Mack opened up the gun cabinet and contemplated his two shotguns. The first was a Mossberg 590A1 “Retrograde”, and the other was an FN-Herstal FN SLP (Self Loading Police) MK 1. The primary, important, difference between the two guns was that the Mossberg was an old-fashioned pump shotgun, and the FN SLP was semi-automatic. Cosmetically, the two guns were an interesting contrast. This model of 590A1 was called “Retrograde” because it had a walnut stock and pump grip, a black parkerized barrel with a heat shield, and pretty much looked like it had traveled through time from a World War 2 battlefield. The SLP MK 1, on the other hand, was flat black with synthetic furniture. Mack had replaced the original traditional style stock with a pistol-grip “tactical” stock and added a tactical sling, a flashlight mounted on the accessory rail attached to the magazine extension, a butt-stock ammo carrier, and a small red dot sight. In other words, he’d made it “tacticool.”
Both shotguns could cycle 3-inch shells. In fact, they could each hold seven rounds, which was just what he had. Looking at the two shotguns, Mack came to a decision. He loaded the SLP with his hand-loaded obsidian shells. Then, he quickly loaded the Mossberg with 2.75-inch “kitchen sink” shells. The Program used a similar shell they called the JOAT, Jack of All Trades. Mack’s kitchen sink shells held a mixture of gold, silver, and iron pellets, wooden beads, sulfur crystals, and rock salt. There wasn’t enough gold or silver, just two pellets each, in any single round to stop a rougarou, but Mack figured the combo would be more effective in slowing one down than just silver.
He retrieved his old Ruger GP100 from the gun cabinet. Though it was “only” a six-shooter, it was still a .357 magnum, and he had a good supply of silver bullets in that caliber. Between it and its larger baby brother, the Super GP100, he would have plenty of high powered rounds to throw at the rougarou at close range.
KC hadn’t been idle after breakfast herself. When Mack came forward from his workbench he saw KC sitting at the bar-top table with some of her spellcasting supplies laid out around her. According to his father-in-law, a Mage could theoretically cast any spell they knew by concentration and willpower alone. However, that was prohibitively exhausting, possibly even deadly, for anyone who wasn’t an immortal. Even then, immortals had been known to “burn out” their immortality and their ability to channel magical energies casting too powerful of a spell. Therefore, smart spellcasters, especially mortal ones, used various props to “share the load” of magical energies, to focus their minds more quickly and accurately, and generally make the process as pain-free as possible.
The props a magician chose were often representative of either the magical Element being channeled to empower the spell or representative of the spell’s desired effect. Some spells mitigated the cost to the magician by involving lengthy rituals, using expensive materials that were consumed as “sacrifices”, having multiple magicians and assistants, or a combination of some or all of those elements. Other spells could be quick and dirty, evoking an instant effect. These spells were usually the most immediately draining of the magician’s personal energy.
Evocations also happened to be the most useful spells in combat situations. KC could literally summon bursts of fire, gusts of wind, eruptions of rocky spikes, blankets of ice, but doing so wore her down quickly without some kind of preparation. Even then, she could cast only so many spells without falling unconscious, or in the case of her dhamphir nature, needing to recharge herself with a significant intake of blood fresh from the artery of a living creature.
KC’s father was her wizard mentor. Doctor Robert “Bob” MacMurray wasn’t just a Mage. He was a professor of theoretical physics at the University of Missouri, Kansas City. Dr. Bob’s spells looked more like quantum equations than rhyming poetry. In fact, his spells, the ones he’d taught KC, were a combination of ancient runes and mathematical formulas. The materials components and foci, though, were rather modern and, frankly, incredibly cheap. Dr. Bob didn’t care for indulging in anything overly fancy with his spell components like some wizards. He’d developed spells that used markers, duct tape, Post-It Notes, rubber bands, thumbtacks, even party glitter as expendable components.
His foci, the wands, athames, staves, mirrors, and so forth that other wizards regularly used, were common, everyday items improvised and adapted to suit his personal philosophy of magic. A pair of drumsticks served him as wands; his “staff” was a cane he’d picked up in a thrift store; a positively ancient Swiss Army knife was his athame; a Magic 8-Ball functioned as his crystal ball, and an old makeup compact mirror served him as a scrying focus.
His youngest daughter had pretty much followed in his footsteps in that matter. A Sharpie marker and a roll of duct tape were the cornerstones of many of her spells, as were blocks of notepaper the size of Post-Its without the sticky backing. She had four squares of paper laid out in front of her and was working on a fifth, writing out a complex runic equation with a fine-tipped marker. Done with writing, she set the paper square aside and grabbed a strip of rawhide cord, which she tied into five simple knots. Then, she cut the cord on either side of the knot. The knots were placed onto each sheet of paper, and KC folded each sheet around the knotted cord in an almost origami-like manner leaving behind a small disk of paper.
“What are those?” Mack asked, pausing to look over his wife’s shoulder at her handiwork.
“Holding spells.” She pointed to another group of five origami disks, each of which had the head of a strike-anywhere match sticking out of it. “Fireballs. Don’t be close by if I have to use one.”
“No, thank you.”
Mack still had a burn scar on his left buttock from being too close to the area of effect of one of KC’s fireball spells. The spell acted like an incendiary grenade in that a blast of superheated plasma exploded from the center of the area of effect, but it was different because that area of effect was a hemisphere roughly three yards tall and six yards wide. Beyond that area it was harmless. Within that area it could melt steel and would incinerate most human-sized creatures down to their bones in seconds. The fireball was one of KC’s most powerful spells, and even with the props and a focus setting one off left her trembling and weak.
A deck of cheap playing cards sat on the table next to the fireball disks. “What’s this?”
“Energy bolts,” KC grinned.
She set aside the hold spell she’d finished folding and opened the card deck, pulled out one card and handed it to Mack. The back side of the card was covered with KC’s cramped yet precise runic script. The face side of the card held a single runic symbol in heavy marker over the suit and number symbol, in this case a seven of spades.
“You made Gambit cards,” Mack sighed.
One of KC’s favorite comic book characters was the X-Man known as “Gambit,” a Cajun thief who could charge ordinary objects, usually playing cards, with energy. Then, he would throw them like daggers or shuriken, and upon impact, the playing cards would explode like grenades.
KC only grinned wider. “Yep. You’re proud of me. You can tell me you’re proud of me. I know you’re proud of me, but I’d like to hear you say it.”
“I’m terrified of you.”
“Close enough. I’ll take it!”
“You must’ve spent most of the morning turning fifty-two playing cards into energy blast spells.”
“Fifty-four if you count the Joker and the instruction card, and, yes, that was time consuming, but worth it.”
The energy blast spell wasn’t a powerful evocation, and as such didn’t put much of a strain on KC as the fireball spell would. Normally, she would toss the spell off with a word and a gesture. By adding a material component, she’d increased the number of times she could cast the spell before the strain became too great. Twenty castings was her usual limit before she needed a rest with that one.
“Can you cast it fifty-four times now?”
KC shook her head. “If I have to use this one, I’ll get between twenty-five and thirty castings I figure before I need to recharge my
self, but I’m bringing a flask of pure human blood with me just in case.”
Donated human blood was the most potent power source a dhamphir could use without risking blood addiction, but even then a certain amount of risk was involved. The regular consumption of animal blood was a necessity for dhamphir to be able to function, taking the place of sleep in recharging the body, but the blood of higher life forms, such as humans, or the blood of magical beings, carried with it the risk of addiction. Blood addicted dhamphir were no better than their vampire counterparts, controlled by their need to feed on fresh blood from the vein.
“How much?”
“Half a pint.”
Mack nodded. KC could handle a half pint of human blood once a week with no ill effects. “I don’t like it, but it’s a risk worth taking.”
“I know, and I’m glad that you see it that way.”
“What else have you got prepared?”
“Oh, I’ve got a true aim focus and half a dozen glitter bombs. That should be enough for one big fight, I think.”
“Okay, I’ve got the SLP loaded with seven obsidian-based shells, our entire stock. All you’ve gotta do is chamber the first round, and it’s ready to go. I put nine rounds of kitchen sink shells in the Mossberg. They may not kill the rougarou, but I’m pretty sure it’ll stun his hairy ass, and speaking of stunning his hairy ass, I got out my old GP100 for you. I know you like your TH40, but we don’t have silver bullets for your .40 or my .45, and I’ll feel better knowing you’ve got some silver if you need it.”
“Are you expecting me to use two shotguns at once? What’re you packing besides your revolver?”
“The bow and arrows. And a couple of big chunks of obsidian.”
“Well, alright, then. You’d better get to work on lunch.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
“Good.” Mack turned toward the kitchen, paused, and turned back around. “I am proud of you, by the way. Terrified and proud.”
Chapter Six
Lewisburg, West Virginia
Wednesday, October 31, 2018
LUNCH WITH THE DURANDS had been pleasant. Mack really was an excellent chef, better than even he thought considering the limitations of his small kitchen set-up. After lunch, Mack had begged off to turn in for a long-overdue sleep. Mr. Durand had left soon after to attend to necessary farm work. That left KC and Mrs. Durand who spent the afternoon discussing their favorite books while folding and sorting the load of laundry Mrs. Durand had done for KC and Mack that morning. More time was spent talking than sorting and folding, but the clean laundry did eventually get put away.
Mack woke up around six o’clock that evening, fully refreshed and ready for the long night ahead. Instead of his sturdy hunting clothes, he put on a pair of ratty sweats and a faded tee-shirt he’d purchased in a thrift store. He actually had two storage bins set aside, one packed with track and sweatpants, the other with tee-shirts, all purchased practically in bulk from thrift stores and flea markets. These were disposable clothes, items he didn’t mind getting shredded if he needed to shapeshift suddenly. A pair of slip-on soccer sandals rounded out his attire.
On top of his cheap clothes, Mack slipped on a tactical load-bearing vest. The vest had a velcro flap down the front that covered a full-length zipper. The velcro alone was enough to keep the vest in place, so Mack usually ignored the zipper. He could rip the vest off and shuck his gear in less than a second as he shapeshifted. The vest used the MOLLE system to attach a variety of pouches and holsters. Mack’s new Ruger was somewhat larger than his old revolver, but he’d managed to alter an old holster for his GP100 to fit the Super GP100. That went on his left side close to where his shoulder holster usually rested. A couple of AR magazine pouches were pressed into impromptu service to act as sheaths for two of his obsidian daggers, the biggest and the smallest. The medium-sized dagger was going to KC along with the GP100.
He came up front to find the Durands sitting on the couch. Mr. Durand stood up as Mack entered the living area. “Sleep alright, Mack?”
“Yes, sir. Got a solid four hours, all I really need.”
Mr. Durand looked Mack up and down. “Did you forget to take your jammies off, son?”
Mack snorted a laugh. “No, sir. These are my disposable clothes. In case I have to handle this other one the same way I handled the first one.”
“Mr. Durand wants to help,” KC said.
“That’s not necessary,” Mack started, but Mr. Durand held up a hand to stop him.
“I know, son. It’s what I hired ya to do for me, but I got me a feelin’ like y’all might need more help than just the two of ya. I’m a Marine, too.”
Mack nodded. “Yes, sir.” He nodded to himself and disappeared back toward the back of the bus. He returned a moment later with his two shotguns. The SLP went into KC’s waiting hands. Mack offered the Mossberg to Mr. Durand.
“I got this loaded with what I call ‘kitchen sink’ shells. Nothing that will hurt the rougarou for long, but there’s enough different kinds of shot in it that I figure it’ll stun him when he comes.”
“Alright,” Mr. Durand said as he gingerly accepted the shotgun.
“You’re the reserve, Mr. Durand. Do you understand? You don’t involve yourself in the fight unless KC or I call for you, okay?”
“Roger that,” the old Marine nodded.
“If something goes wrong, like horribly wrong, here’s the plan: I’ve unhooked Blue Boy from Busster already. Mr. Durand, I’m assuming you can drive a large diesel truck? Good, then, if we look like we need to bug out, you’ll drive Busster, you and Mrs. Durand. If KC gets too hurt to keep fighting, you’ll take her, and you’ll get everybody to safety. Drive to town, go to the sheriff, and hunker down.”
“What about you?” Mr. Durand asked.
“I’ll have the pickup to get away in, but my job is to hold the line. That’s our worst-case scenario plan.”
“What’s your best-case scenario?” Mrs. Durand asked.
Mack picked up the bow. “I stick as many arrows in the rougarou as fast and as accurately as I can. Meanwhile, KC empties those seven obsidian shells into it as fast and as accurately as she can. If that ain’t enough, I go full werewolf mode, and get all stabby with my obsidian blades while KC starts laying her wizardly whammy on the monster. All else fails, KC has an extremely powerful spell that can incinerate the rougarou, but it will likely knock her on her butt when she does so, and that’s when Plan ‘Busster Move’ goes into effect.”
“Did you just call it ‘Plan Busster Move’?” KC gaped.
“I did.”
“You know, it’s a good thing you’re pretty ‘cause that’s just terrible.”
“You’re just jealous ‘cause you didn’t think of it first.”
“Also true,” KC laughed. Then, she sighed. “Now, we just have to wait for the monster to come to us.” She picked up the mason jar with the dead rougarou’s heart in it. “I hope this bait really is effective.”
THE NIGHT WAS SIGNIFICANTLY quieter than either KC or Mack expected. Once again they were on top of Busster’s deck. This time Mr. Durand was with them. The farmer was sipping from a thermos of strong coffee. In addition to the Mossberg, he had his own Remington shotgun at hand, loaded with five of Mack’s kitchen sink rounds. Mrs. Durand waited below, inside Busster. The farmer’s wife had suggested a modification to the plan. As a younger woman, she’d driven a school bus for the county school system, so she’d offered to be the one to drive Busster if Plan Busster Move was put into action.
“It’s a stupid name,” KC muttered. “Busster Move.”
“I just hear jealousy in your voice, babe.”
Mr. Durand chuckled over his coffee. “How often you young folks do this? Fight monsters, that is?”
“At least once a month,” KC sighed. “I think the busiest we ever got was putting down a zombie uprising in Saint Louis. We’d wipe out a batch of zombies only to have a batch of revenants show up the next day. It
went on for weeks, involved three different groups of bounty hunters like us, the homicide squad and SWAT team from the local Sheriff’s Department, and one very overworked Program agent. Finally, the Program agent tracked down the necromantic cult that was making all these undead, and that put an end to it.”
“What kinda jail time ya get fer raisin’ the dead?” Mr. Durand pondered.
“None. Creating undead is an automatic, mandatory death sentence. You catch a necromancer, you have to put them down or you could face serious jail time,” Mack said bluntly.
“Really?” Mr. Durand’s surprise and shock were evident on his face.
“Yes, sir. Just being a necromancer isn’t illegal, mind you. There’s plenty of good ones out there, ones that use their abilities to banish demons and destroy undead, but you raise the undead, you die. Simple as that.”
Mr. Durand nodded to the bow in Mack’s hands. “You gonna be any good with that thing?”
“As good as I was the last time I used a compound bow.”
“And when was that?”
“Uh, let’s see, um, summer camp archery when I was... twelve, I think, so about sixteen years or so?”
“Son, I know the Corps taught you the concept of ‘perishable’ skills, right?”
Mack shrugged and chuckled. “Yes, sir, I am aware of the concept, but I’ve been gifted with what my Aunt Rosalee calls ‘photographic muscle memory’. Once I’ve mastered a skill, or at least learned it to a point of proficiency, I’ll be able to reuse that skill again, even after decades of not using it, at the exact same level of proficiency every time. None of my physical skills deteriorate. I can only improve them.”
“That a werewolf thing?”
“No, sir, it is not. Point of fact I don’t know where it comes from. My theory is that I inherited the ability from my late mother who must have been some kind of rare paranormal, but what kind I don’t know. Nobody but my father did, and he took Mom’s secret to the grave with him. I’ve got a veritable laundry list of quirky little abilities and gifts that must be from my mother because nobody on the werewolf side of the family can do those things, nor do any of them have any idea where they come from.”
Cassandra Case Files Page 6
