The Ultimate Werewolf (38 page)

Otto disliked television, but he made an effort to view the werewolf movies whenever possible. He found their treatment of the conversion from man into beast amusing. The growls and howls of agony, the twisting and turning of bones, the sudden growth spurts—all reflected Hollywood special effects, not reality.

In truth, the change only took a few seconds. It was not a realignment or rearrangement, but an actual replacement of one physical form by another. Where once stood Otto the man, now paced Otto the huge gray wolf. Otto, the very, very hungry wolf.

The alteration always left him starving. Years ago, roaming the city park late at night, he encountered a fellow werewolf with a degree in molecular biology. The professor, a friendly sort, tried to explain the mechanism behind the magical transformation. Most of the physics went far over Otto's head, but he did grasp the fact that the change consumed vast amounts of bodily energy which needed to be replenished as soon as possible. Otto intended to handle that problem right away.

Lifting his head, he sniffed the air. Instantly, he scented his victims. They labored undisturbed a hundred feet away. A drop of slaver fell from his monstrous jaws, and his red eyes glowed in excitement. His prey smelled delicious.

With a howl of anticipation, he bounded down the corridor in their direction. Powerful legs propelled him forward with the speed of an express locomotive. The floor shook with his every step.

"What the hell was that?" yelled one of the thieves. Caught totally by surprise, they barely had time to look up before Otto slammed into their midst.

Massive teeth caught Jim Patrick's head directly below the ears. The man's shriek of agony ended abruptly as Otto's jaws clenched shut, crushing Patrick's skull like an egg. A mix of blood, bones and brains filled Otto's mouth. He growled deep in his throat. Traitors deserved no better death.

With a shake of his head, Otto sent the lifeless body skidding across the floor. He turned, to be greeted by a hail of bullets. The slugs tore into his body like molten nails. He roared with pain—then hurtled forward. Only silver, the bane of black magic, could injure a werewolf.

The man who'd carried the glass-cutter loomed in front of him. In his hands, he grasped a massive gun that bellowed fire and lead. He pumped shot after shot into Otto's massive frame. It wasn't until the werewolf was nearly upon him that he finally realized his efforts meant nothing. By then it was much too late.

Rearing up on his hind legs, Otto lashed out with his right paw. Two- inch long claws ripped through the man's neck and chest like paper. Blood spurted onto the glass cabinets.

Mentally, Otto grimaced in annoyance. Claw wounds always left a mess. It took hours to clean blood stains off furniture. He needed to be more careful in the future.

Screaming, his victim staggered back, trying desperately to escape. Angry with his own sloppiness, Otto followed. Using his huge head as a battering ram, he knocked the man to the floor. Pouncing on him like a cat with a mouse, Otto sent the man to oblivion with a bite that ripped out most of his chest.

For a second, the taste of warm flesh overwhelmed him and he forgot there were two more victims to be slaughtered. Hungrily, he crunched the man's ribs, seeking out his heart and liver. Only afterwards did he remember the others. By then, there was no sign of either man in the department.

Otto howled in annoyance. He was getting old and was too easily distracted.

Trying to ignore the lure of fresh blood, he anxiously hunted for a scent. It only took a moment to latch onto the trail of one of the missing men. Hurriedly, he raced across the floor, following the smell.

He found the crook huffing and puffing his way down the unmoving escalator. "Damned attack dog," the man moaned to himself. "Never saw a dog so big. Must be some damned freak breed they raise just for guarding stores. Hell of a big dog, hell of a big one."

Otto waited patiently until the man made it to the landing. He knew better than to try the grooved metal stairs with his claws. Wolves were not constructed for escalators.

Gathering his legs beneath him, Otto leaped through the darkness. On the floor below, the muttering crook never realized his peril. Otto dropped onto his back with devastating force. Ribs and backbone crushed, the man collapsed to the floor without a sound. One swipe from a giant paw took off most of his skull.

There was no sign of the fourth man. Nor could Otto pick up the least trace of his smell. Unable to curse, Otto growled instead. If the criminal escaped, it meant an end to these nocturnal hunts. Even the dumbest thieves were not foolish enough to venture into a store guarded by a werewolf.

Despondent, Otto paced along the floor, hunting some clue to the man's whereabouts. The thief had somehow managed to hide his scent. But the perfume department was located on the first floor. It was impossible for the man to have made there in so short a time. He had to be hiding elsewhere in the building.

Otto concentrated, mentally visualizing all of the store's many departments. None of them offered sanctuary from his powers, yet the crook was nowhere to be found. Then, suddenly, Otto knew where the man was hiding.

Playing his hunch, he hurried over to the Christmas section located at the rear of the floor. The scented wax candles and fragrant pine wreaths that decorated the area effectively shielded any other scent from his nostrils. And the displays offered a seemingly safe haven from the forces of darkness.

He found the last man, huddled at the center of a stack of holiday ornaments and religious statues. White-faced and trembling, the man clutched a small jeweled crucifix with both hands. As Otto approached, the crook started babbling a confused mixture of prayers and Hollywood werewolf lore.

"Get behind me, Satan," the man declared when Otto was only a few feet away. He held the cross straight out in front of his chest, pointing it like a spear. "Get behind me."

Otto stopped moving. Immediately sensing the werewolf's hesitation, the crook repeated the phrase, this time much louder. "Get behind me, Satan. Get behind me."

The words rang in Otto's ears. Whining loudly, he took a step back. Then another. And yet another.

"Get behind me, Satan!" bellowed the crook, waving his crucifix back and forth as if banishing spirits. His voice trembled with emotion.

Slowly, he moved forward, abandoning his position amidst the toys and ornaments.

Eyes half-closed, Otto watched his enemy draw closer. Snarling in impotent rage, he retreated further, until he was far removed from the Christmas display. His nemesis followed, brandishing the ornate crucifix like a sword.

Looking around, Otto decided they were far enough away from the delicate ornaments for his purposes. Tired of the charade, he rose to his feet and waited for his unsuspecting prey.

"Get behind me Satan," roared the crook, thrusting the cross directly at Otto's jaws. Without hesitation, Otto opened his mouth and bit off the man's hand, crucifix and all. Crosses might annoy vampires, but they had no affect on werewolves.

The thief screeched out the phrase one last time before Otto silenced him for all eternity. Then, only the gnashing of the werewolf's razor- sharp teeth disturbed the descending curtain of silence.

Chomping on the criminal's skull, Otto felt slightly better. In luring the man away from the display, he had protected the fragile ornaments from damage. His quick thinking had saved the store a good deal of money. Satisfied with his actions, he settled down to feast. It had been nearly a month since the last batch of intruders. During that time, he had worked up quite an appetite.

Several hours later, back in his human form, he surveyed the scene of his final confrontation. Everything appeared in perfect order. He had diligently cleaned the cabinets and floors until not a trace of blood remained. The department store kept a goodly supply of the new miracle cleaners that made such jobs a breeze. They removed the toughest stains without a bit of trouble.

The grisly remains of his four victims went into body bags he kept hidden behind the lockers. A quick call to several ghouls working the late shift at the sanitation department resulted in an unannounced early morning pickup. Otto believed in sharing his good fortune with others. The ghouls cheerfully accepted Otto's gift of the criminals' flashlights and tools as well. By the time the morning crew arrived at 7:00 a.m., all evidence of the break-in had disappeared.

A beaming Carl arrived only a few minutes after the hour. Accompanying him, dressed in an expensive charcoal gray suit, was a short stocky man whom Otto immediately recognized as Mr. Galliano. Red- faced from the wind and cold, the owner grinned when he spotted Otto.

"You must be Otto Stark," he said in a gravelly voice, coming over and extending a hand. "I'm Julius Galliano."

'Pleased to meet you, sir," said Otto, a thin line of sweat trickling down his back. Nervously, he shook hands with his boss.

"My pleasure," said Galliano, jovially. Despite his age, he had a firm, steady grip.

He peered closely at Otto, his eyes twinkling. "My coming here this morning had you worried about your job a little, didn't it?"

"Yes sir," replied Otto truthfully.

"The best workers always worry about their performance," said Galliano, chuckling. "That's what makes them the best. The lazy ones never give a damn." He paused to emphasis the fact. "I'm here to give you a raise, Otto."

Otto blinked in astonishment. "A raise?" he asked, cautiously.

"You heard me right," said Galliano. "A hefty one at that. You deserve it. Since you took over the late watch, thefts have dropped off to nothing. I'm impressed. And I back up my appreciation with cold, hard cash."

"I just do my job, sir," said Otto.

"Damned if I could handle it," said Galliano, yawning. "It's tough work, keeping alert from dusk till dawn. The graveyard shift, right?"

"Yes sir," said Otto. Night patrol had lots of nicknames—the graveyard shift, the tombstone patrol, the wolf watch. "It's tough, but I'm happy."

"Really?" asked Galliano, sounding a bit surprised. "Wouldn't you prefer working during the day?"

"Not at all," replied Otto. "I like my job. The pay is good. The hours suit me fine. And," he grinned wolfishly, "the fringe benefits are terrific."

Robert SilverbeRG

▼▼▼

SOME time after the fifth martini, when the barkeep was mixing them eight or nine to one and the little heap of discarded olives in the ashtray was beginning to look untidy and Keller felt his nerves starting to fray in frustration, he said: "You should see what happens when the moon is full."

The bored girl across the table yawned delicately. "What happens to the
moon
or to
you,
darling?"

"To me. I turn into a wolf."

"Of course," she said. "You don't even need a full moon for that."

Keller frowned, flicked ashes from his cigaret, fitfully sipped his drink. This evening had long since begun to look like a blank—a dead, useless, wasted blank evening. He hadn't communicated his purposes at all. Lora, sitting at the other end of the table as if there were a wall between them, was all glitter and polish, and had a marvelous way of consuming a man's money during the course of an evening—but Keller was having serious regrets about having offered to take her out. The evening's investment promised to have no returns whatsoever.

The werewolf gambit was the finale. Keller thought of it as a wry jest, an ultimate variation on the customary etchings, a desperate tactic he was employing as a final sardonic gesture toward seduction before he abandoned the night's quest.

"You don't understand,*' he said quietly.
"Je suis un loupgaron.
A lycanthrope. Bristles and fangs, gleaming yellow eyes. You know?"

The waxen mask of Lora's pale face seemed to show animation for the first time that evening. "You're sure you haven't had too many drinks, darling?"

"Quite on the contrary; if I'd had too many, I assure you I'd be raging on all fours up and down the cabaret this very moment. I've got myself quite thoroughly under control, though. I won't begin to change until . . . until . . ."

Arched eyebrows flickered.
"When,
dear?"

"In my flat. Later tonight, perhaps." He leaned backward, craned his neck to peer through the clinging lace of the curtains. A bright shaft of moonlight sparkled against the window. "Yes . . . tonight is the beginning. It lasts three nights. I feel it stirring within me now."

Hastily, he finished his drink. The bartender glanced inquiringly at him, but Keller signaled quickly with his left index finger that the evening's drinking was over. His campaign would stand or fall on what had already been consumed. Keller saw no reason to expend further cash in what looked like a fruitless pursuit. Besides, Lora's thirst was immense; alcohol didn't seem to satisfy it at all.

The girl leaned forward. Her clinging wrap fell away from her pale throat, creating a delightful view. "I suppose it takes five martinis to extract these confidences, darling. If you had told me earlier . . ."

"Yes?"

"We could have skipped that dreadful play. We could have gone straight to your place."

"What?"
For the first time within his adult memory, Keller's self- composure utterly deserted him.

"I'm terribly interested in things like this," Lora said eagerly.
"Loup
garous!
How fascinating!" Seizing his hand with a passion she had failed to show all evening, she said, "Would it be asking too much . . . for you to
show
me?"

I'll be eternally cursed,
Keller thought in quiet wonderment.
How To
Get A Girl To Your Apartment,
he thought.
Technique 101a: The Werewolf Gambit.

It had been only a joke to cap a wasted evening, and abruptly it had transformed a remote, passionless girl into a keenly curious and receptive woman.
Someday I must write my memoirs,
Keller thought, as he paid the check.
If only to tell about this!

▼▼▼

"Be it ever so humble," Keller said, throwing open the door to his apartment.

Lora stepped inside and uttered a little gasp of delight. "It's a
lovely
room," she said. "A little austere, but
lovelyM

"I like it," said Keller. "I've lived here three years."

"It's in marvelous taste," she exclaimed enthusiastically, looking around at the paneled walls, the ceiling-high ebony bookcase laden with Keller's extensive library, the kidney-shaped swirl of the dark coffee- table, the low bulk of the phonograph-tape recorder sprawling along the far wall. She slipped lightly out of her evening jacket; Keller hung it in the hall closet and tiptoed happily into the little kitchen.

"Drink?" he asked, a little tensely.

"No . . . thanks," she said. She was at the bookcase, tugging at the ponderous red-bound volume that was his copy of
Rites and Mysteries
of Goesic Theurgy.
"You have strange taste in books," she said.

"Strange? Is it so strange for a werewolf to be reading Arthur Waite? Not at all." He was determined to carry the joke along as far as he could.

She chuckled lightly. "Of course not. I apologize."

He emerged from the kitchen with two oliveless martinis and set them down on the little inlaid end-table near her. As he moved toward the phonograph, he observed with professional pleasure that she had lifted one of the drinks to her lips. It was a rule he had long followed with great success in the past:
If a girl you've brought to your apartment
refuses a drink, bring one anyway. She'll drink it.

"Putting on a record?" she asked, still busy at the bookcase.

"Vivaldi. It's good music for late at night."

He turned the volume low, and as if from a great distance there issued the bright sheen of violin music accompanied by the silvery tinkle of a tiny harpsichord. "There," he said. "Just perfect."

He glanced at his watch in the dim light of the one lamp. It was quarter to three. Barring unforseen happenings, they should be safely bedded down before four-fifteen.

He crossed the room, reached agilely around her to snare his drink from the table, brushed the nape of her neck lightly with the tip of his nose as he straightened up. "Care to join me on yonder divan?" he asked, indicating the couch.

She smiled and nodded. Keller gave her his hand in formal fashion and escorted her to the couch. She kicked off her shoes and drew her knees up to her bosom, wrapping her arms around her kneecaps and letting her head droop broodingly.

^w
Tm not in the habit of visiting men's apartments this late at night," she remarked. "Or at any hour."

"That's obvious," he said. "I can tell by the luminous purity of your eyes that—" He let his voice trail off, then tacked on the coda: "But there's always a first time, of course."

"Of course. About this affliction of yours, this lycanthropy—"

"Oh, that. We can talk about that later." There would be plenty of time for explanations, he thought, in the morning. "Mind if I come a little closer? It's cold in here, at this distance."

Without waiting for her reply, he edged up next to her and slid one arm suavely around her bare, cool shoulders. It seemed to him that she quivered faintly at the contact, but he decided it was just his imagination.

"They say only virgins can ride unicorns," he observed softly, letting his fingertips graze the lobe of her ear.

"There's some truth in that," she admitted, intercepting his hand neatly as it began to slide further down her shoulder. "Unicorns have an unerring way of telling, I hear."

"It's too bad we're not all unicorns."

"Yes," she said, sighing. "It's too bad."

Through the drawn blinds, a single beam of moonlight wandered and glistened momentarily against Keller's onyx cufflink. "The moon is full," she pointed out. "You must be fighting a terrible struggle within yourself. But we're alone, now. You can change over, if you like."

"Do you really want me to?"

"Unless it's dangerous, of course. Can you control yourself when you're—you're
changed?"

"I don't know. I never really know what I do when I'm—
changed

"Oh," she said. "I'll have to risk it, then. I
must
see it. Please? What are you waiting for?"

He fingered his suddenly sticky collar uneasily. The recorded ended; Vivaldi faded with an abrupt click and was replaced by a Shubert quartet. Moonbeams continued to pour into the room.

The girl was carrying the thing too far. "Let's not talk about lycanthropy now, my lovely," he whispered harshly. There had been enough talk of werewolvery; the time had come to forget the introductory gambit and get down to the main business of the evening.

He crushed up closely against her, and this time he sensed a definite shudder of repugnance as his body came in contact with hers. She was cool and distant, but permitted his caresses almost absently.

After a few moments, she wiggled away. "You promised to show me—"

Keller began to laugh, coldly at first and then almost hysterically. "Lora—darling—for a sophisticated girl, you're incredibly guillible! Can't you recognize a spoof when you fall for it?"

She drew back. "What do you mean?" she asked acidly.

"This werewolf business—did you really
believe
it?"

There was a stunned pause. Then: "I should have known you were lying. I could have told that you were no
loup-garou
. . . but yet I trusted you. I came up here to see—to see—"

The edge of a tear glittered brightly in the corner of one eye. She had the cheated look of a maiden wronged. Keller scowled; this evening was turning into the most unmitigated fiasco he had experienced since the age of sixteen. Determined to make one last try in a valiant attempt to recoup his honor and capture hers, he took her cold hands in his.

"Lora honey, I just did it because I love you so damn much!" The words nearly stuck in his throat, but he got them out with as much sincerity as he could muster. "I wanted you so bad I'd tell you anything. Just so long as you'd come up here. Just so I could be with you for a while. Do you understand? We can go home
now ...
if you like."

Her eyes pierced his. "You're
not
a werewolf, then? It was all pretense?"

Exasperated, he said, "I'm not even a ghoul, darling. I'm disgustingly mortal . . . and disgustingly enamored. You know that?"

"Of course I know that," she said suddenly, moving closer to him. She seemed to grow warmer; to his astonishment, Keller realized that he was going to succeed after all. Her arms touched his shoulders, drew his face near hers.

Looking up into his eyes, she said, "You're really not a werewolf?"

Her lips were only inches away, and triumph now seemed near. Smiling sadly, Keller shook his head. "It was all a
game
...
a game men play some time. No, I confess I'm not and never have been a werewolf, darling. I hope I didn't disappoint you too much. I'm not even a vamp—"

The sentence was never finished.

He felt the sudden hot sting of tiny needle-sharp fangs meeting in the flesh of his throat, and Lora's passionate arms gripping him tightly, as she slaked her fearful, furious thirst.