Read Online The Dragon Done It by Mike Resnick, Eric Flint - Free Book Online Page A

poor bastard turned into a wereshark and suffocated in his own front room."
    "So where does the gambling come in?"
    "The Helmwolfen bet on what the victim—and these are victims, make no mistake—will turn into. Big money changes hands. It's not a game for the squeamish. Wereism isn't a stable condition. Unless you're born to it, chances are the transformation will only be successful one way."
    "One way?"
    "Yeah. When you change back, all the different parts of your body go back in the wrong order."
    "How do they get the . . . victims . . . to do it?"
    "Gambling again. There are Helmwolfen behind most of the big casinos in most of the big towns. Including the Tartarus Club. They see some poor sucker laying down more than he can afford and make him an offer he can't refuse. 'Try this game,' they say. 'Survive, and we'll wipe the slate clean.' "
    The gun wavered in her hand.
    "You're the one who owes the money," I said, seizing the advantage, "aren't you? I'm just telling you what you already know. Because the truth is that you're the one they made the offer to, not this poor schmuck."
    For a moment I didn't know which way she'd tip. Then she collapsed like a bunch of wet noodles into the chair, bent her head to the desk and sobbed her wretched little heart out.
    Me, like the poor sap I am, wrapped my arm around her shoulders. Beneath the sodden sweater she felt hot and alive. I told myself to keep my mind on the job.
    "I'm s-sorry," she wept. "I didn't know w-what else to do. I w-was so d-desperate. Can you forgive me?"
    "I don't know," I said. "I'll need to get it all straight in my head first. Without a guy like me on the case this could all get mighty confusing."
    "You can work it out," she said, touching my cheek with ten thousand volts of fingertip. "I know you're the man for the job."
    "Okay," I said. "Let me see. You start visiting the Tartarus Club, maybe thinking you'll get hooked up with some rich widower, maybe just to kid yourself you still got a life. Instead you get hooked on the gaming tables—blackjack's my guess. Am I right so far?"
    Sniffling, she nodded.
    "So, you run yourself deep into debt. You go to the management, flash them your legs, maybe a little more. They decline your offers and make you one of their own. 'Just try this hat on for size,' they tell you. 'We got ourselves a little game going back here. Big Iapetos thinks you just might be a swan.' 'Can I think about it?' you say. 'Sure,' they say. And again, when you ask if you can keep the hat while you chew it over, they say, 'Sure.' Because they know you won't dare get rid of it, for fear of what they'll do to you. And you won't dare try it on. You'll just stare at it and stare at it until you run back to them screaming to get it over with. Am I still on the eight ball here?"
    Her eyes had glazed a little and she looked ready to cry again. I felt bad, like I was rubbing her nose in it, but if I was going to help her . . .
    Was I going to help her? Sweet mother of mercy!
    "Am I right?" I repeated.
    "Huh? Oh, yes. On the button."
    "So, tell me where you found the dog."
    She drew the back of her hand across her mouth, sat up and stared into at the rain. "At the pound," she said. "I picked the one that looked most like a wolf—German shepherd it said on the cage. I told the superintendent I was going to give it a good home, then I brought it here."
    "Did you know what would happen when you put the hat on it?"
    "No. I was guessing. Luckily for me I guessed right."
    "Not so lucky for the German shepherd."
    "The hat turned him into a wereman."
    "Most dangerous werebeast of all. So it's said."
    "I did it in the alley that runs down the side of your office. Once the transformation was complete, it was easy enough to herd the wretched creature into your doorway and . . . and . . ."
    "And shoot it in cold blood at point-blank range."
    She buried her face in her hands. "It was just a dog," she sobbed.
    "Not a werewolf at all," I mused, "but