There was an intercom next to the door.
“Franks?” The voice belonged to Owen Zastava Pitt. “Is that you?”
“I like your shutters.”
“Yeah. They’re new. We’ve been tricking the place out. And before you try to kick them in, Julie’s at a firing port watching you with an M-14 right now. So what the hell are you doing here?”
“Requesting sanctuary.”
There was a really long pause. “No kidding?”
He knew that MHI had done it before. Occasionally a supernatural creature ended up on the PUFF table which MHI didn’t think deserved to be on there, and they would ignore, or sometimes even hide the things. “You did it for that wendigo and his big dumb monkeys.”
“What’s hiding one more big dumb monkey from the government? Oh, that’s right. You are the government.”
“Not currently.”
Pitt sounded rather exasperated. “Dude, Franks, they’re offering a lot of PUFF for you right now. You really shouldn’t be here.”
“This is only temporary. MHI has a Saint Herbert’s Key stored in your catacombs.”
“A what?”
“It is an iron bar with a Latin inscription. Give it to me and I will leave.”
“Wait… That almost sounds like you’re asking nicely.” Pitt began to laugh. “Holy shit. I didn’t think this day would ever come. What’s the magic word?”
Franks cracked his knuckles. The exterior walls weren’t that thick.
“Easy there, big guy. Are you innocent?”
“No.”
“Okay, stupid question. Let me rephrase that. Did you go nuts and blow up MCB headquarters?”
Pitt was an incorrigible smartass with deep seated psychological issues against authority figures, but he was one of the only mortals Franks had some tiny measure of respect for. They had killed a god together. Pitt could handle some of the truth. “Stricken framed me.”
“He needed you gone so he could launch Project Nemesis.” Once again, the Hunter was smarter than he looked. Franks reaction must have been visible on the camera. “You government types interdepartmental squabbling isn’t my problem, but I had a little conversation with Stricken in Las Vegas. The dude’s a psycho.”
“Yes.”
“So Stricken’s a ruthless murderer with the full power of the federal government backing him, and you expect me to let the one guy he wants dead more than anything into my house?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you go ask your buddy Myers for help?”
“Stricken had him killed.”
“Oh…” The light on the intercom went off for several seconds. When it came back on, Pitt was quieter. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
There was no need to be sorry. Myers had died trying to fulfill a mission. That was far more than most mortals ever achieved. “Stricken will murder anyone who helps me.”
“No wonder you usually just boss people around. You suck at asking nicely, Franks.”
Perhaps he should have just done this his usual straightforward method. People made everything so complicated. This was a perfect example of why Franks was forced to have a partner capable of dealing with foolishness. Myers had always told him that the best way to get something was to make them an offer they couldn’t refuse, only Franks suspected he was quoting a movie because he always spoke in an odd voice when he said that. Perhaps Myers was right, and he did have something MHI could not refuse. Pitt was a warrior, and warriors had loyalty to each other.
“I offer a trade. You had Hunters MIA in Las Vegas. I can help you find them.”
“What?” That had taken Pitt by surprise. Apparently Franks had guessed correctly. “Are VanZant and Lococo still alive?”
“Doubtful. But help me and you can go look for yourself and be sure.”
There was a much longer pause this time. Pitt was probably speaking with his wife. Even his improved hearing could not pick them up through the thick walls. Franks waited a minute, and then pounded on the door again.
The intercom lit up. “Hold on, damn it,” Pitt snapped.
Franks stuck his hands in his pockets. He had very little patience for dealing with people in general, and Monster Hunters specifically. Luckily for Pitt and Shackleford, they made their decision before Franks got bored. There was a loud clack as the door was unbarred.
It swung open. Owen Pitt was waiting for him, one arm was in a cast, but he had a pistol in the other hand. He was polite enough not to point it at Franks, but they both knew what it was there for.
“Don’t make me regret this… Come in.”
The Shackleford family estate was a very large home. Much of it was being renovated. The MCB dossier on Julie Shackleford said that she liked to fix things. Appropriate, for someone drafted by the mysterious Guardians. He doubted she understood what those marks meant, but explaining it to her wasn’t his problem. The MCB didn’t grasp the implications either. They just thought she had picked up some funky curse, which wasn’t too uncommon a problem among Monster Hunters. If she ever became an issue, then Franks would have to take action, but that particular cosmic faction wasn’t his responsibility.
Shackleford was waiting for them in a sitting room. By human standards, she was a beautiful woman, nearly attractive enough to give a succubus competition. She was also extremely dangerous. It wasn’t just the big rifle in her hands—she seemed more inclined to shoot him than Pitt was—but also the black lines barely visible on her neck. The Hunters had no idea what they were in for.
“Make it quick, Franks, and then I want you out of my house,” Shackleford said. She was decisive. Franks appreciated that.
Pitt stopped and stood in the doorway behind him. The Hunters were uneasy around him. Good. That meant they were paying attention. “I’d offer you a seat, but I’m guessing you’re not going to be here that long.”
Franks looked Shackleford in the eye. “I need that device.”
She’d listened to the conversation on the porch. “What does it do?”
“It finds demons.”
“That would have been really handy to know before. Thanks for sharing.”
These were not the sorts of things MHI should trifle with anyway. The Key would point him toward demon spirits. Not just the ones inhabiting Nemesis bodies, but the legions of eager spirits who would be congregated around wherever Stricken was growing new bodies, jockeying for position, just like he had himself so long ago.
“Why didn’t you just take it before?” Pitt asked.
“I didn’t know I would need it.” There was no need to elaborate about Kurst. If he’d turned it over to the government, Stricken would have it now and it would be useless to him. Besides, leaving it with MHI had been safer than stashing it with gnomes.
“You can have your saint whatever thingy as soon as you tell us how to get our guys back from the nightmare realm.” Julie said.
“Deal.” He took out a pen, and wrote down an address. Shackleford was scowling at him. It took Franks a moment to realize it was because he was using the top of her antique piano as a writing surface.
“You are such an ass,” Shackleford said.
“Go to this place.”
“What’s there?” Pitt asked as he walked over and studied the defaced piano.
“Multidimensional research facility that works with the MCB. They traced the Las Vegas portal.”
“How’s that supposed to work? We just show up and ask for a trip to the nightmare world?”
Franks shrugged. “Not my department.” He leaned on the piano. “Where’s my Key?”
“Earl’s there. I sent him a message,” Shackleford said. “Don’t worry. I kept it cryptic. I figured Stricken reads our mail. So while we’re waiting, what’s going on?”
“Classified.”
“Oh screw you, Franks!” Pitt shouted. “Are you kidding me? All this crazy stuff happens, you’re on the PUFF list, and you show up in the middle of the night telling us Myers is dead, and your answer is classified?�
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“Yes,” he answered, but the Hunters kept on glaring at him. It was an odd feeling. Franks was used to mortals giving him disapproving looks, but for once, he was actually moved by them. He had about as high of an opinion of these two as he did of anyone currently alive. He needed to tell somebody about Nemesis. He might be destroyed, and somebody would need to off Kurst before he took over the world. His agency had been compromised, so that left the private sector, and he’d already ruined MHI’s best competitors. “Fine… I’ll brief you.”
“Franks is actually going to tell us a story? I’d better update my dream journal.”
Shackleford shushed him.
“Shut up and listen, Pitt. This is complicated.”
* * *
Earl Harbinger sat alone in the dark. The only light was from the glow of his cigarette.
His cellphone was sitting lifeless on his desk. It had been a half an hour since Stricken had called to give him the news.
This is professional courtesy. Its better you hear it from me now than you get the sanitized version later. I regret to inform you that Heather Kerkonen was killed in action when her STFU element tried to take down Agent Franks.
Earl couldn’t even remember how he’d responded.
I know you don’t like or trust me and I understand why, but I’m sincerely sorry, Earl. We had a job to do. Heather was a good woman. She died serving her country.
Earl had ended the call, not even bothering to tell Stricken that he was as good as dead. He had warned Stricken not to take her, so now there would be hell to pay. Earl would take STFU apart, bit by bit, so Stricken could watch his empire fall, and once he had nothing less to lose, then he’d eat Stricken’s black heart.
That decision made, he had sat there for a time, feeling nothing but emptiness. Normally he was a man of action. Hesitation wasn’t in his nature, but this was such a kick in the gut that Earl was in shock. Heather was so vibrant, so alive, that he couldn’t imagine losing her…
She was gone.
He should have been there. MHI should have taken Franks down. He’d made the wrong call. This was on his head. It was rare for Earl Harbinger to be at a loss as to what to do. All he knew was that Franks had to die for taking Heather and then Stricken had to die for putting Heather in that monster’s path.
His phone lit up. There was a text message from Julie on it. He needed to talk to her anyway. It was time to rally the troops.
Owen’s old friend dropped by for dinner. Surprise.
Earl didn’t care. Why was Julie bothering him with nonsense?
Him and his three friends had so much fun staying with us and following Owen around last time that he came back.
Earl scowled at the message as he thought that through.
He wants a souvenir this time. He saw something special when he was in the basement. Can you pick up something up for us? Call me.
Owen and Franks had fought Hood’s people in the tunnels. That’s where they stored the special things they found. “Motherfucker…” Earl muttered.
Franks was here.
Earl ran from the room.
* * *
Franks didn’t give them too many details. He only told the Hunters what they needed to know. He left off any of his personal details, as well as the part where he’d killed or injured a bunch of their competitors. They might not like that. Hunters could be a sensitive bunch of drama queens.
“So why is this Kurst guy so dangerous exactly?” Shackleford asked. She could tell immediately that Franks wasn’t going to answer that one. “All right. I’ll take your word for it. He’s bad news, I get it, but there’s nothing we can do about it. They’re not PUFF applicable. In fact, they’re government property, so they’re way out of our jurisdiction.”
“We’ll tell Earl.” Pitt said. “I’m sure he’s going to love the part where you kicked his girlfriend off a train, but I don’t think we can do anything about Nemesis.”
“Not without breaking the law,” Shackleford added.
“And MHI never breaks the law or violates any MCB regulations,” Pitt said. “MHI is completely law abiding.”
“Totally.”
Now they were just messing with him.
There was a buzz from the front of the mansion. Shackleford and Pitt exchanged glances. “Motion detector.” Pitt hobbled along on his damaged foot to a monitor in the hall. “It’s Earl’s truck. Looks like you can make your case to the man himself.”
“Wait here,” Shackleford told him.
Franks did. She probably didn’t expect Franks to actually listen, but he didn’t really feel like participating in the Hunters’ internal discussions anyway. Harbinger would probably be angry at him for bringing MHI into this affair. Harbinger was by nature a volatile individual, but he would see reason, which meant he would help against Nemesis. If there was one man who rivaled Myers’ dedication to protecting humanity, it was Earl Harbinger.
“And don’t vandalize anymore of my furniture, jerk.”
They went onto the porch to greet Harbinger. Franks remained leaning against the piano. There was some cursing and shouting. Harbinger sounded rather agitated. Franks perked up. He must have heard about the incident with the STFU werewolf on the subway. That might complicate matters.
Harbinger entered the mansion, but before the others could follow, he slammed the heavy door in their faces. Harbinger looked down the hall, saw Franks, and snarled, “You son of a bitch.”
Franks nodded in greeting.
Pitt’s surprised exclamation and banging on the door was muffled as Harbinger threw down the steel security bar, locking the other two out of the mansion. Then he turned and began walking quickly toward Franks. His eyes were glowing gold. That was not a good sign. The walk turned into a run, and then Earl Harbinger was charging straight toward him.
Of the possible receptions Franks had expected, this one had been low on the list.
Harbinger roared, leapt across the distance, and tackled him. The Hunter was half Franks’ mass but the speed of the impact still launched him back. They fell across the antique piano with Harbinger wrapped around his torso. Half of the piano’s legs snapped off, and they crashed to the floor with a discordant jangle of keys.
“What are you doing?” Franks asked right before Harbinger rose up and punched him in the face. The blow was blindingly quick. The bones of Harbinger’s hands were like steel rods. He moved so fast that Franks had absorbed half a dozen blows before the first one really registered. The back of Frank’s head smashed a hole through the wood. The piano vibrated and made terrible noises.
Shoving Harbinger back, Franks kicked out, sweeping the legs. Harbinger hit the carpet, but instantly rolled and sprang back up. Franks was fast, but Harbinger was faster, and while he was getting up Harbinger had slammed one fist into Franks’ eye socket, dropped an elbow on his neck, and stomped on his ribs. Franks was becoming very annoyed.
The werewolf might have been quick, but Franks had size, strength, and durability. He weathered the punishing blows until he was able to reach out, gather up a handful of leather coat, then he yanked Harbinger toward him and head butted him so hard it would have killed any mortal man. Even Franks saw stars.
Shaking his head to try and clear the fog, Harbinger stumbled back. Franks still had a lock on the coat, and using superior weight and leverage, he hurled his opponent at the far wall. Harbinger flew across the distance, knocking furniture everywhere, and disappeared in a cloud of splinters and dust. Apparently the interior walls were not nearly as solid as the exterior.
Starting toward the hole he’d made, Franks felt a twinge. He put one hand on his abdomen, and it came away covered in blood. There was a deep laceration on his torso. Harbinger had grown claws.
They were playing for keeps.
Drawing his Glock, Franks approached the hole. On the other side was another room, a guest bedroom from the look of it. There was bits of wood spread everywhere, but no Harbinger. Shackleford and Pitt were still bang
ing on the door, but between that heavy thing and the armored shutters, they would not be getting in anytime soon. Franks moved carefully, changing the angle, slicing the pie, looking for a target.
The wall behind him broke apart as Harbinger leapt through and sank his claws into Franks’ shoulder. As werewolf dragged him through the wall, Franks turned the Glock past his head and fired it at Harbinger’s face, but only succeeded in putting several rounds through the ceiling and damaging one ear drum. Harbinger ripped a chunk out of Franks’ back trying to take out his spine, but Franks shoved the Glock under his elbow and fired repeatedly, striking Harbinger in the chest.
There was a flash of red and blood shot from Franks’ wrist. The Glock went spinning away. He caught of glimpse of Harbinger grimacing from the pain, but then he realized that the bullets were lodged in the leather jacket. Damned minotaur hide. The furious Harbinger was tugging him down the hall. Franks grabbed the claw impaled in his shoulder and squeezed. It caused his own wounds to grow in a flash of blood, but the werewolf wouldn’t be getting away. Still locked on Harbinger’s hand, he twisted hard to the side. Bones splintered until the werewolf let go.
Harbinger fell back, shaking his arm loose so that the bones would realign, then he tore off his restrictive, indestructible coat and threw it aside. Franks stood up. The two of them faced each other across the hall. Harbinger was rapidly transforming, and already within the few seconds since he’d first come in, he was almost entirely in werewolf form. His clothing was ripping as bones pushed through at new angles, hair was sprouting through his skin, his jaw was extending, and the voice that rushed past those sharp teeth was guttural and almost incomprehensible.
“You killed her!”
Who? Franks had killed a lot of people lately. “Narrow it down for me.”
The werewolf leapt at him, but Franks was ready. He swung one meaty fist and hit Harbinger in the snout. Blood and saliva sprayed across the hall, yet the werewolf still managed to rake claws down his bicep. Harbinger’s foot grated across Franks’ stomach in an instinctive attempt to disembowel him, but the claws were still stuck inside Harbinger’s boots, so it didn’t do him any good.
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