The Junkyard Druid Box Set 2

by M. D. Massey

  “I assume you checked the names of the missing with the site’s member roster, yeah?”

  “Um, not officially, no. Getting a search warrant for online databases is a pain in the ass. So, I had one of the geeks in cybercrimes create a fake profile, then he searched the site and found that our other missing persons were all members. We’re working on getting a search warrant now.”

  I yawned as a smile split my face. “You know what, Klein? That’s the best thing that’s happened all day.”

  “What, that we have more than a dozen foreign nationals missing, possibly due to a supernatural serial killer? Even if you find the thing and stop the killings, I still have to come up with a way to wrap the case up neatly for the press and my superiors. So, forgive me if I fail to see the upside to this situation.”

  “I was actually just referring to the break in the case. It’s the only solid lead I’ve gotten since Kenny showed up here the other day.”

  Klein wiped her nose with her wad of Kleenex again. “Yeah? Well, don’t put yourself out trying to help me close this case or anything. And please don’t tell me you can’t recover the bodies. No bodies, no closure. No closure, no resolution to the case. I hate open case files.”

  “I promise, I won’t tell you that.”

  The sergeant squinted at me. “Do I even want to know?”

  “Nope, you don’t want to know.”

  “Shit.” She went to get back in her car, and paused halfway in the door. “You know what, McCool? Some days I wish I’d never met you.”

  “Yeah, that seems to be going around.”

  11

  Hours later, I was awakened by the smell of breakfast tacos and cigarette smoke. I cracked an eye and was greeted by the sight of my mentor, Finnegas, holding a white, grease-stained bag in one hand and a roll-your-own cancer stick in the other. He tossed me the bag as I stretched and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I opened it, taking a whiff of the contents, and a smile spread across my face.

  “Barbacoa?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yup, and the good stuff too—not just slow-cooked lengua like they serve to gringos at the chain restaurants. Don’t be shocked if you find a hair or two in your tacos—there’s meat from the whole cow’s head in there. Lips, cheeks, eyes, and all. Guy who runs the taco truck I get it from doesn’t mess around.”

  “Alright, so who do you need me to kill?”

  Finn chuckled. “Nobody, but I figured if I was going to wake you up after another late night, I’d better come bearing gifts. C’mon, get dressed. You can grab some coffee from the office. We have training to do.”

  “Um, about that… I’m on a case, so we’ll need to keep it short today. Also, can we train somewhere else than the junkyard?”

  His eyes narrowed as he blew smoke from his nostrils. “You still haven’t gone inside, have you?”

  “It’s not that, Finn. It’s just that I—”

  He scowled as he threw his cigarette butt on the floor and crushed it with the heel of his cowboy boot. “Damn it, Colin, I told you to enter that thing and claim it before it withers away. What the hell has gotten into you, boy? A druid grove is nothing to be taken lightly, and since you planted it, the tree is your responsibility.”

  I had entered the tree, I just hadn’t taken the time to “claim” it yet—in fact, I didn’t even know what that entailed. Jesse had hinted at it a few times, but I’d never pursued the topic as I tried to keep my visits with her as brief as possible. Of course, Finnegas didn’t know about any of this, because I was keeping Jesse a secret from him until I figured out what to do with her. As far as he knew, I’d been putting the whole thing off due to Ed’s death.

  What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Wish I didn’t have to lie to him, though.

  “I know, I know. But—”

  “But nothing! That tree may very well be the last of its kind. Do you know how long it’s been since someone planted a druid grove on this earth? Most died out in the first century, when Suetonius burned the sacred groves all across the island of Anglesey. The rest were cut down by the church centuries later, after the old beliefs died out and few of our kind were left to guard them.”

  I set the food aside and grabbed a pair of jeans, pulling them on as I spoke. “Not to cast aspersions or anything, but where were you when that all happened?”

  Finnegas scratched his nose, and his scowl intensified. “When Anglesey happened I was in Ireland. And after St. Patrick came, well—let’s just say I went looking for a new home for our kind. By the time I’d returned, the old beliefs had all but died out, and the groves had been destroyed.”

  I slipped into a t-shirt, then pulled on my socks and boots and stood. I clapped a hand on Finn’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Look, I can see what this means to you, and I fully intend to fulfill whatever caretaker duties the tree requires. It’s just too overwhelming to deal with right now, what with Ed’s murder and all.”

  Finn’s expression softened and he sighed. “I’m sorry, son. I shouldn’t be pressuring you so much, not so soon after your uncle’s passing. It’s just that it’s been ages since I felt this much hope for the future of druidkind.”

  I patted his shoulder with a wink. “I’m glad to know you think so highly of me—considering I am the future of druidkind.”

  Finnegas gave me an unconvincing frown as he slapped my hand off his shoulder. “Pfft. My hopes are in spite of having but one lazy apprentice who’d rather be chasing skirt than learning magic.”

  “In my defense, Belladonna has never, ever worn a skirt in my presence.”

  “Bah! You know what I mean. Now, go get some caffeine in you so we can get down to business. We can head out to the greenbelt to train today—and hopefully you won’t get distracted by all the topless sunbathers at Twin Falls.”

  “As if it’s me who always gets distracted.”

  The retort had barely passed my lips when the sharp scent of ozone filled the air. Small arcs of electricity began to crackle and spark between Finn’s fingers and in the irises of his eyes. Apparently, I’d finally gotten on the old man’s last nerve, an increasingly common occurrence of late.

  “Coffee, then training—now, young man!” he barked.

  I had the common sense to look properly chastened, and gave the old man a hangdog look as I headed for the door. “Settle down, drill sergeant. I’m going already—geez.”

  On the ride over, I downloaded the NipponMatch app and set up a fake profile. In my bio, I mentioned that I was just in town for a short time, and that I was here on a visa from South Africa. I had no idea how to do a South African accent, but figured I could fake it by imitating Hemi’s thick New Zealand accent. It wasn’t like we got many Afrikaners in Texas, after all—so I doubted anyone would know the difference… I hoped.

  Now, I just need to wait and see if I get any takers.

  Waiting was going to be agony, especially knowing that Derp was still in the clutches of a serial killer. I’d seen a lot of missing persons cases involving supernatural creatures, and honestly I didn’t think it looked good for the kid. There was a high probability he was dead by now, and as much as I hated to admit it, I’d likely just be recovering a corpse. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to do everything I could to find the killer and make them pay. Derp deserved that much, at least.

  I tucked those thoughts aside as we neared the park where we planned to train today. At ten o’clock in the morning on a weekday, there were a surprising number of cars along the Mopac Expressway frontage road near the park’s entrance. The Barton Creek Greenbelt had always been a favorite destination for local hikers and mountain bikers, and for good reason. The area was an oasis of natural beauty, in a city that rapid population growth and poor urban planning had turned into a smaller and much more expensive version of Houston.

  Natural dams created swimming holes at a couple areas along the creek, drawing swimmers by the dozens when the creek was full. Thousands of years of erosion had left plenty of
exposed bedrock and numerous large boulders, providing sunbathers ample space to sacrifice their future beauty for today’s perfect tan. Live oak, pecan, elm, cottonwood, and willow trees lined the creek on both sides, making the park a verdant playground for outdoorsy types needing an escape from Austin’s ever-expanding concrete jungle. And considering the park authority’s tolerance for—if not outright approval of—partial nudity, it was no wonder that the greenbelt had become a magnet for those new to the area as well.

  We were only a half mile or so into the park, descending a trail that ran along a cliff and led to the valley below. The plan was to turn off the trail when we got to the bottom, so we could head deep into the woods on the other side of the creek where few hikers went. Due to the fine weather we were having, the trail and creek would both be packed with people, but a short jog to the west would allow us to train in privacy. Finnegas muttered to himself as we yielded the rocky, narrow path to yet another pack of mountain bikers, the third such group we’d encountered.

  “Fecking Californians. An entire state blessed by perpetual good weather, yet they descend on our city like locusts in a swarm.”

  “How do you know they’re Californians?” I asked.

  He gave a quick snort of disgust. “It’s the smell that gives them away—a combination of patchouli, hummus, and entitlement.”

  “Might I remind you that you’re also an interloper? You are from Ireland, after all.”

  “Hah! That’s where you’re mistaken. I was here before Sam Houston was even a dirty thought in the deep recesses of his daddy’s mind. Spent most of my time with the Tonkawa, ‘people of the wolf’ is what they called themselves. About ten percent of the tribe was made up of werewolves. Traded quite a bit of knowledge with their shamans. Smallpox decimated the humans in their tribe in the late eighteenth century, and the white man’s near extinction of the buffalo fairly finished the job for the rest. So, I’d have to say it’s all you pale faces who came after me that are the real interlopers.”

  A white kid with ratty dreads and a rasta beanie raised a fist in the air as he passed us, coming from the other direction. “Right on, old man! Down with the white hegemony.”

  The old druid’s lip curled, and his eyes shot daggers at the kid’s retreating figure. “There’s a cliff right there—become the change you want to see in the world, young man!” he shouted after the kid.

  “On it!” the Anglo Rastafarian replied.

  I rolled my eyes. “You know, you’d have been better off just yelling ‘get off my lawn’ instead. I think the whole irony thing you were going for was lost on him.”

  Finnegas opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a scream that came from the woods below. That sound was followed by a rumbling growl that no human or animal could’ve made. The noises were way too faint to draw the attention of the mundanes traveling up and down the trail, but to Finnegas and me, they were clear as a bell. Finn gave me a quick nod and I took off at a run down the hill, cutting off into the trees just as soon as the trail flattened out.

  I followed the sounds as I went and they led me westward, across the creek to the dense woods where we’d planned to train today. The screams and growls grew louder the farther I got into the greenbelt, and soon they brought me in sight of a middle-aged female hiker clinging to the trunk of a pecan tree, roughly twenty feet from the ground. While the vegetation obscured my view of the tree’s base, something below was shaking the tree. Every time the tree shook, it elicited more screams from the woman and more growls from whatever was stalking her.

  The creature had to be quite large to jostle a tree like that, but I was relatively sure it wasn’t a bear. For one, bears were rarely seen in this part of Texas, and a black bear would be too small to shake a tree of that size. Second, the growls I heard were unlike any animal or creature I’d encountered before—a deep rumble that reverberated at an almost subsonic level. Whatever it was, it was big, and obviously hungry.

  And that meant one thing—I needed to shift before I confronted it. The only problem was, I couldn’t shift fully, not with my anger issues of late. Recently, I’d been working more on partially shifting. Doing so gave me a bit of increased strength, size, and toughness, but it kept the dark influence of my Hyde-side to a level that allowed me to stay in control of my faculties. Plus, it didn’t require me to get buck naked, which was always a plus. I just hoped a partial shift would be enough to let me tangle with whatever was behind those trees.

  Here goes nothing.

  I still had to remove my socks and shoes, so I peeled them off quickly and readied myself for the change. I focused my mind and slowed my breathing, triggering my ability to shift into my Fomorian form with an effort of will. As I did, I felt an increasing urge for violence and mayhem well up inside me. I pushed those feelings down, concentrating on keeping my breathing slow and my mind calm. Soon I felt my muscles swelling, along with a thickening of my skin and the gain of a foot or so in height. It wasn’t much compared to a full-on shift, but it’d have to do.

  Once I completed my change, I reached into my Craneskin Bag and grabbed my war club. To anyone else, it looked like a worn ash wood bat—but underneath the glamour it was a thick length of wood shod with iron, four inches in diameter at the tip tapering to two inches across at the handle. The Dagda had told me that Lugh had made it, specifically for fighting fae. Why he’d ever crafted such a weapon was beyond me, but the thing packed a punch.

  Suitably armed, I crept toward the source of the noise, sneaking through the trees until it sounded as if I was nearly on top of the beast. I parted the branches in front of me, fully revealing the monster that was the source of the hiker’s distress. As I took a good look at the thing, only a single thought came to mind.

  Well, shit.

  I was stunned by what I saw through those branches… and it took a lot to give me pause. The creature shaking the tree was something I’d never seen before—a huge, demonic thing that looked like it was straight out of Pan’s Labyrinth. The monster was humanoid and tall, at least ten feet from its cloven hooves to the top of its head, and even taller if you counted the long, curved horns that reached from the sides of its head to the sky.

  From the waist down it was goat-like, and from the waist up it looked mostly human despite the thick, light gray hair that covered much of its body. A cursory anatomical survey told me that yes, the thing was male, and it potentially had designs on its prey that didn’t necessarily include eating. The monster’s face was the only part of it not covered by hair, and it had the harsh features, needle-sharp teeth, and elongated snout of an opossum. However, its glowing red eyes were quite human-looking, standing in sharp contrast to the rest of its appearance.

  As I finished my assessment of the thing, the demon—if it actually was a demon—vigorously shook the pecan tree with its huge, clawed hands, nearly dislodging the woman above him. The hiker’s legs and body flew out and away from the tree, and she just barely managed to hang on. When she recovered, she wrapped her legs around the trunk with a yelp and started shimmying higher in the tree.

  I was about to spring out from cover to attack the thing, and hopefully draw it away from her so she could escape, when I felt someone grab my arm. It was Finnegas, looking a little winded after the hike down the ridge. Otherwise, he was no worse for the wear.

  “Wait,” he wheezed in a low voice. “That’s a caddaja—very dangerous.”

  “What the hell is a caddaja?” I said, peeking between branches to ensure that the monster in question hadn’t reached its prey yet.

  He held a finger up, indicating that he needed a moment to recover. It wasn’t that he was out of shape—far from it. He’d been cheating death for two millennia and now it was catching up to him, especially since he’d decided to remind everyone what a badass old druid he was. His recent displays of magic and power had drained him even further, and as I looked at his drawn, worn face, I was reminded once again that my time with him was short.

  Finall
y, Finn’s breathing slowed and some color returned to his cheeks. “A caddaja is a demonic creature out of Native American legend—that of the Caddo peoples, to be exact. They’re strong, fast, and aggressive, and I haven’t seen one in these parts in over two centuries.”

  “I find it hard to believe that something that big and ugly could go unnoticed out here for two-hundred years,” I whispered.

  Finnegas leaned forward to peek out of our hiding place, then he stood upright again and shrugged. “It’s a demon, Colin. Damned things cross the Veil every so often, either to eat a few humans or because some idiot decides to summon one, then they go back again for a century or two. And thank goodness, because if they had a mind to physically manifest in this plane of existence more often, we’d all be screwed.”

  “Fine, I believe you. Now, just tell me how to kill the damned thing so I can take it out before it does unspeakable things to that poor woman.”

  Finnegas tsked. “Can’t kill it. Best you can do is drive it away, scare it enough so you send it packing back across the Veil. Hopefully the next time the thing decides to vacation in Central Texas, you’ll be long dead.”

  “Well, there’s a cheery thought.” I shouldered my war club, rubbing the smooth handle with my thumb. “If I get into trouble, can I count on you for backup?”

  Finnegas patted his pockets, his nicotine habit making him suddenly forget the mortal danger we were in. “Where did I put that damned tobacco pouch?”

  “Finn! Can I count on you for backup?”

  “Huh? And take another few years off my life? Naw, too soon after that stunt I pulled at Maeve’s—not to mention the stasis spell at the Conclave. Sorry, kid, but you’re on your own on this one. Good news is, if you use magic to beat it we can count it as your training for the day.”

  “Leave it to the apprentice to take out the demon. Well done, oh master druid.”

  Finnegas’s face lit up as he finally found his tobacco. “Ah, there it is. Kentucky Select, my old friend, come to papa.” He looked up at me, brow furrowed. “What are you complaining about? I’m two thousand years old—at my age, don’t you think I’m entitled to let a youngster handle things like this?”