by Rhys Ford
“Shoot?” Ryder yelled, catching the ainmhi dubh’s attention. Its head drifted to a spot over my left shoulder, long enough for it to assess Ryder. Then its gaze came back to me, its eyes burning brilliantly in its misshapen head.
I didn’t answer Ryder. There really wasn’t much of a reason to, because no sooner had the word left his lips than the black dog attacked.
It was on me in a few leaps, but it was a long enough time to get a shot off. I was counting on Valin being a shitty mage, and for once, my gut feeling about my half brother’s skills was on point. He either didn’t listen to our father when Tanic was droning on about how to fortify a black dog’s defenses or he just didn’t care. Either way, I got a tickle of glee in my belly when my first shotgun blast hit its shoulder and punched through the joint, sending steaming, glistening dark blood gushing from its torn-up flesh.
The ainmhi dubh twisted from the momentum of the shot, tumbling to the side and landing hard. Scrabbling at the gravel, it righted itself, favoring its shot-through shoulder, and it screamed at me, a wave of fetid and rotting flesh. The magics holding it together seemed to be unraveling, or at least that’s what it felt like. The wrongness of its creation hung heavy in my gut, curdling in my stomach. It simply felt wrong. Patchworked together with an inelegant hand and little care taken in its creation, it quivered in place, trying to get its feet underneath it. Baring its long teeth, it dug in its powerful back legs, then coughed out a warning, eyes narrowed.
A bullet came whirring over my left shoulder, too close to my head for comfort, and I risked a withering glance at Ryder to warn him off, pulling my shotgun up for another blast. I caught half of an apologetic look and a grimace on his too-pretty face as the cat circled, lowering its shoulders to take another leap.
The bike rider squirmed a few feet away from my left foot, the front shield on his helmet cracked either from landing on his head or possibly poor maintenance before he decided to become black dog bait. I couldn’t see his face, but his panic was evident. His bare hands were bloodied from scraping on the bend’s hard ground, and from what I could make out, he was pleading not to be eaten.
“Yeah, you and me both, idiot,” I grumbled, stepping between him and the ainmhi dubh, tossing a prayer to Pele in the hopes Ryder wouldn’t accidentally shoot me in the back. “Come here, you asshole dog, so I can get a good shot in.”
The ainmhi dubh struck clumsily, its front paws flailing about and its maw snapping out of time with its leap. I let loose every bit of shot I had, and when it staggered from the hits, I twisted the shotgun about and slammed the stock into its wide head, hoping the crack I heard was its skull and not my weapon. Up close, its stench was even worse, and my eyes watered with it being near, stung by its acidic blood leaking fumes and its rotten-fish-and-moldy-tofu breath. It snapped at my leg but missed by a mile. Instead, its snout dug down into a bit of gravel, and I quickly pulled the shotgun back and loaded in another round, not caring if the thing chewed on the bike rider while I lined up my next shot.
The storm was finally over the mountain, crackling lightning and rolling thunder over us when I let loose both barrels into the ainmhi dubh’s head, breaking apart its forehead and dimming its red eyes. A splatter of its brains and blood erupted from behind its low-sweeping ears, a pair of horn buds carried off on a bit of ragged flesh from the blast, landing near its twitching back legs.
I wasn’t quite sure it was dead yet. Or at least what was left of its magic in its body wasn’t ready to surrender. Its systems were slow to shut down, and its maw continued to snap and grind rocks between its teeth. The ainmhi dubh was done, and I wasn’t about to waste any shot on killing it more.
I simply stepped back and let it unravel, its limbs and spine knotting and twisting about, searching for any bit of the intense hunger driving its malformed body.
A bullet buried itself inches away from the toe of my left boot, and I turned around to glare at Ryder. Tossing my shotgun up over my shoulder, I yelled, “What the hell?”
“Wasn’t me.” He held up his hands, dangling the Glock from his loose fingers. “It was him.”
Sure enough, the damned bike rider was lying on his side, facing the dying ainmhi dubh and holding what looked like a pistol left over from SoCal’s Wild West days. It was pitted and somewhat rusty, trembling in the guy’s shaking hand. Pissed off, I took my eyes off the ainmhi dubh long enough to kick the gun out of the bike rider’s hand and spit at the smoking spot on the ground.
The ainmhi dubh was groaning its final moments, and the battered, long-legged asshole we had just saved sat up gingerly, tearing off his helmet with a stream of grumbling complaints. He was skinny and pale, more of a scarecrow than a man, and his beak of a nose was bloodied, probably broken from being bashed into the front of the helmet. His hair was longer than when I’d last seen him but still a tangle of fine brown strands. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut, but I recognized him as soon as he got himself free from the scraped-up helmet that probably saved his brain from leaking out one of the many holes in his head.
All things considered, I was seriously contemplating giving him another one and leaving him to the vultures to be picked over.
“Well shit,” I snarled. “If it isn’t little Robbie Malone.”
“It’s Crickets. I keep telling you, they call me Crickets.” He peered up at me as best he could, his face smeared with blood and bruised to hell and back. “And I know you told me you’d shoot me if you saw me again, but I was kind of hoping you’d take me to a hospital instead.”
Eight
“I HEARD about Dempsey,” Malone muttered through the gauze Ryder slapped on his cheek to staunch some bleeding. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t even talk.” I briefly met his eyes in the rearview mirror, scowling. “I promised you the next time I saw you I’d put a bullet in your brain pan. That offer’s still on the table.”
I was pushing the Mustang hard to outrun the storm, but it chewed and spat in our wake. It was a losing battle. I couldn’t outrun the wind no matter how hard I tried, and having Malone in the back seat made my skin crawl. Ryder gave me a lifted eyebrow when I moved all of the weapons from the back, either stowing them away in the trunk or putting them next to him on the passenger side, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. The last time Robbie Malone allegedly had my back, he’d driven a knife through my spine and tried to sell me off to a crazed Unsidhe woman with delusions of godhood.
The small oval black-pearl dragon scale embedded deep under the skin of my throat itched at the thought of it, a souvenir of the run and a frequent reminder not to turn my back on strangers, no matter how closely related they were to people I knew.
Of course the same could be said about Ryder. I liked his cousin Alexa before I liked him, and look what it got me—stuck on a drowned-out road in a muscle car trying to outrace the sky’s fury with a backstabbing bastard sitting in the rear seat.
The road behind us was a swamp, obscured by sheets of water and fog, and the thread of asphalt in front of us wasn’t going any better. I’d have pulled over somewhere, but I felt the weight of every drop of blood Malone shed and the twinge in every one of his moans. He’d hit the ground hard and moved like molasses when we tried to get him into the Mustang. Then again, he could have been lying and performing the hell out of fake injuries.
I just didn’t trust the ass.
Above us, the clouds were streaked with long black tendrils, smoke-wisp eels riding on the rich electrical charges coursing through the storm. They dipped and wove, and I’m sure if the windows were rolled down, we might have been able to hear them scream, but the rain pounded down on us, drowning them out. They were lower than I’d ever seen them, stringing themselves between the mountain peaks. We were about to hit the flatlands, and I needed to push for higher ground as fast as possible. Desert flash floods were nothing to laugh about, and while Oketsu could take a lot of hits, the Mustang couldn’t fight a tsunami packed with debris and boulders from th
e nearby hills.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Dempsey,” Malone grunted. “He was practically my uncle. Or he would have been if he married Aunt Sarah. She just didn’t want to… you know, I mean she didn’t know you. It wasn’t anything personal.”
It was a good thing he stopped talking or I’d have pulled over and shot him right there.
“You checked him for weapons, right?” I glanced over to Ryder. “’Cause if he’s got something that can go through my seat, you’re screwed unless you can grab the wheel before the car goes off the road.”
“I dropped my gun back there,” Malone piped up. “Guess I forgot to pick it up before you shoved me into the car.”
“Iesu. See? That’s why something’s going to eat you someday. Never choose flight over fight and never ever drop your gun,” I scolded, giving him the barest of sneers in the mirror. “What were you going to do when it caught you? Gnaw on it? Ask it to let you go because you weren’t ready?”
“You’d be a good mentor,” Ryder interjected, “assuming we survive your driving. How are you even seeing the road?”
“Oketsu’s easy to drive, and the road’s darker than the sides. Not that hard.” It was an easy straight shot, the bends slow and smooth, banking gently into the curves. “Border station’s coming up in a bit. There’s a medic center there Malone can be seen at. Give him a full workup.”
Malone’s not-so-soft groan when the Mustang hit a dip in the road whispered a thread of torturous pain through the slushing pound of rain. Since the suspension cost me a pretty piece of change to keep the ride as smooth as possible, the bumps and jostles were barely noticeable. I tilted my head, listening to his breathing, but it was steady—no sign of whistling or air sucking through his lungs. Still, it was obvious the tumble through the air then the sudden introduction of his body to the hard-packed ground hadn’t done Malone any favors.
“You named your car?” Malone croaked out, his voice breaking at the edges despite his attempts at keeping it light. “Kind of… retro, isn’t it?”
There wasn’t a lot of muscle on him, and unless he was especially bendy, the hit he’d taken had rattled his joints and spine, maybe even broken him in a few places, but there would be no way of really knowing until someone zapped him. He’d tried to sell me back to the Unsidhe, cutting a deal to hand me back into my father’s not-so-loving care, so I should have enjoyed every whimper and tamped-down moan he made.
I mean, I wasn’t dripping with remorse, but I did feel kind of bad for the kid.
“Some Stalkers name their guns.” I shrugged. “I name my cars. They last longer than the guns.”
“Still stupid,” Malone muttered under his breath, sounding as if he were talking between clenched teeth. “Guns… shit, this hurts.”
“Can he have more of the pills?” Ryder turned halfway around. “Or do you plan on killing him slowly?”
“I’m fine,” Malone grumbled from behind me.
“See? He’s fine, but he can probably have a couple more.” The storm was thickening, which I didn’t think was even possible, so I slowed the Mustang down, throttling back the power surging out of the cell packs mounted into the engine. “We’ve got about half an hour to go. Border’s not far. He’s just got to hold on until then. And whatever you do, Robbie, if you hork in my back seat, I’ve still got a bullet or two I can use on you.”
“Don’t be silly, Kai,” Ryder said, shaking out a couple of the painkillers from the first aid kit I kept in the glove compartment. “We both know you won’t shoot him.”
I gave Ryder what I hoped was my filthiest look. “You think I wouldn’t kill him for throwing up in my car? The giving-birth thing was a fluke. Can’t shoot a pregnant woman, but gotta say, I was thinking of shooting you back then.”
“I know you wouldn’t shoot him.” He handed the pills over the back seat along with a bottle of water, Malone’s pale, thin hand creeping up over my right shoulder to take them. “Because you’d much rather use your knives.”
I WAS holding the Mustang down to nearly crawling speed by the time the Border Patrol beacon lit up my dashboard. Its signal punched through the white noise crackling across my screen, giving me some guidance into the compound. A few fraught, nerve-wracking miles down the now practically invisible road and the main drive’s slope came into view, lit up by eye-watering spotlights.
Soupy fog kept us at a slow pace, and despite the sleek curve of a well-maintained road, Malone epped and sucked on his teeth at every slide from the Mustang’s tires on the wet asphalt. I didn’t remember the station being so far away from the road, because it seemed to take forever before we crested the final ridge and the mesa stretched out in front of the Mustang’s headlights. Or at least as much of the mesa as we could see through the furiously working wipers.
Dots of lights punched out through the rain, nearly hidden by the clotting mist. Edging the Mustang closer, a pair of spotlights struck its metallic bloodred paint, flaring up sparks of pearly silver under the rivulets pouring off the hood. The headlights picked out a few slats of the rolling metal doors in front of us, and Ryder bent his head forward, probably trying to get a good look at the place through the deluge.
“Where’s… it’s just a solid wall of rock.” He craned his neck, peering out.
“It’s a mesa. The station’s built into it.” A few more inches brought us up to the keypad fixed into a square column of granite on the side of the drive. I punched in my license number and waited impatiently as the middle door fought the buffeting wind.
The storm’s fury rocked the Mustang, pulling it up a few inches before letting it go, its suspension absorbing the rocking blow. Its struts laughed the storm off, but another few miles and it would have been a different story. Behind me, Malone was beginning to moan loudly, the smell of sick beginning to leak out of his sweat. Something in him was broken, and if he was lucky, the medics on call could do something for him. If not, I’d be making a phone call to Sarah about what to do with his body. Internal injuries sometimes hid for a while, even though he’d come back relatively okay. But it was better to be safe than sorry. He was getting feverish, and even as he protested about being fine, those mewlings were getting weaker and weaker with each mile.
The interior of the parking bay went deep into the mesa, running nearly the full length of the station. The buff-hued rock appeared to be a neutral wash from far away, but up close, especially under the parking bay’s floodlights, its striations were vivid slashes of plum, tangerine, and lemon cutting through thicker layers of silver-flecked suede. Mechanic bays were carved out of the space on the right of the rolling doors and polished off with steel plating, their car lifts lowered and locked down. A pair of frosted-glass sliding panels were to the left, leading to the main part of the station, with its well-stocked medic bay and common rooms set aside for overnight personnel. As a Stalker, I had a right to one of those beds, and unless they were hosting a busload of weeping orphans, it’s where I planned on parking myself and Ryder until the storm passed.
Malone was going to be passed over like a cold burrito, and after that, he wasn’t my problem anymore.
“They built the station into the….” Ryder trailed off, his green eyes lit with curiosity. “I didn’t know humans did that.”
“They’ve been doing it for a long time. Remind me to take you over to Mesa Verde sometime.” Pulling into the station was a relief, if only to be out of the storm. The parking area was mostly empty except for patrol vehicles. From the look of things, there didn’t appear to be any other Stalkers on-site, but that didn’t mean the station was empty. I drove the Mustang in, its engine’s deep growl reverberating off the walls, parked as close to the entrance doors as I could, then cut the engine. “Malone, medics here are good. They’ll patch you up, and after that, you’re on your own.”
“I’m fine.” His protest was as watery as the storm outside, although with the steel door closing behind us, the downpour dulled to a whimper. “I can help you
out with whatever run you’re on. Let me fix things between us. I mean I—”
“Not going to happen, Malone. Only reason I didn’t leave you to the jackalopes was because of your aunt Sarah.” I undid my seat belt, then turned to Ryder. “Look, I want you to tone down as much of the lordling thing as you can. Most of the people out here in the desert aren’t exactly on good terms with humans, much less any elfin. There could be some of those sand rats squatting here to ride out the storm. If someone gives you shit, keep your mouth shut, and come grab me if they start to look all stabby with a knife.”
“Sounds like every bar I’ve ever gone into with you,” Ryder muttered as the double doors slid open and a brawny Hispanic man in a telltale Border Patrol tan uniform swaggered out, his thumbs hooked into the black gun belt hanging at his hips. “Is this one of the people I should keep my mouth shut around?”
“I’d say yes, but knowing Isaac like I do, he’ll just get you drunk to get you talking.” I got out, then held my hand out to the chief, grinning at the gold star pinned to his broad chest. “Can’t believe they let you keep that thing. I thought for sure you were going to get kicked to the curb as soon as they found someone with half a brain.”
The bear hug he pulled me into crushed all of the air out of my chest, and I choked a bit on my tongue, catching an edge of it in my throat. I think I heard one of my ribs crack, and I definitely felt my boots leave the poured-concrete floor for a second before Isaac Hernandez set me back down with a hard thump. Whatever footing I’d gotten from having my feet on the floor was lost when he slapped a massive hand across my shoulder, sending me staggering back an inch or two.