Lemon Curry?
© 2025 by Walter Reimer

Bernie Phlute ©  eocostello
Titles by  marmelmm
Music by Ferde Grofé
Suits by ‘Rick’ of Altoona

Thumbnail art by  rockbaker

Part Seventeen.



The Ortiz’s gardener headed up into the hills outside of the city as the Sun continued to dip below the western mountains. As he climbed, the wolf felt the Sun’s presence like a heavy weight pressing on his body and making his ears ache. As he made his way past the last inhabited houses, two more men, both wolves, fell in beside him, exchanging glances but not speaking.

Several miles later they reached their goal, a dilapidated house situated upon a high hill. Unroofed, the building’s unglazed windows and open doorway looked like a screaming face in the gathering darkness. The three men stopped outside the ruin and began to disrobe to their underwear. Their other clothes were superfluous now, and it would be blasphemous to appear naked before the Queen.

The Sun finally set and its pressure easing, the three men crossed the threshold of the house, and as they did so they changed.

Their fur vanished, leaving a glossy hairless skin. Paws grew larger, with wickedly sharp, hooked claws, and the gardener’s long back spines clacked together like reeds in a wind as he stooped, grasped an iron ring and pulled, opening a trapdoor in the ruined home’s floor. Beckoning to his fellows, the gardener descended into the crypt.

The crypt was an underground chamber larger than the house above it, and as soon as all three were down the steep flight of stairs, they dropped to their knees and bowed.

A female chupacabra stood before them, swathed in a loose robe with a deep vee in the back to avoid impaling the fabric on her own back spines. “What news?” she demanded.

The gardener gazed at the ground as he said, “Priestess, the sacrifice’s father has engaged two guardians for her. A pair of norteamericanos. They patrol the grounds during the night, I have heard.”

“You will continue to watch,” the Priestess ordered, and the gardener bowed. “We hunt this night,” and all three men perked their ears. “It is ordained that we revive the Queen, so she may hunt the sacrifice with our aid.”

“We obey,” the three men said in unison. They got to their feet and headed for the stairs to begin hunting victims as the Priestess turned and approached a shrouded figure on a stone bier.

With a rustle of cloth, the Priestess pulled aside the shroud to reveal a corpse, so dried out as to appear mummified. The chupacabra femme raised her arms. “Oh, Queen Sorena! Bride of the Prince of Darkness herself! I, your Priestess, call out to you. Blood is being brought, to revive and nourish you, for the earthly vessel you have waited for is nearing her twenty-first year. Her soul will be consumed by you, and her flesh inhabited by you!”

There was no verbal response, although the Priestess could sense the Queen’s approval.


***


The grounds of the Ortiz estate were unlit except for dim ambient light from streetlights, making some of the shadows almost impenetrably dark. Into these places, the two agents played the beams of their flashlights before moving on in their patrol pattern.

“Sure, this may be boring,” Phlute told Dorpf, “but to a trained observer the night can tell you a few things.”

“Really?” the Boston terrier asked.

“Sure!” the stork replied. “I walked around here earlier, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So I can find my way around this place in total darkness,” and Phlute turned off his flashlight. “Turn yours off and follow me.”

Dorpf gave him a skeptical look. “Are you sure?”

“I’m senior to you,” Phlute reminded the younger man. “Trust me.”

The terrier thought it over for a moment before nodding and switching off his lamp. “After you.” In the darkness, he saw Phlute nod and the stork began walking. He followed a few steps behind, one paw outstretched and his ears swiveling.

“See, there’s nothing to it,” Phlute said confidently. “I remembered our route from this afternoon and – “ There was a sudden rustling, a startled yelp, followed by thrashing sounds and occasional muttered imprecations.

Dorpf turned his flashlight on to see the stork entangled in a large ornamental rose bush. Phlute struggled to extricate himself before saying, “Don’t just stand there! Help me out of this!”

The terrier set his lamp down, the beam shining in Plute’s direction as he stepped in to help. He got a few scratches, but after a few minutes he succeeded in getting the stork free from the thorns.

Phlute straightened his clothes and clacked his beak irritably before turning on Dorpf. “Not a word,” he said sternly. “I meant to do that.”

Dorpf nodded and picked up his lamp, and the two moved on, Phlute grumbling as he pulled an errant thorn from one of his paws.




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