by M. D. Massey
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I said, pulling Cade’s hammer from my Bag. “Um, here.”
Váli took the hammer without sparing me a glance, head bowed as he laid it gently on the portion of the coffin that represented Cade’s chest. While the god mourned his son, Ásgeir and I stood solemnly aside, silently anticipating his final reaction. Finally, Váli raised his head and faced me.
“You have done as I asked—even more so as you honor my son’s memory the way an honorable opponent should.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sarcophagus before locking his bright blue eyes on mine. “Be warned, though, druid. I have forgiven this act of violence against my offspring, but next time I will not be so charitable. I would advise you to avoid future such mishaps, as they could be your undoing.”
“Noted,” I said.
“Until we meet again, and may it not be too soon,” he replied. Váli pointed his axe at his son’s coffin, and the thing levitated off the ground. As the god walked out of the clearing with his son’s remains in tow, he spoke over his shoulder as an afterthought. “By the way, more gods are set against you than you know. I can say little more, except to warn you that deities from other pantheons have noticed you, and some are concerned by your sudden rise to power. Watch your back, druid.”
After Váli had gone, I gave Ásgeir a sidelong look. “Well, that wasn’t ominous at all. C’mon, big guy—let’s get you introduced to Maureen.”
5
It took all of five minutes to get Ásgeir settled in and on guard duty. Maureen took to him immediately and promised to find him a nice corner of the junkyard where he could dig himself a cave. Most of Austin sat just a few feet above bedrock, so chances were good there was a cave system under the junkyard anyway. After that was settled, a quick call to Hemi ensured that Maureen would have someone around to watch out for her during daylight hours.
Time to go find my girl.
With the Celtic gods roaming the city, it was a sure bet that Samson would call the Pack together to wait out the storm in safety. That meant they’d be at the secondary clubhouse, on the lands that bordered the national wildlife preserve northwest of Austin. I knew the place well, as it was where I’d learned to control my ríastrad under Samson’s careful tutelage.
Yes, I owed that rangy old wolf a debt of gratitude I could never repay. But I’d also bled more for the Pack than anyone besides the grizzled old alpha himself. And in my opinion, that meant he owed me a hell of a lot more of an explanation than I’d been given regarding Fallyn’s whereabouts.
Pack lands would be heavily guarded due to the threat Badb and the other gods presented, but they couldn’t stop me from portalling into their midst. Only problem was, I’d been persona non grata with the Pack since Fallyn’s abduction, as some Pack members blamed me just as much as her father for Diarmuid’s deeds. Never mind that I punished myself for those events much harder than Samson ever could; when I showed up on Pack lands, the proverbial shit would hit the fan.
Plus, I had provoked Samson the last time I saw him, causing him to lose face in front of several Pack members. No way was he going to let that slide. There’d be blood, for sure. It was a confrontation I didn’t relish in the slightest, because the last thing I needed was to become the de facto alpha of the Austin Pack by kicking Samson’s ass.
There was a time when I’d have doubted my chances against him, but those days were long gone. Samson was a strong alpha, there was no doubt about that. Having seen him in action, I doubted there was another werewolf who could beat him in a fair fight. But werewolves were one thing, and over the last several months, I’d come to discover that I was quite another.
Still, no sense in making it less sporting. First, I snuck back to my Keebler cottage for a change of clothes and to grab my shit—and to leave Mom a note letting her know where I’d gone. Despite leaving it where I’d told her not to go, she’d find it sooner than later, as she’d never been one to respect boundaries. Then, I stealth-shifted before asking the Oak to portal me to the Pack’s hunting grounds, right in front of the clubhouse.
A few Pack members were milling about on the porch and grounds when I popped in, some lazing about and bullshitting, others seeing to chores and grunt work. I could’ve cast a chameleon spell or an obfuscation on myself, but with that many werewolves and shifters around, one of them would’ve noticed anyway. Scent, air displacement, the sudden addition of another heartbeat—’thropes relied on more than their vision to keep them safe.
Instead, I appeared in full view, right in the front yard of the clubhouse. It was a large, craftsman-style home with two floors and multiple bedrooms, most kitted out with bunks to house the Pack in emergencies. There were other buildings on the property, cabins and trailer homes that had been added to expand capacity as the Pack grew. But this was the beating heart of their sanctuary, which was why I chose this spot to make my entrance.
“Samson!” I yelled. “Come out. It’s time we settled our grievances.”
Nobody answered immediately, but lots of werewolves and other ’thropes stopped and stared, chattering among themselves. Moments later, a woman who looked like Private Vasquez from Aliens walked out the front door of the main house with a scowl on her face. Trina was one of Samson’s lieutenants, and one of the few Pack members I got on well with, although her longtime girlfriend Suzie didn’t care for me much.
I heard heavy footsteps behind me as Trina shifted her gaze from me to the new arrival. “Damn it, Guerra—I thought I told you to keep him from coming on the grounds.”
“S’not my fault, Trina,” the Danny Trejo lookalike replied. “He teleported his way in here or something. You know the druid is always doing weird shit.”
“Where’s Samson?” I asked in a calm, steady voice.
“He’s at the Shaft, breaking in a couple of probies.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Sure you want to do this?”
I twitched my nose and scratched it with a knuckle. “He’ll force a confrontation anyway. Best we just get it over with.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll send someone—”
“Don’t bother. I know the way,” I said as I loped off to the east, finding the trail that led to the Pack’s training and hunting grounds. Meanwhile, the chattering behind me grew louder, and many pairs of soft, agile footsteps joined my own as I headed up the pathway.
“Druid’s challenging Samson…”
“No fucking way I’m missing this…”
“Kid’s about to get his ass kicked…”
“Who’s taking odds? I got fifty on the kid…”
“Traitor. Kid’s nothing but trouble…”
Eventually, I tuned them out, putting on speed to reach the clearing in front of the Shaft, where I’d killed Josh the year prior. He’d been a somewhat dominant wolf who hadn’t been too keen on me joining the Pack. He refused to be cowed, so I offed him in the ugliest way possible in front of half the Pack, as a deterrent to future challengers.
Samson waited for me at the center of the gathering spot, arms crossed, barefoot, and stripped to the waist in a worn pair of jeans held up with a motorcycle chain belt. He was lean in a dangerous sort of way, with a full beard and hard eyes that you just knew were staring into your soul. I’d once compared him to a shaved-headed Chuck Norris, but ol’ Chuck wasn’t as tough as Samson even in his heyday.
“Figured you’d show up eventually,” he said as I walked out to face him across the cold, unlit firepit in the center of the circle. “Never been a runner.”
“Only to keep the peace, Mac Tíre. And I’d have stayed away, but it’s time I got answers about Fallyn’s whereabouts.”
He thrust his lower lip out, sucking air through his teeth as he gave a single nod. “Maybe, but you’ll have to earn them, shifter.”
Samson’s response officially settled matters, and everyone present knew what that meant. While we stared each other down, Pack members scrambled to remove roughhewn benches and cut logs that served as makeshift seats, ensuring the area whe
re we fought would be free from obstacles. When the space was clear, the Pack’s sergeant-at-arms walked out to join us.
“Just to be clear,” Sledge said, addressing me. “You’re challenging the alpha for the right to lead this Pack. Correct?”
“I don’t want to lead, but apparently it’s the only way he’ll tell me where he’s keeping Fallyn.”
The giant, hirsute werewolf rubbed his mouth and sighed. “You beat him, and it’s ‘tag, you’re it,’ kid.”
“Like I said, I don’t want it, but I’ll do what’s necessary to find Fallyn.”
That earned me some murmurs of approval from the females who were present, and a couple of jeers from the males. Female ’thropes were in short supply, and they’d never liked the fact that she’d chosen me over them.
Sledge leaned in, towering over me with a hand on my shoulder as he whispered almost inaudibly. “Look, Druid, I don’t need to tell you that half the Pack has it in for you, and the other half wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. You win this thing—and I’m not saying you can—but if by some odd chance you beat Samson in a square fight, you’re going to leave the Pack in an odd position. Expect to receive more challenges, at the very least. Hell, it might just split the Pack. You sure you want to do this now?”
“Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke,” I growled. “No offense, Sledge, but Samson forced my hand. Any resulting consequences are on him.”
“Right,” he replied with a half-smirk. “Good knowing you, kid.”
I walked to the edge of the ring that had been made by the gathering Pack, stripping down to a pair of lycra shorts and leaving my weapons and kit in a pile. It was important that I face Samson au naturel, or as close to it as possible. After what had happened with Sonny and his crew, if there was even a hint of me cheating or using magic, the Pack would tear me apart.
As I turned to face my opponent, Sledge addressed us and the audience in a loud, commanding voice. “Listen up! This is a fight for dominance, to see who has the right to lead the Austin Pack. The druid is still a member in good standing, so Pack rules apply. And if any of you motherfuckers get the bright idea to jump in because you don’t like how it’s going, you’ll be dealing with me, Guerra, and Trina.” He glanced back and forth at me and Samson. “I don’t need to tell you that it’s hand-to-hand, claw-to-claw, and tooth-to-tooth only, with no other weapons or magic allowed. Understood?”
Sledge fixed me with a stare, and I gave a short nod. When he turned his gaze on Samson, the old alpha sneered. “You gonna shift, kid, or what?”
“Nope.”
“Fuck,” the alpha said with a slight shake of his head. “Let’s get this over with.”
Sledge backed away from the center of the ring, addressing me one last time as he stepped out of the circle. “Get ready, druid. When the circle closes, the fight begins.”
At that, Samson instantly shifted from man to his werewolf form, faster than any other ’thrope I’d seen. In this shape, he was half-wolf and half-man, an upright, bipedal, furred creature with the elongated, toothy snout of a wolf, high pointed ears, and the yellow, forward-facing eyes of a predator. His upper torso was nearly human save for being covered in thick hair. His long, clawed hands sported fur on the back and smooth, gray skin on the palms and inner surface of his fingers.
The alpha’s coat was midnight black on his back and head, fading into silver-gray and tan, and finally blending into an off-white on his stomach and inner thighs. This was where the change was most noticeable, as his legs seemed to have an extra joint above the ankle, similar to the hind legs of a wolf. Although he was slightly taller than before, as in his human form he was lean and well-muscled, and his every move exuded confidence and sheer, unbridled strength.
“Remember, you asked for this, kid,” he said in his normal, human voice, just before he slammed his fist into the ground.
The Pack’s magic spread away from the point of impact like a shockwave, until it reached the outer edges of the circle where we stood. There it rose into the sky to form a blue, shimmering, transparent wall that separated us from the rest of the Pack. As soon as the magic locked into place, Samson leapt across the ring, claws extended and jaws agape.
This is going to suck.
Three factors made werewolves dangerous and difficult to fight. First, they were very fast, despite the mass they carried due to their dense musculature. Not quite vampire fast, but close to it. Considering the force they could bring to bear by directing all that weight at speed, you didn’t want to be in front of a charging werewolf.
Second, they healed hellaciously fast. Vampires could heal quickly as well, but they always needed a blood source. That gave werewolves and other, similar ’thropes a major advantage in combat, as they needed no such source to heal. However, the typical werewolf’s healing abilities were not unlimited. When healing serious wounds or in a prolonged fight, they’d eventually burn off all their energy and have to feed before they could heal again.
Finally, they had excellent natural weapons. A werewolf’s claws and teeth were razor-sharp and hard enough to puncture a steel car door easily. Most were trained to use such weapons from the time they were young, training in unique forms of combat that allowed ’thropes to take full advantage of their natural weapons.
And Samson was no run-of-the-mill werewolf. He was an alpha among alphas, perhaps the most dominant one I’d seen in all my years of operating as a hunter and druid justiciar in The World Beneath. It would not surprise me in the least if he were the foremost alpha on the planet.
Normally, I’d shift into my full Fomorian form to take on a ’thrope—or, I’d cheat. But magic was off-limits in this fight. If I had to shift into a ten-foot-tall monster to beat Samson, none of the Pack members would respect my win. For my plan to succeed, I’d have to defeat him while looking as human as possible, which was why I remained in my stealth-shifted form for this duel.
Being the old and cagey fucker he was, Samson did not in fact open the fight with a single, bounding charge. While at first it looked like he was going to blitz me, he somehow managed to stop his leap just short of me while landing on his left foot. From there, he spun into a spinning hook kick at my gut, claws extended, obviously intending to disembowel me.
Having come into this fight expecting the old wolf to pull some tricky shit, I retreated a step to suck my gut in and avoid the kick. In an incredible display of physical mastery, the alpha maintained his forward momentum, spinning a second time as he danced forward to land a double-swipe with first his right, then his left hand. The right caught me across the jaw, and the left was intended for my throat, but I turned with the impact of the first strike and took it on the shoulder as I rolled away.
Even though I anticipated the attack, he’d practically dislocated my jaw with that one hit, and my face was leaking blood like a sieve. I kipped out of my roll into a high somersault, using the superhuman speed and strength that my stealth-shifted form provided to create some distance between us. As I landed—facing Samson, of course—I pushed up and to the right on my jaw to pop it back into joint.
Keeping my eyes on my opponent, I shifted my jaw around experimentally. “So, we’re not pulling any punches, eh?”
“Whatever I do to you, you’ll heal,” he said in a perfectly human voice. I’d heard him speak in his werewolf voice dozens of times, and yet it was still weird to hear a normal voice come out of those slavering jaws. “That’s if I let you live.”
“You want to kill me, old fang, you’re going to have to work for it,” I hissed. “Now, quit talking shit and come get some.”
If there was one weakness an alpha had, it was losing face in front of his or her pack. Any direct challenge made by a pack member had to be met with an immediate, ruthless demonstration of power, usually in the form of physical chastisement. Otherwise, the other members of the pack would see their inaction as weakness, and they’d be challenged repeatedly until someone ousted them from their leadership post.
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I’d recognized that Achilles heel when I last had words with Samson. On that occasion, I’d challenged his authority vocally and in front of other Pack members. In response, he’d gone apeshit in his efforts to smack me down for disrespecting him publicly. Common sense dictated that his failure to do so had been gnawing on him ever since.
Meaning, he’d be easy to provoke.
The old werewolf’s eyes narrowed as his irises turned a bright yellow—and that was the only indication that he was about to pounce. I never saw any tension in his body, nor did I see a shift in his balance or position. One second he was circling me, and the next he was in motion, loping on all fours at me faster than any ’thrope I’d ever seen, easily vampire fast.
One thing I’d learned in the last few battles I’d fought was that my human side was incapable of the absolute savagery required to defeat a god. While Samson was no god, he was demigod-like in his powers and abilities. Quite frankly, Colin McCool the human was no match for him—but Colin McCool the Fomorian was, indeed, up to the task.
Time slowed as I gave myself over to the Fomorian side of me, allowing those instincts to take control of the battle. Instantly, my brain began making calculations that were based both on the tens of thousands of years of species survival that were encoded into my DNA and my ability to glance a second or two ahead in time. Yes, my Fomorian nature was even more unforgiving than the most battle-hardened alpha, and it would use any and every advantage it had to win the day.
Although we must have been a blur to the onlookers, I saw every millisecond of that clash in slow motion. Samson came in low, opening with a right-handed slash to my left quadriceps, but I was already stepping back while spearing the fingers of my right hand at his eyes. My middle finger hit his right eye dead center in a lightning-fast strike, piercing the sclera and bursting his eye in an explosion of aqueous humor.
