“Tanya is stronger as well?”
“I could lift your truck's front end off the ground. Tanya could throw the whole damn thing. But, remember, she's unique, one of a kind. She is equal to the oldest of vampires.”
“And that's because she's full blood, as you say?” he asked.
“Yup.” I said, yawning heavily. Now he noted my evident tiredness.
“Hey, you gotta get some sleep. I grabbed a nap at a truck stop on the trip down last night, so I'm good. Why don't you crash and I'll just go get a paper and do the cross word or sumthin'.” He suggested.
“You'll be alright if I snooze?” I asked.
“Yup, right as rain. Got a lot of food for thought. You get some shuteye.”
“All right, but leave that cannon here, I don't want you getting picked up by some of the Sixty-Eighth boys while I'm snoozing.”
He agreed and I racked out right where I was, the hospital scrubs making pretty good sleep wear.
I slept till just before noon, waking from one of the soundest sleeps I'd had in forever. It might have been because of my total exhaustion, but I think it had more to do with the steadying presence of my grandfather in the apartment. I opened my eyes, looking directly at where my brain had already told me Gramps was sitting at my table. He was humming to himself, softly, while he worked his way through the New York Times, a paper that he loved to hate. A staunch conservative, like many Northern New Yorkers, he had railed against the NYT and other mainstream media sources for his whole life. My father's .44 was lying on the table in front of him, holstered with a wooden box next to it. I recognized the box as one of Gramp’s handmade ammunition boxes. Next to the box was a short, two foot black nylon case. “You goin' to war?” I asked from my nest on the futon.
He glanced over at me and smiled.
“Actually, those are for you. Don't want you relying on that puny nine millimeter they make you carry.” He shuddered at the thought of carrying what was to him a mouse gun.
“Well, it's not my ten millimeter, but my newest Glock is kinda special.”
His eyes lit up with interest. Having spent his impressionable years in the Marine Corps, Gramps was a tried and true .45 caliber man, favoring John Browning's classic Model 19ll. He thoroughly respected my personal Glock model 29 in hard hitting ten millimeter, though. That gun was locked in the gun safe back at the farm. Dad's .44 was more of a woods gun, but would certainly do double duty as a personal defender. I retrieved the Glock 18 from the pistol safe under my futon and after clearing the chamber, handed it butt first to my grandfather.
“Full auto you say?”
He handled the gun expertly, admiring it's balance, then slipped the thirty-three round magazine into the grip and leaving the chamber empty, tested its balance some more.
“Can you control it?” At my nod, he looked thoughtful and then handed it back.
“Well, I'll allow as that might get the job done pretty well,” He said. “I still want to leave your dad's gun here as back up, as well as the shorty Remington. Never can have enough backups, and you seem to be knee deep in alligators, son.”
“Gramps, I don't want to leave you short.”
“Aww, I don't need much, and I've got my .45s, the Mossberg and the whole rest of the gun safe. Hell, if I had to, I could make do with that newfangled one centimeter Glock of yours,” He said with a sly grin.
After a moment, I nodded. He was right, it never hurt to have extra, plus the twelve gauge Remington 870 pump shotgun that was tucked into the black case, was a terrific weapon at close quarters. The barrel was a thoroughly illegal fourteen inches long, the gun a gift from a skilled sheriff's department armorer who cared more that we had effective firepower than the letter of the law. As a NYPD officer, and particularly a member of Special Situations, I could get away with possessing the short barreled weapon.
“I'll see about getting some silver buckshot made for it.” He said.
“Don't bother, my team's armorer already has a huge supply of commercially made stuff.”
He nodded, reminded that my team was well aware of what prowled the dark.
The sun was streaming through the window and my stomach was calling attention to itself. “Hey, what say we grab some subs or something, and head over to Owls Head Park. Might not get another nice day like this for a while.”
He agreed and after I showered (still wasn't feeling clean enough) and threw on some jeans and a tee shirt, we headed out.
We got to the park by twelve thirty, bag of subs in hand and a big soda each. He had complained when I ordered two sea food subs, until he realized they were both for me. I ordered him his regular Italian meat combo.
“You really do eat a lot more now.” He said, a little amazed.
I swallowed a mouthful of seafood salad and replied.
“You should have seen me a few days ago. I'm actually slowing down, but I had to heal from some bumps and bruises and my body is craving the zinc in this imitation crabmeat.”
He snorted at that and took a bite of his own sandwich. About then I noticed a swirl of leaves about twenty feet behind him.
“Ah, Gramps, I want you to stay real still. Don't do any jumping around and don't have a heart attack, but you're about to meet one of my new friends I told you about.”
He froze in mid chew for a moment, then swallowed.
“I thought they slept during the day.”
“They do. You're about to meet Okwari.”
His eyes widened at the mention of the giant bear spirit I had filled him in on. An image of me and Lydia, followed by one of me and Tanya, and finally me and Okwari, flashed through my mind's eye. I spoke quietly to the blurry mass that was forming directly behind my grandfather. “Okwari, this is my Gramps.”
I played a series of memories through my head, figuring that would be the easiest way to convey my relationship to the man in front of me. A soft woof sounded just over Gramps shoulder and with eyes as wide as silver dollars, he turned to stare into nothing.
“Where is...?” he started to ask, but a big puff of moist bear breath blew back his hair as the giant made his presence known.
“Holy Mother of God, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” my grandfather intoned. He wasn't cursing, but calling on his religion protectively. I took his right hand and gently set it on Okwari's barrel of a head, the images in my head telling me Gramps had nothing to fear. After a time the big beast folded himself onto the ground by our feet. Even lying down, his back was at least as high as the picnic table. He was sending me a series of messages about his neck and the awful itching it was causing him. I studied his neck with my Sight and when I looked real close I could see little spots of greasy black deep down, below the spot where his collar had been. I told my grandfather about it while experimentally using my left hand to draw one inky spot out.
“Probably residue from years of wearing the demon collar,” he speculated.
Gramps and I had spent years discussing the nature of the Hellbourne. I nodded my agreement. “I wonder if it would grow back on its own?” he continued.
I looked at him, thoroughly alarmed. The next forty minutes was spent painstakingly finding and removing every minuscule speck of black. Okwari would have purred if he had been feline in nature, rather than ursine. The images I was getting now was telling me we had a very sleepy and contented bear at our feet. By now, my adaptable grandfather had grown secure enough to rest his arm on the big furry, if invisible, back, that was sitting next to him. Luckily, we were far enough away from any other park goers to avoid arousing suspicions.