Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1) (19 page)

* * *

Fifteen years old. Returning home from friends, far too late, through winter woods oddly silent. The house dark, even the light in the front room not burning. The door open, tilted at a strange angle. His heart leapt. He ran.

He burst past the ruined entrance to stumble in the dark and fall amongst bloody bodies. His parents. Upstairs, Pyotr’s bed empty, room in disarray. Outside again, father’s rifle in hand, following prints in the snow. The prints of the beast.

He found it near the quarry. Half-human, yellow eyes looked up from where it fed on his brother. He raised the rifle.

His childhood died. The hunter was born.

* * *

After leaving the restaurant, Jan walked home to his apartment over his book store on Queen West. His place was small but he’d left most of his possessions behind in the old country. Too many memories tied to them. Besides, he liked this area. Lots of shops and bars that stayed open late. Plenty of neon.

Plenty of light.

Once home, he checked that every light in every room was on. He read for a while after dinner, then went to bed early as usual. Two flashlights lay on a table beside the bed. He made sure they both worked, then he lay down leaving a lamp on. Maybe tonight he could sleep. Maybe he was tired enough. Closing his eyes, he prayed for escape from dreams.

He awoke screaming her name, sitting bolt upright on sweat-soaked sheets. Sobbing, he fell on his side. There, bathed in light that never touched the night world inside him, he prayed again for deliverance from his darkness.

* * *

Twenty-five years old, in a Paris bistro, a stack of papers from around the world beside him. Serial killings got good play. And sometimes the signs were there that spoke to him of shifters. He sat forward. Like this one. Athens paper, one week old. He paid his bill and left, heading for the nearest travel agent.

He had hunted were-bears in Norway and were-tigers in India. He carried a ragged scar on his thigh from a leopard shifter in Kenya. Towns paid a man well to be rid of a beast, a man who knew the signs and was brave––or foolish––enough to follow them.

Jan Mirocek had become such a man.

* * *

The morning sun found Jan curled shivering in an armchair in his living room, a flashlight clutched to his chest. Jan thought about the old times and about what he’d become. He realized that he didn’t like himself anymore. He realized also, to his surprise, that he had known this for a long time.

Finding his phone, he punched Garos’s number, taking vindictive pleasure in waking him. Garos swore, listened, then gave a phone number for the witness and directions to the dead-end alley. Jan swore back when Garos thanked him for the third time. Promising to keep in touch, Jan hung up.

Hell, he thought. Just like old times. Grabbing his coat, he checked the pockets for his flashlight and batteries, then stepped out into a cold but bright February morning.

* * *

Twenty-five, in an Athens bar. Listening to a young cop named Garos complain. “They won’t let me talk to the press.”

Jan nodded. “They always hush it up.”

“Damn bureaucrats. Well, thanks for the lead.”

Jan shrugged. “Thanks for backing me up. I probably wouldn’t be alive otherwise. Didn’t figure on two of them.”

“We worked well together,” the big man said.

Jan looked at him. “I’m thinking of taking on a partner.”

Garos grinned.

* * *

The alley was as Garos had said. Nothing but a few bits of trash. A neon sign over a bricked-up door at the end of the alley advised that “Clancy’s Eatery” was now on the next street.

“You the guy who called me?” a voice said from behind him.

Jan turned, startled. She stood at the entrance to the alley. Five-six maybe, short brown hair, long black coat over a slim figure. “Kate Lockridge. You called me, right?”

Jan walked up to her. “Jan Mirocek. Thanks for coming.”

“You don’t look like a cop.”

She had nice eyes, Jan decided. “Friend of one. Garos.”

“Big guy from last night? He was okay.” She looked Jan over. “Okay, let’s talk. But not here. Gives me the creeps. I know a place nearby. Lousy food but great coffee.” She started to move to the street, then stopped, scanning the alley again.

“Something wrong?”

She shrugged. “Place seemed brighter last night. Guess it’s coming in here out of the sunlight. And things are always different in the dark, right?” She walked to the street.

Yeah, he thought. Things were different in the dark.

* * *

Thirty years old, in a little tavern in a little village in Poland, waiting for Garos to get to the point.

Garos coughed. “Mara and I, we’re getting married.”

Jan had seen this coming. He nodded. “And you want out.”

Garos reddened but nodded back.

“I wish the best for you both, Andreas. You know that.”

Garos smiled and shook his hand. “Thank you. These have been good years, my friend, but Mara needs a different life.”

And I need a new partner, Jan thought.

* * *

Late afternoon.
The Big Mistake
was almost empty. They sat at a sunny window table in the long narrow tavern. A jungle of neon signs, each a visual scream of a beer brand, colored the dark room in a random rainbow. Kate called to the bartender. “Two coffees, Harry.” She turned to Jan. “So what do you want?”

“Garos asked for help on these—this killing.” He watched a corner of her mouth curl up. “We worked together in Europe.”

“How so?”

“I was an advisor on one of his cases.” He hurried on before she could probe any further. “So tell me what you saw.”

Her story was the same. “—I reach the alley and there’s no one, nothing. Including no way out. Well, you saw, right?”

Jan nodded and sighed. He asked a few more questions, but it added nothing to the story. “Listen, sorry I wasted your time. Let me buy the coffees.” He reached for his wallet.

“So is this body rotting like the others?” she asked. Jan stopped in mid-motion and looked at her. She smiled. “I’m a reporter for the
Toronto Star
, Mr. Mirocek. We need to talk.”

Jan sat back again. A reporter, covering the killings. For a moment, despite the sunshine, he felt an old darkness close in.

* * *

Thirty-one. Working alone again. He met her in a village in Poland, a reporter up from Warsaw to cover the killings in the town. Her name was Stasia. He trained her. He loved her.

A year later, she was dead.

* * *

Harry brought refills while Jan gathered his thoughts. A bluff, trying to see how he’d react? No. She might guess that the separate killings were linked but not about the body decay. “How’d you know about the corpse?” he asked when Harry had left.

“Corpses,” she corrected. “Got a source in the Coroner’s office who likes to supplement his income.” She leaned forward. “That’s why Garos called you, isn’t it? You know why the bodies are rotting like that, right?” Her voice was eager.

Jan began to growl a denial but stopped. What could she do? No paper would print it. Besides, he didn’t believe it himself. He shrugged. “You’re right. I’ve seen those signs before.”

She flicked on a micro-recorder. “What’s it mean?”

“It’s a sign of a shifter killing,” he said, straight-faced.

Her brow furrowed. In a very pretty way, he thought. “Shifter killing? What’s that?” she asked.

“Shape-shifters. Garos and I used to hunt them. He thinks you saw one.”

Pause. “Shape-shifters?” Her eagerness melted into a dead-pan then hardened into a glare. “Like a were-wolf?”

“Shifters aren’t limited to wolves.”

She clicked off the recorder and stuffed it back in her purse with a near ferocity. “A were-beast. Right. Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Mirocek.” She stood up and grabbed her coat.

To his surprise, Jan realized that he wanted her to stay. “So how do you explain the rapid decay? How did the Coroner?”

She bit her lower lip. “I can’t. Neither could they.”

Jan stood and faced her. “I can.” He could smell her perfume, a hint of vanilla.

She stared at him then shook her head and sighed. “Twenty minutes, no more.” She sat down, arms folded.

An hour later, Jan sat back, having summarized his life story. He had left out the part about Stasia. Kate looked hard at him. “Jan, I’m certain you believe every word you just said. I also know it can’t possibly be true.”

“Does it matter? The
Star
wouldn’t print it anyway.”

She groaned. “Okay, so Garos thinks we have a were-beast in Toronto. Because of this corpse decay, right?”

“Plus the time of the murders. Most shifters assume animal form only at night, to hide in the dark. Out of the light. But actually, beyond that, I don’t think it fits with a shifter.”

“You mean you don’t believe Garos either? Why not?”

“Shifters live where their animal form is common. Then if seen, they aren’t viewed as anything unusual. So were-tigers live in areas with tigers, were-wolves with real wolves.”

“So?”

“So what animals are common in downtown Toronto?”

“Dogs and cats, for starters.”

“Yeah, but not running free, which they’d need to be.”

“How about birds? Maybe it’s a were-pigeon,” she said.

“Very funny. Too small. So are raccoons from the ravines.”

“What’s size got to do with it?”

“Mass-energy conservation. It has to be as big as us.”

“Sounds like we’ve run out of animals,” she said.

“That’s what I think. No such beast.”

“So what about the corpse decay?”

Jan frowned. “I don’t know. I can’t explain that.” He looked at her. “It almost sounds as if you believe me now.”

Kate shrugged. “I’ve heard worse. You meet all sorts of weirdoes on these streets.”

“Thanks, I love being tolerated.”

She grinned at him. “You want to stay for dinner?”

He looked outside. The sun had set and streetlights were winking into life. He should leave. But the area was well lit. Lots of neon. And Kate was smiling at him. “I’d like that,” he said. He just wished she didn’t remind him so much of Stasia.

* * *

Thirty-two years old. Sunday. A small church outside Budapest. Stasia, tall and fair beside him, a hunter for a year now. At the altar in the otherwise empty church stood Father Karman. Their prey. “His parish suspects,” Jan whispered.

Stasia nodded. “But simple tourists like us don’t, right?”

The priest turned from the altar and noticed them. He smiled. “Are you here for Mass?” he called.

Jan hesitated. His Catholic upbringing made this hard. A priest in a church. He could at least let the man hold a last mass. They should be safe. Karman needed either time or the taste of blood to shift. Jan nodded. Stasia looked at him, puzzled. “After Mass, outside the church,” he whispered.

During the Liturgy of the Word, Jan felt in his jacket for his gun. Stasia’s presence at a capture still made him uneasy. As they approached the altar for Communion, Karman stared hard at Jan. He turned his back to pour the wine. The communion began.

After the ceremony, Karman took the cup from them and turned back to the altar. Only then did Jan notice another cup on the altar. The one from which the priest had drunk. Jan’s eyes froze on a drop of liquid hanging red and thick on its lip.

Thick as blood.

Jan struggled to his feet, but the room swam. He fell, panic rising in him. The wine. Stasia screamed his name. A face loomed before him, cruel, already bestial, the reek of blood on its foul breath. Jan fumbled for his gun but the beast struck him hard on the temple. Darkness took him.

* * *

As Harry brought Kate and Jan their dinners, Jan noticed an old man sitting in the back, out of the light. He wouldn’t have seen him except that the man gestured to Jan with a jerky motion of a stiffened hand. Jan turned to Harry. “Who’s that?”

Harry looked over. “Solly? Street person. Comes in sometimes. I’ll give him a coffee, sandwich maybe. Don’t know how he stays alive. He’s usually in the shelter by now. Doesn’t like the streets after dark. Last time he stayed late, I had to walk him there after we closed. Only way I could get him out.”

Jan stood up. “I’m going to see what he wants.”

Solly was a small round man. Round bald pate ringed by gray scraggly hair. Circle of a face under stubble and dirt. Rounded shoulders under a filthy coat, once an actual color, now unknowable. Round balls of hands, fingers twisted in, peeking surprisingly clean from tattered sleeves, guarding an empty coffee cup. Jan smiled then struggled to maintain it as he caught the smell. Solly waved at a chair across from him.

Jan sat down. “Harry says your name is Solly.”

One eye was almost shut. The other pinned Jan then darted over the room. “Harry’s is a good place. Stays the same, you know? S’important, you know? Some places--change. Don’t like that. Can’t tell if they’re just different, or...” He fixed Jan with that eye again. “Heard you talking.” Jan glanced back to where Kate chatted to Harry. Not a word reached Jan. Solly glared as if he read Jan’s mind. “Heard you!” He pounded the table with a crippled hand. “Solly’s seen things,” he rasped. “Seen things.” He looked around again, then lowered his head.

Jan waited, but Solly said no more. Standing, Jan started to walk away when a wheezy whisper stopped him.

“...out of the light. Gotta know the signs.”

Jan turned back to the old man. “What did you say?”

Solly’s head was still down. “Remember. S’important.” Hunched over his empty cup, he sat muttering to himself.

Kate looked up when Jan returned. “What’d he want?”

Jan shrugged. “You’ve got me. Buy him a coffee on my tab, will you, Harry?” Harry nodded and left.

They ate and talked. “So if you hunt shifters,” Kate said, “and they don’t come to the city, why do you live here?”