Demon and the Fox - 11. Classic Villain

Kyle was on the phone with Jackson, giving him instructions on how to feed his tropical fish. Malachy looked out the third floor window. The sun was slowly glowing down the Manhattan skyline, shooting rays of pink and orange. The moon, round and white and perfect, was already visible in a patch of cloudless sky.

“And don’t forget to turn off the fish tank light!”

Kyle put down his phone on the coffee table. Next to their empty bowls of pasta. Kyle had said it was better to eat meat before the full moon night, but he was trying really hard to go vegan because he didn’t like how the food industry treated the animals.

A vegan werewolf.

So Kyle had said carbs would have to do for dinner. Anyway, Malachy had switched to dessert now. A nice glass of scotch. Not just any scotch: Glenfiddich. From Speyside in north-east Scotland. Malachy used to be Reaper in the Highlands; the beginning of a lifelong romance with scotch.

Malachy swirled the amber liquid in his glass, eyeing Kyle from across the room.

“All is forgiven, then?”

Kyle shrugged. Looked at his phone. “You mean with Jack? We pretty much avoided the subject completely.” Kyle scratched his gelled hair. “Maybe he feels bad cause his father did actually kill me, so I guess that proves my point. Anyway. Said he was glad I was still alive. Said what you did was a miracle, and he never would’ve believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.” Kyle looked up. “He’s right, you know.”

Malachy took a sip of scotch. Just smokey enough. It burned his throat as it went down, just how he liked it. Plus he always felt all mysterious and sophisticated drinking that stuff.

“Necromancy. The word is in the dictionary, if Jackson wants to look it up.”

“Yeah,” Kyle said, “I know what you are. But still.”

“Actually,” Malachy lifted one finger, deep in thought, “don’t tell him to look it up in the dictionary. Last time I checked, they had it wrong in there. Something about conjuring the spirits of the dead. I don’t just conjure. I… What do I do? I suppose I raise the dead. But that,” Malachy tilted his head, “sounds like I create zombies or vampires. Huh. I’ll have to rethink this whole necromancer nomenclature.” He smiled, and raised his glass. “On my to-do list!”

Kyle leaned back in the old tweed couch. He wore his jeans and a t-shirt borrowed from Nick’s closet. It was too small for Kyle; his arm muscles threatened to explode from the stretched fabric.

Malachy didn’t like Nick’s apartment: the couch was ugly, the grayish-white paint was cracked, and the old wooden floors creaked unbelievably loudly when he walked. Redecorating was also on his to-do list. He’d already started in Nick’s bedroom. But the living room was next, because it made no sense right now. There was a desk with a turntable but no records to play, and there were stacks of DVDs but no TV.

“What’s that accent you’re doing?” asked Kyle. “Is that Irish?”

“I’m not doing an accent. This is how I normally speak. It would be pointless to keep doing an American accent in your presence. You already know I’m not really Nick.”

“Where are you from?”

“I was born in Norway. Long, long time ago. But I’ve lived all over the world, my friend. English must have been something like the tenth language I learned. But,” Malachy said, “I did learn it in Ireland, at the time.” He sipped his scotch, closing his eyes as he savored it; so earthy and sugary.

“Ten languages! That’s impressive, man.”

Ah, if only Kyle knew. Malachy spoke a lot more than ten languages. But he wanted to skip to a more interesting topic right now.

“When are you going to transform?” Malachy asked Kyle.

“Soon.” Kyle looked toward the window. “You sure about this, man? You know the bite can kill you, right?”

Malachy was aware. A werewolf’s bite on a full moon night contained poison that could either kill a human, or turn them into a werewolf.

“It won’t kill me.”

Kyle insisted. “How do you know?”

“I just know.”

Come on. It wouldn’t kill him. He was Malachy.

“Would you like some scotch?” He offered to Kyle.

“Is it vegan scotch?”

Malachy just stared. Was Kyle being serious?

He was. “I think I’m good. Thanks though. Hey, tell me something Nick—or, what’s your real name, anyway?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

Kyle raised his hands. “Fine! Fine. Tell me something, boss. Why do you want this so much? To be a werewolf.”

People were so annoying. Malachy leaned against the wall, next to the window frame. The wind came in softly, nice and just slightly refreshing. The cold front was over. People, Malachy thought, always asked questions. They wanted to find noble, meaningful reasons to everything.

Malachy had never been a werewolf. He wanted to try it. He was really excited about it. But see, if he told this to Kyle, then Kyle would probably think that wasn’t a good enough reason. So Malachy frowned, pretending to be deep in thought as he swirled what was left of scotch in his glass.

“This is a really exciting time for my girlfriend, you know. I want to be there for her—with her—in every possible way. I want to be a part of her pack. I want to be able to protect her.”

Kyle nodded for a long time, considering this. Then: “I get it. Gotta be there for your girl.”

See? There. People liked noble reasons.

Well, it wasn’t all lies, to be fair. If this brought Malachy even closer to Hazel, then that was a bonus. He actually really liked Hazel. They’d been texting a lot today. She was really sweet, saying she missed him, and she hoped he was okay.

Malachy had also received loads of texts from Sasha today. But Malachy hadn’t read those. He was a bit wary of Sasha, wasn’t too sure how to handle that. Perhaps Sasha was really angry that they were broken up. Malachy had never broken up with a man before, so he wasn’t clear on how that was supposed to play out.

Malachy’s legs were fidgety.

“Are you transforming soon?”

Kyle raised a brow. “You’re like a child, or something.”

So Malachy had been told many times before.

“Sorry.” He smiled. “I’m excited.”

“Yeah,” Kyle laughed, “I get that. Man, I’ve never seen someone so excited to get bit by a wolf before.”

“First time for everything,” Malachy said.

Kyle glanced at the sky, and Malachy followed his gaze. The moon was brighter as the sky darkened.

“I could transform now,” said Kyle.

Malachy gasped. “Yes! Please do. I’m ready.”

Kyle shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but he jumped to his feet nonetheless and started stripping.

“Could you not stare like that?”

Malachy rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

Kyle had taken off the tight t-shirt and tossed it on the couch behind him, but he still hadn’t unbuttoned his jeans.

“And could you close the curtains?”

“Oh, please. What’s all the working out for if you don’t want people to see?” But Malachy did as he was told and draped the linen curtain over the window.

“I don’t work out that much; I just have good genes. I’m actually more of a nerdy kind of guy. I’m into computer science.” Malachy heard the sound of Kyle taking his jeans off.

“Good for you.”

“That’s what Hazel wants to do, too. Pack leader doesn’t pay much on its own, you know. She’ll have lots of job opportunities in IT. But hey, you’re her boyfriend. I’m sure you already knew all that.”

“Of course I did,” Malachy lied.

Hey, he did pay attention to people. Sometimes.

“Okay,” Kyle was saying, “I’m going to transform now.”

About time. Malachy’s heartbeat picked up. Goose bumps ran across his arms.

But they both jumped out of their skin when loud knocks hammered the door. Malachy spun, his gaze darting to the narrow hall that led to the front door. He cursed under his breath; the lights were flicked on in the apartment. The person behind the door would suspect there was someone home.

Malachy was pretty sure he’d locked that door, though. The knocks came again, pretty insistent. Malachy froze and held up a hand. He saw that Kyle’s irises had just begun to become bigger, his fangs sharper and longer, and his nails to turn into claws.

More knocks. Very quietly, Malachy tugged at the curtain and laid his scotch glass down on the window ledge. Then he exchanged a glance with Kyle.

“Who the Hell—?” Kyle started to say, but Malachy hushed him.

There were more knocks. This time the person was hammering the door with a fist.

They heard a shout. “I know you’re in there!” Malachy closed his eyes and sighed as he recognized Sasha Reed’s voice. Sasha yelled through the door: “I know who you are!”

Shit.

Malachy’s heart sank. That was fast. Three weeks later and he was already caught in the act. It seemed Sasha was just as perceptive as his mother Lilya had been before him.

Sasha was trying the doorknob now, yanking at it like a crazy person. But as Malachy recalled, it was indeed locked. Sasha gave that up.

Instead he warned, “I’m kicking the door open!”

Malachy made a face. Considering the cracked paint, creaking floors, and the general state of the old apartment building, Malachy did not trust that door to hold its ground against an enraged fox spirit.

“Kyle,” Malachy called, “transform. Now.”

As Sasha kicked the door repeatedly, Kyle sped up his transformation. He fell on all fours next to the coffee table, bristled dark brown fur covering up his body as his back sloped and his neck became more heavily muscled.

Malachy started when the door frame cracked and gave way. With a maddened scream, Sasha kicked the door open and stormed in. The door dangled loosely behind him, barely hanging on to its hinges. Sasha was a mess. His hair was tangled and his cheeks sunken. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Barging in the living room, Sasha flicked his green eyes from Malachy to the wolf that Kyle was becoming.

“What the hell is going on here? Werewolf bodyguard?”

“None of your business,” said Malachy.

“It became my business when I found out you’re the demon who killed my parents,” Sasha hissed.

“So I got busted, eh?” Malachy stalled for time. If Kyle caught Sasha off guard it would be an easy win. And then Kyle could bite Malachy as planned, and everything would be jolly. “I guess,” Malachy said, “my American accent won’t win me any Oscars. I didn’t kill your parents, by the way. But they did send me to Purgatory, so if anything I should be the one holding a grudge.”

“Shut up!” Sasha spat. “You’re a liar! Everything you say is poison.”

Wolf-Kyle let out a low growl as he stalked around the coffee table and closer to Sasha.

But Sasha’s pupils slitted and he fell to the floor, too. Malachy stood astonished as Sasha took the form of a red fox faster than he ever thought possible.

Your descendant is really quite something, Shay. Albeit somewhat suicidal.

Sasha’s clothes fell to the floor in piles of crumpled, torn fabric. His fox alter-ego’s red coat tinted copper and gold under the artificial glow of the ceiling lamp. He snarled and took a fighting stance, his tail and ears lowered, facing Kyle. It looked a bit ridiculous. Sasha’s fox form was admittedly bigger than, well, a normal fox, but still nowhere near as big as Kyle, whose shoulder height was nearing four feet tall. Kyle’s wolf teeth looked heavy and large, strong enough to crush bones.

“Kyle! Don’t kill him,” Malachy instructed, “if you don’t have to. Just knock him out.”

The two canines lashed at each other in the middle of the living room, a mess of growls, claws, fangs and blood. Their claws scratched at the wooden floor. The coffee table got knocked over, empty pasta bowls shattering in pieces with a deafening noise. Then the bristled wolf grabbed the fox’s throat and threw him across the room and into the desk, hurtling the turntable to the floor. Fox-Sasha staggered up, ran and jumped on wolf-Kyle, trying to go for the neck. But Kyle wouldn’t give him an opening.

Malachy kind of felt bad for Sasha. You could tell the outcome of the fight with only one glance. Werewolves were fighters. Fox spirits weren’t.

Fox spirits sometimes had unique abilities though, like healing powers and control over certain elements. For Shay it was fire. Sasha wasn’t using any special powers right now. Malachy didn’t know why. It was possible that Sasha didn’t have full control over his powers yet, and he wouldn’t risk setting the whole building on fire. Maybe he was afraid of losing control and burning Nick’s body in the process.

Whatever the reason, this played in Kyle’s favor.

The fight only lasted two or three minutes at most. By the time it was over, Kyle had clawed Sasha’s throat, bit his four legs, and clawed and bit his ribs, whereas Sasha had only been able to bite one of Kyle’s legs. Kyle grabbed Sasha by the throat and sent him flying across the room again. This time Sasha hit the shelves, making books and DVDs plummet to the floor with loud thumps. Some of the books dropped on fox-Sasha’s limp form.

Malachy flinched. Sasha’s copper coat was matted with blood all over. He hoped Sasha wasn’t dead. He’d never meant to kill him.

Kyle was still growling. He stalked over to the shelves like he wanted to attack Sasha again.

“Hey,” Malachy called, “Kyle. Stop. That’s enough. You won. Come here. Let’s get this over with.” Malachy pulled at his sleeve, baring his left arm.

Wolf-Kyle lowered his head in submission and approached Malachy, his claws leaving scratching marks on the wooden floor.

“Now.” Malachy’s heart started to beat faster. “Do it.”

Kyle opened his muzzle, revealing long sharp fangs. With a jerky movement of his head he captured Malachy’s arm in a strong bite.

Malachy hissed but did not scream. He could tell Kyle was careful not to tear at the skin too much, but the bite still hurt like a bitch.

The wolf pulled back, placing himself in a submissive position again. Blood streamed from Malachy’s wound and dripped to the floor.

Malachy let out a breath. He petted Kyle’s head.

“Good boy. You did good. You can relax now. I better go patch this up.”

In the hall, Malachy tried to close the door properly. It wasn’t exactly possible, what with the broken lock and busted door frame, but at least Malachy was able to push it back and make it look like it was closed.

Then he stepped past the entryway closet and went to lock himself in the bathroom. He flicked on the light and turned open the faucet, letting cold water stream down his arm. The bite wound was painful. Pulsing. But Malachy was smiling. In one month day for day he would experience something new and exciting. He would know what it was like to be a wolf. To be part of a wolf pack, with Hazel and the others.

He closed his eyes, imagining it. Hazel had told him about it, about how freeing and pure and raw the experience was. Malachy kept his eyes closed a little while longer; he didn’t want to look into the mirror. Didn’t want to see those pale brown eyes that weren’t his.

His smile faded as he wished he could experience becoming a werewolf in his own body. But he supposed this was the next best thing.

One minute later, Malachy’s arm was clean and tightly bandaged. He felt somewhat light-headed, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

Malachy slipped back to the living room. Wolf-Kyle was curled up on the couch, seemingly sleeping. Malachy sighed.

“Being a wolf is a convenient excuse not to help me tidy up, I suppose.”

Kyle lay still; if he wasn’t asleep, he was pretending to be.

Anyway. No matter. Malachy’s eyes darted to Sasha. He had transformed back to his human form. Malachy’s heart skipped a beat. Was Sasha really dead?

Malachy tiptoed over to Sasha, avoiding the turntable and shattered bowl pieces that littered the floor. Malachy dropped to his knees and pressed a hand to Sasha’s bleeding throat, feeling for a pulse. When he felt one—it was weak, but it was there—he let out a long, slow breath. Malachy picked up the books that had fallen on Sasha and tossed them aside. Then he lifted up Sasha’s arm and secured it around his shoulders. Malachy hoisted him up and carried him to Shane’s bedroom.

Nick’s roommate had quite the particular bedroom. It was pony-themed, mostly, which might explain why Shane had felt the need to leave his colorful pony plushies and pony pillows behind when Malachy had kicked him out of the apartment; Shane’s parents might not have found it normal for their adult son to own such items.

Malachy dropped his heavy bundle among the colorful bed stuff, watching as Sasha’s limp body rolled to the side. Feeling less guilty now, Malachy stopped by the kitchen to grab his beloved Glenfiddich scotch, and then returned to the living room, where he snatched his glass from under the linen curtain. Malachy poured himself a drink.

He savored just one sip of the strong liquor before he went to wake Kyle. He almost stepped in the broken pasta bowls and cursed under his breath. This place was a disaster.

Well, Malachy thought, new incentive to re-decorate.

“Kyle,” he shook wolf-Kyle’s shoulder, “Kyle, wake up.” A round brown eye cracked open. “I’ve got a job for you. Go in my spare bedroom and watch Sasha, okay? If he wakes up, you come and get me.”

The wolf leaped off the couch and trotted down the hallway to Shane’s bedroom.

Malachy doubted Sasha would wake any time soon, but just in case. Sighing, Malachy plopped down on the couch and raised his glass to his lips.

“Drinking scotch all by yourself at night. Classic villain, wouldn’t you say?” A feminine voice whispered, as soft as the stroke of a feather. Malachy sat straight and turned his head to the side, where the sound had come from.

He thought he glimpsed a trace of white in the air. Like a ghost. But now he couldn’t see anything.

Had he imagined that voice? Was he becoming mad? Well, he’d always been a bit mad, really. The first step was acceptance. He just never got past the first step. He didn’t want to stop being mad, because then what was the fun in that?

The voice had been quiet and melodious. A flicker of recognition crossed his mind. He’d heard that voice before. Just the night before.

Well, well. The leader of the spirit guides was stalking him now. The queen of the angels herself.

Malachy leaned back in the couch and enjoyed a long sip of scotch.

He whispered, “And to what do I owe the honor, Miss Rebecca?”