Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1)

by Josh Reynolds

  Not headed back towards Derbyville, but further east, towards the smaller hamlet of Roivale. Lawrence nodded at his master as he went back to the Land Rover while Sir Lionel continued to examine the area. “What do ya think?” drawled the farmer as he chewed on the end of an unlit cigarette.

  “Certainly a wolf, but a large one, a rogue, so to speak,” the knighted man responded distractedly.

  “I don’t understand,” the man muttered, looking all about. “We ain’t had a wolf sighted in these parts for nigh on twen’y year.”

  “Rogue,” repeated the hunter. “Probably escaped from a private establishment of some description.”

  “Aye, like a circus or summat,” the man nodded.

  “Exactly,” smiled Sir Lionel as he shouldered his rifle. “And I guarantee we shall eradicate it.”

  “I cain’t afford to pay yer mu…” the man started, but the hand held up stopped his words.

  “I am a hunter, my good man,” was the response. “I do it for the thrill of the sport. I do not need your money. I just keep the body for my trophy room.” At this the farmer’s face brightened considerably, and it took Sir Lionel a fair amount of talking to avoid sitting for tea with this middle-class family of the land. By the time the four-wheel drive reached Roivale, the twilight of impending night was settling across the land. Lawrence made hasty arrangements at the local inn for a room they both hoped would not be needed while Sir Lionel prepared the equipment they would require.

  The pair of them perched themselves inside the spire of the Church as the sun set slowly over the western horizon, behind a large tract of trees. They sat on opposite ends and kept a close watch on all that surrounded them. They felt it was lucky that the creature was somewhere near Roivale instead of Derbyville; the smaller township made it easier to scan the surrounds…

  “Sir Lionel, east,” Lawrence whispered without urgency.

  Immediately the other man was by his side. “Well spotted,” he murmured.

  In the shadows of the tavern in which they themselves had booked a room, it could be seen, creeping through an ancient graveyard beside the old Church building which had long since become a private residence, and towards the outskirts of the town, headed east, in the opposite direction of the previous night. It paused before the large open field between it and the trees, sniffing the air, then it loped along behind the house that was once a Church and they lost sight of it.

  Neither man said a word as they quickly but calmly made their way down the stairs and to their waiting vehicle. It started with a low rumble and pulled away without the headlights being switched on.

  The being was cautious, indicating that this particular one had been in the world for a long time. Not one of the newer ones who made so many mistakes, but one who had survived by its own ingenuity and been successful. No wonder it was still alive. But it had not reckoned on Sir Lionel…

  Dropping to all fours, it took one last glance around before sprinting out of the shadows and across the field before it. Once into the depth of the trees it could go anywhere it wished and feed, and then return to its daytime roost before one more night of hunting, and then moving on. Always moving on. It was encountering less and less of its own kind, and that was always a concern…

  It galloped across the open expanse, mouth open and tongue lolling over long canine teeth. Its paws barely left a dent in the wet grass as it moved, and its long, sleek form moved with barely a shadow being disturbed. It had done this a lot and for a long time. All it wanted was to feed, and then it would sleep, feed once more and go… as always…

  It never changed.

  The edge of the forest loomed large and the creature increased its speed ever so slightly, panting a little, feeling the howl of satisfaction growing within its mighty breast. The hairs that covered its body bristled a little and it jumped one final time, crashing through a low bush and into the impenetrable darkness of the trees that had been left here to help the wildlife flourish…

  The net slipped up quickly, enclosing the animal in an awkward position, mid-flight. Its panting became a panicked growl as two men stepped into view, their way illuminated by an old-fashioned oil lantern. They were both grinning broadly. “I think we got one for sure, sir,” Lawrence stated.

  “Yes, I agree,” the other nodded. “Look at those eyes. We definitely, as you say, ‘got one,’ old chap.”

  And the eyes they talked about widened in fear as the two men approached armed with the weapons of medieval Europe, ready to do what could only be done by manual means. And their smiles never left their faces even as their intended victim struggled and fought against its bindings before letting out a mournful, sorrowful howl…the last sound it would ever make.

  The huge, iron door of the Mausoleum protested as it always did when Lawrence pulled on the chain to set forth the mechanism to open it. The creaking echoed throughout the halls of the huge building above it, but that mattered to no one. All inside were familiar with the sound, and knew to ignore it.

  Lawrence quickly and confidently placed the wooden plaque on the wall with its hooks all ready to accept its offering. Clamps were open on its edges, as was a wooden veneer panel that would enclose from either side the object about to be presented like a trophy…like every other creature here.

  Wolves, every single one of them, all large, with snarls permanently etched onto their faces. All captured by Sir Lionel and Lawrence, all now here on display for the world to see…if any had been allowed into the basement of this old house. But the eyes; even though mounted, their eyes stared at all newcomers with a menacing glare, as if aware of what had happened to them and therefore ready for revenge should any opportunity arise.

  And the eyes did not seem quite right for these members of the canine family.

  But both men had long since passed the state of terror those eyes could induce. Lawrence adjusted one of the clamps then stepped back as Sir Lionel strode in, carrying the bloody towel that was the only indication of their grisly task on this night. He carefully unwrapped the bundle and hoisted it up so that the hooks skewered the rear of the flesh he had left on the head. The clamps were applied expertly, and then the paneling closed and shaved in order to accommodate the head that protruded from it as though it was natural. And there it hung, supported by a simple device, forever.

  Number forty-seven. And so now forty-seven lupine faces stared with evil intent from their helpless positions at all within the Mausoleum…

  Sir Lionel smiled at his latest acquisition, then at Lawrence. And he breathed in the air, slightly cooler down here, but not refrigerated. The meat he left on the heads stayed on the heads and never rotted away. No smells, no flesh, no insects. It was just as it was, and it was just something everyone had grown to accept. “Male or female?” he asked his manservant.

  “Definitely male, sir,” Lawrence answered with a slight nod.

  “I’d agree, but I guess we’ll see at sunrise, won’t we?”

  “Yes, sir.” Lawrence’s smile was wide; despite the employer-employee status of their relationship, it was clear there was a genuine affection between the two men. “Would you like a cup of tea, sir?”

  Sir Lionel seemed to contemplate the request, then nodded. “We’ll have it in here,” he said quietly. “You, myself…and the Lady Lydia. And we shall wait for the morn.” He looked at his watch. “Only forty-five minutes to go. Tea for three.”

  “Very good, sir.” And Lawrence left the room.

  Only now that he was alone did Sir Lionel finally acknowledge the object that dominated the center of the room. While the walls were covered with the collection of trophies that indicated his success, this large, stone article was the glaring reminder of his primary failure. He walked slowly across to it and tenderly stroked its top with one of his gloved hands.

  “I’ll get them all,” he whispered. And his fingers ran through the grooves carved into the top of the rock. Lydia Farnsworth the words said, ornate and delicate. Nothing else. No date of bir
th, no date of death.

  Only her name…

  “For you, my dear, I shall get them all. And for all eternity they can gaze at you and what they have done to you and be aware that I will kill every last one of them in revenge.”

  He stepped back and reached into a pair of grooves beneath the top of the stone lid. With a slight ‘click’ he depressed the two electronic clamps and the hydraulic system inside pushed the cover up slowly, releasing a cloud of cold. He reached the gloved hand down and wiped the mist from the glass within and stared at the forever youthful, forever sleeping face of his bride.

  Killed by one of these creatures.

  And forever entombed here in her refrigerated sarcophagus. Her body had been torn to shreds, yet she had mercifully died of the injuries, and not subjected to the horror that these beasts brought with them should the victim survive. But her face was unmarked and perfect, and she would now forever be that twenty-seven year old newlywed…

  He depressed the buttons in the two grooves again and the lid slowly replaced itself with a gentle hiss and another cloud of white gas. And he went across to a small card table and waited briefly until Lawrence appeared with the teapot and three cups. He poured them, added the correct amount of milk and sugar to each, placed one on the edge of the small tomb in the center of this room, and then sat opposite the man for whom he had worked for almost thirty years. And in the silence of two men completely comfortable with one another, they drank their tea.

  Then Lawrence looked down at his watch. “It must be close to time, sir,” he muttered.

  “I believe you’re right,” was the slow, weary response.

  And they put their cups down and focused on the walls, particularly the new head that had been placed there less than an hour before.

  Somewhere a cock crowed.

  And the heads all moved.

  On their hooks, clamped in place, the faces distorted and contorted, grimaced and let out silent screams of anguish as the shapes moved and changed. Creaking of bones, and then the changes sped up as jaws shrunk and the eyes became more piercing, hair receded and teeth rounded off…

  And the sun finally broke the horizon outside, unseen by the men in the Mausoleum.

  Forty-seven human heads stared back at the two men: thirty-one men and sixteen women. And the expression on each and every face was one of surprise. Not anger as was so visible in the wolves, no fierce determination to get out of here… but surprise. They had no idea. That undead part of them could not comprehend the position their never-dying brains were now in.

  “He was a male.” Lawrence looked at the latest arrival to the Mausoleum. The mustachioed face with its dark brown eyes and scarred cheek was as shocked as the rest.

  “Yes,” agreed Sir Lionel, walking towards the door. Lawrence took the untouched cup and the rest of the chin, followed and exited without a further word to prepare his master’s bedroom. The aging man cast one last look around his private collection before flicking the light switch and closing the door, its resounding crash shaking the walls a little.

  And the forty-eight inhabitants were forced into the sleep of the damned…

  Again…

  Until the next full moon, and the next change…

  And again… and again… and again…

  Forever.

  Wolf’s Pawn

  Chris Lewis Carter

  The evening sun has just vanished below the horizon when the kid walks into my shop, and I can tell there’s something off about him straight away. He doesn’t look like a troublemaker, with his blue-and-white-checkered sweater vest and crisply ironed khakis, but he’s nervous. Too nervous. Even the wind chime dangling above the front door makes him flinch. Jitters like these are typically the mark of some first-time criminal, here to unload his bedridden grandmother’s wedding ring, or some poor sap’s prized coin collection. I get a handful of those guys in here every week, but this one doesn’t strike me as the type to swipe and swap.

  I’ll have to keep an eye on him.

  My good eye, that is.

  I’m in the middle of negotiating for a woman’s antique vase, but I glance at the kid every so often as he strolls around rotating racks and display cases filled with useless junk. Each time he catches me watching he stops and pretends like he’s interested in something or other, but he’s not fooling anyone. I can tell he’s just killing time.

  I hold up a finger to interrupt the woman, who’s babbling on about heirloom this and priceless that.

  “Something I can help you with, son?”

  My voice startles him into knocking over a stack of used CDs. He scoops an armful off the floor, and says, “No, sir. Just looking, thanks.” His voice cracks on the word, “Thanks.” I peg him at fifteen, sixteen, tops.

  A few minutes later, the woman I’m serving finally settles on a pair of earrings and twenty bucks. She mutters something that sounds like, “rip-off” under her breath, and storms out.

  It’s just the two of us now, me and the kid. An uneasy silence falls over the store, punctuated by the gentle tinkling of the wind chime.

  I clear my throat and try my best to sound casual. “Need help finding anything in particular?”

  He looks up from a nearby bin filled with vintage records, and cautiously scans the room. “Um, maybe,” he says. “But I’m not sure if you have it.”

  I pull up the brim of my old porkpie hat and flash a grin. “Kid, I’ve got stock here that you wouldn’t believe. Just tell me what it is you’re looking for.”

  He pauses, like he’s torn between answering my question and bolting out of the store, and then slowly approaches the counter.

  When he’s standing across from me, his voice drops to a whisper. “I need something to fight werewolves.”

  The word catches me off guard, but I keep my expression neutral as I reach inside my leather duster. “Can’t help you there, kid. Try Claude’s Sporting Goods, down the block.”

  The kid’s cheeks turn bright red. “Maybe I’ve got the wrong address,” he says. “I’m looking for Nathaniel Blackmore.”

  Another surprise. This time, I rest my hand over the dagger sheathed on my belt. “Well, you’ve found him.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” he says, offering a handshake. When I don’t return the gesture, he adds, “Oh, right. I’ve got something for you.”

  He reaches inside his pocket, triggering my seventy-three years of finely-honed instinct. In one swift motion, I grip the dagger and thrust it within an inch of his throat. He screams and throws both arms in the air, which sends the silver coin in his hand clattering to the floor. “Please don’t kill me,” he squeaks. “Duncan said you’d help!”

  I draw back the blade and use it to gesture at the ground. “Duncan? You know about Lycan’s Blight?”

  “Yes, sir. Well, sort of,” he says, then picks up the coin and places it on the counter, where I study it with my good eye. The snarling wolf’s head engraved upon it looks genuine.

  “Sorry about that, kid. Duncan usually warns me when he’s sending someone new.” I slide the dagger back into its sheath. “At my age, I’m not big on surprises.”

  I hobble to the front door and lock it, then turn off the porch lights and flip the sign to: Sorry, We’re Closed. Outside, the sky has become the deep purple of a day-old bruise. “Now then, what’s your name?”

  “Garrett, sir.” His hands are still trembling from my surprise attack, so he wedges them between his armpits. “So it’s really true? You used to hunt werewolves? Kill them?”

  “That was a long time ago,” I say, returning behind the counter and easing myself down on the stool. “But enough about me. What are you doing here? If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t look like hunter material. I’m guessing you’re not the latest recruit.”

  Garrett stares at his shoes for a moment, then says, “You’re right, I’m not.” He shakes his head and looks to be building up the willpower to get through his next few words. “I can’t believe I’m about to sa
y this, but I think a werewolf killed my girlfriend.”

  I grab the bottle of whisky I’ve stashed beneath the counter and take a swig, then exhale to relieve the burn in my throat. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I saw her body,” he says, voice quivering. “About a month ago, we were camping with a bunch of friends. She left our tent in the middle of the night and didn’t come back. When I woke up the next morning I found her down by the lake. She was covered in bite marks and… bloody paw prints.”

  I study his face, searching for any signs of deception, but he seems sincere. “So what did the police say?”

  “They called it a wild animal attack, but I knew it had to be something else. They couldn’t even agree on what kind of animal would rip someone apart like that.” Tears glisten in the corners of his eyes, as he starts to chew his bottom lip.

  I search for something comforting to tell him, but come up empty. I’ve never been much for warm and fuzzy talk. All I can think to say is, “What does that have to do with Duncan?”

  “He approached me,” Garrett says, regaining his composure. “Yesterday, at the park on High Street. Said that he was part of a special group that hunt werewolves. They think one killed Rebecca, and it might come for me next.”

  I use my good hand to smooth down the frazzled edges of my beard. “Possibly, if it picked up your scent from her. If that’s the case, you should learn how to defend yourself.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Garrett points to the wolf’s head coin. “So he gave me that, and told me to visit your shop tonight at around eight o’clock sharp. He said that you would show me a thing or two. That you’re the best hunter they ever had.”

  I can’t help but laugh. Duncan wasn’t going to butter me up that easily. “Oh, really?” I say. “Tell that to the rest of The Order. I’ve asked to be reinstated eight times now, but they won’t hear of it. Forty years of service, and they sweep me under the rug until you kids need to learn the ropes.”