TEN

Damon stopped short. It was Allie. The missing girl. She was standing in the street ahead of him, clear as day. They stood facing one another, a mere half block between them, when she turned abruptly and ran back the way she came.

What the—

Damon immediately pursued with a short burst of speed easily twice that of a normal human. He closed the distance in a matter of seconds and rounded the corner—

The street was empty.

Deserted. Except for a few parked vehicles: three cars and a white panel van, the type often used for deliveries; empty shells this time of night. A lone car made its way up the street at a faster than necessary pace, stirring up fallen leaves as it raced along.

As it passed, Allie was once more in view. She was standing on the opposite side of the street, in the shadow of the delivery van and staring at him once more.

“Allie,” he called out to her.

She turned on her heels and ran, slipping into the first dark alley she encountered.

Bloody hell. Once more Damon pursued, passing the van and then reaching the mouth of the alley. It was darker here within the shadow of the buildings. Even still, it took only a moment to determine that, like the street before it, the alley too was deserted. There was a set of dumpsters and some accumulated garbage about half-way down it’s length. Plastic trash bags, old delivery skids, and a stack of cardboard boxes were piled alongside the dumpsters, awaiting pick up.

Damon looked to the fire escape above to see if perhaps she had somehow made her way up there, but it too was deserted. A pair of steel doors sat closed near the back of the alley, where it finally ended in a brick wall. A dead end.

Damon headed carefully up the alley; the only exit was the metal doors at its end. Along the way he did a quick scan amongst the debris, when she once more appeared. She was dressed in blue-jeans, sneakers and a sweatshirt, her long hair hanging free, her face ghostly pale. For the briefest of moments, Damon thought that she had indeed passed over—was a specter of her former self, trapped between this world and the next. Then she hit him.

***

At the park, Nick was getting ready to strip down. He had even gone so far as to pull his shirt up over his back, when a prickling feeling crept up his spine. He was being watched.

He froze, letting his shirt fall back down over his midsection. Slowly, he turned. At the edge of the park, he thought he saw a figure hiding in the shadows of a large maple tree.

A gentle breeze picked up, swirling the fallen leaves and rattling the chains on the swings behind him. It blew through the treetops, disturbing the more stubborn leaves that still clung to their branches, refusing to concede that summer was over. The swaying branches played tricks with the light, casting the figure in and out of shadow. One moment the figure was there, the next it was gone.

Nick closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, yet there was no new scent on the wind. It was impossible. He should be able to smell him. Opening his eyes, he looked to the spot where the figure had been, when from the corner of his eye he caught movement from an entirely different direction. While his eyes had been momentarily closed, the figure had moved. It was now much closer, standing by the jungle gym, staring at him. How had it moved so quickly? And without a hint of sound?

As he watched, the figure began walking towards him. When it had crossed half the distance, Nick realized his mistake.

Turning quickly, he headed towards the street, head down, walking fast. When he hit the sidewalk, he glanced back over his shoulder to see if it had followed.

It was now standing on the hill, staring after him. Shit.

“Hey! Hey, you!” It called after him.

Nick shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, as he started up the street, pretending not to hear. Perhaps if he ignored it for long enough it would give up its pursuit. He rounded the corner hoping to return to the Pitt, but the figure was now in front of him, standing directly in his path.

“Hey. You can see me, no? Hear me?”

He was a young man, mid twenties at best with dark closely cropped hair.

Refusing to make eye-contact, Nick took a quick breath and held it, as he pushed right through him. He felt a chill, cold as the first frost of fall; an immense longing for rolling green hills, where the air had never seen the evils of a combustion engine and Nick found himself strangely trying to remember his mother’s face.

Nick’s pass-through seemed to stun him, or perhaps was just enough to confuse him as Nick was a full block away before he was approached again. Instead of speaking to him directly, he appeared to the side of his path, watching him closely as he approached, perhaps looking for an indication that Nick was aware of him.

Nick couldn’t return to the Pitt. It was too focused on him and he didn’t want it following him home. So instead, at the next major intersection, he made a sharp right with an entirely different destination in mind.

***

Damon took a step back in surprise. Allie had just clocked him one hard enough to turn his head, and she wasn’t finished yet. She came at him, a whirlwind of fists and feet, moving with a speed and skill he would never have attributed her with.

“Allie, stop!” He reached for her swinging fists. He caught hold of her arm, only to have her twist and roll her torso, throwing him off balance and over her shoulder in the process. Landing on his ass, he looked up to see that she was grinning at him mischievously, beckoning him to get up. Damon paused a moment, to wipe a trickle of blood from the corner of his lip, before springing to his feet. He didn’t know what had gotten into her—why she was coming after him so—but if she wanted a fight, he supposed he would have to bring it. Perhaps it was the only way to get through to her.

“Listen Allie, I’m not here to hurt you.” He said reaching for her again. She blocked his arm with her left one, striking him again, this time square in the face with her right. It knocked his head straight back, forcing Damon to blink tears and pause a moment to assess his injured nose. It seemed he had her answer.

“Fine. We’ll do it your way!”

He took a swing at her, only to have her once more vanish from view. At the same moment he was struck from behind. He turned only to have her disappear again, as a blow to the base of his skull almost brought him to his knees. Damon staggered forward, attempting to catch his balance when she appeared once more; grabbing his head by the hair, she slammed his head down against her raised knee.

Damon stumbled to the ground, his back to the wall. When he next looked up, there was not one Allie standing and grinning at him, but two.

“Get up,” one of the Allie’s demanded. “C’mon, on your feet, vermin.”

Magic.

He detested magic.

He staggered to his feet; hands raised apprehensively in front of him.

“Now, Faith.” The second Allie cried out, as a third version appeared between them. This Allie was at least a half-head shorter than the first two and came wielding Latin.

“Corpus ligáveris,” she exclaimed, her voice sounding nervous.

Immediately Damon’s back became ramrod straight as every muscle in his body went rigid. His arms seized violently to his sides. His legs snapped together in similar fashion. He was now frozen in place like a pillar, unable to move.

“Bloody H—”

“Sigillo oris,”

Damon felt his lips bind shut.

She stepped closer to him then, and as he watched, she raised a hand to wipe her features away. “Ostendo,” she whispered as her face blurred and changed; her nose shortening, lips thinning, eyes changing from brown to blue as Allie’s long hair receded to her shoulders, turning from chestnut to blond in the process.

Damon glared at the small blond. She seemed vaguely familiar.

“Where’s Allie?” She hissed at him.

Damon’s mouth was sealed, so he rolled his eyes instead. Why did everyone think he had something to do with Allison’s disappearance? At least he could now place the blond. She had been the one to drag Allie away that night at the Pitt.

“Nice work, Faith.” One of the girls praised her, as the other headed out to the street.

Damon tested the binds placed on him. He attempted to move, but his body refused to obey. His muscles and tendons ached; seized up like a rusted tin man. His jaw was painfully tight, as if wired shut. His eyes it seemed, were the only part of him still able to move.

At the mouth of the alley, a white van appeared. Allie number one soon climbed out from the driver’s side and made her way to the back. She momentarily disappeared from his view as she opened the back door, only to reappear once more, wheeling a metal dolly along with her.

“A little help,” she called out. It made Allie number two run to her aid, while Faith remained by Damon to resume her glaring at him.

He would have told her that she had it all wrong, had she been in a talking sort of mood. Instead, he sighed disapprovingly at her as he glared back.

One Allie brought the dolly, the other a heavy canvas bag, the type you’d find at an army surplus store. From the bag they produced zip ties and duct tape, and with a bit of both, proceeded to secure him to the metal cart. When they finished, they stood back to admire their work.

“That went better than expected,” one of the Allie’s said. She sounded relieved.

“It was a sound plan.” Said the other Allie, matter-of-factly.

“Now what?” Faith asked.

“Now it’s lights out for him.” Allie number one reached back into the bag to come out with what looked like an old grain sack. She drew it quickly down over his head.

Damon sneezed. It was dank and musty and smelled of mouldy potatoes. Not only did it serve to blind him, it also did a fine job of eliminating his remaining senses. He could now smell nothing more than the overwhelming interior of the bag and it had reduced his hearing to nothing more than muffled sounds.

He felt himself being tipped back; a helpless feeling of falling and being unable to catch oneself, before he was moved bumpily and unevenly towards what he assumed was the direction of the van. There was a slight pause, before he was hoisted clumsily into the back of the vehicle. Shortly, he heard the doors slam shut. More doors opened and closed and there was a moment of muffled voices, before the engine started and the van pulled away.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

***

If the Pitt was considered home, then McGuire’s was his home away from home. For Nick at least, it came in at a close second. The little pub always brought a smile to his face, with its slightly older crowd, relaxed atmosphere and nice assortment of ales on tap. The food was better than good, and the music was often live; as it sported a small stage at one end of the room where local bands would play, and a karaoke night every Wednesday.

It was also not uncommon to find a fellow wolf there. Penn herself often dropped by for a drink and had even been known to bring clients. If the establishment had been more welcoming of the other members of his family, he would have undoubtably spent much more of his time here. As it was, McGuire’s pub was one of the few places where his tab wasn’t set up under Damon’s name.

Tonight, the place was hopping, with a live band playing and a crowd of people enthusiastically dancing along. Nick crossed to the bar, taking a stool near the corner where he could sit and take in the festivities. He ordered a pint of something called Smuggler’s Moon, a locally crafted beer from a small brewery in the distillery district and took a sip. It was a pale ale, tasted not bad; it was light with a slightly citrussy finish. It was perhaps not his usual cup of tea as he preferred beer that tasted more like beer and less like fruit, but it gave him something to work at as he scanned the crowd for his stalker friend.

If he had thought the noise and crowd of people would have dissuaded his pursuer, he was certainly mistaken. He spotted him easily enough as he surveyed the room; a lone figure standing still amongst a sea of dancing ones. As before, he was staring directly at Nick.

Nick continued his slow survey of the room, taking another sip of his drink as he did. At least with the crowd he could now keep an eye on his follower without watching him directly. It would be enough to have him within his peripheral vision, he thought.

At the end of the bar, only a couple of seats down from him, an Irish looking lass with a pale complexion and strawberry-blonde hair, had taken note of him, smiling shyly when he glanced her way. Nick couldn’t help but to return the smile. He had always been a sucker for a redhead. As a new song began, she turned to speak to the woman beside her, cupping her hand between mouth and ear as she leaned in. The next moment they were headed to the dance floor, and as Nick followed their movements across the bar, it brought him back to his stalker friend.

As Nick watched, he turned and began working his way amongst the crowd, back and forth, forever glancing at Nick as he did. He appeared to be searching for something as he turned once more to face Nick, before purposely stepping into the body of the young man who’d been dancing ahead of him. The man started; a reflex action as his arms jolted into the air. To anyone around him, it appeared as just another dance step, with only Nick being the wiser. As if to make the situation even more apparent, the man in question stopped dancing and immediately turned towards Nick with a bitter expression upon his face.

Shit.

“Strange. I must be seeing things.”

Nick glanced over his shoulder to see a large bear of a man sitting on the stool next to him. He had a thick mane of wavy black hair and a dense unruly beard, both of which were streaked white with the beginning signs of age. He was gazing out across the dancefloor with a look of puzzlement in his bright blue eyes. His gaze soon shifted to Nick.

“Names, Wallace. Graem Wallace. But you friend, can call me Wally.” He said to Nick as he extended a large hand.

Nick turned in his seat and offered his own name as he took up the man’s hand. It was warm and welcoming, and there was a feeling of familiarity as he grasped it.

Back towards the stage, his ghostly friend had decided to take the man for a quick spin across the dancefloor, flailing his arms and jumping around haphazardly as he did. He soon grew tired of the antics, stepping out of this body and into the next, and proceeded as such; hopping from victim to hapless victim, while knocking deliberately into people and causing quite the commotion.

He finally ended his tour of the dancefloor, by hijacking the body of a rather large individual; a burly bald man with a goat-like goatee and several tattoos running the length of each of his well-muscled arms. The man was sitting at a table with some friends near the edge of the dancefloor, when the ghostly figure had flopped down into him as if he had decided to sit in his lap.

Nick watched as the burly man picked up his heavy glass pint and drained it, before slamming it enthusiastically back upon the table.

At that moment Nick’s view became obstructed by the pretty red-haired lass, who having found the courage to approach him, had sauntered up, cheeks flushed, a healthy glow of sweat radiating off her skin.

“Care to dance?” She asked with a smile.

Nick grinned unabashedly and opened his mouth to reply, when a heavy hand dropped down on his shoulder.

“Hey, you,” the owner of the hand said.

As Nick looked up, he felt his nose break.

Nick’s head snapped back, and while he hadn’t seen it coming, he did take stock of a whole mess of other things which all seemed to happen at once. The cute strawberry-blond had gasped as he’d been hit, her face contorted in fright as she stumbled backwards away from the onslaught. The burly man, relentless in his pursuit of Nick, had wound up for another swing, only to have Graem Wallace stand up and deflect the blow by catching it within his own enormous fist. The three gentlemen who had been sitting at the table with the burly man, jumped up as well, coming to the aid of their friend, who had obviously taken offence to something. They came forward, fists at the ready, as a pair of bouncers came running towards them from behind. All of this, Nick witnessed; in the time it took to bring a hand up to his injured face. His fingers came back, covered in blood.

Aw, hell.

“Trouble follows you around like a shadow, don’t it pup?” Wallace stated flatly, as he pushed past him, a fist from the burly man now resting in each of his palms.

Nick dodged another fist hellbent on his face, before finding his feet and quickly countering with a swing of his own. “Go easy on him,” he said to Wallace as he pulled his own punch, delivering instead a glancing blow. “He isn’t exactly in his right mind.”

“Oh?” Graem seemed amused. “Friend of yours?”

“Not entirely.”

Nick was grabbed up by the shirtfront and swung violently around until he and Graem were now opposite one another. He knocked the hands free of him, before ducking another blow.

“Watch your back,” Graem warned, as Nick turned in time to dodge another of the burly man’s friends.

“Chair,” Nick called out, and they both ducked as a chair that’d been pitched directly at them, crashed down against the bar, shattering as it hit.

They found themselves face to face when a strange familiarity once more flooded over Nick. It was like he could sense this man’s intent even before he made his move.

“It was you that night in the woods, wasn’t it?” Nick asked.

Graem Wallace smiled.

“Time to finish this,” he said, and as they stood, they immediately crossed paths to deflect the blow of an oncoming assailant intent on reaching the other. They swung in unison, knuckles connecting with chins, and in the next second, both the on-comers dropped.

When the bouncer grabbed hold of him, Nick didn’t resist. Instead, he threw his hands up as he allowed himself to be escorted out of the bar. He passed the burly man, who was now sitting on the floor; his hands and face a bloody mess, a dazed and bewildered expression upon his face. Standing behind him, was the specter. As he was ushered into the crisp night air, Nick wondered whether his final swing had landed on the specters face as well; or if he had bowed out just in time to circumvent the oncoming blow.

Outside, the bouncers continued to separate them, as Nick and Graem were sent off in one direction; their combatants in another.

Turning on his feet, Nick called out to the bouncer, walking backwards as he continued up the street. “Hey. Put the damages on my tab.” He felt responsible and it was important to him that the owners were reimbursed.

Halfway down the block, Graem roughly took hold of Nick and backed him up against the brick of a nearby building. He grasped Nick by the nose. “Chin up.”

There was a painful crunch; a nasty grinding of bone against bone and a sudden taste of fresh blood, as Graem set his broken nose in place. Nick grunted and felt his eyes water once more.

“Is it following us?” Graem whispered.

From over Graem’s shoulder he could see the specter watching them closely. He brought his hand up deceptively to his face, masking his lips as he wiped the blood away. “You bet.”

Graem’s massive hands clasped him enthusiastically by the shoulders. “You should come to Sidewinder’s with me,” he said loudly. “We’ll have a drink and watch the pretty lasses as they dance for us.”

Nick didn’t know what to say. Sidewinder’s was perhaps the sleeziest joint in town. Damon would have certainly frowned upon it, and so Nick had never been. Instead, he knew of it by way of its seedy reputation. It was a strip-club that offered rooms for rent amongst its upper floors.

Not waiting for his response, Graem continued. “Have you never been? It’s not far from here, really. A brisk walk at best. It’s on the other side of the tracks…”

Nick suddenly understood. “Sounds like a plan.”

They walked at a clipped pace; easily falling in step with one another, and Nick was once more reminded of that feeling of simpatico, a strange oneness that they seemed to share. The man didn’t know him from Adam, yet twice now he had come to his defence. He could follow this wolf, he thought.

***

Every October, Kingsford hosted a pub-crawl. It was a bona fide tourist attraction, that drew in visitors from all over the country. Guides would lead supervised tours through Kingsford’s oldest parts; the core particularly, while sharing with its customers Kingsford’s more unsavory history, as they hopped from bar to pub along the way. It was especially popular in the days leading up to Halloween, where the veil between the living and the dead was said to be at it’s thinnest. Kingsford was known for being one of the most haunted cities in the nation; and as the night grew late and the customers more inebriated, ghosts both real and imagined were often spotted.

For good reason, Sidewinder’s was not included on any of these tours.

Nick sat at a rather inexpensive, square-shaped table, unsure of where to place his hands. The table’s red-topped surface was unwashed, covered in a series of dirty glass-rings, discarded peanut shells and a sticky film which he hoped originated from spilt beer.

Graem appeared forthwith, two large pints of ale in his hands that he placed upon the table between them before dropping down heavily into the chair opposite him.

There was a stage on the far side of the room where skinny, barely legal girls danced bare breasted in their thongs, some crawling seductively like cats across the stage, while others danced their routines with poles. The customers were almost entirely men, and the waitresses were scantily clad dancers, who worked the tables between performances. Most of the customers were gathered at the small tables directly in front of the stage, as they stared at the girls while guzzling cheap beer. Across the room the occasional lap-dance occurred, for the man willing to shell out the extra coin.

While it wasn’t the first time that Nick had visited a strip club, it was the first time that he considered getting a tetanus shot upon leaving. Graem Wallace, however, didn’t seem to mind the unsavory atmosphere, had perhaps seen worse, as he slid a glass tankard of ale across the table towards Nick.

“Thanks.” Nick said, taking a sip. It was cheap beer, but at least it tasted like beer.

Graem was watching him closely as he settled back comfortably into his chair, throwing his heavy boots up onto the empty chair beside him. He took a hearty draught from his own pint before speaking. “Tell me about that shit-show in the woods,” he said finally. “Those cubs turn on you, or what?”

Nick sighed, dropping his eyes as he debated. He hadn’t discussed that part of the night’s events with Damon yet, still felt the sting of embarrassment; of failure. But this man, Graem had witnessed it and as Nick looked up into his gentle blue-eyes, he saw no judgement there.

Nick recounted the story as best he could, while they sat drinking beer. How he had discovered the hapless boys, leading up to their eventual betrayal and coup.

“So, this leth-fhuil, what are you planning to do about him?”

Nick knew the term, it meant half-blood, and in this instance Graem wasn’t using it in a positive light. “What can I do?” Nick shrugged. His glass was now empty. “And for that matter, why would I even want to do anything about it?”

Graem was frowning at him. “You already know what needs to be done, little prince. I can see it in your eyes. But if you need to hear the words, I’ll spell it out for you.” Graem dropped his feet to the ground, as he leaned towards him. “Take back your pack. Do you honestly believe those cubs are better off with him? That leth-fhuil isn’t fit to lead. He knows nothing of our ways. There’s no honor in what he did. If he had wanted to contest your guardianship, he should have done so deservedly. Instead he chose the route of a coward.”

Graem stood, towering over him. “There is one more thing to consider, whether you plan on doing anything about that half-blood or not. The next full moon falls on Samhain, and like it or not, those boys had better be in check, or there’ll be trouble for all of us.”

He turned and departed towards the back of the bar.

Nick was silent. Graem hadn’t said anything that Nick hadn’t already considered; hadn’t let tumble about in his own brain insistently over the last few days. He supposed it was the shame of it all that held him hostage. The failure of having run home to Damon with his tail between his legs and having everyone know it. He could play at shrugging it off for as long as he needed and perhaps even some would believe him. But he would know the truth.

Graem returned this time with a pitcher of beer, and Nick was thankful for the interruption in thought as he poured them drinks. He took his mug happily, taking a long draught of the refreshing ale.

“There is one thing that I am still curious about,” Graem said as he sipped his own drink.

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“Those cubs, the ones who attacked you. Were they fìon-fhuil like you and I?”

Nick shook his head. “Nope. He claimed to have sired them.”

Graem seemed deep in thought. “I assumed as much. They were awful puny for pure bloods. What I don’t understand… is how did they turn without the help of the moon?”

Nick shrugged. “I was actually hoping you might know about that. They took a potion. It looked rather painful—

“This potion. Milky white and glowing like the moon?”

Nick nodded. “You know it?”

“I knew of it. It’s made from the moon-drop flower.”

Nick frowned. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s because the plant doesn’t exist anymore. At least not in this world. The blood-drinkers made sure of that. There was a time when the tiny flower covered the fields of the old world, lighting up the night. It was the Fae who first made us the potion. It enabled the half-bloods to change no matter the phase of the moon. But when the vampires discovered our weakness; that not all our numbers could change at will, they torched the fields, forever destroying the flowers.”

“Then how did this man have it?” Nick asked.

“Now that, is an excellent question,” Graem said.

Nick soon finished his beer and decided to call it a night. Outside, the cool air felt good against his skin. It made him feel alert as he made his way along the street. He had to take an alternate route home; he couldn’t chance, however unlikely, that his specter friend might still be waiting for him.

They had lost him on the way to the strip club, as soon as they’d crossed the tracks. The steel rails had forced his hand. Ghosts were sensitive to iron in the same way that he was to silver, and because of this, the specter simply could not follow. Instead, he had stood in the middle of the street as he watched them depart, until they too were no more than shadows in the dark.