Jack Palance died today, after ending the Iraq war single-handedly, unarmed, at the age of 87. Well, not entirely unarmed — he did have a toothpick in his left hand. Being right-handed, the wizened actor rationalized that it would be more fair to the 4,800 terrorists he took out. After cleaning out Iraq, Jack briefly considered cleaning up the rest of the Middle East, but didn’t consider it enough of a challenge. Instead, he ascended directly to Heaven on a mission to kick God’s ass for a shady bet He welched on fifty years ago in a Mexican bar.
     That’s how Jack Palance should have died. Apparently, in real life, he died of “natural causes”.
     Natural causes? How do you die of natural causes when you’re made of beef jerky, piss, and vinegar?
     

     Alice’s eyebrows quirked up as she watched several men, looking like rough-and-tumble bikers, walk in the door. The backs of their leather jackets were emblazoned with a red claw slash in a circle. They were Mauraderites, which was, in Alice’s opinion, one of the dumbest names she’d ever heard for a gang. Then again, what could you expect from a pack of werewolves? They didn’t exactly go to college or anything.
     The question was, what were they doing here? Granted, werewolf packs roamed in cities, too, although fortunately, not much. When they did, they usually stuck to the outskirts and alleys. You didn’t really find them in bars and grocery stores.
     She watched them mill about in the bar, confused. They looked human enough, but they weren’t. Humans were monkeys, and acted like it. These were wolves. And acted like it. True enough, they were very intelligent wolves, fully sentient, but they had a whole different take on the world than humans. They were an entirely different species. She watched as they took over a table, the alpha, a big, shaggy-looking guy with a bushy salt and pepper beard and half an acre of tangled, greasy hair, sitting down first. The rest sorted themselves out around the table according to status, their eyes darting around the room . . .
     . . . marking prey?
     Alice shook her head. Werewolves didn’t hunt humans as a general rule, unless someone had really pissed them off. That took some work, too, because werewolves just didn’t care about humans. Could they be here after her clients? Working for Vayle?
     No, that didn’t make any sense, either. If werewolves didn’t care about humans, then they really didn’t care about vampires, and they certainly weren’t going to be taking orders from one. Alice scanned the room, looking to see if there were another werewolf there. That did happen, werewolves attacking or hunting each other. Interpack wars and so forth, or a former pack member who had committed some crime, that kind of thing.
     As she watched, the waitress approached the table, the alpha’s eyes went to her, and Alice sensed something in the pack shift. With no further warning, the pack boiled up out of their seats and fell on the waitress, snarling. The bar exploded into instant chaos, patrons reeling as they spun to see what was going on. The waitress shrieked and Alice watched a gout of blood fly up in the air.
     Alice took a quick glance around, sidled down the bar a bit, and took cover between the jukebox and the wall. An arm flew through the air and someone else started screaming. Shots rang out. Alice closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again, and the world had changed. Now she could see the flowing auras of power and energy around the humans, wolves, and objects in the bar. The human auras were vividly yellow and spiking like solar flares, screaming fear and confusion all over the room. The wolf auras were violently black and red, pulsing and ominous, and shot through with cords of deep, sick green.
     Something was wrong with them. Green spoke of poison or drugs.
     Alice pulled her .357 and checked the load. She didn’t have any silver bullets, but that was all right. Silver was an allergy. Dogs couldn’t eat chocolate, and werewolves couldn’t be around silver, but in either case, it didn’t usually cause instant death. However, a good bullet between the eyes would kill a werewolf just as easy as a human.
     From the side, the door to Mickey’s business room flew open, and Vincent and the Irishman ran out. Irish was wielding a big broadsword with two hands. Alice rolled her eyes. They were facing a pack of werewolves, and Irish had a pigsticker out. Because of course, when fighting vicious werewolves, a guy definitely wanted to be in close combat. Stupid.
     Alice followed the action back over to the pack, and sucked in a gasp. They were shifting – what the hell? Right out in front of God and everybody! And they were – stuck? They had quit shifting about halfway through, from the looks of things. Their auras were full of confusion and mad rage, a riot of reds and yellows, and their attention was now focused on the threat to the pack, Vincent and Irish.
     Alice started to stand up. Things were getting ugly, and she couldn’t have her clients getting killed before they had cut a check.

     Copyright, 2006, JavaElemental

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