by Eden Beck
I hear footsteps and step into the shadow of one of the trees at the edge of the forest. Without the glow of my cell phone screen, I’m nearly blinded for a minute in the dark. It takes a moment before I can make out the figure: an old, hunched over woman fiddling with keys in a door.
My breath comes out in a slow, silent whoosh of relief.
That sound, however small, makes the woman freeze.
She whirls in the dark, her keys brandished out in front of her and pointed in my direction.
I leave my spear behind the tree and step out of the shadows, my hands up in the universal sign of ‘I mean you no harm’. At first she looks frightened, but then as she takes me in and sees I’m just human, she stands down. Which, for her, means she starts yelling at me in Romanian and loudly jingling her keys in the lock again.
I’m about to make a hasty retreat when the door flies open from the inside, and it’s my turn to freeze. A heavily pregnant woman squints out at us, her face flushed red and her brow beaded with sweat. The warm, flickering light of the fire inside also makes it apparent that this woman isn’t just pregnant—she’s in labor.
“Holy shit,” I say, my voice lost between the loud bickering of the two women in their native tongue. My eyes are stuck on the woman’s protruding belly, just as my mind works out how I went wrong.
No wonder I didn’t find an announcement about any births. The al hasn’t already snatched a baby … he’s about to.
My eyes snap up, and my body tenses.
“Get inside,” I say, then, when I am ignored, I shout it again. I throw out some random words in Romanian and wave my arms at them, gesturing for them to go. Now. They do, but not without much more arm waving and shouting. They might call the police, but I don’t care.
Because the moment the door slams shut and I’m cast, once more, into darkness … I hear something moving in the trees.
I don’t see it.
But it’s definitely here, and it knows I’m here too.
Chapter Thirteen
The presence I sensed is long gone by the time I snatch my spear up from where I stowed it behind the tree, but all’s not lost. I pull out my flashlight and crouch low to the ground.
Tracks. I study them. They appear to be made by clawed feet, too long to be a bear’s. They’re heading directly into the woods, away from the house. This has got to be the al.
My heart starts beating wildly. I may have fought an ogre at the beginning of the year, and creature handling may have brought me close to monsters, but this is my first actual hunt. And I’m doing it on my own. Is this how my parents felt on their first hunt? I wonder if this feeling, this nervous tremble in my gut, will ever go away.
As I follow the tracks into the woods, I start wishing that I had someone with me. I’m scared. I’d welcome anyone’s company right about now. Erin and Sawyer would be my first pick, of course, but even Piers or Owen would be reassuring. Bennett especially so, with his huge muscles and calm demeanor.
I hear a noise. I turn off my flashlight and crouch behind some bushes. There’s shuffling and heavy breathing ahead. I remind myself that I don’t need to kill it—I just need to get something from it and then get away.
I ready my spear and allow my eyes to readjust to the darkness around me. The sounds become clearer, punctuated by grunts and snorts. I creep toward the noises. The trees are thin here, so I have to be careful to make sure I don’t put myself out in the open.
I see a figure in the trees ahead, and grip my spear tightly. Maybe Erin was right. Maybe this thing won’t hold up in combat.
I get closer, and the figure is holding a lantern. It looks remarkably human. It lifts the lantern up and the light falls over me, just as it sees me—
“Avery Black?”
Dumbfounded and crouching stupidly in the bushes, I look up into the scarred face of Professor Helsing.
Immediately, panic sets in. I’m going to be expelled. Or he might murder me in rage right here—who knows? I have to say something, give him some bullshit reason why I’m out here.
“Evening, Professor,” I splutter. What a stupid thing to say.
He sighs and clips the lantern to his belt. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Black?” He doesn’t sound angry, just resigned. I realize that all that heavy breathing I heard was his, not the al. He’s got a messy tourniquet around his upper arm, soaked through with blood. His clothes are ripped, showing gashes in the skin underneath. He’s holding a crossbow and has an array of weapons on his belt, some of which are already dripping with more dark blood.
I stand up, brushing leaves off my pants. “Would you believe me if I told you I was going for a walk?”
“Absolutely the fuck not.” He sighs and pulls a long knife with a cruel blade off his belt. “Take this and follow me.”
Surprised, I grab the handle of the knife. “You’re not sending me back?”
“No. I’m on this thing’s trail, but there’s no guarantee it won’t circle back and try to get you. You’d be in more danger if I sent you back. Plus … I could use the help.”
I’m too shocked to respond, so I just do as he says. He plucks his lantern off his belt and holds it above his head as he leads me through the woods, keeping an eye on the ground. His breathing is even more ragged up close.
“Have you fought it already?”
“Oh, yeah,” he growls. “I’m the one who spotted it and called in the alert. It’s been sneakin’ around my house. Got close to the village, but the crowds scared it off.”
“It was there for the baby, wasn’t it?” I ask, thinking back to the pregnant woman still currently in labor back at the house. Helsing is right. We can’t risk the monster doubling back. I’m not the only one at risk tonight.
“Dunno. Probably.” He pauses to cough a little, and I worriedly step toward him, but he waves me away. “Als are like that; they just wanna eat babies. It’s in their nature. Wait, shh—you hear that?”
I do. A soft rustling, somewhere not too far off. He blows out the lantern and clips it to his belt again.
“Stay behind me,” he whispers. “It’s dark, and this crossbow ain’t loaded with feathers.”
I do as he says, my own knife at the ready. I can hear low, disturbing snarls in the trees ahead. The moonlight illuminates a figure that is definitely not human this time. It’s hunched, with long arms bent at an odd angle. There are smears of blood on the trees and bushes, the same color as the blood on Professor Helsing’s blades. The creature in front of us is definitely, unmistakably, the al.
And also the first monster I’ve encountered in the wild.
Professor Helsing signals me to stop and readies his crossbow. “I’m gonna shoot it,” he whispers, “but it’ll try to close the distance first. Be ready.”
I nod, not sure if he can see me, and shift the knife into my left hand so I can hold the spear in my right. I can smell the monster’s blood. My skin is prickling. I can almost feel where the creature is—I guess that’s my instincts kicking in again.
Thwak. The crossbow bolt rockets toward the creature and smacks it square in the shoulder. With an otherworldly screech, the al turns toward us, its eyes glinting red in the moonlight.
“Now!” Helsing shouts, dropping his crossbow to grab at one of his melee weapons.
I spring forward at the same time the al does. It raises its arms above its head, its claws gleaming in the moonlight, and I thrust forward with my spear. The tip is too dull to puncture its skin, but it knocks the al back a bit. I can feel that it’s already injured, not at full strength—Helsing’s work, obviously. As it reels from the blow from the spear, I slash at it with my left hand and open a long gash across its chest.
Shrieking, the al lurches back, and I see its fangs flashing in its gaping maw. My heart is pounding, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I follow it back, this time jabbing at its face. I’m a little shaky, so my aim isn’t perfect, but the dull tip of my spear jams straight into its throat. Its beady e
yes widen and its harrowing cry is cut off abruptly.
And then Professor Helsing is beside me, wielding a scimitar in one hand and a dagger in the other. Even injured, his movements are fluid. His scimitar arcs and slashes through the al’s arm, hacking it off at the elbow. He swipes the dagger across the monster’s chest, deepening the gash I’ve already made. In the same motion, he brings his elbow up and knocks it into the al’s jaw.
I can feel the monster’s life force slipping away, but it’s not finished yet. I whack it on the side of the head with my spear—the blow comes immediately after Professor Helsing’s elbow connects. I then step directly up to it and push my knife into its throat, sinking the blade deep into its flesh before twisting it and yanking it back out.
Blood gurgles out of the al’s throat. The red light in its eyes fades; it sways forward, but Helsing simply pushes on its chest so that it falls backward, away from us. The monster lands with an unceremonial thump on the forest floor. Dead.
Helsing strides forward and brings his scimitar down. There’s a sickening crunch, and then he kicks the al’s head away from its body. I lower my weapons. My arms are shaking. So are my legs. I stare at the dead creature on the ground as Helsing calmly relights the lantern and holds it up.
In the flickering light, the al looks even uglier. It vaguely resembles an old woman half-turned into an ape. It has long, matted hair coming from its disembodied head, and coppery claws that gleam dully from its knobbed fingers and toes.
I’m startled when I hear Helsing speak. He’s got a cell phone to his ear.
“I got it, Headmaster,” he’s saying, but I have to focus hard to understand. My brain feels mushy and tired. “Yeah, it’s all good. Cut off its head. I’ll bring in its claws and fangs tomorrow.”
I blink. My head’s starting to clear again. I slowly regain control over my muscles, but the adrenaline has faded now that the al is dead. I can feel myself crashing. I hear the Headmaster’s muffled voice through the phone asking about Helsing’s injuries.
“Not too bad. Don’t worry too much; I’ll be fine enough for work tomorrow. Nothing I can’t handle.”
I walk up to the dead body and turn its hand over with my spear. Maybe I can convince Helsing to give me one of these claws.
“Hey, Black,” Helsing says, and I look up to see him cutting off the al’s other hand. “Get the feet for me, yeah?”
I do as he says, using his knife to saw the feet off at the ankles. He pulls the sack off his back and opens it, dropping the hands and feet inside, then goes to the al’s head and picks it up by the hair.
“Follow me.” He tosses the sack at my face. I catch it and throw it over my shoulder. I should’ve always known there was a reason I wasn’t squeamish like other girls growing up.
We walk in silence, the light of his lantern bobbing on his belt. I’m disoriented. The trees are thick enough overhead that I can’t use the moon or stars to guide me, but I think Helsing’s leading us away from the village.
After trudging through the underbrush for a long while, we come upon a dirt pathway that leads to a clearing, from which I can see light. As we get closer I can see that it’s a small wooden cabin with a pitched roof. The chimney has smoke weaving out of it, and there’s a carport with a car parked underneath.
Helsing grunts. “Forgot to put out the fire.” He leads me to the door of the cabin, tugs some keys out of his pocket, and unlocks the door. “Come on in. Need your help.”
I walk in, and he shuts the door behind me and drops the al’s head onto a table near the door. I put the sack down near it and look around. It’s warm in this small den. There’s an old couch and a worn, scuffed coffee table piled with old monster manuals. Against the far wall there’s a workbench covered in various tools.
Helsing goes through a small doorway into a kitchen and yanks open the fridge. He pulls out a beer bottle and opens it on the edge of his counter before coming back out and slumping into the chair by his workbench.
“Come here,” he grunts after downing about half the bottle.
I walk cautiously over. He’s pushing things off the bench with one hand and drinking with the other. Finally satisfied he’s cleared enough space for the both of us, he starts pulling some first-aid things from a nearby box.
“Need your help dressing my wounds. I can handle the big stuff. Need you for antiseptic and shit I can’t reach.” He finishes his beer and throws it over my head. I hear it crash into a trash can somewhere behind me. “Grab that chair.” He points.
I grab the chair he indicates—a wooden one that looks like it can’t support much weight—and drag it over, sitting in it cautiously as he shoves cotton swabs and antiseptic at me. I get to work helping him.
He’s gently stitching up a wound on one arm and I’m dabbing rubbing alcohol on one on the other when he asks, “So why’d you sneak out and come to fight the al?”
I purse my lips. I don’t really want to have this conversation.
“Y’know. Stubborn and reckless. Like my irresponsible parents.”
Something flickers across his face. He finishes up the stitches.
“I shouldn’t have talked about them like that. Riley and Samson.”
I glance at him as I grab a bandage. He’s moving on to stitch up another gash, this one on his chest.
“Don’t get me wrong. They were stubborn and reckless, and you are too. Irresponsible … not so much.” He sighs. “What was that business with the classroom?”
I shrug again without answering.
“Was it Piers Dagher? One of his lackies?” He’s looking at me this time when I glance up at him, and I quickly get back to bandaging his arm. “I’ll take that as a yes. I’ve noticed them giving you a hard time. That Dagher kid—he’s a lot like his father. Ambitious. Full of himself.” He grunts and winces as I start applying antiseptic to a different wound. “A bully.”
I don’t say anything. I’m not sure I want to.
“Chip on his shoulder, though, that kid. Failed the trials last year. His dad probably gave him hell for it. Doubt he pays much attention to the kid.”
Well that explains a lot.
I look up at Helsing’s face. He’s frowning in concentration as he carefully pulls the needle through the skin on his chest.
“You done with that wound?”
“Just about.”
“When you are, go grab me another beer from the fridge,” he says.
I finish bandaging up the wound I’m working on and then get up, heading into the kitchen. I open the fridge and peer inside. It’s mostly beer, but there’s also some moldy cheese and some almost-empty bottles of hot sauce.
“Do you have an actual bottle opener?” I call to him, reaching for a beer.
“Just bring it in here.”
He’s removed his shirt and moved onto stitching up another gash on his chest when I reenter the room, but he pauses, needle dangling from the partly-stitched wound, to grab the beer from me. He opens it on the edge of the workbench with one hand and takes a long draught.
I return to my chair and move onto one of the cuts on his leg. I notice he’s got jagged scars crisscrossing his torso, all in various stages of healing. A few look so old they’re almost gone, while others look so fresh they could have been made just weeks ago.
“Why didn’t you like my parents?” I ask.
He grunts. “I reckon I do give that impression. I did like them, actually. Damn good monster hunters, hell of a good team.” He laughs. “You dressing my wounds like this reminds me of your mother. They had a cabin like this,” he adds. “Near Riley’s sister’s house. Trish? She was a nice-looking girl. Trish, I mean. She doing all right?”
“She is,” I say, and then I realize that’s a lie. I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her in almost two months now. I grin despite myself. Aunt Trish would freak out to hear that one of Mom’s old monster hunting pals thought she was ‘nice-looking’.
We’re quiet for a while, but I want to ask him abou
t the cabin he mentioned. I’ve never heard Aunt Trish mention it before, but there are lots of things she never mentioned.
“Spent one Christmas in that cabin, just like this,” Helsing says, his voice soft and thoughtful. He finishes off his stitches. “We’d just got off a hunt. Samson, he never minded getting hurt too much. Stuff didn’t seem to touch him. He sat and watched TV while Riley patched me up. Weird guy; loved those sappy movies, the ones where two people fall in love around Christmas time, and one of ’em hates Christmas.”
My vision gets a little blurry. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve, and it comes away wet. Helsing looks away and pretends not to notice.
“Hey, uh—really. Why are you out here? Somebody dare you?”
I look up at him. He’s finished stitching his own wounds, I suppose. He’s just sitting with his beer, staring at me while I bandage his leg. I look back down at the bandage.
“Yeah. Piers Dagher—he said he’d leave me alone for a while if I could bring back something that proved I met the monster.”
Helsing snorts and downs the rest of the beer. Again, he throws it. Again, I hear it shatter in the bottom of a trash can somewhere behind me.
“Stupid thing to do. Stupid dare to take, too. Bring me the sack when you’re done with that bandage. I think I’m patched up enough.”
I do as I’m told. I cut off the end of the bandage and secure it, then go get the sack. He sits up straight and opens it.
“Not many people at the school knew your parents personally,” he says, reaching into the sack and pulling out one of the al’s disembodied hands. He pushes some things off his work bench and finds what looks like a cleaver. In my opinion, that’s a dangerous thing to have just lying hidden where you put your hands a lot, but it’s not my cabin, and it’s not my workbench.
“Waldman talks about them a lot, huh?” He brings the cleaver down on the hand, chopping off four of its fingers in one motion.