Chapter Twenty-three
“Sullivan,” I whispered.
The streetlight several blocks down reflected off the shiny green shamrocks on his tie, which hung loose against his bloody shirt. He’d lost his j acket and one shoe. He’d also lost the hole in his throat.
I squeezed my eyes closed, then opened them again.
The gaping throat wound was still conspicuously missing. I couldn’t say I was sorry to see it go, however
—
“That’s impossible.”
Sullivan grinned and I cringed. Had his teeth always been that sharp?
“Conner,” I began. “We need to get you to the hospital.”
“I don’t think so.”
His voice was the same, except for the underlying gurgle that was more of a growl, which explained what I’d heard rumble from the fog. Had the injury damaged his vocal cords? Had there been an injury in the first place?
Yes. The blood on him had been real, and I wasn’t the only one who’d seen him lying on the ground in a pool of it. He’d been in an ambulance. According to Dr. Haverough, he’d been dead.
“Anne.” He came closer, weaving a bit as if dizzy or ill. I guess dying could do that to a person.
I giggled a bit hysterically, and Sullivan paused, his head tilting like a dog that had heard something far, far away.
“I feel so strange,” he murmured, and fell to his knees.
I rushed forward without thought, leaning over, meaning to help him up, then get him inside while I dialed nine-one-one for the second time in twenty-four hours. However, when I touched him, he snarled at me.
Seriously. He emitted the deepest, meanest sound I’d ever heard. I snatched my hand back a millisecond before his teeth slashed the air where it had been.
His face was distorted. Foam flecked his lips. Were his teeth growing longer? If Sullivan himself hadn’t told me rabies took one to three months to incubate, I’d have been calling him Old Yeller by now.
As it was, my mind traveled more along the lines of An American Werewolf in New Orleans.
I reversed my steps as fast as I could while keeping an eye on Sullivan. There was no way I was turning my back on him even to run. I wished like hell I hadn’t been so cavalier about the gris-gris. What I wouldn’t give to have the small bag clutched in my fist right now.
My heel had just smacked against the first step leading up to the porch and into Rising Moon when Sullivan turned his face to the night and howled. The sound both fury and j oy, there was nothing human about it.
I couldn’t move; I could only stare in both horror and amazement as he changed.
His teeth lengthened; his mouth erupted outward, merging with his nose. The forehead receded as the ears shot upward.
Bones crackled and popped. His shirt split; his pants tore; his single shoe seemed to explode. For an instant the streetlight reflected off glistening pale skin, then tawny fur sprouted from every pore.
His back arched; something rippled along his spine like an alien. Feet and hands metamorphosed into paws; nails became sharp, curved claws. The very last thing to burst forth was a tail. The appendage wagged, as the huge golden beast lifted its head.
Sullivan’s eyes stared out of a frighteningly different face. The combination of the familiar and the foreign made me gasp, and his snout opened in a canine version of a grin. He was enj oying this.
He’d spoken of a wolf with “people eyes.” The beast had bitten him, and now Sullivan was one too.
I’d been pooh-poohing the idea of werewolves, but seeing is believing, because I had no problem with it now. My big problem was how to make him turn back.
He snarled at me again. The difference between the previous sound, which had come from a still- human throat, and this one, which had come from the belly of the beast, was the difference between a thunderstorm and a hurricane—the first was disturbing, the second quite deadly.
I was captured by his eyes—chocolate brown surrounded by pure white—Sullivan’s eyes in every way except one. Their expression.
I saw evil in those eyes—hatred, lust, though not for my body, more for my blood.
He stalked me, pacing closer and closer, seemingly unconcerned that I might run inside, then shut and lock every door.
My mind flashed on the front of the building—two huge windows through which the crowd on Frenchmen could view the lights, the music, the magic.
Mueller had said Alaskan timber wolves reached one hundred and twenty pounds. Sullivan in wolf form had to be close to his human weight of two hundred plus. He’d have no trouble crashing through either pane of glass. I doubted even a door would keep him out if he wanted to get in.
From the look in his eyes, he wanted to.
Regardless, I couldn’t just stand around and let him kill me, so I continued to inch backward.
He lunged; I shrieked. Stumbling, falling, cracking my tailbone on the steps and whimpering.
The wolf nuzzled my crotch. My knee twitched, clipping him on the snout. He shook his head and sneezed.
“Get it over with,” I muttered.
If he was going to kill me, then kill me. I was not going to be pawed, literally, by a werewolf. I had my limits.
His breath was warm on my arms, my chest, my neck. I realized I had my eyes closed and forced them open. Sullivan’s stared into mine, making me dizzy. The eyes were his, but behind them was someone, make that something, entirely different.
He seemed possessed.
I didn’t have time to dwell on the whys and wherefores; I was a little busy saying my prayers before dying.
Then another growl split the night. Sullivan’s hackles went up, and he swung his huge head around, tossing spittle into my face.
I couldn’t see what was there until he clambered off me much faster than he’d clambered on. Slowly I sat up and stared at the second wolf emerging from the mist.
He was smaller than Sullivan and his coat was thick and black. The eyes were light blue or perhaps green, even light brown—but equally human. At this distance I didn’t recognize them. And why should I?
I wasn’t acquainted with all the werewolves in town.
The two wolves stalked each other. I’d read somewhere that there were very few fights between wolves because of their pack nature. An alpha couple ruled the group, and all the rest were considered beta or subservient. However, it appeared as if wolves and werewolves didn’t follow the same rules.
Another hysterical giggle threatened to break free, and I pressed my hand to my mouth to stop it. I didn’t want either one of them to remember I was here. Although they seemed more interested in each other right now.
The black wolf rushed the golden one. They crashed together like battling deer, chests thumping instead of horns, teeth snapping, claws slashing.
Despite the difference in size, the black wolf landed the most blows. He appeared adept at the game, feinting, advancing, using his superior speed and agility to the best advantage. None of the blood flowing was his.
The fight was vicious; neither one showed any mercy.
The sounds were horrible—the snarling and the tearing of flesh. The sight was worse—teeth and claws, spittle and blood. I wanted to turn my head but was unable to. How many times in your life did you get to watch a werewolf fight?
I hoped only once.
The black wolf broke away and trotted a few feet toward the river. Though Sullivan was breathing hard, the second beast wasn’t. He’d done this before. Many times.
Then the black wolf charged, rearing up on his hind legs, claws flashing. When the blond beast did the same, he lunged, getting his teeth around the throat and driving forward. They crashed to the pavement together.
“No!” I cried, recalling that the lighter werewolf was Sullivan. I didn’t want him dead, did I? Could he ever be put back the way he had been? Could he even be killed without silver?
I zipped my lips, but the black wolf had heard me. He lifted his gaze, though he kept his j aw clamped warningly around Sullivan’s throat. I might not recognize his eyes, but in them I didn’t see the madness I’d recognized in Sullivan’s—none of the anger, the hate, the bloodlust. This wolf seemed different.
He released Sullivan, though he stood over him until the larger wolf looked away in a gesture of submission. When Sullivan rolled to his feet, he kept his gaze down, his shoulders hunched. He was beaten and he knew it. One low, rumbling growl from the black wolf, and Sullivan raced into the fog, tail between his legs.
Now that he was gone, I was uneasy. Did I really want a crazed werewolf, a possessed former human, running loose in the Crescent City? Maybe I should have let the black wolf kill him. Except the idea of allowing Sullivan to die without at least trying to find a way to cure him was something I couldn’t do.
The black wolf hovered at the edge of the fog. Despite the bizarre human eyes, he was a wolf in every way—wild, free, maj estic.
“Who are you?” I murmured, and he tilted his head. “John?”
The name slipped out; I don’t know why. The animal didn’t howl in pain or morph back into a man. He continued to stare at me impassively.
“John Rodolfo,” I tried again.
He turned slowly and melted into the waning darkness.
“Ooo-kay.”
The list I’d found on the Internet wasn’t working very well. Of course, what I should have done was call Sullivan ’s name. I was certain the blond werewolf had been him.
I put a hand to my forehead where an ache had begun. In the space of a few hours my whole world had changed. Werewolves walked among the humans; the dead rose, and I might just have to shoot one of my favorite people with a silver bullet.
If I could find one.
Sunrise sparkled through the fading fog. Time to shower, change out of my bloody clothes, and have another talk with Maggie.
“She hasn’t been in.”
The kid with braids still worked the counter at the café. I’d gotten the same answer when I’d come and asked for Maggie yesterday. Today I wasn’t leaving until I found out where she was.
“Has she been on vacation?”
“She hasn’t shown up for her shift. Ain’t like her.”
Unease flickered in the pit of my empty belly. “Has anyone gone over to her place?”
“Not my department, babe. You want coffee or no?”
I had when I walked in; now I doubted my stomach would hold it.
“Where does she live?”
“Not—”
I held up my hand. “Your department. Got it. How about her last name?”
He peered at me closely. “You like her or somethin’ ?”
“Excuse me?”
“Lesbo. Girl on girl. That why you wanna know? ‘Cause I don’t think Maggie swings that way, but —” He shrugged. “To each his own, I guess.”
My headache was back. Caffeine would probably help, but I didn’t have the time. I had a very bad feeling about Maggie.
“Name,” I gritted out between my teeth.
“Schwartz,” he said. “Now that you ask, I think I heard her say once that she lived near Tulane.”
“Thanks.”
I paid for half an hour of computer time, which was the smallest amount I could get, and found her address in five minutes. A short cab ride later, I knocked on the door of Maggie’s apartment, hoping she’d open it and be furious that I’d woken her.
No such luck.
I tried the door—locked. Then I moved on to her neighbors, who, understandably, weren’t too happy to see me at this hour of the morning.
“Who the fuck are you?” greeted the bleary-eyed, unshaven young man in 1-C.
“I’m trying to find Maggie.” At his blank look, I pointed toward her apartment. “Your neighbor?”
“Hot girl?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Maggie had turned out to be a sweet kid, but hot?
“Dark hair, light eyes, snake tattoo,” I supplied.
“Yeah. Hottie. I’d like to get me some of that.”
Too much info, I thought, but kept the words to myself. He seemed to know her, at least in passing.
“You seen her lately?”
“No.” His expression went from slack-j awed lust to confusion. “That’s weird.”
“I don’t suppose you have a key to her apartment, or know who does?”
“Landlady.” He j erked a thumb at the apartment across the hall. “Mrs. Fitzhugh.”
“Thanks,” I said, already crossing the frayed, stained carpet to knock on 1-D.
I repeated my query to the tall, thin elderly woman in curlers. People still wore those?
“Haven’t seen her.” She punctuated the words with a loud pop of what appeared to be bright pink bubble gum. People still chewed that?
“She hasn’t showed up for work in several days. I’m worried. Could you open her door?”
Mrs. Fitzhugh blew an impressive bubble, popping it and folding it back into her mouth with a creepily pale tongue. “You a cop?”
“Private.” I whipped out my ID.
She sighed, long, drawn out, and annoyed, but she got the key and let me in. Then she hovered in the doorway as I moved through the apartment.
Maggie wasn’t there.
I’d worked enough missing persons cases to know what to search for. No sign of a struggle. No blotch of blood on the carpet or the pillow. All good.
Her suitcase, backpack, purse, and toothbrush were all right where she’d left them. Her mailbox was full; her garbage pail didn’t smell minty fresh. Those observations, not so good.
I hit the button on her message machine.
“Hey!” Mrs. Fitzhugh protested. “That’s not your—”
She stopped when the messages began.
Three from the coffee shop wondering why Maggie hadn’t come to work. One from her mother wondering why she hadn’t called. Two hang-ups.
“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.
Mrs. Fitzhugh had begun to look as nervous as I felt. “Two days ago when she left for work.”
“You didn’t see her come back?”
“No.” She chewed her lip. “Should I call the police?”
I dropped Maggie’s key into her hand. “I think you’d better.”
