The Grendel Affair: A SPI Files Novel

by Shearin, Lisa

  I was stunned. We might as well stand in a spotlight. “Like the heat lamp over a buffet roast beef?”

  Ian stopped and turned. “If those grendels are within a mile of this place, they know we’re here. We’re all that’s standing between them and the ultimate buffet. Light’s the only advantage we have and we’re going to take it.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  The waiting began.

  I didn’t hear a peep from anyone. They were silent and focused, each getting ready in their own way for what would be coming for us from out of the dark. The guys had their game faces on, giving me no clue as to what was going through their minds. Well, except for Rolf. From the crazy-ass grin he was wearing, you’d think all of his birthdays—past, present, and future—had been tied up with a bow in this one moment.

  Me? I was one of the first things Papa Grendel was gonna see when he cleared that tunnel. We’d tangled twice and he hadn’t killed me yet, though neither of those times had been directly my doing; I’d had plenty of help both times. I’d never particularly cared for baseball, but “three strikes you’re out” was stuck in a loop in my head.

  Yasha growled low and deep in his throat.

  “They’re coming,” Ian said, settling his assault rifle against his shoulder.

  A roar only marginally softer than the lawyer-eating T-Rex in Jurassic Park shook the ground beneath our feet. It was louder than what I’d heard in the bull pen, but it was still some distance away. That roar was the grendel’s way of announcing that he was coming to kill us horribly, so that by the time he actually got here, we’d be appropriately terrified, thus prolonging his fun.

  I had news. I was appropriately terrified right now.

  “Please tell me you guys heard that.”

  “No,” Ian said. “But I feel the vibration. They’re closing fast.”

  “He.” I corrected him.

  Rolf Haagen’s face fell in disappointment. “Just one?”

  “He’s the only one roaring. It’s the one from the bull pen and tunnel. Do all grendels sound alike?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s a ‘he’ and he’s coming right at you.”

  My little announcement of impending doom cheered Rolf right up.

  Ian adjusted his shooting stance so he could fire in either direction. “Yasha, keep your eyes, ears, and nose on those southbound tracks. Grendels are silent hunters. One roaring in our direction probably means the female’s sneaking up on us.”

  The crazy Norwegian was grinning from ear to ear. “This trip might be worth it after all.” He reached over his shoulder and an instant later was hefting an honest-to-God broadsword. I hadn’t noticed it before, which considering its size was saying a lot. The sword was matte black and had blended right in with his armor.

  To supplement his gun, Calvin pulled a massive knife from a sheath that ran nearly the length of the big man’s thigh. Rolf saw.

  “That isn’t big enough.” The Norwegian gave his sword a fancy swing and tossed it to Calvin, who caught it cleanly. Rolf still had his spear, and an evil-looking rifle that he left slung over his back. “If he gets past me, don’t let him get away. And take care of that blade; it’s a family heirloom.”

  Yasha stood in the exact center of the tracks, his hackles rising along with his growls.

  Deep, unnatural laughter came from the tunnel, closer now. I’d know that gravelly chuckle anywhere.

  “It’s definitely the male,” I said.

  “Shit,” Calvin spat. He briefly tucked the sword under his arm, popped out what must have been a less than fully loaded magazine, and slammed home a new one. “This is getting old.”

  I moved up to the edge of the platform so I could have a clear view in both directions. Yeah, all the noise was coming from one end of the tunnel, but a whole world of hurt could be coming at us from the other.

  Ian’s eyes intently scanned the darkness. “Mac, let us know at thirty feet. Gentlemen, when she gives us a target, hit it with everything you have.”

  Yasha moved to stand with Ian in the grendel’s path, positioning himself so he could cover the southbound tracks at the same time. He couldn’t see the monster, but he had to be able to smell it. Though it didn’t matter how sensitive your nose was, you couldn’t fight by smell alone, at least not for long. Rolf and Calvin remained on the lookout facing the northbound tracks, and I was on what I deemed the grendel hunter equivalent of a deer stand, though this wasn’t Bambi’s dad coming at us. I gripped the paintball rifle, and dimly realized that Ian was treating me as a full member of our little team. To me, that said everything about the depth of the shit we were now standing in.

  Shit that got a lot deeper when the grendel suddenly stood framed in the arched tunnel opening—and I hadn’t heard a thing.

  I swore and snapped my rifle to my shoulder, firing a steady stream of glow-in-the-dark paintballs. Some hit, most didn’t, but what did hit was enough.

  Almost immediately, an eruption of gunfire hit the grendel at nearly point-blank range.

  There were plenty of hits, but little damage, even around the head. The grendel had darted out of range, with the last volley of bullets pockmarking the tunnel’s concrete and steel arch.

  The Norwegian was using quick and random attacks with the long spear, with Calvin doing the same with Rolf’s sword. I had to hand it to Rolf; his poking had drawn blood and was starting to really piss off the grendel. Part of me admired that; but considering how close he had to get to inflict any damage, it just confirmed that he was nuttier than a passel of squirrels.

  The guys were doing a good job at keeping the grendel boxed in, but only because the monster seemed to want it that way. He was either playing with us or buying time for his mate to join the fun. Or both.

  Room to maneuver wasn’t a problem; it was the obstacle course they were fighting on—uneven tracks, broken crossties, puddles, mud, trash. With the exception of the steel rails, the grendel’s weight simply crushed everything it stepped on.

  Yasha had joined them. If the momma grendel came at us from the southbound tunnel, he could break off and deal with it then. Now he was darting and retreating in coordination with his human teammates’ attacks, working on the back of the grendel’s legs below the knee. Hamstrings. Even with fangs the length of my longest finger, he couldn’t get through, but he kept at it. Darting and lunging, same leg, same place, every time, trying to weaken the scales like a fanged battering ram to bite through to the muscle, hobbling it enough that Ian’s bullets, Rolf’s spear, or Calvin’s sword could hit a sweet spot.

  I yanked my gun out of its holster. Screw this. The grendel was tagged. My job was done, but it wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. The grendel was a ten footer, my team was not.

  I aimed. The monster’s head was massive. How could I miss?

  Easily.

  Damnation, that thing was fast.

  It didn’t move far, arrogant bastard. It just kept shifting and pivoting, staying in the meager light of the abandoned station, taking every bit of steel and silver we threw at it. I’d emptied my gun, managing to land two shots, one to the head, one to the shoulder; both had about as much effect as a mosquito bite. But rather than run, the thing stayed and kept playing with us.

  Oh no.

  I froze in realization, then ran to the edge of the platform to the mouth of the southbound tunnel. Even with my bright helmet light, there wasn’t nothing coming at us from down there.

  And there wouldn’t be.

  I remembered Lars Anderssen’s words—a pair of mated grendels can communicate telepathically. The male was keeping us busy so the female could get to Times Square. Tia only needed one grendel to appear in front of those cameras at midnight.

  With shaking hands, I fumbled for my mike. “The female isn’t coming. He’s holding us here ’til she can get to the surface
.”

  Calvin spat a curse. Ian and Rolf didn’t say a word, but they’d all heard me.

  It didn’t make any difference. None of it would. I’d emptied my gun to no effect. The guys were doing everything they could. None of it was working, but if they lessened by one iota the intensity of their attack, the male would slice them to shreds. Meanwhile the female was making her way to the street with its million people. When she got there, she’d probably send the “supper’s ready” message to her mate, and it’d be all over.

  We were trapped here. The amount of time we had to live would be determined by how quickly the female got to the surface. I knew it wouldn’t be long.

  As if the grendel could read my thoughts, a low, eager growl rumbled from the depths of his chest.

  “Unfortunately, my aromatic friend,” Rolf called out to the grendel, “we don’t have all night. Playtime’s over.”

  I stared in dumbstruck horror as Rolf Haagen released the catch on his spear, telescoping it to half its length, and spread his arms to the monster.

  “Come and get me.”

  “No!” Ian roared.

  The grendel grabbed Rolf by the front of his body armor, and held him up so that they were face-to-face. Then the grendel slowly licked the Norwegian from chest to face with a black serpentine tongue. He probably didn’t care what the Norwegian tasted like; he was just enjoying licking him like a Kevlar-coated lollipop while bullets ricocheted off his armored scales. The grendel smiled and opened his mouth, a gust of rotten air from his exhale blowing the Norwegian’s blond hair back.

  Neither Ian nor Calvin could get a clear head shot without risking Rolf, so they took anything and everything else they could get.

  “That’s it,” Rolf was coaxing the monster. “Open wide. Show me where your gullet is.” He shoved his right hand and forearm into the grendel’s mouth. The grendel bit down and coughed, causing his mouth to open enough for Rolf to pull his now mangled mechanical hand and arm free.

  The grendel’s next cough was more like a hairball heave.

  Rolf covered his head and twisted away . . .

  . . . as the grendel’s head and upper torso exploded.

  Bits and pieces rained down including all that was left of the cloaking device and collar.

  The headless corpse toppled forward, smacking with a ground-shaking thud onto the tracks, pinning Rolf under it.

  I jumped down onto the tracks, grabbing a section of grendel, doing what I could to help Ian and Calvin move the remains. The thing shifted enough for Yasha to get his front fangs into the pull straps on Rolf’s armor and drag him free.

  Calvin was laughing; Ian was swearing—both at Rolf Haagen.

  Not only was the Norwegian alive, he was beaming. He staggered to his feet, surveyed the destruction, and let out a loud whoop. “My last grenade. Never go into a grendel’s maw empty-handed.” He looked up. “Beowulf, my brother,” he called, apparently toward Valhalla. “Now that’s a kill.”

  Flashlights and the sound of running booted feet were coming toward us down the tracks. Fast.

  More booted feet from the opposite direction.

  Backup. I exhaled in relief.

  Calvin was more vocal. “It took you long enou—”

  “FBI! We have you surrounded.”

  The men appeared out of the tunnels and passed the dead grendel with barely a second glance.

  I had a horrible, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The leader stopped and I could just make out his profile in the light.

  The vampire ex-CIA agent.

  27

  THE feds weren’t feds, either—unless the FBI had started recruiting ghouls.

  I didn’t dare make a sound. I touched Ian on the shoulder. When his eyes met mine, I tapped one of my incisors with my index finger, hoping that was the universal symbol for vampire. Now, how to pantomime “ghoul”? They were veiled, and to the guys, they’d look human. They needed to know they weren’t. Screw it. I stood on tiptoe and put my lips to Ian’s ear. “And ghouls.”

  Ian leaned in even closer, then went absolutely still.

  I did the same for exactly the same reason.

  We both had guns pointed against our heads.

  “The young lady said ‘ghouls,’ Detective Byrne,” came an urbane voice from behind me. “Or I believe it is now Agent Byrne, isn’t it?”

  I couldn’t see the speaker, and with a gun to my head, fear trumped curiosity. Ian looked as if he’d seen a ghost, the kind that haunted, day and night, and never left.

  “Those sibilant consonants will betray you every time, Agent Fraser,” the vampire, Charles Warrenton Fitzpatrick III called to me across the tracks as we were all disarmed. “Even without preternatural hearing, they’re nearly impossible to miss. But don’t blame yourself for your capture; like our grendels, we’ve long known you were here.” With exaggerated distaste, he stepped around the remains of the male grendel. “Even without the barbaric fireworks display.” He looked to where Rolf Haagen was slowly getting to his feet, blood that hadn’t been there thirty seconds before running down his temple. I’m certain our female guest will want to meet and eat the one who killed her mate.”

  Rolf spit out a mouthful of blood, and made sure every ghoul within reach shared the bounty before being knocked back to the tracks and his hands secured behind his back.

  “We received word that a team of ‘Scandinavian terrorists’ had entered the country,” the vampire continued. “I would think that to be an oxymoron. It was most accommodating of your comrades in arms to pay a visit to our nursery. It made collecting you all so much easier.”

  Calvin had been subdued, but a ghoul had paid for the privilege with its life, or whatever it was that ghouls had.

  There was no sign of Yasha. That fact, and that fact alone, kept hope alive and kicking.

  A pair of ghouls wrenched Ian’s hands behind his back—or they tried to. One earned a head butt for his efforts. The ghoul guarding Ian pressed the muzzle harder into Ian’s temple, and I heard the double click of handcuffs.

  “Please don’t make him shoot you, especially not in the head,” the man behind me said. “It would be a needless waste of such a delicacy.”

  A shiver ran through me. Humans—at least normal ones—didn’t consider people brains to be food, much less a delicacy. Zombies did; but zombies weren’t much for conversation. Damn the gun. I turned my head and looked.

  The urbane speaker was also a ghoul.

  At least that was what it wanted to look like. The face was a blur of images, layered one over the other, constantly shifting. Only the dark eyes remained constant.

  Eyes I recognized—as well as the seemingly endless layering of faces. The last time I’d seen them was from beneath a tattered hat in front of a liquor store in SoHo.

  The homeless man. The man who’d told me to give my regards to my partner. He knew Ian, and Ian knew him, and not in a good way.

  I should have shot him in those eyes with tequila when I’d had the chance.

  Either the creature could read minds or my recognition was obvious. His dark eyes sparkled in pleasure and he gave me a broad smile.

  “You do remember me, Miss Fraser.” To my seer vision, his dental work was an ever-changing array of teeth and fangs—from two incisors to four, from a mouthful of seemingly curved needles to human teeth. They had all been real enough at one point in time or another. The images were layered one upon another, stretching back into infinity, like looking into a wall of fun-house mirrors.

  “You’re not a ghoul,” I said.

  “Oh, but I am. At least to Agent Byrne. Please tell me you remember our encounter,” he said to Ian. “I look back upon it with great fondness. Is she aware that your partners have shortened life expectancies?” Then those now black eyes were on me. “Agent Byrne believes that he has unfinished business with
me. I perceive it as an interrupted meal.”

  “God damn you to hell,” Ian snarled.

  “You already tried to expedite my trip, remember? I certainly have not forgotten, as I am equally certain that you have not forgotten me. It was so very flattering to hear that I was instrumental in putting you on a new and exciting career path. Those of my kind are rather like cockroaches—a distasteful comparison, but an apt one. We can come back from virtually anything.” The soul of murder was reflected in his flat black eyes. “What you did to me was extraordinarily difficult to recover from, but I found the thoughts of exacting prolonged vengeance from you to be the best curative of all.”

  Ian’s hard face was carefully expressionless but I could feel the barely contained fury radiating off of him in waves.

  In that moment, I knew who the creature had to be. “The leader of that gang of pawn and jewelry shop robbers.”

  “Agent Byrne, your newest partner is both delectable and perceptive. Gang is such a common term, Miss Fraser. I prefer to think of us as entrepreneurs with a common business goal. I am surprised that you told your new partner about me, Agent Byrne. I don’t usually frequent base establishments such as pawnshops; however, this particular merchant had an item I had long searched for.”

  “What are you?” I asked. “You’re not a doppelganger.”

  He laughed, a mixture of voices, none of them natural, all of them monstrous. “Not even on my worst days. Tonight, I’m a ghoul. Tomorrow?” He shrugged elaborately. “It depends on who or what the situation requires.”

  Charles Fitzpatrick gripped the back of my neck in a hand that felt more like a steel vise, and half carried, half dragged me away from Ian. With a gun muzzle in my back, he forced me up the ladder and onto the platform, then all but threw me against the bars of the old subway booth. I tripped over some discarded aerosol paint cans and went down hard.

  “Get up and lace your fingers behind your neck,” the vampire ordered. “Unfortunately, we are short of restraints, but I know I can count on your full cooperation.”