Netherworld II: Blood Potion No. 9 (5 page)

I reluctantly looked away to examine
his leader, the much less impressive C.K. Talk about doing a
complete one-eighty on the sexy meter.

C.K. was a pale, pinkish-skinned
redhead, his hair the kind of washed-out orangey ginger that looks
good on no one. Especially someone with the pastel skin tone he
possessed. His muddy brown eyes squinted, giving me the impression
C.K. needed glasses like most werehogs, but was too vain to wear
them. Tusks erupting from his

upper jaw bracketed his lower lip, the
larger lower tusks reaching almost to the round snout of his nose.
He looked more pig than man in the face. I felt a stab of sympathy
that fate had treated him so ill as to give him the Zoo Flu with
such devastatingly ugly results.

He’d contracted Short Man’s Disease as
well, that crazed obsession of some smaller statured guys to make
up for being less than five and a half feet tall by working out
until they resembled lumpy beach balls. C.K. had muscle to spare,
but it wasn’t nearly as well proportioned as his werewolf
companion’s. He was beefed up until he looked as wide in the
shoulders and chest as he was tall. He hadn’t paid as much
attention to working his waistline, which showed a love for – I’m
sorry, but I have to say it – pigging out.

Most people who have never seen a feral
hog think of their wereanimal counterparts as the most
nonthreatening of the shifters. But feral hogs are brutal
creatures, a full grown one capable of taking out a big dog and
turning it into dinner. Yep, hogs are omnivorous and will eat meat.
Children have been maimed by wild pigs. There’s nothing cute or
‘Babe’ about them. And a werehog, shifted into its animal form, is
an incredibly fast and vicious opponent, especially with the human
intelligence added in. It was no surprise to me that a werehog led
this unsavory crew.

I took a quick glance at the two other
shifters at the table; a weregator with grayish-green scaly skin,
and another werehog who’d hadn’t been hit as hard in the face with
the ugly pig-stick. Plus, kneeling by C.K.’s chair was a very human
woman. She wore a black bustier, Daisy Duke denim shorts, and a
denim jacket with ‘Property of the Beasts’ stitched on the back.
Despite appearing well in her thirties, her acne-scarred face was
made up in teenager fashion with electric blue eyeshadow and neon
pink lipstick. She gazed up with adoration at C.K. Ew. At least she
had pretty hair, long and thick and golden blond.

I drifted closer to hear the
conversation, a very serious one to judge from the expressions on
the gathered shifter’s faces.

C.K. spoke to the wolf, his thick tone
garbled only slightly by the thick, yellowed tusks. “The fact
remains, you let that bastard cheat me out of my fee. I’m not happy
about that, Bane.”

Bane. As in wolfbane, I assumed. The
Beasts really weren’t long on originality when it came to their
nicknames.

Bane’s voice was a soft animal rumble,
not unpleasant at all. “I accept full responsibility. I assure you,
I won’t screw up again.”

C.K. slammed a fist on the tabletop.
His hand opened, showing his fingers had fused into a Vulcan ‘live
long and prosper’ sign. Cloven hands are common among the werehogs.
“Damn it. I like you, man. If I let this shit go though, it makes
me look bad. That cheating bastard knows to have my money
ready.”

Bane nodded, his wolfish face somber.
“I understand. I should have tore up his store and left a few marks
on him for good measure. Whatever punishment you deem fit, I’ll
take it. You have my complete loyalty, no matter what.”

I sighed. What a shame that such a fine
looking manimal was such a piece of garbage. Good looks don’t make
a good man, though.

C.K. shook his head, huffing through
his snout. “I need to think on it, man. Go take care of business,
and I’ll let you know my decision later.”

Bane rose. “You got it, boss.” He left
the table and walked out of the door.

I wondered if I should stick to C.K.,
who seemed content to hang out with his gang, or follow Bane, who
was no doubt on his way to collect the debt owed, whether it be
cash or flesh. There was definite criminal potential with the
werewolf.

The weregator sitting at C.K.’s table
spoke up. “What you gonna do about him? That was a pretty serious
fuck up.”

C.K. scowled, his red-rimmed eyes lost
in a fierce squint. “It’s none of your fucking business and all of
mine.” He stood and smacked the back of the silent blonde’s head as
she continued kneeling on the floor. “Come on, Bottle. You can suck
me off and clear my brain for me.”

Bottle? I wondered where the woman had
gotten such a strange nickname. She was on her feet in an instant,
eager as a puppy, wiggling all over as if being noticed was thrill
enough. “Sure, honey.”

Yuck. I did not want to watch Pig Boy
get his stuff mouthed by his ‘property’. As the pigmy (I know, I
know, I just can’t seem to stop myself) led the taller by at least
five inches blonde to the back hallway, I went the other direction.
I hurried to catch up to Bane.

I got outside to see Bane saddling up
on a totally kick-butt chopper. I’d never ridden a motorcycle in my
life. I guess it just never came up. But hearing Bane start that
bike, listening to its meaty growl, I got a visceral surge of
excitement. I was at his side in a twinkling.

“You don’t mind if I hitch a ride, do
you, Bane?” I soaked in a little of the power the chopper put out,
making it stutter for an instant. Bane adjusted it with a growl,
and I yanked my skirt up to my crotch to climb on behind him. Heck,
no one could see me.

I felt how the bike rumbled beneath me,
making my nipples hard. I’m not kidding; the sensation was so
sexual in nature I actually got aroused. And with a big, warm body
in front of me, it seemed only right to wrap my arms around the
werewolf’s waist.

Bane jerked and looked around as if he
felt me. I grinned, delighted to be acknowledged by the living. The
shifter snorted at himself and shrugged it off. The next instant we
took off and roared down the road.

It was amazing. I drew enough from the
motorcycle to be affected by the physical world so that wind blew
my hair back and whipped against my face. Bane’s scent was rich
with musk, filling my nostrils with a feral blend of animal and man
that was brute masculinity. His iron abs beneath my arms and hands,
soft with that dusting of fur, were a solid block of stability to
anchor me.

And to see Fulton Falls spin past us,
without the cage of a car between us and the town, was exhilarating
beyond belief. We moved down Blount Highway, zooming over the
bridges that spanned the marsh, past the fine homes that lined the
shores, and past the darkened stalls of the farmers market that
offered local produce. Bane turned onto the busier Highway 341. He
wove us in and out of cars; cars that hummed almost silently, cars
with screeching mufflers, cars with stereo systems thumping
heartbeats of bass. Street lights, house lights, traffic signals,
and the illumination spilling from convenience stores were oases of
luminosity flashing by.

Then the huge cemetery where my remains
lay slipped by, giving way to the waterfront. Highway 341 became
Altamaha Drive at the point where downtown began.

Downtown Fulton Falls has enjoyed a
revitalization in recent years. New businesses have flocked to
lease grand old buildings, many built right after the Great Fire.
There are small squares between a few stores, outfitted with
fountains and benches where buskers perform during lunchtime and on
weekends. And the grand old Ritz Theater has been completely
restored, hosting shows and musical acts just like in its
heyday.

Closer to the waterfront, where Fulton
Falls’ port had existed before the fire, downtown remains a little
seedier, still a victim of its decline in the eighties. This is
where Bane drove us, coming to a stop in the parking lot of the
strip club Exotica Erotica. The cessation of the chopper’s motor
was a wallop of silence as deafening as an explosion.

Lit in the hectic flash of red neon
that spelled the club’s name, I dismounted the bike, completely
exhilarated despite my litter-strewn surroundings. I patted Bane’s
muscular shoulder. I enjoyed the feel of him so much that I kept my
hand there until he rose to tower over me. Boy, he had nice
shoulders.

My fingertips drifted down that strong
arm of his. “Thanks for the ride, babe. Nothing like something big
and powerful between my legs to make the night right.”

It didn’t matter he couldn’t hear my
appreciation. Good manners should be implemented whenever
appropriate.

He stalked to the club’s front door,
completely unaware of me. I bounced into the building behind my big
bad wolf chauffeur.

Music swelled as we stepped in, though
not too loud, which was a pleasant surprise. I followed Bane
through the strip club, having a good look around. I’d never been
in one, so what I knew of them came from movies.

There was a little stage where a girl
dressed as a cheerleader was getting down to her pom poms (and I
don’t mean the ones you shake in your hands). She was cute as a
button, with a light smattering of freckles across her nose. I
wonder how many of the gents noticed that part of her anatomy. A
deejay booth sat to one side of the stage, where a man with slicked
back hair looked bored as he waited to change the tune.

Other than that and the prevalence of
scantily clad ladies waiting and dancing at tables, it looked like
any club. I was a bit disappointed, expecting a lot of neon lights
and cages for the girls to dance around in. Men hooting wildly.
Shows what I know. The

men were reserved and quiet, their eyes
on the girls but not really responding. As for the ambience, there
wasn’t much of one. The illumination was dim overall, with a
spotlight over the stage and gentler bulbs over the tables. As for
the seating, there was just a bunch of tables that sat four, some
booths along one wall, and a bar along the other. The only art on
the walls were some framed posters of the Golden Age’s bastions of
beauty: Marilyn Monroe, Betty Grable, Jean Harlowe, etc. It smelled
of booze, cheap perfume, and old cigarette smoke from back when you
could light up in a public place. It was really underwhelming, if
you ask me.

Bane came to a booth where a lone man
sat and slid in across from him. The other guy had a comb-over that
would make Donald Trump wince and wore a well-used business suit.
His tie was slightly askew. His hand shook as he passed a fat
envelope across the table to Bane.

“Here you go,” he said, with an
apologetic smile. His eyes were wide behind his thick glasses as
they took in the big werewolf.

The envelope disappeared like in a
twinkling. Bane lifted one side of his upper lip in a not so very
subtle snarl. “This delay put me in a difficult position with my
employer.”

The other man’s face shone with
perspiration. “I’m real sorry about that, Bane. It won’t happen
again, I swear.”

“
It had better not, because
I’m not having my ability to do my job called in question again.
This is your only warning.”

Then Bane started to shift. His face
elongated, and fur shot out of his skin like he was a living
Play-Doh Werewolf Fun Factory. His hands, lying on top of the
table, turned into big paws with long, black nails. And his teeth
grew. Boy did they grow. I yelped like I’d gone canine myself and
took a step back before I remembered I wasn’t in any real
danger.

The rumpled business man went white as
a sheet, and I thought he’d die of cardiac arrest then and there.
His voice a weak whimper, he managed to say, “No
problem.”

Bane stared with golden eyes that were
beautiful but deadly. “Get the hell out,” he said, his speech more
growl than voice.

“Yes sir. Thank you.” The man scuttled
out of the booth and out of the club with the speed of a vampire. I
didn’t blame him. At least his pants were still dry.

Bane sat still for a moment staring at
his paws. The fur receded, and his face and hands reverted to their
more mannish aspect. He continued to glare moodily.

What a jerk.

A little zap of blonde flew by me and
landed on Bane’s lap. “Hey baby, how’s stuff?”

I blinked at the skinny woman crazy
enough to snuggle with a grumpy werewolf. Her barely-there breasts
were encased in a black lace bra, and she sported a black slip of a
skirt that showed off the bottom crescents of her buttocks. High
heels and clunky shell

earrings completed her ensemble. If
this girl stripped, her show would last about ten seconds, tops.
Talk about scanty.

Bane suddenly looked more tired than
mean. “Get off me, Fizz. I’m working.”

The woman stood, her lips pursed in a
childish pout. Her short dark-rooted blond hair was spiked artfully
around her oval face. She had big brown eyes and a button of a
nose. Fizz was cute, but hard in the way that the girls at the
Beasts club were hard. And she looked to me like she might be
getting a little old to be making top dollar in a strip joint.
There was an emptiness in her expression that made me suspect she
might not have many sharp tools in the shed.