Charlaine Harris - Wolfsbane and Mistletoe

I pounded up the stairs to the roof and slammed open the door; the wintry air lashed my face. My sister the vampire was stretched out on her stomach, nearly naked, under the pale December sun.

She wasn’t moving. I knew from her phone call the news was bad, but . . .

“Claudia?” I swallowed; my mouth was dry. “Claud?”

She stirred and opened her eyes blearily. Her face was drawn, she moved stiffly. Claudia relaxed when she saw it was me, fastened the bikini top behind her neck, then sat up.

I turned away, blushing. “Aw, jeez, Claud. Do you have to?”

“What? I’m covered. Gerry, take a pill. No one can see me up here. We picked the place for that very reason.”

She was right; evergreen shrubs and dead, leafy vines—a forest of green in the summer—sheltered her place from every side, leaving the roof open to the sky. Despite the crust of snow on the ground, she wasn’t even shivering.

It was such a small bikini, though. I kept quiet: she’d think I was being a prude.

“I don’t even need to wear a bathing suit when I’m alone,” she said, reading my face.

“Yeah, you do, as long as I’m your brother.” I am a prude; sue me. No guy likes to think about his sister being ogled, especially not when she looked good enough to model that bikini. And I wished she’d cut her long dark hair. It was just too dangerous in a fight.

I changed the topic. “I got your message. I was worried.”

She nodded; her shoulders sagging. “A bad one, this morning. It means work for us.”

Things had been so quiet lately, it had to happen. “Tell me.”

“It was in the emergency room.” Claudia “happens” to go through the emergency room a lot, trolling for trouble. “This guy was in for sutures, a cut on his arm he said he got slipping on ice. He was giving Eileen a hard time, and I got a whiff of him. I asked her to send him to me for ‘post-trauma assessment.’”

Claudia glanced at me; there were dark smudges under her eyes. She looked beat. “He barged into my office, got angry when I told him he had to wait his turn. Very aggressive, all id, defensive as Hell. Maybe there’s a hurt little kid somewhere under all that armor, but he’s being led by a really thuggish protector-self.”

I hate when she talks like a shrink, but it’s how she gets things straight in her own head. “Was he big?”

She nodded. “And he uses it. He doesn’t mind threatening people, liked the idea he was scaring me. And then . . . when I stood up to him, he took a swing at me.”

I nodded, bristling. She was obviously okay, but I hated hearing this kind of stuff. It was part of our job, and I knew Claudia could take care of herself, but it still chafed. Call me overprotective. “And?”

“He missed. That made him crazy. He tried again.” She shrugged. “And then I bit him.”

I nodded again; it didn’t make me feel much better. If biting had cured the guy, she wouldn’t have called me, just saved it for the next time we got together for dinner. “Anyone see you?”

“The door was shut. He knocked me down, then ran out of the office.” She paused. “He’s a really bad one—”

“We’ll get him. We always get the bad guys,” I said, confident.

She shook her head. “There was something weirdly, profoundly, wrong about him.”

“You’re just tired. We always—”

“No, Gerry!” Her sharp tone startled me. “This is different. His reaction . . . I can’t get the taste out of my mouth. It’s like . . . I could work on him for a year, and still not get anywhere.”

Her eyes filled up, and I knew that she’d been thrown for a loop. Professionally and personally, Claudia is a proud person.

“Scootch over,” I said. I didn’t say any more, just sat down on the lounge and put my arm around her. I resisted the urge to take off my jacket and put it over her shoulders, because the sun was the best thing for a vampire in need of healing, even the weak sun of a Massachusetts midwinter. And besides, I needed my coat myself. I always seem to feel the cold.

Prudish. Overprotective. Chilly. In a lot of ways, we werewolves are just big pussies.

After getting Claudia’s promise that she’d take it easy, I took the copy of the file she had and visited the address of “J. Smith.”

J. Smith? Proof once again that evil is not creative.

I didn’t need to get out of the pickup, but I did. As I figured, the place—a double-decker—was abandoned, my footprints the first breaking the new fall of snow surrounding it. As I nosed around, I picked up lots of strong residual scents, most of them unhappy: drugs and sex, pain and fear. There was something in the background, an ugly smell that made my skin crawl; I didn’t know if our guy had been there, but the recognizable odor of Evil called me to Change . . .

Not here, not now . Save it for tonight, when you might be able to do something about it . . .

I reluctantly followed my tracks back to my truck and decided to pick up the trail at the hospital. Construction and early holiday mall shoppers had turned Route 128 into a slushy parking lot, but the F150 handled well with her new snow tires. I tuned the radio to the Leftover Lunch on WFNX and crept toward Union Hospital in Lynn.

I like being a werewolf for the same reasons I liked being a cop. Sure, it’s a lonely job and I see life’s tragedies, but then I fix them. I help people, I make the world a better place, and I’m good at it. I like being one of the good guys. I get a sense of satisfaction I bet your average CPA never gets. Or maybe they do; what do I know? I’m just Gerry Steuben, regular guy, North Shore born and bred, with a CJ degree from Salem State, recently early-retired from the Salem PD. My tax forms say I’m a PI now, but I don’t do domestics, insurance fraud, or repo. I’ll go to the end of the earth to find lost kids, though, and never charge a cent. But I mostly stick to the family business, which is eradicating evil from the world.

Sounds like I’m full of myself, doesn’t it? Not if you know the truth about my type. Our type. The Fangborn, Pandora’s Orphans, the ones the ancients called “Hope,” supposedly trapped at the bottom of the box. But according to our legends, the First Fangborn got out, and it’s a good thing they did, too, for when evil was released into the world, so was the means of destroying it. Vampires and werewolves, the first to clean the blood and ease the pain, the second to remove irredeemable evil when we find it. Our instincts are infallible, our senses attuned to evil. True evil—not the idiot who cuts you off in traffic or steals your newspaper—exists, and we’re here to fight it. We’re the ones evil can’t touch, the superheroes you never see, if we do our jobs right. I believe that to the core of my soul, and it’s the best feeling in the world.

Imagine the world today if we didn’t put the brakes on evil. Funny, since the Fangborn have always been depicted as the most depraved killers in every mythology. My kind aren’t the most fertile in the world—there are less than one thousand of us in the United States—and when you normals turned from hunting to agriculture, you started popping out kids like it was going out of style. But we’re the children of Hope, so we do what we can, and every bit helps.

As for those myths: It’s not the turn of the moon but the call of evil that makes us Change, though I can manage it if I’m pissed off enough. I don’t have hair on the palms of my hands, though for a while when I turned thirteen, I was afraid of that happening for other reasons. Claudia says I obsess about anyone touching my stuff, but can you name one guy who isn’t territorial? When we order pizza, Claudia always asks for roasted garlic. She relies on the mirror by her front door to remind her to dress like other people when it’s cold. She also claims she’s allergic to silver, but that’s because she thinks it looks tacky against her skin.