Bad Moon Rising. Джонатан Мэйберри

boyhood and who transformed regularly into a savage wolf for the purpose of hunting humans for sport and food. The article also gave the many aliases Stubbe used over the years: Peter Stubb, Peter Stumpf, Abel Greenwyck, Abel Griswald…and Ubel Griswold.

      His skin crawled.

      There was a URL on the printout and he typed it in, bringing up a page with a lot of history about that and similar werewolf trials, most of which had been conducted by the Inquisition. Dr. Corbiel had a typically dry and detailed academic style, but the case details were nonetheless bloody and sensational.

      Newton sat back in his chair and considered this, tapping his lower teeth with the cap of his pen. U of P was in Philly, maybe fifty, sixty miles from where he sat. Maybe he could meet with this Professor Corbiel, pick his brain. Pretend to be doing a story on the folklore behind the pop culture, something like that. Or maybe writing a pop-culture book.

      He looked for an e-mail address and found it on the staff directory, and clicked on it to load an e-mail screen. [email protected].

      “Dear Professor Corbiel,” he began.

      (3)

      Before Weinstock even had the door closed, Val said, “Crow told me everything.”

      “Okay,” he said carefully, glancing at Crow.

      Crow nodded. “She knows what we know.”

      “That was fast, don’t you think? Val needs rest and—”

      “Listen to me, the both of you,” Val interrupted. “I know I’m hurt, I know I’m pregnant, and I know that Mark and Connie’s deaths haven’t really hit me yet, not like they will…but if either of you starts walking softly around me, or hides stuff from me because you don’t want to upset me or some such crap, I’ll skin you both alive. You know I’m not joking here. My family is dead and I need to understand why…and how.”

      She looked at each of them in turn.

      Crow took the lead. “Believe me, sweetie, this isn’t a matter of the manly men not wanting to upset the womenfolk. The real problem, at least for me, is that I don’t know how to talk about this.”

      Weinstock nodded agreement.

      Val nodded. “Then that’s a problem we’re going to have to solve right now, boys. Are we talking past or present tense?” When they looked perplexed, she added, “Did Boyd’s death end it, or does…what happened last night…indicate that this is still happening?”

      “We’ve been chewing on that all morning,” Weinstock said.

      “The way I see it,” Crow said, “this part of it—the, um, vampire, part of it—started with Ruger and Boyd coming to town.”

      “You know that or are you guessing?” Weinstock asked.

      “Guessing, but before they got here we didn’t have vampires.”

      “Oh?” Val said. “And how do you know that?”

      “I…well…”

      Weinstock jumped in on Val’s side. “We can’t make assumptions here. Are you suggesting that Ruger and Boyd were vampires already?”

      “No,” Crow said. “At least Ruger wasn’t.”

      “He wasn’t,” Val agreed. “Not when he was at our house, not that first night. I think I would have known…and he probably wouldn’t have bothered with a gun.”

      Crow nodded. “Absolutely. When he and I fought outside your house he was human enough, but when he showed up at the hospital it was like fighting a whole other person.”

      “So what happened during those two days?” Weinstock pursed his lips. “I mean…I’ve seen enough Dracula films to know how vampires are made, but doesn’t it take three or four days?”

      Crow shook his head. “I doubt we can trust what’s in the movies. I mean…this is real, and when it comes to vampires being real, what do we actually know? What are vampires, after all? I’ve read a lot of books…nonfiction stuff, folklore, and there are all sorts of vampires out there, all the way back through history. Hundreds of different kinds in different cultures. The whole idea of a vampire being some guy in a tuxedo and an opera cloak is for the movies. Even in the novel, Dracula, the vampire was different than they showed in the films. I don’t even think they staked him in the book. It’s been a while since I read it, but I seem to remember that Dracula was stabbed or something.”

      “That doesn’t fit with what’s been happening here,” Val said. “I shot Boyd over and over again, and he lived through it, if ‘lived’ is the right word. It was only after I shot him in the head that he went down and stayed down.”

      “That’s more like those zombies in those Living Dead films,” Weinstock offered.

      “They were undead ghouls, not zombies,” Crow corrected.

      Weinstock shot him a look. “Really? Nitpicking? Now?”

      Val interrupted, “Are we sure Boyd’s actually dead?”

      “Baby,” Crow said with a smile, “you blew most of his head off.”

      Her eye was icy and she spaced each word out. “Are. We. Sure. Boyd’s. Actually. Dead?”

      Crow and Weinstock looked at each other. The doctor cleared his throat. “I guess we could go and check?”

      “Yeah,” Val said coldly. “Maybe you ought to.”

      Neither of the men made a move to get up.

      “What about Mark?” Val asked and her voice cracked on his name. They looked at her. “If Boyd is what we think he is—or was—then what about Mark? And Connie, too, for that matter.”

      “Oh shit,” Weinstock said. Crow just closed his eyes and sighed.

      “Crow…Saul…listen to me,” Val said, her tone cool but reasonable, “I know you’re both as freaked out about this as I am. It’s unreal…surreal—but my family was murdered last night by a monster. An actual monster.” She took a breath. “If there is even the slightest chance that my brother is somehow infected…” The word hung in the air like a bright flare and no one could bear to look at it. “If there is even the slightest chance that he and Connie could become like Boyd…then I want to know about it, and I want to know right now.”

      Crow struggled to his feet and looked down at her. He was filthy and exhausted, his eyes were glassy with fear and shock, and his face was the color of old milk. He licked his lips. “Okay,” he said. “Okay…I think we’d better go check. Saul?”

      The doctor nodded tiredly and stood, but suddenly swayed and sat down hard again on the bed. The jolt made Val hiss with pain. Weinstock grabbed the metal rail of the bed to steady himself, too frightened to be ashamed. Tears broke from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks and when he raised his hands to touch the wetness his fingers quivered with palsy.

      “God…” he breathed and his voice broke into a sob. “I don’t know if I can do this…”

      Crow stood by wretchedly and watched, but Val reached up with one hand and touched Weinstock’s chest, her palm flat. The doctor looked down at her slender tan hand, his lips trembling into a small smile at the tenderness of the gesture. “Val…I—”

      Then Val’s hand closed into fist around a knotted wad of his lab coat and with a grunt she jerked him down to her level so that his face was inches from hers. Aghast, Crow saw her mouth twist into a harsh mask. Her voice was a whisper filled with razor wire. “Don’t you fucking dare! My brother is dead! My sister-in-law is dead! Friends of mine are dead. Don’t you dare wig out on me now, you son of a bitch.”

      Weinstock stared at her in total shocked horror. That one blue eye seemed to radiate heat and he was burned by it. His own eyes bugged and his mouth hung open in a soundless O.

      “Now