She staggered up from yellow carpet. It snagged and tore on the buckle of her wedge shoes, a sound of swamp muck and gulped gasping, under her twisted ankle. Arm swept out with the turn of her lurch to catch the silver chains, silver Mary, silver Santa Muerte, silver dyed neon-melon by the tulle at the edge of her skirt scattering hotel lights. Stumbled up, planted foot a-thunder to stillness, and waited, crouched. Catch your breath, baby, she said to herself. Still your heart.Take the money. She hit her knees like a dancer and felt for the fat wad of bills in Mr. Silver Mary's pockets. Slipped it loose like a butterfly from its c'coon, and stuffed it into her bra, gone from B to BC.Poor baby, she thought, looking down at Mr. Mary. You didn't have to go this way.
No pity to it, only truth.
Reached for the knife, but it was still all covered in throat blood and she didn't have time for this shit in a yellow dress. Walked to the other edge of the shitty hotel bed, kicked it off center so it rested half-over the body. The fat corner jarred against the knife, making Mr. Mary's head jiggle in protest, and eventually she was either going to be sick or make herself sick laughing. Stopped to check her handiwork, subconsciously falling into the corner-girl pose as she tried to imagine a defense attorney calling this 'covering the body as an act of remorse'.Her curls jumped as she turned, swishing her purse from the night stand. Out the door, up the cement hall, clump clump clump in her high wedge heels, down the stairs in cat's pattering and off to the left.She ran; always linear, the path had to be, so come in right, go left. Time the lead, baby, she thought; Mr. Mary's happenstance had bought her beautiful time.
For four wheels better than four legs better than two legs. "Hey, baby, how'you?" Mr. Mary’d said, gold teeth and silver chains. Silver chains, shining in the night.They always had something; silver belts, silver money clips, silver grills, silver something.She leaned on his car window, big gaudy rings clacking on the paint job and making his eyes flicker down as she pouted. "I'm doin' so fyyyyne, daddy, but I'm kinda in a hurry.""Well let [whatever the fuck his name was] help you out, chula."She hadn't let Mr. Mary dawdle, which drove him on with his eager trick, until poor baby had to take him with the knife rather than the lamp. Lamp’s a maybe – baby doesn’t miss with her knife. Hurry was necessary, even with Mr. Mary's assistance.Twice as easy to follow a car as a person, baby. He'd be half up her trail, beautiful time half what it should be. Wouldn't need to go in the room, he'd be able to smell it, and wouldn't be so stupid as to risk leaving evidence he'd been there behind. Baby, leave evidence everywhere – they ain’t going to see, ain’t nothing yours, ain’t your face, ain’t your things, ain’t your shadow crawling up the walls.She ran, but she knew this neighborhood like the back of her hand. Knew precisely how many smacks of her wedge heels to Toolie's. Knew exactly where Toolie'd be, right about now. Knew exactly where to push the doors, satin red lips pursed, to make the lock fumble out of its hold. She let the door smack closed behind her. Her heart was speeding up again, but she let it. Let its beat drive him on, let him scent the adrenaline in his prey. She looked critically down at Toolie's glass-top counter.Goddamn Toolie and his cheap pawn shop sticks. She closed her fist and brought those big gaudy rings down smack in the center of the pane of glass, shattering it. Used the bottom of her purse to shy away the glass; still cut herself when she lifted out a nice .45. Loaded it with one sweet, thick slug from the boxes of bullets behind the counter. No need to be wasteful.Baby, you need power.Got out of that death-trap pawnshop before she could be cornered in it. Put herself right on the yellow line, right in the center of the street. Let her wedge heels smack on the asphalt, noise dulled as if it was still gooey from the day's heat.
Run, baby, run.
Twenty beats of the heart, and he'd caught up to her. His long claws scratted on the asphalt between the clumps of her heels like a backhoe dropping a load of earth on a grave.She spun and raised the gun. He, on instinct, crouched and snarled at her, pulling up short. The snarl soon turned to a smile, big teeth shining out of vulpine lips. Big, hairy, beast, but vulpine, rather than lupine. Narrow-snouted, prick eared - prick-pricked, too, she'd noticed when he rubbed against her on the street, marking her, scenting her, choosing her.
That same little prick hung half-hard between moon-twisted legs. That wasn't anything new. That's all they were ever interested in: fucking and eating.Werewolves just took it a little more literally than other men did.He growled and barked and whimpered and snarled until he could force human words from dog-tongue:"Poor bitch. You t'ink dat enough?" He laughed, a hissing, cat-like sound, drawn from beast's panting and warped whimpers. "You need mo’ power."She squinted to aim. Tisked a rough tongue against red, wet lips. Baby needed glasses one day. Why you think baby steal from Mr. Mary like some bitch?She shot. The bullet hit the middle of his chest, crunching bone and blowing into spine. He fell and coughed; even a werewolf was going to be hurt by that. Run, baby, run. Ran like a sprinter to the body before he could move. Watched his head lift and eyes narrow as he thought he saw his meal running right into his jaws. Took her fistful of Mr. Mary's silver, hit her knees on the hard street, skidding into the nest of claws, and rammed her fist into the wound. The silver pitched and burned and blood bubbled and high-pitched howl like the air being let slowly from a balloon ran out of the werewolf – like an old man shitting himself, like Bubba convulsing during one of his spells, like steam from a kettle, his life left in squeaks and pops around her silver-filled fist crammed deep in the wound. He screamed and howled and did both, shat an convulsed and ruined her damn yellow dress. She let go her fist and stood up, to escape the shuddering random sweep of claws. With her wedge heels, she jammed the palm-sized Mary pendant into the wound until he was certainly still. And man again. Man again, still, bubbling blood. She waited, standing still, but Baby's breath was caught.Her heart was still.