Wolfsbane and Mistletoe

I hated her for being excited, but at least that helped shake off the overwhelming emptiness I felt. Time to man up, Gerry. We’re still the good guys –

It’s just that the bad guys had never looked like us before.

I nodded. "Okay, you contact the family, and I’ll hit the Internet. Smith’s out there, and until we get a clue or a scent, we’re just gonna have to wait."

We exchanged a look. Sensing the presence of evil is one thing. Being able to find it before it acts is quite another. And the idea of evil in the form of a Fangborn was just plain terrifying.

I went home, and no sooner opened the door than I was attacked by a mass of muscle and fur.

"Beemer, get off!" I peeled the big, brown-striped tom off my shoulder and dumped him on the couch. As a kitten, Beemer jumping from the staircase railing onto me was impressive and cute as Hell. Now that he was in the fifteen-pound class, it was less amusing. To me, anyway. Beemer still thought it was a riot. But even he couldn’t cheer me up tonight.

As I heated a shepherd’s pie I got over at Henry’s Market, I listened to the police scanner, but didn’t hear anything that would help. As Beemer washed himself on the leather couch next to me, I drank too much and flipped around the TV – a beaut, 40′ plasma, with controls to put the Enterprise to shame – but there was nothing to keep my attention. Ditto the Internet and the new issue of Maxim. If you wanted proof that my kind are born, not made, just do the math: if we could turn normals, not a single lingerie model would be left unbitten. Trust me.

Frustrated in every sense of the word, I didn’t drift off until just before the alarm rang.

Groaning, I got up, dumped kibble into Beemer’s bowl, and hit the bricks, not because I had a lead, but because I had a headache worse than any hangover. The memory of evil left unchecked is one of the downsides of the job, and I didn’t even want to think about what Smith meant.

I walked by Ziggy’s, but Annie wasn’t working. The day outside matched my insides: granite gray, cold, depressing. Even the telephone poles were decorated to suit my mood: the neighborhood was papered with missing pet flyers. I knew how I’d feel if Beemer ever went missing: it’d be a crappy Christmas for the kids worrying about Kitty-Cakes or Bongo or Maxie . . .

Focus on the job, Gerry. Keep it together.

Down by the Willows, I caught a faint scent. The Salem Willows is an amusement park, very small and dated. It’s mostly Whack-a-Mole and fried dough stands and rackety rides during the summer. In the winter, it’s a wasteland, boarded up and abandoned.

It wasn’t abandoned now: Salem PD, state police, and the ME vans were there. My vision and hearing sharpened, and my olfactory nerves went crazy. Smith had been here, not long ago.

Weems was also there. This time, he came right over to me.

"Steuben. Been seeing a lot of you lately." He only reaches my chin, and he’s kinda pudgy, so short-man syndrome never helped things between us.

That’s why werewolves and vamps have such crappy reputations. The local authorities always notice us sniffing around crime scenes and figure we’re the bad guys.

I sipped my coffee. "Been seeing a lot of you, too, Weems. Funny, huh?"

"I ain’t laughing." He crossed his arms. "What’re you doing here?"

"I’m looking for the guy at the hospital who knocked my sister around."

His face softened, just a little. "Your sister, she’s okay."

Suggesting I was not. "C’mon, Weems. I’m trying to catch an ass**le here."

"And what’re we doing?" For an instant, I thought he’d either hit me or have a heart attack. He balled up his fists and turned a shade of red that would have made Santa’s tailors envious.

"You know what I mean." I tried to look desperate, no stretch, under the circumstances. "Man, come on. It’s Claudia."

The stories would have you believe that vampires are incredibly alluring. It’s true, they produce a pheromone that seems to make people around them comfortable, which helps vamps in their healing work. Add a good dose of empathy, and yes, vampires hold a definite attraction for normals, who think of it as sexual.

Something about Claudia had long ago hit Weems hard, right between the eyes. She’d hate me throwing her under the bus like that, but if it got me past his defensiveness . . .

I could see that Weems was torn, but he wasn’t going to pass up anything that made him look good in front of Claudia. "We got one vic, and it’s a wet one. Or it was, a couple of days ago: it’s pretty dried up now." Weems looked greenish; he never could stand the sight of blood. "Chest sliced open . . . and the heart removed."

"Jesus." I swallowed. "Got an ID?"

"Homeless guy. My guess, he was either flopping in the shed over there, or he was lured in."

"You said sliced open?"

"You’re a ghoul, Steuben." He sighed. "ME says a big knife, it looks like. They need more tests."

I nodded. If there was one thing we could agree on, it was the reluctance of the ME to spill details.

He hesitated. "The chest was opened up like . . . ah, jeez. It reminded me of one of those Advent calendars. The skin pulled back square, and the ribs broken to get the heart out."

Maybe he didn’t like me seeing him queasy, maybe he just regretted telling me as much as he did, but Weems’s face hardened. "Get lost, Steuben. I find you nosing around, you’ll be sorry."

"Merry Christmas to you, too, Weems." I left.

"They found a body," I said, after I let myself into Claudia’s condo.

Claudia was excited. "Yeah, I know, I just heard it on the news."

It was her day off and while Claud was waiting to hear something solid back from the family – who were going crazy over the news – she was trying to work out a profile for Smith. Maybe she was doing rote work for the same reason I was: to keep from thinking about our world being turned inside out. I still felt like I had the pins knocked out from under me and I hated that uncertainty.

"Down the Willows?" I said, surprised. That was quick.

"No, pulled from the harbor." She frowned. "The woman had been in there about a week. They said ‘mutilated,’ which usually means something worse."

"So was mine." I told her what I’d just learned from Weems. "They know who she was?"

"A local prostitute, was all they said."

"There’s a chance it’s not the same guy, not our guy – " I said.

"I’m not willing to bet on that."

"Me, neither."

"He’s selecting people on the periphery of society," she said. "Going for those who live under the radar."