The Patriarch didn’t like delays. His human pets should have returned half an hour ago, bringing dinner with them. He wasn’t enthusiastic about sending these most unreliable minions on such a sensitive mission, but the pack’s visibility in the area was still too high. He couldn’t seem to get them to understand that the more people saw them, the more danger they were in. Even Andre and Roger, his two closest lieutenants, were looking at him from the corners of their eyes. And he could read doubt in them – doubt not in the pack, but in the Patriarch himself.
He growled to himself. He didn’t want to purge the pack. He’d spent too much time and energy training and shaping them all to follow him and obey him under any and all circumstances to start over with a revamped crew. But if things didn’t turn around soon, he might be forced into it.
His problem, of course, was how long to wait. If he began a purge too soon, when most of the pack were still considering what to do and whom to follow, he would alienate the survivors by appearing to lead by intimidation. That never worked in the long run, either in the human arena or the lupine. But if he waited until he’d lost most of them, he wouldn’t be strong enough to lead after the purge, nor would the pack be strong enough to accomplish his purposes. It was a balancing act high above the ground, no net below him. It was as if he were walking on razor wire, blindfolded and with no clues to his relative location between either anchor.
He’d always been able to sense the right time before. But now? Now he was unsure, off balance, and puzzled. The other campaigns he’d led had ultimately become open battles between packs. He’d never faced a guerilla war aimed at his own followers before, and Arthur’s constant nibbling at the edges of his pack were taking a toll on all of them.
He felt the change in mood before he heard it. Their human slaves were bringing dinner directly to them. It was another change in his usual practice, since leaving body parts strewn around a lair tended to attract all the wrong kinds of attention. But none of them had eaten for two days and they were too hungry to be allowed out on their own.
He looked up as he sensed the mood shift again.
Roger walked hesitantly into the old basement and said nothing. One of the others grabbed his arm and called his name, but Roger shrugged him off and came directly to his master.
And the Patriarch could read fear in every step.
“What is your news, Roger?” asked the leader of the pack.
Roger’s mouth opened for a moment, then closed, then opened again. “They – they’re dead.”
The Patriarch sat up slowly, trying not to appear too startled. “Who is dead?”
Roger swallowed and blinked twice, then said, “Our human servants. They’re all dead.”
For a long moment, silence reigned, then Beatrice, one of the younger ones, demanded, “You mean someone killed our dinner?”
The general murmuring began immediately. The Patriarch lifted his hand for silence. When he got it, he spoke softly. “Beatrice speaks out of turn, Roger, but her question is valid. Who is dead?”
“Our – our slaves. They’re all dead. All killed.”
He forestalled the shocked murmuring with another upraised hand. “How did they die?”
Roger took a deep breath. “It was difficult to tell. Two died of bites to the throat, but two others had their necks broken by what appeared to be a human using some martial arts moves. And the fifth – the largest and strongest – was strangled by human hands. There were – the fifth one wore ripped bite marks on his upper arms as if a large dog or a werewolf had knocked him down and held him in place.”
A shocked silence greeted these words. “What happened to the ones who were to be our dinner?”
“They were not injured, as far as I could tell. They were, however, terrified, and they voided their stomachs and bladders and bowels at the scene. I tried to follow the attackers, but they melted into the late-night Bourbon Street crowd and vanished.”
More murmurs, some of them angry. He had to regain control, so he stood and looked over the pack. All of them quieted, but not immediately, and some did not appear to be as docile and submissive as he preferred.
He’d deal with that later, after they’d fed. “Roger, were you able to identify the attackers?”
“I – I think it was Jane and one other of Arthur’s pack, but I cannot be certain. The stench from the women who were with them blocked much of the scent trail, and I was unable to discover where they had lain in wait for the group. It was as if they had—” He broke off when he saw his master’s thunderous expression.
“As if they had done what, Roger?” he hissed.
“N-nothing, my lord! I ask forgiveness. I am often given to flights of fancy.”
“Tell me of this flight. Do you have any idea where they hid?”
Roger visibly steeled himself and straightened. “I believe they were waiting on a nearby balcony, my lord, and dropped down among the group as it passed by. But as I said, I cannot be certain. I was unable to investigate the scene fully, and there were no clear scent trails.”
The Patriarch glared at him for two long breaths, then slowly nodded. “I understand. I myself am puzzled and frustrated by these continued strikes at us. We shall have to plan a suitable response to this tiny band of ragged cowards, but for the moment my hunger overpowers everything else.” He lifted his head and almost howled as he shouted, “Come, my friends! To the slums of New Orleans! We shall dine heartily tonight!”
The entire pack responded with snarls and growls and their own howls. The prospect of a live feast had them wide-eyed and slavering, and the Patriarch knew where a sizable number of homeless prey congregated for the night. As long as he protected his acolytes and fed them bountifully, he would be their leader, and they would follow him blindly.
They were his once again.
For the moment.
*****
Lois laughed as she caught the string of beads thrown from the float. There were innumerable women around her – young, old, alone, in pairs, in groups, with men, without them, drunk, sober, buzzed, straight, stoned out of their minds – who were burdened down with the cheap necklaces because they were willing to bare their breasts to the young people on the floats. Doing so was a long-standing tradition during the Mardi Gras parade, even one happening two days early, but she wasn’t willing to embarrass herself in that way. All she’d done was tug the shoulder of her shirt over about an inch and the man on the float had laughed and tossed her a necklace.
Besides, she knew Clark wouldn’t let her strip in public.
Then an evil thought hit her.
Who cared what Clark thought? All she had to do was lift up her shirt and be showered with beads! She could brag to Lucy about what she’d done to earn them, and these guys didn’t care about one woman’s boobs over any other woman’s. Most of them wouldn’t even remember the parade the next morning, let alone one lone woman’s unadorned chest.
Hey, maybe if she pulled her shirt and bra off and threw them away they’d let her up on the float. She still looked good enough to pull a stunt like that. A couple of the floats had already rewarded such daring with short rides down the block. And it would be easier to apologize to Clark after than get his permission beforehand.
Get his permission? What was she thinking? She din’ need no stinkin’ permission!
She crossed her arms and grabbed the hem of her pullover shirt to lift it—
And Clark grabbed her from behind and carried her away from the parade. “Lois!” he hissed in her ear. “Get hold of yourself!”
She snarled incoherently at him and slammed her head into his nose. Then she rammed her elbow into his stomach and scratched at his hands, all to no avail. One foot found a nearby brick wall and she tried to shove him backward. What was the idiot doing? Why couldn’t he let her do what she—
The realization of what she’d almost done shocked her into immobility. She might as well have been doused with a cooler of ice water. She’d almost stripped to the waist in public! What was she doing? What was she feeling?
She collapsed in tears as Clark held her up. He helped her into the mouth of an alley and said, “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” she sobbed. “I can’t – I wasn’t in control! I knew what I was doing and I just didn’t care!”
“It’s just the party atmosphere, Lois, the Mardi Gras parade, the excitement—”
“No!” She found her footing and stood. “You and I both know what’s really going on! That scratch infected me! We have to go see Arthur’s pack again! We have to find out how to stop this!”
He stiffened. “We can’t. It’s too dangerous.”
She grabbed his shirt collar and pulled his face close to hers. “Listen to me!” she snarled. “I’m not in control of myself! I can’t go back to Metropolis like this! Clark, I – I’m starting to dream about chasing down and eating rabbits and cats and nutria! I can smell things no human should be able to smell! You felt how strong I am just now! Tell me that was normal!”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
“I don’t want to be a werewolf,” she whispered fiercely. “I want to be plain old Lois Lane Kent, ace reporter and senior partner to the second-best reporter in the country. I want to go home to Metropolis and not worry about turning into a vicious, mindless animal and ripping some intern’s throat out because she smiled at you.”
“You’ve had those thoughts? Really?”
“I seriously considered biting our waitress’ face off tonight.”
“But – but she was just being polite! She didn’t mean anything! And I wasn’t attracted to her at all!”
She gritted her teeth angrily. “I know that! But you can’t stand next to me for the rest of our lives, ready to grab me if I try to do something stupid!” She forced herself to relax. “Clark, please. If anyone can help me, Arthur or Jane can.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but said nothing for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “I don’t like it.”
She released his shirt and leaned back slightly. “Neither do I, darling. But I don’t see any real alternative.” She touched his cheek. “We have to go see them together. We’ll make them understand that I don’t want to be a werewolf. We’ll make them tell us how to stop it.”
He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “All right. We’ll pay them a visit.”
*****
Clark landed them softly on the roof of the house where they’d first met Arthur and his pack, just about where he’d first broken in to make his dramatic entrance. As he lowered his glasses and scanned the building with what Lois still called his ‘vision gizmo,’ he huffed out a sigh. “Empty. Nobody’s home. Elvis turned out the lights when he left this building.”
“I want to take a closer look.”
Surprised, he lifted his head to her and spread his hands wide. “Just how close do you want to get?”
“I want inside. Maybe I can sniff out something they left behind.”
“You do recall that you’re with Superman, right? The guy with all the super-senses?”
She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “I remember. I also know that you can’t always smell things through walls or roofs. I want to take a closer look.”
He shrugged and began pulling up shingles. “I hope you know that I’ll be right behind you.”
“I’m counting on it.”
He put his arm around her waist and let her put her foot on his. They floated down together to the second floor landing and landed softly. “Okay, Lois, here we go. Down the stairs and to the left—”
“No. You stay here. I’m going on alone.”
His eyebrows danced on his forehead. “I don’t think so. There’s no human or canine presence here, but that doesn’t mean someone didn’t leave a few booby traps behind.”
“I’m not a booby,” she replied sharply.
He tried to defuse her rising tension by softly taking her hand and tugging her closer. “I know that. I’m just being overprotective, I guess.”
She slid next to him and wrapped her arms around his chest. “No, you’re not, you’re being the best you that you could ever be, and you’re trying to protect me.” She leaned back a little and gazed up at him. “But you can’t protect me from this. I have to take this – this thing, this new ability, whatever we call it, take it out for a few trial runs so I can be certain that I can maintain control. And I need you there as my safety line.”
Her voice softened and her eyes grew even deeper. “I will never stop needing you to save me when I’m in over my head. You’re my hero and I love you for it. But I can’t hold you back from doing what you have to do, and you can’t walk in lockstep with me everywhere I go because I dive in without checking the water level.” She slid her hands down to his and stepped back still holding them. “Please. Just stay here and watch me. I can’t use any of the wolf inside me when we’re this close to each other.”
He held her gaze for a full three seconds, then slowly nodded once. “Okay. I’ll just keep watch here. You go do that voodoo that you do so well.”
Her head tilted to one side without smiling. “You do know where we are, don’t you? New Orleans, the voodoo capital of the USA, remember?”
“Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“And I love you for that, too, but I’ll have to laugh about it later. Wish me luck.”
Luck can run out, he thought, but he didn’t say that aloud. She held his hands long enough to take a deep breath, then she dropped them and sprinted halfway down the first flight of stairs. She skipped the landing by vaulting over the handrail and landing cat-like on the flight below, then almost leaped the rest of the way to the next floor.
Clark was startled. He’d always known she was a good athlete and was aware that she had kept up her martial arts training – she’d actually made him pay attention during their recent sparring sessions – but this display of quickness, agility, and contained power startled him. He watched as she slipped quietly but swiftly through the lower floor, leaning slightly forward as if she were a hunter testing the scents about her.
She coursed through the ground floor, leading with her nose as she padded softly down the hallway. Suddenly she froze beside a closed door. He watched as she examined the doorway with both her eyes and her nose, then he tensed as she slowly opened the door and slipped inside.
All he could see at that point was the top of a flight of stairs and an occasional bit of Lois as she ghosted down to the basement. Old house, stupid lead-based paint, he fumed. If she doesn’t come back into view soon he’d—
She took a turn and reappeared in his special sight, stopping at another doorway near the middle of the basement wall, this one a metal door with a heavy lock on it. Then she sent a shiver down his spine as she turned, looked directly at him, and gestured for him to come to her.
He couldn’t help but believe that she’d known exactly where he was in relation to her, and that she’d known that he’d been watching her like a hawk.
In a moment he was beside her as she examined this new door. “They left through here,” she said, “and I think they took all their gear with them. What’s on the other side?”
He peered through the door and huffed. “It’s an old tunnel that probably started out as a sewer. I can tell by just looking that neither of us is going to be able to follow any scent trail in there.”
“That nasty, huh?” she asked. He nodded. “Well,” she sighed, “I guess we go find one of the Patriarch’s crew.”
He frowned. “You know how bad an idea I thought this was, right?”
“You made your opinion quite plain.”
“Kick that up by a factor of about a hundred.”
She sighed. “Look, Clark—”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“You can protect me.”
“Not if all of them hit us at once.”
“Then I’ll fight back.”
He put his hands on his hips and stepped directly in front of her. “And do what? Are you willing to kill one of them? I guarantee you they won’t take it easy on you!”
She held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “I see your point. We won’t go looking for them.”
Clark relaxed and pulled her to himself. “Look, I’m just as scared as you are. Maybe more. I don’t think – I can’t imagine us not being together for the rest of our lives.”
She snuggled closer. “You won’t have to. I promise you that.”
His arms tightened around her as the glass-half-empty part of his mind muttered, There are no guarantees in life, baby.
*****
Even though he’d skipped breakfast after hearing of this new incident, Robert Gautreaux was physically sick.
Nineteen dead.
All of them dismembered.
And all of them squatters in the same building.
Every bone the searchers found bore non-human tooth marks. The long bones of the legs and arms had been cracked and the marrow sucked out. Most of the muscle tissues and internal organs were gone, and the few remnants of soft tissue displayed tear marks and the evidence of tremendous shear force. This was no cult killing or cannibalistic celebration.
Rougarou had struck once again.
Robert stood beside the door of the condemned property and watched the ambulance attendants, hollow-eyed and pale, carry stretcher after stretcher outside. The number of victims was an estimate based on the number of crushed, bloody skull pieces which were strewn about the old factory. Robert’s hands shook as he contemplated the possibility that there were more victims – or, worse, that some had been carried away while yet living.
That was a fate he judged to be worse than the Nazi Holocaust murders he’d mentioned to Lois Lane two nights before.
So far, the media hadn’t caught wind of this massacre, but that could not last. Someone would mention a husband or wife or adult child who was a police officer or nurse or ambulance driver who had come home crying or in shock. Someone would notice the number of ambulances pulling up to the morgue and disgorging – the word made Robert’s stomach turn over again – the remains of the victims. Someone would have to put names to the various puzzles of bone and tissue they had found.
And someone would have to put a stop to the vile creatures who had done this horrible thing.
The only positive – and it was a horrible one – was that all of the dead seemed to be homeless, the invisible people of modern cities, the closest social class to the Untouchables of traditional India existing in the Western world. The only ones who would miss these victims, the only ones who would feel their loss, were the others like them, others with no material wealth, no jobs, no influential friends who would harass the police or local politicians to do something to avenge them.
Robert didn’t know what to do next.
The city’s police chief was a good man and a good cop, but he had to play the political games Robert hated passionately in order to keep his position. Additionally, the man hadn’t been in New Orleans the last time the Patriarch’s pack had ripped through the city, and he regarded things such as tales of werewolf massacres as so much alcohol-fueled nightmares. Telling Chief Douglas Barnaby that Rougarou had perpetrated this horror would, at best, get him suspended. More likely he’d be transferred to some administrative position until he found another police force in another city willing to hire him. Either way, it would be an exercise in futility.
It did not occur to him that Arthur’s little pack might be indirectly responsible for the charnel house in which he now stood. There weren’t enough of them to kill this many without allowing some to escape. And he firmly believed that Arthur had told Lois Lane the truth, that his pack did not hunt or eat humans. The thought that they might have pushed the Patriarch into this action by denying them other food did not cross his mind.
He needed to talk to Superman. The hero was the only person in the city Robert trusted enough to solicit his advice. Maybe Superman would take pity on them and help them rid his city of this scourge.
He reached for the phone, then hesitated. If he asked Superman for help, it would soon become common knowledge among the others in the precinct. It would be only a few days, perhaps even a few hours, until Chief Barnaby heard. Barnaby would call Robert in for a chat and possibly suspend him if he even hinted at the word Rougarou. There was too much risk, both personal and security-wise, to call Superman directly.
He put his face in his hands for a moment, then his head popped up. Walter.
That was it. He would contact Walter and ask him to pass a message to Clark Kent, asking the reporter to come to Robert’s precinct. He would avoid the danger of allowing his suspicions – no, his certainty – about werewolves to become office gossip fodder. Walter would be most busy sorting through the latest batch of victims, of course, but Robert was certain that he would recognize the urgency of this request.
He pressed the intercom button. Melody Brennan responded at once. “Yes, sir?”
“Please place a call for Dr. Smith in the Medical Examiner’s office to call me at his earliest convenience. It is important.”
“At once, Inspector.”
*****
Louisa D’Amour answered her phone from a standing position beside her desk. “ME’s office, can you hold? Thank – what do you mean ‘no?’ We’re kinda backed up down here and – oh, you’re police? You want who? No. No way, honey. Dr. Smith is up to his butt in dead bodies right now and everybody’s pitching in. They’ve even got me doing Diener duty and I’m an admin, not a gurney jockey! A message? Sure, just let me find – got it. Go ahead.” Louisa listened and scribbled for a moment. “Got it. I don’t know when he’ll get a free moment today – you already told me it was urgent! Police business? What do you think we’re doing down here? Okay, fine! I’ll give him the message as soon as I see him. I gotta get back to work.”
Louisa dropped the phone into its cradle and jammed the message paper into her lab coat pocket. She had every intention of giving it to Dr. Smith as soon as she saw him.
Then someone pushed a gurney into her thigh and she stumbled. Her left hand shot down to keep her from falling and hit something wet and squishy. Louisa yanked her hand away and blood spattered on her face.
“Sorry, Lou,” the young man muttered. “You better wash up right now.”
Almost frantic, Louisa turned and half-ran to the washup sink to get clean. No telling whose blood that was, no telling what communicable diseases might be trying to invade her skin at this very moment. She dropped her coat on the floor and kicked it under the sink, then turned on the water and began scrubbing every exposed part of her skin. She’d grab another lab coat when she was done, and she planned to fill its pockets with latex gloves.
She never gave the message another thought.
*****
Rather than return to their hotel, Clark and Lois wandered toward Jackson Square. Lois held her husband’s hand all the way as if she were drawing strength from him. It seemed to be working – her color was better, her heart rate was down close to normal, and a ghost of a smile played across her face.
He heard the music and gently tugged her in that direction.
“You’re taking me to a concert?”
He tilted his head to one side and smiled. “I think it’s the band we saw that first night. The keyboard player told me you needed my help and I want to thank her. Besides, we could use a short break.”
Lois leaned closer. “You didn’t tell me you’d talked to the keyboardist. You’re sure she told you I needed help?”
“Actually, she said that you needed me. I’d like to know how she came to that conclusion.”
“Huh. I think I want to know, too.”
“Well, then, why don’t we sit down and enjoy the gentle Caribbean island rhythms they’re playing for us?”
He looked around and saw that they weren’t the only ones who were enjoying the soft sounds the band was producing. Lois smiled at him and lifted his hand in hers, then led him to the ledge around the fountain about thirty feet from the band’s setup. They sat and absorbed the music as Lois swayed gently to the soft beat. She closed her eyes and seemed to surrender to the music, apparently secure in the knowledge that Clark would keep her safe no matter what.
The band came to the end of the piece they were playing with a slightly bluesy piano riff. The people clapped enthusiastically, then laughed as the bass player leaned into his mic and said, “Thank you, mes amis, thank you. Your applause warms our hearts. However, that is not what warms our stomachs.” He picked up an upside-down water cooler bottle and turned it to show the home-made label. “As this says, we cannot eat our instruments, so we encourage you to donate what you feel is appropriate. I promise that it will go to food, clothing, and shelter, nothing else.”
Their audience laughed and clapped again. Clark led a number of people walking up to drop both handfuls of coin and folded bills into the bottle. His ten dollars led the donations, but it wasn’t the largest of the session. When the traffic in front of the band died down, he said, “You know, you guys might be the only sober musicians in the city tonight.”
The guitarist and drummer smiled widely. The bass player rolled his eyes. But the keyboardist chuckled. “Thank you, sir. You are probably correct.”
The bassist tilted his head at Clark and said, “There are some specific reasons for our being sober tonight. Aside for our shared distaste for inebriation, I mean.”
“Really? Can you tell me what some of them might be?”
The keyboardist’s smile remained but her eyes changed. “We need to speak with yourself and your wife together, please.”
“Um – what happened to your accent?”
“It is useful for our music and our dealing with the majority of tourists. I was born in Monserrat and lived there until the volcano erupted in 1995. My family fled to New Orleans to work and to survive. I speak fair English, Cajun French, a smattering of Spanish, and some bits and pieces of several tribal languages. But this is not urgent information.” She leaned forward ever so slightly. “Our speaking with you and your wife is, however, most urgent.”
Clark looked at each of their faces and saw the same thing in each one, a gentle determination to complete some kind of mission. After a long moment, he turned and gestured for Lois to join him.
She stood, still smiling, and ambled to his side. When she took his hand again, he said, “Dear, these folks want to speak with us.”
Her puzzlement showed. “Both of us? Together?”
“Oui, madame,” the keyboardist said. “We must bring you a warning.”
Instead of asking what the warning was, Lois said, “What do you think you know about us? Why are you warning us?”
The guitarist switched off his microphone and walked toward her, still holding his guitar over his shoulder. “Jolene – the piano girl – gave your husband a warning the first night you were here. Unfortunately, we were too late to stop your misfortune. We’re glad, though, that he was able to find you and protect you.”
Clark felt Lois’ temper swelling, so he put his arm around her shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze – only slightly harder than normal. “We’re waiting for the warning,” he said.
Jolene, the keyboardist, lowered her voice and said, “We know you have met werewolves in this city. We urge you both to do anything and everything you can to keep them from departing. There are people here who have fought them before and can deal with them, but only if they do not leave the city. This is urgent.”
Lois’s temper deflated, but not her intensity. “Fine. Let’s say you’re on the nose with all this. Why are you telling us? Shouldn’t you tell the people who can deal with them instead?”
The bassist said, “Those folks already know what’s going on and what they need to do. But you two need to help them. With you two working with them, their chances of winning the upcoming battle increase significantly.”
“The two of us?” blurted Lois. “What can I do against them?”
The drummer tapped his sticks together softly and said, “More than you know or believe. Don’t worry, you both will know what to do when the time comes.”
“When will that be?”
The drummer shook his head. “We don’t know exactly when, but we believe it will be soon. Very soon. And when you act, you must not hesitate. Your enemies will give you no quarter. Mercy is not in their vocabulary.”
Clark and Lois stared at the band for a long moment, then as if on cue turned to look into each other’s eyes. Lois was the first to nod, then Clark joined her.
He extended his hand across the keyboard. “Thank you, Jolene. We will heed your warning. We’ll be ready when we need to be ready.”
Jolene took his hand on both of hers and exhaled deeply. “Thank you, sir. Now I believe that the two of you should take this opportunity to rest. There may not be another for a long time.”
“Thanks,” Clark replied, “we’ll do that. We’ll see you again soon.”
The keyboardist smiled sadly and released his hand. “I certainly hope so, sir. I also hope that is a promise which you would not be prevented from keeping.”
