Pack Dynamics: Bite-Sized: Pack Dynamics

By Julie Frost

A werewolf private eye.

A modern-day mad scientist.

An enigmatic butler.

An aspiring actress.

These are a few of the characters gracing the Pack Dynamics series, and sometimes they embark upon self-contained adventures too short for a novel. Within these pages you'll find a time-traveling Winnebago, homicidal robot bunnies, a vampire movie producer, and... a were-squonk?

Follow Ben as he fights to retrieve his stolen inner wolf. Discover who Chambliss was before he started working for Alex--when his past comes roaring back for another crack at him. Watch Janni struggle to find roles she actually wants in a sea of Hollyweird dreck. Celebrate with Alex while he performs a medical miracle that may change the world forever.

From the mean streets of Los Angeles to the basement lair of a scotch-fueled genius, life is never boring, even if it comes in bite-sized chunks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Frost
• Release date: Jun 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393221487

Book preview

A flawless blend of hardboiled detective and werewolf story. If Mickey Spillane was bitten by Lon Chaney Jr., these are the stories he would write.— Martin L. Shoemaker, author of Today I Am Carey

Julie Frost is a fine writer and her debut novel is a lot of fun. — Larry Correia, author of the Monster Hunter International series, the Saga of the Forgotten Warrior series, and the Grimnoir Chronicles series

The Pack Dynamics series packs physical and emotional punches while seamlessly melding nanotech with the supernatural. — Eric James Stone, Nebula Award-winning author of Unforgettable

Julie Frost’s werewolves will put hair on your chest! — DJ Butler, author of Witchy Eye

Julie Frost is one of the finest short fiction writers working today. She’s taken werewolves and made them fun again! — Jon Del Arroz, author of For Steam and Country

Julie Frost can be relied on for action-packed excitement that also kicks you in the heart. Come along for a ride that includes vampires, werewolves, brave men, despicable villains, and so much more. No perp is going to get away from this detective! — L. Jagi Lamplighter, author of the Prospero’s Children series

Julie Frost has an infectious enthusiasm for the stories she tells. Her characters are bursting with an animal-like energy which can barely be contained on the printed page. — Award-winner Brad R. Torgersen

Frost writes short stories with a special bite. Pack Dynamics is Dragnet meets Harry Dresden, and it's everything a reader could ask for. — Kary English, Writers of the Future Winner, Hugo and Campbell nominee

Pack Dynamics:

Bite-Sized

Julie Frost

Pack Dynamics: Bite-Sized by Julie Frost

Published by Julie Frost

agilebrit.livejournal.com

© 2018 Julie Frost

The Monster Without © 2010 by Julie Frost. First published in StoryHack Issue 0, edited by Bryce Beattie.

Different in Blood © 2012 by Julie Frost. First published in Plasma Frequency Issue 7, edited by Richard Flores IV.

Alpha Romeo © 2013 by Julie Frost. First published in Mirages and Speculations, edited by Lyn Worthen.

A Particular Skill Set © 2013 by Julie Frost. First published in The Worlds of SF, F, &H, edited by Robert N. Stephenson

Predator/Prey Relationships © 2013 by Julie Frost. First published in StoryHack Issue 2, edited by Bryce Beattie.

Bad Actors © 2013 by Julie Frost. First published in 3rd and Starlight, edited by Robert B. Feingold.

All Our Yesterdays, © 2014 by Julie Frost. First published in Crazy Town, edited by Jason M. Waltz.

Brave Day Sunk in Hideous Night © 2014 by Julie Frost. First published in StoryHack Issue 1, edited by Bryce Beattie.

Serendi-bunny © 2014 by Julie Frost. First published in Singular Irregularity, edited by Kimber Grey.

Star-Crossed © 2015 by Julie Frost. First published in Planetary: Venus, edited by L. Jagi Lamplighter and AM Freeman.

A Pint of Blood, A Pound of Flesh © 2019 by Julie Frost. Original to this collection.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:

[e-mail]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover photo by Denis Andricic (via Shutterstock)

Cover design by Julie Frost

DEDICATION

To Eric, for your patience, your love, and your occasional kick in the seat of my pants when I need it. I love you.

Contents

A Pint of Blood

Bad Actors

Different in Blood

Brave Day Sunk in Hideous Night

Star-Crossed

A Particular Skill Set

Alpha Romeo

The Monster Without

Serendi-bunny

All Our Yesterdays

Predator/Prey Relationships

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

––––––––

So many elements go into putting together a collection like this, and I have a lot of people to thank. In no particular order:

My family. They have encouraged me every step of the way.

The editors who took these stories off my hands and then proceeded to push me to make them better. Richard, Bryce, Robert, Dr. Bob, Lyn, Jason, Kimber, and Jagi—thank you for your input and your patience with me. I hope I was easy to work with even when we didn’t see eye-to-eye.

My handsome and hard-working beta readers, Patrick Tracy and Dave Bridges. You guys are awesome, and I appreciate you so much.

My readers. Your kindness is inspirational, and I strive to make these stories the best they can be for you. I hope I don’t disappoint, and that you enjoy this collection as much as I enjoyed writing these stories and putting it together for you.

A semi-technical note: A Pint of Blood, A Pound of Flesh and Bad Actors take place between Pack Dynamics and Pack Dynamics: A Price to Pay. All the other stories take place after Pack Dynamics: A Price to Pay. That being said, they may pretty much be read in any sequence as long as you’re basically familiar with the universe of the novels—or even if you’re not. After all, these were all published as standalones by editors who were largely unfamiliar with these characters.

Enough of this. Go forth, read.

A Pint of Blood

A Pound of Flesh

BEN LOCKWOOD SAT AT his desk in the office of Coughlin Investigations, finalizing paperwork from his last case. It was a sticky divorce with a cheating spouse, and he was running late, but no one ever said the PI business was a cushy job with nine-to-five hours. Just the opposite, really—and that was how he liked it.

The door opened and a tall man with dark hair and eyes and a pale olive complexion, wearing a tailored business suit, walked in. Ben didn’t stop typing, though he glanced up and said, Have a seat; I’ll be right with you.

Then Ben caught the guy’s scent as he sat in the client chair, and his fingers froze on the keyboard. His first encounter with a vampire had gone catastrophically badly, and he wasn’t eager for a repeat of that recent experience. He only kept his wolf in check via an act of titanic will.

The vampire’s eyes narrowed, noting Ben’s reaction, and he tipped his head. Is there a problem? he asked mildly.

That depends. Ben kept his voice even and his gaze averted. He had no desire to get caught in a thrall ever again. On whether you’re going to try to eat me or not.

The vampire smiled, keeping his teeth covered. While werewolf blood carries pleasing qualities, I’m not here to snack on you, Mr. Lockwood. I wish to employ your investigative services.

Ben relaxed, somewhat. Business, he could deal with. Probably. All right. Tell me what’s going on.

I am Paolo Estevez, and I own several high-end restaurants and clubs in the Greater Los Angeles area. He handed over a fancy linen-paper business card. Werewolves are turning up dead behind them. Drained. Four, so far, two males, two females.

Ben stiffened, back to being tense. So why aren’t you going to the police with this?

Law enforcement tends to get precipitous and indiscreet in their judgments. Estevez leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers together. Bodies are bad for business. Calling them in would be worse. I want this solved and settled quickly but quietly.

I’ve only had one case with werewolves and vampires, Mr. Estevez, and it was horrible. I gotta say, I’m not super eager for a repeat. Ben frowned. Heck, my boss-lady doesn’t even know I’m a werewolf.

Pam had gone home for the day, thank God. Ben could only imagine how she would react to a vampire client. Or finding out her employee—and her daughter—had been turned into werewolves during the course of a case they were supposed to have been able to work from their desks while she vacationed in Australia. Ben had managed to gloss over the weirder aspects in his write-up of the Ostheim affair, and he and Janni had decided together not to tell her.

You’re the only werewolf private eye in town. Word travels fast in the supe community, and I certainly won’t be the last of our kind to come to you like this.

Awesome, Ben thought dryly. Well, I suppose it’ll be a new revenue stream, he said aloud. So, tell me about yourself. Did you know any of the victims? What kind of rivals—or actual enemies—do you have? Are you getting reports of bodies turning up in other places? I’ll need a crash course in the political landscape among wolves and vamps, too, because I haven’t been doing this long enough to get a feel for how things work. He had, in fact, been rather avoidant of the supernatural set. The Ostheims had left a bad taste in his mouth (in more ways than one), though he loved his alpha, Megan, like the big sister he’d never had.

I’m not hearing of other bodies, no, and these were strangers with no ID. Estevez shrugged. Of course, one doesn’t live five hundred years and not make enemies, but I can’t think of any who’d murder innocent bystanders just for a vendetta.

"How about for a vendetta and a snack? I mean, you just told me vampires like wolf blood."

Estevez pursed his lips. The victims looked like they’d been in captivity a long time. Ligature marks on the wrists and biceps, too thin, generally unkempt and smelly. No bites anywhere, though.

Are we sure that vampires are involved, then? Maybe some regular old human is getting his serial killer on.

It’s not easy for a human to overpower a werewolf and take one captive, though it can be done with some preparation. I don't know why a human would drain a wolf of their blood, though. Estevez’s brow creased. They had needle marks. One in the hand, one in the opposite elbow. Bruised.

Ben gave a violent flinch, then inwardly cursed his atavistic response. He covered by saying, Give me the addresses of your crime scenes, and I’ll go out tonight and have a sniff around. Four hundred an hour, plus expenses. Two hours in advance. Vampires, he decided on the spur of the moment, would pay a premium, and like it.

Estevez looked like he could well afford it. He didn’t even blink, just reached into his pocket for his wallet and handed over an American Express Black Card. I assume there’s also some paperwork?

Ben delved into his desk drawer for the form, which Estevez filled out with his own gold fountain pen. He wrote the addresses Ben asked for on the back. Awesome, Ben said, and stood up to shake hands, managing to hide his misgivings. You’ll be hearing from me soon.

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THE CRIME SCENES DIDN’T tell him much of anything, other than Estevez had an eclectic mix of both clientele and employees at his places of business—vamp, wolf, and human, it didn’t seem to matter. Ben couldn’t afford to eat at any of his restaurants, and the clubs were too snooty for him.

A well-groomed vampire busboy came out of the restaurant hauling a full trash bag. He stared at Ben, who was, as usual, underdressed in a clearance-rack Captain America tee, a pair of jeans, and his ass-kicking boots. What are you doing here? the busboy asked, like Ben's presence caused him personal affront. His nametag read Chad.

Your boss hired me to look into these dead-werewolves shenanigans, Ben answered. Can you tell me anything?

Oh, that, Chad said. His demeanor relaxed, and he tossed the bag into a dumpster like it didn’t weigh anything. I found her body. It was creepy, man.

Ben’s fists clenched at the her. Dead women was, as always, a bad button for him. Yeah? What was creepy about it?

I mean, you know about the diet, right? But we don’t drain people, as a rule, not anymore, and she had zero blood left in her. None. He paused. I’m young. I’ve never seen that before.

So it’s a rogue, probably.

I dunno, man. With three others in the same condition? I’m not seeing one guy responsible for this. Chad shook his head. More like a well-organized group. Targeting my boss, from what I hear through the grapevine. I hope you catch them. Paolo’s a good guy, and he doesn’t need this shit.

Doing my best, Ben said. Thanks for your help.

No prob. I gotta get back.

Ben took his time sniffing around the site, but his nose didn’t tell him anything useful. Disgruntled, he decided to talk to his alpha about it, which was probably something he should have done first.

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IT’S WEIRD, MEGAN, and I don’t know what I don’t know, Ben said.

They sat sipping Cokes in Alex Jarrett’s Beverly Hills mansion, where Megan worked and occasionally slept. The leather living room sofa sectional was ridiculously comfortable, and he slouched into it and let the softness envelope him. I’m kind of at sea here, miles from shore with no lifeboat, and my ship is filling with water faster than I can bail.

I’m not really plugged in to the supernatural community, Megan said. I avoid all that for a reason. Several reasons. As the personal assistant to an eccentric billionaire, she didn’t really have time to fool around with anything else. She hadn’t told Alex about her lycanthropy, and Ben knew she hoped she’d never have to. Alex was safely down in his basement lab, buried in research, so they could talk freely.

Toss me a bone. Surely you know someone who can help me with this.

I really don’t, Ben. I’m sorry. Megan sounded frustrated; as the alpha, she was the caretaker of the pack, and the fact that she couldn’t take care of him in this was a source of aggravation.

What about the person who turned you? How did that happen, anyway?

Her face turned pink. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her blush before. Let’s just say that newly-graduated secretaries don’t always make the best decisions in their casual sex partners.

Wait, I thought— Ben covered his confusion by taking a giant sip of Coke. Werewolves don’t mate for life?

That one didn’t, at any rate. The next full moon was a nasty surprise.

Ben glared. Not at Megan, never at Megan, but at the situation. "So he bit you and didn’t say anything? What an asshole."

I don't think he meant to, but yeah, I had to figure out the whole thing pretty much on my own. Megan’s mouth pulled to one side. She’d taken the job at Jarrett Biologicals hoping for a cure for her condition, but it hadn’t turned up yet.

That sucks. He sucks. I could hunt him down for you and teach him what a very bad idea that was. Righteous anger was a much better emotion than puzzlement.

It was eight years ago. I’m over it.

No, she wasn’t, as evidenced by the fact that she was keeping it a secret from Alex, and Ben was pretty sure they were in love with each other. However, neither would admit it, so Ben decided not to push. Still, if you ever decide to look for him, I’ll help. I have resources.

Chambliss, Alex’s enigmatic butler, chose that moment to make an appearance with chips and salsa, correctly divining what they needed and supplying it without being asked. It was like a superpower.

I believe you may be looking at this the wrong way, Master Ben, he said in his precise English accent. He wasn’t actually British and hadn’t always been a butler, but no one asked and he didn’t tell. Clearly, people in the supernatural community take care of their own problems and don’t get law enforcement involved unless the situation has gone completely down the loo.

Megan twitched. Wait, you know about me?

I know a great many secrets, Miss Megan, and I keep them all, Chambliss said. Yours included. He turned to Ben. You know what to do, Master Ben. It’s no different, procedurally, from your usual.

Ben grabbed a chip and dipped it in the salsa. "But I’m still not sure how I find the bastards who killed these wolves and then make them pay for it. Or point Estevez in their direction so that he makes them pay for it."

Same as ever. Pounding pavement, talking to people, and whatever it is your private investigation skills let you do.

Ben snapped his fingers. Video cameras at the backs of the places, and facial recognition software. I mean, the cameras must have caught someone dumping the bodies, right? Stupid, he should have thought of this first. The supernatural aspects of the case had thrown him, and he’d forgotten his basic protocol.

Exactly. See, you know what to do.

Thanks for giving me a metaphorical thwack upside the head, Chambliss. I think you just made my life easier.

Of course. I’m happy to help.

A panicked cry came from the basement. Chambliss!

Apparently Master Alex has gotten himself into a contretemps with his bunnies again, Chambliss said with resigned patience. Excuse me.

Megan made a face after he left. Wolves turning up dead and drained is bad for everyone, not just the actual victims. I mean, what if some random human had found the bodies and called the LAPD?

That was so. Ben shivered. I can’t see any good coming out of that.

You need to find these people. Soon.

I will. Ben drained his Coke. But it’s late and I should get some sleep and an early start tomorrow.

Keep me posted? Just because I can’t help doesn’t mean I’m not concerned.

Natch. He gave her a brotherly smooch on the cheek and flitted out.

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BEN ARRIVED AT THE office before Pam the next morning. He’d just gotten the coffee maker going when she walked through the door. Hey, Pam, he said. I got us a new case last night.

She was middle-aged and African-American. Ben stood five-seven in his boots on a good day, and she topped him by a good three inches and outweighed him by fifty pounds. A large, comforting, motherly presence in his life, he was grateful for her, every day. She was flexible about his issues, too, understanding that seven months of horrific captivity in Afghanistan wouldn’t go away all at once and letting him work from home when he needed to.

Oh, good, she said, waiting with him for the coffee to brew, grabbing her mug and tapping her fingers on it. What’s it about?

Local businessman finding dead bodies behind his restaurants and clubs.

Pam’s fingers stilled, and her Texas accent, softened by decades in California, intensified. Shouldn’t the police be taking care of that?

He wants it solved faster than they can. I don’t have the same procedural handicaps they do. I’ll share what I get with Spence, probably, though he might not be able to use it except in the most vague way. Spencer Winslow worked LAPD homicide, and he put up with Ben because he was a fellow war vet, and Ben frequently found things the police missed. I’ll be careful, Pam.

See that you are. Murder cases ain’t our usual bailiwick, and if this is bodies, plural, you’ve got a serial on your hands. The coffeemaker gave a final gurgle, and she poured herself a cup. Don’t take stupid chances, baby boy.

Why, Pam. Ben put on his best harp seal expression as he poured his own and added a sinful amount of hazelnut creamer to it. "I never take stupid chances."

No, of course not. She headed into her office to do paperwork, and Ben sat down at his desk. He’d obtained the security cam footage from Estevez before he came in, and he started poking through it. The area behind the restaurant was well-lit, and Estevez had invested in excellent equipment, so the video was crisp and detailed.

Ha, he said when a big black van pulled into view. He scribbled the license plate number on a pad and zoomed in on the guy who dragged the obviously-dead body out and left it sprawled unceremoniously beside the dumpster. A tall and muscular white man with dark flowing hair, a beak of a nose, and thin lips, Ben noted, grabbing a screencap and printing out a few copies to show around.

Footage from the other three places showed the same van and the same guy. Pam had called Ben her pet hacker when he first started working for her, and discovered he had a facility for getting into electronic places he shouldn’t without leaving footprints behind. It was the easiest thing in the world for him to hack into LA’s traffic cam footage and follow the van as it exited the alleyway.

He lost it when it pulled into a parking garage with no cameras—but at least he had a general area to begin. He grabbed his keys and his Micro Desert Eagle and poked his head through Pam’s doorway.

I found a rabbit trail to chase, Pam. Might be out of the office the rest of the day.

All right. Keep your phone on and your head down, hear? She pointed at him. And check in on occasion.

Yes, ma’am. I left the address of where I’m headed, along with a useful photo of a possible perp, on my desk. Hopefully you won’t have to use them. And Pam? Ben’s expression went uncharacteristically serious, and she straightened in her chair. I left a number on a sticky note on my comp. His name is Chambliss, and I want you to call him if you have to rescue me.

I will, she said slowly. But how about you don’t make me need to rescue you, hm?

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BEN DROVE HIS YELLOW-and-black ’85 Jeep Wrangler to the parking garage and eyed the place with misgiving. It was just the sort of seedy place he’d expect a serial killer to hang his hat, with cracked concrete and broken light fixtures. He pulled his holstered Ruger SR40 out of the glove box and affixed it to his waistband, feeling immediately better. It held sixteen rounds in a mag the state of California would have smacked him for, had they known about it, but Ben figured that when legislators dealt with the same shit he did in his day-to-day, they could tell him how many bullets he could carry at a time in a single gun. Maybe.

He parked on the street and walked up to the garage, wary for traps, letting his nose do the heavy lifting as far as sniffing out threats went. The place reeked of vampires, but in the middle of the day, none of them were walking around, at least on the ground level.

An elevator and a stairwell were situated in the center of the structure, and three black Mercedes vans sat arrayed nearby. Ben considered the elevator for all of two seconds before he decided to take the stairs. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped inside a tiny, enclosed box that might have unreliable maintenance, and summoning the elevator might also bring him unwanted company.

Drawing the Ruger, he crept downward, nose and ears working overtime. The stairs continued below the parking, and Ben kept going. He soon found himself in complete darkness without quite realizing when it happened, and he sat abruptly on a step, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating. Sometimes the Afghani insurgents would stick him in a lightless part of the cave and leave him for days, wondering if they were ever coming back.

And sometimes the worst part was when he got to the point where he hoped they didn’t.

He fumbled into his pocket for his keychain, which had a powerful mini-LED flashlight attached to it. Clicking it on, he felt immediately better, and his breathing eased. "Fucking PTSD," he muttered, getting hold of himself after a few minutes.

All right. I’m all right. It wasn’t a lie if he knew it was a lie, right? Ben stood up, clenching his jaw, and started back down.

The concrete steps gave way to wooden ones, badly maintained, weirdly spaced, and mostly there to keep the dirt floor from eroding. The air was damp and chilly and smelled like moldy vampires. Finally, after far too long, Ben came to a closed steel door with a riveted brass X crossing it, out of place in the primitive surroundings.

He wouldn’t get any answers if he didn’t go through. He girded his loins and turned the knob, pushing the door open with a foot while holding his gun crossed over the opposite wrist with the flashlight pointing ahead.

Huh, he said, lowering his arms. He hadn’t expected this.

A round tunnel about eight feet in diameter opened ahead of him. The walls were shiny, as if high heat had melted the dirt into glass. And recessed lights shone from the ceiling. He clicked the flashlight off and stuffed it back in his pocket.

The tunnel stretched straight in front of him for about twenty yards before curving off to the left. Ben lifted his head and sniffed. His wolf nose could now smell each individual ingredient in a chocolate chip cookie, and he caught the scents of many vampires and...

Three werewolves. Two males and a female, alive.

Ben made a noise down in his throat. No man left behind was hard-wired into him by both training and inclination. He had to save them. Had to.

But that was when a seriously enormous vampire came striding toward him from around that tunnel curve. He froze when he saw Ben, then charged forward. Ben’s finger moved to the trigger and pulled—once, twice, three times, and the bullets impacted with little effect, leaving small splashes of red on the vamp's white shirt.

Fuck me, I brought lead to a vampire fight... he thought, right before the vampire hit him like a ton of pissed-off bricks, slamming him against the steel door, grappling his gun wrist with one hand and reaching for his throat with the other. Normally Ben would have dodged around an opponent like this, but he didn’t have anywhere to go with his back to a wall in the narrow confines of the