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

by Josh Reynolds

“The Devil,” Io said, thoughtful. He glanced at the Ranger. “Do you believe in God? The Devil?”

  “I don’t like this conversation already.”

  Io laughed. “Shows you’ve got sense. But what if—holy shit!”

  Out of the black of the pre-dawn sky came a ball of lightning, striking the freeway in front of the SUV. Four tires locked and the Suburban II screeched to a halt.

  “Bail, bail!” shouted Io. Driver and passenger doors flew open and the two men threw themselves from the old GM. With a flap of great shadowy wings, a suited and grinning figure alighted on the hood of the car. Its eyes were blank and cold and its white, even teeth were clenched in a smile.

  “You two!” it laughed, looking from Io to Ranger Ichabod. Its movements were jerky, as if it hadn’t yet adjusted to the frame it wore.

  “You monkeys, always meddling. Well, here I—”

  The voice was cut off by Io’s .357 barking six times. The loads, intended to disturb the fabric of most monsters’ reality, had no effect on the grinning thing in the suit, except to make its grin widen. The white of its eyes began to glow red.

  “I think I remember those,” the thing said, blowing smoke out of its nostrils. “Best invention for a long while. Really evened the playing field. I don’t know what these are,” the creature clapped its hands together, shaking Io’s six slugs into its palm, “but you should probably ask for your money back.”

  Io and the Ranger turned to run, and the creature extended its impossibly long black-suited arms.

  “Hold on,” it said, gripping both men by the back of their heads, “you haven’t heard my sales pitch yet.”

  Noxious smoke billowed from the thing’s nostrils and surrounded Io and the Ranger. Immediately, their vision faded to black, the world darkening until the only source of light came from the creature’s eyes.

  Little details banged away in Io’s mind, slightly muffled under a sudden blanket of terror. Things were adding up, just not in the right order.

  Sales pitch. No. That was a red herring.

  Suit.

  Suit?

  Io worked furiously on his own mind, trying to compartmentalize the parts that were gibbering in fear at the otherworldly power this black-suited thing possessed.

  The ever-increasing glow from its eyes was not helping.

  Io and Ranger Ichabod watched in horrified fascination as the eyes grew and merged to become a dirty red sun sitting in a black and grey sky. Its illumination dawned on a world covered in soot and grime, where the dark clouds that filled the sky were being belched forth from cube-like factories. Signs dotted the landscape, OBEY written on them in bold type.

  A blaring female voice rocked them back on their psychic heels as it came blasting out of loudspeakers that were nowhere and everywhere at once. Disturbing twists on familiar slogans writhed into their ears, insinuating themselves in their minds and trying to take root.

  Io ignored it as best he could. He knew that the more he bought into the illusion, the stronger its hold would be. Instead, he focused his awesome powers of concentration on a single detail: the suit.

  It wasn’t common knowledge, probably never would be, but the modern business suit was created as an homage to an earlier outfit. A much earlier outfit. The only place anyone would see the original version now was on bog bodies in museums around the world.

  Io focused on the tie, which had replaced a hangman’s noose. He focused on the V-cut of the jacket, which had replaced slashes in the torso. On the buttons that had replaced puncture wounds. And he saw the thing as it was.

  Nydam Mose, ancient Germanic spirit. There was a bog named for it in Europe.

  And amidst all of the destruction and degradation of humanity in the thing’s illusion, Io smiled. For he knew the thing’s Name.

  He would just have to remind it.

  Io paused to check on the Texas Ranger: no help there. The man was holding on to reality, but it was all he could do, Io saw. Still, to keep a grip on anything in the face of this awesome power was something to be respected.

  “NYDAM MOSE,” Io called out. The force he’d put into the Name warped the illusion, sending out ripples of discordance. “I am Io of the Century, and this is not your time, Nydam Mose.”

  The illusion wobbled. Noises faded and the flat sun began to stretch.

  “This is not your time, Nydam Mose, nor is it your place. Go back to the Void that is your home. Go back to the place of Forgotten Gods.”

  “NO!” the sky thundered back, and in a blink, the Texas freeway was back.

  “You will join with me, sorcerer,” the thing in the suit said. “You will introduce me to this modern world as was promised, and when my Chosen Name is on the lips of all, things will be as they were before. Glorious sacrifices! And you will sit at my right hand, willfully or wearing a collar. Your choice.”

  Io traced a circle in front of him, his fingertip burning a pattern before him in the very air.

  “You cannot!” the bog spirit shouted, its suit dissolving to plain black shadow.

  “I tell you a third and final time, Nydam Mose,” said Io, “this is not your time. Dierchomai!”

  The symbol Io burned in the air shot forward at the thing. It screamed and raced backwards from the magic, dropping Io and the Ranger to the blacktop.

  The burning glyphs wrapped themselves around the thing, freezing it in place. Winds howled in from the sky as a black vortex opened above the frozen but still screeching Nydam Mose.

  Black sky drooped towards the thing as the asphalt under it melted and pulled itself away from the earth; screaming and gibbering, the details of its appearance finally blurring away, and it shrank into a black ball where points of the sky and road met, its howl trailing off as if disappearing into the distance.

  The Texas Ranger looked at Io.

  “We are never going on a date again,” he said.

  “So that thing was a bog spirit, is that what you’re saying?” Ranger Ichabod asked Io as they headed back to town.

  “Yeah,” Io said. “An old one. Germanic tribes would toss the mutilated bodies and weapons of their enemies into the bog to appease the spirit and to request power.” He shook his head. “But all this Devil business…it confuses me.”

  “Well, then I’ve got something for you,” the Ranger said with a smile. “I wasn’t just dumbstruck with terror back there, you know.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I will. I was putting my keen investigative psychic skills to work. And I found that this Nyd—”

  “Don’t say it, please.”

  “Okay. This bog spirit was restless in the Void to start with. Well, somebody stirred it all up and pumped it full of go-juice, feeding the boggy god stories of how the Church had taken people’s recollection of him and called the new image Satan.”

  Io blinked. “And he believed it?”

  “He must have wanted to,” the Ranger said, shrugging. “It was an excuse. But it occurs to me, whoever did this may well try it again.”

  “That,” said Io, “is a cheerful thought. Here’s my card. We’ll probably have more business together.”

  “No offense,” the Ranger said, stopping the Suburban II in front of the fast food place that Io had told him, “but I hope the hell not.”

  Nadya’s Nights: Frost

  Indy McDaniel

  I. Frozen Past

  The cloaked figure clung the sleeping four-year-old close to her bosom. Her booted feet clod through the thick snow covered roadway, leaving deep tracks in her wake. Her muscles ached and she was pretty sure she was going to lose at least one toe to frostbite, but she kept moving.

  The bundle in her arms shifted and let out a troubled moan. Stopping, the cloaked young woman uncovered the child’s face, brushing thin strands of blonde hair away. The child’s eyes remained closed. Just a bad dream. Recovering her companion, the cloaked girl continued forward with determination.

  Squinting into the falling snow, the girl thought she could see th
e silhouette of her destination. Clinging the child tighter, she picked up her pace. A gust of wind blew her cloak off and her own blonde hair whipped around her young face. She couldn’t be much more than six or seven years older than the child she was carrying. Her eyes were as icy in spirit as they were in color, possessing maturity far beyond that of someone so young.

  “Fuck your mother,” the girl hissed with annoyance, risking removing one of her clutching arms from the smaller girl to reach around and grab her hood. Pulling it back into place, she re-adjusted her hold on her precious package and kept moving. The building was mostly visible now. If she squinted she could even read the sign out front.

  Nikolaevna’s Orphanage for Lost Children.

  And that’s just what she was carrying. A lost child. One she intended to remain lost, which was why she’d chosen Nikolaevna’s. The orphanage asked no questions and placed few children. It wasn’t the most pleasant of places, but there was no way it could be worse than where they were coming from.

  Reaching the front steps, the cloaked girl rushed forward with newfound energy. Her foot slipped on an icy step and she fell. Clutching the small bundle tighter, she cringed as her knee collided with hard stone. Pushing back to her feet, she limped up the remaining steps, feeling warm blood flowing down her leg.

  Arriving at the large wooden doors of the orphanage, the girl pounded her fist against one. It took several minutes and a whole lot of pounding before one of the orphanage caretakers answered. Keeping her hood pulled low, the girl thrust the sleeping four-year-old forward. Once she was certain the older woman had a firm hold, the girl turned and bounded down the steps, disappearing into the falling snow.

  The caretaker, a plump woman by the name of Oksana, watched the small figure dart away before turning her attention to the even smaller figure in her hands. She pushed the fabric away to reveal the child’s sleeping face. Noticing the corner of a slip of paper tucked into the blanket, Oksana pulled it free and unfolded it. The words scrawled on the paper looked to be the work of a child.

  My name is Nadezhda Valentina. I have lost my family to a tragic accident. Please, look after me until I am old enough to look after myself. I am four years old. My birthday is December 31st.

  With a groan, Oksana folded the piece of paper back up and slipped it into her pocket. Turning, she re-entered the orphanage with the child. Already her mind was wandering to the trouble this new addition would cause. It was the dead of winter and supplies at Nikolaevna’s were depressingly slim.

  “And you’ve got a birthday coming up, little one,” Oksana muttered to the sleeping girl. “I don’t suspect it’ll be very pleasant.”

  Nadya’s worn shoes scuffed along the stone floor of one of Nikolaevna’s many halls. With the meager New Year’s celebrations going on, it hadn’t been hard to sneak away from the cafeteria.

  The caretakers told her it was her birthday. Not the cheeriest of birthdays, by far. There were no such things as gifts in the orphanage and no one liked her well enough to attempt any. No one liked her at all, actually, and she was pretty sure she despised just about all of them in return. She’d have preferred to not be at the orphanage. Although, she wasn’t sure where else she could be.

  She didn’t remember much before the last week of her life when she’d awoken at the orphanage. When she tried to prod the darkness of her memories prior to a week earlier, she felt nauseous. As if whatever cloak covering that area of her mind was doing whatever it could to remain undisturbed. After trying to force the issue and puking up her supper, Nadya decided it might be best to leave well enough alone.

  If her past was blank, then she decided to focus her attention on the present. And since the present contained more than a few children her age and older who were not in the best of spirits, finding a good place to hide in the sprawling orphanage seemed the best course of action. She’d worked her way to the outer section of the building. If there was power out here, it wasn’t evident. The only light came from the moonlight cast in from the windows.

  She tried the doors along the hall and found them all locked. Like the rest of Nikolaevna’s, this area was uninviting. Nadya crept towards a turn in the hall, listening for anyone who might be looking for her. She stopped suddenly when she heard soft singing.

  Nadezhda Valentina’s five-year-old heart leapt up into her five-year-old throat. Although there was nothing inherently devious about the singing itself, the shear otherworldliness of it had the young girl’s skin covered in gooseflesh. It was a song of the dead, she was sure of that. And it was coming from just around the bend.

  Despite the horror it was evoking, Nadya found herself walking towards the singing. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead as she reached the corner and peaked around. The first thing she saw was another child, a young boy who couldn’t have been much older than she was. He walked down the hall away from her, his feet dragging behind him.

  Looking over the boy’s head, Nadya’s mouth gaped open. Her eyes went wide with awe. A beautiful young woman stood several feet in front of the boy. Her smile was as inviting as the finger she curled at the mesmerized child.

  Her translucent white gown draped over her finely etched curves and hugged her in just the right places. Her raven black hair was a stark contrast against her pale skin. Her eyes were a pure, glowing blue that Nadya quickly looked away from. In the briefest glance, she’d felt the power behind the eyes. Felt it drawing her out into the hall.

  Making sure not to look into the ghostly woman’s eyes, Nadya continued to watch. In the singing harpy’s beckoning hand she spotted a small toy soldier. As apparently innocent as the moment seemed, Nadya couldn’t shake the feeling of dread in her gut.

  Part of her wanted to call out to the boy, to maybe break whatever spell had been placed over him. Another part was too scared to try. A third part recognized the kid and thought he was kind of a dick anyway and therefore deserved whatever ill fate befell him. That third part was the smallest of the three, but it was growing with each day. All the same, two out of three voices in Nadya’s flustered head told her to not get involved, so she didn’t.

  During Nadya’s mental conflict, the spectral woman brought her song to an end. She stood silent in front of the boy, still holding the toy out to him. He reached for it dumbly. His fingers grasped the toy and pulled it to himself, clutching it. The woman laughed. It would’ve been beautiful if it weren’t so damned creepy.

  An old man appeared beside the young woman. His skin just as pale. His hair hung around his face in long, stringy strands of white. The curled hair of his beard flowed down over his thin chest. Like his female counterpart, he wore white clothing that was more gauze than proper fabric. His gnarled hands gripped an equally gnarly staff that he lifted over his head.

  “Gotcha now!” he hissed through yellowed, crooked teeth, before slamming the staff down. The head of it struck the boy on the top of his head. Nadya gasped as a white flash blinded her momentarily.

  As she blinked her vision clear, she saw that the two poltergeists had vanished. Their spellbound victim remained. Even as she approached him, she knew something was fatally wrong. The moonlight coming in through the windows made him sparkle. He stood far too still and it seemed as if there was mist coming off of him.

  Keeping her distance, Nadya circled the boy. Her mouth dropped open in horror as she locked eyes with him. The major difference between Nadya’s greenish-grey eyes and the boy’s frosty blue ones was the fact that his weren’t seeing much. Hell, they hadn’t even been frosty blue originally.

  Nadya took a step back from the boy-turned-icicle standing before her. She spun, searching for the two people… creatures… demons… whatever that had caused this. The hall was empty in both directions. The doors sealed shut. There weren’t any menacing shadows looming outside the windows. She was alone with her frozen companion.

  Turning back, Nadya could see that he was melting. A wet stain spread from his feet into the narrow runner carpet running the length of the
hall. In less than an hour, he’d be so much cold water. There was a tickling somewhere in Nadya’s brain as the realization that she was looking at death solidified. Along with the tickling came the same nausea she felt when she tried to think beyond a week into her past.

  As she turned to flee down the hallway, something caught her eye. She looked down to the boy’s feet and saw the toy soldier, standing just as stiff as the frozen child. A chill ran down Nadya’s spine. She had a strong urge to be around other people.

  Turning away, she ran, fighting the urge to look back. She was afraid that if she did, she’d see the beautiful woman and hear her eerie song. And not long after, she’d be just another ice-sculpture in the hall.

  II. Trouble for Your Charity

  Nadya paced impatiently in the drab foyer. Her hand gripped the handle of the leather briefcase, her knuckles white. She wanted a cigarette but the clearly displayed sign mounted on the wall advised against it.

  What the fuck are they going to do? she thought. Spank me?

  Her free hand reached for her jacket pocket where the sweet nicotine sticks waited to be cherished. She’d just closed her fingers around the pack when the door opened. She spun around, looking just a little guilty at having been caught in the act of breaking the rules.

  Okay, seriously, she scolded herself. Five minutes back in this place and you’re already acting like you’re four years old. You’re Nadezhda Valentina, fucker. You kill things for a living. No smoking signs be damned!

  The mental berating helped to clear away the guilt she felt, but she still refrained from lighting up. Instead, she offered the pudgy, middle-aged woman who’d entered the room a small smile.

  In the eleven years she’d been away, Oksana seemed to have aged twice as much. Her hair, pulled into a bun, had transformed from light brown to full grey. Her face was creased with far more wrinkles than a woman in her mid-forties should possess. Given her place of employment, Nadya wasn’t surprised at the dramatic changes.