Lauren Roy - Night Owls

What’s good for the goose, as they say.

Val held her hands out in front of her. This was the part she hated, the reason she suspected she’d never go for the whole bat-form thing even if she could . Bones cracked as she willed her hands into claws. They grew gnarled and twisted, the fingers becoming hooked and knobby, the nails lengthening, thickening, sharpening. She bit down on her lip to bear the pain of it, which was a mistake. Her fangs unsheathed and stabbed down, slicing into the tender skin of her lower lip.

The wounds sealed as soon as she opened her mouth to pull the fangs free, but it still hurt like hell. At least the surprise of it had distracted her from the last seconds of transformation as the fine bones in her hands finished adjusting themselves.

Of course, there was one last problem.

She hadn’t been invited in.

If she entered without a come-on-in, she wouldn’t be repelled; no unseen force would throw her back to the ground. Nor would entering unasked mean agony with every step she took. But her abilities would be weaker, the reserves she could call on nearly nonexistent. Ten years since she’d faced a Jackal. Long enough since she’d even needed her claws that she made the fledgling mistake of tearing her lips. Val needed that invite. Fast.

There hadn’t been any screams yet, which meant the Jackal inside was either being extremely cautious or savoring its next meal. Val fumbled her cell phone from her jacket pocket, cursing the clumsiness of her freshly warped hands and thanking the gods for voice dial at the same time. She only hoped the fangs didn’t garble the preprogrammed names.

“Call Justin.” The call went through with no trouble, and somewhere deep in Bryant Hall, a cell phone rang.

He picked up on the third ring, his voice muzzy with sleep. “’Lo?”

I knew there was a reason I hired him. “Justin, it’s Val. Can I come in?”

“Time izzit?”

“Just say yes, Justin. Can I come in?”

“Uh. Yeah, ’kay.”

“Good. You’re dreaming. Hang up and go back to sleep.” She put a bit of Command into her voice. It didn’t always work through phone lines, but it helped if the person was inclined to do whatever you were asking them to, anyway. Justin already trusted her, which made him more susceptible.

The call ended and she shoved down a pang of guilt. She’d feel bad about manipulating him tomorrow, when the Jackal was gone and a freshman remained uneaten. She snapped the phone shut and shoved it back in her pocket.

Then she began to climb.

VAL TUMBLED THROUGH the window onto the cold, hard bathroom tiles. Whether the window had been opened to let out smoke, steam, or stink, she didn’t know and didn’t much care—laid over all of it was the gag-inducing psychic stench of the Jackal. Now that her fangs were out, the reek was even stronger. She stalked down the length of the bathroom, past shower stalls and urinals. If luck had been with her, the Jackal would’ve been lurking in here, waiting for a victim to stumble in for a late-night piss.

Luck seemed to be taking the night off.

She cracked the door inch by inch, sniffing as the darkened hallway was revealed. She stuck her head out and peered in both directions. No light spilled from beneath any of the doors. This floor’s inhabitants were all asleep. Good for her and the Jackal, bad for its prey.

The scent was sharper out here in the hall, as though it had paused awhile before moving on to find a victim. It likely had; human scents tended to muddle together for Val until she was up close, but in that regard Jackals’ noses were far more refined. It had probably stood in this same spot, taking in the residents’ scents the way a mall-goer might look at the options in the food court before deciding what was for lunch.

In this case, lunch— or breakfast, Val supposed—was off to the right. She followed, pressing herself as close to the wall as she could. Bryant Hall was one of the oldest buildings on campus, built in the early nineteen hundreds. The floors were hardwood, prone to creaking if you tromped down the middle of the hallway. The boards were tighter at the edges, quieter. Val was good at moving silently, but she wasn’t taking any chances. As it was, she had to hope the Jackal was too involved in its prey to have caught a whiff of its own predator.

One door down, two doors, three. Here. The trail led to a door with a whiteboard hanging from a nail. Jarrod’s Room: Beware of shark!!! it read, with a picture of a shark about to devour a stick-man to illustrate the point. Someone had drawn a T-Rex eating the shark, and captioned it, “FLEE, PUNY HUMAN!”

The knob turned easily. Don’t these kids ever listen to the “keep your doors locked” speeches they get at orientation? At the start of every semester, she allowed kids from the student union to hang campus safety posters in the store. That one was always on there, right beneath reminders about the buddy system and sticking to well-lit areas. Maybe Jarrod wasn’t worried about someone stealing his stuff, but leaving his door unlocked had let in something far worse than a thief.

She opened the door just enough to squeeze through. The rotten stink assaulted her as soon as she entered, making her skin crawl and her gorge rise. Meat gone bad and old, dead blood. Midden, filth, and milk turned sour. A feast for vultures and flies and—

The boy. Help the boy.

She shook her head to clear it and crouched down low, creeping off to the left so she could see both the kid and the Jackal. The room was small, maybe ten by twelve. Jarrod had pushed his bed beneath the window against the far wall.

The boy was kneeling up in bed, clad in a pair of cutoff sweatpants. His skin was pale, nearly paper white, and he was so scrawny his ribs stood out in the dim light. His open eyes were blank, already under his intruder’s spell. The Jackal stood over him, a thin figure in a long grey coat. A hood rose up from beneath the coat to cover its head—most of them wore hats or hoods to hide their faces. Val peered at it; it seemed small for its kind.

The thing tilted its head back, taking a long, deep, ecstatic sniff. The hood fell back as it did. Val caught a glimpse of the thin, pointed muzzle, the mouth open slightly to drink in more of Jarrod’s scent. A cascade of greasy black hair, freed from the confines of the hood, tumbled down the Jackal’s back. The tips of two long ears poked up from the tangle.

It’s a woman. As the revelation slammed home, Val’s prey went rigid. And she’s realized she’s not alone. Val sprang forward as the Jackal started its turn. She meant to get an arm around it, catch it around the throat, but the damned thing was fast. It sidestepped. All Val got was a handful of air.

She caught herself on the desk, her claws gouging the pine surface. She felt a whoosh of air and jerked to the left. Something heavy and hard-cornered flashed past her face and smashed into the desk, sending splinters flying. When Val looked up, she saw the Jackal holding a trophy by its gold-painted plastic man, the corner of its marble base lodged in the wood.

Before it could yank its weapon back for another strike, Val’s hand snaked out and grabbed it by the wrist. She dug her claws in, piercing through layers of trench coat and sweatshirt, into its skin. The Jackal hissed its pain as warm blood leaked over Val’s fingers. It pressed itself against her, its other arm coming up to scrabble at her throat.

Damn it, that was my move. Val let it get a grip. She even let out a few convincing gags. The crushing of her windpipe hurt like hell, but the Jackal had either forgotten something very important or had never fought a vampire before: Val didn’t actually need to breathe. She bent her knees and let her free hand get purchase on the edge of the desk, keeping the claws on the other hand in the Jackal’s wrist. Then she launched herself backward, like a swimmer pushing off from the edge of a pool.