Use Enough Gun (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 3)

by Joshua Reynolds

  He tried to remember any details about him, but he’d stayed in the shadows. After a long day walking the streets of Whitechapel and drinking the rotgut that passed for alcohol here, he returned to Bryce’s rooms, tired and hungry. Bryce was stretched out on the bed, not that he could ever do any different; D’Arcy had been with him the day the troll had broke his back. No amount of Druid magic had been able to help him and he’d never walked again.

  He found some hard bread and a wedge of cheese, and sitting in the only chair in the room, he watched Bryce. The man’s eyes were half closed, the lids fluttering, and D’Arcy wondered what a blind Druid saw when he was lost in his own mind.

  He ate the meager fare and thought back to the events that had brought them to the Capital. They’d been hunting werewolves on the Yorkshire moors earlier in the year when Bryce had first gotten wind of something afoot. Scrying he called it, a Pagan name for the ability to see what might or will be. The messages had been cryptic, as they always were. One of the brethren had fallen foul of the creature they were now hunting and had sent out a cry for help. It had been his unfortunate luck that the person to hear it was hundreds of miles away, and thus, had no way of helping him.

  After dispatching the wolf, Bryce had had D’Arcy take him south to Canterbury so he could consult with others of his order. The consensus had been that something dark was afoot in London, and so Bryce and D’Arcy were dispatched to seek it out and kill it. The clues as to the nature of what they hunted were vague at best, as close to non-existent as it was possible to get. All they had was the forlorn call from one of their own, prior to his death. The call had been pinpointed to Whitechapel in the East End of London.

  It had taken them a little over a month to establish themselves in the area, a disgusting mix of dilapidated buildings, filth and despair. These types of ghettos were the normal hunting grounds for the children of the night; no one ever noticed if anyone went missing here—death was just a way of life, usually violent and bloody. Whilst Bryce used his way to search for the creature, D’Arcy did what he did best and hit the streets. Talking to people, visiting gin houses, whores and gambling dens; ask the right questions here and pay the right price there and you could find anything.

  Their search eventually led them to a group of five women, whores working the Whitechapel beat. Their names were well known and they were thought of highly by their peers, but to most others, they were names to be whispered about in hushed tones. Darkness went where they walked and a lot of clients were never seen again. Bryce learned in his nightly wanderings through the shadowy worlds between heaven and hell, that what they sought was here. So it was that D’Arcy set about his grisly task of killing and mutilating, the plan was find the host; the rest could be dealt with after.

  Bryce stirred on the bed, mumbling under his breath, his eyes suddenly flying open and with a gasp he sat upright his hands clawing at his chest.

  “DARKNESS…”

  “Bryce?” D’Arcy dropped what remained of his food and grabbed him by the shoulders, his white, sightless eyes where frantic, his face slicked with sweat. “Bryce, come back to me! You’re safe now…”

  “Safe…safe? None of us is safe D’Arcy! I can see darkness blacker than my blinded sight! Abominations lurk and feed…I see myself broken and spent. I see you grappling with horror, a shadow with a blade cutting and laughing…”

  D’Arcy eased Bryce back onto his pillows; he’d never seen his friend this distraught before. “Did you found what we seek?”

  “I fear it may have found us…”

  D’Arcy sat back watching his friends face. He’d always had a sickly look to him, but now he looked deathly pale.

  “What should we do? Do we request help?”

  Bryce shook his head and reached out for the tankard at his bedside. D’Arcy grabbed his hand and picked it up placing it in his hand. Bryce’s hand trembled as he took a long drink.

  “None of them would be of any use, and any that could be are a world away.”

  “If none can help, then we must deal with it ourselves. Tell me, what must I do?”

  Bryce looked at him, his face gaunt and grey.

  “Find the host. Find it fast…”

  November 8th 1888

  Despite Bryce’s fear that the creature they sought was at hand, and may possibly be hunting them, it was over a month before their endeavors bore a result. Not for the first time D’Arcy had begun to think the trail had gone cold, and that maybe Bryce’s powers were not what he thought they were. But throughout September and October rumors of killings and mutilations were rampant in the district. Partial bodies washed up along the banks of the Thames, limbs found; headless torsos. Already a legend had sprung up surrounding the women D’Arcy was responsible for, talk of the devil himself walking the streets of Whitechapel.

  Once again D’Arcy was walking the streets, asking questions, gathering information. It was during one of these daily excursions that he began to feel he was being followed. He’d always had this sense, an awareness of the people around him. He was in one of the many markets that thrived in cluttered streets when his suspicions were proved true. He’d walked up and down the street three times, sampling wares, talking to the stallholders. But all the time his eyes were marking the faces he passed, and there was one face he passed all three circuits of the market.

  She was short in stature with a round face and flowing burnt red hair. She could have been called attractive, but not in the classical sense of the word. She had a natural beauty, no hint of powder or blush. D’Arcy was well used to stealth, it was part of his trade. But so it seemed was she, the entire time watching him, but never letting him catch her it. Their eyes never met, but each was acutely aware of the other the entire time…

  His immediate assumption was that she was the creature. He would be a liar if he said there wasn’t a prick of fear at that thought; he was armed, but not to the extent he was usually on his night-time patrols. Keeping up the charade that he wasn’t aware of her, D’Arcy left the market and headed back towards the room he shared with Bryce. It was a cold day but still the streets were busy, which should have made it hard for her to keep track of him. But for over an hour he walked and all the time she stayed a dozen or so steps behind him. It was starting to get dark when he reached more familiar ground, but he didn’t go directly back to the room; he didn’t want to lead her to the helpless Bryce. He doubled back, employing his knowledge of the street layout surrounding the room, using narrow alleyways and cutting through derelict buildings he worked his way back around to—he hoped—behind where she should be.

  As he emerged again onto Dorset Street he caught sight of the dark cloak she was wearing, underneath a flash of a white apron. She hadn’t seen him; at least he hoped she hadn’t, but he’d learned a long time ago, not everything saw with its eyes. He stepped back quickly, he’d been lucky; another few seconds and he’d have walked out in front of her. He waited as she passed, then left it a few seconds before he stepped out into the crowd, right behind her.

  He inhaled sharply as she was either held up, or had stopped deliberately. There were two well-dressed men in front of D’Arcy, shielding him slightly, but he knew he was too close. Unable to dodge the press of people behind him, he allowed the flow to push him forward; all he could hope was the press of bodies would work in his favor. But it seemed luck was not with him today as the two men in front split apart, one stopping to doff his top hat at the red headed lady he’d stepped round, and to his horror, D’Arcy found himself at her side.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a slight smile curling at the corner of her mouth. He breathed in her heady scent; lilies, reminding him of his mother. But underneath was another smell, rank and putrid; the stench of ages.

  “Lovely day for a stroll, Mr. D’Arcy.”

  The blood in his veins froze as he looked round but the woman was staring straight ahead, the smile now full making her face light up. “Don’t look so surprised; much like your dru
id friend, I have the means of finding things.”

  She looked at him, her eyes black pools of nothingness. D’Arcy felt he could have dived in them and fallen forever.

  “You have me at a disadvantage…what shall I call you?”

  She laughed a strange sparkling sound, which seemed odd coming from such a creature, for that was what she was, despite the disguise she wore.

  “You think to outwit me with one of Bryce’s conjuring tricks?” She looked ahead as the press of the crowd began to move again. “Know my name and know my nature. Surely you can do better than that? You have managed to kill my four companions, after all.”

  There was an underlying hint of anger in that last sentence; she knew what D’Arcy was and what he had done. Was she afraid? He knew he would have to be wary, trapping her using her name was not an option, and now he knew it had been stupid of him to try. Out here in the streets with all of these people he felt safe for the moment—he doubted she would reveal herself just for a chance to kill him.

  “So what now? Shall we take afternoon tea?”

  She ignored him, the press of bodies beginning to force them apart. D’Arcy would rather that wasn’t happening now that he had her in his sights.

  “I’m afraid I have a pressing dinner engagement, something recommended by an old friend; somewhat of a delicacy, the taste of which I have recently acquired.” With a smile she was gone, the press closed in, and D’Arcy was forced against the wall of a gin house. He caught one last sight of her cape, and in a flash, she was gone.

  He looked around but there were now too many people to see through. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t push through to reach the alley she’d disappeared down. Finding a doorway he stepped out of the river of humanity and peered about.

  “A delicacy, the taste of which I have recently acquired.” He didn’t like the sound of that at all, and he immediately thought of Bryce.

  Stepping out he forced his way across the street to grumbles and threats. One man tried to stand his ground but a sharp jab to the stomach was enough to make him lose interest. D’Arcy reached the doorway of an abandoned building and shot inside, racing through the rubble-strewn rooms, he kicked open a half smashed back door and landed in a small yard. There was a gate to his left and he went through, across two more yards, and out into a narrow alley. He ran down and erupted onto another street, this one less packed. It was near full dark now and a few of the gas lamps were on. He turned left and kept close to the wall as the way was slick with the filth thrown out from the windows above.

  He made his way back towards the room he shared with Bryce, even though the crowd was thinner here, his progress was unnaturally slow, as though something was working against him getting back. Up ahead he saw the opening to the alley that led down to the room… He slowed his pace as he saw the pack of people, and even over the hubbub of the city he could hear raised voices. As he reached the rear of the crowd, a woman screamed just before the air was pierced by the strident screech of a Police whistle.

  He knew he didn’t need to go any further—knew what he would find. He’d been too late; forces beyond his understanding had worked against him to delay his return long enough for the creature to do her work. The mass of people pushed back as a uniformed man staggered out of the alley, his face white, and even in the dim light D’Arcy could see sweat beaded upon his face. He leant over and lurched the contents of his stomach onto the road. A ragged cheer went up and some of the crowd clapped. D’Arcy cursed and turned away. There was nothing more he could do here.

  “Hey…Hey you!” D’Arcy froze, instantly recognizing the woman’s voice. “Him! He comes and goes from that room…” Others joined in the cry and D’Arcy looked round to see the crowd had turned and were looking and pointing. Some faces he recognized, people he’d talked with on his daily investigations.

  “…yeah I seen him, always skulking about…”

  “…askin questions about the women murdered he has…”

  “…not from round here, shifty lookin fella…”

  The Policeman had regained some of his composure and was looking at D’Arcy. He raised a hand and pointed at him.

  “You—stay there…”

  D’Arcy turned and ran. Shouts and the Policeman’s whistle followed him down the narrow street and anyone fool enough to get in his way was knocked to one side. The sound of pursuit followed, but as he twisted and turned through alleys and yards the noises lessened. It wasn’t long before D’Arcy was down by the river, alone, under the arches of one of the many bridges. It was cold and wet, but he was alive and free. He needed to consider his next move—there was no way he could go back for his belongings. He’d have to make do with what he had on him.

  He reached under his coat and pulled out the silver bladed knife Bryce had given him all those years ago when they’d first worked together. Bryce had the use of his legs then, and they’d both been a good deal younger…

  In the distance he heard a scream followed by a whistle, he knew he couldn’t stay here. As he crawled out from under the bridge it started to rain.

  November 9th 1888

  D’Arcy had lost all track of time, he remembered hearing the bells chime midnight, but that seemed like hours ago. A silence had settled over the city, the usual nighttime traffic was absent and he’d not seen anyone for some time. Using the alleys and deserted buildings for cover, he’d made his way back to the streets close to the room he’d shared with Bryce. It may have been foolish, but it was the only place he could think to lay in wait for the creature. He’d decided this was the area it intended to spawn in; it had been here that the others he’d killed had been most active.

  The rain had stopped but the air was cold and damp. What lamps were working cast an eerie glow, a light wind making the shadows dance. Crouched in a deserted flophouse opposite the alley that led to the room he shivered and blew on his hands. He had no idea how long he’d been there when he heard footsteps approaching and the delicate laugh of a woman. The hair on the back of his neck prickled involuntarily—he knew the owner of that laugh. As the couple approached D’Arcy heard the low tones of the man, the woman hugged close to him, laughing occasionally. D’Arcy realized he’d only get the one shot at this and stepped out into the street.

  The man pulled up short and snorted with indignation. The woman smiled at D’Arcy, but he had detected a moment’s hesitation as he stepped out. She didn’t know I was there?

  “Stand aside, Sir.” He was shorter than D’Arcy and heavier set, but there was no muscle there. His face a saggy lump of flesh, stretched and pulled downward by his ponderous jowls. A bushy walrus moustache covered his upper lip, matched by eyebrows of equal size.

  “You have a lot to answer for.” D’Arcy ignored the man and stared intently at the woman. She stood with that infuriating smile on her face.

  “Now look here…” The man stopped dead when D’Arcy shifted his gaze to meet his eyes. He must have had some sense to see the threat in that brief look, and with a lot of bluster he looked at the woman and then to D’Arcy, then extradited his arm from hers. He tipped his hat at the woman.

  “Do you wish me to call for a constable?”

  “That’s alright Gerald, you run along and I’ll catch up.” She never took her eyes off D’Arcy. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  Gerald looked from her to D’Arcy before heading off at a brisk pace. D’Arcy smiled.

  “I did not expect to see you again so soon. It would seem the Police in this city are as inept as I’d heard.”

  “Why did you kill Bryce? He was no threat to you—he was blind and a cripple.”

  “And a druid… It’s not very often a gift like that lands in your lap.” Her smile grew, D’Arcy knew she was trying to bait him, get him to lash out. “I was merciful though, it was quick.”

  D’Arcy obliged her and lashed out with a quickness, his knife in his hand like magic. She bent at an impossible angle, her head near level with her shoulders. The knife slas
hed through thin air, just nicking red hair as it passed. The momentum carried him sideways but he kept his balance and brought his other hand up driving his fist into her midsection. She grunted, surprised by the physical attack, giving him time to duck as a clawed hand swept round and buried itself in the wall, knocking bricks loose.

  They separated and circled weapons raised; D’Arcy was breathing shallow and quick, oxygenating his body, flexing his fingers around the ivory hilt of the knife. She faced him, still with the smile on her face, her hands raised and both horribly transformed into inhuman claws. She lunged forwards, her face a snarl. D’Arcy dropped to a crouch and twisted, thrusting the knife upwards. He felt it catch and he pulled back, warm blood gushing over his face. She fell to the ground with a screech and rolled into a crouch. D’Arcy barely had time to regain his feet and she was on him; scratching and biting, cursing him in a dozen tongues as he tried to fend her off, his forearms cut in a dozen places.

  Managing to slide his blade in under her attack he backed off, the front of her dress a red mess, but it didn’t seem to hinder her. She looked down and wiped her hands across her apron, they can away dripping blood. She smiled and shook her head as her eyes rolled upwards exposing the whites. D’Arcy’s arms felt like they were on fire, his coat in tatters from wrist to elbow, the skin covered in ragged cuts. She appeared to be unaffected, but he could already feel the loss of blood weakening him. She grunted and shook before him, thrust her chest out and cried a long anguished scream. Her bodice ripped and he heard the wet sound of skin tearing.