DD Barant - Better Off Undead: The Bloodhound Files

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Table of Contents

Theres something about being driven to prison that makes you think about the past.

The bad parts, especially: lost loves, mistakes you made, chances you never took, choices you came down on the wrong side of. Me, Im thinking about a werewolf physician named Dr. Pete who saved my life on two separate occasions and got himself killed on attempt number three.

Well, not so much killed as erased, replaced by an alternate version of himselfa version with a different history, a different past in which hed made some bad decisions. Hard to believe that gentle, caring Dr. Pete could ever have been a member of a crime family, but we all have skeletons in our closets, dont we? If I hadnt gotten a degree in criminal psychology and joined the FBI as a profiler, my own violent youth could have progressed into me becoming the kind of person I now hunt.

Okay, maybe not the people I hunt now, more like the perps I used to catch in my native realitythe one with M*A*S*H reruns and butterscotch ripple ice cream and thrift-store silver jewelry. Here, nobody even knows what a gun is, silver is a controlled substance, and butterscotchfor some bizarre reasonhasnt been invented. Here being a parallel world, an alternate version of planet Earth that exists in a dimension right next to the one I came from. I didnt travel here willingly, either; I was yanked out of my own apartment in a dreamlike stupor, with nothing more than my laptop, a large handgun, and a crate of ammunition for company. Seems the residents of this reality had a problem with a crazed human psycho killing them off, and they needed an expert to deal with it.

I call this world Thropirelem, because the word neatly encapsulates the three main types of citizens: werewolves (thropes), vampires (pires), and golems (lems). Human beings make up a meager 1 percent of the worldwide population, less than a million people, and Im one of them.

So far.

I now work for the National Security Agency, based out of this worlds Seattle, and Ive largely adapted to my new existence. My current employers keep insisting theyll send me home one day, just as soon as I catch one Aristotle Stoker: descendant of the infamous Bram, leader of the Free Human Resistance, and prolific serial killer. Hasnt happened yet, though Ive come close a few times.

In the meantime Im being kept busy. The supernatural races are immune to most diseases including mental illness, which means they have very little experience with full-blown crazy. That is, they had little experienceuntil Stoker circulated a subliminal message buried in an Internet video, footage of an Elder God designed to make everyone who saw it into two things: (a) living mummies, trapped inside their own immobile bodies for all eternity; and (b) nuts.

With Dr. Petes help I managed to reverse the first condition, but the second one has proven more pervasive. Since millions of thropes and pires worldwide saw the videohumans and lems couldnt perceive itinsanity has become a booming industry. Many, many fanged or furry lunatics, and just one person who understands how the homicidal ones think.

Me.

All of which is weighing pretty heavily on my mind as Stanhope Federal Penitentiary gets closer. Ive accomplished some good since I got to this world, but Ive screwed up plenty, tooand right now it feels like Im heading straight for my biggest mistake of all.

Nickel for your thoughts? my partner says. That would be Charlie Aleph, a golem composed of three hundred pounds of black volcanic sand poured into a transparent plastic skin and wrapped in a seven-hundred-dollar double-breasted suit with matching fedora.

Where I come from its a penny.

Same here. You just look like you might have more than one. He pauses. Could be wrong, though.

Charlie owns the copyright to the word deadpan, and hes filed an application for wiseass . Think Humphrey Bogart by way of the Terminator and youll have an idea of his style. But he dresses better than either of them.

Hes the one driving me to Stanhope, where I have an appointment with a lycanthrope named Tair. Thats what he calls himself these daysbut when I knew him, his name was Adams. Dr. Peter Adams.

Thinking about Dr. Pete, I say.

He was good people.

I know. My fault he isnt anymore.

No, its not. You didnt stab him with the Midnight Sword.

He shouldnt have even been there.

His choice. Gotta respect that.

Me and respect arent exactly best buds, Charlie.

He nods, one glossy black hand on the steering wheel. You got me there.

More like Facebook friends. You know, the kind that lurks in the background and never posts anything.

Right.

Then you unfriend them and they send you an angry three-page e-mail demanding to know why you think youre better than them and that theyve never forgiven you for stealing their boyfriend in the fourth grade.

Sure.

I sigh. Tell me Im doing the right thing, Charlie.

Why? You suddenly gonna start listening to me?

No, but its a good starting point for an argument.

Like thats a requirement. Most people need a reason to argueyou just need a place.

I do not.

Yeah, youre right.

You call this an argument?

If I do, will you disagree with me?

Probably.

He shrugs. What the hell. Youre doing the right thing, Jace.

I sure hope so

The last time I was in Stanhope, I was almost bitten by a redheaded werebitch named Cali Edison. This time I intend to be a lot more careful.

The guy handling intakes is a stocky lem with the same high-gloss, transparent skin over black sand Charlie has, and the same slightly irritated, slightly bored demeanor Ive seen in too many prison guards. He checks our credentials, makes us stand in a warded circle to tell him if were carrying any mystic contraband, confiscates Charlies short sword and the two spring-loaded holsters filled with silver ball bearings he wears up either sleeve, and more or less ignores my gun. Its not that hes incompetentits that a global spell cast in the twelfth century has made the very concept of a firearm seem ridiculous here since then. Despite the fact that my Ruger Super Redhawk Alaskan has the power to put a basketball-size hole in his chest, the guard is incapable of viewing it as anything more than a toy.

What is that thing, anyway? he says, eyeing it in my holster. Some kind of hair dryer?

Yeah. Does a real good job of blowing things away.

The guard shakes his blocky, hairless head. Well, keep an eye on it. Lot of thropes in here are vain enough to want something like that. Probably try to steal it if you give em a chance.

Ill keep that in mind.

Tairs already waiting in the interview room, sitting on a wooden chair and chained at the neck, wrists, and ankles to a steel post with just enough silver in it to make him very uncomfortable if he tries to change form. More precautions than they took with Cali, but Tairs already developed a rep as a dangerous customer in the short time hes been incarcerated here. Of course, a life sentence for treason will give you a pretty solid foundation to build on.

He smiles at me when Charlie and I walk in, the same open, slightly wry smile that Dr. Pete used to give me. I wonder if hes been practicing itthe way Tair leered at me every time we met was a lot less subtle. Hes wearing an orange jumpsuit, hes still got the streak of gray dyed into his shaggy brown hair, and he still reminds me of a young Harrison Ford.

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