Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 (23 page)

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I turn off the TV and stare at the blank screen for a while. Not very entertaining, but at least it’s less violent. I pick through my ragtag music collection and listen to some Beethoven, but it just doesn’t suit my mood. Neither does “Achy Breaky Heart,” the theme to The Jeffersons (about a thrope family that’s movin’ on up), or the sound track to West Side Story (in which the Jets and the Sharks become the Bats and the Wolves). Nothing feels satisfying.

I finally surrender and pick up my phone. Dial the number. Think about hanging up before it’s answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dr. Pete. It’s Jace Valchek. Got a minute?”

“Sure, Jace. What’s up?”

“Too much and not enough. I’m feeling kind of jittery.”

“Taking your medication?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And the side effects?”

“Better. But I still feel kind of . . . I don’t know. Disconnected.”

“That’s because of the lower dose. You’re going to have to do other things to compensate.”

“What . . . kind of things?”

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“Socialize. Get involved in things other than your work. Start a hobby that involves meeting other people and interacting with them.”

“That was never really one of my strong points when I wasn’t living in a world filled with thropes and pires.”

He laughs. “Not a big people person, huh? Well, there are other alternatives—the main thing is to put down some roots, some links to the world around you. You can even take that literally by planting a garden—”

“My thumb is so far from green it’s not even a color. If it and something actually green came into physical contact, there would be an explosion.”

He laughs again. It’s a nice sound, one I haven’t heard often enough lately. “Okay, I get the point. I’m going to suggest something. It’s a little radical—even dangerous—but it might be just what you need.”

“Bring it on.”

“How’d you like to meet my family?”

I blink. “What?”

“You need some localized, earthy experience—and there’s nothing more earthy than my family. Of course, if that prospect scares you—”

“Cut out the cheap psychology, Doc—remember what I do for a living. Anyway, your family couldn’t be any scarier than mine, and that includes factoring in the whole were thing. My aunt Cynthia alone would probably send half your relatives howling for the hills.”

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“All right, then. I’m going over there tomorrow afternoon for lunch—I’ll tell them I’m bringing someone along.”

“This isn’t about shocking your parents, is it? Bringing home a human?”

“Oh, it takes more than that to shock my parents. You’ll see.”

He hangs up, leaving me to wonder just what I’ve got myself into now.
EIGHT

Dr. Pete picks me up at eleven in a white minivan. It occurs to me that I don’t even know if he’s married; thropes don’t wear rings, for obvious reasons. I take a quick look in the back as I’m getting in, and notice a definite absence of toys, fast-food wrappers, and car seats. Not definitive, but indicative.

“Morning,” Dr. Pete says. He’s dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, and loafers. I’m wearing an oversize blue sweatshirt, track pants, and sneakers; on my days off I like to go for comfort over style.

“Morning. Where are we headed?”

“The depths of suburbia,” he says with a grin. “Bellevue, to be exact.”

“Where I come from, that’s not only a suburb but the name of a famous mental hospital.”

“From what I understand of the term,” he says as he pulls into traffic, “that’s a pretty fair description of what you’re about to experience.”

He fills me in as we drive. I can’t really keep track of all the aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews, but I try to remember the major players. The sheer size of his
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family answers the age-old question of what you get when you cross a Catholic with a werewolf: a small country.

He also gives me the rundown on the difference between a thrope’s family and his pack, which is not always the same thing. You’re born into your family, which is also your pack until you come of age. Then you can choose to join another pack—based on profession or lifestyle, usually—or can marry into one. If you don’t want to choose right away, you can be an independent until you make up your mind.

“Not too many lone wolves, though,” Dr. Pete says. “Most thropes choose a pack, sooner or later.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they don’t. There’s no penalty—not an official one, anyway.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate. Certain doors simply wouldn’t open to a loner; certain invitations wouldn’t be offered.

That’s how it is on any world.

Dr. Pete, it turns out, isn’t married—the only one of his seven brothers and six sisters who isn’t. He is, however, the favorite uncle of many of his nieces and nephews. “Which is a mixed blessing,” he admits. “I love all of them dearly—well, most of them—but sometimes when I visit it’s a little overwhelming.”

“I see. You’re just bringing me along as cannon fodder?”

He gives me a puzzled look.

“An expendable hostage. Human shield. Sacrificial decoy.”

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“Oh. Yes.”

I laugh. “Well, this should be interesting. . . .”

His parents live in a big house in the south end of the city. There’s what appears to be a thrope riot going on in the front yard; when we pull up, it transforms into a furry tidal wave that surges against the minivan with a crash.

“Watch the paint!” Dr. Pete hollers. “No claws! No claws!”

The thropes surrounding us are in permutations from wolf cub to humanoid, sporting many different colors of fur: blond, brunette, redhead, pure white or glossy black and every shade between. Some are cute, some are terrifying—in other words, children. I understand the terrifying ones are sometimes called “teenagers.”

We get out of the van. All the thropes that currently have hands are signing furiously, which makes me feel like I’m in some kind of surrealistic performance art piece or maybe a live-action version of a Muppet movie on bad drugs. I can only catch about one word in three, but I get the general gist—who is she, is she your girlfriend, did you bring me anything, and a request to either drive his van or lambaste his camel.

“Peter!” a voice booms out. “Ah, the prodigal cub returns!”

The fur flood recedes to let through a big, burly man with a considerable paunch and two wiry gray tufts of hair protruding from his head like an aging Bozo the Clown. He’s got a wide, smiling face, canines so prominent they look artificial, and eyes as black as chips of coal. He’s wearing a bright yellow polo shirt and baggy black shorts with sandals, and carrying a struggling child under one arm.

“Hey, Pop,” Dr. Pete says. “This is Jace Valchek, the one I told you about. Jace, Leo.”

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“Hi,” I say.

“Hello!” he says, and gives me a hearty, one-armed hug. “Welcome! It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thanks.”

Dr. Pete leans down to address the child under Leo’s arm, who’s mostly stopped kicking and is regarding me suspiciously. He’s got jet-black hair, gray eyes, and he’s wearing a T-shirt with a smiling moon on it. “Hey, Nicky. In trouble again?”

“Nah. I’m wrestling Grampa.”

“How’s that going?”

“I’m winning!”

“Excellent. Come see me later, I’ll tell you where all his weak points are.” He straightens up and says, “Okay, okay, I’ll come out and see all of you in a minute. Now back off and give her some breathing room.”

Pop Leo turns around and leads us toward the house while the kids disperse with no apparent decrease in enthusiasm. “How you holding up so far?” Dr. Pete stagewhispers.

“Better than Nicky,” I whisper back.

“I heard that!”

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The house is a monster, three stories high and sprawling, painted a bright green. It doesn’t look like a mansion, though, just big and lived-in. Extended family, extended living quarters.

The noise diminishes slightly once we’re indoors. It’s still definitely in the “din” category, but there’s less screaming and more banging, with a backdrop of flamenco guitar. Three swarthy men are doing intricate and stirring things with guitars in the front room, while a toddler standing on a piano bench pounds solemnly on the keyboard. They’re good enough to not only keep up with her but make it sound like she’s the performer and they’re just the backing band.

The house also smells wonderful. I may be a vegetarian, but I still get a guilty jolt of pleasure from certain aromas; roasting lamb is one of them. I try to pretend it’s just the spices, and hope they serve something I can actually eat.

I needn’t have worried. The table is slightly smaller than a soccer field and holds enough food to feed a dozen teams: eggs, bacon, muffins, salad, fish, bread, sausages, lamb, potatoes, fruit, pancakes, juice, coffee, milk, pastries. A rough head count of the clan puts it somewhere around thirty, though so many people keep coming and going it’s hard to keep track.

It’s chaotic, confusing, and oddly soothing. I find myself grinning, passing various dishes, and eating a lot. The fact that I don’t eat meat is the subject of much discussion, but it’s more along the lines of genuine curiosity than anything else. Several of the women come to my defense, citing recent diets they’ve read about that are good for your figure, and point out that their men could stand to lose a few pounds. Everybody eats in human form, even the children, which makes eating and talking at the same time a lot easier.

Afterward, everybody helps clean up and the whole party moves into the kitchen. When that’s done, people break up into smaller groups all over the house and the backyard,
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which has a pool. I decline the offer of a swimsuit, but join Dr. Pete in a lawn chair at poolside.

“So, what do you think?” he asks with a grin. “The clan try to buy your soul yet?”

“They don’t seem so bad.”

“They’ll wear you down with relentless hospitality. I’m surprised they didn’t offer you pack membership before dessert.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He chuckles. “Only partly. Joining a pack is serious business, but I can tell my folks like you. They were a little thrown off when I told them about the artificial pheromone, but I explained it was a security precaution for your work.”

“Wait. So they know I’m not one of them?”

“Well, the adults do. The kids think you’re an alpha female, which means they’ll give you some respect. With the others you’re on your own—but you seem to be doing pretty good so far.”

Something was tugging at my memory, but it wouldn’t quite surface. “How does that work, in a legal sense? When a human gets turned into a pire or a thrope?”

“Depends on if it’s voluntary or not. If it is, witnesses are usually required and documents have to be signed. If not, the transformed party can sue the other party for damages and have them criminally charged.”

“So with consent it’s like a marriage. Without, it’s rape.”

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“More or less. Why?”

“Just wondering what my options are if things go wrong.”

His face turns serious. “I suppose that’s a possibility. But it’s not something you have to worry about from most of the population; neither pires nor thropes have any reason to transform a human against their will. It’s a truly rare occurrence.”

Besides, it’s not so bad, is what he doesn’t say. Just look around you. Kids running around and splashing in the pool, adults laughing and joking, everybody out enjoying the sun . . . it all suddenly feels a little forced.

I shake my head, and the feeling passes. When you start wondering if the whole world is a play put on to manipulate you, that’s the time to look up “paranoid” in the dictionary and check for your picture.

“You all right?” Dr. Pete asks.

“Fine. Just not used to this much—glee, I guess.”

“Oh, they’re just getting started. You don’t want to see what they’re like when they’re actually celebrating something.”

There’s a long table, shaded by patio umbrellas, at the other end of the pool. A halfdozen or so females, ranging from ten-year-olds to grandmothers, are gathered around it and busily working on . . . something.

“What are they doing?” I ask.

“Making decorations for Moondays.”

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“Moondays?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry. Some things are so ordinary you just take them for granted. Moondays is the festival that takes place every month during the three nights of the full moon. You think this is a lot of food, wait until then.”

“Shouldn’t it be called Moonnights?”

“Well, it’s pretty much a seventy-two-hour-long event, day and night. Daytime events are spent in human form, and are more family-oriented. At night, everyone changes into were-form—it’s the one time we don’t have a choice. Then the party really starts.”

Despite the sunshine, despite the laughing children and Dr. Pete’s relaxed smile, I still feel a chill go down my spine. “Yeah? And exactly how do thropes like to party?”