There was a contingent of masked orcs waiting there to meet us. That was Skippy’s ground crew. Thankfully they had one of their healers with them, and she took a look at my arm. She wasn’t Gretchen—Skippy’s head wife and all-around best healer ever was otherwise occupied—but I’d take an orc healer over a regular hospital any day. She growled at the cauterization Coslow had left on my arms, pronounced it “trash magic,” gave me a paste made out of smashed-up bugs and flowers to rub on the dog bite, a gag-inducing vinegar with some dirt in it to drink to “make bone crack fix” and told me to take some Ibuprofen for my headache. While she worked on me, she complained in broken English about how humans were squishy and our skulls were soft, not “strong like urks.” She might not have been Gretchen, but she certainly had learned Gretchen’s no-nonsense bedside manner.
Sonya was escorted to one of the guest rooms, and Holly discreetly woke up some of the other Hunters who were currently staying at the compound and put them on guard duty, probably with the orders to shoot Sonya if she tried anything suspicious. Earl ordered the rest of us to get some sleep and we’d reconvene tomorrow. Most of my team had homes in nearby Cazador, but they were tired enough that they just crashed in their rooms at the compound for the night.
Not me. I drove home. The old Shackleford estate was only a short distance away. I missed my wife and wanted to give my son a hug.
I was about a mile out of the compound, the headlights of my truck cutting through the dark of the winding country road, when a man walked out into the road right in front of me. I had to slam on the brakes to keep from running him down. The truck came to a halt, front bumper only inches from the legs of PUFF Adjuster Harold Coslow.
He gave me a polite nod.
I probably shouldn’t have stopped.
“What the shit, man?” I bailed out, pistol already in hand. Just because it looked like Coslow didn’t mean it was Coslow, especially out in the middle of nowhere on a country road at four in the morning. “I could’ve killed you.”
“Calm yourself, Mr. Pitt. It is pointless for you to threaten violence against me.”
“Don’t take it as a threat, just an abundance of caution.” I had my gun at the compressed ready position, not aimed at him, but back by my chest. Which meant that I could punch it straight out and drill him in the heart really fast if I needed to. “How’d you get here?”
“The same way I get everywhere,” said the mysterious little man.
“Where’d you come from?” There was nothing but trees as far as I could see, no cars, no other vehicles, zilch.
“Most recently, the MCB offices in Atlanta, Georgia, where I have been overseeing the efforts to find the fugitive, Stricken.”
“How’s that working out?”
“Not well. Stricken is even wilier than our projections indicated. When given ample opportunities to prepare, he is a rather formidable foe. However, we are adjusting our strategies based upon recent developments and have made new projections. Which is what brings me here, to speak with you now.”
“Oh, good. I was really hoping for more cryptic pronouncements.” Coslow was still wearing the same, worn old suit, and no parachute, so he hadn’t dropped out of the sky. So he’d either teleported, or fast-roped out of some invisible silent stealth helicopter . . . and it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if the MCB had one of those. “What the hell are you anyway?”
“I am the PUFF Adjuster. That’s all you need to know.”
Stricken had offered to tell me. I probably should have taken him up on it. “Fine. Talk.”
“You were an unforeseen variable in this affair, yet now it appears your involvement has become pivotal. You will either heed this message—or not. Our projections have taken both possible responses into account. I will warn you, however, that the pathways branch rather dramatically based upon how sensible you are. Should you listen to me, the odds of your success, though slim, will go up dramatically. Should you disregard my advice, the resulting number of civilian casualties will be rather high, even by my admittedly jaded standards.”
“As far as government assholes go, you make me miss Franks. At least he says what he means.”
“Yet, he rarely says anything at all.”
“That’s a perk. What’s the message, Coslow?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Simply this. It is of the utmost importance that you keep the verbal contract you made with Stricken.”
It took my very tired brain a moment to process that. “I said I would look into his mystery problem.”
“That is correct. Our projections now confirm that your doing so will be of vital strategic importance.”
“What’s the crisis then?”
“We do not know.”
“Is it the thing the Secret Guard is worried about in South America?”
“We do not know. You would have to confirm that with Stricken.”
I took a deep, calming breath. The calming part didn’t work. “But Stricken’s currently hiding from you guys. How am I supposed to contact him?”
Coslow shrugged. “We do not know.”
Him saying “We do not know” was like a more honest, but just as annoying version of Franks’ classified. “What do you know?”
“Only that this particular crisis is not an extinction-level event. Mankind will survive this no matter what.”
I laughed. “Oh, good! You had me worried there for a second.”
Coslow gave me a curious look, and I noticed that his eyes had a bit of a red shine in the headlights. “However, if you do not deal with this crisis in a timely manner, approximately two million human beings will lose their lives in the upcoming weeks. The resulting refugee crisis will kill at least another million over the following year.”
“What?” I was stunned. “Millions? That’s insane.”
“No. It is simple math.”
“Based on what?”
“The ratios generated by the predictive futures market of the soul feasters.” And then Coslow blew right on past that before I had a chance to unpack it, like that wasn’t the weirdest damned thing I’d heard in a while. “The numbers may actually turn out worse. Tumultuous events like this often lead to wars, famine, and breakdowns in society.”
That sounded suspiciously like Asag’s MO. “Is it—”
“Despite the guilt you feel for waking that monster up, not everything is caused by your white whale, Mr. Pitt. We do not believe it to be Disorder’s doing, though he may be peripherally involved. If the models are accurate, the ultimate cause is most likely the Great Old Ones. Though the most likely reason they have gone on the current offensive may be in response to Asag’s recent awakening. Those two factions are ancient enemies.”
“They hate each other as much as they hate us.”
“Oh, the Old Ones do not hate mankind, Mr. Pitt. They see you as too insignificant to hate. You are merely minor obstacles to be overcome on the way to their inscrutable goals. Nor does Asag hate. for hate implies a fiery emotion. He is instinctually driven to destroy everything, and he will work toward that goal with complete dispassion. However, as I was saying before you rudely interrupted me, this event could cause more ripples, but each waveform becomes harder to predict the further it gets from the inciting incident. For now the expected casualty number has been set at three million.”
I stood there dumbfounded and not really knowing what to say. Since I now knew without a doubt that this was the real Coslow—no illusion or doppelganger could be this frustrating—I slowly reholstered my gun. “So I’m on the hook to finish Stricken’s mission, even though nobody knows what it is . . . ”
“That is correct. You made a verbal contract with him—”
“Bullshit.”
“Irrelevant, Mr. Pitt. I say you made a contract. You can deny that, however everything we have in our records about you indicates that you would be psychologically incapable of not trying to stop this kind of event once made aware of it. You would be compelled to come to
the aid of those people regardless. Heroic meddling is encoded in your very DNA. So now that you are aware, your involvement from here on is a foregone conclusion. I am merely educating you about the stakes and the necessity of heeding the one called Stricken. Now that you know these things, you are trapped.”
Okay, this fucker had my number there. “If I’m supposed to stop this thing, how do I proceed?”
“That is up to you. Those are answers I do not have. I do not know the details, merely the cost should you fail.”
“Three million people.” Talk about the weight of the world on your shoulders. “If you guys catch Stricken, can you at least beat it out of him, and then give me a call to tell me where to go?”
“Gladly. I was offended by the way in which he mocked the extremely generous contract which was offered to him. However, I would not count on the MCB or STFU finding Stricken in time. He is rather clever and has a great number of allies to call upon, facts which have caused us a great deal of consternation.”
If somebody were to drive by right then, we would probably look like two men stupidly blocking one lane of a narrow country road, but one of us was mortal though drafted by cosmic forces beyond his understanding, while the other was some weird-ass supernatural entity that was worrying the shit out of me while simultaneously not providing much in the way of actionable intel.
“Since you don’t know for sure what I’m supposed to do, can you at least guess?”
“I do not guess, Mr. Pitt.”
“Humor me.”
“I do not ‘humor’ either. The only thing which I am able to confirm, which may be of some use to you, is that your presence was not the only unforeseen variable which forced us to recalculate. The half-kodama, Sonya, is not numbered among the Chosen. Do not be surprised that we already know her identity. STFU pieced together who the thief was and they are fully aware that she is in MHI’s custody. However, I told them to leave her be for now so as to not interrupt your work. Their efforts will be focused elsewhere. As I was saying, Sonya has not been Chosen. To the best of my knowledge no faction has picked her. She is what we adjusters refer to as a free agent. However, her involvement in these matters was no accident. Like you, or the Shacklefords, she is the product of a pivotal bloodline. History was manipulated to bring these forces to bear in this age. The actions of her ancestors foreordained that she would be drawn into this conflict.”
“We talking her human side or the other one?”
“Both. We could not ascertain the reason she was brought into these events, because some ripples are harder to read than others. Hers was appreciably more chaotic than usual. However, I would encourage you to do your best to keep her alive until the role the universe has for her is revealed. On that note, an entity of extreme power and unrelenting vengeance will be coming to kill her this evening, so you should get some sleep.”
I laughed because, sure, tell me that I’m responsible for millions of lives and then expect me to be able to sleep ever again. “Yeah. I know about him. Any advice about how to deal with Drekavacs?”
“No. I know this one was once mortal, a judge and executioner who was corrupted by evil. Since then our paths have not crossed. Should you defeat him, you will need to fill out form 875-G for a Cursed Super Being, and form 62-F for subcategory Unrelenting Killer. Do not forget to check the reason box as Contracted Hellish Vengeance.”
“I totally would have done that anyway.”
“See to it. There is no excuse for sloppy paperwork.”
Now that was getting personal. “Whoa, back up. My PUFF paperwork is fucking meticulous. I might not be the best Hunter MHI’s ever had, but I’m pretty damned sure I’m the best accountant this company has ever seen.”
Coslow grudgingly nodded. “Your statement is accurate. Of the many financial specialists I have seen Monster Hunter International employ over the last century, you have by far the lowest error rate of them—a fact my auditors find most vexing.” The PUFF Adjuster abruptly turned and started walking down the road.
“Do you need a ride or something?”
“Thank you but I will be fine. Good luck, Mr. Pitt.”
I turned back to my truck, then remembered something. Coslow might know who it was that called the country store to trick Sonya into nearly getting herself killed by the lich. “Hey, what about—” But when I turned back, there was nothing but empty asphalt. The only movement was from a few moths fluttering through the headlight beams.
“That is one freaky little dude,” I muttered to myself as I got back into the truck to drive home.
* * *
Julie woke me up by opening our bedroom curtains. Photons flew over and punched me in the eyelids.
I groaned. “Ugh . . . What time is it?”
“Time for you to get up. It’s almost noon and apparently we’ve got a busy day.” My wife sounded chipper. “Or night, I guess. Since apparently you guys decided to invite some sort of murderous ghost to the compound for some inexplicable reason.”
Squinting, I sat up in bed and shielded my eyes. “He’s kind of a cowboy pirate murder ghost. I would have told you all about it when I came in, but I didn’t want to wake you.” She had been sleeping peacefully, and honestly, it had felt nice to just lay there and listen to her breathe during the few minutes before I had passed out. “It’s a long story.”
“I gathered that from the email Milo sent on your flight home. For a super genius he sure does struggle with being concise. From Milo’s mad ramblings it sounds like we’ve got a real fight on our hands.” Julie was standing at the foot of the bed, still as radiant as the day I’d first met her. Except that time she had been professionally dressed and acting very proper and put together. Currently she was wearing workout clothes and was breathing and sweating like she’d just got off the treadmill. But that was one of the perks of a good marriage, you see each other at your best and your worst, but you still like each other anyway.
“You’re beautiful.”
“You’re just delusional because you’ve been on the road too long. I need a shower.” Julie smelled her armpit and then made a grossed-out face. “But anyways, I’ve got a team of smart people trying to figure out how to remove the Ward from that girl’s hand. I called for backup Hunters and everybody else is prepping the compound’s defenses now. The Catholics sent us their file on Drekavacs. We’re breaking the good stuff out of the armory. It’s all hands on deck.”
“Hang on a second.” I knew her moods way too well. “You’re actually excited about the prospect of this thing attacking us tonight, aren’t you? You’re pumped for this.”
Julie flashed me a sly grin. “What do you think? I’ve either been playing mom or running this company while you’ve been flying around to exotic locations having stakeouts and car chases. You’re damned right I’m looking forward to doing some real monster hunting. I’ve already arranged for a babysitter.”
“Atlanta’s hardly exotic.” Well, DragonCon was actually kind of nuts, but I didn’t need to go into that. “How’s the Chunk?”
“He’s taking a nap. Speaking of which”—Julie peeled her shirt off—“hurry and get naked before he wakes up.”
Actually, being married has several perks.
* * *
For the first time in decades, the Shackleford family estate wasn’t actively under construction. Most of the time I’d been here, we had been fixing the old mansion from one crisis or another. Julie was actually good at home repair and power tools. I was good at heavy lifting and reaching things that were high up. Between the two of us, and a few complicated things where Julie’s pride had actually allowed for us to hire contractors, we’d finally gotten the place fixed. Which meant that now we could actually sit in our kitchen and eat in peace, not surrounded by tools and drywall dust.
Julie and I sat at the table, eating sandwiches, while we waited for Ray’s sitters to arrive so we could go to work. Ray played on the floor, brutally whacking his toys with a plastic squeaky hammer, a useful
skill that he had probably gotten from me. Dispensing blunt force trauma had come in really handy in my career.
“So who did you get to babysit?” I asked, because after your kid has already been kidnapped once by the forces of evil, you tend to get kind of paranoid about that sort of thing.
Before Julie could answer, the black blob that was lying beneath the kitchen table declared, “No need babies sat. Mr. Trashbags protect Cuddle Bunny’s Cuddle Bunny.”
“Shhh . . . He gets sensitive about that,” Julie warned.
I sighed, because I had once again inadvertently hurt the feelings of the Saint Bernard-sized eldritch abomination that lived in my house. “Sorry, Mr. Trashbags, but you need backup.”
The blob rolled out past my bare feet and looked up at me with seven blinking eyes. He loved Julie and Ray unconditionally, but he was still kind of suspicious of me. “Mr. Trashbags nanny.”
“I hired Shelly to be the nanny, but you get to be assistant nanny.” Julie took a handful of potato chips and dropped them on the floor for her loyal pet shoggoth to devour. “We know Mr. Trashbags is the very best at protecting us.”
Two mouths full of weird-looking teeth formed on Mr. Trashbags’ amorphous form to gobble up the chips. He formed a third mouth to keep talking. “Shelly Nanny good. Mr. Trashbags more gooder.”
It had taken me some time to get used to having Mr. Trashbags around, since the first time we’d met he’d been a multi-ton killing machine who had tried to steamroll me. He was from a different dimension, but he had demonstrated his total loyalty by saving Ray and Julie’s lives on multiple occasions in Europe. Plus Julie was really fond of him, so now he slept in one of the downstairs bathtubs and ate our trash.
“You’re both good,” Julie assured him. “Just good in different ways.”
“Shelly Nanny is biped. WEAK.”
“But she also has opposable thumbs, can reliably operate a telephone, and can cook human food for Ray,” Julie pointed out.
Mr. Trashbags made a strange gurgling noise as he thought that over. “Mr. Trashbags procure nourishment for Cuddle Bunny’s Cuddle Bunny.”
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