Werehunter (anthology)

out of sick blue eyes.

“Okay, he knows what this sicko is up to—maybe he just now found out, doesn’t want to call the cops for whatever reason. He comes down into the bedroom, locks the kid in the closet to keep her safe—”

“She told me that a bear locked her into the closet,” the woman interrupted.

The detective laughed. “Lady, that kid has a knot the size of a baseball on her skull; she could have seen Luke Skywalker lock her in that closet!” He went back to his deductions. “Okay, he locks the kid in, then makes enough noise so joy-boy thinks she finally woke up. Then when the door opens—yeah. It’ll fly.” He nodded. “Then he gets back out by this hatch.” He sighed, regretful that he wouldn’t ever get a chance to thank this guy. “Won’t be any fingerprints; guy like this would be too smart to leave any.”

He stared at the outline on the blood-soaked carpet pensively. The librarian shuddered.

“Look, officer,” she said, asserting herself, “If you don’t need me anymore—”

“Hey, Pete—” the detective’s partner poked his head in through the door. “The kid’s parents are here. The kid wants her teddy—she’s raising a real howl about it, and the docs at the hospital don’t want to sedate her if they don’t have to.”

“Shit, the kid misses being a statistic by a couple of minutes, and all she can think about is her toy!” He shook his head, and refocused on the librarian. “Go ahead, miss. I don’t think you can tell us anything more. You might want to check into the hospital yourself, get checked over for shock. Either that, or pour yourself a stiff one. Call in sick tomorrow.”

He smiled, suddenly realizing that she was pretty, in a wilted sort of way—and after what she’d just been through, no wonder she was wilted.

“That was what I had in mind already, Detective,” she replied, and made good her escape before he changed his mind.

“Pete, her folks say she won’t be able to sleep without it,” his partner persisted.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead and take it,” he responded absently. If things had gone differently—they’d be shaking out that toy for hair and fiber samples, if they found it at all.

He handed the bear to his partner.

“Oh—before you give it back—”

“What?”

“There’s blood on the paws,” he replied, already looking for trace evidence that would support his theories. “Wouldn’t want to shake her up any further, so make sure you wash it off first.”

Satanic, Versus . . .

Okay, so I don’t always take Diana Tregarde very seriously. When this story appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, however, there was a reader (a self-proclaimed romance writer) who took it seriously, and was quite irate at the rather unflattering picture I painted of romance writers. She wrote a long and angry letter about it to the editor.

The editor, who like me has seen romance writers at a romance convention, declined to comment.

A note: The character of Robert Harrison and the concept of “whoopie witches” was taken from the excellent supernatural role-playing game, Stalking the Night Fantastic by Richard Tucholka and used with the creator’s permission. There is also a computer game version, Bureau Thirteen. Both are highly recommended!

“Mrs. Peel,” intoned a suave, urbane tenor voice from the hotel doorway behind Di Tregarde, “We’re needed.”

The accent was faintly French rather than English, but the inflection was dead-on.

Di didn’t bother to look in the mirror, although she knew there would be a reflection there. Andre LeBrel might be a 200-year-old vampire, but he cast a perfectly good reflection. She was too busy trying to get her false eyelashes to stick.

“In a minute, lover. The glue won’t hold. I can’t understand it—I bought the stuff last year for that unicorn costume and it was fine then—”