This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.Introduction copyright 2009 by Esther M. Friesner.Copyright 2009 by Tekno Books and Esther M. Friesner.All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.A Baen Books OriginalBaen Publishing EnterprisesP.O. Box 1403Riverdale, NY 10471www.baen.comISBN: 978-1-4391-3320-0Cover art by Clyde CaldwellFirst Baen paperback printing, October 2009Distributed by Simon & Schuster1230 Avenue of the AmericasNew York, NY 10020Printed in the United States of America
"Leader of the Pack," copyright 2009 by Esther M. Friesner
"Howl!," copyright 2009 by Jody Lynn Nye
"Special Needs," copyright 2009 by K.D. Wentworth
"Fish Story," copyright 2009 by Tracy Morris
"Blame It on the Moonlight," copyright 2009 Tim Waggoner
"Imaginary Fiend," copyright 2009 by Lucienne Diver
"Neighborhood Bark-B-Q," copyright 2009 by Daniel M. Hoyt
"That Time of the Month," copyright 2009 by Laura Underwood
"Pack Intern," copyright 2009 by Berry Kercheval
"Support Your Local Werewolf," copyright 2009 by Karen Everson
"Isn't That Special," copyright 2009 by Esther M. Friesner
"Prowling for Love," copyright 2009 by Linda Donahue
"Lighter than Were," copyright 2009 by Robert Hoyt
"Enforcement Claws," copyright 2009 by Steven Piziks
"Where-wolf," copyright 2009 by Selina Rosen
"Overnight Moon," copyright 2009 by David Levine
"Wolfy Ladies," copyright 2009 by David Freer
"Frijoles for Fenris," copyright 2009 by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"The Case of the Driving Poodle," copyright 2009 by Sarah A. Hoyt
"Meet the Harrys," copyright 2009 by Robin Wayne Bailey
"The Creature in Your Neighborhood," copyright 2009 by Jim C. Hines
Chicks in Chainmail Chicks 'N Chained Males Did You Say Chicks?! The Chick is in the Mail Turn the Other Chick Chicks Ahoy! (forthcoming)Witch Way to the MallStrip Mauled
Alas, poor werewolves, forever doomed to be Avis to the vampire's unassailable fang-hold on Hertz, Pepsi to their Coke, Burger King to their McDonalds!
(Note to any litigation-happy corporate types out there: The preceding metaphor is merely one lone ink-stained wretch's personal perception of brand-name pecking orders and is in no way intended as either an outright statement or an insinuation of any kind that might conceivably affect—positively or negatively—the public image, good name, market share or income of the commercial entities mentioned. So don't start whining; it demeans us both.)
Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah . . .
Pity the werewolf indeed, always forced to ride in the back seat of the Sexy/Hot/Cool Monster car while the vampire gets to sit up front and choose the radio station. To what may we ascribe this unfortunate situation? How did werewolves get swatted across the snout with the
Rolled-up Newspaper of Second-Class Citizenship?
There are no easy answers.
Oh heck, yes there are: Let's blame the media!
Think back to the earliest horror movies involving such supernatural critters. Once you get past Nosferatu's presentation of the vampire as overgrown gnome, the bloodsuckers are inevitably portrayed as suave, seductive, and snappily dressed. Slap your actor into a swooshy, utterly fabulous cape and presto, you've got a cinematic vampire ready to go, no Transformation Scene required. (What about when Dracula turns into a bat? No biggie. A poof of flash powder and a rubber Fledermaus on a wire and you're done.)
But werewolves? Major Transition Scene nightmare, people, especially in the early days of the monster movie, long before CGI or its poorer but passable predecessors. The on-screen metamorphosis from human to werewolf was a lot of stop-action-add-another-tuft-of-fake-fur tedium resulting in a final product that was—let's be honest—pretty chintzy. Wolves have fangs, but underbites? Tusks? Face it, some of the first wolfmen on screen were Wookies with bad pompadours.
Over the years, werewolves have seen their image improve. Not only are movie Transformation Scenes smoother and the makeup and facial prostheses at the end of the T.S. tunnel more terrifying and less snort-and-giggleworthy, but there's even been some attempts to help those monthly moon-howlers lay claim to a little of the vampire's sex appeal. Yet for all that progress, they're still #2, thus going to show that you never really get over a bad start, especially when it's a matter of something as shallow yet societally key as personal appearance.
If you don't believe this, let's talk about our high school experiences, shall we? Zits and braces or better to open, player.
It is therefore my great pleasure as someone with my thumb on the pulse of the media (somewhere around the carotid artery) to be able to do something towards helping our long-suffering lycanthropic brethren to lay claim to their rightful bite of the American Dream, namely market share. And where better to get a grip on the throat of a national audience than in the still demographically-influential suburbs?
Werewolves and the suburbs are a natural go-together. Okay, so they're not the Obligatory/Iconic Suburban Golden Retriever or Chocolate Labrador, but they've got a much better chance of taking home the Best in Show ribbon than their Undead rivals. In some suburban households, if it brings home a trophy, who cares if it also brings home bloody chunks of the neighbors every time the full moon shines? And let's not forget one more advantage to the suburban werewolf: If his lupine side does something nasty on your lawn, his human side can come by later with the Pooper Scooper. In your face, Dracula!
Therefore, welcome to the fur-sprouting, mall-browsing, moon-howling, latté-sipping world of Strip Mauled. I think you'll like what you find.
Sit.
Stay.
Good reader.
Jody Lynn Nye lists her main career activity as "spoiling cats." She lives northwest of Chicago with two of the above and her husband, author and packager Bill Fawcett. She has published more than thirty-five books, including six contemporary fantasies, four SF novels, four novels in collaboration with Anne McCaffrey, including The Ship Who Won; edited a humorous anthology about mothers, Don't Forget Your Spacesuit, Dear!; and written over a hundred short stories. Her latest books are A Forthcoming Wizard (TOR Books), and Myth-Fortunes, co-written with Robert Asprin (Wild-side Books).
Bradley Newton turned one of the silver objects over in his hands. The Eastern European man with shiny black hair and a pockmarked face slumping in the Naugahyde armchair on the other side of the utilitarian desk looked deliberately insouciant. Bradley wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, and off the lawyer's, too. He kept his own round face expressionless.
"So, Mr. Elanovitch is willing to pay whatever fine you assess, inspector," the attorney offered. "We maintain that he did not understand that his import of these items was considered to be excessive."
"Import? Smuggling is the word I would use, counselor," Bradley retorted. That jerked the European man to attention, but only for a moment. He was not threatened by the plump inspector on the other side of the desk. Bradley picked up another silver artifact from the heap before him, this one long and thin like a fountain pen, but with a knob shaped like a snail shell on the top. "Customs and Excise is vigilant about these things. Your client has lived in the United States for six years, and traveled in and out of the country over twenty-eight times a year. He must know the limits on imports. If he never read Form I-6059B, then he's one of the few who hasn't."
"Fine me and release my goods," Elanovitch intoned, bored, plucking at the armrest with idle fingertips. "Either you arrest me, or you don't. We offer to pay. Take it or leave it. Or unless you want something for yourself, eh?" His weaselly black eyes fixed on Bradley's hazel ones. "Your annual pay is probably much less than my business makes in a day."
That made Bradley's blood pressure shoot up, but he kept his temper down. His supervisor and at least one other credible witness were on the other side of the two-way mirror that occupied much of the fourth wall in a largely featureless interview room, and the interview was being recorded on videotape. If they made him react, they won, and they knew it. "Bribing a federal official is a felony," he said, shaking the knobby cylinder at Elanovitch. "This is a serious matter, and . . . ouch!"
He looked down at his hand. Blood dripped from the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. A curved, triangular blade no longer than his thumbnail had popped out of the bottom of the silver artifact. He snatched out his handkerchief and squeezed the area to stop the bleeding. The blade had left a crescent-shaped mark in the skin. He looked up at the horrified men on the other side of the table. "The importation of concealed weapons is another crime, Mr. Elanovitch."
"I did not know that was there!" the European bellowed, actually alarmed. "It is an accident! Nothing I bring in is illegal. It is household instruments, historical of age. I pay fine and I get you bandage. I even say please."
"We won't debate the extenuating circumstances," the lawyer interjected, "if we may settle this matter swiftly, without the government bringing charges?"
"What about physical assault on a government agent?" Bradley countered.
"That's just an owie, inspector," the lawyer said. "A little Bactine and a Scooby Doo bandage will make you all better. What will it take to get us out of here before dinnertime?"
Bradley realized, not for the first time, that he disliked the lawyer much more than his client. He wanted to break out of his own skin, leap over the desk and throttle the attorney, then hammer the importer to death with his own suitcase of contraband. If it wouldn't punish him more than the other two, he would have kept them there until midnight.
"I can't promise that there will be no charges pressed in the future, but this time United States Customs is willing to accept a substantial fine, plus the customs on each item over the legal allowance." Coolly, he pulled the printing calculator to him from the side of the desk and began to tap in numbers. Large numbers. This fine would be substantial, partly to make Elanovitch think a thousand times before doing it again, and partly because his attorney was such a jerk. It was the only revenge he was permitted to take.
Bradley hunched over the wheel of his subcompact in the traffic leaving O'Hare Airport. Another day, another criminal who thought of him as a patsy. He had worked for Customs for fifteen years. At forty-two, he had twenty-three years more before he could retire. Another
54.7 percent of his life facing the same endless conflict with petty criminals, the pugnaciously ignorant and the downright exploitive criminals who passed before him day after day after day.
Bradley walked into the house and almost called out before he remembered that Angela was in Columbus with the kids, visiting her folks. They would be gone for a week. It was spring break. A twinge of regret made him ache for the carefree college days and just after when the two of them had been able to run off to Florida during spring break. For the hell of it. Just for fun. It seemed like nothing he did these days was just for fun. Not even sex. Even sex was getting to be boring. The relic of the teenager buried deep within him was shocked. He never in a million lifetimes thought he would ever feel that way, and he loved Angie. He adored her. It didn't stop the miserable cycle of his day-to-day life from grinding him down.
Over a dinner made up of leftovers from the refrigerator, he watched the Discovery Channel on television. He felt like going away from it all, leaving the suburbs and his boring job and becoming a deep-sea fisherman. On television pulling up cages full of king crabs looked dangerous, disgusting, cold, and terrifying. All of that was better than what he had to do now. Pull in a half-ton net with his bare hands? Great! As long as he didn't have to enumerate each crab on a form in triplicate.
"It's a midlife crisis," he told himself, as he sorted the recyclables from the non-recyclable trash and threw them into separate garbage bins. "That's all."
Knowing that was his problem didn't help. He had always laughed off the notion he might have a midlife crisis, but it was worse than he had dreamed. He thought he would just have an urge to buy a red sports car and hang out with a blonde half his age, but there was no joyful anticipation in the prospect. He felt gloomy to the depths of his soul. Was this what he was going to do for the rest of his life? He wished he could talk to Angela, but even more, he wished she could understand what he was going through.
Three more days of Elanovitches, TV dinners and missing his family dragged by. Bradley didn't like sleeping alone. He missed the kids. He missed the noise and the chaos and the feeling that he belonged to something better than he was.
He woke with a start and scanned the bed for Angela's familiar body that ought to have been there beside him, half-curled on her side under the light quilt, warm and comforting by her mere presence. She wasn't there. He remembered again. Three more days until his family returned. Soon. He tried to settle down, but he was too restless. It felt as if the sheet was rucked up under his rear end. He wriggled to settle the lump. It wouldn't smooth out.
The light of the full moon shone between the bedroom curtains he had forgotten to close before he fell asleep. He kicked off the comforter. He had to get out of the bedclothes. They were stifling, smothering him in their pillowy bonds. Bradley fumbled for the bedroom light.
"Aah!" he yelled.
Someone was in the room with him!
"Who are you?" he screamed at the black-bearded man.
The other's mouth moved at the same time his did. The intruder was wearing his boxer shorts! He realized suddenly that he was looking at his own reflection.
"No!" Bradley cried. He must be still dreaming. He slapped his hands against his body, refusing to believe in the black hair that covered him everywhere except his eyes, lips and palms, wiry and coarse as a terrier's. He flung himself off the bed, trying to run away from his horrible image, but it seemed that the whole house was full of mirrors and shiny surfaces. The hairy man leaped out at him again and again. Bradley stumbled down the stairs, through the living room and the kitchen, and out into the night.
He had to get away from the nightmare. Something must help him to wake up. He raced along the street, covering ground faster than he ever could in the daylight. Bradley looked down to see curving claws between his toes. His feet looked twice as long as usual. Something slapped him in the backside. He glanced behind, and saw a two-foot-long tail.
Run away! his brain shrieked.
He plunged in between houses, crashing through bushes and trees, trampling garden plots. Blue-flowered stalks grabbed at his legs in the Sullivans' yard. Why were there hydrangeas in his dream? He hated hydrangeas!
The beam of the streetlight at the corner struck glints off the shining hair on his hands and arms. To get away from the sight, he dashed across the street and into the forest preserve.
Part of his mind shouted at him that the preserve closed at sunset. Trespassing on state land wasn't allowed. The rest of him, the wild part, laughed at restraint. It forced him to open up his stride, until he was running flat out across the prairie. He panted in terror, gasping in oxygen until it felt as if the top of his head would come off. His legs carried him faster and faster. He started laughing. The pure adrenaline exhilarated him. He felt giddy. He dropped to all fours and discovered he could gallop still faster, leaping over streams and paths, bounding over benches. Bradley found an open patch of grass and rolled around on it. That felt good! He flipped over and ran in a circle, chasing the tail. It eluded his snapping jaws.
What had happened to him? What was he?
All he could think over and over again was werewolf. The spooky books his son loved to read at night talked about mystical transformation, the fear of silver bullets, and how the man-wolf beast howled at the moon.
Maybe he had turned into a werewolf, but he wouldn't do that.
He paused, the tail swinging out of reach.
Why not?
Bradley sat down on his haunches, cleared his throat, pointed his nose toward the moon, and launched into the best howl he could muster.
"A-woo—ha ha ha ha!"
The mournful sound was so at odds with how good he felt that he started laughing in the middle of it. He pulled himself together.
No, seriously, he told himself. Howl. He took another breath.
"A-wooooo!"
That was better. With a little practice, he could be really good at it.
His legs began to twitch. His altered body got impatient at sitting in one place. He had to run some more. Flipping onto his long feet, he ran, loving every mile. He thought he could never grow tired of the joy of the wind in his face. No wonder dogs with their heads hanging out of car windows looked so happy.
He suddenly knew the secret they never talked about in any of the horror movies or TV shows or books. Being a werewolf was So. Much. FUN!
Bradley sped up a hill, his pads pounding on the dirt path. A browsing deer he surprised leaped up and away from him. The scent excited him. He fell into pursuit, racing after its shape in the cold blue moonlight. He had an urge to bury his teeth in its throat. He wanted the taste of its blood on his tongue.
The deer wasn't waiting around to satisfy his urges. It increased its lead on him by lengths, leaping effortlessly over park benches and around the reeking outhouses. Bradley galloped, his tail straight out behind him. He never realized how fast deer could run. He gave it all he could, even pulling within ten feet of it, but the deer took a sharp left and dashed across the well-lit main road next to the forest preserve. Bradley windmilled to stay upright as he veered to follow, but headlights struck him. He got off the road just in time. A pickup truck roared past him, honking its horn in irritation. The deer disappeared into the trees on the other side. Bradley watched it go. The wild part of him felt dismay.
He tottered back into the woods. He was more exhausted than he could have believed. It had been years since he had gone running. He preferred to jog on the treadmill or around the track at the health club, at no more than 3.5 miles an hour. He was exhausted, and his feet and palms hurt. Gingerly, Bradley picked his way back to a park bench and curled up underneath it in the comforting dark.
Just a short rest, he told himself.
"Awright, mister!" a harsh voice roused him out of sleep. "I suppose you're gonna tell me your prescription medications make you sleepwalk, huh? Get up!"
Bradley blinked at a pink sky and a black silhouette shining a yellow circle of light in his face. He tried to remember where he was and failed. The police officer grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. Bradley realized with a start that the black fur that had covered him was gone. As was most of the pair of underpants he had been wearing when he left home. Modesty was just barely preserved by the scrap of cloth around his belly. The rest of his shorts had been torn to shreds by the bushes. His skin was covered with scratches and bruises.
"I'm all right, officer," he said, straightening his back to try and look dignified. The officer eyed him. Obviously, he failed.
"Don't need to go to the emergency room?" the officer asked. "Did someone dump you here?"
"Uh, no," Bradley said. "I . . . uh, sometimes I sleepwalk," he added. The policeman shook his head as though disappointed he hadn't come up with a more colorful explanation. Bradley wished he sounded more original, but he didn't want to be branded a kook. No one would believe he had been transformed into a werewolf. In the cold light of dawn, he didn't completely believe it himself.
"Come on," the officer sighed. "Get in the cruiser. I'll take you home."
Bradley let himself in the unlocked back door and took a long, hot shower. It was a good thing his wife and kids weren't there. They might have bought the werewolf explanation, but Angela would have been mortified that he had to be brought home by the cops.
The matter of his transformation distracted him throughout the day. He was pretty sure that lycanthropy didn't run in his family. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything unusual, unless he counted a couple of exotic frozen entrées from the food store. He'd never had a reaction to Chicken Madras before, especially not breaking out in fur and a tail. No, the only possible vector of transmission of his werewolfness had to be that artifact that cut him: Mr. Elanovitch's contraband. He wanted to get a second look at it.
Casually, so as not to draw special attention to his query, Bradley checked the confiscated goods locker first thing the next morning. To his disappointment, all the Elanovitch articles were gone. The importer's lawyer had reclaimed everything as soon as the Customs Office had opened. Bradley hesitated to contact the importer. He couldn't think of a good excuse. He didn't want to seem weak by bringing up the minor injury, nor appear to be asking for the artifact as a bribe. The object didn't seem to have had an on/off switch anyhow, nor did it have a plainly visible "reverse werewolf curse" setting on it. Bradley wished he could find out more about it. His practical mind pushed all speculation to the rear. Flights had been arriving since before dawn from foreign countries. He had a backlog of queries to cover.
...
allforjesus2001