Of Moons and Monsters: Other Monsters, #2

Chapter 1

Pilot

Stan Lightfoot didn’t mean to ruin the world. He just wanted to see his mom.

The car felt unsteady at this speed, more like piloting a plane than driving. The road was slick with water from snow banks that melted before rising as fog, as if they couldn’t decide which state they belonged in. Stan felt about the same as he sped across the highways from New York to Michigan.

Annie was confused about her state too. She scratched at her arms constantly, making a sound like fingernails on paper that grated on Stan’s ears. Lines of sweat poured down the sides of her face. When he asked what was wrong, she said it felt itchy on the backside of her skin. The stress of leaving so quickly made her want to be a dog again. It made her want to transform back into Bloody.

Okay. Okay, here it is, Stan said. He knew they were close when they whipped past the water tower, though the town wasn’t quite developed enough to have its name painted on it. Welcome to Newbury! The moose capital of Michigan!

Annie’s unimpressed sigh was ragged. She hugged herself, scratching at her elbows, where red dots bubbled from her skin.

As landmarks jumped from the fog, they conjured memories that felt like they were from a different life. The pool hall, where he’d had his first kiss with some goth girl beside the Mortal Kombat arcade machine. The fire hall that sent a truck every time a kid set off an alarm at the old high school. Up ahead was Town Hall, where his mom went every Tuesday to try saving the town. All of them were set far from the wide road; this place had space to spare.

There’s a burger place coming up. At least there used to be. Nice and greasy. We can go later. Would that … would that, um, help?

Annie cocked her head to one side as Stan talked, just like she did when she was a dog. Yup, think so. Well, I dunno. Maybe, she said.

Stan’s mother’s house was just off the main road, a few blocks up. His foot slammed heavy on the gas as he thought of her. She’d been there at home, on the phone with Stan, when he’d heard a horrible growling before the line went silent. He’d expected the town to be lively with chaos, lights, sirens, and search parties, but it was as quiet as ever. Only a few people walked the streets, leashed to dogs, carrying beer, bundled up against the foggy cold.

Downtown consisted of a few blocks of buildings slightly closer to the road and to each other. A gift shop, a pub, a salon, a restaurant, a bank, a hardware store, they emerged from the fog one by one, like Polaroid snapshots fading into being.

Stan tried to smile. If we live through this, I really think you’ll like it here.

Annie grunted. It was hard for Stan to know what she’d like. When she was Stan’s pet, he knew her every habit, her every desire. She still had the same habits and desires, but as a human, they took on new meaning. This immediate desire to transform back into a dog in the passenger seat of his car was new too, and particularly problematic.

If we can’t find Mom right away, we can lay low. Ask around. It’ll be best if nobody recognizes me. I didn’t leave on, you know, good terms. Maybe we’ll get lucky and everyone I knew from before will be gone.

He slowed for the town’s traffic light. Of the three people crossing the street, he recognized two of them. Mister Hewitt was the owner of the hardware store, with a dozen kids and almost as many ex-wives; and Mrs. Quinn was a distant relative of the mayor—a relationship she milked to sell more scented candles.

Annie clenched up and lurched to the side. Her head clunked against the window. Mister Gellar had finished crossing the street, but looked back over his shoulder at the car.

Dammit. Get down, jackass. He floored the gas pedal, praying that nobody had seen him. Attention was the last thing he needed. Are you okay?

Maybe. No. She turned to Stan and her jaw made a meaty cracking sound.

No no no, muttered Stan. Not this, not now.

The town diner emerged from the fog. Tweed’s Café was the site of a shitload of high school drama, and later, unemployed adult drama. It was where Bree broke his heart so many years ago, just before he headed to New York to stalk fame and fortune. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

He stared at the hanging red lights of the diner, wishing, for just a millisecond, to have those painful but simpler times back.

It only took a millisecond for a pale figure to gallop out of the fog and into the car’s path. Stan caught movement from the corner of his eye: a lanky man, shaggy hair, topless and pale-chested, and a long face made paler by headlights. He hunched in the middle of the road, fingertips resting against the rain-speckled blacktop.

Stan wrenched the wheel to the right. The car’s mirror came so close to the long-faced guy that his hair blew back.

The turn was too sharp. The car spun. Stan overcorrected.

Annie issued a high-pitched yelp as the car hit a low snow bank and became airborne. The sword in the back seat clanged to the floor.

In that slow-motion moment before smashing into the diner, Stan had a chance to register that the person eating behind the window was another one he recognized.

From the corner of his vision, he also registered that streams of red were pouring from Annie’s nose, and her cheeks were sagging, her eyelids drooping, and her jaw hanging like a loose flap.

In that slow-motion moment, he had time to register how utterly fucked he was.

The car slammed into the side of the diner. The force of it shattered the wide window overlooking the street. The people inside covered their faced and leaped away.

Stan lurched forward; his head hit the steering wheel so hard that his vision doubled. He wasn’t quite sure if he was hallucinating when he checked to see if Annie was okay, and saw her clawing at her own arms, tearing strips of flesh off to uncover wet, matted fur.

Her moan of pain turned into a growl.

Stan let his head flop forward to rest on the steering wheel. We can’t let anybody see this, he muttered sideways to Annie, but he felt very tired. He needed to rest his eyes, just for a minute.

A minute later, he heard the muttering of vaguely familiar voices behind him. Sirens howled in the distance. In front of him, another familiar voice was as clear as day, thanks to the shattered diner window.

Stan? asked Bree, the woman who had once stomped on his heart. Look everyone, it’s Stan Lightfoot. He’s back.

Chapter 2

Second Chances

One part of town that Stan had never seen was the inside of its police station. The holding cell wasn’t so bad. It reminded him more of his high school—bright lights, linoleum floors, tiled walls—than the damp stone cells in movies.

He took off his thick-rimmed glasses and rubbed his brow. The pattern of the steering wheel’s leather was still embossed in a lump on his forehead.

Paramedics are coming, said the bored police officer sitting at the desk on the other side of the bars.

Listen, I don’t need a paramedic. I need to get out of here. Take a breathalyzer. I haven’t had a drink today, not even one. Someone, something, ran out in front of me. Ask my dog.

The officer finally looked up and raised an eyebrow.

I mean. Stan coughed. It was probably best if they didn’t know about Bloody. Ask the people at the diner. Bree Diamond was there. Not a dog. Bree.

I doubt a breathalyzer would pick up what you’re on, buddy.

I’m not high either, he said. Dammit. My mother is in trouble. Linda Lipton? I need to get to her. Where is Paul?

Ya know Paul, huh? Been here before, have ya?

I was born here!

In that exact cell? The officer cackled. Douchebag.

Paul arrived before Stan could say something he regretted. His old friend looked … old. A strip of bare skin had replaced hair spiked by too much gel. The wrinkles at the corners of his squinty eyes had once made him look wise and skeptical, but now just made him look tired. His sheriff’s outfit hung loose, as if he was wearing an ill-fitting Halloween costume rather than a government-mandated uniform. But maybe that impression only hit Stan because he hadn’t seen Paul since they were both younger and smaller.

Paul’s squinty eyes looked Stan up and down. What are you doing here?

Stan felt like he’d been punched. Good to see you too, buddy.

Paul raised his eyebrows, creating even more wrinkles on his bald scalp.

Christ, Paul, I was in a car accident. He pronounced it ack-sideh. He’d only been back in town for an hour and already his Michigan drawl was coming back. When they were kids, Stan’s mom would invite Paul’s mom over to sit at the kitchen table and exchange town gossip. Boath of the Ellis sisters been bringin’ trolls from the ciddy up tuh the U.P., and I suspeck it was the fella from Gra’ Rapids that stoled Mayor Quinn’s Pahniac. It would have been nearly incomprehensible in the world of enunciating celebrities that Stan had been immersed in for the last five years.

Paul took a file from the officer. An accident. Says you swerved right into the front of Tweed’s. You been drinking again, Stan?

Again? Paul, you know I barely—

Paul held up a hand. The passenger seat was covered in blood and … other biological material? His head wrinkles got even deeper. Are we looking at a criminal investigation here, Stan?

No! Dammit just let me expla—

Paul slammed his hand against a bar in Stan’s cell door. You can explain at the county station. We’ll get you a nice long-term room there and see what the county police have to say.

Stan’s lips trembled. He’d never seen Paul like this. Paul was the quiet one, following Stan’s lead, always there for Stan because he knew Stan was there for him.

But Stan hadn’t been there for him lately, had he? He only called Paul when he needed something. He’d taken advantage of his old friend’s position to get ahead with his star-stalking bullshit, tracking down phone numbers and addresses that only police databases could provide. When Stan’s mom got sick, he’d used Paul as a news service to find out how she was doing. It was all one-way. Maybe that was coming back to bite him now.

The other officer opened the cell door to let Stan out. Paul handcuffed Stan’s hands behind him; it was the second time he’d been handcuffed in the last five months. Last time, he’d been uncuffed by his vampire friend. Wait, no, no, not friend; Dalla would have eaten him as soon as it was convenient to, he reminded himself. This time he probably wouldn’t be so lucky. Where the hell was Annie? Paul hadn’t mentioned her, so she must have escaped the car, though not before leaving some biological material behind.

His glasses slipped down his nose as he was shoved out into the gloomy parking lot. He wriggled his face, trying to push them back up, struggling to hide the pre-crying sniffles that made his eyes water. When his vision cleared, there were people running up to him.

Bree arrived first. Stan’s ex-girlfriend still looked like an angel, despite being a heart-stomping monster. Do you see this? There is broken glass in my hair, she said, carefully holding out a strand of blonde hair as if she’d been storing the glass there this whole time. Paul? Do you see this?

I see it, and I’m sure Officer Hewitt handled it delicately at the scene. We’ll be in touch, Paul said.

Bree looked disgusted as she scanned Stan up and down. Stanley Lightfoot, I don’t know what you’re doing back here, but I hope you realize you’re paying for the damage to Tweed’s. When my husband gets back, he’s going to be pissed, especially when he finds out it was you. We’ll send the bill to your mom’s. Paul, I hope you took plenty of pictures of the damage.

Yes, Bree. You and Mr. Bussichio can come and see me later to get this sorted out.

So she married a Bussichio. Probably Joey, if all was right in the world and like attracted like. Stan, Paul, and Joey had been friends once, but it turned out that Joey was a giant asshole.

A man shuffled up beside Bree. It took Stan a moment to recognize Mister Gellar, the town’s most prolific, and only, reporter. Maybe too much time spent with a vampire had made Stan forget that when you abandon your hometown for a few years, everyone will look older when you go back.

Can you tell us what happened, Paul? Mister Gellar asked.

Look Gellar, I can’t comment right now. Give me a call later. I need to get Stan to the county station and start piecing things together.

Gellar raised a bushy white eyebrow. You been up at the county station a lot lately, haven’cha? And this seems a bit drastic for a simple traffic accident.

Later, Gellar, Paul said.

Gellar produced a camera—an old, film-based one—jogged ahead a few steps, then raised it in Stan’s face. Smile, he grumbled. The flash was blinding in the day’s overcast gloom.

Stan did not smile. He found his face getting hot with rage, before realizing how very little right he had to be angry at a journalist taking pictures. Just a few months ago, Stan made a living taking invasive photos of celebrities. Still, it didn’t stop him from glaring at Gellar.

Paul shoved Stan forward before he could say anything. They reached Paul’s black SUV, the word SHERIFF printed beside a six-pointed star on its side. He opened a door and roughly pressed Stan’s head down to fold him into the back seat. Shaking, Stan let his head thump against the window.

Muffled outside, he heard Bree again. "He drove right into the front of Tweed’s, while I was sitting right there. You see how loopy he is? I think he’s on something. Some people are saying they saw blood in the car. And my neck hurts, so I think I was injured in the incident. You getting this, Gellar? Gonna print it in your little newspaper?"

Yes, Bree, I’m going to print it in my little newspaper, Gellar said. If you haven’t noticed, it’s my job.

Paul interrupted: Gellar, I’ll get you your story. Bree, we’ll make sure Stan pays for what he’s done.

Thanks, Paul, Gellar said.

Okay Paul, thanks, Bree said.

Why the fuck was he being so nice to them?

Paul got in the driver’s seat and pulled away. He exhaled for a good twenty seconds, as if he’d been holding his breath.

What is going on, Paul? Stan asked.

Things haven’t been good here, Paul said. Not good at all. I didn’t want to tell you on the phone. Figured you were dealing with enough problems of your own, with your mother sick, and your other … problems.

Being kidnapped by a vampire and almost murdered by a movie star were, indeed, problems that had been distracting him. Stan frowned and let Paul continue. They’re looking into me. For all the help I’ve given you over the years. Someone must’ve overheard, and they’re checking on my past, seeing if I abused police resources to help you with your paparazzi stuff.

Oh, God, Stan said. I’m sorry.

You said it was life or death.

It was. For better or worse, I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t helped me out. But I’m done with the paparazzi stuff now, honestly.

Paul exhaled again. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Good. I covered my tracks before, but having you back in town just as the investigation is starting, it’s inconvenient. I can’t be seen helping you.

Stan squirmed in his seat. About that. I’m here for Mom.

Linda is getting a lot better, Paul said.

I know. She was. But I need to get to her. I think something happened. Something, you know, bad. I’ve made enemies in the last few months. Stan fought back tears. I’m afraid she’s been hurt by one of them. I was on the phone with her last night, and heard breaking glass. A struggle. I heard … growling.

Paul turned toward Sandford Avenue, the town’s main street, then rubbed the skin between his eyes. Jesus Christ, Stan.

Paul’s disappointment hurt more than the lump on his head. I need to get to her house, Stan said.

I said I was bringing you in. This won’t look good, Paul said, but already he was turning down a side street, avoiding Sandford and heading north toward Stan’s mom’s place.

Thanks, Stan said, barely able to find his voice.

They rode in silence. The shifting fog outside formed odd reflections on the windshield and Paul’s face. Being held captive in a car again made Stan’s heart race, yet he was so tired that his eyes drooped for a moment, and when he opened them he saw a line forming on Paul’s cheek. The line lengthened, then split in the middle, his face opening up, tendrils of flesh stretching and snapping. He turned back and laughed, but his voice was a high-pitched titter. Underneath Paul’s face was smooth white skin, an upturned nose, two pairs of fangs: Dalla. That baby-girl laugh hurt his head.

No, no, no, muttered Stan. It wasn’t real. No. He banged his head against the seat in front of him a few times, aggravating the tender bruise that was already there.

You all right? Paul asked. His face had returned to normal.

But then Stan’s mother’s house began to emerge from the fog. No, no, no, no, he continued to mutter, and this time the horror was not in his mind, but right there on the street where he grew up.

The front door leaned into the darkness of the house, torn off its hinges.

Stan fell out of the car when Paul opened the door for him. He stumbled up the porch steps that he, Paul, and Joey used to sit on eating popsicles in the summer. A smear of blood decorated the peeling wood in front of the door. The dark trail led off to the side, past a pair of wicker chairs.

Stan fell to his knees where the trail ended, at the side of the porch, where the railing was splintered in the middle. There, in drying blood, was a pair of paw prints.

Chapter 3

Out Of Mind, Out Of Sight

The woman formerly known as Annie Armstrong coughed up a bloody wad of human hair. Hah, bloody . That’s what they called her: Bloody, short for Bloodhound, but she’d been covered in gore so many times lately that it was more of a description than a name.

The smell of rotten leaves hit her from every direction of the forest. She retched again. The hair on her head grew shorter as it absorbed into her sticky, squirming scalp. Her guts clenched, ready to push out all the extra human gunk that had to go somewhere when transforming into a small dog. She could feel her thoughts getting simpler as the cells of her brain rearranged themselves into a basic canine configuration.

Where was Stan? Stan was nice and she liked his voice. She hoped he was okay. He was in the west part of town. Past the delicious food places. Past the buildings full of people where the car went crash.

At least she’d managed to get away from all the people and stumble into the forest before anyone saw her awkward, smooshy body trying to transform itself.

A chunk tried to push its way from her stomach, but Annie swallowed it down. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Every cell of her body wanted to change into a dog; it hurt to change, but it was a necessary hurt. It was a hump to get over before that blissful feeling of having four legs and running around in a world full of smells. But if she wasted time changing, Stan could get hurt. No time to change now. Listening to the sound of the concerned birds all around her, she took a deep breath.

The skin of her scalp stopped squirming. Her jaw popped out, along with the rest of her face, reversing its shrinkage. Her guts settled down. Her thoughts gained more miserable complexity and confusing nuance.

Before returning fully to humanity, she took a deep sniff of the world around her. This time of being halfway turned was always interesting, with both a half-canine nose and a half-human brain to interpret what it smelled. Scents hit her from every direction. The closest ones were typical forest: fallen trees, the turds of large animals, and … oh wow, squirrels!

No, no time to get excited. She inhaled again. Slightly further away she recognized the scent map of the town, with its delicious blossoms from cooking meat, and less delicious-smelling puffs from people in various states of cleanliness. Further away was Stan. But why couldn’t she tell exactly which