Free Blood Work by L.J. Hayward Page A

distracted by…” By watching my vampire break
herself against the bars of the cage I imprisoned her in. Boy oh
boy, wouldn’t Campbell have a ball with that one. “Stuff.”
    “A tough
night? Anything I should know about?”
    “Oh, you’d be
pleased. I found a safe and controlled way of letting off some
steam.”
    “Hmm?”
    “Paintball.
Had a ripping good time.”
    “But
tough.”
    The man didn’t
miss a beat. He was probably recording this to analyse in our next
session.
    “Teenagers. I
swear they’re breeding them with a X-Box control in one hand and a
water balloon in the other these days.”
    There was a
speculative pause. “And who won the game?”
    Now there was
a loaded question if ever there was one.
    “It’s not
about who wins the game, good doctor, but who had the most
fun.”
    Campbell
vented a small, weary sigh. “Of course, Mr Hawkins. I have an
appointment free on Monday. It’s yours. Show up and I’ll mark it
down as a rescheduling and Judge Miklovich need never know.”
    Wow. I
wouldn’t have picked Campbell for a rule bender. “Appreciate that,
doc. And I did mean to call you.”
    “Yes, I know
you did. I’ll see you on Monday, eleven a.m.”
    He hung up
before I could say anything.
    I was just
hitting Kingsford Smith Drive when the phone rang again. What can I
say? I’m popular. I answered and gave the same spiel as before.
    “Mr
Hawkins?”
    The voice was
male and probably not at an age where he could look back on puberty
with a fond smile and manic gleam in his eye.
    “Yeah. Who’s
this?”
    “My name’s
Tony Rollins. I got your card off a guy at the Fringe Bar.”
    In one sense,
Roberts was the front man of my business, Night Call. When you have
an unconventional business, it pays to be a bit unconventional in
advertising, too. I’d given Roberts a wad of business cards so when
he’s out at his real job—hanging off bars, giving out freebie
drinks, chatting up the chicks—and he hears any talk about weird
shit, he hands out a card. It works pretty darn well. I mean, I’m
not on the streets and, with a bit of a stretch, got a new
whiz-bang watch. He was pretty good now at picking the genuine
deals, but sometimes he let a few doozies through. I have no doubt
he does it on purpose, and hearing the nervous tremor in this kid’s
voice, I got the feeling that this was one of those times.
    “How can I
help you?” I asked, wondering what sort of impossible terror he had
imagined up.
    “Well, it’s my
dog,” he began.
    When nothing
immediately followed, I prompted him with, “What about it?”
    “I think… I
think he’s a werewolf.”
    Okay. I eased
the car to a stop at a red light, taking a moment to think that one
through. “Your dog is a werewolf?”
    “Yeah.”
    I had a
fleeting and slightly disturbing image of some pimply faced kid
waking up in the middle of the night to find a naked man curled up
on the end of his bed instead of his faithful, drooling dog.
    “How long have
you had this dog?”
    “Four years,
since he was a pup. He’s a ridgeback cross Irish wolfhound and
usually a very good dog, very gentle.”
    Ridgeback
cross Irish wolfhound. That would be more than enough dog for
anyone, even without throwing in a hefty dose of manic werewolf.
But, thankfully, this was an open and closed case.
    “You’ve had
this dog from when it was a puppy,” I said gently, accelerating as
the light turned green. “And when you say you suspect werewolf, I
take it you don’t mean he’s a human who turns into a wolf once a
month?”
    “No. He’s a
dog, yes, but around the full moon, he starts to act weirdly. He
gets aggressive and snappy, and if he even smells another dog, he
goes fucking ballistic. It only started about six months back. We’d
been having this barbeque and Bubba –”
    My surprised
laugh cut him off. “Bubba?”
    “Don’t blame
me, my sister named him. He’s giant black dog. He should be called
Terminator or Diablo or something, but no. She