“Like hell I’m some sort of charity for little wayward creatures trying to get themselves killed.” She folded her arms and gave me that stern look of hers. “You have plenty of gold.”
“Of course you’d know that,” I said beneath my breath as I fished within the folds of my dress. I removed the coins. “How much is it?”
“You’ll need something to keep him from smelling you, too.”
“And how much will that be?”
“Oh, I’ll tell you when.”
I kept counting until she held up her hand. It turned out that werewolf hunting got pretty expensive. I handed the money over and examined the bundle of goods I would have to carry out.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a sleeve for the spear,” I said. I jingled the pouch and gave her a smirk, just in case she thought I was looking for a handout.
“See, you’re catching on,” she said, disappearing into the back room once again. “Hell, you two might just survive the hour.”
Survival.
What a comforting thought.
8
Argos was of no help setting the trap in the forest, grumbling the entire time about the Seer’s lack of confidence in his untapped abilities. I would’ve told him to shut up, but it was probably better that way—the poor dog was liable to be swallowed by the iron’s mighty jaws without the benefits of opposable thumbs.
I surveyed my handiwork from a thick copse of bushes. I half expected the trap to snap shut on its own, but found that it stayed put, camouflaged beneath the foliage.
I’d even thought to add water to the now-empty blood pouch, dumping the diluted contents into the center. But now, I wondered if that would be too deliberate and obvious—a sign that something was afoot. Blood droplets and then, suddenly, a geyser?
Pearl might have been right. Maybe we were both idiots.
The leaves shook, and I reached over to pat the shaking dog.
“It’ll be okay,” I said in a low tone.
“He’ll die.”
“We’re all going to live.”
“I told him it was dumb to bother the wolf. I told him—”
I grasped the fur around the scruff of his neck as a branch snapped in the distance. He swallowed his words, and I crouched, scraping my hands along the ground for Woden’s Spear. My heart pounded within my ears, blood flooding to my head like an intoxicating narcotic.
My eyes narrowed, searching for movement, breath catching in my throat from the thrill of the hunt. I watched through the mesh of leaves as Albin strode forward, following our manmade path. The taste of victory touched my tongue.
We’d done it. His long fingers passed over the bloodied branches, broad shoulders swinging through the forest with a hunter’s confidence. I felt the imperfections in the shaft press into my palm.
Albin paused, standing upright.
The stench of whatever masking salve Pearl had sold us rose in my nostrils. It seemed ludicrous that this cross between unwashed linens and mud would obscure our scent. I waited for the inevitable—for the wolf’s eyes to slowly turn toward our hiding spot, a cool sapphire gleam accompanied by a knowing smirk.
Instead, almost too quick to savor the moment, he hit the trap. Its iron maw snapped around his ankle with a decisive crack, splintering bone and sinew as the ancient wolf crumpled to the ground.
His feral howl was almost enough to make me lose my nerve, but I pushed down my fear, unleashing a war cry as I charged from the underbrush. Startled, Albin twisted over to face me.
The spear tore through his shoulder, eliciting another pained cry. His free hand whirled around, smashing me in the back. I stumbled forward, trying to maintain my grip on the spear. Succeeding, I unfortunately sacrificed my balance and flew into the dirt.
I heard the ominous sound of the trap being dragged, bones continuing to break as Albin willed himself forward. Stabbing the spear into the ground, I pushed myself upward and wheeled around to face my wounded foe. Blood streamed from his torn shoulder, his leg askew beneath him.
I held out the spear, warning him to stay away.
“The fight is yours, print shop girl,” he said, blood dripping from his fang-like teeth. “Finish it.”
Something held me back. His growling and pained yelps seemed overexaggerated, too loud. Or maybe it was merely fear keeping me from lunging at the alpha wolf. I scanned the forest with my peripherals, some latent intuition shouting about an unseen danger.
Then I heard Argos bark, shrill and irritated. A rustle burst through the swirl of noises, and I spun, slashing blindly at the dark forest. The spear’s razor sharp edge caught a man—one of the watchmen from the night before, I realized—directly in the throat. Blood erupted from his neck, and he dropped his sword, falling to his knees.
“It is even more powerful than I imagined.” Albin’s voice was tinged with lust.
And, more worrisome, the boldness of a victor, not someone broken and bleeding in a trap.
More branches snapped, sounds cascading toward me from every direction, encircling me like a wheel’s spokes. I should’ve known that Albin wouldn’t hunt a demon alone. As constable, he had considerable resources at his fingertips.
And as an alpha wolf, he had even more.
Argos yelped, an enemy closing in on him.
I caught a flash to the right of the dead man. A gun, aimed at my head. I hurled the spear, its balance suddenly perfect. The pistol fired harmlessly into the air as the legendary weapon plunged through his abdomen.
I fumbled for my own double-barreled flintlock pistol, the walls of the forest closing like a hangman’s noose.
A punch caught me in the back of the head, buffeting me to the ground. I still fought, clamoring for the pistol, desperate to load the silver bullets inside. A boot crashed down on my leg, stopping my scramble. Rough hands pressed me face down in the dirt, as I listened to men greedily rip Woden’s Spear from their dead companion’s still-warm corpse.
I inhaled pine needles and green leaves, trying to shake myself free. Somewhere nearby, Argos continued to whine until he was finally silenced by a massive kick to the gut. Then it was just a momentary whimper.
Somehow, that was worse.
Albin let out a mighty groan as his associates freed him from the vicious trap. His unsteady gait rattled my way, anger emanating from every awkward step. The leaves stopped crackling, and I knew the wolf was looming over me, ready to deliver the coup de grâce.
“Very impressive for a print shop girl.” A minor gasp of pain accompanied the words. It gave me satisfaction that he was trying to hide it.
“Let me up and I’ll finish the job.” I squirmed and kicked, barely moving beneath the weight of his lackeys.
“Where is the demon?” These words dripped venom.
“I won’t tell you anything.”
“The dog has sworn the same oath, apparently,” Albin said. He wheezed as he crouched over. I could see his mangled leg with the eye that wasn’t pushed into the dirt. “Perhaps I even believe you.”
“You should.” Although, to be honest, I suspected I would perform poorly when torture became more than a threat.
“No matter. Kalos will come to me.” He raised his nose to the wind and drew in deeply. “Perhaps he already comes.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“We shall see,” Albin said, running the spear’s tip over his outstretched palm. I didn’t know much about its lineage, but anything belonging to a Norse god was probably better kept away from a power-hungry wolf. “The full moon is near, print shop girl.”
I thought that would mark the end of our time together, but he remained crouched. His labored breathing tickled my skin as he bent over to speak into my ear. “And I have two openings in my army.”
“I’d hardly call that an army,” I said, wishing I could roll away from his hot brea
th.
“Perhaps you would rather call it a pack.”
I shivered at the word. “I would rather you just stopped talking.”
“The demon will answer to me once the transformation is complete.” I could almost hear the gears clicking into place within his malevolent mind. “Irony.”
“What’s that?”
“He will help me free my masters from the prison where he sent them.” His lips almost touched my ear now. “And, I believe, so will you.”
Before I could scream or ask what that meant, I heard a snarl.
And then I felt Albin’s jaws clamp around my neck, digging deep into my flesh.
9 (Kalos)
Fuck.
I pushed the tatters of the ragged linen shirt up my forearms, trying to cool off. A night sweat clung to my skin, the consequence of feverish dreams that I’d sooner forget. The faint scent of smoke still hung everywhere: my clothes, nose, even my mouth. I spat on the dry ground and rose creakily to my feet.
Reality flashed by in a blur, causing the room to spin.
Argos. The spear. Ruby.
Albin.
They’d gone to hunt for Albin. To kill Albin.
Idiots.
I lurched forward, ready to pursue them into the dark night. Instead, I promptly pitched face-first into a musty haystack, strands of dried grass going up my nose. I sneezed loudly and coughed as pain surged through the festering wound.
Morning. They’d left in the morning.
If they’d succeeding in killing the old bastard, they would’ve returned by now. The thought made me sink deeper into the pile of hay.
Everything was gone, swallowed by Albin’s dark vortex. I had awoken a sleeping monster. Now my friends reaped the consequences.
No, that was a little overdramatic. Albin was formidable, but he was no Marrack. Hardly an unslayable king or god-killer.
Just a werewolf.
And only one friend was out there. Rebecca—Ruby, rather—I hardly knew. But I felt something worse regarding her fate: responsible. Guilty, even. The dog was smart enough to know better.
She didn’t know just how futile trying to kill Albin would be.
With a plaintive groan, I rolled over, managing to free myself from the hay. I crawled about the decrepit barn, my mind working in fragments. She had brought a kit. Emergency supplies. I searched the ground like a drunk in pursuit of another drink.
I didn’t have to look far. The kit sat nestled in the corner of the opposing stall. Its dented metal exterior beckoned me closer, the thirty-foot gap resembling miles.
It was amazing I hadn’t died on the walk out here.
And I would die—everyone would die—if I stayed. Demon-wolf nipped at the corners of my mind, spurring me forward. The metal casing rattled as I shook the contents out. I peered at the haul through bleary eyes, trying to make sense of the vials.
One caught my attention: a neatly labeled number with the word essence.
I tore the cork stopper from the top and drank the viscous fluid. My veins pulsed, and I felt a new energy settle within my bones. Magical power in its pure and fundamental state. Dangerous to imbibe in significant quantities. As a retrieval specialist, I’d melted down more than my fair share of magical artifacts—and creatures—for the essence within. Tasted its powers many times.
I no longer partook, due to the threat of severe psychosis and megalomania.
But, the shape I was in, I had a better chance of dropping dead from fatigue or blood loss than grappling with any bouts of insanity. Besides the dose was too small for severe side effects. The only real danger was that it allowed me to move at all. In my state, even walking was potentially lethal.
“Both you assholes should’ve just run,” I said to myself as I limped out of the crumbling barn. But the two of them had tried to save me—and, rather predictably, failed. And now I owed them the same courtesy.
The stale scent of hay lingered over the competing aroma of ash as I staggered through the tall field toward the overgrown road. In a dozen years or two hundred, the wolf would have found me. Learned the truth: that I had possessed the spear all along.
Or, worse, freed Isabella Kronos and Marrack the Demon King.
Sure, the alpha wolf had been making such attempts for years. Centuries. But rumors came to my ears that he was getting closer to his elusive prize.
Such was the true reason why I had attempted to nip this matter in the bud: the thought of him traveling to the Planes of Eternal Woe—or, worse, Agonia—and freeing those I hated so was enough to trigger rash behavior.
Demonically rash, as the official record—if one existed—would be wont to describe my actions.
But it wasn’t judgment day just yet; no, I was still alive, my heart still beating, and that meant I could fix matters. If I didn’t run out of time, first. The full moon smiled down upon me, nearing its apex in the darkening sky.
I shed the ruined shirt, blood glistening on my chest. Glancing down, I grimaced from the white pus trickling out from the deep gashes. The essence would keep me upright, but the infection was likely to kill me before I even got the chance to be the world’s first demon-wolf.
Too late to head back.
Mildly delirious, I followed the road, focusing one foot ahead. Each was a small victory, like creating a piece of chainmail. One little loop at a time, piece-by-piece. Of course, as my vision blurred further, it became more difficult to see the results of my handiwork.
Maybe I was just running in place.
Maybe I’d collapsed somewhere and died.
The wound pulsated, vibrating with the rising moon. Demon-wolf. The foul phrase was like a Gordian chant within my pounding ears.
Somewhere, somehow my delirious brain picked up the hint of an aura amidst the swirling madness. The wisp of something out of the ordinary. Blinking, I realized the sensation wasn’t magical at all, but plain footprints in the dust.
After three thousand years, I’d recognize the gait anywhere—even in a foot of weedy grass. The border collie’s tracks beckoned to me, calling me further up the road. Perhaps I had been making progress.
Perhaps all was not hopeless and lost.
“I’m coming, buddy,” I said, head full of fog and bloodlust. “I’ll save you both.”
Nothing replied but a lonesome bird screeching plaintively into the summer night.
Until I heard a familiar werewolf’s voice, carried by the wind, say behind me, “Hello, Kalos.”
10 (Ruby)
“Argos?” Similar to the past few minutes, the name received no response. The blood around my neck had begun drying into a jelly-like crust. I hadn’t moved, for fear of bleeding out. But I was beginning to fear the impending full moon—and the creatures within the forest—more.
They weren’t supernatural in nature. But bears and mountain lions thirsted for human blood all the same.
And I thought that Albin would return soon, after leaving in such a hurry. Clearly the wolf thought I was of little threat of disappearing.
I had a vested interest in proving him very wrong.
With a tentative hand, I grabbed the nearby root and sucked in a deep breath, panic screaming that it would be my last. Then I pulled myself up, head rising from the damp leaves and soil.
I didn’t bleed out. The bite only thrummed with a strange, rhythmic pain. I gently pressed my fingertips along its edges in morbid curiosity. It felt far more shallow than the injuries Kalos had sustained.
This wound wasn’t meant to hurt. At least not too much.
A mere warning—or a non-declinable invitation.
I winced, head swimming from sitting upright for the first time in hours. “Argos?”
“No.” The dog responded with a snake-like hiss. “You can’t eat me.”
“You’ve been awake this whole time?”
>
“Leave me alone.”
Nope. Wasn’t happening. I stomped over to the sound of the voice, wrinkling my nose at all the blood spattered around the closed trap. Spotting a plumy tail hidden deep beneath some brush, I reached down and dragged the dog out from his hiding spot.
He snarled, more in paranoia than as a display of force.
Out in the open, the moonlight slicing through the treetops to illuminate the grisly scene, we stared at one another. I saw that the dog favored one leg, holding his right front foot off the ground.
His coat looked wet. I furrowed my brow and his ears dropped flat against his head.
“I peed,” he said, with less shame than one might expect.
“Oh.”
“You didn’t turn,” Argos said, visibly relieved that my human faculties remained intact.
“Was I supposed to?” I didn’t really want an answer to the question. “The transformation requires a full moon, right?”
Argos looked sheepish. “I believe my sense of time was corrupted by the stress of battle.” He raised his snout proudly. Well, as proudly as an animal covered in his own urine could, anyway. “I’m not a fighter.”
“We both tried.”
He craned his head around my leg, eying the dead men in the bushes. “I believe one of us tried quite a bit harder.”
“Pearl did say I had potential.” I cracked a grim smile. I wondered if this was what she had meant. Potential to screw everything up? Potential to leave a trail of bodies in my wake? The word was so vague as to be devoid of worth.
I scratched the skin around my collarbone, which was beginning to crawl. My fingers ran along the tattered remains of my dress. Squinting in the dark, I saw that the bottom hem had been almost completely shredded. If my mother were still alive, she’d have had a shit fit. Straight to hell with me.
Compounded by me thinking in such vulgarities.
A rustling drew my attention to Argos dragging a metallic object through the brush. The flintlock pistol, lost in the scrum. And the pouch of silver bullets and powder.
He dropped them at my feet, sitting down by my side.
Bone Realm Page 4