Torrential relief drenched Jake. Then instinct took over. Whirling, he lurched into a dead run toward the thick of the battle. He kept pace with the pack for a short distance, but even the slowest wolf possessed superior speed when traveling on all fours.
Ahead, Fireball Finn reached the tightly packed wall of hunters who fought against the undead. The unit was dug in on a narrow shelf, located midway along the side of a mesa, facing uphill toward the opening of an abandoned mine. A steady river of undead streamed from the entrance, an army of reanimated corpses—bloated, big, and brutish.
Standing shoulder to shoulder against the overwhelming odds, his men maintained a tight formation. They fought as one. Each man trusted his brother. They lived and died together.
Jake's breath hitched, and the blood in his veins froze. His men were wide open to attack from the rear. They trusted him to protect them. For a paralyzing second, he doubted himself. Doubted the wolves. Doubted instinct and integrity. Without a treaty, Finn had no duty to treat Jake as an equal, no obligation to accept a challenge to personal combat.
A howl swelled from the Alpha's chest when he launched into the air. The rest of the pack echoed their leader's primal song. The first wave also leapt straight at the wall of pinned hunters.
The red wolf slammed into a vampire, and his claws sank into its swollen chest. Sudden pressure distended the gray flesh. Thick fluid burst from the gashes. The pair toppled and vanished from sight behind the sea of animated corpses. The great red giant rose out of the grayness and held the vampire aloft. Roaring his rage, he ripped the revenant's head from its shoulders. Both body parts flew high, disintegrating to ash that was carried away on the hot desert wind.
Battle produced its own sort of music. The rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire. The draconic roar of flame throwers. The pops and booms of firearms. The primal shouts of soldiers. Jake took pleasure in the composition.
The agonized scream of one of his men destroyed the harmony. Through the magic that tied all hunters to him, he experienced the agony of his follower's injuries: A sharp, stabbing pain near his heart... Lungs burning as he labored for breath...
Their connection cut off.
He added another name to the steadily mounting fatality list: Ron Buckley—a loyal friend, loving husband, father of three, and grandfather of ten. A man who had complained constantly about his bum knee, slurred the letter S when he spoke, precisely mimicked over a hundred unique bird calls, and possessed an uncommon obsession with lacrosse.
Jake sprinted up the slope toward the front line.
"Cease machine guns," he ordered so the wolves wouldn't be hit by friendly fire. "Kill the flame throwers, and switch to small-caliber firearms and melee weapons from here on out."
Ahead, Skinner repeated the orders. He extinguished his flamethrower. He dropped to a crouch and yanked a machete from a belt sheath. The other hunters did the same while more wolves passed overhead.
Arriving in groups of three and four, the rest of the pack rushed and leapt above the defensive line. Midair, they tackled undead. With bloodthirsty howls, they charged straight into the thick of combat.
A steep incline marked the last ten feet. He dislodged dirt and debris that sent a shower of pebbles down the slope. Once on the shelf, Jake hurried to rejoin his soldiers.
With the last of the wolves having completed their overhead jumps, the hunters stood upright. Following his orders, they fought hand-to-hand or fired handguns.
"You owe me twenty," Jake said, coming alongside Skinner. "They are the cavalry."
He swung his dagger and struck a vampire's neck with a decapitating blow.
The stench of seared flesh filled the air. The revenant fell to ash. His remains fed the thick cloud of dust that rode the scorching wind. Sooty grime crusted the hunter's nostrils and mouth, clogging his airways. A harsh cough wracked his lungs.
Jake caught another vamp in the throat then rammed the molten steel at an upward angle toward the brain. Dead flesh sizzled, and its face ballooned. Escaping gases rose to the surface of the skin and formed swollen bubbles that expanded and burst, releasing rivulets of necrotic sludge. The skull exploded. Coagulated blood and bits of carrion rained down on him.
"Never thought I'd be happy to see a bunch of flea-bitten werewolves." Skinner barked his laughter. His machete flew in a wide arc. The blade embedded deep in a vampire's forehead. He spared his leader a curious glance. "How did you know they were friendly?"
Jake flashed a toothy smile. "I didn't."
"The hell you didn't." Skinner edged closer, tightening their defensive stance. He bore cuts on his face and arms. Blood stained his shirt, but none of the injuries appeared to slow him.
The dagger tattoo on Skinner's dark brown bicep glowed white hot, signaling active magic that granted him augmented strength and speed. Every hunter had the same mark, the symbol of their brotherhood, a spiritual bond to the Hunter King.
While the werewolves created a new front line, the beleaguered unit seized the much-needed reprieve, reloading firearms and attending to their wounded. Finn's initial attack appeared to be turning the tide in their favor, driving the vampires back.
The advantage couldn't last forever.
"Where are these bastards coming from?" Skinner shouted.
"There's a magical portal in that mine head," Jake said. "I can feel it. We've got to blow it shut."
"That's a tall order." Skinner swung around, shouting, "Kincaid, what's the status on that repair?"
Crazy Cali Kinkaid crouched over a MANPATS, a man-portable anti-tank system. Greasy brown hair stuck out in every direction from the female hunter's helmet. "It's busted, sir!"
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Skinner demanded.
Glancing up, Cali's eyes glittered. "It means this piece of equipment is tits up, sir! I don't know if I can fix it."
A colorful spray of curses flew from Skinner.
Jake slapped his friend's arm. "There's another MANPATS in the back of my truck. We'll have to fetch it."
"You." Skinner grabbed Jose Ortiz's shoulder. He issued the orders, sending the young man off at a sprint.
"We need a backup plan." Jake tilted his head back, gazing uphill toward the mine entrance. Impassable rock formations arose on either side of the narrow ravine. Flanking the enemy was impossible. He'd have to swim against the undead current to reach the mine. "Where's the C4?"
"Over here." Skinner dashed to Bobby Edwards's dead body to retrieve a sack. The young man lay face down in a pool of muddy blood upon the rocky ground.
Sorrow twisted in Jake's gut. Bobby had been an orphan. When he was ten, vampires had killed his parents, and he'd escaped thanks to blind luck. It looked like fate had finally caught up with him. Now his adopted family would mourn him.
Skinner tossed Jake the backpack. "Are we going to set charges to blow that entrance?"
"We ain't. I am. Fortify the line and evacuate our wounded to safety." Jake performed a cursory inspection of the contents of the bag, confirming it contained detonators and explosives. He closed the fastening and threw the straps over his shoulders.
"You're gonna get yourself killed." Skinner's flinty stare drove home his disapproval, but he didn't argue.
"Better me than you," Jake retorted. "Once I have the charges set, I'll give the signal. Have the men fall back to the vehicles. I'll warn the wolves."
Skinner slapped him on the back. "Good luck. It's been good serving with you, sir."
"You too, Hal." Full-blown laughter tore from Jake.
Skinner must have said the exact same thing to him a hundred times. It was their private joke for the nearly forty years they'd fought side by side, made all that much richer for the irony. One day, inevitably, would be the last time the words were spoken. No retirement in sunny Florida, not for them.
Jake dropped his shoulders. He charged straight through the thick dust, slamming into a revenant and knocking it aside. He pressed onward, picking his way through the combat, e
vading confrontation rather than seeking it. Hands grabbed for him, but he knocked them aside. The business end of his blade harvested an arm at the elbow, another at the shoulder. He didn't slow to finish the job.
An ice-cold hand caught his sword arm. Elongated nails dug deep, gouging his skin and rending muscle. Blood flowed freely down his forearm. Pain burned. The unbreakable grip stopped him in his tracks.
A cultured male voice asked, "In a hurry, hunter?"
A snarl curled his lips. "As a matter of fact, I am."
Jake grabbed the vampire's wrist with his free hand and bore down with inhuman strength, crushing bones. A pained snarl burst from the revenant.
Over their locked arms, the malformed face of the vampire confronted him: solid black eyes set in a soggy mass of flesh, jaws spread wide, needle teeth formed a tight spiral that covered the inside of its mouth. The stench of death clung to the creature.
The revenant's head cocked. His tone conveyed surprise. "You smell human, but you stink of magic. Who are you?"
Jake's heart roared in his ears. Sweat drenched his entire body. The excruciating pain in his arm fed his anger. Conjuring his magic, he bolstered his physical prowess, pitted his strength against it. Slowly but surely, the tip of the dagger turned toward the draug.
"What are so many draugar doing in the desert?" Jake demanded. "You're a century and a continent misplaced."
He called down even more potent magic so the dagger's molten halo blazed brighter.
As if hypnotized, the revenant stared at the weapon, mouth hanging open. His hand dropped from the hunter's arm. "We go where we are summoned."
"Who summoned you?"
"The necromancer summons us."
"What necromancer?" Jake asked.
A brutal impact from the rear knocked Jake off his feet. He lost his grip on the vampire and dropped his dagger. As soon as it hit the ground, the blade vanished and the tattoo reappeared on his forearm. He landed on his back, and the impact forced the wind from his lungs.
A snarling werewolf and four vampires tumbled toward him. The grizzled gray wolf was about the size of a Siberian husky. No doubt, a she-wolf. Male werewolves were usually twice as large as the females.
Jake scooted aside to avoid being crushed. Head reeling, he scrambled to regain his footing. Glancing around, he spotted the draug he'd been interrogating. The vampire was headed downhill, still close enough to catch. He stormed after the vamp. A gut-wrenching moan erupted from the she-wolf. He hesitated, bloodlust warring with his humanity. The diversion cost him precious seconds.
With a grimace, he twisted toward the wolf and her assailants. The she-wolf whimpered, struggling weakly beneath one of the enemy while the others circled, looking for an opening. The draug held her by the throat, its greedy mouth pressed to her jugular. The feeding created a revolting noise, like a plunger working a clogged drain.
"Ah, hell." With a savage shout, Jake abandoned his target and charged the skirmish.
The three revenants blocked his path. The closest was an obese female. Her stone-colored skin formed thick folds; swollen breasts hung to her navel. She latched onto his arm and shoved her face toward his throat.
Jake caught the bony gray skull between his hands, immobilizing her. He gazed down into the gaping maw. Writhing maggots squirmed along the gum lines, feeding on rotted danglers.
His lips curled over his teeth in a sneer. His heart thudded. Magic pulsed at his core. His tanned flesh grew translucent. Runes appeared beneath his skin, each symbolic of the most powerful forces in the cosmos. He'd sacrificed much in their acquisition, endured enormous torment to make the arcane magic integral to his being.
From a word to a word I was led to a word,
From a deed to another deed.
Stout frame straining, sinew popping, Jake threw back his head and a primal shout tore from his throat. A transformation swept through him and turned his body from flesh and bone into a statue chiseled from glossy obsidian. His pitch-black flesh smoldered, wisps upon the desert air.
He crushed the vampire's skull between his hands. Her body exploded outward in a shower of ash and bone, a billowing cloud thick on the air. Before the haze cleared, Jake veered through it. He squinted to shield his eyes from the grit.
Another draug appeared before him. His body throbbed while he channeled more magic. Striding steadily toward the undead, he punctured the leathery hide with his fist and buried his forearm to the elbow in its chest cavity. Carrion squished. Rot flavored the air.
The vampire howled.
Severe pain lanced through Jake's gut. Hand still embedded in the vamp, he staggered on the verge of collapse. A jagged wooden spike protruded from his stomach, the entry point in his lower back. Bright blood coated the end and gushed from the wound.
Braced against the pain, Jake's fingers closed on the hunk of meat that was the revenant's heart. Grimacing, he yanked his arm from the corpse, ripping the organ free. Worms and maggots writhed within the muscle, slithering against his fingers. Closing his fist, he pulverized it like hamburger. The vampire perished, reduced to ashen remains.
Jake encountered resistance from the other end of the spear when he pivoted. He reached for the protruding weapon and gripped the front and back. Wrenching the shaft, he snapped it in half, and then yanked both ends from his body. A searing jolt of agony ripped through his innards, an injury to fell a normal man. Magic sustained him.
He confronted the final draug, a stout and shaggy creature. The undead stood with her mouth agape, staring pie-eyed, oblivious to the battle raging around them. She stumbled backward, and then whirled and sprinted downhill. Hefting one of the wooden halves, Jake hurled the weapon with all his might. The spear impaled her clean through the heart.
Dust on the wind.
Returning his attention to the she-wolf, Jake lumbered toward the intertwined pair. He landed atop the feeding male vampire. The hunter's knees dug into the vampire's spongy flesh, and an overpowering wave of decay hit his nostrils. His dagger wasn't an option. He couldn't risk injuring the she-wolf with the magical weapon.
He yanked his boot knife free. His hand wrapped around the vampire's chin where its slick lips connected with blood-soaked fur. Grimacing, he pulled back with all his strength and forced the enemy's head aside. The draug growled and bucked, attempting to dislodge him.
A pitiful whimper escaped the gray wolf. Her greenish-gold eyes were full of misery and anger. Sympathy grabbed him. His stomach muscles contracted.
Well, fuck all. Talk about getting soft in your old age.
"Let's get this leech off of you." He positioned the tip of the knife at the hinge joint where the vamp's mandibles attached. Delivering a precise downward stroke, Jake thrust, and the blade severed muscles and bone. He wrenched the vampire's head. Bones snapped with a crisp crunch. The draug's lower jaw tore away from his face, exposing pulpy flesh and yellowed bone. Thick necrotic fluid oozed from the wound. The stench was worse than a septic tank. He gagged and breathed through his mouth. It didn't help. With surgical precision, he jabbed with his blade and skewered the spiny tongue.
Yowling, the vampire let go of the werewolf's throat and rolled, attempting escape. The sudden shift upset the hunter's balance. He pitched forward and dug his knees in, which prevented the pinned enemy's escape. His free hand caught a fistful of plush fur, softness against his skin.
The gray wolf rumbled.
As he fell, the she-wolf lashed out with her claw but missed the draug's head. Those wicked claws caught Jake's eyebrow and raked down, gouging his left eye socket. The orb burst and released a flood of hot fluids.
Agony exploded throughout his head. An awful shout tore from his throat, and he jerked away. Blind on that side, he threw all of his weight backward and grasped for his tattoo weapon. Blood and sweat oozed into his good eye so the world blurred about him. He dodged a shadow, swinging, but missed.
A body struck him, knocking him flat on his back. Decay flooded his nostrils. A wolf thundered
her displeasure. He rolled and surged to his feet, brandishing the burning dagger before him. Another frontal attack hit his leg and shattered the kneecap. The wave of pain sucked him inexorably toward oblivion.
He fell.
Jake thrust with his dagger, taking a blind stab, and hit a solid target. The blade sank deep. The resulting moan contained a plaintive note. His heart sank and a terrible sense of wrongness filled him. Nothing undead produced such a sound. The odor of singed fur and flesh filled the air.
"Oh, no." Hissing the denial, he extended a groping hand and encountered wet, matted fur. His gut twisted with grim acknowledgement. Full of awful regret, he crouched on the ground, listening to the wolf's dying whimper, focused completely on her suffering. The battle raging faded from his awareness. Disbelief swamped his mind.
He never harmed innocents, never slaughtered allies.
Sickened, he yanked the dagger from her side. A terrible yowl wrenched from the she-wolf. In the grip of despair, he stroked her fur. His men's lives were still imperiled, and the loss of his sight could cost them the battle, especially if they couldn't get the MANPATS to work. Given time, he would heal. Just not soon enough. He shifted his grip on the dagger's hilt, accepting there was only one thing left to do.
Incanting the ancient runes beneath his breath, he summoned all of his remaining power. Sheer willpower and raw magic mingled. Reality bent and distorted. Within his mind, the second sight he kept sealed off behind a heavily warded doorway swung open.
His perception shifted to the spiritual plane. His altered vision showed him ghostly whorls: light and darkness, swirls of energy, splashes of color. Nothing physical, nothing solid.
His awareness in the mystical realm expanded further. An aurora. Streams of light. Great sweeping patterns. The she-wolf's life thread, terribly short, connected to so many others. The future that should have belonged to her and her children grew fainter with each passing beat of her failing heart.
He had slaughtered countless monsters. He killed without regret or compunction, and sometimes for the simple pleasure of the hunt. But not like this. Never like this. He lacked the ability to heal her, or he'd have done so in a heartbeat.
Battle Cry (Loki's Wolves Book 2) Page 2