Yulen
Return of the Beast
Book II
Luis de Agustin
Yulen: Return of the Beast by Luis de Agustin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Luis de Agustin
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
Orb of fire light for me tomorrow.
Yulen Prayer
I
Under a late summer half moon sky Gustav Fraunberg stood sipping 170 proof vodka so as not to gag on his friends’ stench. Each sip of the nearly pure spirits blocked his smell sense long enough to keep him from fleeing the gathering.
On that balmy Saint-Tropez night, his friends lounged in chaises on the terracotta deck surrounding the estate’s luminous twenty-five meter pool. They gazed at the shimmering water that would soon turn deadly for someone on the terrace.
“How are those ethanol spirits working for you, Baron?” asked host Nathan Nols, relaxing in a cushioned chaise lounge.
“They make you all quite tolerable,” said the six-foot-four aristocrat.
“We’re tolerable?” Sammy Fine said feigning offense. “Gus, you don’t make your friends feel all warm and fussy calling us tolerable.”
“You know what he meant,” Russell Sky blurted.
Gustav signaled the youngest of the group to ignore Sammy’s baiting, adding, “I’m honored and gratified for anything that allows me to share this fine summer’s night with all of you, including you, Sammy.”
Nathan Nols laughed. Gustav’s wariness of the alcohol’s smell numbing trick had mirrored his own caution when his friend Tyler showed it to him two years earlier.
“You really should get the operation though,” Russell said to the baron.
“At my age the olfactory is so atrophied it’s not worth the trouble.”
“Not worth the trouble, or not worth the expense, Baron.” Sammy said, always one to jab, needle, or question, and usually on the mark.
“You always have to say stuff like that,” the impulsive young Russell said.
Sammy smirked. He enjoyed the gathering too much to refute Russell, who he antagonized for amusement.
“Looks like the house is on fire,” Shawn Weston said, unwinding on another chaise, his linebacker like body powerful and lethal but belonging to a teddy bear.
“It’s the cook behind the house,” Nathan said, looking across a thick grass field to a three-story Italianate villa with a taller corner tower overlooking the French Riviera. “Constance wants everyone to stay for dinner.”
“I won’t be able,” Gustav said.
“She loves feeding us.”
“I really—”
“Afraid the booze might get you too relaxed and open?” Sammy said.
“Can’t you ever stop,” said Russell.
Gustav stiffened. “No-no Russell, he’s right. The alcohol does eventually go to my head, and it’s true I prefer not to lose it.”
“Can’t lose that aristocratic bearing,” Sammy grinned.
“You really have no manners,” Russell chided.
“But wasn’t that barony of yours ages ago, Gus, Baron?” Sammy continued.
“Sammy . . . ,” Nathan said objecting.
“No really,” Sammy kept on. “I mean, time to let your hair down, Gustav. It was what, early last century?
“There would be no point, Mr. Fine,” Gus said, “in being the only drunk at a party, now would there.”
“You’ve got a point there, Gus. An excellent point. You are the only one drinking.”
“That’s why, Gus,” Shawn said, “you really should consider getting the operation.”
“Yeah,” said Russell.
“For sure,” Shawn said.
“You should,” Nathan agreed, looking up at the oldest and tallest of the five, although all except Russell were notably tall, and all projected prodigiously head turning good looks. “That simple operation makes this gathering possible, and it’s going to make us stronger.”
“Stronger?” Gus said. “Or more vulnerable, I wonder. No. I fear altering my accustomed defenses. At my age, my natural unaltered faculties that have carried me through many challenges are what I understand and trust. Even if that means I’ll not likely see another hundred years.”
On the cool lawn at the opposite side of the property, Count’s thick black neck snapped up from nuzzling his brother Doberman pinscher on the grass. His muzzle pointed like a 45 at the gathering two-hundred feet away. His sister Tara, seeing him break from their threesome play, burst to her feet and tried to pick up any threatening scent, but caught nothing. Striker, their smaller younger brother watched them and aimed his trained senses where his siblings looked. He also detected nothing except the aroma of meat cooking on the mansion’s outdoor grill. Count, convinced that no danger lurked—the air heavily marked by the cook’s preparations—mistakenly turned back to roughhousing with his brother and sister. He did so unaware that he’d allowed the greatest threat against his owner to start its final advance toward its planned kill.
“I did not say that shutting our scent gland was not a brilliant advance,” Gustav continued, his stylishly dressed friends listening seated or lounged. “I say only that you pay for it with great risk.”
“Of course it’s risky, and I’m working on that,” Nathan said. “But all advances come with risk.”
“You play with nature, Nathan. You don’t know what afflictions you stir up.”
“Well I think it’s great,” Russell said. “I mean that we can come together like this, like maybe never before in history, like, like—brothers.”
Brothers? . . . The gathered reacted surprised, bewildered by the notion.
“Yeah, brothers. Like brothers,” Russell repeated.
They exchanged hesitant glances. They’d never thought of themselves that way.
Count’s thick neck again snapped toward the pool terrace. His nose followed the property’s rear perimeter to the darkened pool shed beyond the swimming pool. The smell of searing barbeque mixing with salt air rising from the sea, fresh cool grass, pool water, fertilizer applied that day to the mistress’s rose garden, dying rose petals, even the smell of a cold hard Moon, all traveled his mind, and signaled no reason for concern. About to turn from his suspicion again, his nose suddenly and unmistakably intercepted the smell that he was raised, trained, and prepared to recognize, pursue, and destroy. In the second that it took for his mind to signal his body go, Striker shot by him running to the smell that must be destroyed.
“In any case, I can’t stay,”
Gus said, taking a tiny final sip from his glass.
“Constance would really like it if you were here, Gus, as would I,” Nathan said, looking up from the chaise, but Gus not hearing, his attention focused on the dark beyond the pool’s opposite end. “Gus?” Nathan said. “Gus?” He saw his friend become anxious. He saw Gus’ glass slipping from his hand, dropping, then shatter on the smooth paving stones.
“Killkin . . . ,” Gus breathed. “Killkin . . .”
The others jumped looking at where he looked but saw nothing. Nathan remained in his chaise, staring into the dark, seeking a recognizable shape.
“Killkin,” Gus said, and as he did, from beside the shed beyond the swimming pool appeared a running figure heading toward them.
“Killkin,” said Gus. “Killkin!”
Panicking, they scrambled from the chairs. Sammy tripped onto the pavement and scampered on all fours.
“Killkin!” Gus shouted, the fully formed male figure emerging from the shed’s shadow.
“Killkin!” shouted all the others but Nols.
Fleeing the deck, they ran to the grass, Russell ahead, all headed to a stand of trees.
“Killkin!” Gus screamed going back to Nathan, who, legs outstretched on the chaise, remained seated.
“Killkin Nathan!” called the others.
“Killkin!” Gus warned, assuming great personal risk staying to move his friend frozen in the chaise. “Das is killkin! Killkin, Nathan!” he shouted, tugging on Nathan’s white knuckled hands gripping the armrests that he couldn’t budge.
The speeding figure advanced halfway to Nathan.
Gus pulled on Nathan’s immovable arms. His outraged face took a last glance at his frozen friend facing a looming end.
“Nathan!” the others called from the base of the trees.
“Nathan,” Gus said, turning to flee. “He’ll get one of us, but give yourself a chance. Run, Nathan. Don’t be a fool. Run. Run!” He dashed from the stones. “Fool! You fool!”
Fool? Nols thought. Fool that I am or fool that I’ve been?
The rushing male figure, strong, athletic, arms pumping, cut onto the paving stones close enough that Nathan saw an eager smile form over his spreading lips.
Elation formed in the assailant. His easy target waited like a plump pigeon too petrified to run. What a feast. What easy prey. It wasn’t even necessary to run, except that the enjoyment was greater when pumped, oxygen rushing wildly that heady moment.
“Nathan!” they called.
The killkin, strides from his reward, smiled mischievously preparing to send his face falling swanlike into the living body, rip the face off, and devour the features. Dig into the flesh! Make feast! Make the luscious thing that he most craved his, all his. No one and nothing could stop him now. His final arched step sprang from the stone and sent his fulminating body leaping—at the same moment that Count, Tara, and Sticker’s own powerful hindquarters uncoiled toward their adversary.
Count’s jaws locked on the killkin’s jugular as Tara and Sticker each snapped a wrist. Hit by the shooting dogs, the killkin’s lunge broke, and the four twirled together into the water.
Nathan stood and slowly stepped toward the pool.
Gus was first to race back to the deck, Shawn following, Sammy and Russell hesitating. “Nathan,” Gus said, reaching him standing poolside looking at the water. “You’re alright.”
Nathan nodded without taking his eyes off the splashing water.
“I, I’m relived, Nathan,” Gus said.
Nathan nodded forcing a grin, and Gus started when he saw the deep-set burrows of fear plowed across his friend’s face.
“Nathan,” Shawn said, placing an arm around his shoulder.
Sammy and Russell sprinted to them, neither wanting to be last. “Is he dead?” they asked together.
“Not yet,” Gus said, looking at the water.
“Any chance he can escape, Ace?” Russell asked Nathan, his excitement insufficient to completely erase his fear of the killkin.
Count held his enemy tight by the throat, but the killkin kicked Striker free of his ankle, and pushed his foot into the dog’s face.
“They’re unbelievable, killkin,” Russell said.
“Formidable,” Gus added.
“Relentless,” Sammy said.
“Fearless,” Nathan nodded.
Fighting on his back over a wash of red, the killkin repeatedly pounded Tara, forced her loose from his forearm, and then pushed his fingers into Count’s eyes.
“He can’t get free can he, Ace?” Russell nervously asked Nathan.
“The woods are still where you left them,” Nathan answered.
“No, Russell, he’s lost too much blood,” Gus said.
“They’re kind of magnificent though,” Shawn said, watching the killkin battling to free himself from Count’s grip. Growling, Tara and Striker latched back onto the killkin, taking an ankle each, and Count then forced the killkin’s face underwater. Paddling, the dogs moved the body along the surface toward the shallow end, a torrent of red trailing.
“He’s dead isn’t he?” Russell said, the group strolling along with the pulled corpse.
“Yes,” Nathan said.
“Drowned, or loss of blood, you think.”
“Drowning, ultimate cause,” Gus said.
“Glad that can’t happen to us,” Russell said, and Gus looked questioning at him. “Drowning, I mean. Water,” Russell added.
“I’ll help pull him out,” Shawn said, going to the dogs bringing the body to the sunken steps.
“Let them,” Nathan said. “It’s their courage, victory, trophy, and they may not understand you touching it.”
“Nathan, you gave us quite a scare,” Gus said.
“Not as much as I gave myself.”
The dogs dragged out the body to its waist onto the deck, and then collapsed on their sides, abdomens bellowing.
A bell from the house clanged.
“Dinner is served, Nathan said, turning from the pool, his face looking shaken to Gus.
“So, you were as frightened as you looked,” Gus said.
“As never before.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I don’t want to run anymore, Gus. I’m sick of running. Sick of defenselessness. I want–”
“What you, what we, can’t have,” Gus interrupted.
“No, Gus. Just like we gained the freedom to associate as we now do after discovering how to block our revolting smell from one another, there must be a way for us to gain the right to defend ourselves.”
The bell sounded again as the group walked toward the limestone mansion radiating soft orange when the ground lights turned on.
“Nathan, what about the killkin?” Russell said.
“Antoine and his assistant’ll take care of it.”
“And all that blood?” Shawn asked.
“Filtered by the system all night, the water’ll be clear as crystal by the time Constance goes for her morning swim. All two laps.”
>
Chandeliers with flickering bulbs meant to resemble candles, hung over a long banquet table set with fine crystal and china. High-backed antique leather throne chairs bordered the wooden table. The spacious room resembled a madcap decorator’s interpretation of a medieval knights dining hall.
Sitting by the ornately turned chair legs, Count, Tara, and Striker watched their master and his guests pile grilled meats and vegetables onto plates from a buffet table decked with garlands, powder horns, and two dead pheasants. When the diners turned to take seats at the table, the dogs held their places until after they set the plates on the terrazzo marble floor.
“What would you do without these dogs,” Sammy said to his host, as Nathan removed corks from two opened bottles of wine.
“They earned their victuals today,” Nathan said.
“No, I mean who would eat your food?”
Nathan smiled. “I don’t have to put up much of a pretense in that regard for Cons
tance.”
“She’s taken you hook line and sinker,” Sammy said.
“She’s a good fish, and fine lady,” Nathan said tenderly. He walked along the table, pouring a jigger of wine into each man’s goblet, which each then swirled, coating their glass but placing it down without drinking.
“Are these medieval tapestries original, Nathan?” Gus said, of the wall hangings depicting scenes of hunting parties.
Nathan handed Gus a bottle of 170 proof vodka. “I don’t know. Constance did the decorating, purchasing, gold leaf ceiling, everything.” He pointed at gold leaf squares boxed by heavy beams above them.
“But nothing really matches, in period,” Sammy said. “I mean the medieval tapestries, sixteenth century suits of armor, gold leaf ceiling, Japanese samurai headdress . . . elephant tusks?”
“It looks nice, Sam,” Nathan said, taking the wine bottles to a window.
“You gotta find fault in everything don’t you, Sammy,” Russell said.
“Just saying.”
“I still wonder, Nathan,” Gus said, “how you could remain as you did on the terrace in the face of sure destruction. And I dismiss that you’re simply brave. Nature would drive you with us, and mercifully so.”
“Or unmercifully,” Nathan said, pouring the wine out the window.
“Whatever your reason, and how you were able to do it,” Shawn said, “I still don’t understand.”
Nathan shut the window, walked back to the table, and placed the empties on opposite ends. “Truth be told, Gus, Shawn, I was about to flee early on, my grip loosening as nature’s command to survive screamed enough of this nonsense—then I saw my dogs.”
“Ah-hah . . . ,” Sammy nodded, understanding.
“I saw them too, Nathan,” Gus said, “but I didn’t stay.”
“Did you know they were trained to attack as they did?” Nathan asked.
“It doesn’t matter. Even if they carried guns, Nathan, they could have missed,” Gus said, becoming impatient. “They could have missed, ended up in the pool, jaws filled with water. Or arrived a second late. A second, Nathan, was all that separated them from the killkin landing on your face.”
Yulen: Return of the Beast – Mystery Suspense Thriller (Yulen - Book 2) Page 1