by James Hunter
“So does that mean we’ll get invites to all the parties?” I asked.
Arawn laughed, a deep, rich bark. “No. It means I will consider not eating you if you should stumble through my land again uninvited. Now go, before my mood changes. I hunger for the hunt.” He turned toward the Dullahan. “Assemble the lords and ladies—tell them we shall throw wide the gates of the Pit this night and have sport.” He reached down and ran a giant hand over a hellhound’s broad head. “You will feast yet.”
I’m not at all ashamed to admit I was the very first one to scramble back through the portal and get the hell away from that loony moon-bat.
TWENTY-NINE:
Intelligence
I sprawled in Kong’s whirlpool of total badassery—err, the Fountain of Youth—soaking up some well-deserved R and R while I mulled over the terrible situation looming before us. James, Greg, and Ferraro all lounged in the warmth of the fountain, too. Healing waters seeping into cuts and gouges, massaging away bruises and aches, washing clean the sour stink of battle and death. Kong, on the other hand, paced impatiently by the shore of the dark lagoon, crossing the length of the cavern in a few long strides, his thoughts obviously elsewhere—like maybe with Winona. She’d ducked away the second we made it back to the cave, darting off without a word.
Since Kong and Winona could speak telepathically, he, at least, had to know what was going on. And Kong looked none too pleased about whatever “it” was. Whatever. He’d get around to opening his trap once he was ready.
I watched the water bubble and ripple, my mind lazily drifting back to our return trip from Anwnn. Passing into Harold’s interdimensional homestead, trudging through the Hub, and hoofing it back to Sasquatch Central had taken a solid couple of hours … well, not counting a few brief layovers. First we stopped off at a Hub-side greasy spoon called Ricky’s Burger Joint. The place boasted it had the best burgers in Inworld or Out, which was a porta-John full of bullshit, but at least the serving staff didn’t ask any awkward or uncomfortable questions about our gore-soaked attire or our large, furry travelling companions.
I’ll be the first to admit I have no great love for the Hub, but I’ll give it this much: the Hub Dwellers, by and large, know not to ask too many probing questions. Heck, for the servers at Ricky’s, our odd, formalwear-clad party was probably only the third or fourth weirdest thing they’d seen that day.
After filling up the ol’ food-tank, we stopped off at the Brokers of Iskdarla Shopping Emporium—try saying that five times, fast—the largest retail mall anywhere in existence. The emporium was like the bastard child of the world’s biggest garage sale and a sprawling third-world outdoor market. Since Greg and James didn’t have extra clothes with ’em—and we couldn’t afford for them to head home and grab new duds—the emporium was the best option.
Plus Greg wanted to pick up that sniper rifle, just in case, so we popped by Invisible-Danh’s. The place was a supremely shady, black-market weapons shop, run by an equally shady Dökkálfar named, of course, Invisible Danh—so called for his uncanny ability to smuggle weapons under the radar. Danh and I went back a good ways, and though he was a shifty bastard, he was also reliable and friendly.
Reminded me of myself, actually. He’d also been the one to customize my handgun as a friendly thank you for an off-the-books job I’d done for him back in my Guild days. And his daughter, Megan the Teal, was the best damned leatherworker I’d ever seen. She was my go-to gal whenever I needed a new Kevlar-lined jacket or a replacement shoulder rig for my hand cannon. The pair of ’em did outstanding work.
After all that jazz, we headed back to Kong and Winona’s secret hidey-hole and, believe it or not, we actually made it without any major incidents. We weren’t waylaid by bandits, assaulted by a pack of flesh-eating zombies, or mugged in a dark alley by some halfie stoned out of its gourd on whatever the latest drug of choice was. I rarely catch breaks like that, so I figured Lady Fate was throwing me a little love, giving me a brief respite—the eye in the storm, if you will—before everything went to nine-kinds-of-blow-your-face-up-hell.
And let’s not forget, I did have to drag my tired ass down the asstastic spiral staircase that led to the secret chamber below the cave proper. So even my small victory felt cheap.
Further tainting my win: I still had no clue how we were going to beat the Wendigo, rescue the People of the Forest, or put the kibosh on the nefarious undertakings of Doctor Hogg, Fast Hands Steve, and the mysterious asshat running the show. After leaping through all those flaming hoops with Arawn and the Sirens—barely escaping with our friggin’ lives—we weren’t really any better off than we’d been before.
Sure, now we knew the Wendigo could be stopped, but I didn’t have a way to pull it off. After the royal ass-kicking Kong had dished out to the Wendigo at the motorhome, that S.O.B. was gonna be ready for us. Assholes like him were opportunists who would only strike when they had a clear advantage. I knew it, because I’m an asshole opportunist, too, and we can spot our own.
“Well, we’re not going to get anything done sitting around here, licking our wounds, and pretending like the problem’s going to go away on its own,” Ferraro said, interrupting the peaceful quiet while folding her arms across her bra-covered breasts. The motion earned her an appraising leer from James.
“And what would you suggest we do, exactly?” James asked. “It’s all well and good to say we ought to do something, but which of you has an actual suggestion?”
“That’s why we need to talk through it,” Ferraro replied, giving him a narrow-eyed glare. “And stop staring at my breasts. Aren’t you over a hundred? How about you grow up a little?”
“Says the woman who’s young enough to still require a babysitter—” James muttered.
“We start with what we know,” Greg interjected, before the spat could escalate further. “In my experience, an operation’s about as good as the intelligence behind it. Based on what we know right now, I’d say we’re in a helluva lot of trouble. First, we know that this Wendigo fella has the tiara and he has backup—these enthralled Chiye-tanka. But what about other reinforcements? More cops or Little Brothers? Hell, do we even know for daggon sure where the Wendigo and his goons are? I mean, you sabotaged their motorhome and burned down the mill, which was probably their base of operation.”
Kong ceased his restless marching and turned on us. He frowned and snorted, his great nostrils flaring. “There have been many changes,” he said, then began pacing once more.
“Changes, you say. How helpful,” I replied. “Maybe you’d care to elaborate just a bit since none of us are friggin’ mind readers.”
He halted again, his stony face unreadable. Then his left eye twitched—never a good sign—and before I could blink, he smashed a huge fist into the floor. Chips of stone broke free and skidded across the ground. “With the destruction of the mill, the Kinslayer has retreated to the Sacred Grove. He has taken my people and this Doctor Hogg with him,” he growled. Anger seethed beneath his flesh, his skin shifting and distorting in random areas—under his jaw, across his chest, down one leg—as though the demonic creature within were clawing its way out.
“He has desecrated our ancestral pacts,” Kong continued. “The great trees, they called to me the moment we returned to Inworld.” He glared at us, like this was all our fault somehow. “I have sent my daughter to investigate this. But it is grave news.”
“Well, has she discovered anything useful yet?”
Kong said nothing. After a long moment of hesitation, he shook his blocky head.
“You said he has your people with him. How many are we talking about?” Greg asked, cool and levelheaded, always keeping his eye on the nitty-gritty.
“We are few in number, but still we stand a thousand strong.”
“Excuse me,” James said, “I must’ve misheard. Did you say there are a thousand of your kind currently enthralled to the will of this Wendigo fellow?”
The chief nodded. “Indeed.”
“So, obviously,” Ferraro said, “hitting them head-on isn’t the best course of action. But that doesn’t have to be the only course of action.” She turned to Kong. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Maybe there’s some kind of back way into this grove we could access?”
The chief was quiet for a time. Sharing the secrets of his people couldn’t have been easy for him, and I could see his natural inclination to stay tight-lipped battling for supremacy over his urgent need for help.
“No,” he said at last. “No back way in. The Sacred Grove is a sanctuary and a fortress. It has one entrance. A cave, like this one. The grove is an axis mundi. Like the mill. But natural. Pure. You enter the cave, you exit in the Sacred Grove. That is the only way.
“My daughter says”—he tapped at his temple—“the entrance is guarded by your Fast Hands Steve and the human sheriff, Jack Kelly. They have many warriors.” He paused, his eyes momentarily distant, the look he got when communicating directly with his daughter. “Twenty-five man-creatures—many not human, though my daughter says they wear flesh masks.”
Greg frowned for a moment, then nodded. “Twenty-five. We can handle twenty-five.”
“No, we can’t,” James said matter-of-factly. “Because the moment we engage the force positioned at the entryway, the enthralled Chiye-tanka will flood out of the Sacred Grove like a plague of locust.”
“I got an idea,” Greg said, fixing a crusty stare on James. “How ’bout you actually contribute to the conversation, instead of just shootin’ your daggon mouth off?”
“Correction, Mr. Chandler,” James replied as he laced his hands behind his head, flexing his biceps while letting the water rush up over his chest. “I’m contributing a little thing called reality to the conversation.”
Ferraro shot up, standing in the pool, water trickling down her bare stomach as she thrust an accusing finger at James. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to persuade us not to interfere. Maybe you’ve got Yancy convinced you’re still one of the good guys, but you don’t have everyone here fooled.”
“Sit down,” James commanded, his jocular, frat-boy veneer replaced by a hardened veteran of a thousand battles. “I’m no traitor, but I’ll be more than happy to tell you what I am. I am a battlefield commander with more experience fighting the supernatural than anyone in this room. I’ve been Lieutenant Commander of the Fist of the Staff since the Second World War—I fought off Ahnenerbe SS officers while Mr. Chandler, there, was still waddling around in training pants.
“And Agent Ferraro,” he continued without a pause, “despite the fact that you’ve proven yourself quite capable thus far, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re practically a child toying about with forces far beyond your understanding. So if I say a plan is lousy, I’d suggest taking the words to heart.”
“You know,” Ferraro replied, her voice dripping venom, “Old Man Winter underestimated me, too. Then I blew his leg off with a shotgun.”
“I swear I’ll turn this hot tub right around if you don’t stop bickering,” I said, conjuring a small weave of water and sending a spray at Greg, Ferraro, and James, all at once. “Fighting each other isn’t gonna help anyone—and James, stop being an asshole.”
“I’m not being an ass,” he said, his normally unflappable movie-star grin replaced by a scowl.
“Yeah. You. Are. So stop it.” Damn, tensions must’ve really been running high for me to be the voice of reason. Like entrusting the car keys to a twelve-year-old with a drinking problem.
“Sorry,” Greg finally muttered before lapsing into silence.
“Me too,” Ferraro said, glancing at James. “That outburst was unprofessional of me. Must just be the stress. You’re right. You have a lot of experience and that’s not something which should be discounted.”
James grunted and nodded, mollified.
“Chief, is there any chance an attack on the guard team would draw the Wendigo out?” Greg asked after a few long seconds.
Kong thought about it for long while, before finally shaking his head. “Unlikely. The Kinslayer will not confront me again. Not until he is sure of victory.”
“Still,” Ferraro said, “maybe we could stage a distraction to draw the guards away from the entrance, keep them from alerting the Sasquatches inside. That might afford someone an opportunity to sneak past. Probably Yancy and”—she hesitated for a moment—“James,” she finished begrudgingly. “We buy them an opening, they infiltrate under the cover of an illusion.”
“The grove is a fortress,” Kong said again, his brow furrowed in worry. “Infiltration is impossible. An illusion will not work. My people have far superior senses. They will be alert. Even covered in illusion, the mages will never come close to the Kinslayer. He will take no more chances.”
“Even if you or your daughter were to carry them in?” Ferraro asked.
“No,” Kong said. The word was barely more than a whisper, but seemed as sharp and final as the last nail in a coffin lid. “With so many of the People on guard it is not possible. No trickery will work.”
A plan began to form in my brain—a terrible, reckless, moronic idea. One that Kong would almost certainly reject out of hand without a moment’s hesitation. I also had a feeling deep, deep down that it was gonna suck more than a literal sucking chest wound—was probably gonna hurt more, too. But it was also the only way.
“Ferraro,” I said in resignation, “if you could figure out a way to buy me enough time to get into the Sacred Grove, I think I know how I could get close enough to the Kinslayer. Though I’m gonna have to do it alone.” I locked eyes with the chief. “We need to have a word in private, I think.”
“What are you cookin’ up?” Greg said, searching my face as he rubbed at the stubble on his cheek. “I’ve known you long enough to tell there’s something going on in that empty space between your ears. And if you want us all gone”—he waved a hand at Ferraro and James—“then it’s gotta be more reckless than a Marine on boot-leave.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. “You just gotta trust that I know what I’m doing. So how’s about you just nod your ugly mug and scoot along.”
No one said anything for a long beat. Ferraro, Greg, and James shared speculative looks, like they were trying to jointly decide whether to comply or pin me down and whip me with wet towels until I spilled the beans.
“Alright, good to go, devil,” Greg finally said, breaking the silence, nodding his head just a notch. “But if you do something foolish and get yourself hurt, I don’t wanna hear no bitchin’ and moanin’ about after the fact, you got that, Princess?”
Ferraro rolled her eyes and slid next to me, her hip brushing against mine. She reached up and grabbed me by the chin, eyes locked onto mine. “I’m trusting you to do the right thing.”
“I know,” I said.
“Come back in one piece.” She pulled me into a brief kiss, her lips pressing into mine, lingering for a moment as my heart pounded, before drawing away. “One piece, you understand?”
James took the longest to agree. He sat unmoving, worry gnawing at him, dancing across his face as he solemnly regarded his immaculately manicured fingernails. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he said at last. “I know you’re the Hand of Fate, but I also know you, old sport. Do you know why I tagged along so often on your missions?”
“Becaus
e you were insanely jealousy of my keen wit and good looks?”
He snorted. “Hardly. You perpetually look like someone just fished you out of a gutter. And a wall-mounted trout has more wits. And that, my friend, is precisely why I followed you. Your plans never show any subtlety, subterfuge, or even a hint of grace and elegance.” He leaned his head back, staring up at the hanging stalactites. “But”—a lopsided grin broke across his face at last—“as they say, ‘God smiles upon children, idiots, and drunks.’ Since you’re basically an amalgamation of all three, I’ll just have to trust there is, in fact, some higher providence at play here.”
I swear, sometimes I get less respect than a conspiracy theorist wearing a bathrobe and a tinfoil hat.
THIRTY:
Heart-to-Heart
It took Ferraro, Greg, and James only a few minutes to dry off, gear up, and beat feet, heading to the upper regions of the cave, leaving Kong and I all by our lonesome in the underground sanctuary.
“No,” Kong said without preamble. Jerk didn’t even give me a chance to speak my piece.
“I haven’t even told you what my plan is yet,” I protested.
“I am no whelp. I am the true Chief of my People and Guardian of the Second Seal, handed down to me from my father, and his father before him. I have lived for a thousand years, and have watched the designs of man. Your companions may be blind, but I see. You want the Seal,” he said, taking all the steam right out of my sail, since that was exactly what I was going to suggest.
