I got dressed feeling great!
My body had never felt so alive, so healthy, so powerful, so . . . so . . . tumescent? I looked down again and marveled: "Smilin' Bob" had nothing on me.
I got dressed feeling like crap!
Once again I'd fed off of another living creature. And this time I was spending way too much time imagining what Liban would taste like with a pair of stainless steel soda straws in her neck!
I was crossing some sort of threshold here where needing the blood was taking a backseat to wanting the blood.
And what was the deal with the tightening trousers? Maybe I could make a case for the narcotic effects of elven blood or the hormonal link to seeing the sea goddess of health and beauty as something indescribably yummy.
But that didn't explain the near trip down mammary lane with Volpea.
Or the inordinate amount of distraction that Irena had packed into such a short amount of time.
True, Lupé had pretty much told me to take a long walk off of a short pier these past eight months—but lovers have fights. Grownups disagree. You get bruised, you get bloody, but you don't throw in the towel—at least not in the fourth round of a championship fight. You go the distance. You stay on your feet until you fall on your face. And then you get back up again. Doesn't matter how many times circumstances knock you down. What matters is how many times you get back up.
And was this the antidepressants talking?
Or were the nanobots running IM downloads into my prefrontal cortex from Hallmark.com?
Ultimately, I was asking whether I was really this big of a cad? Obviously, I wasn't the human being I was two years previously. But how much can one invoke the "monster" excuse before it, too, ceases to excuse?
I shook my head: too much thinking, not enough doing. I had to get down to New Orleans and extract my people. We could sort out the emotional crap later.
My cell phone was humming on my dresser. I picked it up, disconnected it from the charger, and noticed that it was still set to vibrate. Opening it I saw that I had twenty-seven missed calls.
"Cséjthe?" The voice on the other end belonged to Dr. Mooncloud.
"Speaking."
"Thank God! I need to ask you a rather personal question."
"Personal?"
"Well, medical. Just remember that I am your doctor."
The last time someone had reminded me of the doctor/patient relationship I had been wearing a straightjacket. "Go on . . ."
"Have you been feeling a bit horny of late?"
I asked her to explain it to me again—this time in the Reader's Digest condensed version.
"Your blood work is showing abnormally high levels of dehydroepiandrosterone—"
"Yeah. DHEA," I interrupted. "Previous tests have turned this up."
"But it's even higher now. Along with DHEA-sulfate. You're also showing abnormally high levels of androstenedione—banned by the International Olympic Committee—"
"There go my gold medals."
"—as well as androstenediol, androsterone, and DHT!"
"The bug killer?"
"Not DDT! DHT: Dihydrotestosterone. It's a metabolite of testosterone and a more potent androgen when it comes to binding with androgen receptors. Stop making fun of this."
It was hard (no pun intended) not to. "So you're calling me up to tell me that my nanites have decided to ramp up my sex drive? Great. Two questions. Why? And what can I do about it? Cold showers? Saltpeter in my mashed potatoes?"
"As to the 'why'? I think your nanites are hungry. Knowing you, you've been keeping your sustenance levels at bare minimums."
"Hey," I protested. "Not exactly skin and bones, here. I'm far from anorexic."
"I'm not talking about people food," she snapped. "I'm talking about people as food. Blood. The high octane fuel that your converted physiology is increasingly demanding. Now that you've got millions of micromachines working overtime, the energy demand has got to be excessive. My guess is they're amping up your adrenal and apocrine glands to enhance you as a predator—not as a sex fiend. Though there may be inevitable side effects."
"Uh huh. Back up a moment. You mentioned two different glands . . ."
"The adrenal and the apocrine."
"Not familiar with the second one."
"Apocrine? Sweat glands."
"Sweat glands?"
"Actually, body perspiration is produced by two different sets of glands. The eccrine glands which are distributed all over the body's surface, but more densely arranged on the forehead, palms, and soles of the feet; and the apocrine which are mainly concentrated in the armpits and around the genital area."
"And since you're only mentioning the apocrine glands, I must assume there's some kind of significant difference?"
"That's my boy. You actually can be quite perceptive when you're not trying to be such a smartass."
"Maybe. But take into consideration that the hive-mind programming of my nanite network extends throughout the entirety of my body, including the tissues of my gluteus maximus. So, my ass is, quite literally, smarter than anyone else's at this time."
The other end of the line went silent.
"Sorry," I said finally.
Mooncloud cleared her throat. "Yes. Well. To get back to your question, perspiration from the eccrine glands is mostly water with various salts mixed in. It's all about body temperature regulation. Sweat from the apocrine glands, however, contains fatty materials. As bacteria break these compounds down, certain odors are released. The apocrines are also known as the scent glands."
"So . . . what? In addition to being transformed into an oversexed horndog, I'm going to develop super B.O., as well?"
I could practically hear Mooncloud nodding on the other end of the connection. "Well, yes. But not in the way you might think. The samples I brought back have tested abnormally high for pheromones."
"Pheromones?"
"Sex pheromones."
"I thought we were talking about sex hormones."
"We were. Now we're talking about sex pheromones."
"So, we're not talking about—"
"—the effect on you, any more. We're talking about the potential effect on others."
"Others?"
"Potentially receptive species that come within the area of effect. Look, published research on the role of human sex pheromones on social and sexual patterns of behavior is minimal, somewhat contradictory, and largely theoretical to date. But you are no longer human-normal for comparative purposes. And the levels of hormones and pheromones that your body is secreting are well above normal and apparently climbing."
"And, again: why? Are the nanites doing this on purpose or is it the back-end side effect of the hormonal buildup?"
"It could be the latter. But if, as I suspect, your teensy troublemakers are reprogramming you to target and home in on potential prey more efficiently, they would logically utilize those hormonal by-products to lure said prey and make them more tractable."
"This is monstrous."
"But hardly unique. Master vampires in particular are able to sexually dominate a large number of victims, thralls, and subordinates. It was generally theorized that this was a form of mental domination. I suspect that it may be owed to a significant boost of biochemical changes in the undead physiology, as well. It's not something that my boss has encouraged me to research, you understand."
"So these machines are giving me the love mojo of a master vampire?"
"I can't say because I have insufficient comparative data . . ."
"Your best guess, Doc."
"Then I'd have to say no. Based on the concentration levels in your samples—and that the evidence points to catching you in the early stages of the enhancement process—the analogy is a mismatch. I would guess that master vampires exude pheromones at levels ten to twelve times the human norm."
"And in my case?"
"It's not just a question of volume produced but also the issue of biochemical refinement. The concentrations in your bloodstream and apocrine glands are approaching, what we call in certain laboratory settings, weaponized grades of disbursements."
I thought for a moment. "Would these enhanced pheromones affect anyone coming within range or would they be . . . selective?"
"Again, we're dealing in theoreticals for the moment. In mammalian biology there is evidence for cross-species sensitivities to conditions of estrous. I rather imagine you'll see varying degrees of sensitivities among the preternatural variants to humankind."
"What about gender?"
"Well, naturally, sex pheromones are gender responsive . . ."
"Orientation?"
"Swedish researchers demonstrated that homosexual and heterosexual responses to odors involved in sexual arousal differ significantly. I'd say that orientation would be just as much a factor as gender. Perhaps more so."
Which meant Volpea was still an Oscar nominee rather than a true believer.
"So back to my second question: how do I turn it off?"
"Short of shutting down or reprogramming the hive-mind neural net for your nanites, I can only work on defensive measures."
"Like what? Some kind of antidote?"
"In a sense. Something to regulate the hypothalamus or the release of hormones from the pituitary gland. Another approach would be to block the receptive capabilities of the VNOs—the vomeronasal organs located in the nasal septum."
"How long?" I asked.
"In the short term I could probably come up with an aerosol blocker. Like a nasal spray. Something temporary. I don't know how long it would last or the effective dosage but I could send you some different strength solutions and you could try them in various settings. I'll work up a chart and checklist/questionnaire to measure the results."
"So. In the meantime, it's cold showers and pushups?"
"I'm sorry, you don't understand. The antidote we're discussing would be for the people you come in contact with. There's nothing I can do for you as long as your symbiotic hitchhikers are running their defensive wetware programming."
"So, I'm screwed."
"Over and over, if you play your cards right."
I asked about Mama Samm and Marie Laveau. Dr. Mooncloud had heard nothing.
I asked about the weather. A tropical storm watch all along the Gulf, she said, and some media-fueled debates about evacuation scenarios. But not to worry. She and her patients had been reassured that they were completely safe in their billion-year-old bomb shelter. Snug as bugs in a rug. Nothing going to get to them down deep where they were. Let everyone else fight the traffic and the chaos should it come to that. And, if a storm actually did hit in the next few days, they'd just ride it out, safe and sound and underground. Yeah.
Anywhere else it would have been a good plan.
But not in New Orleans where Marie Laveau was planning a reception for monsters from deep black space, monsters from the deep blue sea, and a major werewolf revolt was brewing while no one was paying attention. And the Crescent City had a bad history when it came to hurricanes and low-level flooding. Right about now I couldn't see any up side to being in New Orleans.
"Turn on the TV," I ordered as I walked out of my cabin and into the salon.
Fand was ahead of me: a special weather bulletin was on the flat screen and she was studying it like it held the key to all of our futures.
Come to think of it, it probably did.
The meteorologist was using the words "tropical depression" but a glance at the map laid out the story to come. Mama Samm had succeeded in knocking Laveau's supernatural storm apart and smacked the remains way out into the Gulf of Mexico.
It was a respite rather than a victory. The remnants were reforming rather than dispersing.
And if the arrows indicating high and low pressure fronts meant anything—and Marie Laveau had her way—it was going to come spinning back around and head straight towards its artificial point of origin.
Time to shoot over to the other side of the river, jump in my other car, and burn rubber for the Big Easy.
Getting there would be easy. Nobody in their right mind would head toward a hurricane landfall zone. And Laveau's minions should be majorly distracted by the chaos of a coastal evacuation.
The downside would be hitting that same chaos once I arrived. And getting back out would be a nightmare. But, first things first: I needed to get to my car—
—which screeched to a halt at the other end of the dock outside. The windshield was smashed, the hood ripped off the engine compartment, and the front grill caved in to the point that what was left of the headlights were practically cross-eyed. There was enough steam from the radiator and smoke from the tailpipe that it took me an extra moment to recognize my own automobile!
With a start, I realized that the New Moon had crossed the river and was now moored on the east bank of the Ouachita. Before the change in perspective had time to settle, my newly wrecked vehicle disgorged three familiar figures: Camazotz, Setanta, and a third man I had never officially met.
The New York demesne called him Silas.
Lupé had called him "Grandfather."
I had witnessed their confrontation, long distance, during my temporarily dead, out-of-the-body excursions back last January. Gramps had some hardcore attitudes about family planning that included the concept of post-birth abortions.
He was tall for a man and even more hirsute than the average untransformed were. The shock of brown hair that swept back from the widow's peak was streaked with even more gray than I remembered. He looked as if he were leading the other two even though each had one arm firmly grasped and the old pack leader's feet were barely touching the ground.
That's when I noticed all three were liberally splashed with blood. Zotz had a couple of boxes of blood packs from the bank under his other arm and the Mullet was carrying a sword in his free hand.
I turned and saw the empty wall above the plasma screen. Yep. Mikey's sword.
"Incoming," I said. But Liban was there before me, opening the door.
Nobody let go. With Zotz and the Mullet still holding fast to the old man, they turned and entered sideways.
Camazotz gave me a look. "Feeling much better are we?"
"Got a quick fix." I nodded at the two boxes under his free arm. "We're gonna need more."
"Well, you're out of luck," he snapped. "Snoop-wolf, here, and his posse went and torched the blood bank. This is all we could salvage." He dropped the boxes on the nearest chair.
"What?" I rounded on the old man. "What is it with you guys? Is everyone bound and determined to make me go all fangy and start ripping out throats?"
"Mr. Cséjthe, my name—"
"I know who you are, Hairball."
His eyes widened, then narrowed. "What did you say?"
I stepped in real close. "I said," I answered very slowly and distinctly, "I know. Who. You are. Hairball. More importantly, I've got a pretty good idea what you are."
"I am Pack Master for the Eastern Enclaves: Tribes and Confederations. I am the—"
"You're the guy," I interrupted, "who laid siege to my house while I was away and threatened the woman I love and our unborn son! And now you're the guy who's not only destroyed one of my business investments but either condemned me to a slow, painful death or to turning into a monster in order to take what I need by violence! I ought to stick a spigot in your neck and chain you to the fridge!"
Apparently the nanites were fast learners. Once they had created an initial template, they could replicate it ten times faster: fangs were filling my mouth even as I spoke.
I turned to Camazotz. "Why have you brought him here?" I think the unspoken subtext was pretty clear: Why haven't you killed him?
"Well, um, we didn't exactly capture him. He approached us. Asked us to bring him to you."
I turned back to Silas. "What? You wanted me to kill you personally?"
The old werewolf gave me a defiant look. It was pretty good: he'd probably been working it for years. "I came here to deliver a message and an ultimatum," he snarled back. "My death will gain you nothing. If I do not leave this boat in the next five minutes, my people will attack." Then he howled.
A werewolf's howl will do more than make your skin crawl. Under a full moon with the night mist covering blood-black ground, it will positively turn your epidermis inside out. Even so there's a special sort of creepiness having an old dude do it in your living room—even with all of the lights on while under restraint.
It didn't hurt that a chorus of howls answered from outside.
Through the windows, we could now see dozens of wolves lining the riverbank and crowding the first boards of the docks. There were at least as many here on the east bank as we'd left behind on the west bank.
His look went from defiant to smug.
I sighed. Doing more sighing than shrugging these days. "Okay, boys, let him go."
Setanta looked doubtful; Zotz looked thoughtful. Neither seemed inclined to release the arm they were grasping.
"Seriously, guys. I've got better things for you to do. Zotz, I want you topside in the pilot's station. Goldilocks, I want you with me on the side deck in two minutes. Bring the letter opener."
Setanta scowled. "Don't call me Goldilocks."
Silas straightened his garments as they turned him loose. "Here are the conditions—" he began.
I interrupted again. This time by backhanding him so hard he flew across the salon and cracked the wood façade on the cabinets where the galley began. Fifteen minutes ago I hadn't been able to lift my own head off of the pillow. Now I had just lifted a one-hundred-eighty-pound man off of his feet with the back of my hand. Elfsblood: it does a body good!
The others stared at me, stunned.
"We're casting off in three minutes," I announced. "Zotz, when you hear the signal, open the throttles. Head for the middle of the river and give me warp nine. Goldilocks—"
Setanta was still staring at Silas, suddenly ten feet away from where he'd been grasping his arm. "Yes?" he asked distractedly.
"The moment Zotz guns the engines you've got to cut the mooring ropes. How are you at running with scissors?"
The Hound of Fand hefted the archangel's sword and smiled as if emerging from a pleasant memory. "I have been practicing."
Silas sat up groggily. "You can't—"
"Save it, Gramps," I snapped. "You've got one minute to deliver your message and your punk-ass ultimatum. Don't waste it trying to jump-start a dick-waving contest: I've got bigger monsters to bitch-slap and otherworld fish to fry." I turned to Fand who was closest to the galley. "I need duct tape. Third drawer down, next to the sink." I turned back to Silas who was still sputtering and trying to find his balance in more ways than one. "Ticktock, Akela; forty-five seconds."
"Where is my granddaughter?" he growled.
Okay. Wasn't prepared for that one.
"Are you telling me that you don't know where she is?"
"We were sure you had smuggled her off to Seattle but we're now convinced that you've secreted her elsewhere. We no longer have the luxury of time to search for her. Her time of confinement grows near and this child must not be born!"
My first impulse was to backhand him across the salon, again. Instead, I put my face in his and said: "Oh yeah. Like I'd turn her over to you. She'd be better off with a back alley abortionist and dirty coat hanger than 'family.' So now it's time for you to do your big bad wolf shit, threaten to huff and puff and blow us all down."
"I have troops on both sides of the river!" he thundered. "As soon as you come ashore—"
"Time's up," I roared. I pounced on Silas just as he was getting to his feet. The old man was strong. Being a lycanthrope, he had additional body mass to bring into play. It wasn't a fair fight: I had just ingested the blood of an elven sea goddess, had a million micro-transformers (more than meets the eye) swarming my tissues, was half undead with a silver-laced touch that was anathema to his kind, and—most importantly—was royally pissed and in family protection mode. It was short, brutal, and he made no further resistance as I slapped duct tape over his mouth and dragged him to the outer, port-side door.
"Wait, what's the signal?" Zotz asked, on his way to the forward ladder.
"Tom Hanks' first big breakout movie," I snarled, throwing the door open and hauling the Alpha Wolf Pack Master for the Eastern Enclaves: Tribes and Confederations outside and onto the side deck.
I didn't give anyone time to think. More importantly, I didn't give anyone time to act on impulse.
"All right!" I yelled, hauling Silas to the railing. "You've probably all heard the rumors! Guess what! They're true!" I grabbed the blade of the sword as Setanta passed next to me and then held up my hand so all the bad-ass doggies could see that it was good and bloody. It also took everyone's attention off the sound of the engines starting up.
"Let me give you a little demonstration of what any of you might expect in a one-on-one confrontation from here on out!" I ripped the duct tape off with my good hand and then slapped my bloody hand over the old man's mouth before he could yell something stupid like "Attack!"
He began to yell anyway. Nothing coherent. Just screams of pain and agony as the flesh of his lower face began to smoke and melt.
"You want my family?" I bellowed. "You'll have to go through me! It will be bloody! I don't think you'll like me bloody! Right, Gramps?" I shoved him over the railing. "Here's your leader! Now, go fetch!"
At the sound of the splash, the throttles opened wide and the New Moon strained against the mooring ropes. As Setanta sliced through the first rope, I plucked up the gangplank and positioned myself to repel any boarders. No one moved except Setanta who swept past me to cut the second tether.
As we shot away from the docks and out into the river the only movement I could see close to the boat landing was an old man with a ruined face struggling to reach the shore. No one made any move to assist him.
My guess was the Eastern Werewolf Enclaves: Tribes and Confederations would have a new alpha and pack master by tomorrow's moonrise.
I went topside almost immediately.
"Heh," said Zotz as I approached the pilot's station, "I got it. Tom Hanks. Splash. For a moment I thought you were going for a Turner and Hooch smackdown kind of thing . . ."
I flipped off the running lights. "Night vision only till further notice."
"They'll still follow us."
"Maybe," I said. "Silas doesn't know where Lupé's stashed."
"Still . . . Boat. River. Not a lot of choices for your getaway route."
"Silas may not be in charge come sunrise."
"Either way," the demon mused, "I'll keep an eye out for an open landing. Enough clear ground to guarantee our escape, we ditch the boat, steal some wheels, and drop off the radar."
I shook my head. "I've got to get into New Orleans and get my people back out before the storm hits. The roads out will be choked in another day. The river is the best way in and back out, again."
"You're the captain." He said it without a trace of irony.
"Thanks, Zotz. Ease back on the throttle in about five minutes to lose the engine noise across the water. Run silent, run dark. Find us a concealed place to drop anchor out of the traffic lanes and close to shore in the next twenty if you can, and then join me down below for the bon voyage party."
"Aye-aye, sir. But, beggin' the captain's pardon, you might want to reconsider. Big 'n' beefy isn't half bad in a fight. We could use him if things get hairy down south."
I shook my head. "It's already hairy up here. On both sides of the river. And it's likely to get a lot worse before we arrive. I can't have people around me that I can't completely trust."
"Does that mean you trust me?" he asked. "Completely?" And he batted his eyes mockingly.
"Just find me a secluded off-loading point," I growled. "We're dropping ballast, whether they leave willingly or not!" I turned and stalked to the aft stairs.
I descended to the main deck but remained outside, taking a circuit of the boat to check the perimeter.
Aside from the lights of distant traffic and clusters of illuminated buildings, the banks of the Ouachita revealed very little to either side. If wolf packs were running along the shores, keeping pace with our furtive course, they were well hidden by the night. I tried shifting to infra-vision but we were too far out for anything man- or wolf-sized to register at this range.
It didn't matter. There wasn't anything I could do about that at the moment.
The question was what could I do? About anything?
I was headed downriver. But laying aside the obstacles of werewolves from the New York demesne following me and more werewolves from the New Orleans demesne waiting to intercept me, a river full of the Black Lagoon Irregulars, and possible visitations from the tentacle-faced and seafood-in-a-barrel monsters, I wasn't sure I could get back to Lupé in time. I was no meteorologist and the weather map on the TV was nothing more than a guess built out of momentary readings. But a tropical depression so close by in the Gulf was beyond ominous. Most hurricanes, birth to landfall, offer days to plan and execute a proper evacuation. This wasn't a typical storm cell and the depression vectors in the Gulf were much closer than the storms that gestated out in the Atlantic.
As of right now, an hour's delay could make a crucial difference.
So the sooner I jettisoned my problematic passengers . . .
The door to the salon opened and Liban came out on deck. "Christopher? Are you all right?"
I stared at her. "No." Staring at her was a mistake: she really was beautiful. And I could no longer trust my own physical responses.
"Is there something I can do?"
"Yeah." My voice was a little hoarse. "Get your sister and get off my boat."
She took a step toward me. "About that—"
"My son will not be a sacrifice!"
She stopped and looked at me as if I had slapped her. "I do not understand the exact meaning of the Telling," she said slowly. "Elvish words can have many meanings and both of us may have very different ideas as to what a prophecy means and still be both wrong."
"I'm not taking any chances," I said, noticing how the collar of her wetsuit rose up from the shoulder seams to cover the lower slope of her neck. The front closure was more than half undone. It wouldn't take much movement—a flick of the wrist, really—to pull the zipper down to the parting point. The neoprene top could be pulled open, the collar folded back . . .
I felt the ferrocarbon fangs start to extrude from my gums.
"Your sister needs to find some other child to adopt. Someone who needs a parent. My son has two." At the very least.
Liban shook her head and took another step toward me. "My sister owes you her life, now. She will swear you a blood oath that from this day forth, your child is safe from her and her lieged."
"Wow," I said, "an oath. "Well then, I guess I can trust anything she would swear to seeing as how she's never lied to me before."
Another step and it was becoming more difficult to read her facial expressions seeing as how her throat kept getting in the way.
"Prophecies are vague," she murmured. "There may be many ways to set them aside, create alternative outcomes."
"For example?" I asked harshly.
"We will accompany you to New Orleans. We will assist you in rescuing your family and evacuating them to a safe place. We can assist you in avoiding your enemies. Or join you in extracting your family if necessary."
"Why?" I asked, trying to ignore the hotness of an elf chick in a form-fitting wetsuit, talking like Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. "What's in it for you?"
"Any other time it would be sufficient that you had saved my sister's life. A debt is owed. But now we stand on the cusp of time and your success or failure may be the hope or doom for your world and ours. Why would we not seek to insure your success?"
I shook my head as she took another step toward me. I suddenly had the feeling I was being stalked. "There's more to it than that, isn't there? Even if you're not planning to betray me, you have other reasons . . ."
Liban slipped her long, slender fingers into the gap above the zipper of her orange top. Slowly, she drew her hand down, the zipper sighing as the last few inches of the foamlike material separated. Her top parted like the stage curtains of a wondrous burlesque show; moonlight, mystery, and madness lay just beyond the footlights.
"You fascinate me, mortal," she sighed. "Fand has had her Cuchulainn for two thousand and four hundred years—save those lost centuries during the Great Confounding. I have found no one worthy since my parting with Labraid over the coming of the Fisher King. Are you my Tam Lin? My Thomas the Rhymer?"
She slid the neoprene jacket from her shoulders and was all pearlescent in the moonlight, all orbed and fulsome. "Of all the men born of mortal woman there has been no one of your like who was not part god. A goddess needs a god," she said, coming up against me and tilting her head back to expose her creamy throat, "even one who brings her pain."
The fangs slid from my gums in a flash and I was leaning down without thought, without will, without hesitation.