Revenologists are a failing breed. They are not allowed into any of the cliques or circles of demonologists or folkologists. They aren’t even allowed into each other’s cliques, because they don’t trust each other. But they can do one thing quite well—argue with each other.
They argue about whether or not werewolves are actually undead, because if they were undead they would probably be able to float and be vulnerable to crosses and things like that. However, they are only vulnerable to one very common thing—fire. This casts doubt on the thought that they are undead.
Most revenologists agree to some point that they are only partially undead. They are still alive in a sense, but only half of the time—when the moon isn’t full. The rest of the time they are mostly alive.
Now Carlo’s strength was waning. His ears were beginning an ever-quickening journey down his head, to their rightful places on either side of his skull. His eyes were moving from the side of his head to the middle once more, and his paws were becoming smaller and skinnier.
His snout was making the biggest, fastest change—into a nose. What Carlo hated the most about being a human was the fact that he had such a small nose. He often forgot it was there, he could only see it out of the corner of his eye, and he always had to keep looking at it to make sure it hadn’t escaped.
This time was also always when the dissension was worst in the pack. Their half-human, half-wolf minds weren’t sure what they were supposed to be saying. Carlo kept feeling that he should sniff Cecelia’s rear and then remembering he wasn’t supposed to.
It was the night after their retreat from the Order that Fang stood up and growled.
“You’ve lost it, Carl,” Fang said simply. “You’re not the wolf you used to be.”
Carlo leapt up. “That’s cub-talk, Fang! Shut up or get outta here.”
Fang did neither. “The rest of the pack knows it, Carl. Havin’ to use elevators because of your old body, and running from puny mans! You haven’t got what it takes to lead this pack anymore.”
Carlo growled deep in his throat and deep in his heart.
A new voice interrupted. “Uh, excuse me?”
Everyone turned. The pack did not consist of all werewolves. There were several zoanthropes; three werecats, two wereskunks (the smelliest of the undead) and one wereferret.
It was the wereferret that was raising his forepaw. His name was Des. He looked strange at this part in the cycle, because he was twice the size of a ferret but still half the size of a human. There was short, blonde fur all over his body, but his eyes were in front of his head and his snout was exceedingly small.
“I believe that this pack should choose who they want, you know, for their leader. I mean, we’re not savages, heh, after all.” Des looked around. “Right?”
Fang nodded. “That’s right. So who’s with me?”
Most of the younger werewolves howled. Fang was a popular lycanthrope, simply because he was a complete b*****d. Werewolves value different things in their breed than humans do.
“Who’s for me?” Carlo whispered.
The wereferret, wereskunks and two of the werecats raised their hands, along with three of the older werewolves. Carlo was outnumbered, and not only in number—all the smaller and older ones were on his side. However, one vote could make it a tie.
All the pack turned to Carp. Carp hadn’t spoken or moved, and if he voted for Carlo it would be a tie. He looked at his father, then at Fang. He stood up and patted Carlo on the back.
“Dad’s been a good leader all of my life. I think we should stay with him.”
Carlo clasped his son in a supernaturally strong embrace.
Fang growled. “He’s the leader’s son, his vote doesn’t count.”
“Who says?” Carlo clenched his teeth.
“I do. And I have half the pack at my back. I say you and your son can go, and anyone else who wants to be Fang’s enemy can go with ‘em.”
Carlo’s head stayed high. Turning about, straight and tall, he strode out of the clearing, Carp following.
“Well,” Des sat up. “I don’t know about anyone else, but Carlo always stood up for me. He didn’t mind that I was little, he knew I was as ferocious as any of you. So I’m going with him.”
“Me too!” The wereskunks chorused. The werecats nodded and followed after them.
“Yeah, get out of here!” Fang shouted after them. “We don’t need the likes of you zoanthropes. Werewolves are the purest form of night creatures! Right boys? C’mon, let’s howl out our superiority!”
A howl rent the night.
Then a bomb dropped. Fang and his pack were killed nearly instantly by the flaming explosion.
#
“Good thing they howled at that point,” Jacqueline said. “Or I don’t think we would have spotted them.”
Her walkie-talkie buzzed with Upton’s voice. “Good job. Let’s get back to the coven now.”
#
Cy sat in the train station, watching the people pass. Though he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t even blink, his mind was racing like a comet in space.
“Hey, mom! Let’s get a picture with this handsome statue.”
A teenage girl sat down next to Cy and leaned on his arm. Cy wanted to smile, but he didn’t move. The mother, smiling, snapped several pictures.
Then Cy’s cell phone rang.
The girl frowned, looking at his pocket.
“Ah, that’s mine,” Cy grinned and moved for the first time, reaching into his pocket.
The girl blinked.
The mother got over her surprise and laughed nervously. “Wow, that’s a great trick, mister. All right, hon, come on. We’ve got a lot to see today.”
The girl leapt up and trotted after her mother, looking back at Cy like she still didn’t believe it.
Cy opened his phone. “Hello?”
“Cy.”
“Ah. Night,” Cy took a deep breath. “I thought you might be calling soon.”
There was a chuckle. “Well? Is Kilian with you?”
“No, and I don’t think you wanted him to be.”
Silence. Cy crossed his fingers.
Then the voice laughed. “Ah, you’re smarter than I thought, Cy, much smarter.”
“So it was just a test?”
“Yes. And you passed.”
Cy grinned, letting out an exclamation of relief. “But why? Why the test?”
“With supernatural beings, Cy, the question is not ‘why’ but ‘why not?’I wanted to know that you are a good man, not just a good father.”
“I see.”
“But do you understand?”
“No.”
“That’s alright. You shouldn’t, really.”
Cy rubbed the bench in excitement. “So are you going to help me get Zeph back?”
“Yes.”
Cy didn’t say anything. Night didn’t answer him. For several seconds, Cy simply breathed into the phone.
“Well?” he asked.
“How would you like the newest upgrade, Cy?”
Cy frowned. “Huh?”
“As the Sister of all vampires, I’m in charge of upgrades in the…software, you might say. How would you like to test out the newest installment?”
“Well…I’d love to. Can it save Zeph for me?”
“No. Saving Zeph is something you will do on your own, Cy. But it can help.”
“Alright. I’m game. What is it?”
“Do you see that gumball machine over in the corner?”
Cy looked. There was a twenty-five cent twisting gumball dispenser in the corner, sporting its wares through a glass sphere.
“Yeah.”
“Go buy one.”
“Okay.” Cy stood up and strode over to the machine. He pulled out his wallet, produced a quarter, and put it through the slot. Feeling like a kid again—and hoping no one was watching him—he twisted the knob.
A red gumball dropped out into Cy’s hand. He raised it to his mouth and chewed. A man was looking at him, raising an eyebrow.
“Gotta support the airport,” Cy said around a mouthful of bad gum.
He swallowed it after several loud chews and put the phone back to his ear.
“Well?”
“Did you swallow it?” came the voice.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, that’s bad. That’s really bad.”
“What? You didn’t tell me!”
“I hope you’re alright with having a third eye and a nose on your back…”
“Gah!” Cy shouted into the phone. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I’m kidding, Cy,” the voice reassured him. “I thought you had a good sense of humor.”
“Oh my God, that wasn’t funny,” Cy growled. “I’m high-strung right now, I really want my son back.”
“Alright. This’ll help you.”
“Okay.” Cy nodded. He waited several moments. “How?”
“Well…just walk through that wall and find out.”
“What?”
#
Mara stopped and rolled her eyes. She heard the all-too-familiar footsteps behind her at the crosswalk. And two blocks from home, too! Her eyes scanned the typical roadside brush, thinking of what to do. Finally, when the footsteps were only ten feet behind her, she turned around.
Hmmm. Only three. Well, that’s less to be witnesses.
“Look, guys,” Mara put her hands on her hips. “Trust me—it’ll be better for you if you just get out of here. ‘K?”
The lead one, a raggedy piece of trash, grinned.
“Oh, yeah? And what makes you think you’re so invulnerable, lady?”
Mara almost said, ‘the fact that I can break your neck with a simple slap, that’s what.’
“I don’t want to hurt you guys,” is what she really said, “Just go home to your families or gutters or whatever, and I’ll forget all about it.”
“Lady, you don’t know how poor we are, seriously you don’t,” he growled back. “The gutter? We’d have to get a reservation for the gutter. We’d consider ourselves to be gettin’ up there if we lived in the gutter.”
“Aw, the ladies gettin’ tough on us, ehehehe?” the biggest one sniggered. “C’mon, guys, lets’ get her bucks and get out o’ here.”
Mara sighed. “My God…alright, just let me limber up really quick first, alright?”
The trashy one frowned at his big companion.
Mara put down her purse and stretched her left arm—then her right. Then she put her leg up on the stoplight pillar and stretched her legs. Whistling, she then bent the stoplight down until it was nearly touching the street. Then she bent it back into place.
She took out some lipstick and applied it to her lips.
“Alright,” she smiled sweetly. “All of you, or one at a time?”
Only the leader was still standing there. The rest had fled. He was staring at the stoplight. “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”
“Oh! Just one moment—my phone.” She reached into her jacket pocket and drew out her cell. “Hello?”
“Hey hon, this is Cy. Meet me at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan. Philo will be there, too.”
“Great, honey. Love you.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
She closed the phone, knocked out the guy who was sneaking up on her, and flew up into the night sky.
#
Cy wasn’t aware of Mara’s presence until she sat down next to him. He had been absorbed in his Blackberry, not paying any attention to the restaurant around him—and, in turn, the restaurant was not absorbed with him, being in the middle of its dinner hour.
“Hi, honey,” Cy kissed her on the cheek.
Mara smiled, sat down, and took up a businesslike air. “Cy, what happened with Night?”
“I’ll tell you when Philo gets here. Have you seen the news lately?”
Mara shook her head. “No. What are they about?”
“Well, the Mayor’s opening up this Dracula Museum in honor of the one hundred and sixtieth anniversary of Bram Stoker’s birth.”
“Really? Where?”
“Right here, near the American Museum of Natural History.”
Mara appeared only mildly interested, a feeling that Cy could understand because of her curiosity as to his endeavors.
“Maybe we should plan a field trip there,” Cy grinned, artfully hiding his sharp teeth.
Mara smiled. “I think Zeph’s a little too old for that, hon. If…”
Cy looked at the ground. “If we ever get him back?”
“Well—“
“Look, Mara—you’re not going to talk me into telling you what happened, but I will say that Night has helped me a lot.”
The waiter came. “Now that your wife is here, sir, would you like to order?”
“Uh, yeah,” Cy smiled. “Just get me a decaf coffee.”
The sparkling-white waiter nodded. “And for the lady?”
“Same, thank you.” Mara smiled without looking at him, her mind absent.
The waiter strode off.
“What kind of help has she given you?” Mara pressed.
Cy growled, but smiled a bit. “I’ll tell you when Philo gets here.”
Mara squared her shoulders, as if preparing for a fight. “I want to know now. Just tell me—you know I’ll get it out of you soon enough.”
Cy snorted. “Fine.”
He got up and pushed his chair back. Not looking back at her curious face, Cy threaded his way past the chairs and tables of the restaurant. Finally he came to the back wall. He looked back and grinned at her.
Then he walked through the wall, into the kitchen.
“Could you make that a mocha, please?” Cy asked the assistant cook.
#
The Coffinmaker sat back in his chair. He grinned at Eldred, Madge and Edelbirt who stood beside him.
“See this, my undead? This is progress.”
Eldred nodded.
Around them was the newest room in the coven headquarters—the security room. Four screens on each wall showed a view from one of sixteen cameras stationed outside the subway tunnel, above them in the street, and in the HQ itself.
The door opened and Amelia strode in with Forgone and two other vampires.
Amelia dropped a gun onto the Coffinmaker’s desk. “We got the whole shipment of these, just like you asked.”
The Coffinmaker took the Glock fully-automatic pistol in his hand. His grin grew wider.
“Perfect, Miss Earhart. Make sure all of the coven is armed with two of these each. We will be properly prepared if the Stakers try to attack once more.”
“What about shoulder stocks?” Forgone was the expert on guns—that had been a past hobby of his. “These things can kill your arm, since they’re fully automatic.”
“Forgone,” the Coffinmaker grinned with a dismissal of his hand, “we are vampires. We can’t be killed, so how could our arms be killed?”
Forgone blinked. “Good reasoning, I suppose.”
“Of course. Now go and take these to the other coveners.”
The intruders strode out.
Eldred stepped forward, his eyes still lingering on one of the security screens. “Coffinmaker—why are we keeping that Zeph kid? Why don’t we just stake him and get it over with?”
The Coffinmaker stretched his legs, putting them on the desk before him. “That would be like throwing away an atom bomb, Eldred. He can be our weapon, if we need him to be. Once his family is out of the way, I intend to turn him to our side.”
“How? He’s not readily going to get chummy with the people who killed his parents,” Eldred huffed.
“Some people say that full-blood vampyrs don’t have a heart. I don’t know how true this is, but whatever else Zeph may be he is undead. Undead were not meant to love. He will find it easy to forget he ever had parents. Besides, I have a hook.”
“A hook?”
“A hook. Bait. A carrot. Jacqueline.” The Coffinmaker showed his scimitar teeth.
“Well—how are we going to kill his parents, first?”
“Oh, they’ll be coming here any time between tomorrow and—“ the Coffinmaker glanced at his pocket watch, “—two minutes.”
“What?” Eldred glanced at the screens.
“Don’t worry, Eldred. I have prepared. Thomas, Fabio, Upton and Jacqueline are all at the entrance—hidden, of course. Once you and your siblings leave here you too will go to the entrance and wait.”
The Coffinmaker handed him the Glock. “Take this.”
Then someone knocked on the metal door. The Coffinmaker glanced at Eldred. Eldred shrugged.
Forgone opened the door. In strode a pale, slight figure of a man in a suit. To say he was dressed ‘sharp’ would be an understatement—his shoes were on the point of shooting up sparks as they touched the concrete floor. He wore a fine brimmed hat and a self-confident smile.
“Who are you?” The Coffinmaker frowned.
“Malt Whitcomb, sir,” the vampire dropped a card onto the Coffinmaker’s desk. “Purveyor of fine personal usables.”
“Usables?”
“Things you use.”
The Coffinmaker stared in disbelief. “You’re an undead salesman?”
“Purveyor of fine personal usables is how I like to put it. Now, I’ll skip the sales pitch and get right into the meat.” The vampire hefted a suitcase.
The Coffinmaker’s protest was shot down by Malt’s speedy words.
“Do you find that your asthma follows you into the afterlife?”
“You said you’d skip the sales pitch.”
“—Fear no more! New DuraBreath Inhaler will do just the job! Just take a breath every few hours and your breathing will be regular and fine. This perfect breathing medication works on vampires, werewolves, and zombies! Easy-to-follow instructions come with the product. Just dial (troll free) 1-800-UNPRODUCTS. Another great Unproducts® Product!”
The Coffinmaker stood up. “Alright,” he snarled, “I don’t think any of us need any inhalers, Mr. Whitcomb. Please leave.”
Malt grinned and nudged the Coffinmaker. “A hard customer, eh? Here’s something especially you will like. Ever feel that metallic taste stays in your mouth after a good kill? Fear no more! Our new BloodSplotch Mouthwash will—“
“Shut up and get out!” The Coffinmaker grabbed at Malt’s neck.
Malt retreated, spewing out referrals, testimonials and phone numbers, to get as much information as he could in before Forgone closed the door on him.
“Some vampires are shameful!” the Coffinmaker fumed.
“Well, Coffinmaker,” Eldred folded his arms. “We can use all the recruits we can get.”
“What? Him? He’d be trying to sell bandages to the ones with stake wounds!”
“Ah. Whatever you say.”
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