Annie of the Undead (29 page)

“Okay.”

And Mark proceeded to kick the living hell out
of me.

Oh, he didn’t hurt me –not permanently, but I
found out that what he meant by fighting barehanded was something
totally different that what I meant.

“What is that?” I asked after he’d thrown me
about five times and pinned me about six.

“I practice San Shou, Judo, and Jujitsu,
mostly.”

“You’re mostly whupping my butt.”

“You’re a street fighter,” he said, “and a very
good boxer. This is what I do.”

He wasn’t even breathing hard.

“Show me that thing that you did with that other
thing,” I made the motion of using my own arm as an axis point to
flip me over my own head and land me flat on my back.

“Oh, that’s basic. No problem.”

He proceeded to show me, several times, and I
actually got it and did it to him, and he didn’t even mind. We
eventually had to stop because of the nimbus cloud on my head that
was now obscuring my vision. It had ejected the sweatband right off
my head like it was spring-loaded.

“Whew! You’re a quick study,” he said, getting
up.

“Not too good at much else.”

“You should take up a martial art. I saw your
weapon,” he noted the lump of clothing beneath which the handgun
lay. “You’re Miguel’s protector. It would be smart to learn.”

“It’s not exactly like that. I didn’t exactly
interview for the job.”

“Hey, none of us did. But we learn pretty
fast.”

“Have you ever actually had any problems? You
know, with the baddies?”

“Not the real baddies. It’s just people trying
to break into the house or rip us off for yard equipment mostly.
It’s laughable, considering what we train for. Those petty thieves
don’t know what they’re getting into.”

“Yeah,” I said, spying an opportunity. “Like you
wouldn’t be able to handle them, with everything else lurking
around.”

He laughed. “There was this guy once who climbed
over the wall. I don’t know what he was after. He probably thought
he was going to make off with some great stuff, but he couldn’t get
back out. He was so scared we didn’t have the heart to call the
police. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days, so we fed him and
let him out the front door.”

“Sure he wasn’t a witch?”

“If he was, he wasn’t a coven member yet. He
didn’t have the tattoos.”

Tattoos. Interesting.

“I noticed yours.”

“Oh, yeah. That mother hurt like nothing else
I’ve ever…but it was a good thing I got it. I noticed, if you don’t
mind my nosiness, that you don’t have one. Are you a user?”

“What? Like drugs? Hell no.”

“No, no. I mean magic. Are you a magic
user?”

My instincts told me not to answer that
question. I wondered if this was one of those things that it’s best
not to discuss with strangers. Was I supposed to have one of those
big-ass crazy tattoos for some reason? And why would not having one
mean I should use magic? Did he mean like witch magic? I barely
knew what the hell any of that shit was anyway.

My instincts always erred on the side of
distrust, but I really wanted to know this stuff. I didn’t feel
threatened by this guy, except maybe in a cooking contest. Even
when I fought him I didn’t get the slightest vibe that he wanted to
hurt me. He could if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to.

To hell with my instincts. I’d learned them from
child molesters and street thugs.

“I don’t do any magic. From what I’ve seen, that
shit’s evil.”

Mark looked at me with awe.

“You don’t do any magic, and you don’t wear
protection? Are you naturally immune or something? I’ve heard that
some people are.”

“I’m not that I know of. I’ll be honest, Mark,”
since Andy knew all about me anyway, “I’m pretty new to this whole
thing –like it doesn’t need ironing yet new. I don’t know what your
tattoo is for, and I only got the better of the witches I fought
because I got the drop on them. I don’t know any magic, and I don’t
know anything about magic, except that it’s been a pain in my ass
so far, and it’s pretty much a pain in the ass to vampires. That’s
all I know.”

“So you’ve only been Miguel’s protector for a
little while?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, you need to get protection soon then. If
you hang around a fella like our Andy long enough, and you aren’t
protected, then you’re going to get the bad end of the dark stuff.
This tattoo on my back –it’s proof against everything but the real
nasty stuff. The average witch out there would have a really hard
time using magic to put me to sleep or cloud my mind or poison me.
You don’t have an earthvine, and a witch can whisper in your ear
and make you think you’re hearing voices for days, or sprinkle a
little powder on the ground, and you walk in it barefoot, and,
boom, you’re out so cold that people will bury you thinking you’re
dead, and you’ll wake up in a coffin and suffocate to death. It’s
nasty stuff. You really need to get protection.”

Holy shit.

“You can’t use magic if you’re protected, but
what witch is going to teach someone who hangs out with a vampire
anything?”

Did vampires use magic?

“So why don’t vampires get these tattoos? Seems
like it would be logical.”

“They can’t get them. Ink won’t stick –you know,
with the healing.”

“Oh yeah, that.”

“Some stuff doesn’t work on them anyway, with
that whole nullification thing, so we need it more than they
do.”

“Nullification thing?”

I had to ask. I had to.

“The preternatural aspect. The reason they don’t
have reflections or show up on video. I’m no authority, but it’s
like they’re magic themselves –so magic they cancel out other magic
when they’re too close to it, unless it’s specifically targeted at
vampires.”

“That’s pretty fucking cool.”

He agreed with innate enthusiasm.

“So where do you get one? Is there some tattoo
artist specializing in magic protection?”

“Andy brought in a specialist. He said you have
to get them exactly right, or they don’t work. They go on your back
because your back is supposed to be a guide to the right
proportions on each person, starting at C-7 on your neck. He said
that where he came from they sometimes used scarification. They cut
the skin instead of dyeing it. I’ll bet that hurts like crazy.”

Tattoos, magic, protection, scars, nullification
– how long had I been walking around on the planet and not known
about this stuff? I could learn a lot from this guy, and with that
gym…maybe hanging around Andy’s place wouldn’t be so bad –at least,
possibly, during the day.

“Does Andy sleep all day?” I asked bluntly.

“Like the dead,” he said without irony. “But
yesterday he woke up early and went out during daylight. It wasn’t
like him, but weirder things have happened.”

“I bet.”

“He’s been pretty off since your man showed up.
I think our man’s got it for him bad.”

“I’d say that’s a safe assumption.”

“Hey, would you like me to do something about
that hair? We have a salon at the other end of the house.”

“A sal…Of course you do.”

“Get showered and we’ll take care of it.”

“And you’re going to do what with it, exactly?
Make hexes at it? Beat it with a machete?”

“No, silly, I’ll braid it back up. I do Max’s
all the time. Anything you want. If you want the cornrows back, or
if you want something new…”

“I’ll take that shower.”

I grabbed up my things. I had to get away from
Superman for ten seconds at least, or I was going to go completely,
irretrievably insane.

I took a long, cold shower, which meant I was
under the water about seven minutes and dressed in three. Revived
by my ten minutes in private, I emerged to face this weird
wonderland and its strange inhabitant once more.

We went to the salon, where I let him attack my
hair. It was his funeral. But as I looked in the mirror following
much pulling and twisting on his part, I was stunned to silence by
the perfectly neat rows of corn on my head. They were even tighter
than the lady in Chattanooga –who did this for a living, had made
them. Max must have some kind of unruly hair to have gotten this
guy so good. Mark was an artist.

“Whew!” said Mark, washing his hands, “You have
a sumo wrestler of a do on your head. Call me next time you need it
done. I could use the workout.”

“Are you saying my hair is not the worst in the
house anymore?”

Max had wandered in. He too was much more
clothed than he had been the previous night.

“Oh no. Yours is still terrible. It’s just nice
to have a new challenge.”

I regarded Max warily, anticipating hostility
after my threats to his manhood, but he proved my suspicions as off
the mark with him as they had been with Mark.

Max produced a DVD from the bag hanging from his
shoulder.

He announced with excitement, “Are you finished?
I got the new Jet Li.”

“Awesome. We are so finished,” said Mark,
throwing down his hand towel, “Let’s go! Oh, you interested?”

He looked at me.

Ordinarily I would have declined quickly, but I
was tired, and I was clean, and I’d just had my hair done…

“Sure,” I said, “What else have I got to
do?”

“Hahaha! Did you see that? Do you know how hard
that would be to do?” Mark exclaimed, leaping from the couch after
Jet Li had done some completely crazy martial arts shit on screen.
My drink almost spilled on the white upholstery, “I could train for
forty years and never be able to do that.”

“Ridiculous,” said Max. “Put a wire in your butt
crack, and you could do that tomorrow.”

“Oh no, he’s not on a wire. He can just do that.
He’s just that good.”

“What? You think that was real?” Max went on,
gesturing with his drink, “He just jumped like eight feet off the
ground.”

“He bounced off the wall. That’s something they
do. It’s real, I’m telling you.”

“You don’t get leverage off a wall,” said Max,
his gesture of irritation nearly spilling my drink.

“You don’t think so?” said Mark, standing on the
couch in indignation, nearly spilling my drink, “By gosh, I’ll show
you.”

He vaulted from the couch, nearly spilling my
drink again.

“Good then. Go on, show us,” said Max, “Show us
how Jet Li reverses gravity.”

“I will!”

“Could be a vampire,” I said.

“Could be magic,” said Max.

“Movie magic.”

Then, by gosh, if Mark didn’t get leverage off
the wall and do some crazy martial arts shit.

“That wasn’t eight feet,” said Max.

“That’s my point!” said Mark, back on solid
carpet. “It’s so obvious!”

“What’s so obvious?” I asked.

“Don’t start that again,” said Max.

“But it makes perfect sense,” protested
Mark.

“What makes perfect sense?” I asked.

“That Jet Li is a werewolf,” said Mark.

A what?

“Jet Li is not a werewolf,” said Max.

“But why not? My dad’s sensei was a
werewolf.”

A what?

“Your dad’s sensei was not a werewolf.”

“He so was. He never aged. How do you think he
won all those matches, kept fighting like he was twenty when he was
sixty?”

“Werewolves don’t do things like that. They
don’t draw attention to themselves.”

What
don’t draw attention to
themselves?

“Like anybody would have suspected him. I only
knew because I
know
.”

“You just want to know a werewolf.”

“You just think it’s farfetched because you’re
from the islands. I lived in China. Werewolves were all over the
town where I went to high school.”

What
were all over the town?

Max waved a dismissive hand at Mark.

“Tell him, Annie,” Mark said. “Tell him how
they’re all over the place, way more than vampires. Just because he
hasn’t seen one doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Tell him.”

“I, uh…”
What’s
all over the
place????

“If you don’t all stop talking about those
hairy-dicked shapeshifters right now I am going to fire
someone.”

Everyone stopped cold. The voice was Andy’s. He
was leaning against the wall behind us in his white silk robe and
white shag sandals, squinting like a mole out of its hole and
looking about as happy to be vertical as an unearthed
earthworm.

“Oh, sorry,” said Mark. “We didn’t mean to wake
you up.”

Andy squinted disapprovingly in Mark’s
direction. Even though there was no sunlight in the shuttered
house, I got the feeling he couldn’t see too well. Then he squinted
disapprovingly in my direction.

“If you’re going to be in this house, you’re
going to have to put on something less shameful than
that….ensemble. If you could even call it that.”

Guess he could see well enough.

“Max, buy some tasteful female clothing and put
her in it.”
“Sure, Andy.”

Max left promptly.

“And no more hairy-dicks.”

Mark shook his head vigorously.

Andy departed.

I turned to Mark. Ordinarily, the Andy encounter
would have monopolized my attention, but something else had taken
precedence.

I demanded of martial arts boy,
“Were-fucking-wolves???”

He looked at me worriedly, gesturing toward the
direction Andy had gone. He picked up the remote and clicked open
the door, urging me to follow him outside.

As soon as we were on the patio, he said, “You
didn’t know?”

I threw up my hands to the god I didn’t believe
in.

“Fucking no!”

“Damn.”

“What?”

“It’s just that…that the werewolf thing is kind
of a big deal. It’s not something you just tell people about.”

“But you tell them about earthvines and witches
and magic-fucking-whatnot?”