Spells, Salt, & Steel--A New Templars Novella

by Gail Z. Martin

  Father Leo finished his litany and removed the stole. “Feel better, shooting an innocent lump of dirt?” he asked with a bemused look.

  “Maybe. Let’s go,” I said, turning away.

  “You’re just going to leave him here?” Father Leo asked, with a nod toward Nikki No-Neck’s body, which I’d totally forgotten about.

  “Yeah, unless you feel like digging a shallow grave,” I replied. “I’m not calling Simon Giordano to tell him one of his goons is missing. He’s a smart guy. He’ll figure it out.” I took another look at the twisted stake and shuddered. “You want to make an anonymous call to the cops, I won’t stop you. Right now, I want a shower, a chance to bleach my eyeballs, and a bottle of whiskey. Not necessarily in that order.”

  Chapter 5

  For a guy who misses a lot of work, I don’t take much vacation. Good thing I own the shop, or my ass would be fired. I’ve been lucky enough to hire good people who can take over when my other job—the one that pays squat—calls on the Batphone with another monster to gank.

  But I’d taken out a Japanese fish-eating monster, a Nazi sniper ghost, a vengeful hitman’s ghost, and an Italian witch, and I was ready for a real vacation. And maybe some alone time.

  I’d started gathering what I planned to take with me in the extra bedroom. My cabin isn’t big, but it’s got plenty of room for me and Demon, my Doberman Pinscher. Demon watched me bring one load after another into the bedroom and stack supplies on the floor and on the bed. He padded out of the room and returned dragging his favorite blanket, then sat down and stared at me as if daring me not to pack his stuff as well.

  I scratched him behind the ears, which made my terrifying watchdog flip over onto his back, bare his belly, and kick his legs into the air. I didn’t name him, the pound did, and if ever there was a case of false advertising, Demon was it. Worse, he made happy little grunts as I rubbed his belly and rolled his eyes back in a total state of doggy bliss.

  “You want to go fishing, too?” I asked, and Demon looked at me, tongue lolling, like he knew what I said. “Good. You can clean up when we spill the snacks playing poker.” Demon’s tail wagged harder. Maybe he did understand.

  My fishing rods and tackle box were in the garage. In here, I stacked cases of beer, a couple of bottles of whiskey, and some twelve-packs of pop. I had a fridge full of sandwich meat and cheeses. Stuffed into a big cardboard box were bags of chips and bottles of salsa, loaves of bread, boxes of breakfast cereal, and the seasonings necessary to grill any fish I caught. I had a bag of potatoes, and I’d stop on my way to the camp for sundries like milk. And yeah, my gear bag with my guns, salt, iron, and silver lay with the rest, because I don’t go anywhere without it. I’d packed my clothes, grabbed the back issues of several car magazines I hadn’t had time to read, and added my laptop and a stack of DVDs. Life looked good.

  Then my phone rang.

  I thought about not answering, but it was Chiara. She heard me swearing when I picked up.

  “Stop that,” she said. “I’ve got a job for you.”

  “Nope,” I replied. “There may be a job, but it’s for some guy who isn’t going on vacation.”

  “C’mon, Mark. You’ve got a couple of days before you leave, and this’ll be a cakewalk.”

  “The last ‘cakewalk’ job put me in the hospital in traction.”

  “Steve Louden asked us to do him a favor.”

  “Shit. And that SOB knows I can’t say no.”

  “Not can’t. Won’t.”

  I cussed some more under my breath, and she waited for me to get it out of my system. “All right. What’s the job?”

  Steve had done me more than one solid over the years. He’s a cop up near Kane, and he’s the one who hauled my sorry ass out of the woods when the wendigo happened. He’s kept me out of trouble with the police and managed to lose evidence that might have attracted too much attention from Homeland Security. I owed him.

  “He needs you to take out a were-squonk.”

  I blinked. “A what?”

  “A were-squonk.”

  “Is that even a thing?” I rolled my eyes. “What next? Zombie cow tipping? Vampire snipe hunting?”

  I’d heard of a squonk before. If a Shar-pei and a wild boar had a love child, it would look like a squonk. They’re a cryptid that’s supposed to be native to the wilds of PA, and said to be so reclusive that nobody’s gotten a good photograph. Not only that, but when they die, their body turns to water.

  “If the damn squonk liquefies when it dies, how the hell did something make it a were?”

  “Maybe that werewolf out near Bradford last year got hold of one and drank it,” Chiara said.

  Shit. That was crazy enough it might be true. If the “werewolf” was really a shapeshifter, it could happen. Shifter bites squonk, dying squonk turns to water, shifter drinks squonk, and the squonk takes over.

  “Is it hurting anyone? I mean, do we care if there’s a were-squonk running around if it isn’t eating people?”

  “Apparently, they’re very anxious, and chewing on wooden things calms them down,” Chiara replied.

  “Good. It’s up in the middle of a honking big forest. Plenty of wood to chew, enough for it and the woodchucks, muskrats, and beavers.”

  “Squonks are bigger. The size of a Mastiff, or a small brown bear,” she said patiently. She knows me, and she’s good at wearing me down with details. “So far, it’s eaten two cabins, a couple of boat docks, and part of a covered bridge.”

  “Damn. That’s a lot of anxiety. Have we considered therapy? Or Prozac?”

  “Usually squonks don’t do that much damage, but since it turned were, it’s hungrier.” Chiara huffed out a sigh. “Look, Mark. I’m not trying to screw up your vacation. Just go see what’s going on. Maybe you won’t find anything. Maybe you go shoot the were-squonk and be done with it. Steve’s paying for your meals, gas, and hotel room.”

  That made me reconsider. I could be up in that neck of the woods in a couple of hours if I left now. Have a nice dinner, stay in a hotel that might have a minibar, go tramp around the woods tomorrow—never a waste of time—look for a were-squonk, and come back with a full day before my real vacation.

  “Okay,” I said. “But if I can’t find the damn were-squonk before Friday, I’m leaving, and I’ll try again after I get back from vacation.”

  “I have faith in you, oh mighty squonk hunter,” Chiara said with a laugh. “I’ll let Steve know, and he’ll email you the details. And Demon can come over for a slumber party with Blair and me until you get back.”

  When I hung up, I knew I’d been outmaneuvered, but then again, I expected that when I saw Chiara’s caller ID. I went to pack an overnight bag and grab my go bag of weapons. I cast a longing look at the pile of stuff ready for my vacation, and promised myself that this time, neither squonks, nor sasquatches were screwing up my fishing/poker trip. Then I threw my stuff into Elvira and took off for the Big Woods.

  Steve’s email gave me directions to a hotel where he made arrangements for my room, a diner nearby, and the coordinates to start my squonk hunt in the morning. All in all, not too shabby, and I got on the road early enough to enjoy the drive. I took the back roads and reminded myself that this is one of the goddamned prettiest states in the US of A. The big cities, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, are on either end, and the lower two-thirds of the state has plenty of small towns and mid-sized cities, but the top third, where Interstate 80 runs through and above that to the New York State line, that’s mostly forest.

  Sure, there are hiking trails and park rangers, but you get out into the backwoods, and it’s wilderness. Grew up going hunting out in these parts. Deer—buck and doe—even went muzzle-loader hunting for bear once. It’s rugged enough that there hadn’t been any stories about that wendigo all those years ago because no one had run into it. Until we did.

  I shook off the memories, although they never went too far away. I’d read all about “survivor guilt,” and I guess I have some
PTSD to go with my ADD, but after everything’s said and done, the truth is that losing people you love changes you, and you’re never the same afterward. Maybe you keep going, and maybe you don’t. But you’re different. I tell myself that I hunt monsters so no one else has to lose people they love like I did.

  I’m a fucking liar.

  I hunt monsters because every time I take one of those fuckers down, it’s that mofo wendigo all over again. It’s me shooting my nightmares. Shooting my guilt.

  Whatever it takes to get you through the night.

  I focused on the scenery and forced myself to think about dinner. They say that eating and fucking are what we’re most hard-wired to do, but since Lara left me, well—there’s eating. I hoped the diner lived up to my expectations. I figured Steve wouldn’t let me down.

  Then I saw that my “hotel” was an effing bed and breakfast, and I thought about turning the car around, but it was too damn late, and I was tired, hungry, and needed a beer. “Bell’s Retreat” the sign said over the front door as I climbed up the steps of a well-cared for white Victorian house that looked big enough for a family of twenty. The broad front porch had wicker chairs and gliders, and the smell of sugar cookies hit me when I walked into the foyer. Antiques were everywhere, from the uncomfortable looking velvet couch in the living room to the vintage sideboard in the dining room. I just bet the pattern on the curtains in my room was going to look like my grandma’s floral tea cups.

  “Mr. Wojcik. Welcome.” A pleasant woman with short dark hair and a nice smile came out from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. “I’m Sara McConnell, and I’m the owner of Bell’s Retreat.” She wore tan slacks, a black blouse, and a red cardigan sweater, and something about her reminded me of an innkeeper’s wife in an old sitcom I watched on TV Land.

  “Your last name isn’t Bell?”

  Her smile pinched a bit. “My in-laws started the bed and breakfast. They passed on, and my husband and I ran it until he died a few years ago. Now it’s just me.”

  That’s what I get for asking questions, I thought uncomfortably. “Steve Louden said he booked a room for me?”

  She nodded, and fortunately, she didn’t seem to be upset by me sticking my boot in my mouth. “Booked and paid for. One night, with an option for two if you want it. Right this way.”

  I felt underdressed for my own damn hotel, but I clomped down the hallway to a room with a huge four-poster bed and more fancy furniture than I’d seen anywhere, except at my pretentious aunt’s house. I figured I’d need to shower before I went to bed so I didn’t get the sheets dirty.

  “Do you like your room?” she asked, and I realized she was waiting for an answer.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m more used to Days Inn or Motel 6, so this is really something else,” I said in all honesty. It might be frillier than I’d prefer, but even I could figure out that the mattress wouldn’t be thin and lumpy and the sheets wouldn’t feel like sandpaper and smell like an ashtray. I could ignore frills for a hot shower, thick towels, and—glory be—a mini-bar. “I’m much obliged,” I added, and Sara beamed.

  “Just let me know if you need anything,” she said. “Anything at all.” She held eye contact just a few seconds too long, and I felt a flush rise up my neck.

  I cleared my throat. “Sure,” I lied. “I’ll be out early tomorrow. Want to do some birdwatching before the trails get busy.”

  “Breakfast begins at six,” she said, sounding far too happy about anything that early. “Fresh coffee, muffins, fruit, and a different hot item each day. I like to spice things up,” she added with a wink.

  Lord have mercy, was she actually flirting with me? I was never the fastest to pick up on those kinds of cues. Lara always told me she had to chase me until I caught her, but still—

  Yep. That’s exactly what she was doing. Suddenly, facing a were-squonk no longer seemed so frightening, and I wished I could get a start on the hunt tonight.

  “Thanks for everything,” I said, and even I thought the words sounded rushed. “I’ve taken up too much of your time. I just want to get cleaned up. Long drive.” I practically gave her the bum’s rush out the door, then closed it behind her and sank back against it, embarrassed at how hard my heart was beating. Some heroic hunter. Or maybe, I just didn’t like being prey.

  I’m not ashamed to say that I snuck down the stairs and crept out the door, sprinting for Elvira. By the time I reached Patterson’s Diner, my heart rate was back to normal, and I had convinced myself that the whole thing with Sara was all in my imagination. Fortunately, Steve’s advice on food turned out to be a better fit than his choice of hotel, and I tucked in to a very good homemade meatloaf with a fresh-baked apple dumpling and ice cream for dessert. The waitress looked old enough to be my mother, so I didn’t have to even pretend-flirt to get good service, and I left a big tip, figuring being on her feet all day probably put bunions on her bunions.

  I crept in like a teenager after curfew, but Sara caught me on the steps. Maybe she was listening for me. I hadn’t seen anyone else although other cars filled the parking lot. “Have a good dinner?” she asked.

  I told myself I was being stupid and turned to face her. “Probably the best meatloaf ever.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said with a chuckle. “I make an awesome meatloaf and a cream pie that’s out of this world.”

  My mouth went dry, and I wasn’t sure I could breathe. “Sounds great,” I managed. I might have squeaked a little. “Gotta go.” With that, I ran up the stairs like the hounds of hell were on my heels.

  I closed the door behind me and ran a hand over my face. God, I hadn’t been this pathetic since middle school. Maybe I had just been alone too long, and my subconscious was acting out. That had to be it. No way was the nice lady innkeeper putting moves on me. I felt panicked and embarrassed all at once.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t think about starting over, finding someone new. I did, especially after several shots of Jack on a too-quiet Friday night, but even after eight years, I hadn’t quite put the breakup with Lara behind me. I wasn’t still in love with her. That was dead and buried. She’d gone off and gotten a new husband and a new life. I was stuck. But then again, that’s why she dumped me.

  I opened the minibar and poured a couple of the little airline bottles into a glass. The night was young enough one drink would be out of my system by the time I meant to leave in the morning, and the shadows pressed too closely tonight to be completely sober. This hunt wouldn’t take me near where I’d torched the wendigo, but the woods up here all looked alike, and I figured that was triggering me.

  Lara had come to the conclusion that I should have been faster at getting over seeing my father, uncle, brother, and cousin ripped to shreds. I had been a mess, and while she tried being patient, that was never her strong suit. So, when I didn’t straighten up and get with the program on schedule, she moved on.

  And here I was, back in the woods, hunting another monster. I knocked back a swallow of whiskey and pulled out my laptop to review what little I could find about squonks. I glanced at the four-poster. The bed looked comfy, but it might be a long while before I’d be able to sleep.

  The next morning, I slipped out early. As promised, Sara had hot coffee and homemade muffins ready, and some bacon on a warming tray for good measure. I was almost sad I didn’t see her to say hello as I headed to check out the area.

  I stopped in a parking lot next to one of the trailheads and got out, walking over to where a large sign under its own little roof showed a map of the paths and pavilions. Police tape cordoned off a badly-chewed group of picnic tables and a small storage cabin that was missing one wall. I climbed over the tape to get a better look. Then a police car pulled in, and guy in a sheriff’s uniform climbed out, walking like he’d just ridden in on his horse.

  “You got a permit for that, son?”

  I tried not to cringe at the glare the local sheriff gave me when he spotted my shoulder holster under my jacket. Thank
fuck I’d left the sawed-off in the truck.

  “It’s in my glove compartment,” I replied, and tried to remember whether I’d thought to put my gear under the false back seat in the expanded cab before I’d stopped to take a look at the damage being blamed on the were-squonk.

  “Let’s walk back there so I can take a look,” the cop said in a fake-friendly tone that wasn’t fooling anyone. He had me by twenty years and thirty pounds, a pot-bellied, smug bastard who liked to throw his weight around, physically and metaphorically. Bald, sunburned, and sporting a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, he was the northern equivalent of every stereotypical pain-in-the-ass cop.

  “Suit yourself,” I said, and led the way.

  “Why’d you say you were out here, on the wrong side of a protective barrier?”

  “I didn’t,” I replied evenly, in a flat voice that stated the truth without looking for a fight. Still, the guy’s attitude galled me, and I tried to remind myself that getting thrown in the county jail for mouthing off to an officer of the law was not going to get me to my vacation on time. “I’m an insurance adjuster. Came up to have a look at the damage.”

  “Been all kind of adjusters through here,” he said. “You’re late to the party.” His name tag said he was “J. Kranmer,” but I renamed him “Sheriff Sumbitch” just because.

  I shrugged. “You know how it is. Things get kicked from one office to another, and then upstairs. We’ve heard everything on this one from hungry beavers to rabid termites,” I replied, and then thought that might have gone better if I’d switched it around.

  “Gotta admit, we’ve had some odd damage around here,” Sumbitch replied, and the knot between my shoulders loosened, just a bit. If I could get him talking, get him to buy my fake insurance story, I might not leave here in cuffs.

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said, forcing warmth into my tone that I didn’t feel. “One cabin, that’s a freak problem. But more than one, and then a dock, and that bridge—”