City Under the Moon Page 4

  Not that he’d deny his passions. He was a fan of many things: collectible card games, vintage sci-fi, massively multiplayer role-playing games, the women of seventies-era sci-fi television; the fantasy writings of Neil Gaiman, George R. R. Martin, Robert Jordan, and master J.R.R. Tolkien; the artworks of Bernie Wrightson, Frank Frazetta, and H.R. Giger; music of articulated spite; all things Lord of the Rings; and much more. He lived to indulge in fandom, and unlike the pussies at school, he wasn’t afraid to let his passions show.

  But his interest in the occult—in lycanthropy specifically—wasn’t a matter of fandom. Even a modicum of research would result in far too much evidence for any educated mind to deny the truth.

  No, the truth (if such a concept could be removed from abstracts and primal fears) is that preternatural lurkers are all around us. Hiding in the mist, scratching in the dark, flirting with our subconscious... But their dark magicks became hidden eons ago. Those “in the know”—interesting that they called themselves Illuminati—forged a dark pact with the Devil (perhaps, but not necessarily specifically, the Biblical interpretation of such a beast), shrouding corporeal manifestations of evil in alternate planes of existence, thus obscuring the truth so that normal folk might sleep peacefully. But, alas, the human imagination would not be thoroughly repressed, and so our creative minds had invented bastardized versions of the demons persisting in our nightmares, and proliferated them throughout popular culture.

  Every society in the history of the world has concocted its own legend of a human shapeshifter! Coincidence? Please!

  But everything was about to change. The Internet was a new tool, one that could never have been imagined by the silent monks, banished priests, and outcast lepers—those purged from society in order to keep the secret of the dark pact. Righteous warriors, speakers of the dark truths, would band together through new information networks, sharing their intelligence in virtual secret cabals, restoring to mankind the lost knowledge we so desperately need.

  Diddle-eee! Diddle-iddle-dee-dee-do-dee-dee!

  Diddle-eee! Doo-dee-doo-due-do-eee…

  Lon’s Instant Message ringtone was the opening bars to Toccata und Fugue in D minor by Johann Sebastian Bach, the ubiquitous aural introduction to horror radio plays, B-movies and TV commercials for haunted houses. Pedestrian, he knew. But his head wasn’t too bloated for irony.

  He reclined on his futon, smiling at its charming creak, and resumed play in iTunes, thus spilling the ballet suite from Swan Lake through his wall-mounted speakers. The melancholy theme never failed to remind him of Dracula, director Tod Browning’s 1931 masterpiece starring Bela Lugosi.

  Lon cracked his knuckles as he eagerly read the IM, a beckon from the screen name GothkGrl. “Are you there, my dark prince?” was scrawled in purple zombified font.

  ‘Twas the fair Elizabeth, the love of Lon’s life. Their affair had begun with flirtatious missives on sundry occult forums and blossomed into six months of heated IMs.

  He was working up the nerve to call her, but never mind about that.

  “Good evening, my grotesque beauty,” Lon typed with a mischievous grin.

  As he awaited her response, curiosity led him to open his Internet Protocol tracing program. The surge to his Of Wolves and Men website had come from the northeastern United States. New York and DC. Maybe An American Werewolf in London had run on cable.

  “Evening, hardly,” Elizabeth responded. “I’m five hours hence from slumber. And my harridan host womb woke me at an unconscionable hour this very morn, blasting her loathsome radio.”

  He loved it when she got bitchy.

  Lon began typing an in-depth description of the travesty he’d suffered at the Magic tournament, but he froze when he heard the cellar door open. It could only be one of two people, and the heavy footfalls suggested the greater of the two evils. He quickly shut his monitors and speakers, leaving his lady love in mid-sentence, rolled under his covers, faced the wall, and feigned sleep.

  The bottom of the stairs always took Frank by surprise. The oaf caught a bookcase and paused for a moment, probably ogling one of Lon’s Lord of the Rings action figures. Several of them had hackjob superglue repairs from Thanksgiving, when Frank had stomped on them during a drunken rant. Great night that was. Lots to give thanks for.

  Frank came closer and stood next to the futon, looking down on Lon. “You ain’t a-sleepin’,” he said in a questioning tone.

  Lon wished he could cough up his hatred like some kind of diseased sputum and spit it right in Frank’s face. He was also coming to despise his mother for bringing him into this hell, no matter how damn lonely she’d gotten. And for being so stupid that she didn’t see Frank for what he really was.

  “Maybe I’ll just take one of these here action dolls if you ain’t awake.”

  If Frank was going to take one of his collectibles, Lon wouldn’t be able to stop him. He’d learned that lesson on the ass end of more than one beating.

  His stepfather stood over him for a good, long while, breathing unevenly through his drunkenness. Was he going to pass out, or did he fall asleep on his feet? Or was he imagining something disgusting?

  Time passed—seconds felt like minutes.

  Could Frank tell he was awake? How long had it been?

  Lon felt himself slipping into helpless despair. What was this creep going to do? Why wouldn’t he just leave?

  Lon’s mind always wandered back to the same hole: What had he done to deserve his life? He couldn’t convince anyone to like him. Not the kids at school, not Frank, not even himself.

  Maybe he deserved these beatings.

  The wait was maddening.

  Finally, Frank shifted. His leather boot creaked out one final threat. After another moment, he turned and plodded up the stairs.

  Lon fought as hard as he could, but still the tears came.

  Two

  Akron, Ohio

  December 31

  6:14 a.m.

  “Lon, could I see you up here?”

  Lon stirred to consciousness, hoping he’d dreamed that voice.

  “Lon, could I see you up here?” Frank asked again. The first request had been three-dollar-bill polite. This was an ultimatum.

  Mom would have left for work by ten after six. The dust probably hadn’t settled in the tracks of her Isuzu Rodeo.

  “Up here. Now.”

  Lon sighed and fumbled for his glasses. What a way to start a day. He looked around for some pants—

  Frank started down the stairs.

  Lon bolted to intercept him, meeting him midway. If he couldn’t avoid a fight, it might as well be upstairs where his collectibles weren’t within reach.

  “What?” he asked, mustering as much nonchalance as possible while quivering in his tightie-whities.

  “You get up here when I tell you to.”

  He followed Frank up to the kitchen, wondering which flavor of bullshit—

  “I wanted to have a conva’sation with you ‘bout them cards you play with,” Frank said, nodding in agreement with himself as he spoke. His face was a twisted collision of beady eyes, droopy ears, furry eyebrows and a snaggletooth that protruded from the right corner of his mouth. How could anyone have sex with such a man? “How much you spend on them things?”

  Lon sighed. They’d had this talk before and it always went back to this: “It’s my money, Frank. I earned it myself.”

  “Yeah, but it’s family money. Y’see, I earned the money for the food that goes into your mouth, but I don’t see none of that back, you unda’stand?”

  Lon kept his eyes on the floor. “Yes.”

  “Now I don’t care what your mom says, you’re gonna start givin’ back for all’s that you’s takin’ from this family, you unda’stand?”

  “I…” Lon sputtered. Agreeing would probably lock him into forking over most of his savings. But he couldn’t take a stand now, not without his mom’s protection.

  Frank threw one of his massive hands at Lon’s neck and
slammed him against the refrigerator, which clanged in alarm.

  Lon couldn’t get any air. He clawed at Frank’s hand, but there was no competing with the strength of a lifelong farmer.

  “Do. You. Unda’stand?” His breath was putrid.

  Lon couldn’t respond, couldn’t nod, couldn’t even look Frank in the eye.

  “Little pissy fag. You like to fuck boys? Or maybe you think about fucking your mom, hmm? Wish I wasn’t in the picture?” Every word fueled his own anger. This was when he was the most dangerous, when he got himself going. Lon had often wondered if Frank might kill him some day. Maybe this was it. No warning. No reason. No pants.

  The world grew cloudy, the cold against his back faded, and Frank’s taunts warbled away as if they were leaving through a tunnel. He’d felt this sensation before; it meant he was about to pass out. All he could do was hope that he’d wake up, and that Frank wouldn’t break any of his things.

  Then he heard a new, unfamiliar noise: a rhythmic pounding, whirling in his chest. Maybe the washing machine had come on. Or maybe he was having a heart attack. Then it got bigger, enveloping the room. The rickety house began to shake and Frank gawked at the walls. So it wasn’t just his imagination.

  Finally, Frank dropped him.

  Lon crumpled, and his lungs raged with saliva-filled drags and honks. Each gasp was more humiliating than the last. He couldn’t help but cry, even though he knew Frank reveled in his suffering.

  That whirling was still pounding at the walls.

  WHUPWHUPWHUP.

  Two men in black suits knocked at the screen door. They’d just arrived by helicopter.

  “I didn’t touch him!” Frank wailed, shooting his guilty hands into the air.

  The men let themselves in. In perfect David Caruso fashion, they removed their sunglasses and assessed the scene for a long, silent moment.

  “I didn’t touch him,” Frank repeated with more conviction.

  The men were looking down on a purple-faced eighteen-year-old lying on his kitchen floor in soiled tightie-whities, and their faces bore no expression.

  “Are you Boris Toller?” one of them asked.

  Lon rasped, “I am.”

  Three

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  December 31

  8:12 a.m.

  Lon couldn’t make his legs stop shaking.

  The White House.

  He was waiting to speak with someone very important, maybe even the President of the United States. And wondering why.

  Signs pointed to something bad. He must’ve done something wrong. Something very wrong. If it was what he thought it was, Frank was finally going to snap his neck once and for all.

  Six years prior, Lon had sent the previous administration a stern letter warning that lycanthropy was a present threat to America. Furthermore, he’d demanded that they send an expedition of scientists and commandos to investigate unsolved murders in Romania. (Um, and maybe he’d offered to lead it.)

  He should’ve known better. The government may be slow to react, but they do take that kind of shit seriously.

  But come on! It wasn’t like he’d threatened the president. Or, at least, he hoped he hadn’t. Could he have worded something badly?

  Oh man, had it sounded like a threat?

  Still, though… helicopters? Really?

  “Can I get you something to drink, Mister Toller?” the secretary asked with a smile. “Something decaffeinated, maybe?”

  Lon shook his head. What was that about? What did she know?

  When he was in third grade, Lon accidentally tripped the sweetest girl in school, Caroleigh Combe. She fell on a curb and broke her two front teeth. As they carried the cutie patootie away—screaming, bleeding, and disfigured from her encounter with Lon the Horrendous Monstrosity—the playground official told him to wait on Mister Harris’ bench. That was where all the bad kids went, where your stomach turned knots as you imagined the cruel fate awaiting you within that office. Nobody knew what went on in there. Or even what Mister Harris’ job title was. But that fucker was scary and Holy Frak, if this chair didn’t feel exactly like that bench...

  The open door to the hallway read “National Security Advisor’s Office.”

  They hadn’t arrested him. But does the government even have to arrest you? Couldn’t they just lock you up and, like, waterboard you?

  If something didn’t happen soon, he was going to have to go to the bathroom, and it was going to be the kind of visit where he needed to be home. Like when he ate something with lactose, he’d need to spray “Poo-Pourii” to nullify the—

  One of the doors opened and Lon stood (well, maybe he jumped, maybe like an alarm had gone off inside his ear). Then he immediately sat back down. Be cool. The Fonz cool. Sam Jackson quoting The Fonz cool.

  An important-looking man in a distinguished suit emerged from one of the offices behind the secretaries. He said some words, none of which Lon was able to process, and then he squished Lon’s hand like an earthworm. The guy was at least six inches taller than Lon, and his slick hair and tailor-cut suit made him look like one of Ocean’s howevermany.

  Lon felt underdressed and unworthy, like a hobbit in the Matrix. He just wanted to leave.

  “Mr. Toller?”

  Lon swallowed air and followed the man into his office. It was tight and cluttered and not at all what he expected. He was grateful when he found the nameplate on his desk. Derek Freese, Assistant to the National Security Advisor.

  “So…Boris. You’re probably wondering why we have you here today.”

  “Lon.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My father was… ah…” Lon hated having to explain this. “Well, a week before I was born, Boris Yeltsin announced that Russia was going to stop targeting the United States with nuclear weapons.”

  “So ‘Boris’… happened to you.”

  “That’s why I go by Lon.”

  “Why Lon?”

  “I just do.” This had gotten embarrassing enough. “Sir.”

  “Derek will be fine. And I’ll call you Lon. That’s a great name,” he said, as if it were a malignant tumor. “So, Lon, they tell me you’re the foremost authority on werewolves.”

  What what?

  “Lon? Do we have the wrong person? Werewolves?”

  “Lycanthropy,” Lon blurted. Habit.

  “Is that… that’s a werewolf, right?”

  “Lycanthropy. From the Greek lykoi, ‘wolf,’ and anthropos, ‘man.’ It’s commonly misrepresented as a psychotic state in which a person believes he or she is a wolf. Which is to say, of course, this is a misnomer, because mainstream medicine hasn’t yet accepted the truth of the—“

  “Lon,” the deputy whatever interrupted, “I’m sorry, but we’re in a hurry. In five minutes, Secret Service agents are going to escort you to the National Archives Building, where you’ll be exposed to every shred of information the government has collected in regard to werewolves. At some point later today, you’re going to report back to us, in as succinct a manner as possible, and reconcile what you find against popular lore. We need to separate fact from fiction.”

  Lon wanted to say something profound—

  Deputy guy leaned forward. “Lon. Do you understand?”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “Yes. But I won’t answer.”

  Four

  Arlen Specter Headquarters and Operations Center,

  Centers for Disease Control and Prevention

  Atlanta, Georgia

  December 31

  8:31 a.m.

  Jessica Tanner gripped her desk as a new wave of cramps rippled through her abdomen. She focused on the soothing light shelves at the far end of her office and tempered her breathing until the pain ebbed.

  This was her third attempt at in-vitro fertilization. The process had begun with a ten-day regimen of self-administered needles and pills: hormones to hyper-stimulate the ovaries into producing extra eggs. Earlier tha
t morning, the doctor had used a needle—a big needle—to extract the eggs, which would be fertilized in a lab somewhere. Meanwhile, the punctured ovaries filled with fluid, swelling to—

  She gritted her teeth for the next wave. This was always the worst part of it. Once the local wears off, the cramps hit like a bowling ball shot from a cannon.

  Maybe the pain should be a warning sign. A pregnancy at 47? Why go through it? She would’ve been fine with adoption. It was Richard who wanted his own child, and she just couldn’t disappoint him.

  No. It wasn’t him; it was her. It was the paranoia. Was she getting too old? Too boring? Not smart enough, or willing enough, or sexy enough? Now she was treating herself like a pincushion to keep him happy.

  Ow. She bent over and groaned at the floor.

  But Richard was her lifeline, not only to the rest of the world, but to herself. She hadn’t existed before she met Richard.

  Pathetic, but true.

  Her childhood had been arduous. With intelligence came premature confidence and rapid alienation. She’d had no interest in entertaining uninspired minds simply to sate the immature need for companionship.

  By her teenage years, she’d given up on a social life and focused on work, where discourses were limited to intellectual debates. The effort took her to Harvard, to UCLA, and to the CDC.