The Night Beat, From the Necropolis Enforcement Files (3 page)

The nice thing about being a modern-day undead in general and werewolf in particular was that the whole clothes issue had been solved by brighter minds generations earlier. So while I went more wolfy, my clothes didn’t rip and shred so that I wouldn’t be naked when I went back to human form. The Spandex-poly blend was a shape-shifting undead’s best friend and it was spelled to let our fur through, so when we were in wolf form we didn’t look like we were wearing stupid dog coats.

I shoved my so far useless special gun back into its rear holster, did my best to guess where this thing’s vulnerable spot was, and gave it the old werewolf leap. I landed on what you could generously call its head and started clawing and biting.

“Go, Vicki, go!” Maurice was all over the cheering.

“This thing tastes worse than whatever’s in the trashcans. And a little aerial support wouldn’t be considered an insult.”

Amanda flew up and landed on what I was going to insist, until told otherwise, was the thing’s back. Vamps can do the whole extend the claws thing, too, and when they’re really pissed, frightened or fighting something a lot stronger, they go all Nosferatu. It wasn’t Amanda’s best look, but then again, I wasn’t going to win Best in Show, either.

However, six inch claws that looked like sling blades were impressive weapons. She slashed, I clawed, we both bit. We weren’t doing anything other than ensuring we’d need the biggest bottles of Listerine in the universe later.

Maurice got into the act. He hated going into what was politely called the Ancient Vampire Form, but he wasn’t an idiot. If we didn’t stop this thing, we were going to be dinner or minions. We were at the top of the food chain and refused to leave that spot without a fight, and if we’d wanted to be minions we would have already committed our souls to the Prince.

From the little I could see as I chomped on a big face tentacle and got flipped around, Maurice was attacking the stomach area, normally considered somewhat vulnerable. This thing had three top level, professionally trained, Enforcement personnel on it and all we were doing was causing it to stagger a little. I got flipped around even more and realized we weren’t causing the stagger -- the thing’s foot was sort of caught on the lip of the hole the Dirt Corps had created.

Slimy tried to shake me off, big time, but I clamped my jaws harder. Supposedly pit bulls have locking jaws, but they’re Chihuahuas by comparison to a werewolf. If I didn’t want off, I wasn’t going off.

Of course, after being slammed against all three walls of the alley a few times, I was considering the benefits of letting go. The thing was, Slimy was moving towards the street. And a loose slime monster was bad enough, but a loose ancient Sumerian demon crossed with a slime monster was the definition of Foreshadow of the Apocalypse.

My particular tentacle flipped low and I caught that there were at least twenty Dirt Corps members clinging to this thing’s lower half. As I was whipped around, I saw Monty slamming his hands into whatever parts of Slimy he could hit. Considering the fact that liches are stronger than vampires, this should have done something. But Slimy just did his version of a Santa Claus impersonation and shook like a bowlful of jelly.

Ken noticed we were having a little trouble and joined the fray. This was good in that he was the most powerful vamp on the scene, so he could probably do the most damage. It was bad, however, because Ken lost concentration for some reason, and Jack came out of that happy “it’s all good” vamp stupor and took a good look around.

I moved out of werewolf form and into wolf, in the hopes I’d look more normal, so to speak. I also managed to catch hold and dig my claws in so I wasn’t flailing around like Slimy was using me for fly-fishing bait. So I had a good view of Jack.

He was a cop on Prosaic City’s Night Beat. They only took the best, and the ones who could handle the more-than-weird. Even so, he was a human and one of the things those of us in Necropolis Enforcement swore to -- aside from the standard protect and serve stuff -- was that we’d do our best to never let the humans know this wasn’t really their city.

Now Jack was staring at pretty much every undead known to man and a couple man didn’t really know about. All we were missing was a zombie to cover every trope -- the mummies were already there, being dragged along by Slimy -- and the minute H.P. arrived, that was going to be covered, too.

As I tried to figure out which was going to be worse -- Slimy stomping around using my city as a midnight buffet or Jack having to have a serious memory wipe -- he reached into the sedan. And pulled out our riot gun, which was a lot more like a bazooka, and aimed.

“All of you, let go on three!” I knew that tone of voice. It was the one Jack used that told all listeners he was the man in charge.

“Is he serious?” Amanda asked me.

“One….”

“He seems serious,” Maurice offered.

“Two….”

“He means it!” I shouted. “Everybody, do it!”

“Three.”

Chapter 5

We went flying -- in the vamps’ cases under their own control -- as Jack fired. The riot gun held a lot of shots and it looked like he planned to use them all.

I hit the wall over the trashcans and fell onto the top of one. Mercifully, the lid was down and the thing was packed so full I didn’t crash through. I was between Jack and Slimy, so I had a great view. Which was nice, because I’d spent a lot of time being the tetherball and I couldn’t really move.

Jack was firing, calmly and consistently, laying down a steady stream that hit Slimy all over the place. He was also advancing while firing. Slimy, meanwhile, seemed somewhat rocked but not stopped, and he was advancing, too. At current rate and speed, they were going to slam into each other in front of me.

Jack knew it, too. He maneuvered himself in front of me, so he was between me and the monster.

I, as the Count put it, panted after Jack because he was literally the most manly man I’d ever met, seen or smelled. And he was in full-on manly mode at the moment. I was lucky the moon wasn’t full -- I’d have been crawling on the ground in front of him, whining, with my tail up, in between rolling on my back and offering the full on “I’m your puppy mamma” routine. Hey, there are some things a weregirl can’t control.

“Can you move?” he asked me, still watching Slimy and firing steadily.

“Sort of.”

One of the undead benefits is an ability to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. As a werewolf, I had enhanced senses under normal situations, let alone during battles. So I’d counted the number of shots because I could and you learned to do things like that because they helped you stay unalive. And I knew Jack was out of ammo.

He did, too. He tossed the gun back towards the car, turned, grabbed me, flung me over his shoulder, and ran. It would’ve been more comfortable if I’d been in human or werewolf form, but I didn’t complain. Slimy stomped the trashcan I’d been on about two seconds after Jack grabbed me.

We reached the car and he tossed me in it. I got the impression he was going to attempt to drive away, but he went to the trunk. I remembered what we had in the trunk. “I don’t think an urban assault rifle is going to help,” I called to him.

“Can’t hurt.” He leaned against the car and fired. This seemed to affect Slimy, but it was still coming towards us. “Any suggestions?”

“Oh, goodness. Good effort, young man, and you’ve certainly hurt it more than anyone else. However, it would help if you aimed for its vulnerable spots.” The voice was old and quavered, with excitement.

I crawled closer to Jack. “H.P., if we knew where its vulnerable spots were, it’d be dead already. Jack, if he deigns to tell you, shoot wherever H.P. says.”

H.P. wasn’t the biggest man in the world. Well, he wasn’t a man any more, technically. He also hadn’t been that old when he’d died, less than fifty. He looked, sounded and acted old because he said he
felt
old. He was a zombie. But there hadn’t been any choice, really. Once a human dies of natural causes -- well, natural human causes -- there’s only so many ways to bring them back. And we’d needed H.P.’s expertise.

He smiled at Jack. “May I, young man?”

Jack sighed. “Sure, why the hell not?” He handed H.P. the gun.

H.P. shook his head. “Children, everyone needs to get clear please.” Even though most of us were technically older than him, he called us all children -- he meant it lovingly so none of us minded. He was also unfailingly polite, due, according to the Count, to the era he’d been raised in. It never bothered me unless we were in pressure situations. Then I kind of wanted him to get a little testy. But he never did. He wasn’t at the Count’s level, but H.P. was pretty unflappable.

He was also shooting. At what I and, I was sure, the others, considered Slimy’s feet. And it was working.

“You see, children, its power comes from below,” H.P. said merrily as he laid down a steady stream of bullets and Slimy started shrinking. “Hence, you have to cut it off from the source.”

“Does he always lecture?” Jack asked me.

Maurice and Amanda landed next to him. “Constantly,” Maurice said.

I waited for Jack to react. He didn’t. He was still watching H.P. take down Slimy. “Why?”

“He’s a professor,” Amanda offered.

“Professor of what?” Jack’s calm and interest were starting to freak me out far more than Slimy.

“Ancient monsters,” Ken answered as he landed, carrying Monty and Rover. He set Monty down carefully, but an arm fell off anyway. “Ancient gods and monsters,” he amended. “And current ones, too, but his specialty is the ancient. Sorry, Monty.”

Monty sighed. “It happens.”

Jack bent down, picked the arm up, and handed it to Monty. “Need a hand?”

“Hilarious.” Monty gave him a dirty look. “I’m used to it, thanks.” He shoved the arm on and Rover did his wrap and squeeze thing that helped Monty reattach.

Jack looked back at H.P. Slimy was down to human sized and shrinking. “Good thing he showed up. What’s his name?”

“Professor Emeritus Howard Phillips Lovecraft,” H.P. called over his shoulder. “Tenured at Necropolis University. At your service.”

Chapter 6