Teeth of Beasts (Skinners) (9 page)

“We don’t need more Skinners here! And we won’t allow more of our kind to be poisoned. Tell the old man we know what he’s doing and that his tricks will only get more humans killed.”

“What tricks? Who the hell are you anyway?”

Squinting in a way that made her eyes seem like clear, flawless glass orbs, the Mongrel replied, “You have not met the old man yet. His stench is near, but it’s not on you.”

The alley cat looked up at the female Mongrel and shifted back into a mostly human form. His tattered shorts were now wrapped around a sinewy frame, and he didn’t even bother lifting himself up from all fours as he said, “They’re Skinners! We kill them and any others that come onto our—”

“Don’t you say it,” Paige snarled.

The sound of her voice was enough to make every Mongrel on the ledges bare their teeth and claws.

“This isn’t your city,” Paige continued. “This isn’t your
territory. This isn’t even your street! Mongrels don’t get to roll into this place and stake a claim.”

“Tell that to the pack in Kansas City,” the leopard woman said.

Raising her machete as if it was a rifle and she was sighting along the top of its barrel, Paige said, “The only reason Kayla got to bring her pack into KC is because
we
allowed it.”

Hearing the leader of another Mongrel pack mentioned by name sent a ripple of half voices and growls through the shapeshifters. Cole tightened his grip on his spear and prepared for the worst. He took a quick look over his shoulder, but didn’t see anything trying to creep up on them from behind. In fact, there were now no people at all watching from the street.

“Kayla’s pack bled for what they got,” Paige continued. “They stood toe-to-toe with a Full Blood and earned their place. What the hell have you done?”

“We know all about the Full Blood in Kayla’s possession.” The leopard woman’s clear eyes widened as she added, “But it seems you are surprised to hear about this. Did you think they disposed of Liam when he may be the link between us and immortality?”

Cole groaned under his breath as he thought back to the last moments in the Kansas City siege. The Full Blood who led that charge had claimed that Mongrels could be changed into his kind in a manner similar to how humans were changed into Half Breeds. A few moments after that, the burrowers among the Mongrels had dragged the wounded Full Blood underground, where they claimed they would imprison him if, as was the popular belief, the werewolf couldn’t be killed by tooth or claw.

“There’s no Full Blood in Kansas City,” Paige said. “I checked.”

Even as she shifted into something that was more leopard than human, the Mongrel woman didn’t lose her condescending tone as she said, “Of course. I’m probably just mistaken.”

“You can tell all the tales you want,” Paige snapped as she
brought both weapons up. “I helped clean this city out and I won’t let a bunch of Mongrel squatters come in and mess it up again. If you want to live here, you’ll need to stay quiet and out of sight. If you want to talk shit, you’d damn well be ready to back it up.”

The male hopped onto a Dumpster and changed into his alley cat form so quickly that his claws sparked against the metal. He gripped the edge in preparation to fling himself at Cole, but was stopped by a sharp snarl from the leader. As she turned, the female dropped to all fours and allowed her leopard fur to explode from her pores. The snarl turned into a lingering growl as she craned her neck to sweep a warning glare at all the other Mongrels. By the time she’d fixed her gaze back onto the alley cat, her sleek body had gained enough muscle to make her the largest creature in that alley.

Several of the Mongrels on the ledge above gripped the dirty bricks with their front paws and tensed the muscles in their legs. Before they could jump down, a bottle flew up to smash against the side of the building.

“Hey pussies! You gonna hide up there or come down to rub against my leg? I may even have a rubber mouse for you to chase.”

The man who shouted up at the ledge was the one who’d thrown the bottle. Walking in a confident gait that caused his heavy black boots to knock loudly against the pavement, he stepped into the light cast from a bulb connected to one of the single-car garages. He was a few inches taller than Cole, had wide shoulders and a thick torso wrapped inside a jacket that looked as if it had been stitched together from mismatched pieces of material. Despite the size of his body, his head looked just a little too big for it. Gray stubble sprang from his face and scalp, as though he’d used the same shears to trim his chin and dome. A wide smile displayed a set of blocky, uneven teeth as he reached under his jacket to produce a handgun that Cole recognized as a Sig Sauer P220. Slowly raising the .45 caliber handgun, the big ugly man said, “Find somewhere else to be or I start making some real noise.”

A low growl rolled through the shadows, coming from the combined throats of all the Mongrels gathered there. Cole could see several sets of glittering eyes surveying their surroundings. After another snarl that sounded like an exhalation from the earth itself, the Mongrels on the ledge scaled the wall, hopped onto the roof and disappeared. Only one remained for a few extra seconds. Its head drooped down and loosely swung from its neck as it gazed upon the alley from its perch upon the ledge. Panting in what sounded like a rambling mutter, it leapt out of sight.

Keeping low against the ground, the were–alley cat backed nervously toward the garage nearest to the street. The leader was in full leopard form, and she paced in a tight line, back and forth, clawing at the pavement. Finally, she stopped and let out a noise that didn’t sound like a growl, snarl, or anything else a mundane animal would make. Once that signal was given, both of the remaining Mongrels scaled the closest wall and were gone.

Extending his arms as if he’d forgotten about the shapeshifters as well as the gun in his hand, the man in the leather jacket said, “That’s my Bloodhound! Barely off the road and already stirring up the shit.”

Paige not only smiled at the big guy, but she did so in a way that made her look like someone who was completely incapable of knocking a werewolf down and gutting it. “Hello, Rico.”

Draping an arm around the back of Paige’s shoulders, Rico replied, “So that’d make you Cole?”

“That’s me. I’ve heard some good stories about you, Rico. Or should I say, Rrrrrico.”

Gripping Cole’s hand, Rico shook it as if about to yank it loose and hang it from his rearview mirror. “Don’t ever say my name like that again.”

If Cole could have pulled his hand away from the other man’s grip, he would have. Instead, he did his best to maintain his dignity and sputtered, “Paige…uh…said you’d think that was funny.”

Rico tightened his grip just enough to scrape Cole’s bones
together. “Real nice partner you got here,” he said to Paige. “First sign of trouble and he throws you under the bus.”

“No, I did put him up to it,” she said. “I like to see him squirm. As for you,” she added while slapping Rico’s stomach, “there’s a little more puddin’ in the bowl, but I wouldn’t call you a bus just yet.”

Finally releasing Cole’s hand, Rico said, “She really knows how to build a man up, don’t she? I got some stories that might knock her down a few pegs.” Holstering his .45 and using that hand to point back toward Euclid Avenue, he added, “They’ll have to wait, though. I think we’re in trouble.”

Standing at the mouth of the side street was a skinny man of average height wearing a plain white cotton shirt hanging loosely over the waistband of a pair of faded olive drab fatigues. Unkempt silver hair and a pair of dark sunglasses made him look like someone who’d been out partying since before most of the nearby college crowd was born. To add another disjointed layer to his overall fashion statement, the old man carried a thick cane with a simple curved handle. A thin gray mustache looked as if it had been sketched above a tight frown. The scowl only deepened when a few kids wearing University of Missouri T-shirts tried to get a look down the side street.

“Dude!” one of the college kids protested as he was nudged by the old man’s cane.

Not only did the cane remain where it was, but the disheveled man connected to it pushed the kid away with as much effort as he would use to prevent a child from toddling into a busy street. “Move along,” he said.

The defiance on the young men’s faces was just a cheap mask, and all of them ambled along.

“The rest of you,” the older man said to the Skinners, “come with me.”

Dressel’s was a pub in every sense of the word. Everything from the uneven wooden planks on the floor to the dart-boards on the walls made the place feel like it had been lifted from the moors and placed into the Central West End. Cole followed everyone inside through a narrow door and was immediately greeted by the sight of a square bar surrounding an island of whiskey bottles populated by the bar-keep and an old tape player spouting Celtic music. Tables and chairs were practically knocking into each other in the confined space of the dimly lit room, most of which were either occupied or being shuffled around by bustling waitresses dressed in T-shirts and jeans.

“Maybe there’s more room up there,” he said, pointing toward a narrow set of stairs that led to a second floor.

“I already got a table,” the old man replied. He didn’t wait to discuss the matter, and when he sat down, he glared at the empty seats until they were filled.

Paige took the spot next to the old man, so Rico and Cole settled in across from them. Rico sat with his back against the wall and his legs pointed diagonally toward the front door, which meant Cole barely had any room for his feet beneath the worn wooden table.

Although he tried to be discreet, there was no easy way to get out of his harness. His weapon had already been
shrunken down to its compact form, but it still caught the eye of one woman at another table, who watched him for a few seconds before losing interest. “So,” he mused, “is this some sort of Skinner bar? Do we all meet here because we’re welcomed or protected somehow?”

“No,” the old man replied. “We meet here because they make their own potato chips. They’re good. Also, the Central West End is normally quiet. This whole city used to be quiet until that mess in KC.”

Rico gave Cole a nudge and a thumbs-up to go along with it, which he ignored.

“You,” the old man said as he jabbed a finger at the big guy, “are damn lucky I was able to keep people away from that scene you created.”

“I created?” Rico said. “I was only there to pull these two out of the fire.”

“These two didn’t know any better. You do.” Dropping his voice to a quiet snarl, he added, “And what the hell were you thinking drawing a gun in public? Anyone could have seen you.”

Rico shrugged. “I got a permit for that.”

“Do you have a permit for being stupid?”

Cole chuckled at that while putting his weapon on the floor with his foot on top of it.

When he pointed at Cole, Rico’s hand made a pistol shape that was almost as big as the real thing. “Don’t get cocky, new guy. You ain’t earned your stripes with me yet.”

Before the conversation could get any more awkward, the waitress showed up. “What can I get for you guys?” she asked.

Paige and the old man agreed to split a pitcher of domestic draft. Rico ordered a Guinness, and Cole gambled by pointing to one of the coasters on the table that advertised Newcastle Brown Ale. Before the young woman got away, the old man warmly asked her about the specials.

“The stockpot special is a Wellington beef stew, plus we also serve clam chowder. Our dinner special is an open-faced turkey sandwich.”

“Does that come with potato chips?”

“It does if you like,” the waitress replied with a grin.

“Sold. Bring another basket of chips for the table.”

“Will do, hon.”

As soon as the waitress left, the old man’s snarl returned. “How did the fracas in that alley get started?” he asked.

Paige told him the short version, but the more he heard, the deeper the old man’s frown became. When she was through, he shook his head and grumbled, “It’s truly shocking that either of you made it out of Kansas City.”

“Yeah?” Cole asked as he fought to get comfortable in the straight-backed, uneven wooden chair. “And just who the hell are you?”

“Sorry,” Paige said. “This is Ned Post. He’s the resident Skinner for St. Louis. Ned, this is Cole Warnecki. He came to me after Gerald and Brad were killed. I’m training him.”

“Doing a hell of a job too,” Cole said as he offered his hand.

Ned grabbed Cole’s hand and used his thumb to feel the scars on his palm as if he was sampling the texture of cheap fabric. Now that he was closer to him, Cole could see the deep red lines in the coarse and chalky skin around Ned’s eyes. That damaged section of his face, combined with the man’s wandering gaze, made it clear why he needed the cane and dark glasses. It didn’t take long for Ned to let go and grunt, “Still feels like you fear the thorns too much. I hear you’re responsible for some of those werewolf pictures on the Internet?”

“Just the ones that got people saying they’re all fake,” Cole replied.

“Fat lot of good it did,” Ned snorted. “Whatever happened to keeping things like that quiet for the common good?”

“That’s kind of tough to do when everybody’s got a camera in their pocket and are being videotaped crossing the street,” Cole said. The waitress stopped by to drop off their drinks and appetizer. When he sipped his Newcastle, he was immediately grateful to whoever had placed that blessed little cardboard advertisement on the table. “Internet rumors are like little bits of leaves and dirt on top of a pool,” he said. “They clump together and look really bad, but then they all
drift apart and become nothing. Are those the potato chips you talked about?” The basket on the table was filled with thin, darkened slices of potato that still glistened with hot grease. He snagged one, popped it into his mouth and said, “Damn, those
are
good.”

“New guy’s right,” Rico said as he took a handful of chips and washed them down with some Guinness. “I’ve seen stuff about KC and Janesville on the Net, pictures on websites, even spots on the news, but it’s all just the same half-assed explanations. Diseased dogs, exotic pets, that kind of thing.”

“Policemen were killed. You think they’ll let this just go away?”

“We were there, Ned,” Paige assured him. “We covered our tracks as best we could, and the carcasses that were left behind won’t be any help to anyone. Whatever tests are done on them will just cause a whole lot of heads to be scratched.”

“You did what you could?” Ned groused. He took some chips, ate them, and clumsily poured some beer into his glass. “Does that include handing an entire city over to the Mongrels? Or perhaps you wanted to hand it over to the Nymar just like you did with Chicago?”

“Screw you, Ned,” Paige said.

“Hey now,” Rico warned. “Let’s keep this friendly.”

Ned waved off everyone else at the table and drank his beer. He couldn’t seem to get enough down to blunt his senses, so he grabbed the pitcher to refill his glass. “City’s been quiet for years but now we got Mongrels in the Central West End and Nymar just across the river. What’s next, huh?”

Rico put an elbow on the table, leaned forward and dropped the tip of his finger between the beer pitcher and the chips to punctuate his next statement. “Those Mongrels were testing us. That’s all that was.”

“How do you know?” Ned asked.

“We can have all the technology we want, but humans are still part of nature’s system,” Rico explained. “Things may have been fucked up between us, the Nymar, and the
shapeshifters, but that’s pretty much the way it’s been for a real long time. All the shit that’s been happening lately has fucked things up a whole different way. Janesville and KC threw the whole system out of whack. Bloodhound knows what I’m talkin’ about.”

Having made an island of ketchup on the edge of a potato chip continent, Paige occupied herself by dipping, eating, and subsequently cleaning off her chin. “You go on ahead,” she said while spraying some chewed bits into the air. “Very eloquent.”

Rico nodded in appreciation of the backhanded compliment. “The Full Bloods have been around for centuries. We may not feel it all the time,” he said while holding up a palm to show enough scar tissue to divvy up between a dozen cage fighters, “but you can bet that everything else out there has a real good idea the big boys are out and about.”

“We’ve got a pretty good idea where the Full Bloods are,” Ned said.

“Yeah, but there’s a big difference between being pretty sure I got a gun under my jacket.” Grabbing hold of his jacket as if he meant to open it and flash his goods to the entire bar, Rico raised an eyebrow and added, “And then there’s being
really
sure.”

Rico’s jacket was a mix of some sort of heavy canvas stitched to large strips of leather that were tanned and treated to the point of being nearly black. A few grommets were positioned on his shoulders and under his arms, and thin leather cords laced up both sides. When he’d first seen the garment, Cole wrote it off as a biker’s jacket. Up close and in better light, however, the leather strips had a texture that reminded him of the Half Breed skins Paige used as protective lining for her body armor rigs.

When the heavy material rustled against the .45, Ned looked at him and hissed, “Don’t create another scene!”

“Throttle back, Ned,” Rico said as he let his jacket fall back into place. “Just makin’ a point.” He snatched some more chips, shoved them into his mouth, smearing grease into the gray stubble on his chin, and washed it all down with half a mug of Guinness. “What I’m sayin’ is that these
Mongrels and whatever else is out there can probably feel the Full Bloods the same way a buncha deer know the wolves are roaming the woods. Now, according to Paige, we’re down a few Full Bloods.”

When Ned glanced over to her, Paige nodded. “One was taken down in KC and we don’t know where Henry is.”

“Liam,” Cole said as a way to interject something useful into the mix. “The Full Blood from KC was named Liam.”

“And Henry is the Full Blood that was tainted by the Nymar?” Ned asked.

“That’s right,” Paige replied. “We haven’t heard from him since Wisconsin.”

“You mean the Janesville Massacre?” the old man sneered.

“That’s just what some of the tabloids were calling it,” Cole said. “Some news channels did a bunch of stories about it for a while, but the case has been closed. The cops saw enough Nymar waving their guns around for the whole thing to be written off as some sort of gang fight or drug deal gone wrong.”

“And I haven’t heard about it for months,” Rico said. “That’s because people like to sweep their garbage where they can’t see it and go about their day like there ain’t nothin’ wrong. Animals ain’t like that. They know when something’s wrong with the natural order, and right now there’s a big vacancy at the top of the food chain. When that happens, all the residents of the lower rungs climb up to fill it. Ain’t that right, Bloodhound?”

Now fully absorbed in her chips, Paige only nodded.

“All the Mongrels are sniffing around across the country, poking their heads out to make sure there’s not a Full Blood around to bite it off,” Rico continued as he ticked his points off on his fingers. “I’ve heard from a bunch of places that Nymar are getting braver too. Even little rodents that are only spotted every now and then when they pick off a dog or slaughter some cattle are overstepping their bounds.”

“I was nearly killed by a Chupacabra,” Cole offered.

Rico pointed at him and said, “I wouldn’t exactly brag about that, but it proves my point.” Then he shifted his focus
back to Ned. “One Full Blood can stake out a territory that may cover a third of this country. They’re powerful enough to enforce their claim and fast enough to patrol it. Take even one out of the mix and it throws things off, just like when too many wolves are killed in a patch of forest. All the other animals spread out and make themselves comfortable. In our case, you get Mongrels challenging us in the open. I know you’ve been content to sit back and keep the peace ever since we took St. Louis for ourselves, but we can’t do that anymore. If anything comes sniffing around looking for a new territory to claim, we gotta kick its teeth in.”

“Law of the jungle,” Cole said as he carefully selected the burnt chips from the basket.

“Damn right,” Rico said while leaning back into his seat. “Law of the jungle.”

Ned pulled in a deep breath and let it seep out through his nostrils. He drank some beer, ate some chips, and then looked over at Paige.

“And before you come down too hard on us for stirring up those Mongrels,” she said, “you should know that their problem wasn’t with us. It’s with you.”

“What?”

“Oh yeah!” Cole said. “They told us…what was it?”

Paige seemed only too happy to reply. “The Mongrels told us to tell the old man that they know what he’s doing and that your tricks will only get more humans killed.”

“Tricks?” Ned snapped. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Not me,” Paige said. “Them. That’s the message the Mongrels gave us.”

“And was the leader a tall woman who looked like a panther?”

“I thought she was more of a leopard,” Cole replied, “but yeah. She had some guy with her who changed into something that had been eating out of garbage cans most of its life.”

“The woman’s name is Malia,” Ned said. “And the mangy one is Allen. Those two have stayed mostly out of sight and haven’t been a problem.”

“Until now,” Rico said. “When I showed up, things were about to get pretty damn problematic.”

“Because you provoked them!”

“What could they be talking about?” Paige asked in a softer tone. “Could it have anything to do with something called Pestilence?”

She laid out the details of Peter Walsh’s visit to Rasa Hill and didn’t pause until the waitress came by to refill their drinks. By the time she relayed everything Daniels had said, the waitress was returning with the rest of their food. Not surprisingly, the most disgusting of the details hadn’t put a dent into anyone’s appetite.

When the story was over, Ned asked, “And who studied that dead body? The Nymar you work with?”

“That’s right. Daniels does plenty of work for me, so don’t give me any grief for bringing him along.”

“You brought him along?” Rico asked. Glancing nervously at the old man, he lifted his mug to Paige and said, “Ballsy.”

Surprisingly enough, Ned merely shrugged and cut into his open face sandwich. “I don’t object to putting a few of them to work for us. Giving them free rein over an entire city is something else. What did he tell you about this Pestilence?”