Werewolf Sings the Blues (17 page)

Like a bolt of Zeus's lightning, I swing the bar around, smashing it against the side of his head. Hard. I don't know if it's the pain or shock, but Mick cries out as he bangs against the cell from the force. The moment he hits, I swing again. And again. And again. Blood splatters everywhere, on me, on the floor as I bash and bash and bash. I barely notice. Again. Again. He slumps to the floor, blood streaming down his face in three different spots. Breathing as if I climbed Mt. Everest in one shot, I stare down at him for a second. He doesn't move. I think I killed him. Footsteps above distract me from further thought. Fight now, cope later.

I take a step out of my cage. Part thre—

A hand clamps onto my ankle. The next thing I know, I'm toppling to the dirt, ending with a jarring thud onto my stomach and jaw. The pain in my mouth is instantaneous as teeth knock together and on my tongue. Blood fills my mouth. The pain, the copper taste distracts me from what's really important, which I only realize when that same vice on my ankle wrenches me backward on the dirt floor. I glance behind to find a pissed Mick drawing me in with one hand and moving the other from his back with a …

Oh, fuck.

I kick with my free foot and bring the bar around, but the gun's already trained on me. Instinct makes me swing away. The rod connects with the gun arm. A shot rings out the moment a searing, white hot line of pain slices across my arm. Somewhere in my brain it registers I've just been shot, but I'm too busy to realize it or that people are shouting and running upstairs before Mick recovers. He whacks my hand holding the bar against the cage. More intense pain rockets through my pinky. I drop my weapon. Before I understand the ramification of this, the psycho backhands my left cheek. I see literal stars and my head smacks against the floor near my bar. I shut my eyes to play dead.

“Bit—”

A loud gunshot from outside cuts short his words. The subsequent explosion, rattling of the house like a tremor hit and all the lights vanishing a half second later startles me even in my fuzzy
state. I open my eyes to almost total darkness. More gunshots echo
outside. Running footsteps. Shouting. I think someone screams, “Mick, get up here!” Chaos.

Jason.

Though it's dark as hell, using the tiny bit of light from outside I can make out Mick's body rising.
Now
. With one fluid movement, I grasp for the bar, and while sitting up thrust the jagged end into what I hope is his side. It must be because he howls in pain, though it's barely audible, overshadowed by the automatic gunfire upstairs and outside. I pull the rod out again, only to impale him once more. He lets off a shot, and in the light from the muzzle I see I've hit him just under the ribs. The moment we're plunged back into darkness, I sweep his feet from under him and jerk the bar out again. He lands beside me. I hear the gun drop. Roaring like a madwoman, I raise the bar above my head and plunge it square into his chest. Once. Twice. Half a dozen times, one right on top of the other. It feels as if I've floated beside myself, watching in horror as my twin continues this heinous act. In, out. In, out. Mick screams, but she puts an end to that, moving up and stabbing him through the neck. This is much easier to get through, fewer bones, though she hits an artery because blood geysers onto her face. Not even that stops the onslaught. Not even the gurgling as he chokes on his own blood. In, out. In, out. She only stops when that does. The silence calls me back into my wet body.

“Fuck, fuck,” I gasp.
No guilt, just get up
.

I grab the gun. My hands are so slippery with blood, and I can't
move my pinky, I can barely hold it. Even standing is painful. I push that aside. Part three, get the fuck out. I keep whacking
against boxes in the almost nonexistent light, with only a tiny crack
of it leading my way to the root cellar door. Not that I really want to go outside at present. Gunshots, screaming, snarling all alternate out there. Not much better above me with hard footfalls and the odd gunshot.
Stick with
the plan
. I push boxes out of my way up the root cellar stairs. Get out, just get out. I clear the path but scream in frustration when I reach the top. Another chain and padlock. Please don't let the movies be wrong about this.

I place the gun right against the lock and fire. The second shot works. The lock breaks. Yes! I pull the chain off and push up. No! It barely budges. There's another chain and lock outside. “No, no!” I shriek as I fight against it. “N—”

Shit!

There's a low, threatening growl as something presses back on the doors. I only get a brief glimpse of tan fur before the doors slam shut. I shriek and leap back. I take another step down as claws begin furiously scratching against the wooden doors. Werewolf. Fuck that. Door #2 it is.

I work my way toward the stairs, collecting more bruises from the boxes. With my arm, tongue, and pinky throbbing like they're auditioning for a gig as a heavy metal drummer, I barely notice. Gun and me as ready as we'll ever be, I race up the stairs and wait by the door, listening. No footsteps, no gunshots. Find a door outside, run toward the tree line, stop for nothing.

Go
.

I throw open the door and step into the kitchen. Empty. Amazing. Gun leading like in the movies, I check left. Running footsteps make me swing the gun right, finger on the trigger. The second I see movement, I fire. Too wide. The man ducks but keeps his shotgun pointed on me as he continues charging. I'm about to fire again when the man shouts, “Vivi!” and steps into a stream of light. It strikes his orange hair first, giving it a fiery glow, then his face.
My
face.

“Daddy.”

I'm so shocked I don't even put up a fight as he pulls me into a tight hug. “Thank God, thank God,” he whispers as he strokes my hair. My father's hugging me. My
father
is hugging me. He releases me a second later to examining me. “Are you alright?” he asks, voice breaking.

I give little nods. I can't speak right now. This is my father. He came
to save me.

“Doll, how many were in the house?” Frank asks.

“F-Five,” I sputter. “I-I-I k-k-killed one. In the basement.”

He cups my bloody cheek and smiles. “Good girl.”

A literal howl outside ends the macabre family bonding. Frank glances that direction, then pulls a walkie off his belt. “Omar, we're coming out. Car. Now.” He replaces it. “We're going now. Don't leave my side for anything. We're headed for the black SUV. Come on.”

My father lifts his shotgun and starts back the way he came with me a step behind. No one attacks as we charge down the hall toward the open front door. I have to step over a man in overalls missing most of his head and part of his chest to get outside. Mr. Cooper. I don't feel a damn bit of sympathy for him right now.

Smoke assails my nose when we step onto the porch, into the crisp night. Crackling flames light up the side of the house, I think from an exploded generator. Jesus, I'm in
Die Hard.
Through the thick, acrid cloud, I spot headlights moving closer. Frank dashes off the porch for the SUV as I trail behind. Frank's head whips
right, and I follow his gaze. Holy shit. Ten yards away, a huge, light-
colored wolf is muzzle deep into a man's chest, chowing down. The corpse's head lolls back and forth, protesting this invasion even in death. “Donovan.” The wolf glances up from its feast just as the headlights hit his eyes. Its ice blue eyes. Dear God.

Jason takes a few steps toward us, but Frank points the shotgun at him. “No! Stay!”

The beast bares its bloody, ragged teeth and hair along his spine
sticking straight up, but ceases moving. The wolf doesn't take his eyes off me. The SUV slows before us. A bald African American man with a sniper rifle climbs out of the driver's seat and rushes over. “Vivi, get in the car,” Frank orders. I listen, rounding the car to the passenger side. “Status?” Frank asks.

“I got the one downfield,” the man says in a Boston accent. “Jason another.”

“Adam?” Frank asks.

“Chased one into the trees. I heard shouting. Think he got him.”

“Take that truck and go confirm. Should be two in the house as well. Five total. If any are alive, secure them, then clean up here as best you can. No bodies, alright? When Jason and Adam change back, hurry back double time.”

“Yes, sir,” Omar says.

“Thank you.” Frank climbs in beside me and shuts the door. “Seat belt, doll.”

Right. Safety. Important. It hurts, everything hurts, but I manage to secure it. Frank swings the SUV around, and I get one last glimpse at the carnage. House toppling as it's consumed by fire. Two visible corpses. My lover throws his bloody snout back, howling as we drive away. I feel nothing. Not a thing except tired. So tired.

“It's okay now, Vivi,” my father says beside me as the battlefield fades in the mirror. “It's all over. You're safe. I'm here doll. I'm here.” He takes my good hand, squeezing it. “We're going home.”

I squeeze my father back. Home.

part ii

HOME

eleven

“Jason!”

I jolt awake right as Jason literally rips my throat out. The light stings my eyes, and it takes seconds of blinking to clear them. When I'm capable, I glance around the large bedroom I find myself in. Definitely not the skuzzy motel in Ohio from the dream. Billowy white curtains on the bay windows. Handcrafted wooden furniture that matches the brown suede lounge chairs in the corner. Huge TV. California king bed with what I think are Egyptian cotton sheets. I'm alone too. We were making love, slowly this time. Painfully slowly. He barely moved inside me, maybe a millimeter a second for what felt like hours. Amazing hours. Just as he brought me to the brink, I felt him shifting. He wouldn't release me, wouldn't leave my body as the slime coated him. As the fur sprouted everywhere. As bone shifted. I screamed and screamed and scratched as his claws pierced my skin. As blood flowed from
my back, as he ripped me open in more ways than one before
delivering the killing blow, jaws clamping on my throat. I touch it now just to make sure I still have one.

Damn, my neck's the one area that doesn't hurt. My legs and arms ache from working the cage for so long. My stomach feels like it's been punched, as does my jaw from the fall. My mouth and tongue are still raw from the bites. My splinted pinky throbs. Broken. The worst is my arm. The bullet grazed but still took a chunk out. Gonna leave a scar. It couldn't be stitched for the five hours it took to drive from Pennsylvania to Adolphus. About a mile from the farm, Frank pulled over to provide basic first-aid. The pills he gave me must have knocked me out because the next thing I knew, we were pulling up to this huge gate, easily twenty feet tall, with floodlights along the top. After passing through that, we continued on the driveway about four hundred feet with RVs and tents setup on the grassy lawn like a shanty town. One or two people came out but most remained asleep. Good thing I wasn't expecting a parade.

The main house wasn't as grand as I imagined. Big, but not a mansion. Two stories with a mix of Colonial and modern architecture. The main house is symmetrical like a rectangle made of white brick, with a gabled roof, paneled door, and maybe two dozen multi-pained windows with shutters. A few more people came out to greet us, barraging Frank with questions at the get go. He handed me off to an African American woman who stitched me up, gave me more pills, and escorted me to the second floor master bedroom. The pleasant narcotic blur returned when I was in the shower. I stumbled to the bed, put on the clothes the woman must have brought, and passed out again. Cue nightmares.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. I've been asleep in this bed a little over twelve hours. I sure as hell needed it. Still groggy though. And I have to pee like crazy, but there isn't a force on earth than can make me move from this bed right now. Leaving the bed is the first step to leaving the room, and I'm not ready for that. Meeting the family. Seeing Jason. Maybe they'll leave me alo—

“She's awake, Mommy! I heard her!” a little boy shouts outside the door.

A woman, I presume the mother, shushes her son. Shit. As the door slowly swings open, I shut my eyes to feign sleep. There's a rattling of plates and quiet footsteps moving toward me.

“Should we wake her up, Mommy?” a little girl asks.

“No! Be quiet!” Mom whispers.

“She's awake!” the boy whispers. “I heard her yell for Uncle Jason.”
The bed shifts as someone climbs onto it.

“Dustin get—”

“Are you awake, Aunt Vivian?” the boy practically yells in my ear.

“Dustin!”

Shit. I have to open my eyes now. An Asian woman in white shorts, orange peasant top, and square bangs holds a tray of food. At her hip is her tiny double. The girl's about five and dressed in a yellow sundress. She stares at me, almond eyes stretched to the brink as if I had claws or three heads. I'm sure I look like I've gone ten rounds with Holyfield. Her, I assume, brother has no reluctance. He plops down right beside me with a smile on his cherubic face. He resembles Frank more than the girl, with a long jaw and thick nose. Still more of his mother than father. My brother.

“I am so sorry,” the woman, um …
Linda
says, as she sets down the tray.

“It's okay.”

“Told you she was awake,” Dustin says.

“How are you feeling?” Linda asks.

“Shi—lousy,” I say, glancing at the little girl. Whose name is …
Nicole
! Thank you, brain.

“I brought you some lunch. I'm Linda, by the way. I'm, um, I was, um—”

“I know,” I say, saving her. “Nice to meet you. All.”

“Are you really Daddy's sister?” Dustin asks.

“Seems so.”

“Our Daddy's in heaven with the angels and Grandma,” Dustin
informs me.

“I know. I'm sorry.” The little girl peeks from behind her mother'
s leg. “And what's your name, little one?”

“That's Nicki,” Dustin says. “She's my sister like you're Daddy's sister.”

“Nice to meet you, Nicki.”

The girl retreats into her mother's leg. “She's shy,” Linda says.

“It's okay. I'd be scared of me too.”

“Did the bad werewolves do that to you?” Dustin asks.

“Yeah.”

“Grandpa and Uncle Jason are gonna murder the bad werewolves who killed Daddy,” Dustin says matter-of-factly.

“Okay,” Linda says, voice rising a notch, “let's, um, let your aunt rest. Come on.” Linda holds her arms out and Dustin literally hops over me to reach them. She lowers Dustin beside his still uneasy sister before the trio walks to the door. Halfway there, Linda remembers something and turns. “Oh. They brought your suitcase last night. It's over there,” she says, gesturing to the corner.

“They? Jason's back?”

“Yeah, early this morning. He and Adam are probably still asleep though. A quick change turnaround takes a lot out of them.”

“But he's okay?”

“As far as I know.” Linda smiles. “If you need anything else, there's a million people around, just ask. I'll tell Frank you're awake.”

“Thank you.”

She nods and ushers Nicki out. Dustin gives a little wave, which I return, before he shuts the door. I fall back into the pillow with a sigh. Okay, that wasn't so terrible. I officially have a niece and nephew, not to mention an in-law.
Damn
. Seem nice enough though. She's younger than I imagined. Must have had the kids right out of high school. A widow in her early twenties with two small children. Life is so fucking unfair.

Linda brought me a turkey sandwich, apple, and OJ. I inhale the apple, chug the juice, and since I haven't eaten in over twenty-four hours, I even devour the whole sandwich. Been years since I last ate meat. Desperate times and all. With fuel in my body, I think I may actually be able to get out of bed now. I throw off the covers. Even that hurts, but I keep going. It's gonna be a Vicodin day for sure. Sluggishly, I pad over to my suitcase. Jason's clothes are on top. I attempt to grin but the pain in my cheek and jaw won't let me complete the gesture. Still. Perfect excuse to find him.

I retrieve my own clothes, a bright red sundress and underwear and toiletry bag before going into the bathroom. Fuck. No wonder small children hide from me. Black eye, swollen and bruised cheek, cut and swollen lip. My arms and legs aren't much better. It looks like someone tapped a message in Morse code using bruises. The bandage on my gun wound is saturated through. When I pull it off, I want to hurl. The black stitches and puckered, exposed flesh are raw and weeping blood. I redress it as fast as possible before changing into the red sundress and slapping on half a bottle of foundation to cover the bruises. When I resemble an actual human, I return to the bedroom, grab a white cardigan to hide the rest, and gather Jason's clothes. But as I grasp the door handle, I can't turn the knob. My new friend fear does a jig on the corpse of my nerves again. I really don't want to go out there. I've just traded one House O'Werewolves for another. And Jason's out there. What if he refuses to see me? Yells? But I can't stay in this room forever. Fuck it. I turn the handle.

Dustin and another boy have setup camp in front of my bedroom, Legos carpeting the hallway floor. “Hi, Aunt Vivian,” Dustin says. He turns to the freckled kid. “This is my Aunt Vivian. She sings songs.”

“Uh, hi kids,” I say awkwardly. I haven't been around children in years. I'm rusty.

“We're building a rocket ship to send Rex up to the moon,” the other boy says, holding up a green dinosaur.

“Awesome.”

“Mommy says we're 'aposed to leave you alone. Why? Are you mean?” Dustin asks.

“I-I don't think so.”

“Okay. My other aunt, Park, won't let me have sugar. Will you let
me have sugar?”

“It—It's up to your mom, I guess.”

“Uncle Jason lets me. Grandma said he wasn't really my uncle, not like Aunt Park and Uncle Russell. She didn't say anything about you. Are you my real aunt?”

“Um, yeah, I guess.” How the hell do you explain genetics to a pre-schooler? You don't. “You two, um, get Rex to space. Have fun.”

I leave the future engineers of America to their space voyage. They're just the first natives I encounter as I walk down the long hall. The four people smile and nod as we pass one another. Two even stop me to say how happy they are I arrived safely, as if they already know me. Everyone's being so nice. It's fucking weird.

Downstairs is worse. Squealing children dash up and down the hardwood floors with parents or older siblings following. Just
as I step into the first-floor hallway, I count almost a dozen people, ages fifteen to seventy, of all ethnicities strolling in or out of rooms.
I keep my head down but they still smile and say hello. I just wander in a daze, clutching the folded clothes to my chest for comfort. I don't know exactly what I'm looking for. Jason, sort of. He's not in the dining room, where a dozen people can sit comfortably along the huge table. Right now it's covered with half-full plates and bowls of food laid out like a buffet. Women filter in and out of what I presume is the kitchen, replacing empty bowls with more chips and plates of sandwiches. He's not in the family room, which is setup like a makeshift pre-school where I think a toy box exploded.
The Lion King
plays on the TV but only two children watch it. A pretty teenage girl with blonde hair, cutoff shorts, and yellow halter top wipes Nicki's nose as nearby two male teens, one with sandy hair and the other auburn, pretend to play cards but really scope her out. There's another boy watching in the corner too, though his laptop does a good job of hiding his interest. No Jason. He's also not in what I assume is the parlor. This must be off limits to the kids because I only find adults reading or working on their laptops. I leave without making a sound.

“You look lost,” a man says behind me.

I spin around. A man about my height with buggy blue eyes, light brown hair, stocky build, and bright smile strolls toward me from the front door. “I, um …”

“Looking for the laundry?” he asks, glancing at the clothes.

“No, um, I'm looking for Jason. These are his.”

“Well, I just left him. He's still asleep.” The man holds out his hand for me to shake. “Adam Blue.”

“Viv Dahl,” I say, shaking it.

“Oh, I know who you are. Heard
a lot
about you.” He pulls his hand away. “Glad to see we got you out of that house in one piece.”

“Relatively,” I say, holding up my broken hand.

Another man steps out of the room with two sliding wooden doors straight across from me. He looks remarkably like Adam, just with brown eyes and maybe an inch or two taller. Must be his brother, Tate. “There you are. Thought I saw you walking up.” The brothers just nod at one another. “You okay?”

“Barely even a scratch,” Adam says.

“And you must be Vivian,” Tate says to me before eye fucking me. That is really getting annoying. “I can see what the fuss is about now.”

Adam clears his throat and mercifully Tate's attention returns to his brother. “Sorry,” Adam says. “Frog in throat.”

“Oh,” Tate says. “Viv, go get him a water.”

“I—”

“Thanks.” Tate throws his arm over his brother's shoulders. “Come on, baby bro. We're in the middle of war counsel. Frank sent me to fetch you.”

Before I can tell Tate where to shove his water, he maneuvers Adam back into the room and slides the doors closed. O-kay. As I'm thirsty too, I retrieve water bottles from the dining room before returning to the sliding doors with muffled voices on the other side. I knock.

“Come in,” a man says.

Okay, I feel like I've just walked into a scene from
The God
father
. Frank sits at his desk with a portrait of two wolves running under a yellow moon behind him on the wall. Lots of those types of paintings on the walls around here. I recognize the three other men in the room. Adam on the antique couch in the corner with Omar, the sniper from last night, and Tate in the chairs directly across from Frank. Wonder if Al Pacino's just running late.

“Vivi,” Frank says with a smile.

“I was just bringing Adam his water.”

“Come in. Sit. We were just discussing last night.”

Yeah, sounds like fun. Talking about the worst night of my life. Can't wait.

I slink over to Adam, sitting beside him and across from the giant bay doors that look out onto the shanty town and field. He gives me a reassuring smile as I do. “Thanks for the water,” Adam whispers.

“As I was saying,” Omar continues, “I salvaged one computer along with two cell phones, including the Marshal's, but as of this afternoon all the pertinent numbers are out of service. And the computer is password protected.”