Blood Work (9 page)

“How can I
help you?” I asked, wondering what sort of impossible terror he had
imagined up.

“Well, it’s my
dog,” he began.

When nothing
immediately followed, I prompted him with, “What about it?”

“I think… I
think he’s a werewolf.”

Okay. I eased
the car to a stop at a red light, taking a moment to think that one
through. “Your dog is a werewolf?”

“Yeah.”

I had a
fleeting and slightly disturbing image of some pimply faced kid
waking up in the middle of the night to find a naked man curled up
on the end of his bed instead of his faithful, drooling dog.

“How long have
you had this dog?”

“Four years,
since he was a pup. He’s a ridgeback cross Irish wolfhound and
usually a very good dog, very gentle.”

Ridgeback
cross Irish wolfhound. That would be more than enough dog for
anyone, even without throwing in a hefty dose of manic werewolf.
But, thankfully, this was an open and closed case.

“You’ve had
this dog from when it was a puppy,” I said gently, accelerating as
the light turned green. “And when you say you suspect werewolf, I
take it you don’t mean he’s a human who turns into a wolf once a
month?”

“No. He’s a
dog, yes, but around the full moon, he starts to act weirdly. He
gets aggressive and snappy, and if he even smells another dog, he
goes fucking ballistic. It only started about six months back. We’d
been having this barbeque and Bubba –”

My surprised
laugh cut him off. “Bubba?”

“Don’t blame
me, my sister named him. He’s giant black dog. He should be called
Terminator or Diablo or something, but no. She liked Bubba.”

Poor kid. “My
condolences. Please continue.”

“So, this
night, Bub got out of the yard and the next thing we know, he’s in
this big barny with another dog. No one saw it, but we heard it. I
thought the other dog was killing him, but Bub came back all cut
and beat up.” Tony laid down a bit of significance silence, then
continued in a low, portentous tone. “It was on the full moon.
Since then, around the full moon, he’s been different. Jumpy,
upset, stressed. And yeah, he goes after other dogs.”

My initial
thoughts confirmed, I said, “I don’t think your dog is a werewolf.
That’s not how weres of any sort work. There are a heap of
different mechanisms that can bring about the change; curses,
infection, genetics, psychosis. But it always shifts a human to
animal form. Never an animal to animal. ’Cause what’s the point in
that?”

“But if it’s
an infection –”

“Junior,
there’s very few infectious agents that can jump species.”

“A curse.”

“Bubba got any
mortal enemies? That sort of curse takes some effort. It’s not
usually employed as a practical joke.”

Tony made some
noncommittal noises. I could almost see him blushing and scuffing
the toe of a shoe against the ground.

“My best
advice is for you to take him to a vet. Get him checked out for
every behaviour-altering disease there is. Chances are, that’s all
that’s happened.”

“But we did!
We took him ages ago and it all came back negative. He’s perfectly
healthy.”

“Physically,
maybe. But perhaps the attack by the other dog has left some sort
of post-traumatic stress syndrome deal on your dog.”

There was a
short length of sceptical silence. “Isn’t that a human
condition?”

“So’s becoming
a werewolf,” I replied dryly.

More silence,
more sad than anything else. “Okay, I guess you’re right. You’re
the professional, right?”

“Damn
straight.” But I was already regretting the defeated tone in his
voice. “Look, I’ll do a bit of research, okay. Maybe I’ve missed
something.”

The kid
muttered a relieved sound. “Thank you so much. I can’t pay you
much, but I have some money saved up for a car. It’s yours.”

Ah crap. I
ground my teeth against the impulse, lost the battle in a
spectacular explosion of pity and compassion and said, “Don’t
worry. We’ll make it pro bono. How does that sound?”

“Really?
That’s great.”

“No problem.”
It wasn’t. I’d seen the cheque Barry had written out last night.
Roberts was a royal pain, no doubt, but he could bullshit with the
best of them. And because I wanted to cover my arse, I added, “But
keep a close eye on the flea factory. Keep him restrained, don’t
let him out of the yard and don’t give him any raw meat. If, and
I’m stressing the if, your mutt is infected with the were virus,
blood will instigate a full-on change.”

“Full-on
change? But he’s been acting weird already.”

“No, what
you’ve described so far is a dog acting peculiar around the full
moon, not real werewolf behaviour. You’d know if he went fully wolf
on you. So, no raw meat, and if he so much as twitches in the wrong
direction, you get your family out of there.”

“You think he
might…?” There was an audible gulp.

“Better to be
safe than sorry, kid.”

“Okay, yeah.
Sure. Thanks again.”

I checked the
phone to make sure I had a number. “I can get you on this
number?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll call you
when I’ve Yoda’d this one out.”

He laughed and
I cut him off.

Poor kid. A
dog turning into a werewolf? De-lu-sion-al. Of course, I would be
going through the lore on were-creatures tonight. After all, I had
said I would.

I flew up onto
the Gateway and pointed the nose of the Monaro for home and cursed
Roberts.

I think I was having some issues
about going home. Watch shopping, dropping by to see Jacob when a
call would have sufficed, roaring right past the turn off for the
’Cliffe and heading for the Sunshine Coast or Gympie or heck, the
glorious tropical far north reaches of Cooktown. Roberts isn’t the
only one who thinks speed limits are a suggestion. I was nearly at
Maroochydore before I took my foot off the pedal and slowed
down.

I like
driving. It’s soothing. Not in peak hour traffic, though. Then it’s
just homicidal-maniac making. But on the highway, in the fast lane,
cruising along with some good music, it was sweet. Let my brain go
white out, let my subconscious work on the issues and hopefully
come up with some answers.

Don’t think it
worked, because when I turned around and really headed home this
time, I once more bypassed Newport and hit the Scarborough pub. I
don’t go out much, to social places that is. I like the movies.
Something about the dark and the anonymity, I guess. Whatever. But
pubs and clubs and me haven’t had much truck with each other for a
while now. Still, I like the Scarborough. It’s on the beach, it’s
not too busy and it’s got this deck out the front where you can
take your beer and sit, put your feet up and just zone out watching
the ocean.

But I’d
obviously pissed off some cosmic fish or something, because the
moment I sat down with my beer and local rag to catch up on things,
this old fart came and sat at my table.

I cocked an
eyebrow at him. “Can I help you?”

Maybe
irritation added slight exaggeration to my description. He wasn’t
that old. Around fifty, with what I believe is called a
‘distinguished’ amount of grey in his dark hair, a close cropped
beard just a little too wide to be called a goatee and, I freakin’
kid you not, a tweed suit. He was still a fart, though. A fart in
expensive sunglasses.

“Actually, I
believe it is I who can help you.”

Fantastic.
British. This would be Mystery Man then.

I put down the
paper and took a long pull of beer, wishing I’d gone with a scotch.
“Well, if that ain’t a cliché then I don’t know what is. You here
to teach me about the Force, Kenobi?”

He actually
smiled. “I probably deserved that.” Reaching across the table, he
said, “My name’s Theodore Aurum.”

Eyeing his
hand, I said, “Matt Hawkins, but you already knew that.”

He lowered his
hand and nodded once in agreement. “You’ve made something of a name
for yourself in, ah hem, our particular circle of people. I’ve been
looking forward to meeting you for a while now.”

“Neat. I
didn’t know there was a, ah hem, particular circle of our people.
Do we have leather jackets with a flaming skull on it?”

Another
indulgent smile. I wondered how long he could keep it up.

“No, and it is
a loose circle at best. Just various practitioners, psychics and
warriors, such as yourself, around the world who pool their
information together to help each other out. We’ve been watching
you these last couple of years, wondering if you had the tenacity
to keep going. I think you do.”

The flood of
responses that came barrelling forth at those words was just too
much. I couldn’t pick. It was like trying to chose which child you
loved the most. They all had their special traits. I settled for a
snort and drank some more.

Aurum sat back
in his chair and looked out over the water. “I have come here to
offer you support, Mr Hawkins. You’ve acquitted yourself rather
well against the local supernatural element, but there are a lot of
things you don’t know. Things that could get you killed, and your
tame vampire with you.”

My eye
twitched and the cold beer bottle slipped a little in my tightening
hold. “What do you know about her?”

“I know her
name is Mercy Belique. I know she was turned two years ago and I
know that if it hadn’t been for you, she would have either died
with the first sunrise or turned into a particularly vicious
killer.”

“All vampires
are vicious.”

“Yes, but
there are degrees to their intelligence, ruthlessness and power.
You are aware of the different castes of vampires?”

I glanced at
him. He was still looking at the ocean, hands folded over his
crossed legs. His skin was that typical Pommy white and he held
himself proper-like, stiff and formal. A genuine British gentleman.
If he’d said he lectured at Cambridge or something I wouldn’t have
been surprised.

“They have
different psychic flavours, yeah. We call them clans.”

“Interesting.
Psychic flavour. I like that. Do you mind if I use it?”

“Go for
it.”

“Flavour is a
very apt description. You must have a strong psychic touch if you
can feel the difference between the castes.”

I grunted
noncommittally. Can you see any authority issues in my behaviour? I
can’t.

“When did you
come into your abilities?”

Okay, even I
know when I’m getting childish. I faced him, leaning on the table,
beer cradled between my hands.

“The first
thing was a mental link to Mercy. Before she’d even developed her
own psychic whammy.”

“Psychic
whammy?”

“Yeah, you
know the blast of paralysing power they discharge when they’re
about to jump you. Their stun gun.”

He nodded and
smiled. “Yes, the feeding compulsion. You formed a link to the
vampire within the first month of her condition? That is
fascinating. Of course, your whole case is fascinating. I don’t
believe it’s ever occurred to anyone to attempt to tame a vampire.
You and your pet are quite unique.”

I spent a
moment picking at the label on the beer bottle. Pet? Who did this
guy think he was? Kenobi would never have been even unintentionally
insulting. Certainly wouldn’t have opened his big fat trap on
something he didn’t know dick about.

“I didn’t set
out to tame Mercy,” I said when I could speak without growling. “I
thought I was saving her.”

“You didn’t
know about vampires before she was turned?”

“Not a
freaking drop. Well, I’d seen that Dracula movie with whatshisname,
Oldman. Had a girlfriend once who watched that Interview with Brad
Pitt one over and over.” I shuddered in horror. “Learning about
Mercy was an eye opener.”

“She was
something special to you before the change?”

“Yeah. No.
It’s complicated.” I shoved aside the painful memories before they
could damage my calm. “She was just special,” I muttered.

“I understand.
It is a hard thing to witness the transformation. Usually, when a
person is turned, they’re kept within the clan where they can be
protected and nurtured. They’re rather like birds in that regard.
The new vampires tend to attach themselves to the first thing they
see when they awake.”

My spine did a
little shimmy. “Yeah. I worked that one out for myself. Mercy was
in hospital. I was with her when she woke up.”

“How did she
come to be in hospital?”

“She was found
in a park by a woman walking her dog late at night. Beat up,
scratched, puncture wounds. They thought rape at first, but it was
all negative. They topped up her blood tank and she slept for about
three days. It was… difficult when she woke up.”

“I can well
imagine.” Aurum looked over the ocean again. “So she was turned and
abandoned. Very strange.”

My guts
twisted around the sloshing beer. “Strange, but maybe not the only
occurrence.”

“Indeed? Care
to elaborate?”

“Last night we
took out a dozen young vampires. Couple weeks old at most. Not a
mature one among them. They’d been marauding a beach strip on the
Gold Coast for about a week.”

Air hissed in
between Aurum’s teeth. “That is disturbing. A dozen of them? Loose
after only a week? I’ve not heard of such a thing. What clans do
you encounter here?”

“Well, I don’t
know how you classify them, but we use colours that kind of relate
to how they taste.”

“Yes, colours.
That is how we look at them as well. Red, blue, yellow, orange,
violet and green.”

“Nice. So we
have yellows, reds, blues and a possible green. Orange has passed
through once or twice. Didn’t know about violets. Kinda sound like
the pansies of the vampire camp.”

“Oh no. The
Violets are very dangerous. They have the strongest psychic powers
of the lot of them. Major whammy capability, you would probably
call it.”