Maral, why aren’t you asleep?”

“I had a nightmare. You and Peter were at the beach, and you were eating real food. He kept feeding you lemon Stilton and you were rubbing your face in a crystal bowl of rice pudding. It was all over you. When I tried to pull you away to offer you my wrist, you laughed at me and poured Kool-Aid on my head. Then you handed me a box of Band-Aids. And then Peter grabbed my MacBook Air and he was scheduling appointments for you in my calendar. I tried to get it away from him, but he threw it at me, and it was so thin it sliced through my neck and cut my jugular. Blood poured out all over the screen. I woke up crying.”

“Jesus. And then you smoked a joint?”

“Well, I had to do something, Ovsanna, and you weren’t here. What happened? Why did you come home? Didn’t lover boy show up?”

“Maral, I know you’re upset, but you’re acting your age and it’s not attractive. Yes, Detective King showed up. Just in time to stop a pack of werewolves from tearing me to pieces.”

“Werewolves? Why? Who were they?” She started backing up, her voice rising. “Were they those creatures we fought in Palm Springs?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t know.” I followed her, putting my hands on her to try to calm her down. A vision came, of her at a grave site. She had something red in her hand, a flannel cloth or bag or something. I was too distracted to ask her about it. “They weren’t werecreatures. Not like Lilith’s kindred. Although the one that attacked me on Christmas Eve was. But these tonight were boxenwolves—humans, using magic to shape-shift.”

“A werewolf attacked you on Christmas Eve? Where?”

“It was here. He came onto the property and the geese went nuts. I got rid of him.”

“Oh God, Ovsanna, why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice was shrill.

“I didn’t want to frighten you. You didn’t need to know. There was nothing you could have done.”

“But you told him, didn’t you? Didn’t you? You think
he
can do something for you and I can’t? Did you tell the mighty detective and he came out and saved you? Is that what this is all about?” She was shaking now and yelling at me.

I slapped her. Not hard. Just enough to stop her escalating hysteria. She’s uncontrollable when she smokes. I slapped her and she started to cry.

I took her in my arms. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but you need to calm down. That’s the dope talking.” I pulled away and wiped the tears from her face. “Now look, I want you to go upstairs and go to bed. I don’t want to talk about this when you’re stoned.”

“Come with me, Ovsanna. Please, come and sleep with me. I’m frightened. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me, Maral, you’ve got to believe me. And you know I can’t sleep in your bed. I’ll be right next door and you’ll be safe. Just go to sleep. Peter and I are going out tomorrow morning to track down these wolves, and I need you in the office, taking care of business, while we do.” I kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, Maral.”