by M. K. Gibson
“That’s why,” Wraith Knight said. “The damn thing either runs out of ammo too fast or one of the temperamental mechanisms breaks down.”
“I see,” I said, tossing the weapon back down to the carriage’s driving ledge. “You have a Gothic bazooka down there?”
“Sorry boss,” Wraith Knight said, handing me the smallest, wimpiest, most erectile-dysfunction-inducing hand crossbow I’d ever seen.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“It’s all we have left,” Wraith Knight apologized. “I didn’t think there’d be this many.”
“You didn’t suspect there’d be this many werewolves in a town called Mondhafen?! It is literally a German portmanteau of ‘Moon Haven’!”
“Really?”
“Yes! What, you think these universes are original? Remember the last town we were in when we retrieved the Coptic jar of Amunn-Kha? The one with all the undead and mummies?”
“Yeah, Untotheim,” Wraith Knight said.
“’Undead Home’,” I explained while I fired the dinky little crossbow at the still-pursuing werewolves.
“No shit?”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, WK, but the genre loves to butcher foreign languages for their naming conventions in order to denote a sense of . . . I don’t know . . . gravitas.”
Wraith Knight slapped the reins, urging the horses faster, then looked back at me. “Is that why you named the ship the Zenith Umbra? Literally the ‘Top Shadow’?”
“Oh, that you know?” I growled. After firing the last of the crossbow bolts, I just threw the weapon at the snout of the closest wolf. “Just drive the damn carriage.”
“Coming up on the bridge, boss!”
“I see it,” I told him.
As the carriage continued racing, with the pack on our heels, we entered into a massive circular courtyard. The night sky, which had been blocked by Mondhafen’s tall Gothic buildings, was now clear and ominous. A blood-red moon hung high, burning like an open sore against the dark purples, blues, and blacks of the night sky.
Ahead of us, the Weite was waiting. The near half-mile-long alabaster white stone bridge rose a hundred feet above the Silberphahl River and glowed like an arched beacon of peace in a world of madness. The bridge connected the southern and northern halves of the city while the river flowed under the bridge into the Wahnsinn Bay.
Out of weapons and out of options, I crawled back down from the carriage’s roof and plopped down onto the blood-red-cushioned leather bench of the driver’s seat next to Wraith Knight.
“We’re almost there! Hurry!”
“I’m giving her all I’ve got, captain!”
“Wrong genre,” I snapped. “And if anyone knows me, they know I loathe horses, no matter how mad it made that one audiobook reviewer. So drive the demonic hell-beasts into the ground.”
Whether responding to Wraith Knight’s continued snapping of the leather reins, or my psychic wishing for equestricide, the horses pushed harder as we began our crossing of the Weite. Thanks to the horses’ renewed exuberance, coupled with the smooth stone of the bridge, we were finally beginning to outpace the werewolves.
“I think we’re gonna make it, boss!”
I sighed.
No sooner had Wraith Knight uttered that clichéd expression than we saw a second pack of werewolves, now coming at us from the far northern edge of the bridge. I simply looked up at him.
“Really? You had to say that?”
“Sorry boss.”
“You want to say ‘What could possibly happen next?’ while you’re at it? Hmm? Just to make sure that fate rectally violates us?”
“What do we do?” Wraith Knight asked. “I doubt we can plow through them.”
“Just stop here,” I said.
“Boss?”
“Do it,” I commanded.
Unsure of what I had planned, but still confident in my leadership, Wraith Knight pulled back hard on the reins while applying the brake-stick against the carriage’s wheel. A moment later, we came to a full stop at nearly the halfway point across the bridge.
The werewolves behind us closed in quickly from the south, while the new pack came at us from the north. Fate, it seemed, wanted very much to make us the crosspiece of the ol’ Wobbly-H.
The werewolves slowly continued to surround us. Inch by inch, the angry growling monsters advanced. Even at this distance, I could smell their animal musk and their burning hatred. They were ready to pounce and tear us apart.
“What are they waiting for?” Wraith Knight asked.
“For their Alpha,” I said, inclining my chin towards the larger gray-and-black-furred wolf who stood upright.
Pushing nearly ten feet tall on his reverse-jointed hind legs, the werewolf Alpha crossed its heavily muscled arms and regarded us with a mix of anger and curiosity.
“Jackson Blackwell. The Shadow Master,” the Alpha wolf said in a deep, all-too-human voice. “When I heard it was you, I couldn’t believe it.”
“Hey there, Gray Fang,” I said with a nod of respect to my former client.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Where I Discuss Pack Tactics, Mock Male Pattern Baldness, and Go for a Swim
When fostering a business relationship, it is important to gain your client’s trust. Once you have that, the bond you establish will last forever. Which was why when I helped a client, I knew they not only trusted me, but also would do anything for me. In the case of Grey Fang, he had been a middling werewolf from Horreich, and was the foil to many would-be poetry-spewing, fop-with-a-rapier tragic heroes. But thanks to my teachings, he had ascended to being the Alpha of the Dessemark Bloodpack, the most powerful and feared pack in all of Mondhafen.
Fans of my earlier work will remember Grey Fang from Villains Rule’s prologue—the werewolf in my waiting room who insisted on licking his crotch in public.
Hey, if you got it, flaunt it.
It was because of my past relationship with Grey Fang that I wasn’t worried. I knew my old client, and I knew he would let us pass.
“So, how about it?” I smiled. “For all I’ve done for you, I think you should step aside and let us go.”
The giant lycanthrope looked at his pack, then back at me. “No.”
Like I always said, clients are stupid and don’t deserve an ounce of respect. Their allegiance means nothing and it’s best to kill them once the check clears.
“What do you mean ‘no’?” I asked. “For everything I’ve done for you, you should be on your back showing me your belly.”
Grey Fang began to growl. “Watch your tone, Jackson.”
“Oh, are we on a first-name basis now?” I asked, then added, “Stuart.”
The gathered werewolves began to look at one another, then back at their leader. It may have been the wind, but I was pretty sure I heard soft canine laughter coming from the pack.
“You have told your pack that, haven’t you?” I asked as I reached into my coat’s inner pocket. A moment later I pulled out my cigarettes and lit one. “Do they know that a scrawny, mangy werewolf one night bit a young dirt villager named Stuart Mucklebone? And when he couldn’t take being small and rejected, little Stuart sought me out. Through my vision, my power, and a shitload of HGH, I turned that knock-kneed, shit-smelling hayseed into the powerful Grey Fang.”
Audible snickering was heard from the werewolves.
“Shut . . . up . . . Jackson,” the werewolf growled. The way the words rumbled from deep within his barreled chest, it was clear that was his final warning.
“Boss?” Wraith Knight whispered. “What are you doing?”
I gave my minion a quick wink, then continued addressing the pack. “You all know he’s bald, right?” I asked, looking about. “The sheer amount of steroids and chemicals I had to pump into him made his mane fall out. If you don’t believe me, see for yourself. That’s a wolf-wig he’s wearing.”
“Enough!”
“I didn’t even get to the part where you requeste
d penile-extension surgery to enhance your . . . limitations.”
The bridge was now a loud roar of yips and barking laughter. One of the younger wolves leaped up and grabbed hold of Grey Fang’s hair. And true to my word, the Alpha’s glorious mane of hair came off, revealing a bald pate.
“See! Is there anything sadder than a bald werewolf?”
Grey Fang’s golden eyes stared murder directly at me. Quick as a flash, the werewolf grabbed the younger whelp and tore his throat out. Instantly, the laughs died down.
They were instead replaced by growling. But not at me.
Werewolf culture fun fact: An Alpha oftentimes has to fight and kill a would-be successor. It is the nature to challenge the leader from time to time in order to ensure said Alpha is capable of leading. But when an Alpha kills a pack member out of jealousy or humiliation, then the pack oftentimes responds in kind.
“You dare turn on me?!” Grey Fang sneered, lowering himself and spreading his muscular, clawed arms wide. The larger beast practically radiated fear and dominance. “That . . . human has beguiled you. Do not forget why we hunt, for it was he who stole the sacred artifact from our hallowed lands.”
“What, this?” I asked, lifting the ceremonial staff from the carriage. I held up the six-foot-long staff, which had the mummified claw of some long dead lycanthrope on the end. “I thought I could use this to get those hard-to-reach spots.”
To accentuate my point, I used the Claw of the First Hunter to first scratch my back . . . and then my butt.
“Aww, boss,” Wraith Knight sighed.
“What?”
With one leg propped up, I was actually surprised how well the severed claw of the first werewolf really itched that one spot under my sack. You know the one.
“I have to say,” I said, letting the miracle claw hit all the right nooks and crannies, “I don’t know much about your ancestor, but he touches me in all the right places.”
Wraith Knight just shook his head and rubbed at his face. “This was not how I planned to die.”
“And you’re not going to. Trust me,” I told Wraith Knight, then beckoned for him to join me atop the carriage’s roof.
“Retrieve the Scepter of The First Hunter,” Grey Fang commanded his wolves, and then added, “then skin them alive. Slowly.”
The wolves hesitated, still unsure of the Alpha’s loyalty. But considering that I had just tea-bagged their most sacred relic, they were willing to comply. All of the wolves began to advance on the carriage.
Wraith Knight pointed at the werewolves with an exasperated look. “And now?”
“Just trust me, WK.” I smirked.
I reached into my coat’s inner pocket and pulled out a small black box with a miniature Tesla coil on the back and extended the long silver wire. I pressed the button on the side, squawking the device.
“Sophia, I assume you were listening?”
“I was indeed, sir. How do you like the setting-appropriate communications device?”
I looked at the anachronistic steampunk radio with disdain. “It’s functional. You have my exact location?”
“I do indeed, sir. Are you ready?”
“No,” I admitted truthfully. “But I don’t have a choice. We planned for this, so might as well get it over with.”
“See you soon, sir. And remember, feet first. And don’t forget to point your toes.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I told her, then released the button. I then tossed the device underhanded directly at Grey Fang. “Here you go, Stuart. It’s been a pleasure.”
“What is this?”
From high above, through the cold night air, came a high-pitched whistling sound that grew louder and louder. And to me, it was musical.
“That,” I said, pointing at the device, “is the homing signal. JUMP!”
Before Wraith Knight could ask another stupid question, I shoved my minion off the carriage, over the edge of the bridge, and into the open air a full one hundred feet above the Silberphahl River.
“Remember to point your toes!” I called out at Wraith Knight. Considering how he was screaming, due the end-over-end tumble, I doubt he heard me.
Ouch.
Well, he was tough. He should be fine.
“Goodbye Stuart,” I said.
Before I jumped, I quickly bent the claws atop the Staff of the First Hunter so only the middle finger was up, and I waved it at Grey Fang. I managed to jump off the bridge just as the mortar shells launched from the Zenith Umbra impacted directly atop the werewolves of the Dessemark Bloodpack.
I crossed my arms, pointed my toes, and struck the water a few seconds later. The impact nearly knocked the air from my lungs. Deep below, I began my awkward swim to the surface. Once I breached the surface, I heard WK.
“B-boss! B-boss!” Wraith Knight sputtered. “Are you okay?”
“Hey, you lived. That’s great,” I said, swimming over to him.
High above, the beautiful white stone of the bridge collapsed and fell into the water below. Debris flew far and wide, and with it, the aerated blood of many werewolves rained down in a soft, misty red rain.
And it stank of burnt dog hair.
“Well, enough of this, we’re on the clock,” I told Wraith Knight. “Let’s go.”
“Where’s the ship?”
I whacked my minion atop his head with the Claw of the First Hunter.
“Sorry boss, I forgot,” Wraith Knight apologized.
In the distance, The Zenith Umbra, now in the setting-appropriate form of an angular submersible vehicle, rose up from beneath the surface of Wahnsinn Bay, like a sword through the heart of darkness.
The main mortar cannons steamed from the shelling and gave us a clear point to swim towards.
Eat your heart out, Captain Nemo. You may have the Nautilus, but the Zenith Umbra has wifi and a sex room.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Where I Counsel My Minion, Discuss an Ex-Girlfriend, and Prepare for a Party
My power returned to me once I was aboard the Zenith Umbra. A quick snap of the fingers, and all the seawater left my body and clothes, falling through the airlock’s mesh grate floor with a splash. For an added bonus, I now had the slight scent of exotic, and expensive, cologne. It’s good to be a god.
Wraith Knight, however, remained soaked and smelling like a Red Lobster dumpster on a hot day after a rainstorm.
Poetic, I know.
“What about me?” Wraith Knight asked.
“What about you?” I countered. “You lost faith in me back there.”
“Sorry boss,” the big man said as he sheepishly hung his head. “It . . . it seemed hopeless.”
“That’s never an excuse. You should know by now: Never bet against me. Trust me, right now some Goodreads wannabe literary critic is already slapping away at his keyboard to slam me for ‘never being in any real danger’,” I said, using air quotes.
“I’m sorry . . . master.”
“Oh, I can’t stay mad at you,” I mused.
I snapped my fingers, and like me, Wraith Knight was now dry and comfortable— although his cologne smelled less expensive and more like the body spray men in their early twenties wear to attract women. You know, eau de douchebag.
“Come on,” I told him. “Let’s see how the others fared.”
********
Ever since we’d entered the Gothic fantasy-horror dimension of Horreich, I and my crew had to adapt to our surroundings. Since the vast majority of the stories from this realm involved industrial coastal cities, the Zenith Umbra was re-formed from a starship to a sleek, stealthy black and silver submarine. And aboard the Umbra, we were able to navigate the massive chain of island city-states.
In Horreich, each region had its own flavor of fear, but the overall theme of this universe was the same. Mix one part dark, romanticized vampire fiction with a healthy dose of Lovecraftian-style madness, sprinkle on some lycanthrope action, pepper in undead and random monstrosities as needed, stir the whole th
ing up with random human set pieces, and voilà—a crap-fiction soufflé.
The stories are always the same. Forbidden nocturnal love, revenge, a half-vampire doing . . . something, mutants, courtly manners, and the like. Oh, and let’s not forget the codpieces, heaving bosoms, and naughty, carnal acts performed during dimly lit liaisons.
You wanna know why there’s so much sex in those books? Certain authors’ midlife crises aside, science fiction and fantasy novels make about six hundred millions dollars a year. But romance and erotica make neatly 1.5 billion. So, to many of you slacking partners out there, time to quit farting around and be what your lover wants you to be.
Or don’t. Guys like me love to be the one they turn to when they leave you. And the best part is, they don’t want me to stick around.
Ahh . . . villainy.
“Jackson?” Lydia said, looking at me oddly.
“Yes, dear?”
“You have that look on your face.”
“Which one?”
“Where you’re imagining breaking up bored couples.”
My wife knows me so well. “I was indeed, dear. And I recognize that now is not the time for such thoughts. My apologies. So let’s get to it.”
I took my seat in the war room deep in the belly of the Zenith Umbra. I sat at the head of the oval table and placed the Claw of the First Hunter on the table. I looked to Wraith Knight and he then set the Coptic jar of Amunn-Kha on the table with it.
“WK and I did our part and retrieved these from Mondhafen and Untotheim. How did the ladies fare?”
Lydia sat opposite me and smiled back with an equally deadly grin. As always, I was smitten by my wife’s round face, chin length hair, mischievous eyes, and full lips. And I will admit, the Horreich garb suited her. A white silk blouse and a brocaded bodice accentuated her feminine curves, while the pleated skirt and side-laced, thigh-high leather boots completed the dark fantasy vision.
“We, dear husband, did very well. Myst?”
Behind Lydia, Myst, now wearing a red leather highwayman coat, feathered hat, and lace domino mask, set two objects on the table.
