one twisted voice Read online

  ‘Where to, bub?’ he asked.

  ‘Where else,’ I said.

  ‘To the bat cave,’ he said as I clambered in the back. I hadn’t even got the door shut before he peeled out with a squeal of tires.

  ‘Do you know you look nothing like the dude in this photograph, Mister Patel?’ I asked, with a nod to his taxi license/ID. The picture was of a middle-aged Indian, complete with turban and circus ringmaster moustache.

  ‘Who ever checks those things any way?’ he said.

  Only astute private eyes, I guessed.

  I mentally shrugged. It wasn’t as if Duffy was actually making a living from his unlicensed taxicab: Generally I was his only fare, and it was a free gratis ride. Not that he ever complained, not when most of the take from my private eyeing went behind his bar. It was a fair arrangement.

  ‘Thanks for coming out for me. You didn’t have to close your bar, did you?’ I said.

  ‘Nah, Portia is standing in for me.’

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone will tell the difference,’ I said.

  ‘If she was a six foot Scandinavian with pneumatic breasts I doubt any of my clientele would notice.’ When she isn’t wrestling or cage fighting Portia makes a few extra bucks pulling beers behind Duffy’s bar, or turfing out troublemakers – also known as those who choose to nurse a single drink all day. She’s a stockily built Lesbian with tats, piercings and a black and white skunk hairstyle. But he was right. The punters at Duffy’s didn’t notice much beyond the rim of their beer glasses.

  We streaked across town. The lights were in our favour on the return leg, and Duffy only ran one red. This time it was a pizza delivery boy who was almost knocked off his bike, and he swore at us in a language a little less colourful than the Hebrew we’d earlier been scolded in.

  This early in the afternoon The City had a different feel to it. Strip joints, tattoo parlours, sex shops and even the bail bondsmen’s offices lost a little of their glitz. Felt a little soulless to be honest. A bit like Troy Bishop in that respect. Or one Roman Dalton, if I’d to be honest with myself. Taking cash from a bloodsucker didn’t sit easy with me, especially when it meant I was assisting him in his nefarious vampy ways. But he’d made a fair argument in that if he couldn’t get back to chowing down on lowlifes then he’d have to move up the scale from pondlife hunter to apex predator. The alternative was waging war on Bishop and his Strigoi brethren (and there were a number of them in The City if Bishop was to believed) and where was the monetary reward in that?

  ‘What do you know about OOZE, Duffy?’

  ‘Booze I know, OOZE I don’t know much,’ Duffy said. ‘But let me think.’ He fiddled with the radio, turned it from a sports channel, through a Radical Christian Evangelist Sermon and found a station playing gutsy Rhythm and Blues. Muddy Waters aptly growled out “Got my mojo working…”

  ‘Well,’ I asked after he’d had some ruminating time. ‘Your mojo do its thing?’

  ‘There’s this club over on Hunter and Sixth: hear tell there’s been some crazy shit coming outta there in the past few weeks.’

  ‘How come I haven’t heard anything about it?’

  ‘Like I asked you earlier, Roman: do you ever listen to me?’

  ‘Sure I do. The Cack-Stinky Twins aren’t the midgets from Fat Man Moog’s joint. You told me about the crazy shit that happened on Hunter?’

  ‘Police have been there in numbers the last two weekends. First time it was a good ol’ bar brawl that dragged them away from their doughnuts and coffee. Second time was worse. A fire. Three dead, and other punters running screaming through the streets in a frenzy of terror. Apparently the crazies claimed their drinks had been spiked and they were all part of a collective mass hysteria where bat-winged monstrosities with glowing eyes were swooping them trying to suck out their brains. Some God-bothering preacher who said he had to cleanse the work of the devil allegedly started the fire. He’s still in lock-up. He couldn’t make bail having spent all his church’s tithes on loose women and booze.’

  ‘Just sounds like a regular night in The City,’ I said.

  ‘Except when the crazies came down more than half of them claimed to have been approached by some pusher offering OOZE. You know how pushers work, Roman. Sometimes they’ll throw out a freebie or two, or maybe slip a doobie in someone’s drink just to get them hooked. It’s the classic “speculate to accumulate” ploy.’

  ‘Anyone have a clue who the pusher was?’

  ‘People weren’t clear on it – never are when speaking with the cops – but the general consensus was he was a one-eyed Keith Richards lookalike. You know Keith Richards right?’

  ‘The Rolling Stones?’

  ‘One and the same.’

  ‘They were talking about Cyclops Pete,’ I said. “Cyclops Pete” Clegg was one wrinkly-faced mother who wore a leather patch to cover his empty socket. Lost his eye in a game of poker. Not that it was put up as a stake, but when he neglected to pay his debt some Russian mobster had him held down and his eyeball spooned out like the yolk from a soft-boiled egg. Maybe by leaving off his eye patch he thought no one would recognise him.

  ‘Where would I find Cyclops Pete?’

  ‘No idea,’ Duffy said. ‘But I’m sure someone of your prodigious talent won’t have any trouble sniffing him out.’

  ‘OK. I’ve have less of the bloodhound cracks, pally.’

  Duffy winked at me in the rear-view.

  FOUR

  For a one-eyed-Rolling-Stone-lookalike Cyclops Pete proved more elusive than you’d think. See, The City has its fair share of oddball characters and its not as if an eye-patch wearing, leather-faced, bandana-sporting fellow stands out from the crowd. In fact I was beginning to think there was a “Pirates of the Caribbean” convention in town the number of false leads I followed. But find him I did.

  Duffy wasn’t totally off the mark either when he said I’d sniff him out.

  The way it went down was this:

  I don’t only change on the full moon.

  I change on the cycles of the moon, and it generally pans out to three times per calendar month.

  As a man, I followed the rumours of OOZE around The City, hearing frightening things about its effect on users – or OOZERS as they were called. There were unsubstantiated tales of people “warping” under the influence, growing talons and scales and such. I’d heard crazier tales and seen more insane sights since my unwilling enlistment into the otherworldliness of The City occurred.

  First time the beast in me surfaced there must have been enough in my residual memory to take me to the Hocus Pocus Club on the corner of Hunter and Sixth Avenue. Due to fire damage it had been closed down, but the shutters were nothing to my claws and I was inside in minutes. The place smelled bad, but not to the mind of a werewolf. Beneath the stench of wet ashes and molten plastic there lingered the pork-roast aroma of the three victims who’d fallen to the flames. Made me salivate, but my urge to feed was overwhelmed by my instinct to seek. I detected in the men’s bathroom a stall where some sticky yellow ooze had solidified on the porcelain cistern – both spared by the fire that had raged through the dancehall and bar. The smell from the ooze was unnatural, something ascorbic with the underlying hint of decay. Now it wasn’t the only icky stain in the bathroom – it was one of those kinds of clubs – but it was the only one that reeked of the inhuman. Once I had the odour in my nostrils I was off, galloping through the streets of Old City, following the pheremonal trail back to a crack house dive down by the waterfront.

  There was a big bald guy holding a leashed pit-bull terrier standing guard. He was scarred, beefed up and wore a spiked collar. Not the dog, the man. Even in my wolfen state I recognised the collar for what it was. Defence against a Strigoi attack: apparently the OOZE pushers were aware they’d made some powerful enemies. The collar meant nothing to my jaws, not when I could easily tear off his head with my claws.

  I left the guard flopping like a fish out of water, but spared the dog. I liked dogs.
The pit-bull made itself scarce once I snapped the chain-link leash from around its throat.

  Some creatures of the night are stealthy. They creep around, staying to the shadows to avoid detection before springing to the attack. Me: I was all about noise and bluster. I smashed through the doors, howling, and was inside the crack house before anyone could shout “It’s a raid!”. It was a conscious shock and awe tactic, simply the ravening beast in me begging to be let loose, but it worked.

  There were five pushers inside. Two OOZERS too. The OOZERS were in the act of dripping piss-yellow goo off their overly long talons into their wide maws. They looked monstrous, but they were the least of my concern. The pushers didn’t use their product, and they had their wits about them. Not to mention weapons.

  Still the sudden appearance of a hairy creature sporting fangs and claws in their midst had the effect it normally did. They didn’t think to pull out their guns but did what their terrified minds commanded and tried to flee. I was on them. I’d no pity – man or beast – for the scumbags. They were pushing a drug that poisoned their customers, but worse than that it changed them. It made monsters of the OOZERS and in turn the OOZERS attempted to infect others with the same filth. I clawed and bit and tore, my wild side howling at the liberation.

  Three of them were dead before one man thought to pull out his gun.

  Pity the hand he reached for it with was already lying on the floor about ten feet away. Before his wet stump bumped against the stock of his pistol, I snapped my jaws onto his skull and crunched. I shook him and his head came off. I spat it out. I had better taste.

  Crouching, I stared balefully at the final pusher and watched his single eye widen in horror.

  Before I could grab Cyclops Pete the two OOZERS seemed to understand that I’d just been responsible for cutting off their supply route and they turned their anger on me.

  For malformed things they could move fast.

  They shrieked high-pitched squeals, and sprang at me with claws as keen as mine.

  I swatted them to the skanky carpet with disdain. They were only partly turned while I was all monster.

  I ground their skulls into the floorboards, allowing their brains to pop out of their ears and nostrils. All the while I watched Cyclops Pete watching me.

  He made a noise.

  Gaaarrrkkkllleee it sounded like, and he tried to get up from the couch he’d been laying on, having sought protection from the sunken cushions he’d piled around him.

  Leaving the OOZERS oozing grey matter I pounced on Cyclops Pete and met him eyes for eye.

  In my feral state I couldn’t hit him with a juicy one-liner.

  I simply let it be known what would happen to him if he didn’t behave by way of a long, ominous growl that emanated all the way up from my chest and seeped over his face in a cloud of bloody mist and dog breath.

  FIVE

  Barefooted, I stood in a pair of dead man’s trousers and stained vest like a stand-in for the next Bruce Willis movie.

  In front of me was Cyclops Pete, spared evisceration but not a few lumps on his head. Not that I’d beat him up or anything, but slung over my shoulder and carried back to my hiding place I hadn’t given him an easy ride. More than once his head had banged against a doorframe or wall, and I’d finally flung him senseless to the deck, unmindful of another egg-sized lump that grew on his forehead. The swelling actually helped his looks, kind of shrink-wrapping the wrinkles in his face. By the time he’d surfaced from the impromptu nap I was Roman Dalton again and he was trussed in a chair.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ was his first waking question. Then, with a fearful scan around the abandoned warehouse I’d brought him to, ‘Where’s that thing?’

  ‘Back in the dog house for now,’ I said. ‘But unless you start talking I can call him back here. I’m sure he’s ready for some chum after all that exercise.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ he said without pause.

  ‘You push OOZE.’ It wasn’t a question but a statement that didn’t require affirmation. ‘But you’re a street level hawker at best. Who is behind it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you!’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘Can’t! I’ll be killed.’

  ‘What do you think your future holds for you right here right now?’ For emphasis I showed him my gun.

  ‘You’re not going to shoot me.’

  ‘Am I not?’

  I shot him through his right foot.

  Cyclops Pete screamed in agony. Then he screamed for help. No one would hear him this deep inside the old factory. It was why I was happy enough firing my gun without a suppressor.

  I aimed my gun at his other foot. ‘Ready to speak now?’

  ‘Wilhelm Von Richter! Von Richter’s behind it all!’

  Von Richter? The name was unfamiliar.

  ‘On the streets he’s known as the Austrian!’ Cyclops Pete went on.

  Ah, now I knew whom he was talking about. I’d heard that the Austrian was some sort of magician who’d recently arrived from Europe toting along some ancient black magic tomes with him. Apparently he owned a very rare copy of a forbidden book called Das Hauptbuch Versteckte Dämonische Namen. I’d heard it mentioned that several rare book collectors had engaged professional thieves in order to acquire the book for them but all of those thieves had suddenly dropped off the planet. So had several of the book collectors. I didn’t read German, but understood the title roughly translated as The Ledger of Hidden Demonic Names. Ledgers usually record numbers, not names, but then black magic and numerology was often interweaved, so what did I know?

  ‘So what is OOZE? Something Von Richer has concocted?’

  ‘I don’t know. Honest. I’m telling the truth.’

  Cyclops Pete was too afraid to tell a lie.

  ‘Where do I find the Austrian?’

  ‘Please! Von Richter will kill me if I say.’

  ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t.’ When he didn’t seem swayed by my threat, I added, ‘Or I can always call back your hairy friend. All that blood I just bet he’ll start gnawing on you from the feet up. Imagine what it must be like watching yourself being eaten alive.’

  Cyclops Pete had a good imagination.

  SIX

  Despite my threats they were all bluff. I knew Cyclops Pete feared the magician and would need a bit more motivation than another gunshot wound to tell all. But his fear of being eaten alive did the trick.

  I sought the address he’d supplied during the daylight hours, with Duffy’s taxicab proving good camouflage for a stake out. Duffy didn’t normally accompany me on jobs, and he hadn’t this time either. Portia had stood in at the bar so he could guard Cyclops Pete until my return.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep a good eye on him,’ he’d quipped even as he handed over the keys to his taxi. ‘Don’t forget to put some gas in the tank.’

  Hiding in plain sight is best. Something as familiar as a taxi on the streets of The City was as good as having a Vulcan cloaking device when it came to fooling the guards on Von Richter’s door.

  There were two men. Giant Teutonic fellas with square chins and blue eyes. Looked like Dolph Lundgren and his doppelgänger. They would eat me alive for supper, but only in my current guise. But I could feel the tingling in my extremities. Pretty soon the tingling would become a cold fire that swept through me and set my nerves on end. After that things would get really painful. But then it wouldn’t be me who’d to worry about being someone’s supper.

  I got out of the taxi, locked the doors and walked across the street. The neighbourhood was fancier than the one in which Bishop the Strigoi resided, but then Von Richter could generally pass as a normal human being. His house was large and eerie, all towers and peaks, and befitting a black magician. The house was erected for some 1940s starlet who’d played alongside some of the greats. But then a morphine addiction had stripped her of her looks, and her sanity, and her star had dimmed as quickly as a shooting star. She’d ended up a
n unmarried, embittered spinster who went crazy and ended her days up in one of the eight bedrooms, swinging from a noose.

  I didn’t walk directly to Von Richter’s house. I headed for an alley that ran between two mansion houses a block down. Tall brick walls kept the plebeians from entering the grounds of either house. The boughs of overgrown trees made a canopy overhead. Good place to lurk in the shadows. Good place to wait out the rising moon. I kicked out of my Doc Martens, shucked off my raincoat, suit jacket and shirt. But just in case anyone did wander by before my metamorphosis I kept on my trousers and vest: Die Hard The Return.

  Clouds were boiling in the heavens. Big, thick and bulbous they shrouded the moon. Didn’t change a damn thing. The lunar cycle happened whether or not there were clear skies. I felt that familiar burst of white-hot fire in my chest and it flared all the way to the extent of my extremities. I actually growled in delight, welcoming the onset of the beast for a change.

  Since those early transformations I had learned to separate some small corner of my consciousness, so that I could view the actions of my beast-self as if through the eyes of an observer. I couldn’t change a damn thing that the wolf did, but these days I could bare witness.

  SEVEN

  The two Aryan giants proved ineffective as guards against the thing of ferocity I became. They were left lying in steaming puddles of their own innards without ever getting off a warning shout. I was inside Von Richter’s home and it took less than a heartbeat to pick up the same ascorbic scent that had led me to Cyclops Pete’s hide out. I sniffed, my muzzle close to the floor as I went on all fours. The residual memory of my cop life urged that I find the laboratory where Von Richter manufactured his drug, but the wolf part ignored it. Instead it took up the scent and instead of heading for the backrooms of the large house, it sought entry to the underground.

  Padding on wide splayed feet, claws ticking on hardwood floors, I went forward, and saliva flooded my wide-open mouth with each inhalation. The trail was powerful; many gallons of OOZE had been transported throughout the house, but all from a central location beneath my feet. Momentarily the beast in me clawed at the floor and parquet went sailing. Then a slice of intelligence cut through the red haze and I bounded towards the bottom of a flight of stairs. The stairs led upward to the bedrooms where the Golden Age starlet stretched her neck to breaking point, but the beast in me had no intention of seeking out her ghost. To the left of the stairwell the wall looked unbroken, but there was no stopping me with the scent demanding action. I crashed bodily into the wall, and shattered the concealed doorway. Then I was bounding down a narrow hidden stairwell, deep into the earth.