Rob Thurman - Moonshine

Moving toward the closed door, I elbowed him in the ribs. "Put it down," I hissed.

He gave a pained grimace but put it down with the same utmost care and pried reluctant fingers from its neck. "Do you know what that's worth?" he whispered wistfully.

"Not George's life," I answered with rigid control. I started to put my hand on the doorknob, then hesitated. Looking up, I considered the cheap tile ceiling and said slowly, "You think?"

Goodfellow followed my gaze. "I do." He grinned. "I do so think."

Alone I walked out into the tiny hall that was off the storage room. The floor was brown industrial carpet, the walls a dingy cream. Floating in the midst of the stale lanolin-colored paint was a single pristine handprint. Dark red, it hung about the height of my shoulder. Fresh enough that I could see its still-liquid shimmer, it was a grim halt signal frozen in time.

It was too large; I knew it. That didn't stop me from putting my hand beside it in measurement. It was the same size as mine, not small or delicate like George's. My fingers pressed against the plaster, then fell away. No matter what the size, the blood could belong to anyone. It didn't have to belong to the finger painter who had left it.

I moved on, leaving the lonely print behind. The carpet, stained beyond repair, kept my solitary footfalls silent. The hilt of the knife was fast in my hand with the blade lying flat against the underpart of my forearm. Appearing unarmed, if only for a moment, could lead attackers into believing you were vulnerable. It made them arrogant, and it made them careless. Arrogant I could do without, but careless I liked.

As I slid up to another door off the hallway, I got my wish. My first opponent was careless, left himself wide open, and either didn't notice or didn't care that I had a knife. Despite all that, he put his all into taking me down. And I let him; I didn't have much choice. The door was pushed open and something flashed through. Immediately following, searing pain tore though my calf and I fell on my hip. As I landed, I flipped the knife in my hand and sent it flying downward in one swift, continuous movement. I only managed to stop by millimeters the point from impaling the furry head. Feeling the cold steel ruffle across the top of his head didn't faze Slay in the slightest. He continued to gnaw at my leg was if it were the choicest of soupbones.

He wasn't white like his father, but a shade of apricots and cream, with large liquid eyes that were rich as chocolate and twice as sugary sweet. That is, they were until you noticed your blood on his muzzle and the tatters of your pants tangled in needle-sharp baby fangs. Hands down, he was the cutest little flesh eater I'd seen, but I still needed my leg. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, I tried to pry him off. It didn't work. He snapped again, and more nerve endings howled in pain. Swearing, I shook my leg hard and pulled harder. The small fangs sliced flesh as they went, but I finally managed to get him off. He snarled in pure disappointment and twisted in my grip. He weighed only forty or so pounds, but he was as slippery as a weasel and I nearly dropped him from my one-handed grip. Tucking the barrel of his body under my arm, I held him as still as possible and whispered firmly, "Hold still, you little fur ball. Your father sent me. He's here. Flay's here."

From the flying foam and outraged growls, I was guessing he didn't buy that. His paws paddled frantically and he kept snapping at air. His mother must have been of classic breeding; he was all wolf. If and when he wanted, he would be all human as well. Too bad that wasn't now; it would make it easier to haul his homicidal little butt along.

Around his neck was a braided rope fastened with a metal clamp. The straggling end had been chewed through. As thick as it was, it must've taken the pup a while. Baby fangs were better for shredding legs than well-made rope. I took a quick look in the room where he'd been imprisoned. There was a bowl of water, scattered newspapers, and empty cans of dog food piled in a corner. Dog food. Jesus. There was also the reek of old urine and shit, but the room was fairly clean. It didn't make it any better. He was a kid, no matter how he looked. He'd been there a while and treated like an unlucky street mutt, given the minimum of care to keep him healthy. Caleb had to keep him that way if he wanted to continue to manipulate his father. However, I imagined, once Flay was no longer in the picture, his son wouldn't be long behind him. Poor damn kid.

That poor damn kid managed to whip his head around and snare my shirt. With a jerk of his muzzle, he tore a grapefruit-sized piece free and promptly ate it. While his jaws were occupied, I seized the opportunity to switch him under my other arm to keep my knife hand unencumbered. I gave serious thought to ripping a strip of shirt and tying it around his muzzle to keep him quiet. There were only two problems with that plan. First, I'd probably lose an appendage doing it. Second, Flay would take the ones I had left once he saw what I'd done.

I gave it one last shot. "Seriously, kid. Be quiet. Your dad's here and we're going to find him right now, I swear. But if you keep making noise, the bad guy might find us first." "Bad guy" is a relative term, but hopefully to a three-year-old it might still hold some meaning.

It did. The eyes remained wild and wary as ever, but the growls gradually died down. They continued to vibrate his rib cage, but none escaped the teeth that remained fiercely bared. It was the best I could hope for and I took it.

The door at the end of the hall wasn't locked; like the one to Slay's room it didn't even have a lock. Sounded like good news, but it wasn't. Caleb wasn't expending the slightest effort to make things difficult for intruders, and that didn't make me want to jump for joy at what might lie beyond. For a second I considered taking Slay back to his room and tying him back up. Fighting one-handed was hazardous as hell, for both him and me. I hesitated, then shook my head. In the end, he was marginally safer with me than left alone at the mercy of whatever might pass by. Caleb wasn't alone here. Couldn't be. He was too goddamn smart for that.

I retrieved the penlight I'd dropped when taken down by Flay's ankle biter and shut it off before shoving it in my pocket. The darkness was nearly complete as I shifted my knife over to my right hand. There was only the dimmest of gray illumination seeping from beneath the door. Turning the knob with the heel of my hand, I set my shoulder against the wood and nudged lightly. There was the creak of rusty hinges, but it was faint and couldn't be heard more than a few feet. The air was heavy with the same smells I'd noted when I entered the building—alcohol, the olfactory remnants of those who had drunk it, and apparently something else. There was an eager snuffling at my hip as Slay pulled air into his nose and then, before I could guess it was coming, a ringing howl that split the air like a siren.

I didn't speak wolf, but I didn't have to. I knew a scream for Daddy when I heard it. I also recognized the vanishing element of surprise. At least, thanks to the pup, I knew that one of us was definitely inside.

Flay's return howl wasn't necessary. I got it anyway. Wolves. Ruled by emotion, unfettered by brain cells.

"Goddamnit," I muttered as I automatically dodged to one side and sought cover. It kept the machete from taking off a good chunk of my skull. The metal thudded into the frame of the door and a bubbling hiss of disappointment followed. Sloppy. I instantly homed in on the sound and slashed. The light was still all but nonexistent, but my eyes were adjusting. As the jolt of blade impacting meat traveled up my arm, I saw the vaguest outline of my attacker. Curved lines, flesh that was cold and clammy, blood that smelled of rank river water—it was a vodyanoi. I'd seen one only once before. They rarely left the water, although they were happy enough to eat anyone who might be unlucky enough to fall in. Picture a humanoid leech the size of a man. They were as quick as sharks in the water, but on land they were slower, hence the machete. If I had to choose, I'd rather be chopped to bite-sized pieces than have my internal organs liquefied and sucked out. Personal preferences, there's no accounting for them.