Lycanthrope Rising

The Vampire - Werewolf Wars

The Toronto Vampire Chronicles, Book II

John Matsui

POISON PINE BOOKS

Table Of Contents

Title Page

Table Of Contents

Other Books By John Matsui

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Copyright

LYCANTHROPE RISING. Copyright © 2017 John Matsui. All rights reserved under Canadian and International Copyright Conventions. Except for brief excerpts included in critical reviews, neither this text nor any portion of it may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or to be developed in future without the express written permission of John Matsui.

Late Bite is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner and are not to be taken as real.

Published by Poison Pine Books

ISBN: 978-0-9937548-7-6

Other titles by John Matsui

Late Bite

"A path-breaking novel"

"Kept me up all night"

"Lots of thrills"

"Creative and seamless"

"Completely unsuspected twist"

Gravity Games

"Haven’t had this much fun with antigravity in… um… EVER!"

"Awesome storyline"

"Overflowing with fresh ideas"

"A mind-boggling narrative"

"[Nate The Nose] A great and lasting character"

To Jack

[ one ]

THE THREE DEEP barks sent Guiseppi Bepi Condello’s hand to the familiar comfort of his beloved Dominique.

Others hinted that a man of his stature deserved a younger model, but he and Dominique had history. Quite a history, he thought, the beginnings of a smile dissolving an ever-present scowl.

With Dominique in his hand, he felt the power. The sleek Beretta M9, his companion of choice for three decades, was the partner he trusted above all.

As Il Supremo of the dominant organized crime family in North America, Condello’s finger hadn’t been on Dominique’s trigger for any of the necessary disappearances of snitches, rival gang members, and pretenders to the throne in more than 20 years.

He missed the rush.

Those in the know showed him papal deference. The unwise – upstart Russian mobsters, Triads and bikers – vanished. So, too, did their bosses long before their underlings missed roll call. Orphaned thugs who survived his blitzkrieg had a choice: Join Condello’s Mafioso brand or die.

The blitzkrieg and the reputation of the then-newly-minted Toronto Mafia Don became underworld lore two decades ago when the bosses of the Montreal and Buffalo crime families took advantage of their colleague’s inexperience by demanding snippets of bordering territories.

Condello sent showy floral arrangements to their widows and scooped up both operations. That was the start.

A rare smile now emerged fully formed, inspired by the Boss of Bosses’ memories of the early days and his notoriety for overwhelming violence.

Is someone challenging me at my home?

Fingers slid lovingly along the gun barrel and around the trigger, hitman foreplay, before he flicked off the safety. If he got lucky, he’d climax in a spray of lead.

I have the right to defend myself in my own home.

Pistol ready, Condello rocked his leather recliner forward for action.

An ear tilted toward the rectangle of night that yawned through an open window for the Doberman Pinschers’ next report. The thought of these fast, sleek, natural killers made his ear yearn for the terrified screams of an intruder.

Silence.

He hit a remote for Channel 3. The TV image divided into eight unique views of the sumptuous mansion and moonlit grounds. Nothing unusual.

He spoke into the intercom. Aldo, what’s happening?

Not a thing boss. The dogs musta killed a squirrel. I got a couple of the boys walkin’ the perimeter, just in case.

Disappointed, Condello shrugged and returned to the rare quiet evening alone in his study. He raised a wineglass, tipped it to his lips, and swirled the fleshy red about his tongue before swallowing.

It’s a funny thing, all the fuss they make about wine. Still, this is a good one. What’s its label say? Casanova di Neri 2007 from the Brunello di Montalcino vineyard. Not bad. Not bad at all.

I’ll have to send a note of thanks to Gino. That ass-kissing Capo sent me a case of the stuff. He should . . .

Twin barks punctured the still night. Condello’s head spun toward the growled yaps. A pistol cracked. The smile returned. Adrenaline flowed.

More growls, barks, the report of two pistols, and a cry of agony followed.

Condello’s core hardened to warrior mode. The Beretta’s rising steel, flashed like sword and armour. A finger stabbed at the intercom. Aldo, update.

No response.

Lou . . . Gerry . . . Massimo, you there?

No response.

None of the views on Channel 3 provided clues. Il Supremo’s instinct tugged at him to charge headlong toward the aggressor. Good sense held him back. The 15 armed men on site possessed enough firepower to stand off an army.

Nobody will get past my men and my dogs with just three bullets.

A mental image of his soldiers and the Dobermans tearing the intruder apart began to resolve when the study’s solid oak door splintered apart. Condello raised his pistol and gasped half in relief, half in shock.

Before him stood his Consigliere, his most trusted adviser and the number three man in the Condello crime family, Tim Gracey.

Gracey appeared as if he stepped out of a nightmare. Huge splotches of blood coated a body stark naked save for long, silvery gloves that tapered to razor points, each dribbling a gelatinous trail of red.

Tim, what is this?

A female voice arose behind Gracey.

We’ve decided to make a few changes in the organization . . . starting at the top.

A stunning woman, nude, and drenched in blood, stepped forward.

Condello remembered the raven-haired beauty. Gracey brought her to the party celebrating his elevation to Consigliere three weeks earlier. He introduced her as Rita. Her full lips, bright, violet eyes and endless curves struck all of the men dumb.

Il Supremo pointed the Beretta at Gracey. Are you crazy? I will cut out your heart.

Something black, quick as a lizard’s tongue, flicked across the 40-foot expanse and stung the Godfather’s gun hand. With animal speed, Gracey fell upon him before Dominique clacked on the floor. Silver claws flashed, then plunged deep into Condello’s chest.

Gracey whirled, holding something dark, something bloody, something pulsating. Rita moved closer and interlaced her fingers with Gracey’s to form a bowl for that ghastly prize. Both heads tipped forward as two sets of predator teeth ripped into Condello’s still twitching heart.

[ two ]

TWO AND A HALF months earlier, Tim Gracey gazed at his gold Rolex. In eight minutes, the most extraordinarily shitty month in his 52 years would come to an end.

With any luck at all, he might strike a high note before midnight by blowing a hole in his head. It would be an appropriate way to cap a spectacularly, impossibly, inconceivably, craptacular August.

In that single span of 31 sunrises and sunsets, the sole heir to the once-mighty Gracey name and business empire witnessed the disintegration of everything he believed defined his existence.

How could this have happened?

He and his father, Robert, made their peace a year ago and laid out a five-year plan for him to take the helm of the family’s multi-billion dollar enterprise.

LCC Private Banking Group served as Gracey Development’s financial backer since the earliest days. The investment bank gave no explanation on Aug. 1 when it delivered a crippling wound by calling its demand loan. The next day, the cash-strapped enterprise missed a critical payment that triggered all the other moneymen to flee.

Gracey figured his father had a plan. He did but its execution twelve days ago wasn’t anything his son imagined.

How can dad be dead? Wasn’t he the bedrock of Toronto society? Why hadn’t his directorships on six blue chip corporations been enough? How could a company as celebrated as our family business be bankrupt? And how could dad have left me alone with this mess?

The doctors reported he succumbed to a heart attack. Gracey knew better. That made the month horrid but, this week, and especially today, the long knives and their deep, ruby slashes stung in a very personal way. The latest blade wielders were his father’s best friends and trusted allies of his family and its name.

Wasn’t Gracey trained from his diaper days to call his godfather Jeremiah Smith, Uncle Jeremiah? Hadn’t Bert Deranger been his father’s financial adviser and weekly golfing buddy for 45 years? Could a doppelganger have replaced business partner and best friend P.D. Efron?

The coroner’s pronouncement of Robert Gracey’s death had not been put to paper before his three dearest buddies, other close business associates, and assorted chums from the Club, laid claim to everything with a particle of worth in the consortium.

Gracey spent the last two weeks as the invisible man. If they wanted to press more ugliness on him, they’d have to find him. Today was a low even for them.

Jessie Collier-Smith, Jeremiah Smith’s daughter, and Gracey had been friends from childhood. At one point they dated and a discussion about marriage started – not by the young couple – but by their parents. It never went beyond that but Gracey considered Jessie to be a close friend and confidante.

It didn't surprise him when Jessie’s text came this evening. She warned him of more legal wranglings. She suggested they rendezvous at Jake’s, a pub in Leaside, ‘For drinks and another tidbit.’

In a similar late night tryst a week ago, Jessie leaked a note that gave Gracey a heads-up. Creditors will seize $3.2 million from a European bank account at the start of business, she told him. Gracey employed the intelligence as soon as his bank opened the next morning. His business enemies acted faster. While Jessie and Gracey clinked celebratory glasses, the bean-counting minions locked down the Spanish assets, Madrid time. No waiting this day. His lawyer stood by for the call.

Gracey arrived at Jake’s and took a corner booth as instructed. At 11 p.m., he periscoped his spine, the better to survey the doorway. A statuesque blonde entered. It wasn’t Jessie. This woman, 25 years too young, nonetheless slinked straight to him. Unveiling a gorgeous set of brilliant white teeth, she asked in a sultry voice, Are you Tim Gracey?

Yes, yes I am. He accompanied his answer with the same rakish smile that unlocked bedroom doors of equally dazzling women in the past. Her golden tresses bobbed in excitement. Her smile widened but the show of teeth and crescent lips shape-shifted from ingénue to predator. Tim Gracey, you have been served.

He glanced down to the envelope she slapped in his hand and then up. A blonde blur tore through the exit. He ripped the package and spilled its contents. The suit named plaintiffs Jeremiah Smith and his three children, including Jessie Collier-Smith.

The claim demanded all the money in Gracey’s personal bank accounts, his trust fund, the family’s Forest Hill mansion, the villa in Tuscany, the chalet in Whistler, the Muskoka summer home, assorted properties in the Caribbean, the yacht, and the five vehicles he and his father shared, which included Gracey’s beloved Bentley Mulsanne.

It was still sinking in when a 20-ish waitress leaned in all bubbly and cute.

How’s your day going? Can I . . .

You really want to know? Pure, unadulterated shit. This very moment, this very place is the denouement of the worst day of the worst month of my life. You probably don’t know what denouement means. I’ll translate. Fuck you and fuck your restaurant.

Gracey, tutored in etiquette in the finest schools, pushed hard from the table, knocked over a glass of wine and flopped his chair backward. The waitress watched open-mouthed as he made for the door, toppled furniture and shattered wine glasses spinning in his wake. The anger pooled into a gob of nastiness. He spat the foul, gelatinous blob onto the hook of the regal ‘J’ etched into the bar’s glass entrance. The horrid taste lingered.

Misfortune parked a sporty red Mercedes en route to the Bentley. A knee reconfigured a side mirror from aerodynamic to cubist masterpiece. A roundhouse right bestowed a knuckle intaglio on the fender. The Bentley left in a throaty hum, counterpoint to the bleats of the wounded Mercedes’ security alarm.

I’ll cancel the Bentley’s insurance and drive it over a cliff. I’ll go out like a fiery meteor, blaze brightly then, crash, foosh, gone.

Tears and phantoms of his betrayers obscured his vision. He drove the posh sedan into a parking lot and performed a migraine stagger to the rear seat. He touched a gold lever, heard a soft click and watched the polished tigerwood panel ooze open. A faint whirr ushered forward a compact but well stocked bar.

Behind a bottle of Macallans, frantic fingers sought and found precision steel. The revolver, a snub-nosed .38, belonged to his mother before her accidental death 37 years ago. The gun and a silver ring with the cameo of a wolf’s head were the only possessions of hers he kept near. He opened the cylinder. Empty. He fumbled behind the booze and snagged a zip lock bag with a fist-sized clump of white dust but no bullets.

Ain’t that just perfect. I can’t even FUCKING KILL MYSELF.

Gracey wailed/wept the last three words, an invocation to the gods to end his misery. He scanned the recesses of the mini-bar and grasped at the snowy powder like a shipwrecked sailor for flotsam. Where there’s a will, there’s always a way.

No time, need, or want for finesse if the goal is to blow out your brains. No smooth line, no rolled up $100 bill. He buried his nose deep into the powder and sniffed.

Coke hit sinuses like an exploding train. Big chunks clogged nostrils. The burning, gagging, coughing and sneezing slammed him front to back, side to side, before blessed numbness calmed his nasal network and a feeling of invincibility claimed his brain. He tossed the bag back in the compartment and on the back haul snagged the bottle of single malt Scotch. In 60 seconds, the product of a quarter century of the Macallan master distiller’s constant care glugged, scarcely tasted, down his throat.

Two vices down. How many more before kiss-my-ass-goodbye time?

Gracey took the wheel and hit the accelerator, demanding the Bentley’s 505 twin turbocharged ponies take the car airborne. Again, there was no flying from problems.

Thanks to wary and nimble pedestrians, cocaine heightened awareness and much good luck, the Bentley travelled six miles to the strip of hookers at Jarvis and Gerrard without hitting anything or anyone. Arriving after the first wave of Johns drafted the young and pretty, Gracey, as high and low as he was, still shuddered at the post midnight remnants of skanks and trannies.

Not a problem.

Gracey’s coke-fueled mind turned to the Robins Nest. It had the hottest strippers and most were willing to do the dirty for the right financial incentive.

[ three ]

HELEN KMERZA GAVE the plastic bag desperate shakes until the two pills tumbled into her hand. The agonizing rasp of nerve on bone nixed a time-wasting detour for a glass of water.

Anxious fingers jammed the pink tablets to the dry, no man’s land of mouth and throat. The former beauty queen took over from there, gulping like a landed fish until blessed chemical relief took hold.

The pain in her neck and shoulder fell away but the Oxy 20s did nothing for the ache in her heart.

A weary tide engulfed her. It took most of her energy to tear herself from the bed she occupied 20 hours a day since she returned home five months ago. Her eyes moved to the bedside table and hesitantly took in the photo. Leonard had an arm wrapped around her waist and another over Tyrone’s shoulder.

All of us smiling, smiling. Little did we know. Little did we know.

A pair of fabric shears bought when Leonard encouraged her to take up clothing design again lay next to the photo. She left her career when Tyrone was born 19 years ago. The scissors? She remembered placing them on the table. What was it, yesterday, the day before? It was all a blur. But why? She had no fabric, no paper to cut.

Why did she need the shears? Then it came to her. The bile rose. A semi-human squeal escaped her throat and a sadness from the depths of her soul unleashed a rain of shame. She leaned forward and pressed her face into her hands. Tears ran through fingers. Her body rocked at each convulsive wail.

How had life become so small?

She and Leonard visited Tyrone at the start of his second year at Florida University. The football scholarship covered half of the expense. It was worth mortgaging the house. The Kmerzas knew Tyrone would make the Gators’ first team this year.

After dinner at a family restaurant, the three drove toward the university when a truck slammed into their compact rental, crushing it like an eggshell.

Three operations in three days failed to save Leonard. The docs pulled the plug on Tyrone two months later. Helen escaped with neck and shoulder injuries. The sleazy insurance company lawyer showed up the first day back in Toronto bearing a cheque for $1 million.

She was alone and confused. A million dollars seemed like a lot of money. All she had to do was sign a little sheet of paper. The money soon whittled to nothing after the hospital bills rolled in.

Funeral expenses, the mortgage, and the lack of a job left her in the hole. Then the docs cut off her meds. Helen begged, borrowed, and stole from relatives and friends to support her $150-a-day oxy habit. Once those doors closed, she visited guys whose eyes lusted for her – a friend’s husband and her auto repair mechanic.

Last week both men refused her advances. Dirk, her dealer, offered to settle the $50 shortfall for personal services. Not bad for a 40-year-old broad. Besides you got that suburban housewife thing goin’ for ya.

Two days ago, penniless and desperate for a fix, she straightened her blouse in the mirror and licked back an errant lock of hair. One thing about being a junkie, I’m down 15 pounds, back to what I weighed at 19. He’ll give me what I need.

Dirk gave her what she needed but upped the price. Like I told you, you’re still a babe but I ain’t payin’ three Kermits ($300). Handle my crew, then we can talk.

The six-man crew made sure it got its money’s worth. For two hours they took turns, or not, pinching, grabbing, biting, and penetrating Helen, first with their bodies and then with found objects. When the last banger finished and she lay weeping on the ground, they circled around and pissed on her naked body.

Dirk dropped a plastic bag with 14 pink tablets on her urine-spattered breasts. Next time bring cash.

Helen got home, somehow. The time passed in a pill-popping, booze-guzzling blur except in that one moment of lucidity an hour or a day ago when she put the heavy duty scissors next to her bed.

It’s time, time for rest.

As her hand moved toward the wicked shears, a shadow caught the corner of her eye. She turned and gasped.

A man, but one too tall and thin to be a man, fixed her with eyes that blazed like campfires. Her muscles lost mobility. Her mouth misplaced its voice. Maggoty-white hands and face advanced. The stench of rotted meat and brimstone moved with them.

It’s death coming to get me.

Helen froze in place, helpless, but perversely relieved. She welcomed him, welcomed death.

The man-thing opened its reptile mouth, exposing glistening canine teeth as long as fingers.

* * *

The three Neighbourhood Watch patrollers rang the bell and pounded on the door despite the late hour.

The delay agitated the group’s leader, Ben Saxon. We know he’s on this block and this window’s been jimmied. The lights are on. Neighbour told me she’d be in all night. If she’s not answering, something’s up.

The sound of a rear door closing captured the men’s attention. Saxon peered between the houses and saw someone or something, lithe and lean, running in the darkness. Without pause or preparation, the figure leaped over a six-foot fence as easily as stepping over a curb.

Saxon’s blood ran cold. It’s him, the stalker. Call 911.

In two minutes, Saxon heard the sound of police and emergency sirens. A minute later several cruisers and an ambulance arrived. A wiry guy in a fedora and trenchcoat stepped from an unmarked cruiser.

Saxon recognized him as Detective Buddy Ferino, lead investigator in the Toronto Stalker assaults. It’s him, the Stalker. I’m tellin’ ya. The guy’s not human. He jumped over the back fence like it was nothing.

Ferino, used to Saxon’s hyperbole, took the statement in stride. So he headed out the back. I sent two squad cars in that direction. They’ll head him off.

I don’t think so detective. There’s something supernatural about him.

Ferino donned a mask of patience as the voice of a uniformed cop broke through. Hey Ferino. Better get in here before they take the vic to the hospital.

The detective entered the house as the paramedics wheeled Helen to the door.

Can she talk? Ferino asked the attendants.

Yeah she’s just coming out of it but make it quick. Her blood pressure’s way down. She’s lost a lot of blood.

Is she wounded?

Not a regular wound but like before, you know, the neck thing.

Ferino reached over. Excuse me Miss. I’m Det. Ferino. Can I take a peek?

Helen gave her chin a slow motion bob.

Ferino pulled back the blanket, her collar and lifted the edge of a gauze patch. Twin punctures similar to those he’d seen seven times before lay over her carotid artery.

Miss can you describe your assailant?

Helen gave the detective a blank stare. No, I can’t remember anything that happened. I was alone at home. I remember being upset and after that everything is a fog.

Okay, mind if I ask you more questions in the morning after you have a chance to rest?

Sure, sure, anything you want.

A uniformed cop invaded Ferino’s personal space as the ambulance sped away with Helen. D’ya think that Saxon’s got somethin’ or is he just nuts?

Nuts or not, he knows something. This is the third stalker attack where he’s been on the spot. He knows more than he’s telling us.

[ four ]

GRACEY SLIPPED MUSCLE-BOUND bald guy a $100 bill. The Robins Nest door guy responded by clearing lesser patrons from a front table.

A waitress displaying more flesh than frock, approached with boobs blooming red and green from the rolling lights. Gracey recognized the quick scan she gave him.

Despite his too-many-Tequilas pallor, he figured his Stefano Beyer wingtips, cashmere jacket, perfect teeth and $300 haircut assured her he’d tip better than the usual crowd of sweaty losers. The waitress gave an overly toothy welcome and, responding to his index-thumb formed ‘J,’ dropped a bottle of Jack before the newcomer.

Thud Thud Thud.

Curly, the muscle-bound bald guy, doubled as MC, and tapped the mike for attention. Gentlemen, we have a special treat tonight. Appearing for the first time on our stage, I give you the one, the only, the amazing Rita, Daughter of Darkness.

Gracey found the announcement by the Mr. Clean clone unusual and funny.

These strip club guys never give the broads a personal introduction beyond their stripper name: ‘Here’s Crystal’ or ‘Anastasia on deck.’ They’re just meat on a conveyor belt served up one after the other.

What’s the big deal? In the era of breast implants, as Rodney Dangerfield articulated, once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em both. And Daughter of Darkness? Wasn’t that the title of a corny Tom Jones song from the 60s or 70s?

Instead of the Welsh crooner, the sound system struck up the ‘60s Beatle tune Something In The Way She Moves. The Daughter Of Darkness walked from the shadows and into the spotlight.

In this shit-hole of a day, Gracey found a second moment of amusement.

Now Lennon and McCartney? Curly’s mixed metaphors won’t be propelling his entertainment career beyond the titty bar circuit any time soon.

The notion and the coke buzz still held Gracey’s attention when he realized the usual banter and snickers by the loud mouths, geeks, and perverts had stopped. All eyes, men and women’s, followed the movements of the ‘just-legal-age’ dancer. Not because of her beauty, although she was beautiful. Not because of her sexuality, although hormones hammering the red zone drenched the air.

Maybe it was the drugs but Gracey’s eyes could no more move from her than they could stop watching a 747 slam into the Twin Towers. A blink threatened to short-change him of that seductive something that oozed from her.

Something, I get it now.

She radiated danger, dangerous sex, like anything could and would happen.

And I get her show name.

Gracey gasped for air, realizing he hadn’t drawn breath since her first stilettoed heel hit the spotlight. And the part where she dropped clothing hadn’t begun.

The girl was a stunner.

Long black hair, straight bangs. Fingernails like silvery daggers. Skin white, smooth as porcelain. A howling wolf framed by a full moon tattooed over her left shoulder blade. Amazing violet eyes. Great long legs. Great body. Hmm, great body. Definitely great moves. And . . . what the?

As Something launched into riff 3, Rita started an agonizingly slow gyration/strip that inched away her black string bikini top, finally revealing the goods. And good they were.

She set the string