“Agent Armstrong, the President of the United States wishes me to extend to you his heartfelt thanks. Your tireless efforts to rid this country of the criminal element amongst the Vampire-American community, as well as those who engage in vigilante justice against that community, has been exemplary. An entire nation owes you its gratitude. Of course, they don’t realize that, as these operations, as you know, are top secret.”
Bulldog Armstrong exchanged a firm, masculine handshake with the director of the Vampire Investigation Unit. “Thank you, sir, it’s good to know the hard work of agents in the field is appreciated.” The handshake between the two men lingered a tad too long. They looked deeply into each other’s eyes, stepped closer together, then embraced. The director whispered into Bulldog’s ear, “Agent Armstrong, there’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you.”
Bulldog’s eyes shot open. His head was throbbing and his mouth felt as if he had been sucking tennis balls all night. “Okay, that was weird. That’s the third time this week I’ve had that dream. I really, really don’t want to have it again.”
Having slept on the hood of his Chevy Cavalier, his back ached, yet he didn’t feel like moving. He stared at the canopy of trees above him. Another night, it would have blocked out the moon and the stars, but tonight they were hidden. The sky was entirely dark, appearing as one thick, stationary cloud. Yawning, he drew a hand over the stubble that covered his face. With the other hand, he reached for the Jack Daniel’s bottle that lay across his chest and put it to his mouth. Empty. He tossed the bottle into the distance. It landed quietly in the brush alongside the gravel road where he had parked hours before.
This wanton act of littering caused guilt to well up inside Bulldog. With great effort, he pried his body up from the car and felt around in the bushes until he found the empty bottle. He heaved it through the open window of the passenger door, where it landed on the seat.
Armstrong looked at the car and sighed. Thirty years of service to his country, fighting enemies ordinary people only imagined existed, thirty years performing not so much a job as a calling. Now it was all over and all he had to show for it was a decade old maroon Chevy Cavalier. He had been unceremoniously fired, escorted out of headquarters by security, told never to return. All because of Molly. True, he had allowed himself to be knocked unconscious twice, handcuffed to a dead vampire, and his weapon and car were stolen. If he could find Molly, and take her in, he could redeem himself. He had no wife, no family, no money since he lost all his savings in a Ponzi scheme. He had nothing. His life was his job, and Molly had taken that from him.
He got into the car, turned the key in the ignition, then laid his head on the steering wheel. “If it’s the last thing I do, Molly Kwiat, I’m going to find you. There needs to be a reckoning, young lady.” Bulldog sat up, turned the car around, and headed for the main road. Feeling the need to calm himself, he turned the stereo on and put in a cassette, letting the strains of a man’s gentle singing voice waft over him.
From the back seat, a voice said, “Johnny Mathis? Really? I would not have taken you for a Mathis fan. You look more like a country music shit kicker to me. No offense.”
Bulldog whirled around.
“Whoa, whoa, get your damn hands back on the wheel! Are you trying to kill us?”
Surprisingly, Bulldog did as he was told. “That’s better,” the voice said.
He stared into the rear view mirror, trying to comprehend what he thought he was seeing behind him. Lying across the entire back seat, with her paws hanging off and her tail dangling down, was Colette, in all her silver furred werewolf beauty.
“Holy shit,” Bulldog said calmly, for a man who had just seen his first werewolf, and a talking one at that. “Who...how...?”
“I’m Colette. Sorry to frighten you like that, but I kind of wandered a little too far from home last night, and I’m beat. I couldn’t take another step if I wanted to, and I really don’t want to. So when I saw you snoozing on top of your car, I hopped inside and took a nap. Say, you don’t mind driving me home, do you?”
Confused, frightened and hung over, words came slowly to Bulldog. “I guess not,” he drawled. “Where is home?”
“Arbor Woods. About fifty miles down this road up here. Make a left. That’s it, good boy. I think you’ll like it there. Nice town. We have a homeless shelter there that’s nicer than most hotels.”
“I’m not homeless.”
“Is that why you were sleeping on the hood of your car? Listen, I’m just going to get a little shuteye back here, okay?”
Bulldog felt the Jack Daniel’s creating chaotic upheaval in his stomach. “You don’t mind if I pull over to throw up, do you?”
“Do what you gotta do. Just don’t wake me until we get to town.”
Bulldog Armstrong exchanged a firm, masculine handshake with the director of the Vampire Investigation Unit. “Thank you, sir, it’s good to know the hard work of agents in the field is appreciated.” The handshake between the two men lingered a tad too long. They looked deeply into each other’s eyes, stepped closer together, then embraced. The director whispered into Bulldog’s ear, “Agent Armstrong, there’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you.”
Bulldog’s eyes shot open. His head was throbbing and his mouth felt as if he had been sucking tennis balls all night. “Okay, that was weird. That’s the third time this week I’ve had that dream. I really, really don’t want to have it again.”
Having slept on the hood of his Chevy Cavalier, his back ached, yet he didn’t feel like moving. He stared at the canopy of trees above him. Another night, it would have blocked out the moon and the stars, but tonight they were hidden. The sky was entirely dark, appearing as one thick, stationary cloud. Yawning, he drew a hand over the stubble that covered his face. With the other hand, he reached for the Jack Daniel’s bottle that lay across his chest and put it to his mouth. Empty. He tossed the bottle into the distance. It landed quietly in the brush alongside the gravel road where he had parked hours before.
This wanton act of littering caused guilt to well up inside Bulldog. With great effort, he pried his body up from the car and felt around in the bushes until he found the empty bottle. He heaved it through the open window of the passenger door, where it landed on the seat.
Armstrong looked at the car and sighed. Thirty years of service to his country, fighting enemies ordinary people only imagined existed, thirty years performing not so much a job as a calling. Now it was all over and all he had to show for it was a decade old maroon Chevy Cavalier. He had been unceremoniously fired, escorted out of headquarters by security, told never to return. All because of Molly. True, he had allowed himself to be knocked unconscious twice, handcuffed to a dead vampire, and his weapon and car were stolen. If he could find Molly, and take her in, he could redeem himself. He had no wife, no family, no money since he lost all his savings in a Ponzi scheme. He had nothing. His life was his job, and Molly had taken that from him.
He got into the car, turned the key in the ignition, then laid his head on the steering wheel. “If it’s the last thing I do, Molly Kwiat, I’m going to find you. There needs to be a reckoning, young lady.” Bulldog sat up, turned the car around, and headed for the main road. Feeling the need to calm himself, he turned the stereo on and put in a cassette, letting the strains of a man’s gentle singing voice waft over him.
From the back seat, a voice said, “Johnny Mathis? Really? I would not have taken you for a Mathis fan. You look more like a country music shit kicker to me. No offense.”
Bulldog whirled around.
“Whoa, whoa, get your damn hands back on the wheel! Are you trying to kill us?”
Surprisingly, Bulldog did as he was told. “That’s better,” the voice said.
He stared into the rear view mirror, trying to comprehend what he thought he was seeing behind him. Lying across the entire back seat, with her paws hanging off and her tail dangling down, was Colette, in all her silver furred werewolf beauty.
“Holy shit,” Bulldog said calmly, for a man who had just seen his first werewolf, and a talking one at that. “Who...how...?”
“I’m Colette. Sorry to frighten you like that, but I kind of wandered a little too far from home last night, and I’m beat. I couldn’t take another step if I wanted to, and I really don’t want to. So when I saw you snoozing on top of your car, I hopped inside and took a nap. Say, you don’t mind driving me home, do you?”
Confused, frightened and hung over, words came slowly to Bulldog. “I guess not,” he drawled. “Where is home?”
“Arbor Woods. About fifty miles down this road up here. Make a left. That’s it, good boy. I think you’ll like it there. Nice town. We have a homeless shelter there that’s nicer than most hotels.”
“I’m not homeless.”
“Is that why you were sleeping on the hood of your car? Listen, I’m just going to get a little shuteye back here, okay?”
Bulldog felt the Jack Daniel’s creating chaotic upheaval in his stomach. “You don’t mind if I pull over to throw up, do you?”
“Do what you gotta do. Just don’t wake me until we get to town.”
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