The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told (38 page)

But they didn't. The werewolf's wounds were already healing. His left hand plunged downward, razor claws splayed in a driving arc that split the skin of Glen's right forearm. Muscle shredded as Kale dug those nails deep, burying four long fingers between Glen's bones.

Glen dropped the knife, and the well-honed blade dug into the floorboards as Kale closed his fist around Glen's ulna. Glen would have screamed if he could have sucked a breath. The werewolf's other hand snaked through Glen's hair, then deeper—claws digging tunnels between scalp and skull until they found purchase in the tendons at the back of Glen's neck.

The monster jerked Glen's head back, stretching his neck into the kill zone, trapping him between hands buried in neck and wrist. Wounds spilled blood across the corded length of Glen's neck. Kale's black lips drew back. A mouthful of spit slapped Glen in the face, and then Kale's jaws closed around his neck.

Savage teeth tore into muscle. Arterial blood geysered against the werewolf's pelt. Halogen headlights cored the jagged plywood hole across the room. It seemed the light would swallow Glen faster than Kale could. He closed his eyes against it, but he couldn't escape its stark power.

Outside, a car door slammed.

There were voices. The werewolf's ears perked, and he turned toward the light.

For Glen, the reprieve didn't seem to matter.

If the Marines had arrived, they were too goddamned late.

Of course, it wasn't the Marines.

And it wasn't J. J. Bryce, either.

There were three of them, and every one looked just a little bit like Kale Howard—even the one who didn't have a set of
cojones
hanging between her legs.

Glen had never met any of Kale's siblings.

But all it took was one glance, and he knew this bunch fit the bill.

The Howards were all over brother Kale in a matter of seconds. Dwayne—the largest of the boys—waded in first, backhanding the wolf with a handful of silver rings. Kale howled as if doused with acid, but he didn't turn tail. No. He spit blood and bared his teeth, but he never got the chance to test his game on his eldest brother. Joe—shorter, faster, and meaner—had already closed in from one side, skinning his belt from his jeans. Before Kale could make a move, Joe had looped that thirty-two-inch length of snakeskin around his brother's neck in one well-practiced motion.

The belt whispered through hammered silver as Joe yanked it tight. The buckle closed over Kale's windpipe like a pair of channel locks, the horrible metal burning its brand into his flesh. Unable to breathe, Kale blacked out for an instant and started to drop.

In the second it took for him to make the trip to the floor, Kris—the oldest and roughest of Kale's siblings—stepped forward. Tanned, cougar-lean, and dressed in black jeans and a tank top, she looked like the kind of woman who should be demo-ing combat knives at a survivalist convention in Vegas. She jammed the barrel of a nickel-plated .45 against her baby brother's temple and tore a strip off him with a voice seasoned by whiskey and cigarettes.

“Make another move, dog, and I'll splatter your brains all over this room.”

“Better save those silver bullets, Kris.” Dwayne hovered over Glen. “Looks like this other boy's been bit.”

Kale's sister swore under her breath as she turned to examine Glen's wounds. From jawbone to wrist, Barlow's right side was a shredded mess of meat and gristle. Any bastard suffering similar wounds under another circumstance would have slipped into shock by now, but Kris knew that wasn't going to happen to Barlow . . . not if the werewolf virus were pulsing through his blood.

She ignored his mangled arm, and the pistol that lay next to it, examining the flesh torn by the werewolf's attack. Yep. This was more than a claw job. Kale had put his fangs straight into the cowboy's arteries, but he hadn't finished him off. The wounded man's heart was still beating, and from the look of things the virus was already doing its work. Barlow's wounds were beginning to heal, a cuff of scar tissue slowly knitting over the flesh of his wrist. The only upside was that Barlow was freshly infected. His metabolism was operating at a slower rate than Kale's, so he wasn't an immediate threat.

“Better put a bullet in him, sis,” Joe said. “That full moon ain't goin' anywhere for hours yet. I don't want to have to deal with two dogs if he turns.”

“Brush up on your homework, idiot,” Kris said. “It takes longer than that for the virus to set. This cowboy won't do any turning until the next full moon. The most he'll do right now is some serious healing up.”

She smiled down at Glen.

“If we let him live long enough, that is.”

But there was no way in hell Kris Howard was going to let this desert rat live. She'd made that decision as soon as she'd learned that the cowboy had been bit.

Yep. That was the way it had to be. Kris was the one who made the decisions around here. She'd been doing that since her parents decided to crawl inside a bottle when she was just a kid. Even then, her deadweight brothers were just along for the ride.

And Kale, hell . . . time hadn't done him any favors. He was still her scrabble-brained little brother, half nuts even on nights when the moon was just a fingernail clipping up there in the sky. That's why she'd cleaned up after him so many times in the years since he'd gotten his ass chewed by a werewolf down in Mexico.

Of course, having a werewolf in a family of thieves was mostly a real plus, but Kris could see that this wasn't going to be one of those times. Damn . . . it'd been awhile since Kale tore up that little showgirl in Reno, but this clusterfuck tonight made that mess look like a picnic. Kale had opened Kim's brother like a can of Alpo. Anyone who watched forensic TV shows could collect enough evidence in this slaughterhouse to convict every Howard in the room . . . plus their dead-ass parents, who were back in Texas taking dirt naps.

So the whole deal sure enough screwed the pooch, but what could she do about it? Jagged wedges of Glen Barlow's skin stuck to the wall like some serial killer's warped painting; his blood was soaking into the cracked floorboards; the headbutt-pitted sheetrock was clotted with hanks of his hair. Kris was sure she'd have to burn down the house before they made a permanent exit tonight. And that really bit, because the plan had been to sell the damn thing for a good chunk of cash after Kale knocked off his latest bride. But there was more chance of their parents growing fresh livers and crawling out of their plywood caskets down there in Texas than there was of her selling this house. Kris figured the best she could hope for when she finished up this business tonight would be an empty box of matches. And the way she saw it, the bloody mess of a man at her feet had to have figured out the score about the whole deal—including the growling moron who at that moment was straining against a snakeskin leash.

Kris stared down at Glen Barlow, cocking her head in Kale's direction.

“Guess you know the family secret,” she said.

“Yeah . . . and I think I figured out the family business, too.”

Kris smiled. The bloody cowboy sucked a breath. Surprisingly, only part of it whistled through his windpipe. Had to be the virus was burning a trail through Barlow's torn-up excuse for a circulatory system faster than Kris had expected. But she wasn't particularly worried about that. After all, she was the one holding the gun with the silver bullets.

“So, you're the guy who tossed my baby brother through a window, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Looks like tonight you're reapin' what you sowed.”

“Well, it was a dirty job . . . ” he started, coughing up a thick rope of blood.

“Yeah . . . but somebody had to do it,” she finished.

“You know how it goes.”

“You bet I do. But there's a problem with that, Tex. Kale sure ain't the most obedient pup in the kennel, but he's my brother. And in our family, we take care of our own. I figure you can understand that.”

Another cough, and maybe another
yeah
mixed in there, too.

“Sure. Add it up, we're not that different, you and me. I'm here to help Kale. You're here to do right by your sister. Hell, I understand that. Some guy chews your baby sis down to the bone and leaves her in the middle of nowhere for the buzzards to peck. Plus, he ends up with everything she owned in the world. You've got a right to go all
Charlie Bronson
on him, but you're a little late for that. To tell the truth, you're late for anything that doesn't include taking a silver bullet.”

That did it. Barlow tried to rise. Just doing that, it looked like his head was going to topple off his torn-up neck and end up in his lap. Kris nearly laughed, and the only thing that stopped her were the scars closing over Barlow's wound.

He was healing faster now, but Kris knew there wasn't enough
fast
in the world to get the job done for him before she finished saying her piece. “You wanted to fix things, Barlow, you should have done it last Christmas. It's too late now. Your sister's in a hole. And if there's still a squeaky little cage turnin' in your guts, let me tell you something: that hamster's dead, amigo. Whatever you wanted to do, it's way past time to do it now.”

“You said that.”

“Yeah. I did. But you cost me a fat bankroll tonight, so forgive me if I take a minute to show you the error of your ways before I put a hunk of silver in your brain. See, I don't want you feeling the least little bit like a hero when you get your ass kicked into eternity. You're not any kind of hero,
amigo
. Let's get that straight.”

Barlow was quiet now. Had to be it was sinking in. He didn't say a word.

Kris checked the pistol, chambered a round.

“Let me wrap it up for you, now that you're catching on. I've got a real simple way of looking at life. The way I see it, what you do is who you are . . . and what you don't do, too. And, buddy, when it comes to your sister, and when it comes to the guy who killed her, you didn't do much.”

Barlow held his silence. All he gave her was a stare.

And that was enough. Hell, that stare was plenty.

Kris raised the pistol.

“I see you get the message,” she said. “End of sermon. It's time for the piper to get paid.”