Lupine’s ears swiveled. His nostrils flared.
Motioning Windle to remain where he was, the wereman slunk silently along the alley until he reached its junction with another, even smaller and nastier one. He paused for a moment, and then thrust a hairy hand around the corner.
There was a yelp. Lupine’s hand came back holding a struggling man. Huge hairy muscles moved under Lupine’s torn shirt as the man was hoisted up to fang level.
“You were waiting to attack us, weren’t you,” said Lupine.
“Who, me—?”
“I could smell you,” said Lupine, evenly.
“I never—”
Lupine sighed. “Wolves don’t do this sort of thing, you know,” he said.
The man dangled.
“Hey, is that a fact,” he said.
“It’s all head-on combat, fang against fang, claw against claw,” said Lupine. “You don’t find wolves lurking behind rocks ready to mug a passing badger.”
“Get away?”
“Would you like me to tear your throat out?”
The man stared eye to yellow eye. He estimated his chances against a seven-foot man with teeth like that.
“Do I get a choice?” he said.
“My friend here,” said Lupine, indicating Windle, “is a zombie—”
“Well, I don’t know about actual zombie, I think you have to eat some sort of fish and root to be a zom—”
“—and you know what zombies do to people, don’t you?”
The man tried to nod, even though Lupine’s fist was right under his neck.
“Yeggg,” he managed.
“Now, he’s going to take a very good look at you, and if he ever sees you again—”
“I say, hang on,” murmured Windle.
“—he’ll come after you. Won’t you, Windle?”
“Eh? Oh, yes. That’s right. Like a shot,” said Windle, unhappily. “Now run along, there’s a good chap. Okay?”
“OggAy,” said the prospective mugger. He was thinking: Ig eyes! Ike imlets!
Lupine let go. The man hit the cobbles, gave Windle one last terrified glance, and ran for it.
“Er, what do zombies do to people?” said Windle. “I suppose I’d better know.”
“They tear them apart like a sheet of dry paper,” said Lupine.
“Oh? Right,” said Windle. They strolled on in silence. Windle was thinking: why me? Hundreds of people must die in this city every day. I bet they don’t have this trouble. They just shut their eyes and wake up being born as someone else, or in some sort of heaven or, I suppose, possibly some sort of hell. Or they go and feast with the gods in their hall, which has never seemed a particularly great idea—gods are all right in their way, but not the kind of people a decent man would want to have a meal with. The Yen buddhists think you just become very rich. Some of the Klatchian religions say you go to a lovely garden full of young women, which doesn’t sound very religious to me…
Windle found himself wondering how you applied for Klatchian nationality after death.