Becky’s liberal consciousness started to bristle at Troy’s comment. “You know,” she said mildly, “In this town, a statement like that could get someone like you turned into a lesbian — with a pair of rusty wire cutters.”

  “I’m serious,” Troy said earnestly, “They drink all this natural herbal tea — tastes terrible — and pray to the moon. And special wine. They crush the grapes themselves with their bare feet — just like in that old Lucy episode. And they have all these weird animals with them, crows and things. And, of course, they don’t shave their armpits or their legs and they never take showers.”

  “Troy!” Becky exclaimed, outraged, not sure whether he really believed what he was saying or if he was just goading her.

  “Dammit, Troy!” Chris snapped. “I’m trying to concentrate here.” He turned to Becky, apologetically. “Sorry about Mr. Chauvinist over there. You’ve got to remember, he was born at about the time women were first given the vote. He’s a little out of date.”

  He turned back to the captain, who had remained silent through the entire interaction.

  “Please continue, Captain,” he said.

  “I told Becky and Pamela that I spent a summer in the swamps with Granny. She died the next spring. But…but, I never told them how she died.”

  Clive started to tremble. “Shhh,” Chris soothed. “It’s all in the past. Years ago. Nothing can hurt you now.”

  Clive seemed to calm down. When he resumed speaking, his voice was flat, emotionless. His native accent became heavier and his voice took on a higher pitch, almost child-like in tone.

  “Mama and Poppa sent me to spend Easter weekend at Granny’s. They were going off to N’Orleans for a party. The first night was real nice. Granny took me into the swamp and we caught crawfish and boiled ’em in the big kettle she kept over on the fire.” He paused for breath. “But the second night…”

  Sweat started to drip from his forehead again. Becky gently took the handkerchief from his limp hand and mopped his brow softly.

  “The second night, I woke up in the dark. The middle of the night, it was. And there was somethin’ sniffin’ about the cabin. Sniffin’ and snufflin’. I opened my eyes and Granny was standin’ at the door. She had some kinda long, thin knife in her hands. No, more like an itty-bitty sword. It was sparkling in the glow from the fire.”

  “Try to see it closely,” Chris urged. “Look at it. Do you see anything hanging from it?”

  Clive’s brow furrowed in concentration. Suddenly, his eyes opened wide with surprise.

  “Flowers!” he said. “It’s got flowers all wrapped round the handle.”

  “What color are they?” Chris asked. “Can you tell?”

  Clive squinted as if he were back in the cabin in the Louisiana swamp, trying to peer through the fire’s dim glow.

  “Blue, I think. And white.”

  “Wolfsbane,” said Chris with satisfaction. “The only thing that can force a werewolf to change form. What happened then?”

  Clive’s eyes widened with fear. “The door! The door broke down!” He started to breathe in short, frightened pants. “It hit Granny! Knocked her clean across the room, next to the fire. My God…”

  The room silent, expectant.

  “It’s in the doorway,” Clive whispered. “Bright gold eyes, like fire. Covered in hair. It looked up and…and it howled! Then, it went for Granny. The screams were awful. It kept growling and she kept screaming…”

  “What else?” Becky asked, quietly.

  “I hid under the covers. I could hear it. Eating. Then, I musta started to cry or somethin’ cause it heard me. I could hear it movin’ across the floor ’til it was right next to the bed. And then…then I felt it on top of me. The smell was horrible.”

  “You can say that again,” Troy said, emphatically. Becky silenced him with a glare.

  “Then,” Clive went on, “then, I screamed and I guess I fainted. The next thing I remember, it was mornin’.”

  “All right, Clive,” said Chris, leaning back on his heels. “Take a couple of deep breaths. I’m going to let go now.”

  Clive complied and, after a moment, his vision seemed to return to the present.

  “Jesus!” he said, letting out a huge breath of air. “When I repress something, I don’t fuck around.”

  “No, you don’t,” Chris’ grin was easy, companionable, one could say even content with a job well done. “But you survived a werewolf attack,” he went on. “How, I don’t know.”

  “That part’s easy,” Clive’s brow furrowed. “That part, I’ve always remembered.”

  “Please ’splain to us,” said Troy, in a weak attempt to emulate Maria Montez.

  “It died. Right on top of me. I don’t know how, but Granny must’ve heard me cry out. With her dying breath, she stuck that knife right into that son of a bitch. I woke up in bed with a corpse!” he said with astonished realization.

  “Join the club,” Troy said and received another light slap on the arm from his lover. “Well, some of us like waking up that way!”

  “That’s enough to make anyone crazy,” said Becky, pointedly looking at Troy. She turned to Chris. “A knife?” she inquired.

  Chris nodded. “An athame. It’s a ceremonial knife. Most witches have them. They’re usually made of silver. And blessed. Which doesn’t really make any difference. It’s the silver that does the trick,” Chris told her. His brow furrowed, “She was lucky she got him with one thrust. Must have pierced the heart or major organ. Lung maybe. Usually, they’re a lot harder to kill. It takes some little time for the metal to work its way into the bloodstream.”

  “Will he be all right now?” Becky asked.

  “He’s less likely to go screaming into the night if a Maltese Terrier jumps him in an alley. Yes, I think he’ll be fine.”

  Clive looked at Chris, eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you,” he breathed earnestly.

  “Nothing to it,” Chris said blithely, not wanting an emotional scene. “We still have the problem of what we’re going to do with Louis. After all that, I can see why you don’t want him staying with you.”

  “Why? He’s afraid he’ll wake up with Louis on top of him?” Troy said with feigned puzzlement. “What’s so terrible about that? He’s kinda cute for a furball.”

  Becky had just about run out of patience with the blond boy’s flippant comments. “There are some straight people left in the world, Missy,” she said, with clenched teeth.

  “Not really,” Troy retorted. “After all, dear, you know the old saying. The right wine, music and lighting and the bulls turn right into heifers.”

  “If you two would like to take it outside…” Chris began.

  “Sorry,” Becky said. “You’re right. We’ve still gotta figure out what to do with Louis.”

  “Well, if y’all would just listen to me,” Troy said, petulantly.

  “Oh, God,” Becky moaned, quietly. “Spare us.” Troy glared at her.

  “Oh, all right, monkey,” Chris said with exasperation. “What’s on your mind?”

  “It’s simple,” Troy said, his chest swelling with pride, “I’ve been trying to tell you for twenty minutes. Take him over to the old lady’s.”

  All three heads snapped to attention, fixed on Troy’s beaming smile.

  “Pamela!” they breathed, in unison.

  CHAPTER 10

  “What the fuck is going on?” Pamela Burman grumbled, still half asleep. She rolled over, lifting the yellow and green frilly sleeping mask from her eyes and glanced over at the illuminated dial of the clock on her nightstand.

  The bell rang again and a loud pounding began on her front door. Hoping it wasn’t an emergency, and ready to slowly dismember whoever dared to wake her up if it wasn’t, Burman hauled herself out of bed, grabbing her red, white and blue dressing gown.

  Pulling it over her purple satin pajamas, and slipping into a pair of electric blue fluffy slippers, she stormed into the living room — a walking Technicolor disaster — and cursed as her shin clipped an end table that she could have sworn existed specifically for the express purpose of tripping her, and threw open the front door.

  “It’s one fucking thirty in the goddamned morning,” she yelled loudly enough to wake the inhabitants of the other three condo units on her floor. She paused, taking in the small crowd of people standing on her doormat. “What the hell do you want?”

  “We need a favor, Pam.” Becky pushed her way into the apartment and switched on the living room lights. She gripped the arm of a swarthy young man, wearing ill-fitting clothes and hauled him into the apartment with her. She dragged him across to the couch against the far wall and sat him down firmly.

  “Don’t move,” she told him.

  To Pamela’s bafflement, Becky then nodded at Clive, who turned to call softly back down the hall, “It’s okay.”

  Clive moved into the living room and settled himself comfortably into an armchair. Pamela stood with one hand still on the door handle, as Chris and Troy moseyed down the hall and into her apartment to join the party.

  “The only favor you’re getting from me,” Burman said as she slammed the door, “is killing all of you quick. What the fuck are you doing here at this goddamned hour of the morning?”

  “We brought you a houseguest,” Troy told her.

  Burman’s eyes narrowed. Something wasn’t right. While Chris sat with Becky on the couch on either side of the stranger, Troy was standing completely across the room. Usually those two can’t keep their hands off each other, she thought. Something’s wrong.

  “A house guest?” she said aloud. “At two in the morning?”

  “It’s quarter to, Pamela,” said Clive, who was in a suspiciously good humor for such a late hour.

  “Well, well, well,” Burman said sarcastically, “Just take him into the Marie fucking Antoinette Suite, why dontcha? I suppose the frigging Mormon Tabernacle Choir’ll be showing up any minute with his luggage?”

  She was about to continue with a full-fledged, roof-raising tirade, when she was startled by a low growl which seemed to come from the strange young man on the couch. She brought herself up short, puzzled, and blinked repeatedly at what the growl could mean, bearing in mind her little chit-chat with Becky and Clive earlier today — correction — yesterday. The stranger growled again, causing a disquieting sensation to begin percolating in the pit of Pamela’s stomach.

  “Oh my God,” she realized who the young man probably was and was hoping against hope that she was mistaken. “You found him?” she whispered, and then, in added in a voice that mingled outrage with something very close to hysteria, “And you brought him HERE?”

  “You son of a bitch!” she yelled at Clive. Burman bolted for the glass-fronted corner cabinet in the dining room. Positioning herself in front of it, arms spread out protectively, she shouted over her shoulder, “You keep him the fuck away from my china!”

  “What’s with her?” the stranger growled.

  “Nothing,” Chris reassured, “She’s just a little upset.”

  “Upset?” Burman shouted. “You call this upset?” She darted into the open kitchen, never once taking her eyes from the china cabinet, and emerged brandishing a copper bottomed skillet.

  “I’ll show you upset,” she promised, advancing toward the couch. “Get him the fuck out of my apartment before I clobber him!”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Ms. Burman,” Chris commented mildly.

  “You just keep your goddamned fangs in your mouth,” Burman retorted as she advanced toward her yet-to-be-introduced house guest, “or you’ll be sucking necks through a straw!”

  “That’s assault, Pamela,” Clive cautioned in turn.

  “After what happened to my place last time, no jury in the world would convict me.” She waved the frying pan menacingly, hoisting it high over her head in preparation for braining Louis with it. “Get him out! I’m warning you!”

  Chris turned to the youth next to him. “All right, Louis. Go ahead. But be cool, okay?”

  “Uh, Chris…?” Clive began, cautiously.

  “Seeing is believing,” Chris said and motioned to Louis to get on with it. “Do you want her to go ahead and hit him? What else is going to stop her?”

  Clive shook his head and shut his eyes tightly as, to Pamela’s astonishment, the stranger stood and stripped off his shirt and began to unzip his trousers. Taken aback for a moment, she paused in her relentless frying pan attack. But her pause lasted only the briefest second. With a mighty heave, she swung the skillet.

  Louis ducked as it narrowly missed his shoulder and growled softly.

  “I just know he’s gonna pee on the carpet,” Troy said, mournfully.

  Louis glared at him as he skinned out of his pants to stand, stark naked, in the middle of the city manager’s living room. He reached his arms above his head and stretched languidly.

  “You can’t hit a naked man, Pam,” Becky said, concerned that the elderly city manager was set on beating Louis to a bloody pulp right in front of them all.

  “Oh yeah?” Burman swung the skillet again. “Just watch me. Rape defense.”

  Louis looked at Chris who silently motioned him to get on with it. Then, to Pamela’s consternation, Louis began to change.

  A slow ripple crossed his skin, starting with his slightly rounded belly and traveling up his torso along his arms and down from his waist to his toes. The hair on his chest and stomach grew thicker and spread out; within seconds his shoulders and back were covered.

  Clive’s eyes remained squeezed tightly shut, and Burman’s mouth dropped open with astonishment, but Becky leaned forward to watch, her curiosity getting the best of her. She even started to rise from her seat to get a closer look, but Chris pushed her firmly back.

  “He’ll be disoriented for a split second,” Chris whispered. “Just stay there.”

  Suddenly, Louis grunted softly and doubled over, as if in pain. But instead of recovering and standing up again, he fell forward into a crouch, thrusting out his arms to break his fall. In the split second before his hands touched the floor, his fingers shimmered away, replaced with paws tipped with sharp black claws. He shook himself once and, suddenly, a young adult wolf was sitting in the middle of the floor, tongue lolling from its mouth.

  “Got any Puppy Chow?” Troy asked.

  “You can open your eyes now, Captain,” Chris said.

  Clive’s eyes snapped open and he steeled himself to look at what Louis had become. “It’s not too bad, really,” he said with remarkable control. “One of my neighbors has a Great Dane a little larger.”

  Louis rose onto all fours and slowly padded across the room to Clive’s chair as Troy moved far out of the way. Clive visibly stiffened, but bravely held out one hand. Louis sniffed at it for a minute and then opened his mouth in a huge yawn, giving Clive a view of his sharp canines that the captain could easily have done without seeing. Before he could snatch his hand out of the way, Louis stuck out his tongue and licked gently at the captain’s hand. This done, he slowly turned around in a circle several times, before settling down in front of Clive’s chair, head resting on his paws, and with apparent contentment, closed his eyes.

  “I think he likes you, Captain,” Chris said.

  “Well, I did let him out of jail,” Clive said nervously and reached down to pat Louis’ head. “But he’s crushing my feet.”

  “Wait’ll he starts to chew on your Gucci shoes,” Troy said sweetly from across the room where he now stood by Chris.

  “He’s just joking, Captain,” Chris hastened to reply as Clive grew a little pale.

  “Down boy,” Troy said as Louis opened his eyes and growled at him in warning. “If you’re good, I’ll buy you a mailman for Christmas,” he added, with wicked sweetness.

  There was a soft thump as the skillet Burman had been holding fell to the oriental carpet covering the dining room floor. Burman was standing, mouth open, eyes rolled up into her head slightly, swaying alarmingly.

  “Don’t you dare faint, Pam Burman,” Becky commanded. “You faint and I’ll have Louis lick your face to wake you up.”

  Becky’s words penetrated and Burman’s eyes returned to normal.

  “I need to sit down,” she said weakly.

  Chris was on his feet in a moment, lending Pam a supporting hand as he guided her to a seat on the couch.

  “Oh good,” Troy said when she was seated, “Your PJs are satin.”

  “What?” asked Burman dimly.

  “He sheds,” Troy explained.

  “Cut it out, monkey,” Chris said. He took Pamela’s hand in his own. “Can I get you anything, Ms. Burman? Water, maybe?”

  “Cognac,” Burman whispered. “In the Chinese cabinet by the front door. A lot of cognac.”

  “I’ll get it,” Clive said. He reached down and cautiously nudged Louis with his arm. “C’mon Louis. Clear off.”

  But Louis was comfortable and refused to budge.

  “I’m warning you, Louis. Get off my feet,” Clive seemed almost to be enjoying himself, having reached a new level of comfort with his furry friend. Louis growled softly as Clive leaned forward and grabbed him around the middle with both arms.

  “Goddammit, Louis. Stop talking back. Move it!” Clive grunted with effort as he managed to lift Louis up and deposit him back down on one side of his feet. “Jesus, I almost lost the circulation there,” he said, shaking one leg, and went to fetch the liquor for Burman.

  “Here you go, Pam,” he said happily, when he handed her the glass a minute later.

  “Well, we’re certainly showing off,” Becky told him.

  “Bet your ass,” Clive grinned. “Werewolves, vampires, ghosts — lemme at ’em!”

  Burman drained half the snifter in one gulp and coughed several times. “All right,” she said, when she’d resumed breathing, “I’m a convert. Just one question.” She looked up at Clive, fixing him with a weak, but still frigid glare. “Why the fuck did you bring a murderer over to my apartment?”

  “He didn’t do it, Pam,” Becky answered. “Someone else did.”

  “Someone else?”

  “Ms. Burman?” Chris said, touching her shoulder to gain her attention.

 

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