"She worth something? To who?"
"Aw, those porn movie and snuff film guys. Even some amateur freakos. Big-money collectors. Whole bunch of, you know, people with money."
I waited. Maybe rabbits had the best idea. Freeze, then run like hell. 'Course, they didn't survive too long and had to reproduce very soon and fast, at which I was lamentably behind.
The leader of the pack twisted his clawed, hairy hands…paws…on the Harley handlebars, revving his bike until it bucked to be off and running down something.
Like me.
I eyed my feet. I was wearing my meeting-Ric-in-the-park spike-heeled slides. Not great for rabbiting in. I wondered if my maybe-prince would eventually dowse my body up from some desert wasteland.
Meanwhile, Dog was trouncing the inside of my Caddy, to no avail.
"What's that racket?" Leader demanded of his minions.
"A domestic slave."
"Worthless. Balls of a wombat."
It seemed to me that Dog was getting really, really riled, but I'd locked him in and unless he could develop an opposable thumb, we were both sucked. Maybe the shelter would notice the nice stainless steel bowls and leash that came with him when they were called in to take charge of the dog at the murder scene in the morning. At least we'd had a good, greasy last meal together…
Leader was swaggering off his cycle to control or kill me, mincing a bit, because the two-footed strut just didn't go with his circus-dog-on-hind-legs act.
I waited until he was within three feet.
"You worth delaying my dinner for?" he was snarling when I kicked one rear foot out from under him, looped Dog's chain around his hairy neck and crossed my fists at his greasy, long-haired nape. Then I stomped his spine with my spike heel.
He howled his pain and anger, impressively, and the pack was circling for the kill-me!-roaring closer and closer.
I heard a crash of broken glass and glimpsed a huge shadow racing straight for the nearest Harley, which went down in a spark shower of chrome scratching pavement.
Dog took them out, Mohammed Ali at his prime on four feet, snapping jaws good for snapping necks, spinning out motorcycles like ducks getting dunked in a carnival game. One by one.
This supernatural quasi-human dogwatch crew was no match for a magnificent canine using all of his animal instincts unclouded by any other agenda than saving the human who'd saved his ass. Which was decidedly not wombat-balled. I resolved then and there to break the first rule of responsible animal ownership and not to "fix" him. Call it an emotional decision.
I figured that by now he kind of owned me.
Chapter Fourteen
The cops came, when it was all over, in cars. Dog had taken off. The scarifying biker gang had shriveled into a dazed clot of scraped, bleeding werewolves. Apparently they'd managed to eat the Geeks, for the only victim still left standing on the site was me.
I babbled a little about visiting the pet store and being accosted when I came out. A woman officer took me into the back of a cop car and got my very confused statement, giving me a card for a place where I could get counseling for victims.
I'd gotten enough counseling during my orphaned childhood to give it myself, so smiled and stashed the card, collected my goods, and accepted Officer Smith as a ride-along while her partner brought up the rear.
"Kinda rough welcome to Las Vegas," she said as we headed out, the wind whistling through Dolly's broken window. Where was I going to get a '56 Caddy Eldorado Biarritz window replaced in Las Vegas? Not even Irma had an answer to that one. "Why’re you staying at the Araby?'
"I can't afford much until I get a job."
"Get outa there as soon as you can. And collect that dog you mentioned adopting from the shelter. If you'd had one with you tonight, he might have scared off those cheap punks. Maybe."
"Tomorrow," I said, glancing into the rearview mirror. A gray lupine shadow was pacing Dolly and the squad car. At thirty-five miles an hour. That's my boy!
"You're lucky, Miss. The Lunatics are a nasty gang. We've been trying to put them out of circulation for a long time. Apparently they got to fighting among themselves over you."
"Lucky," I repeated with a shudder. At least my new dog was off the hook.
The officer dropped me off at the Araby Motel and returned to the following squad car with extreme regret, but I swore that I'd have new quarters soon. Tomorrow. And I would. Dog was waiting at the door to my unit, eerily enough, part of the shadow cast by the one parking lot light that still worked in the entire complex.
As he stepped forward, I saw that his ruff was matted by werewolf saliva. I hoped his coat was thick enough to serve as insulation.
"It's a head-to-toe bite inspection for you, mister, in the morning, and a curry-combing with your brand-new brush. Then we're off to see the wizard again. I could use some serious backup for storming Castle Nightwine. Again."
He interrupted a frenzied licking of his messed up flank to growl amiably.
"I need a name for you." I ran my hand over his skull, down his neck, past the wide leather collar that was now dimpled with fang-marks.
His eyes shone in the one parking lot light, pale and luminous, like the moon. Not just blue, like mine, but with an overriding silver-sheen. Like moonshine.
"Quicksilver," I said.
He sat down, boxed at his nose with his paws and grinned up at me, his tongue hanging amiably through his very white fangs.
Quicksilver it was.
Chapter Fifteen
I was surprised the next morning when the outer gates at Castle Nightwine opened instantly for us and the squawk box recognized us. Apparently everybody knew our names at Hector's place. Kinda like on Cheers.
" Miss Street and Mr. Dog," came the cultivated voice over the microphone.
"Mr. Quicksilver, Godfrey. He has a name now."
"Very good. Proceed to the main door and do scrape your shoes and paws on the welcome mat."
Quicksilver had surprised me this morning with a natty coat under which not one half-were puncture or scratch lurked. Of course he'd kept me awake almost half the night with the sound of his relentless licking and grooming. Still, the results were worth it. He looked downright awesome now that his leather and silver collar had a Manhattan-tugboat-size chain for a leash.
We trotted up to the entry doors, which resembled the approach to a cathedral. Godfrey was his same dapper self, including the curled upper lip we knew and loved.
"Is the master in?" I asked, handing Quicksilver's heavy-duty leash into Godfrey's white-gloved hand.
"Mr. Nightwine is in," Godfrey said carefully. He eyed Quicksilver with a certain camaraderie. "As to who is the master-?"
Words I loved to hear. I'd thought I knew enough now to squeeze Nightwine by his carnivorous balls, and I would find out just how much shortly.
The study was the same scarlet lamp-lit retreat, a place of cigar smoke, aged brandy, and leather-bound books. Daylight never penetrated here. Maybe Nightwine was a vampire. The surname was highly suggestive and anyone could be undead these days. Nowadays, playing pin the fang on the vampire was a better-and scarier-social game than guessing gender preferences used to be.
"I thought you'd be back." Nightwine informed me in rotund syllables, like a judge. Or a parole officer.
"I thought you'd want that."
" Miss Street, is it? Really and truly?"
"Yes. It is." As much as a made-up name invented by a social agency could be real or true.
"You must understand that yesterday I thought you were using a pseudonym. I thought you might be a Lilith imposter playing some sort of con game."
"That's what Adam told Eve and look where it got him. Confining clothes and original sin. No fun fast."