by Ryk E. Spoor
He spread his hands. "You got me, all right. Had to kill the real Vic, too. So now what?"
I frowned. "Aye, there's the rub, as Hamlet put it. On paper, you're a murderer, or a dangerous animal, depending on who you ask. And I can't say I'm comfortable with the whole idea of what you are, or of letting you go after you killed off a harmless archaeologist. On the other hand, I also really hate being strung over a barrel by the Wolves. Their King's put me on reserve as a personal chew-toy for later, but they've basically bargained me to solve this problem in exchange for my friends being kept out of a bunch of other things. I wanted to see if there was a chance we can find a resolution for this that doesn't include my using this," I pushed my sport jacket aside and eased the gun out, "to turn you into a colander. And I'm also a bit of a conservationist, I suppose; killing off the entirety of a species doesn't sit well with me."
Vic sparkled; the shimmer intensified. It wasn't like a Werewolf's change, but more like watching clouds of sunshine-touched mist dissolve and then reform. The Maelkodan had taken her more natural, default-human form—and again I admired its tactical sense; if it wanted to play any sympathy cards, it knew perfectly well that a beautiful woman would have a better chance with me than even a nice cheerful hotel proprietor. "As I see it, the problem is that I need to eat."
"Not nearly as much as you have been," I pointed out. "They already told me just how much power you gain; by now you're getting quite a ways up there."
"And you believe everything they say?" she challenged.
It was my turn to chuckle. "Not at all. Unfortunately for you, Morgan was the source of confirmation on the information."
Her lips moved in a pout or a tightening; I couldn't be quite sure which without studying the eye area. "Ah. The one who feels like something from home. But, really, Mr. Wood, does it matter? Aside from poor Dr. O'Connell, who just happened to be the one present when I finally broke free and acted on my instincts, the only people I've killed have been either Wolves or their friends. Do you really care what I do to them?"
I acknowledged the point. "In truth, not really. I think the world's better off without them. But there's the issue of my own word versus theirs. I did promise to investigate this fully and track down the killer. Now, I could weasel some technicalities around, but I do have to solve the problem for which I'm hired, and saying 'Well, I did find the killer, but too bad, I'm not doing anything about it' really violates the spirit of the contract. The very last thing I want to do is encourage them to start playing technicality games with me."
She nodded. "I could just move on."
"And—be honest now, because if you lie about it and it comes out later, I will beyond any shadow of a doubt come after your ass—would you be able to keep from killing?"
For a long, long moment she paused.
Finally, "No. No, I could not. It is what I was created to do. I am a hunter. I hunt everything, especially the Wolves, but even your people. The hunt is part of my life. They made me that way. You would eventually hear of the deaths. And they would continue, so long as I live."
My heart pounded painfully against my chest. "Then let's at least settle it here."
"You have not called the Wolves?"
"No. I wanted to find out if there was a chance. And if not, at least deprive them of the pleasure."
She stood up, slowly, and shimmered again, holding her hands up in a "hold a moment" gesture. Rainbow-shimmering clouds formed, dissolved, coalesced, solidified.
Before me stood the Maelkodan.
The centauroid torso and head were just about my height; the body itself, perhaps three to four feet at the hip. It was twelve feet long, covered with iridescent scales in beautiful geometric patterns of green, black, red, silver, and gold. The legs, three-taloned affairs like a Jurassic Park raptor's (minus the one huge claw) moved smoothly, shifting back and forth nervously. The arms were edged, with wicked spikes at the elbows, and I could see the glitter of diamondlike teeth in the mouth. The head I couldn't focus on, without risking eye contact, but it seemed to be crested and fluted and spiked, as though wearing an elaborate helm.
It bowed low from the waist. "You risk your life and honor me. I shall cherish your soul."
"I don't intend to die."
"No more did any of the others." The eyes glowed suddenly, an iridescent flame that I glanced towards reflexively, eyes drawn by the sudden moving change.
It was like being hit by a mallet on the side of the head, combined with the utter fascination of every forbidden pleasure ever imagined. I knew—knew with absolute truth—that if I didn't look away, I would die, yet for a frozen instant of time I couldn't do it; I yearned to do nothing more than stare more deeply into those windows of horrid revelation.
But memory, duty, and the face of Sylvie warred against that lure, forced my eyes shut against the terrible siren call. Still, being blind is a bad combat situation, and I heard it starting forward.
Right on cue, Syl kicked open the door from the hotel. I went out the back way, as I'd intended all along. Sylvia's gunshots, unexpected as they were, convinced the Maelkodan to head out into the street with me, even though public locations were hardly where it wanted to be caught.
I sprinted out the door and down the alleyway. Behind me, I heard the swift scuttling of taloned feet; I whirled, keeping my eyes low, and snapped off two shots; the Maelkodan writhed sideways, behind a Dumpster, giving me back a lead and allowing me to round the corner ahead of it.
More gunshots, from Syl's Smith & Wesson, sounded out; I kept running, knowing I'd hear the creature on my tail in moments. It wouldn't try to charge Syl who was in the cover of the doorway and who was, I felt sure, firing with accuracy while her eyes were squeezed shut. Her Talent had many uses.
Skittering rhythm of claws on pavement behind me—and then a screeching of tires. I spun around, just in time to see one of the police cars slide to a halt right next to the Maelkodan. It flowed up and to the other side of the car, and I heard a suddenly-cut-off shriek. There was a metallic ripping sound, and I saw the passenger-side door fly out onto the street, followed by a statue that crumbled on impact with the pavement.
Then the whole car was hefted into the air.
I almost made eye contact again, goggling at the scene. The creature had its legs splayed wide and dug into the street, tail counterbalancing, performing a comic-book feat of strength with a wide grin on its fanged mouth. With an effort that sent it skidding backwards, tearing grooves through the blacktop, it hurled the cop car straight towards me.
I ran and dove aside at the last second; the impact was so close that it sounded like the crack of doom. Jesus Christ, the thing was strong! Maybe as strong as Verne!
As I rolled to my feet, I emptied the clip in its direction to slow it down and ran through another alleyway, slamming in another clip. I'd heard one squealing roar of pain—must have at least nicked the thing. I realized I'd been subconsciously underestimating the creature; our estimates of its capabilities had been based on it having killed three Wolves; by current estimate, that was off by at least a factor of two, maybe more if it had gotten lucky and caught a few others we hadn't noticed yet. I exited the alley, turned down the street. I was, naturally, cursing myself for having these ideas of fair play and justice when dealing with monstrosities from beyond time, and promising myself I'd change my ways if I could just live through this.
A shadow within the darkness was my only warning, as the Maelkodan dropped to the street fifty feet ahead of me, having apparently run and jumped along the tops of buildings to do so. However, in the landing it did pause slightly, perhaps enjoying the effect and the power, and I took full advantage to center my 10mm on the torso and fire three times.
The thing's eyes flared just as I did that, and I saw three sparks of light in line with my aim. In the streetlights, I could just barely make out three tiny objects, floating in the air scant feet from the thing. Telekinesis.
"I should have known, I should have kn
own, you can never kill a monster with bullets, never, it's in the friggin' Monster Union Rules!" I heard myself half-wail as I turned and dashed inside the supermarket, which was mostly empty. The gunshots had drawn the attention of the proprietor, who had unlimbered a quite impressive-looking shotgun. He never had a chance to use it, however. With a roar like a jet engine going into overload, the Maelkodan demonstrated its newfound power by blowing the entire glass storefront inwards, blasting both of us off our feet, sending racks of candy, magazines, sunglasses, and other sundries tumbling end-over-end. I took advantage of the impetus to skid and roll down one of the aisles. Its shape and size would give me a slight edge in narrower spaces, although the convenience of customers of course dictated that the aisles weren't really narrow enough to restrict it.
"Let us prolong this no longer, Mr. Wood!" the Maelkodan called, its voice oddly human; perhaps it, like the Wolves, could shift parts of itself while in motion. "I will still try to kill no innocent human during our hunt, but the more you resist, the more the chance that one such will get in the way!" It sounded sincere, and oddly enough I believed it. The creature was, perhaps, as soulless a killer in its own way as the Wolves, but even some Wolves seemed to take pleasure—perhaps honest pleasure, perhaps merely the pleasure of a properly played game, but pleasure nonetheless—in following through on a commitment. I had shown the Maelkodan more consideration than it might have expected; it was trying to live up to the standard I'd set.
"It's not in my nature to stand still and die," I shouted back, moving down another aisle. "Being honest, I doubt we'll get out of this store with both of us still moving."
"True enough," it said. I felt a wave of force ripple past me . . . and then the shelves, the whole aisle's worth of shelves and products, were moving, toppling towards me.
But I was close enough to my goal, slamming my way through the door and finding it was just large enough for my purpose.
There was a pause, one in which I recalled all too well a similar moment, waiting behind a door to see if the King of Wolves would take the bait or not.
I heard a genuine laugh from the Maelkodan, something like a steamkettle rattling. "The men's room? How clever." The door burst open. "But did you forget—"
"That you could turn off the killing mode and thus enter mirrored rooms safely?" I said from my position on the other side of the door. As it turned its startled, momentarily harmless gaze on me, I pressed the button. "I counted on it!"
There are commercial versions of that gadget, but I like making my own. The Dazzler detonated like a magnesium flare in that enclosed space, leaving a spotty afterimage on my eyes even through closed lids. I was diving back through the door even as I triggered it.
The Maelkodan shrieked; it felt like my ears had spikes being driven through them, and its tail gave a convulsive movement that whipped me fifteen feet across fallen cans and shelves. No telekinetic shield could have protected it from that blazing luminescence scarcely a foot and a half from its eyes. And as Morgan and Baker had both said . . . it had to be able to see its prey to use those eyes. It cursed and shouted in a language so ancient that only Verne and Kafan might have understood it.
For at least a few minutes, it was much less dangerous. But that trick had been meant as a last-ditch effort, we'd expected to kill it long before this. Once it recovered, I'd be meat. Even if it kept playing relatively fair, it was clearly going to wear me out, and then it would all be over. I picked myself up groggily, staring across at the scattered wreckage, candies, displays . . .
"Smarter . . . than I thought . . . Mr. Wood," it gasped, backing out of the bathroom clumsily. "Much smarter. I've been far too long without a decent opponent, and it shows, does it not?" It rubbed fiercely at its eyes. "Alas, my eyesight shall recover momentarily, and I am hardly harmless!"
Canned goods began floating into the air. I muttered another curse of my own; it was going to play Darth Vader, and I was no Luke Skywalker. I threw myself flat, ignoring the increase in bruises, and slid towards the front of the store as a hurricane of metal cylinders started streaking randomly around the enclosed space, ricocheting off of the remaining shelves, walls, support columns, an occasional one bouncing off the floor or me. I restrained the grunts and groans of pain—I didn't need to give it any help in targetting. Somehow I'd lost the CryWolf glasses, despite being better anchored. I was going to put in a hell of an expense account to Baker . . .
Lost my . . .
I somersaulted forward and moved into one of the remaining aisles, hunkering down. My gaze roved frantically, searching.
"Ah . . . there . . . starting to come back . . ." I heard it mutter. The cans stopped moving, and I could picture it standing there, listening. I knew I couldn't be noiseless, not in all this destruction. Despite my attempts, there were rustlings, cracklings, clanks of cans rolling. In the distance I heard sirens, but they wouldn't be here in time . . . assuming any Wolf was brave enough to enter the Maelkodan's range.
Clawed feet rattled through the supermarket stock, making a beeline for my aisle.
Where, dammit, where—ah-HA! I grabbed, then dove for the end of the aisle away from the creature—but my foot slipped on a can.
As I came down hard, jarring my chin so much that I bit my tongue and tasted blood, I thought to myself that at the least I'd managed to be convincing in that slippage; next time, perhaps, I might consider learning how to do it without hurting myself. Behind me, the Maelkodan scuttled at lightning speed. Taloned hands grasped me, and rolled me over, the sculpted head bending to deliver an unavoidable stare . . .
It had time for a single horrified "NO!!"
In a blaze of rainbow-clouded energy, the creature neutralized its own matrix, leaving a bending statue. With difficulty I wiggled free of the stony grip, and slowly hobbled away. Then I lowered my right hand, which had been pressed tight against my temple, and extended it towards the shaking, wide-eyed clerk who had just risen from the wrecked counter.
"I'll take these," I said, placing the mirrored sunglasses in front of him. "And most of your stock of Band-Aids."
64
Baker stood staring at the statue. "I can't believe it," he repeated for the fourth time. "You beat the thing."
"What you hired me for, isn't it?" I said, rather gratified by the reaction; it was nice to know that the Wolves were honest-to-God terrified of something and that it hadn't just been a matter of trying to make the human do their dirty work. "One Mirrorkiller, packaged for transport."
Baker finally got a hold of himself, and turned to face me. "So we're square up, then?"
"You make sure Carruthers understands that I carried through on the spirit as well as the letter of our agreement," I said. "No trouble from any of his people or yours, you won't have trouble from me. And two other things—one I just want to reinforce, since I warned you before, and one new one."
He looked at me suspiciously. "And those would be . . . ?"
"First, no more killings. I've got a good idea how many you had to do to take over here, and it's sickening, but we've gone into that. You just make damn sure no more people get killed—either natives or visitors—by your people, or under their orders."
Baker glowered at me. "We have to protect—"
"That isn't my problem." I cut him off with a cold glance. "You work your masquerade without killing people, at least until you're ready to take us all on, or you will be taking us all on. If you think someone's getting too close to your secret, you either figure a way to mislead them, or get ready to pull up stakes and move on. It's your call, but if you push me into blowing the whistle, I think you can bet that not one out of every ten of you will get out of Florida alive."
Baker spat on the ground, looking like he yearned to do something else to me, but we both knew I was off-limits. "Fine, fine. I got your message. What's the other thing?"
I pointed. "The statue. I want it carefully packed up and shipped to me."
Baker looked startled. "Oookay, if ya say so.
I cain't say anyone in this here town's likely to want it for a decoration. I'll spring for that." We shook hands on the bargain, my skin only slightly crawling from the idea since at this point I was the one with the whip hand. "So, you know y'all are welcome to stay here for free—I know you were on your honeymoon, an' the beaches here are . . ."
I couldn't restrain a laugh. "Baker, it's a lovely town, but there's no way in hell we're staying here any longer. Right, Syl?" I said, as Sylvie finally crossed over the hastily erected yellow tape barrier and grabbed me in a hug that nearly cracked my sore ribs. "Ouch, watch it!"
"Sorry—I'm just sooo glad you're alive, Jason. I thought you would be, but you can never be sure." She glanced at Baker. "And he's right. We're out of here as soon as we can get packed." She looked up at me. "So, Romeo, wherefore art thou taking thy wife for the rest of the honeymoon?"
I winced at her mangled semi-Shakespeare, but smiled back. "Home to Morgantown, Syl. I think we've had enough adventure for now. Maybe we can go on another trip later."
She snuggled into me. "Sounds perfect to me."
65
"Oh, I had a king-sized attack of the shakes after it was all over," I admitted, leaning back in the comfortable, oversized recliner near Verne's fireplace and hugging Syl to me. "More than one. Cursing myself for giving it any chances at all, and so on."
"No, no, Jason. All in all, I think you did precisely the right thing," Verne said. "Perhaps it is merely that I am a relic myself, but I feel that there is such a thing as respecting one's opponent, and part of that respect is, in fact, giving him or her . . . or it . . . the chance to not be your enemy. It is evident that the Maelkodan shared that respect for you. It could have attempted to kill you much earlier, and even later in the combat there were tactics it might have used to kill you more efficiently. But just as you hadn't arranged for a multiple crossfire or something of similarly lethal nature, it did not attempt to use—how would you put it?—ah, cheesy tricks to finish the chase."
