Undying. V.K. Forrest

      Arlan had, for some reason, expected Romano to be a bigger man. He had no idea why. He knew from experience that evil came packaged in a variety of ways, from bright, bubbly female, to dark and brooding male, and everything in between.

      Romano was short, no more than five foot five, with a slight build. His hair was sandy colored with a receding hairline. He was wearing tan pants, a polo shirt, and a navy sports jacket with a silly little handkerchief peeking from the breast pocket. On his shoulder, like most European men, he carried a small brown leather bag. He did not look like a pedophile. He looked like a father, a friend, a grocery store clerk.

      But when Arlan lifted his muzzle and sniffed the night air, he was quickly able to sort out the scents; a chewing gum wrapper on the ground, still minty fresh, the roasting lamb, the whore’s perfume, the dogs. Somewhere in the midst of the scents, he smelled Romano’s malevolence. Undetectable to him was the stench left on his hands by the things he had done. The filthy money that had changed hands. The touch of what should never be touched.

      Arlan’s stomach twitched and bile rose in his throat. Anger buzzed in his ears. His first impulse was to leap out of the darkness and take Romano by the throat. He wanted to rip his jugular and lap up the blood that would spurt from it.

      Arlan felt his entire canine body tremble with the eager thought of it. This man did not deserve to die so easily. He deserved to be tortured before he was murdered. He deserved to watch a dog eat out his entrails.

      But that was not Arlan’s mission, the human side of his brain reminded him. This execution had been entrusted to him by the High Council, by his beloved sept.

      His pulse throbbed in his throat. His heart pounded in his head.

      Arlan could not allow the beast in him to take over. The execution had to be carried out as planned, in the manner in which it had been ordered. Or, in this case, considering his lack of a partner, to the best of his ability.

      Something itched behind his ear and Arlan lifted his rear paw to scratch it. It was a good morph. It had come complete with fleas.

      Romano drew a hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket and pushed it between his lips. He tapped his trouser pockets, coming up with nothing.

      He had forgotten or misplaced his lighter. It was the perfect opportunity.

      Arlan had to concentrate to shift inside his present morph in order to use his human voice. “Light?” he asked in Greek.

      Romano turned toward the thick stump of weeds growing up between the rocky ruins of the Areopagus. If archeologists dug for the next ten years, they would not uncover all the ancient treasure buried by rock, human trash, and the natural sediment that came from time and battle.

      Arlan narrowed his yellow dog eyes, every muscle in his powerful body poised to strike as the ordinary-looking monster turned toward the darkness.

      “Ne,” Romano said in affirmation, his cigarette bobbing, his eyes squinting to see the stranger in the dark.

      Arlan glanced left and then right and sprang off his powerful haunches. Standing upright, he was nearly as tall as Romano.

      Arlan sank his needle-sharp canines into the man’s throat, locking his jaw. The cigarette flew from Romano’s mouth, his brown eyes widening in shock.

      Arlan dragged Romano into bushes so no one would accidentally come upon them. Romano flailed, calling out, and stumbled to his feet again.

      For a split second, Arlan feared he had made a mistake. In his eagerness to see the task done, had he jeopardized the assignment?

      The sound of a growl emanating from the bushes startled Arlan so badly that he nearly let go of Romano.

      Out of the darkness, a shadow leaped. Arlan cried out in surprise, a deep rumble of a growl.

      The gray dog hit Romano in the side, forcing him down on the ground again. The young male from the pack leaped next. The victim cried out once, but his voice was muffled by the growling and snapping of the dogs. The bitches came down on the child-seller from all sides and for an instant, they all bathed in the fury of the bloody flesh.

      Teeth still deep in Romano’s neck, Arlan felt dizzy from the taste of the human blood. For some, it was merely nutrition and even distasteful, but for Arlan it was a heady drug. The man convulsed beneath them. With the aid of the pack of wild dogs, Romano would be dismembered in a matter of minutes.

      Not like this, the human inside Arlan’s dog brain warned. This must be done correctly. There can be no mistakes. You cannot let your fury take over your common sense.

      It was all Arlan could do to relax his jaw. He tore his mouth away, his teeth shredding through delicate human flesh.

      Two daggers were required by law for the execution, but one would have to suffice. Arlan would answer to the High Council later.

      With a blink of the dying man’s eye, Arlan morphed back into a man. “Go,” he ordered the dogs that had come to his aid.

      Shocked by the transformation, the big gray fell back on the ground, eyes rolling in his head.

      “Go on! Get out of here,” Arlan grunted in Greek.

      The gray took off, followed by his pack, whining and yelping as they made their frightened retreat.

      Thank you, Arlan telepathed after them. You did a good deed tonight, my canine friends.

      The metallic taste of human blood in his mouth, Arlan slipped the ancient dagger from his leather jacket and leaned over Romano. “For the little children”, he said softly, in ancient Irish Gaelic.

      Arlan plunged the dagger into Romano’s heart and the light behind his eyes flickered. By the time Arlan was drawing back the steel, the light had already gone out.

      A pity he did not suffer longer.

      Arlan stared for a moment at the dead man, then glanced up. He could hear voices in the distance. A drug buy. But no one had seen him kill Romano. No one would see him go.

      He plucked the silly handkerchief from the man’s bloody suit jacket pocket. First, he wiped his mouth, then he wrapped the handkerchief around the blade. He slid the dagger into his leather jacket, stepped over the dead body and walked out into the dim light cast by the Acropolis high on the hill behind him.

      “Looking for a party?” one of the whores called to him as he headed west, back toward the pulse of the city and the restaurant where the rest of the team would meet him later for a glass of wine.

      “Nah,” Arlan answered in perfect Greek, Romano’s blood still on his breath. “Already had one tonight, sister.”

      Chapter 3

      Arlan was on his second glass of wine by the time Jimmy and Sean arrived at God’s Restaurant on Makrygianni Street. Both men took seats at the sidewalk table. Jimmy poured two glasses of wine and refilled Arlan’s.

      “Task complete?” Jimmy lifted the tumbler to his lips to drink the bloodred house wine.

      “Complete.”

      Jimmy glanced at the fourth glass, still empty. “Regan?” He looked around.

      Arlan swirled his wine, watching the way it climbed up the side of the glass before spinning in the center in a whirlpool. “A no-show.”

      “Ah, Jezus,” Sean cursed under his breath. Like his father, he was a big man, and also like his father, the chief of police in their hometown, he still carried a slight Irish accent, even after all these centuries. It became especially pronounced for both father and son when they became emotional. “Yer shittin’ me.”

      Arlan didn’t meet either of his companions’