by Sam Witt
The thick sheets of jerky were hard to chew, but packed with protein Al desperately needed. He devoured one package and ripped open another one. The meat filled him with warmth as soon as it hit his belly, a welcome relief from the hunger pangs that had haunted him all day.
He ate all the meat there was and threw the waxed paper into the fire. He wasn't trying to cover his tracks, because he didn’t care if the witch finder knew he was here. Al was going to kill the old man, or the bastard was going to kill him, and the only surprise waiting for either of them was who would survive their next encounter.
Al warmed his hands and feet by the fire. His stomach rumbled as it digested the meat, and he could feel the strength from the food flowing into his muscles. He waited for a few more minutes, senses on high alert for the witch finder's approach, and then made the change.
The first few times he had changed, back when he was just a kid, Al had thought he was dying. The sense of having his body taken over by something much stronger, more savage, had terrified him. He'd felt every snapping tendon, every flowing muscle, as he became something new. It hadn't felt like a rebirth, it felt like being torn apart. For years, Al had resisted changing at all. He feared that it was evil, that he’d hurt someone. Feared that he’d succumb to the Left-Hand Path and his father would have had to kill him.
It wasn't like that now. These days, changing felt like coming home.
The Beast rose from the fire and skulked toward the room’s other exit. With his senses sharpened, the world opened up around the Beast. He sensed another stash of food, fresh rabbit, hidden inside a paper bag under the witch finder's bed. It took all of Al's willpower to keep the Beast from tearing the bed apart part to get the meat beneath. He didn't have time for that right now because there was something else his heightened senses had just detected.
The witch finder was close. The Beast could hear him mumbling to himself, the creaky ramblings of an old man who’d spent too long alone. The Beast left the bedroom and entered another twisting tunnel. He didn't need the light to see; the Beast’s eyes pierced the darkness with ease. And what he saw was troubling.
The witch finder was hunkered over a makeshift workbench fashioned from a pair of stalagmites and what looked like a section of a highway sign.
The old man held a knife, not the ceremonial blade he'd threatened Rae with, but a foot-long butcher’s knife honed to a gleaming razor’s edge. "This'll fix ya up," the old man muttered, “just need to slice up some of this old bezoar. Make ya right as rain."
The old man shifted his position, and Al could see what he was working on. It looked like a dried-up slab of liver, its surface lined with dark veins and deep creases. When the butcher’s knife chopped through the meat, it revealed a dull, black radiance. The light hurt the Beast’s eyes and turned his stomach, like he’d seen a secret never meant to be revealed. He knew if he let the witch finder eat the bezoar, even his terrible strength would never be able to stop him.
Silent as a shadow, the Beast surged out of the tunnel and sliced his razor-sharp claws at the old man's hand. The witch finder was still too fast. He jerked his hand back, and the blow did little damage. But the sickly glowing meat went flying deeper into the cavern.
The Beast followed his attack by stomping on one end of the makeshift workbench, catapulting the rest of the bezoar into the darkness.
A hot line of pain raced across the Beast’s ribs. The witch finder had spun to the attack and scored first blood. He tipped the now-bloody blade toward the Beast. "You're a slippery fucker," the witch finder snarled, "but I've never met a demon who could best me."
The Beast eyeballed the hunter. For all the man's bravado, he was still hurting from their earlier encounter. The paper-thin skin of his face was split across his cheeks and forehead, and his eyes were sunken into deep, bruised pits. The Beast answered the challenge with a snarl, his lips peeled back from his gleaming fangs in a savage smile. "I'm not a demon, asshole.”
With his energy restored, the Beast was faster and stronger. He unleashed a whirlwind of flashing claws, punctuated by thunderous stomps and kicks from taloned feet.
The witch finder was immediately on the defensive, weaving his brutal knife back and forth in a defensive pattern, but that did little to deter the Beast’s attack.
The Beast suffered nicks and cuts along his forearms while the old man suffered savage gashes across his chest and ankle-spraining kicks that forced him to hobble backward.
Desperate to force an opening, the witch finder ducked under a flurry of swiping claws and darted forward. He thrust the blade in and down, switching his grip to drive an ugly frenzy of stabbing attacks at the Beast’s legs.
The brazen gambit paid off. A trio of deep punctures weakened the Beast’s left thigh. The wounds would heal, but the pain and loss of blood would slow him until they did. He couldn't let the witch finder take advantage of that weakness.
The Beast looped his right arm around the witch finder's head, dragging the old man in close where he could be punished by the Beast’s superior strength. He drove swift, savage punches up under the witch finder's rib cage. The old man sagged for a moment, his lungs emptied of air.
Liquid fire boiled through the Beast’s stomach. The pain was immense, a spearing agony that robbed him of his strength. He howled in agony and kicked the old man away.
The witch finder tumbled across the stone floor and rolled back up onto his feet. While the Beast had been busy punching him, the old man had freed a dagger from some hidden sheath inside his furs. The short, wide blade dripped red, the Beast’s blood staining its edges. "That all you got?" the old man rasped.
A panicked howl stopped the Beast from answering. He recognized the runt’s voice and the pain it carried. His ears twitched toward the sound and distracted him from the witch finder.
"Sounds like a stray found one of my traps." The old man grinned. "Dog meat isn't too bad, once you get past the idea of it."
The Beast lunged forward, enraged at the man's callous disregard for the dog’s life. He had to finish this fight, and quick. He’d kill the old fucker then get back to the cave opening and free the runt from the trap.
But his wounds slowed him. The witch finder dodged his first attack and countered with a wild backhand slash of the butcher’s knife that opened a deep wound across the Beast’s left shoulder.
A powerful kick shoved the old man back and opened a pair of deep holes in the meat of his shoulder. Off balance, the witch finder tripped over his own feet and crashed onto his back. The Beast roared in triumph and leaped forward, ready to put an end to this fight. But as he landed and prepared to strike at the old man, he heard a terrible scream.
The witch finder grinned, revealing a mouthful of blood-stained teeth. “Sounds like that dog done found himself one of my meaner snares. I imagine it won’t be long before it rips him right in half.”
As if to confirm the old man’s prediction, the runt howled again. The anguish in its voice tore at the Beast. He hesitated, torn between finishing the fight and saving the dog.
Taking advantage of the Beast’s moment of indecision, the witch finder rolled out of attack range. He turned tail and ran, putting as much distance as possible between them.
The Beast howled in frustration, but knew he had no real choice. What kind of pack leader would leave one of his own to die? He turned away from his prey and raced back to the cave’s mouth.
It took him only moments to find the runt, but to the Beast it felt like hours. Every step not in pursuit of the witch finder put Rae in danger.
He found the dog flattened against the snow outside the cave, powerful coils of ice wrapped around its front and back legs. As the Beast approached the dog, the coils tightened and drew farther apart, stretching the runt to its limits.
The Beast threw himself down in the snow next to the dog and attacked the icy trap with his claws. The dog screamed and twisted in its prison, driven mad by the pain that wracked its body. The runt’s suffering
spurred the Beast into a frenzy.
Ice filled the air around them, chipped away by the Beast’s claws and picked up by the howling winter wind. It stung his eyes, but the Beast couldn’t stop. He tore at the ice until the runt was freed from its torturous grasp. No longer held captive, the little dog didn’t even have the strength to move. It lay where it had fallen and licked at the bloody wounds the traps had left around its paws.
The Beast lifted the weary runt into his arms and turned to carry it into the cave. He’d leave it somewhere warm, maybe back by the fire, so it would have time to rest and heal. The hounds were strong, but he knew all too well that they needed rest to recuperate from injuries.
The witch finder’s crude bedroom was still empty and warm from the fire in its center. The Beast laid the dog down next to the low flames. It whimpered and let its head fall onto its paws. Its eyes closed, and the Beast ruffled the fur between its ears. The creature’s heart was much too large for its small frame, and the Beast hoped it would live long enough to grow into its courage.
Then the Beast rose from the fire and flexed injured limbs. The wounds were unpleasant, but they were already healing. The Beast could smell the witch finder’s spilled blood and hungered to spill more. The scent led it into the darkness, and the hunt was on.
15
The ambush hit the Beast like a runaway train. The blow slammed into the side of his head and threw him back into the tunnel he’d just exited. He crashed to the ground and slid across the stone, coming to a stop only after his head smacked into the tunnel’s wall.
The Beast had followed the old man through one twisting tunnel after another and had fallen prey to his eagerness to end the hunt. As the Beast drew ever nearer to the prey, hunger and rage had pushed caution into the background. Now, the Beast was paying for giving into the animalistic drive for vengeance.
There was something wrong with him. His skull fell like it was moving, thick plates sliding apart and overlapping in all the wrong ways. His vision was coming and going in strobing flashes and his dazed brain was setting off a fireworks display to end the world.
The Beast tried to get back up to his knees, but his body wasn’t taking orders from his brain anymore. His claws curled uselessly at his sides, and one of his heels beat an erratic tattoo against the stone floor.
Footsteps approached, slow and careful. “Guess you didn’t see that one coming.”
The Beast force a pained laugh. It was a ghastly sound, the croaking rasp of a dying animal.
“That’s what happens when puppies try to run with the big dogs.” The witch finder stood at the Beast’s feet, a condescending smirk stretched across his wrinkled face. “I probably ought to end you right now, but I want to savor this for just a bit. You deserve to suffer.”
The Beast could make out the witch finder through his slitted right eye and knew his death was only moments away. The old man held a wicked club in his right hand and smacked it against his left palm. The Beast could see blood smeared along its length. His blood.
He was still the Beast, he still had the strength to survive. He concentrated, tried to feel what was wrong in his body. There was something in his neck, right at the base of his skull, that reminded him of the worst Charlie horse he’d ever experienced. He focused on it and tried to imagine how it was supposed to feel.
The witch finder took a step, his boots less than a foot from the Beast’s head. “Never was much of a golfer,” the old man said cocking the club up onto his shoulder. “Never had the time to learn. Spent too much time hunting witches and evil fuckers like you all over the damned place. Still, I think I’ve got a pretty good swing.”
The Beast ignored the witch finder’s taunts. He let his mind sink down into primal instinct, letting his subconscious try to repair the damage to his neck. Given time, he was sure he could heal the wound. But time was one thing that was in short supply.
The club roared past the Beast’s snout, carrying with it a rush of cold wind. The old man cackled. “Whew, that was a close one. Almost took your fool head off.”
In his mind’s eye, the Beast’s neck looked like a bag of broken glass. His supernaturally strong neck muscles were all that had prevented the witch finder’s sneak attack from killing him outright. The blow had wrenched his head hard to the right, shattering his vertebra into so many splinters. He thought he understood how it all had to go back together, but it seemed like an impossible task to get everything back where it belonged. He needed more time.
Something hard pressed against the Beast’s throat. He forced his good eye to open and saw the old man staring down at him, club extended before him. “Oh, good. Thought you might’ve died on me. I don’t get much chance to look at bastards like you up close. At least not alive. Most of them don’t give me as much trouble as you have.”
The Beast forced his body to obey. Pieces of his neck bones clicked together like tumblers in a lock. Feeling began returning to his chest, allowing him to take a deep ragged breath. “I’m surprised you lived to be so old, especially if you go around hunting things like me.” The Beast shot the old man a twisted grimace of a smile. “Hell, I’m barely old enough to vote, and I fucked your shit up pretty good.”
The old man pulled the club back, snapping it up under his left arm. He squinted at the Beast, black eyes glittering silver in the darkness.
The Beast realized the old man must’ve had night vision of his own, which explained how he’d been able to get the drop on him. “You’ve got a point there. I guess I shouldn’t let myself run quite so low on the go-go juice. But, in my defense, there aren’t many witches to go around these days. I guess your kind has been on the losing end, seeing as how there’s a lot more of my kind still alive.”
More pieces of bone clicked into place. Pain blossomed in the Beast’s back and spread down to his hips like a blanket of fire. Jagged jolts of lightning raced from his shoulders to his fingertips. He could feel his claws again, and his arms twitched, ready to do what needed to be done. He was far from full strength and knew he was only going to get one chance at this. He needed to keep the old man talking, give himself a few more seconds to put himself back together. He just hoped he was doing the right thing. His regeneration wasn’t something he normally forced, and the pain in his neck told him he may not have put all the pieces exactly where they belonged. “Maybe you’re just too old to find them. I see plenty of folks like me every day.”
The old man scratched his chin then wrapped both hands tight around the base of the club. He hefted it like a batter getting ready to enter the box. “You know, kid, I really hope that’s the case. An old guy like me needs a lot of midnight bezoars to keep going. After I crack your skull open and go eat your little bitch back there, maybe I’ll see what else this shitty county has to offer.” The witch finder towered over the Beast’s prone form, one foot on either side of his torso. He raised the bat high overhead and snarled, “See you in hell.”
The bat whistled toward the Beast’s forehead. He willed his arms to move, trying not to imagine what his skull was going to look like if he failed. The witch finder was old, but he was stronger than any man the Beast had ever fought. If the club connected, there wasn’t going to be much left of his head.
The moment stretched out for an eternity. The Beast could feel his arms moving, but he couldn’t tell if they were moving fast enough. The world was a blur, everything but the swooping end of the club seemed out of focus.
A thunderous impact crashed over the Beast like a tidal wave of pain. For one brief moment, he wasn’t sure if he was alive or if the witch finder had succeeded in bashing his brains out of his skull. Then his damaged body started making sense of its pain. His hands were broken, the palms split and bleeding, bones cracked in many of his fingers, but he’d saved himself. He was still alive.
The old man screamed with rage and tried to wrench the club free from the Beast’s mangled hand. But the Beast wasn’t ready to let go, and even with broken fingers found the strength to k
eep hold of the weapon.
The witch finder braced himself and yanked on the club again, and this time the Beast let it go. At the same time he lashed out with his left leg, slamming his knee into the back of the witch finder’s calf. The combination was enough to knock the old man off his feet and send him crashing to the cave’s floor.
Pain exploded at the base of the Beast’s skull as he forced himself back to his feet. There was still something wrong in his head and neck, some damage that he hadn’t been able to put right. He hoped when this was all over he’d have the time he needed to recuperate, and that his overtaxed body would still be able to fix the damage it had suffered. For now, all he wanted to do was finish the fight. He raised his right foot and slammed it down at the witch finder’s head.
The old man was already moving, anticipating the attack. He rolled away from the Beast and deflected the stomp with a wild swing of the club.
The Beast didn’t let that slow his attack. He kept stomping, advancing toward the old man, attempting to crush his skull again and again. The pain in his neck was beyond anything he’d ever imagined, and it narrowed his world and clouded his mind with its torture. He pushed through the pain, roaring to block out the need to scream. He just wanted to stomp the old man’s head in—then he could rest for a few weeks.
The witch finder kept rolling. He dodged the Beast’s clumsy stomps, the gap between his head and the claws narrowing with every attack. He used the club like a shield, batting the Beast’s talons aside when he couldn’t dodge them.
The witch finder’s defense drove the Beast mad. He was used to being faster than this, faster than anything he faced. But the narrow misses were eroding his confidence and frustrating him to the point of distraction. It seemed no matter what he did, he couldn’t quite put an end to his tormentor. The frustration, combined with the pain, made him careless, clumsy.
