dark-haired, with razor-sharp cheekbones and heavy-lidded black eyes. He might have been Native or African-American, Latino or Arabic. He glared into the lens, his face partially obscured by the bars of a prison cell.
Something about the man’s face nagged at my gut.
“I know him,” I said.
“If you knew him you’d be dead,” Kowalski said. “His name’s Carlos Vulpe. That picture was taken two hours before he was hanged for murdering ten children in the Spring of nineteen and ten.”
“But you said your father died in 1975,” I said.
“I did,” Kowalski replied. “Vulpe hid his crimes by pretending to be a human serial killer. But he was a skinwalker , what you’d call a werewolf. For guys like him, Death is a minor inconvenience. ”
I studied the man in the picture, unable to shake the certainty that I’d seen him before. He was sitting with his back against the wall, his hands resting lightly upon his thighs, his spine erect, unbent.
At the same time, Vulpe’s smile communicated a sense of malignant ease, as if he were merely biding his time rather than awaiting his own execution. A man who looked like that would have moved with a serpentine economy of motion, the fluid grace of a dancer. But something in his expression also suggested a towering rage, and a limitless capacity for violence. A terrible hunger seemed to crackle in his eyes.
“My God,” I said. “His teeth...”
Kowalski nodded. “Near as anyone can tell, they were his original choppers, but somehow the sick fucker found a way to cover them with silver or aluminum or Christ-knows what. Then he sharpened them, filed them into points.”
It was true. Vulpe’s teeth gleamed, their argent coating plain even in the ancient photograph.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you said he was a werewolf...”
“A skinwalker .”
“If he was a... skinwalker, wouldn’t a mouthful of silver teeth... be... bad for him?”
“Vulpe wasn’t a member of the scumbag rank and file,” Kowalski said. “He sat near the top of the supernatural food chain. Some folks thought he used the silver to help him maintain control during his transformations: Vulpe and things like him draw power from suffering: Yours, theirs, and anybody else’s.”
“But why file them down?”
Kowalski shrugged. “Because he’d developed a taste for human meat even when he was on two legs. The teeth helped him kill more efficiently in his human form. He used them to eviscerate his victims. Sometimes he would rip out their throats, or just tear ‘em apart altogether.”
I laid the picture down slowly, deliberately, to keep my hand from shaking. The walls of Kalakuta seemed to lean in toward me. The ceiling crouched much closer to the top of my head than it had a moment before.
He used them to eviscerate...
“Listen, Mr. Kowalski,” I said. “I’m...I’m having a hard time with all this.”
“Your father and I first met back in ’75,” Kowalski said. “We were both hunting Vulpe by then, but for different reasons. For me, it was about my old man.”
Kowalski walked to the refrigerator and opened it. He produced a can of cream soda and brought it to the table.
“He was a monster hunter, one of the best. Together, he and Satin Jack struck terror into the heart of the Wraithing like no one ever had.”
“The Wraithing?” I said.
Kowalski nodded. “I’ll come to that in a minute. My father was an old school Catholic who ate slept and drank the job. He was also the most decent man I’ve ever known. I swore on his grave that I would kill the ones who killed him.”
Kowalski reached into the black hatbox and pulled a bundle of black cloth out of it. The bundle had been tied and secured with a length of red velvet ribbon. Kowalski untied the ribbon, unwrapped the bundle, and set it on the table between us. Without transition I was staring down the bore of a big mean-looking revolver.
Kowalski had changed without my noticing. He was wearing a
Something about the man’s face nagged at my gut.
“I know him,” I said.
“If you knew him you’d be dead,” Kowalski said. “His name’s Carlos Vulpe. That picture was taken two hours before he was hanged for murdering ten children in the Spring of nineteen and ten.”
“But you said your father died in 1975,” I said.
“I did,” Kowalski replied. “Vulpe hid his crimes by pretending to be a human serial killer. But he was a skinwalker , what you’d call a werewolf. For guys like him, Death is a minor inconvenience. ”
I studied the man in the picture, unable to shake the certainty that I’d seen him before. He was sitting with his back against the wall, his hands resting lightly upon his thighs, his spine erect, unbent.
At the same time, Vulpe’s smile communicated a sense of malignant ease, as if he were merely biding his time rather than awaiting his own execution. A man who looked like that would have moved with a serpentine economy of motion, the fluid grace of a dancer. But something in his expression also suggested a towering rage, and a limitless capacity for violence. A terrible hunger seemed to crackle in his eyes.
“My God,” I said. “His teeth...”
Kowalski nodded. “Near as anyone can tell, they were his original choppers, but somehow the sick fucker found a way to cover them with silver or aluminum or Christ-knows what. Then he sharpened them, filed them into points.”
It was true. Vulpe’s teeth gleamed, their argent coating plain even in the ancient photograph.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you said he was a werewolf...”
“A skinwalker .”
“If he was a... skinwalker, wouldn’t a mouthful of silver teeth... be... bad for him?”
“Vulpe wasn’t a member of the scumbag rank and file,” Kowalski said. “He sat near the top of the supernatural food chain. Some folks thought he used the silver to help him maintain control during his transformations: Vulpe and things like him draw power from suffering: Yours, theirs, and anybody else’s.”
“But why file them down?”
Kowalski shrugged. “Because he’d developed a taste for human meat even when he was on two legs. The teeth helped him kill more efficiently in his human form. He used them to eviscerate his victims. Sometimes he would rip out their throats, or just tear ‘em apart altogether.”
I laid the picture down slowly, deliberately, to keep my hand from shaking. The walls of Kalakuta seemed to lean in toward me. The ceiling crouched much closer to the top of my head than it had a moment before.
He used them to eviscerate...
“Listen, Mr. Kowalski,” I said. “I’m...I’m having a hard time with all this.”
“Your father and I first met back in ’75,” Kowalski said. “We were both hunting Vulpe by then, but for different reasons. For me, it was about my old man.”
Kowalski walked to the refrigerator and opened it. He produced a can of cream soda and brought it to the table.
“He was a monster hunter, one of the best. Together, he and Satin Jack struck terror into the heart of the Wraithing like no one ever had.”
“The Wraithing?” I said.
Kowalski nodded. “I’ll come to that in a minute. My father was an old school Catholic who ate slept and drank the job. He was also the most decent man I’ve ever known. I swore on his grave that I would kill the ones who killed him.”
Kowalski reached into the black hatbox and pulled a bundle of black cloth out of it. The bundle had been tied and secured with a length of red velvet ribbon. Kowalski untied the ribbon, unwrapped the bundle, and set it on the table between us. Without transition I was staring down the bore of a big mean-looking revolver.
Kowalski had changed without my noticing. He was wearing a
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