by Sam Witt
And then the old man hit a wall. He’d misjudged a roll, and instead of sliding cleanly away from an attack, his back slammed into the cold, unyielding stone of the cavern. The Beast grinned. There was nowhere for his prey to go, no more hair’s-breadth escapes. It was over. He raised his foot, ready to smash the old man’s skull into a greasy stain against limestone. He put everything he had into the attack, throwing his weight full forward, committing his all to the coup de grace.
In the second before his death, the old man grinned. A lightning flash of confusion crashed through the Beast’s thoughts. What had he missed?
Then he saw the stubby firearm the old man had pulled from inside his fur coat. The weapon was short, squat, and ugly as hell. Its barrel was a gaping maw surrounded by a jagged metal teeth. As the Beast’s foot crashed down toward the old man, a ball of fire blossomed inside the weapon’s throat.
The Beast never finished the attack. A fist of pain punched through his breastbone, splintering his ribs and slamming into his heart. The shot continued through him, blowing open a softball-sized hole next to his spine. The impact stopped the Beast’s momentum and shoved him backward. As the darkness reached out for him, the Beast crashed to the cavern floor.
16
Screams dragged the Beast back from the yawning jaws of the grave. The pain in his chest tried to push him back into the darkness, tried to force him down into oblivion to give his tortured flesh a chance to repair itself. The screams wouldn’t let him go; they hurt more than his wounds.
He was afraid to move, afraid that the slightest motion would make his wounds worse, but he could open his eyes. What he saw filled him with a gut-wrenching rage. The runt had come for him. And now it was paying the price.
The little dog stared at him, its amber eyes clouded with agony and smeared with blood. The witch finder stood over it, kicking the runt again and again. “Look at him!” The witch finder roared, stabbing a finger in the Beast’s direction. “I killed him! And you dare attack me?”
The dog didn’t have much time left to live. The Beast could tell the runt was at the end of its rope. There was nothing left in his eyes except for quiet despair and the guttering spark of life.
But the Beast didn’t know what to do. He was broken, the damage to his body wouldn’t kill him, not immediately, but he wasn’t going to be in any condition to save himself, let alone anyone else, for a long time. The Beast was wounded, and only time would heal his grievous wounds.
Another kick sent the runt sliding across the limestone. It whimpered in pain then choked as it spat up blood. When it had thought him dead, the runt had come to avenge the Beast. He couldn’t let its bravery be in vain.
Lying on the cold stone with his blood oozing from the massive wound in his chest, the Beast’s thoughts drifted back to his argument with Rae. She didn’t understand Al’s relationship with the Beast. She thought of them as one creature, a single entity that changed form as needed. But the relationship was more complex than that, it wasn’t simply a transmogrification, a change in features, it was a fundamental transformation. Al and the Beast were connected, but they were not the same.
And Al thought that might be enough to stop the witch finder.
If he was right, the next few moments would change everything. If he was wrong, he’d never know it. Because what he was about to do would kill him.
Al pushed the Beast back and struggled to the fore. The Beast retreated into the primal wilderness of thought, relinquishing control of their shared flesh to Al.
He smelled raw meat and blood and knew the transformation was coming. He prayed he’d been right.
Al and the Beast passed one another in the moment of transformation, and the Beast understood the bravery and daring Al’s plan. He lowered his muzzle in admiration, and disappeared.
There was a moment when Al thought he’d misjudged. He felt himself changing, but there were gaps, flaws, and he didn’t know if the transformation would heal those. He gasped as pain flared in his chest, seeming to explode from his heart like a volcano. For that instant there was nothing but heat and fear.
And then it was over. Al was hunched over on his knees, shivering in the cold cave air. He’d been right. The Beast was wounded, not Al. He wasn’t sure what would happen the next time he tried to transform, but for now he was alive.
He could still end this. That was all that mattered.
17
Al stood up and blinked, opening his eyes wide to try to take in any light could find. All he could see was the flat black gleam of the witch finder’s eyes. It would have to be enough.
“Hey,” Al called out. “I thought you were going to kill me.”
A chill swept through Al as he saw the witch finder’s eyes turn in his direction. “You’re just full of bullshit tricks,” the witch finder snarled. “Though you’re looking a little peaked, my friend.”
Al tried to remember where he was, tried to envision the layout of the cavern. He thought if he followed the tunnel to the right, he’d come out into the main chamber. There’d be light there, and the campfire’s glow might be enough to let him see, to let him fight. “You know how it is,” Al quipped, “costume changes keep the drama up.”
The witch finder roared and charged at Al. The old man was shockingly fast. Al was sure he wouldn’t be a able to keep ahead of him. But he wasn’t going to stand there and die, either.
Al ran in the direction he thought he needed to go, arms outstretched to ward off a collision with the cave wall. His toes were torn by the stone as he ran, jagged cracks clawed at his skin, sharpened chunks of rock bit into the soles of his feet. The pain was terrible; it made him long to be the Beast once more, but it also reminded him that he was still alive. He held onto that reminder, embraced the little pains, and kept running.
The club whooshed past the back of his head and smashed into the wall. Limestone shrapnel exploded away from the impact, peppering Al’s back and neck with jagged splinters. He stumbled, shocked at how close he’d come to death, and caught himself on his fingertips.
He heard the club whistling through the air as it came for him again and dove to the right. His back hit the wall of the tunnel, and the club glanced off his shoulder. The impact sent Al stumbling, and he ran with it, doing his best to keep his feet underneath his body as he rolled forward.
Al bounced off the tunnel’s far wall and careened back to the left. His off-balance move brought him around the last corner in the tunnel, and he saw the orange glow of the dying fire. He didn’t wait for another attack but hurled his body forward and ran as hard as he could into the cavern. The stalagmites on the floor would help him keep the witch finder at bay until he could find a weapon or come up with some better plan.
Al grabbed the thick top of a stalagmite and used it to bend his trajectory back toward the tunnel. He kept the stone between them, hoping it would keep the witch finder from smashing his skull.
The witch finder was frighteningly close, only a couple of yards away, his club brandished in both hands. He swung it back and forth, grinning at the rush of air it left in its wake. “You couldn’t finish the job when you had claws and fangs, what are you going to do now when all you’ve got is that sad little excuse of a ding-a-ling dangling between your legs?”
Al didn’t have the breath to respond. Instead, he raised one hand, made a fist, turned it over and lifted his middle finger.
The old man’s rage was terrifying. He threw himself into a frenzied attack, scything the club at Al’s head. Al ducked low and thrust himself back from the stalagmite, desperate to put distance between himself and the witch finder. But the witch finder, filled with dark power, was too fast. Even as his first attack swept over Al’s head, he was shifting position.
The witch finder stepped around the stalagmite and reversed his swing. Still off balance from his last desperate maneuver, Al had no choice but to fling himself to the ground.
The witch finder laughed as his attack swept over Al’s head. He switch
ed his grip and raised the weapon overhead. With a maniacal howl, he brought the club down.
Instinct saved Al’s life. He didn’t roll away from the attack, but instead tucked and scrambled toward the old man. The witch finder’s attack brought the club crashing to the cave floor behind Al. The old man grunted, surprised and caught off guard.
Al seized the initiative and thrust himself upward, driving his fist into the witch finder’s belly. The old man, still bent at the waist from his missed strike, choked as the attack hit home. Al pressed his advantage, clenching his fists together and bringing them down hard on the back of the witch finder’s neck.
The impact numbed Al’s hands and jarred his spine. The old man went to his knees, still coughing and trying to catch his breath.
Al took a step back then rushed forward, aiming a kick at the witch finder’s chin.
But the witch finder was already moving. He shifted his weight to his right knee, tilting his head and upper body away from Al.
The kick whiffed past its mark, leaving Al exposed to a counter-attack The old man didn’t have the leverage to swing the club, but he did have enough to slam the club’s handle down onto Al’s foot. The narrow end of the weapon smashed into Al’s toes, cracking two in the middle and pulping the little toe.
Al stumbled away. Blood gushed from the ruin of his toe, and he was sure that it was gone for good. He pushed past the pain, knowing that he hadn’t a second to lose before the old man would be back on the attack. Al ducked around a waist-high stalagmite and raised his fists in defense.
The old man got back to his feet, using the club as a crutch. He nodded toward Al’s injured foot, which jutted out from around the edge of the stalagmite. “That looks like it hurts,” he said stalking toward Al, “but this is going to hurt a fuck of a lot more.”
The witch finder lunged forward, sweeping the club before him. Al swayed back from the attack, and the tip of the club just brushed across his chest. The glancing blow hit with enough force to tear an inch-wide strip of flesh away from Al’s torso.
The witch finder brought the club back around again, and Al’s only hope in dodging it was to once again drop prone. He saw the witch finder raise the club above his head, and Al knew he was out of second chances.
As the club raced toward Al’s face, he made a last-ditch gamble. He lunged upward, arms crossed in front of him, hands outstretched. If he misjudged, he knew he was dead.
One of the old man’s wrists slammed into the X formed by Al’s outstretched arms. The impact pushed Al to his knees, and the old man bent forward to bring all of his weight to bear on his opponent.
Al switched his grip, rotating his hands to lock them around the witch finder’s forearm. With a roar as savage as anything the Beast had ever unleashed, Al threw his weight to the floor.
Too late, the witch finder realized the trap he’d fallen into.
Al dragged his foe down, and the stalagmite’s tip punched up through the witch finder’s chest with a wet crunch.
Al screamed in savage triumph and tore the club from the witch finder’s hand.
The old man gasped, a guttural, strangled sound, and his arms flailed in a futile attempt to save himself.
Al raised the club into the air, and brought it down with all of his strength. He hammered the witch finder’s body down onto the stalagmite, smashing the club into his back again and again, until the witch finder was flattened to the floor.
He stared down at the wreckage of his enemy. With an exhausted sob, Al hurled the club into the darkness. He limped to the fire and drew a flaming brand from it. Holding it aloft like a torch, Al staggered into the darkness.
18
Rae sat next to Al before the fire. She stroked the runt’s bloody fur and worked her magic on its injuries. Though badly wounded, with her help the dog stood a good chance of making a full recovery. “He’s going to be fine,” she said. “Though you cut it pretty close.”
Al nodded and rested his chin on his knees. He reached over and scratched the dog behind its ears, proud of its bravery. “Thank you,” he whispered to the little dog, knowing his gratitude was inadequate compared to its suffering.
He felt strange, broken in some fundamental way, and found the damage hard to discuss. He wanted to reach across the gap that separated him from Rae, but he didn’t have the words. Al didn’t even know if there were words to express what was happening inside him.
She sat the dog down on the stone floor next to her and held one hand out to Al. “What kind of boo-boos do you have? Let me fix you up so we can get out of here.”
Al started to move his foot and its broken toes toward her but changed his mind. The pain was a reminder of what had happened to him, and he wasn’t quite ready to forget that yet. He needed time. Time to come to grips with what he’d done. Time to understand what had been done to him and what that meant for his future.
Rae reached out and found Al’s hand. She wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed. “You all right?”
Al laughed then groaned in pain as his injuries protested. “Yeah. No.”
He fell silent, struggling to find the words to describe how he felt. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”
Rae closed her other hand over Al’s. “But, what about—”
Al shook his head. “The Beast,” he said, “the Beast has killed. But that’s not me. I mean, it is but…”
After all these years, Al was surprised how difficult it was to discuss his relationship with the Beast with someone else.
It had always been part of him. For as long as he could remember, the Beast had been there, waiting to step in and take over when Al needed his special skills and strengths. It wasn’t like he went away when the Beast took over, it was more like being a passenger. But that wasn’t right either. Al could take control, whenever he needed to, but it was easier to let the Beast do as it willed. When the Beast killed, Al was there, he was part of it. But it wasn’t him.
After this, that separation was gone. Al had blood on his hands now, and even if that blood had been spilled in self-defense, he was changed by it. It was as if a veil had been torn away, and he no longer remembered the things the Beast had done as things he had seen. Now they were things he had done.
He was also worried about the Beast. He wasn’t sure about the mechanics of the transformation or his regenerative powers. He’d never switched forms while suffering such a severe injury. He couldn’t even remember if he’d ever been that injured before. When he’d transformed, Al had left the Beast’s injuries behind. But he had a distinct feeling, reinforced by the dull ache he felt in his chest even now, that when he transformed back into the Beast those injuries would be waiting for him. He didn’t know how to explain those worries to Rae.
Rae leaned her head on his shoulder. “I know it’s hard, but it helps to talk about it. If you can’t now, I get it. But when you’re ready, I’ll be here.”
“I need to find some clothes.” Al disentangled his hand from Rae’s grasp. The fire’s warmth was no longer enough to hold the cold at bay. The Beast was able to ignore extremes of temperature, but Al wasn’t so lucky. Sitting on the cold stone floor had leached the heat from his body, causing his muscles to cramp and his teeth to chatter.
The old man wasn’t far away. Al reckoned he could save the old man’s boots, but the rest of his clothes were useless. They were soaked with blood, and the shirt and coat had gaping holes in them where the stalagmite had speared through the witch finder.
The boots were laced up tight, and Al had to get down on his hands and knees to work the knots free. He grunted and swore as his cold fingers struggled with the laces, but he was able to wrench them loose.
“I need to get the spare clothes this guy had stashed in his bedroom.” Al headed into the gloom outside the fire’s light. He could see the dull glow coming from the bedroom’s little campfire ahead. He followed it into the witch finder’s quarters. He found what he was looking for, and carried the bundle back to where
Rae was waiting by the campfire.
The clothes didn’t fit well. The old man was a little taller than Al, and a lot heavier. The shirt flapped on his thin frame like a scarecrow’s ill-fitting costume, and the pants barely stayed up even with the belt he’d found. Still, it was better than trying to hike out of here in the middle of winter without any clothes at all. Putting the shoes on his own feet was an exercise in pain, but he managed to get them on without aggravating his savaged toes too much.
“What’s the deal with the clothes?” Rae’s tone was playful. “That’s part of the deal with people like us, right? I mean, once I came into my powers, I stopped bothering with winter coats. The Beast doesn’t need boots, does he?”
Al tried not to let the words bother him. If he didn’t really understand the relationship he had with the Beast, how could he expect Rae to understand? Though he knew he shouldn’t let them, her words still hurt. They reminded Al of his own weakness, and the strength of the Beast.
Still, the Beast hadn’t killed the witch finder. Al had. He was the one who’d saved their lives. Maybe it was time to let the Beast rest. Maybe it was time for him to find his own strength.
“The Beast doesn’t need boots,” Al said, tightening the laces on his stolen shoes, “but I do.”
Rae smiled; a soft, almost wistful expression. “I see.”
With his clothes situated, Al found the need to leave the cave undeniable. He took Rae’s hands and pulled her to her feet. “No, you don’t. Not yet. But you will.”
Favoring his injured foot, Al led Rae out of the cavern’s darkness and into the snowy dawn.
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