And then, he came.
Loping between two cars, came Clint, shifted in his wolf form. He seemed different from what she remembered, but still monstrously big, with bulging musculature and deep chocolate brown fur covering his body. The fur, however, was matted and tangled in places. The fur which covered his feet were dirty, with pale gray clumps of dried mud woven in it.
His long-fingered claws were dark, almost black, like dirt, as if he had been digging in the dirt, or, as shock hit Sarah, someone’s blood. The most startling change she could see in him was his eyes. They reminded her of that first night she had seen him change. Those eyes had been — animalistic. Rabid. Scary. They looked that way now. Sarah was thankful they seemed to see only one thing. Blain.
She watched as Clint, in a mix of two-legged running and four-legged loping, made a straight line for that horrid beast. Sarah felt elation and a little fear. Something was not right with Clint. He seemed more animal, than man.
Comprehension seemed to blossom in Blain’s expression as he realized the situation had changed. Sarah’s elation turned to dread, as she heard Blain call her name.
“Sarah,” he bellowed. “Come and defend me!”
She could feel his will engulf her, stealing her own and supplanting it with his. She fought with everything she could, but she was no match for this ancient magic which gave Blain command over her. As Clint barreled towards Blain, he began to back up and Sarah moved. Blain’s demand forced Sarah to use all she could to intercept Clint and she barely made it there in time.
Coming to an abrupt halt in front of Blain, she turned on Clint.
He didn’t stop.
It was as if he wasn’t seeing her at all. Or worse, didn’t care she was there.
“CLINT!” She held up a hand before her as if that could stop this enormous beast speeding towards her like an avalanche of muscle and fur. But like what happened a few short weeks ago, her voice, saying his name, seemed to reach him and he stumbled to a halt in front of her — his chest heaving, jaws agape and eyes burning. They stared down at her and she felt the same fear she had felt that first night all over again. This monster was going to eat her.
“Clint. It’s me. It’s Sarah. I love you.” Tears began to stream down her face, leaving wet tracks in their wake. “Please!” Her voice cracked from the ache she felt. She saw the fire in those eyes gradually recede.
“Aww. Did you hear that, pup?” That awful voice came from behind her and Sarah closed her eyes. Gods did she hate him. “She loves you.”
At the sound of Blain’s voice, Clint ceased seeing her and his eyes fixed on Blain. The fire returned with a vengeance.
She could feel Blain’s breath on the back of her head as he leaned down over her.
“Now shift and fight him. Stick around long enough for me to get away then go to our meet up point.”
Sarah shook. She could feel herself beginning the shift and yet she hung on. Not wanting to give in.
“Go on lass. Fight your little bitch of a boyfriend.”
Bones broke within her, but they snapped and refused to reform. Brown hair began to push their way out of her skin, causing her whole body to itch. She would fight this. She would not do what Blain wanted her to do.
“DO IT! NOW!”
Her will broke. Bones mended and grew. Her face shattered and reformed. Muscle grew. Tusks burst from her jaw as it protruded outward. Sharp claws burrowed out from her fingers as they elongated. She gasped as pain racked her. Then it was done.
Now, Clint could not help but look at her as she neared his height and filled his view. Blain ran away behind her. Clint tried to move past her to follow and reluctantly she blocked his path.
A low growl, deep within Clint’s chest let Sarah understand she pushed his patience.
Well. She would push it more.
She launched herself at him, slashing with her right claw and her left. He brought his arms up to block her attacks and her talons ripped through the flesh, scoring bone.
Clint backed away from her and she followed in close, continuing to swipe at him.
“Clint. Please. Understand. I don’t have a choice.” Slash. Skin flayed off his arm. “Help me. Please.” Cut. Tibia snapped. “Whatever is going on with you. Come back to me. Save me.” Stab. Blood spurted.
Something happened. A light of understanding seemed to blossom in Clint’s eyes. Understanding flowed to recognition and then — horror. Clint stumbled back from her and fell, his head whipping from left to right as if seeing where he was for the first time.
Sarah couldn’t relent though. She had to give Blain some more time. So, she came for him.
“SIM! NO!” A scream of anguish froze her. It was followed by the scrape and twisting of metal as the car Blain had dropped upon the Bear lurched upward.
Sim had stood facing toward the Boar when a loud roar echoed from down the street and both he and the Boar turned to see what caused it. A Werewolf appeared and charged the Boar. CLINT! Sim didn’t know what would happen next but was happy Clint had drawn the Boar’s attention away from him.
When he heard the Boar command Sarah to come and protect him Sim’s heart broke. Those two have been through so much; this must be like salt on the wound.
Sarah moved to block Clint, then Blain spoke to her again and fled. Sim let him go. He couldn’t take that beast, and there was no way he would get involved in what was happening between Clint and Sarah.
Looking around, he saw the other Boar he had fought was gone; he fled like his master. Sylvanis had begun to move to those police officers who had suffered the worse from Kestrel’s spells, so his gaze slid past her and searched for Kat. He found her. Her eyes were locked on Clint and Sarah as she moved little by little toward them. The Croc was nowhere to be seen.
A sound came from behind him, in the alleyway, and he turned to see what it was. White hot pain slammed into his chest. Fire burned from within and he stared down in shock as a man stood before him.
He was Latino, his skin, brown, like the color of leather. Dark brown hair, slightly curled, framed a narrow, long face. The man was heavily muscled, and one arm held something he had buried into Sim’s chest.
With detached fascination, Sim watched as the man pulled a knife from his chest. It was a strange weapon, as the blade looked to be dark green in color, jagged and oddly shaped. The man withdrew it from him, turned and fled down the alley.
Sim dropped to his knees. He could feel his bones breaking and his body altering as he began to shift back to his human form — through no choice of his. The fire continued to rage in his body, and he was struck with a sudden realization. The wound in his chest was not healing.
Remotely, he felt himself fall to the side, his head striking pavement, bouncing off the concrete, but next to the fire, that pain was nothing. His vision began to dim, and he realized, unexpectedly, he was dying.
Desperately he arched his back and moved his head to try and find his father. To see him one more time. To tell him he loved him and to not let his death ruin him like it did when Sim’s mom died. To not let the darkness take him again because Sim would not be there to bring him out of it.
Searching, he couldn’t find Hank anywhere. He wouldn’t be able to tell him. To thank him for being such a great father. For teaching him to be the man he had become. Oddly, he could feel his heart slowing. The blood oozing from the wound in his chest was a bare trickle now.
He had reverted completely to his human form and lay sprawled upon the pavement at the mouth of the alley. A clouding misted his vision and he felt himself growing cold. Again, he searched for his father, but the car still rested upon where he had seen him go down. A great sadness overwhelmed him. He so desperately wanted to look upon his father one last time.
Dad. I love you. Be strong. Please.
Darkness closed in and he was gone.
“SIM! NO!” He had felt it. Hank had felt the severing of the connection to Sim and he had known. Gods, he had known. There could
be only one answer to the sudden loss of Sim from his consciousness. He was gone.
With a roar, using all his strength, he sent the car the Boar had dropped on him off to the side and ripped his way out of the other car. Torn metal lacerated his skin, tearing it apart like a zipper, a little at first but as it dragged, pulling it apart. He ignored it. Absently, he noticed the Boar had left and now a smaller, decidedly female one faced off against Clint.
None of that mattered to Hank though as he rushed to where he saw Sim lying awkwardly, back arched and twisted so his body was up on its side, with his head tilted back. Looking back toward Hank.
Hank crashed down beside him in an instant, shifting as he fell, but he already knew what he would find. Sim’s eyes, open and still. His mouth parted slightly as if he had died trying to utter something. A plea for help? A call for his father? Hank did not know. Hank would never know.
Hank gathered up his son. Not the son of his blood, but his only true son of his heart. “No, no, no, no, no,” he murmured over and over. Grief took him hard and swift. Everything he had ever cared for had been taken from him. First Jennifer and their unborn son, and now, now Jennifer’s son, his stepson was gone. What have I done to deserve this? I have tried to be a good man. Hank gazed to the sky, tears drowning his face as sobs took him. All he could do was shake his head in denial of what had happened.
They weren’t supposed to be capable of being killed, not like this. What had taken his boy?
Through blurry eyes, Hank eyes quested over his son, looking for some clue as to what happened. It didn’t take long. A slightly vertical gash was visible upon his chest. The skin torn and covered with dark red blood. It hadn’t healed. It had struck him in the heart and hadn’t healed.
Someone squatted down opposite him and he glanced up. He could feel his chin quiver as he, with as much willpower as he could manage, held back the onslaught of pain and tears.
It was Sylvanis. She examined Sim. Tears flowed down her cheeks and Hank could see the anguish in her expression, the pain in her eyes. Gently, she reached out a hand and pressed it to the wound in Sim’s chest and closed her eyes, head bowed.
A moment passed, and she did not move.
“What happened Sylvanis? What took,” a sob racked him again, “what took my boy?”
It was another moment before Sylvanis answered.
Taking her hand away from Sim’s chest, she raised her eyes to look at him followed by a slight shake of the head. “I don’t know, Hank. Not really, anyway.” Her lips turned down at the corners and her eyes narrowed. “It was magic, but not Druidic. No. It feels old. Primal.” She shook her head again. “I don’t think it was of Kestrel and her group. This was . . . was . . . something . . . different.”
Even as she spoke the words, Hank realized he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Sim was gone, and nothing would bring him back. Hank was alone. Nothing mattered anymore. A well of darkness loomed before him and Hank, without a second thought, threw himself into it, to fall and let it take him.
Kat stood off to the side. She felt numb inside. The Croc, when Clint came to attack the Boar, had run and Kat had felt no desire to give chase. This fight had been brutal, and she had felt unprepared for it. After years of preparing herself to fight this war it was nothing like what she had thought it would be.
With the emergence of Hank from those cars and the realization Sim had been killed, sometime during the chaos, Sarah had also fled. Clint, she could see, had shifted back to his human form then sat, head bowed, arms curled up around his knees and weeping openly.
He had returned to himself, but at what cost? He must have some memory of what he had done. To her. To those hunters. He had crossed a line and now, he would have to drag himself back across it.
Oh, Sim. She grieved for the loss of his youthful energy. His frankness and honesty. She grieved for Hank’s pain, for she knew it was something he might not recover from. He’s been through so much already. Sim had told her of his mother. One of these nights they had been talking about their lives before all of this and Sim had talked about his mom. About how her death had devastated them both. That they had helped each other climb out of their despair. Oh, Hank. How will you get through this without Sim?
They had won this battle. The enemy had fled. Kestrel. The two Boars. The Rat and the Croc. All fled. Then why does it feel like we lost?
Chapter Seventeen
Hector fled to the far end of the alley and glanced back. The Werebear he had stabbed had shifted back to human form. He is just a kid. Not more than fifteen or sixteen.
He had done what his grandfather had sent him here to do. He had killed a Were. But now he didn’t believe he had done the right thing.
A roar of anguish tore through the night and Hector could see the other Bear run to the boy. Whatever they were to each other, it was clear to Hector there was a deep love there. Father and son? Hector did not know. He fled the alley altogether.
They had fought to save the onlookers. Hector had been there for the start of the fight. He had seen what had happened. The lines had been drawn. He’d watched a battle between two sides of Weres. One side had attacked innocent people and the other side — they had not only fought those ones but had defended the innocent people.
These monsters had tried to save lives. Hector shook his head as he hurried away from the battle site. These monsters had saved lives, and now, Hector had taken one. This was not how it was supposed to be. Weres were evil. Sent by the rival gods to kill us.
Sirens wailed into the night as if to join the chorus of grief coming from the other Werebear. The sound pulled at his heart. There would be a lot of loss felt tonight. The magical attacks and the brutal slaughter perpetrated by the one — witch? Sorceress? Hector didn’t know what she was, but she and her Weres had left many officers and onlookers dead.
They had fought for them. Hector felt a sharp pang in his chest. An ache. What have I done? A loud wail and flashing lights preceded a cop car as it flew past him. He had no reason to worry about any suspicion. There were many people on the street, and all seemed to be trying to get as far away from what had happened as he was, though for different reasons.
Hector had arrived in Chicago a few days ago and had quickly made his way to the site of the earlier fight, the one he had seen on the internet. The day had been overcast and brisk, not unlike how Boston gets in late autumn, so it wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to.
The wind however, the way it barreled down at you from between the high-rises, had left his cheeks numb and his lips chapped. He had been forced to hunker down in his coat, head lowered and only occasionally lifting to see where he went.
Even though the battle had taken place over a week ago, there were still people who were obviously only there to check out, ‘the site’. They stood near the corner of the building the Wereboar had buried the manhole cover into and took selfies. A street vendor sold Werewolf masks.
For a few days ago Hector came and went from this stretch of road and nothing had caught his attention. He started to return at night. After all, when else would these monsters return? They wouldn’t come back during the light of day. Of that, Hector was sure. The light was no place for these creatures. He would hunt them at night. Hunt them and kill them. He was ready for this fight. Needed it.
On the flight over from Mexico, Hector had gone through his grandfather’s notes. There had been more to this knife than his grandfather had told him. For one, the knife had done something to him.
It hadn’t been apparent at first, but the longer he had been in possession of the knife, the more he has started to notice changes in himself. These changes had frightened him at first, but he had come to understand why they needed to happen. Now he didn’t fear them, he relished them.
His grandfather had trained him to be a superb fighter. Combined with his training, he had grown strong and agile, making him a deadly combatant.
He had been nothing compared to what he had now become. The knife
had granted him superior reflexes and unfathomable strength. He also found his senses were more acute. All in all, it made him dangerous indeed.
He understood he would need these abilities if he had to battle these Werecreatures. Did his grandfather have those same abilities?
His thoughts went to how he had found his grandfather that morning. He was looking old and frail, as if something vital had been taken from him. Hector’s mind quickly recoiled from that line of thought as the answer held the painful sting of blame.
But, no. His Grandfather had given Hector the blade. Had known what it would do. Or so Hector told himself to forestall any real self-recrimination.
The only way for him to push away this cloud of guilt was to accomplish everything his grandfather had asked him to do. He would kill these lycans, these Were-creatures. He would end the threat of these creatures onto the world of men. When he did that . . . well. Your faith in me and your sacrifice, Grandfather, will have been justified.
On the second night, Hector found what he had been searching for. Keeping to the shadows as he was wont to do, he caught a glimpse of movement from an alleyway. Something hulking emerged from an alleyway across from him. A woman screamed. Men began to shout.
A lone man seemed to have placed himself in the path of the Werewolf on purpose. He had erected himself like a barrier between the lycan and those casual onlookers who were now fleeing this ferocious beast.
When the Wolf was only seconds from attack, Hector caught movement out of the corner of his eye and by the time he had adjusted his view to see what it was, the Tiger was already there and slamming into the Wolf, knocking it to the ground.
The battle which ensued was the most brutal thing Hector had ever witnessed. When the two combatants care little for the actual damage done to them, it can get bloody.
The conclusion of the battle had not been what Hector had thought it would be. The Tiger, who in Hector’s opinion was the better fighter of the two, had been defeated. Only the intervention of the lone man who had earlier stood in the lycan’s way brandishing a gun, then shooting the Werewolf, had prevented the Tiger from being killed. If such a thing was possible. At least without his knife.
The Gathering Page 16
