A Touch Too Much

by Theresa Glover

  “There’s a fair chance I already think that.”

  He didn’t react, but Marty poked my kidney.

  “For the sake of getting this situation under control,” I said, “let’s pretend I won’t.”

  LaFontaine glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “It has nine heads.”

  “A hydra.” Marty sounded impressed. “No shit.”

  Great. Know what’s worse than a massive supernatural snake roughly ninety feet long? A massive supernatural snake roughly ninety feet long with nine regenerating heads. Any head I managed to remove would grow back—with an extra one for good measure. “Have you shot it or wounded it yet?”

  He licked his lips, his usual jackass swagger and bluster gone, though I couldn’t be sure how much fear neutralized or how much related to Cooper’s little hypnotism session. Engaging the supernatural in battle obviously rattled LaFontaine’s worldview more than witnessing the aftermath. Compared to his rather blasé reaction to dead flying monkeys, this felt extreme. But then again, a lot of people get squeamish when it comes to snakes. Regardless the reason, I felt a little bad for him as I waited for him to respond. “Yes,” he said reluctantly after a long pause. “You wouldn’t believe what happened.”

  I glanced to Boudreaux. “Was it a headshot?”

  “Yes,” they both said, the radio in the cruiser crackling and interrupting us.

  “Let me guess,” I said, “you blew off a head and two grew back.”

  LaFontaine’s shotgun rattled against the door. “How the hell did you know that?”

  With a grin, I patted the officer’s shoulder. “This isn’t my first rodeo.” I turned to Marty. “There’s a sword in the arsenal.”

  Marty nodded, already texting. “Father C’s en route with blades, additional firepower, and flamethrowers.”

  “Ooh, new toys? Where’d he find them?”

  “Flame throwers?” LaFontaine’s concentration broke, and he looked at me, his hands still braced against the car door. “What the hell are you going to do with a flamethrower?”

  “Prevent heads from growing back after we cut them off,” I said, barely sparing a glance his way before continuing my conversation with Marty. “Get Sister Betty to canvas for the victim. If possible, we need to figure out where they encountered the nightmare.”

  Marty nodded, his thumbs coordinating our response. “Backup plan?”

  With a shrug, I said, “If shit goes south, you and Sister Betty gear up and jump in.”

  He grinned, looking up from his phone.

  “Only,” I stressed, “if it goes FUBAR. Neither of you should be fighting until you’re fully healed.”

  “Okay.” His grin dimmed, though not by much. All I could do was hope they’d listen.

  “Shit,” Boudreaux said. “Beau, you seeing this?”

  I turned at the same time as Officer LaFontaine. The thick rope of coiled muscle rolled against itself, the snake rolling into a tighter knot, its blue-black scales glinting in the Louisiana sun. Two heads rose out of the center, followed by two more, then three more after that. Over the top of the snake’s body squirmed several, much smaller, multi-headed hydra. One of the smallest opened three of its mouths and hissed, issuing a tiny burst of mist.

  Not just a hydra, but a hydra with babies that had already gotten their acid. Fantastic.

  “I need a riot shield, helmet, and machete,” I said.

  “On it,” Marty said, stashing his phone and kneeling, his backpack already at his feet.

  “Riot gear? What for?” Officer Boudreaux glanced up at me in quick bursts, unwilling to stop watching the snake ball.

  “They spit more acid than housewife reality shows, and I’m too damned cute to have my face melted.” I passed my Glock to Marty and unstrapped the belly band holster for the two sheathed machetes he pulled out of his backpack. The sixteen-inch blades wouldn’t deliver killing blows to the snake, but with a little creativity, I could do some incapacitating damage until reinforcements arrived with bigger, badder toys. I tucked my shirt in, strapped on one sheath. I wouldn’t always need both blades in hand, but I knew better than to go into the fight with just one. Testing my range of movement, I twisted and wind-milled my arms, thrusting my chin at Boudreaux. “You got gear, or not?”

  He shared a look with Officer LaFontaine, holstered his weapon and scrambled to the trunk. A moment later, a helmet wobbled on my head. “It’s too big.”

  “That’s a first,” Marty said. “Usually, her head is way too big.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I ignored his snark, pulled the black helmet off and handed it back to Boudreaux. “Got anything smaller?”

  He shook his head. “It’s the smallest one we carry.”

  Anything smaller probably wouldn’t fit either officer. “I’ll skip it. Hand me that shield.”

  Despite the doubt on his face, he handed the black shield to me. “What about Callahan? Aren’t you going to wait?”

  Marty held up five fingers.

  “Nope,” I said, sliding my arm through the straps and hefting the three-quarter length black shield, testing the weight. I swung the shield over me in a few practice moves to test my balance. Shorter than the two cops, this would cover more of me, especially during what I liked to call “tactical ducking.” Full-length clear riot shields provided superior visual advantages, but the small window and heavier shield were better suited to an encounter with a fanged, acid-spitting mama snake. “He should get here right when I need him.”

  “For what?”

  “Father C’s on flamethrower duty.” I stretched and planted a kiss on Boudreaux’s cheek. “Don’t shoot me, okay? And don’t land any headshots on those wigglers until I tell you.”

  Boudreaux didn’t answer, but his blush said plenty.

  Marty and I fist bumped. “Don’t get dead,” he said.

  “Don’t plan on it.” I took the machete he offered and stepped around the open cruiser door.

  The bigger hydra heads bobbed low over its coils as I entered the dead zone between the cruiser and the squirming reptile pile towering over me. “Nice wormies,” I said, circling, the shield in front of me as I peered through the window.

  Little hydras swarmed over the top loop of the snake coil, hundreds of tiny heads opening and hissing at me, the bigger heads hovering protectively over them.

  Did snakes have maternal instincts?

  I stepped closer, brandishing the machete.

  One of the big heads darted forward, the forked tongue stabbing at the clear window in the riot shield. The head retreated, but others swarmed forward, tongues scenting the air.

  The whoosh and rush of heat signaled Father Callahan’s arrival.

  Glancing back, Father Callahan stood between me and the cruiser. He grinned under broad goggles, his teeth almost as white as his clerical collar. The apparatus strapped to his back made him look like some kind of mad scientist. After a quick thumbs up, he aimed the wand’s igniter at the beasts.

  “Let’s dance.”

  I angled the shield low as I approached, ready to use it as cover. Through the window, I watched some of the smaller hydra slither off coil mountain and fall to the ground with a smack, their heads awkwardly swinging and bobbing after landing. I sidestepped the overgrown, multi-headed mudworms and swung the machete at the creepy crawlies studying me from on high.

  The impact of a striking head smashing into the shield almost knocked me off my feet. I stayed low, and a stream of flame shot over my shield. Waddling backward in a crouch, I looked through the shield’s window at the hissing chorus. Charred stalks missing baby snake heads drooped between the open, acid-spitting live ones.

  Strike one, a success.

  Another mama hydra head struck, a fang sticking in the thick plexiglass window. Acid dripped down the shield, scarring the window’s clear surface a milky white. I yanked against the retreating head to avoid losing my shield and darted my other arm around to hack at the snake’s exposed body. But, being my luck, I only
managed a deep, anger-inducing cut instead of the near-decapitating strike I’d wanted. Pulling the shield close, I crouched as three more heads struck at once, crushing me into the ground. As they retreated, another pounded the shield, making my arm numb. Moving fast, I leapt and spun, managing to almost sever one head and duck beneath the shield before Father Callahan’s flame cauterized the wriggling stump and burned away the scrap of flesh attaching the head.

  One down, at least a hundred more to go.

  Piece of cake.

  The last three heads of the hydra loomed over me, striking my cracked shield from different directions. I prayed it would hold, watching the tip of a lone fang wedge deeper into the starburst impact point in the clouded plexiglass. A stream of fire arced over me long enough to scramble to my feet and dart across the snake-littered ground. Sweat poured into my face, and my muscles ached, but I rattled my remaining machete against the shield to draw the hydra’s attention.

  Sister Betty yelled from the other side of the reptile knot, and Father Callahan shot another burst of flame directly at the three heads. As intended, the heads each turned in a different direction. I lunged at the one aiming for me, twisting the shield at the last second to deflect an incoming stream of acid, my machete severing the waving stalk of flesh. I smelled burning plastic as I slammed into the ground, the severed head landing on top of my shield.

  When the ability to breathe returned, I almost regretted the first lungful of air, thick with the reek of burned meat. The stench of burning flesh intensified me as Father Callahan’s flame cauterized the cut I’d made. I clenched my jaw against the urge to vomit.

  As the flame guttered to a stop, I rolled to my feet, raised the battered shield over my head, and ran to Father Callahan’s side. A second before I got there, one of the remaining hydra heads attacked, striking at him so hard, it dragged the dead weight of the snake’s body across the pavement. The gunshot that blinded one of its eyes seemed to have irritated it. Father Callahan backtracked, but with each lunge, the snake got closer despite its missing eye. I screamed a battle cry and jumped, the machete cutting the snake deep. A shotgun blast finished the decapitation as I fell through the space between Father C and the snake. He landed on his rear and scrambled to get the flame thrower nozzle up to burn the stump before the heads grew back.

  Exhausted, but not done, I struggled to my feet in time to see Sister Betty lop off the last injured snake head with her machete and yell in triumph, a gout of flame from Marty’s flamethrower arcing over her riot shield to burn the severed neck.

  The hydra shuddered once and fell with a ground-shaking thump.

  Panting, I collapsed against the hood of the cruiser, surveying the gory wreckage.

  “Well done, Cee.” Father Callahan patted my shoulder before slumping onto the metal hood beside me.

  “Thanks.” I wiped my forearm across my forehead, though it felt wetter afterward. “Not too shabby yourself.”

  “That was…”

  I looked up into the stunned face of Officer Boudreaux and shaded my eyes to see him against the sun. “Kinda gross, right?”

  “Amazing,” he said, breathless.

  Laughter bubbled up from deep inside, and I leaned back on my elbows, though the hood of the car burned from the sunlight. “Thanks.” I poked my chin at Sister Betty behind him. “But I’m sure my mentor has fifty ways I could have done better.”

  She winced, handing me the machete hilt first. “Nah. Only ten.”

  “Slacker,” I teased.

  “Forgive me,” she said with a wry grin. “Chopping off heads distracted me from monitoring your form.”

  “Sister Hot—um—Betty and I make a pretty good team.” Marty stretched to plant an elbow on her shoulder.

  She raised an eyebrow. “I’m retired from the monster hunter business.”

  “But isn’t it easier than wrangling deviants like our dear Caitlin?”

  “Probably.” She eyed me thoughtfully. “But I think I’ll stick with that a little longer.”

  “I’d rather you have not had to jump in.” I watched her for signs of injury or pain.

  “Well, I’ve invested too much time in you to watch you die.” Sister Betty put her hands on her hips, standing tall. “And Marty’s not bad.”

  He grinned.

  “Not a hunter, but not bad.” The corner of her mouth twitched.

  I laughed as his expression evaporated. “The trainer giveth, and the trainer taketh away.”

  “Is this something you handle often?” Boudreaux glanced over his shoulder at his partner talking with Cooper. I hadn’t noticed when Cooper arrived. Maybe we could leave clean-up and debrief detail to him since he hadn’t been around for the really messy stuff.

  Beside me, Father Callahan, Marty, and Betty started planning how to locate the victim.

  “More or less.” I sat up and slid down the goo-covered hood. My team would be fine without me for a minute.

  Boudreaux looked at me, and electricity raced across my skin. “You know, I was thinking, maybe we should go out for dinner while you’re here. I can, I don’t know, show you things tourists don’t get to see.”

  “I, uh—”

  “Caitlin!”

  My head snapped around at the sound of Cooper’s voice only to see him sprint past, dodging the slippery debris of dead hydra with inhuman accuracy and grace. Whatever he saw, this couldn’t be good. Without thinking, I ran after him, leaving the rest of my team, and Boudreaux’s unanswered invitation, behind.

  13

  My muscles burned as I raced through the streets, dodging cars and pedestrians, jumping potholes, and splashing through the ever-present puddles. Each thudding step made me ache for sleep, to stop, to rest. With every breath, I heaved fire, but I fought to keep going, my eyes on the nightmare mere paces ahead of Cooper. If I could get there…

  Cooper yelled, but approaching sirens drowned him out.

  I pushed harder, unwilling to let the bastard escape.

  LaFontaine and Boudreaux’s cruiser skidded to a stop at the end of the street, blocking it with no space between the tight corridor of houses. I slowed, reaching for the gun I hadn’t remembered to strap on once the hydra fight ended, and cursed.

  “Stop where you are! Put your hands up!” Cooper’s command echoed in the street.

  The nightmare froze, then slowly turned to face the agent and his gun. He raised his hands, the hem of his shirt lifted to expose his pale belly.

  Four heads peered over the top of the cruiser. Officer LaFontaine, Officer Boudreaux, Sister Betty, and Father Callahan all aimed weapons at the nightmare’s back.

  Cooper adjusted his stance to avoid aiming his Glock at the cruiser and barked orders the creature didn’t follow. It shook its head, eyes wide with terror.

  I jogged the last few steps to Cooper, staying behind him. “I don’t think it understands.”

  “Yeah, I got that impression,” he muttered, then yelled again, but in a language I couldn’t identify.

  It nodded for the first time.

  “That makes things easier.”

  “What language was that?”

  “Elvish,” he said before yelling again in the same language.

  Sister Betty rounded the trunk of the car, lowering her weapon. She said something that sounded like what Cooper said. When had she learned Elvish?

  The creature turned to Sister Betty and spoke, voice shaking in terror.

  She nodded.

  “What did it say?” I asked Cooper.

  He ignored me, shouting what could only be a command. The nightmare whipped around, its hands thrusting higher into the air.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I’m not a translator. When it’s over, we’ll debrief.”

  I bristled, but before some acidic reply fell out of my mouth, Sister Betty called to him. “Agent Hardin, stand down. Gyleeto agrees to come peacefully and safely.”

  “He can agree all he wants, but I won’
t trust him until he’s on the ground and contained.”

  “This isn’t necessary,” Sister Betty insisted, holstering her weapon, her hands palm out and at chest height. “We have to show good faith. And trust.”

  The nightmare’s head swiveled between Cooper and Sister Betty.

  I stepped where Cooper could see me. “She’s right. This might be key to accessing the Compact.”

  “Down!” Cooper screamed. I dove for the ground, hands protecting my head as he fired.

  When I looked up, Sister Betty sat on the ground cupping her arm. The thunder of dented metal resounded through the street as the nightmare landed on the trunk of the cruiser and jumped off the other side.

  Cooper pursued the nightmare, and I scrambled over the dirty pavement to Sister Betty. She stared at me, eyes wide, her face deathly white.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Are you hurt? Did you get shot?”

  She blinked then looked down at her hand covering her arm as Marty knelt beside her. Tears welled in her eyes. Her lower lip trembled. She said nothing.

  I reached for her hand, to coax it away. “Let me see.”

  She twisted away from me and shook her head.

  “He touched her, Cee,” Marty said, so softly, I almost missed it.

  Ice coursed through me. “What?” Ice and rage.

  “The nightmare.” A tear ran down his cheek. “I saw it. He shoved her to get away. Both hands. He touched her.”

  “No.” I tried to make eye contact with Sister Betty, but she looked at the ground, her shoulders shaking. “That can’t be right.”

  A single sob broke out of her. She shook her head and folded forward, drawing her knees up, shaking with the force of her tears.

  My jaw clenched as I rocked back on my heels. I hadn’t watched them. I distracted Cooper. I neglected my team, my responsibilities.

  “Father Callahan’s gone after him.” Marty’s arm curled around Sister Betty as she sobbed. “Let’s take her back to the hotel.”

  To wait. For the manifestation of her fears. To wait until catatonia took her, too.

  “Caitlin?”

  I failed the woman I loved. My carelessness sentenced her to death.