His reflexes made me think that the kick to the shin had been a freebie. Like he felt bad.
“Don’t talk about my father like you knew him.”
“Yeah, well, the truth always stings a little,” Kalos said. “And Albin, the guy playing lawman, probably made the same nine stops we did.”
I searched his eyes for the rest. “And you’re saying…”
“I’m sure they’re all dead as that tree.” Kalos pointed at the one sad-looking shrub on the street. “And I doubt it was quick, because he was searching for me.”
He kicked at the cobbles, hanging his head.
“But I guess I’m partially responsible. You poke the hornet’s next and you tend to get stung.” His shoulders slumped—curiously forlorn for a demon. “And other people get stung, too.”
Argos’ nails scratched against the hard stone as he pattered over and sat down between us. With an aristocratic throat clear, he cocked his head upward and said, “This conversation is quite lovely, really, but may I suggest we continue our flight?”
“Where can I go?” I said, looking back at the horizon. I couldn’t see Liberty Printworks from here, but the smoke was like a signal flare pointing to where it had once been. Even with the city’s volunteer fire department, and the design of the grid to prevent the spread of flame, everything inside would be as good as gone.
Or it wouldn’t. I swallowed hard and glanced between my two companions.
“What if they find Father’s books?”
“Oh, they’ll probably think you’re a witch,” Kalos said, far too casually for my liking.
“A witch?”
He shrugged. “There are worse things. Like being dead.”
“I can never go back,” I said, the realization making me dizzy.
“Wouldn’t recommend it, no.”
I tore at my hair, loosening the knots in the braid. I kept it that way when I worked the printing press, to avoid it getting caught in the ink. But now, my life had changed. The brown strands swept over my shoulders, fluttering past my eyes in the gentle breeze.
“And your wound?” Kalos’ long leather jacket hung unbuttoned, his torn linen shirt displaying the nasty bite.
“We’ll have to deal with that, too.”
“We?”
“Well, you can hack it on your own,” Kalos said, peering down the darkened street. “But you’ll probably die faster that way.”
“How refreshing.” I weighed my complete lack of options and wrinkled my nose. “And what happens if we don’t deal with your situation?”
“I’ll turn into something that no one will like very much.”
“Oh, I doubt that’s possible.”
His stern gaze told me that he found my sarcasm unamusing. Pointing toward the moon, he said, “About five miles east of the city, there’s a farmhouse where I’ve been living.”
“Why?”
“Because the world needed one less asshole.” The leather crinkled softly as he began walking, his long strides outstripping my shorter ones. Argos had it toughest of all, though. The poor border collie’s legs were a blur alongside his master’s as he tried to keep up.
Unlike most dogs, he didn’t seem to enjoy the physical exertion.
“You’re not that asshole, are you?” I thought about my mother, her threatening me with soap.
“Depends who you ask,” Kalos said cryptically.
I looked up at the moon. It was more than three-quarters full. I didn’t know much about werewolves, but I did know one thing: once the moon filled out, I would have a much bigger problem on my hands than a burned print shop or a witch hunt. As far as I could tell, I would be the first person in history to witness a demon-wolf. And, very likely, the last.
Yet, somehow, going with Kalos was my best chance of survival, because a vindictive, bloodthirsty alpha werewolf was prowling the streets of Philadelphia. My chest burned as I kept pace with Kalos’ rhythmic, quiet footsteps.
Someone should have told fate that I could only deal with one major problem at a time.
Because a nagging voice told me that I wasn’t prepared for the coming hours.
Not even a little bit.
5
Argos stared at the moon, the glare illuminating the bloody specks dotting his muzzle. I thought he might howl, but then he shifted his gaze toward me.
“He’s getting worse,” I said, reading the dog’s expression.
“We don’t have much time,” he said. “A day.”
I listened to Kalos pant inside the barn. Whatever mix of herbs Argos had fed and smeared on him in the back room had long since worn off. The final two-mile leg of our journey had been arduous. My shoulder burned hotter than the print shop in August.
“Don’t feel bad,” Argos said, nodding sagely. “You wouldn’t have been able to cure the bite anyway.”
This was news to me. I had more studying to do than expected. “Then why’d you come?”
“A healing salve,” Argos said. “Just to get him back in the fight.”
“And why the hell would you want to fight that thing again?”
“Because the cure is made from the blood and ground teeth of the wolf.” He raised his eyebrow and paused for a beat. “Hair of the dog.”
I think I was expected to laugh, but instead an image of Albin flashed through my mind. The inhuman smoothness of his gait. How it drew attention to a primal power. His feral rage, hurling himself into the invisible territorial block.
“You mean we have to find Albin?”
“Well I don’t think Kal’s gonna do it,” Argos said, his eyes narrowing.
“Maybe if I get him patched up with the emergency kit—”
“We’re beyond patching.” The border collie shook his head and let out a somber whine. “Any temporary fixes powerful enough to fix that are likely to kill him.”
“But we got him out here.”
“Everyone has their limits.”
A sleepy groan floated from the derelict barn.
“Aren’t demons immortal?” I asked.
“Look who went to Sunday school.”
“I wasn’t a very good student.”
“We noticed.” Argos stared into the distance. The white paint peeled from the side of the barn, flaking off into the soil. The structure’s roof sagged in the middle. I could see how it made for a good place to hide. The nearest road was more than half a mile away, and totally overgrown. It seemed unlikely that anyone would come out here for quite some time.
Which was why I was alarmed when Argos said, “We can’t stay for long.”
“We’re miles from anything.”
“I can smell Kal’s blood,” Argos said. “Albin will be able to smell him further.”
“How far are we talking?”
“We left a trail through the city, with the shape he’s in.” Argos shook his head. “Might take the wolf a day to figure it out. Could be less.”
“If all he has to do is follow the bread crumbs—”
“He’s constable. So there’s that, too.”
“Meaning?” I knew where this was headed, but I still didn’t want to admit it.
“On the list of positives, paperwork.” Argos scratched at the ground with his paw. “Buys us time.”
“I’m assuming I don’t want to hear the negatives.”
“That mortal Kal turned to ash? Let’s just say there’s going to be a lot of pressure to find the arsonist responsible.”
“A demon hunt?”
“Wouldn’t be our first,” Argos said. “And he’s only half-demon, so you can spare a little sanctimony, print shop apprentice.”
“Owner,” I said, hands forming into fists.
“Former owner, really,” Argos said, looking at the horizon with a wistful gaze.
Out here, in the late summer moonlight, breeze rustling through the trees, it seemed impossible to think anything could ever burn. It shook my resolve enough to consider other options, as bad as they might be.
�
��I have an aunt in Boston,” I said, turning toward the rough-looking road. “I wish you the best of luck with your endeavors.”
“That didn’t sound terribly sincere, Rebecca.”
“Forgive me for not being nicer to the creatures of darkness who ruined my life.”
With little more than the clothes on my back, I began marching through the waist-high grass field. Little footsteps pattered behind me. I picked up the pace, and the gait matched mine.
“Surely word will reach Boston,” Argos said, cutting in front of me so quickly that I almost pitched forward and fell. “Rebecca Callaway as you knew her is dead.”
Argos didn’t say it cruelly. More as if he was reading a signpost along the road, indicating where a wagon was to turn off. I felt my knees wobble, but determined not to look like a fool, I kept walking.
“I’m not listening.”
“He’ll die.”
“He’s immortal!” The words came out much louder than I wanted, booming across the empty field like a cannon shot. I clasped both of my hands over my mouth, as if that would do some good. Argos trotted in front of me and sat down, tall grass rustling.
“In most ways, yes,” Argos said. “As am I. But I don’t believe I would survive a dip in a blacksmith’s smelter. There are clear limits.”
“We could always find out,” I muttered.
“My hearing is quite good, as you might suspect.”
“The point stands.”
His pointy ears flattened against his head, and he looked as if he was also considering running off. But some loyalty kept him rooted to the ground despite his fear. Being lead dog was not his normal station in life, but with his friend in dire need, he would assume the mantle.
“Need I remind you of the demon-wolf?” Argos said. “Although the current literature can hardly be considered robust, you’d have to agree that such a creature is—”
“The literature would be more robust if you hadn’t burned it all.”
“Yes, and we would all look lovely lying dead next to your precious books. Life is about compromise, Rebecca.”
I stared deep into his brown eyes. They hid a human yearning that indicated the words were not merely empty.
“Ruby.” My old name and life were ruined. The new one came in a flash—the faintest of ties to the past, but far enough away to be someone completely new. Rebecca went to church on Sundays, dressed in her dull black garments. Never standing out, ink stains beneath her fingertips. Yearned for the adventures she read in books.
I reached into the apron and dug out the coins. They felt heavy in my palm. With my free hand, I tore off the apron and hurled it into the air. It fluttered a few yards before being swallowed by the tall stalks of grass.
Ruby consorted with demons—and their annoying, if brilliant, pets. She had an edge, an allure. Lived the adventures, even if they killed her.
I gulped about that last part.
“Who the hell is Ruby?” Argos said. “Are you still trying to visit your aunt? Look—”
“Ruby Callaway,” I said, slipping into the name like a well-worn shirt. Or a familiar lover. Not that I knew anything about those at the time. “It’s me.”
Argos cocked his head in that way dogs do, then said, “Whoever you are, I hope you’re up for what comes next.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, trying to sound bold.
“That’s simple,” Argos replied with a quivering voice. “We need to kill one of the most powerful werewolves in the world.” There was a long pause. “Before he kills us.”
6
I didn’t know much, but I harbored a keen suspicion that killing an ancient werewolf would be hard work. Particularly when the polite and charismatic constable also had the backing of an angry mob of townsfolk eager to exact justice on a murderer.
“Just focus, Ruby,” I said, repeating the mantra—and the new name—over and over, hoping to imprint my new personality through sheer force of will.
In the back of the stalls, buried beneath the stale hay, I located Woden’s Spear. Argos had insisted this was our only chance of killing the wolf. It looked heavy, based on its construction, but had a surprisingly even balance in my hands.
Which still wouldn’t help all that much.
I jabbed the weapon at the sagging stall doors and it almost slipped from my sweaty palms.
“You could hurt yourself,” Kalos said, his voice thin and weak.
“Or maybe I’ll just hurt you.”
“I’d like to see that.”
Gripping the spear tightly, I marched toward him. “You might want to reconsider, given your current condition.”
“Albin’s been searching for that spear for over a thousand years,” Kalos said, his eyes calm, even though I had the weapon’s sharp point aimed at his head. “I don’t intend for you to just hand it to him.”
“And yet, you’re the one who poked the hornet’s nest,” I said, poking at the air above him for illustrative effect.
“The wolf would have realized I had the spear eventually,” Kalos said, his face ashen. “And he’s been sniffing around other things as well. Trying to free old associates.” He muttered the rest of the words, but I heard the names Marrack and Isabella.
They meant little to me, other than that Kalos clearly hated them more than the wolf.
“So you were being proactive,” I said. “Great plan.”
“In retrospect,” he said, glancing at the herb-smeared wound on his chest, “I’ve planned better.”
“I’d need to see evidence before I believe that.”
“Getting pretty bold for a print shop girl.”
My ears flushed hot, and the spear wavered. “I’m helping you, remember?”
“A partnership of mutual convenience,” Kalos said, grunting as he propped himself up against the rotting wood. The gash still dripped blood, albeit slowly. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”
I wanted to be angry, but he was so sad and sick looking that it proved difficult. And, for a demon, he wasn’t bad. In many ways, he’d saved my life. Albin had visited all the better apothecaries and tortured them for information.
If Kalos hadn’t been in my shop, I’d be dead.
If I hadn’t broken Father’s rule, I would have been dead.
“Ruby,” I whispered, making the name more real. Boldness had saved my life once…
“What?”
“Nothing.” I flipped the well-balanced spear over, catching it before it dropped on his head. “So Woden as in the Norse god?”
“Something like that,” Kalos said. “I’ll show you.”
His mischievous eyes beckoned me closer. Suddenly my boldness left, replaced with a different mantra: demon. My numb legs shuffled closer, into the stall’s corner.
He gave me a bemused grin and pressed his hand into mine against the spear. His skin was surprisingly warm, but not burning hot. I wasn’t sure what I expected. My mind spun, forgetting that I had touched him earlier without incident.
Streams of energy pulsated around the spear. “It’s the essence.”
“You’re not casting a spell on me, are you?” I said, looking into his eyes as the wood lit up with a firefly glow.
“Spells aren’t really my thing.” He removed his hand from mine, and the light died away. Kalos dug into his leather jacket and flashed a flintlock pistol. “Guns draw less attention.”
“Never thought I’d hear that.” I took the pistol and examined the design. It looked nothing like the normal flintlocks I’d seen diagrammed in the books printed in the shop. This firearm had two fat barrels attached to a short body.
The half-demon, noting my confusion, said, “Two shots before you need to reload.” He squinted with one eye and brought his hand up, miming a gun.
“I understand how it works.” He took a pouch of munition and powder and shoved them into my hand. I shook out the canvas and saw the bullets glint silver. “I’m not a killer.”
“That’s the nice thing about starting over
, Miss Callaway,” Kalos said, his eyelids drooping. “You get to be anyone you want to be.”
I heard the word Ruby slip from his lips as he slumped against the barn’s wall, the old boards groaning. For some reason, I liked it when he said the name. It made me buzz with possibility, excitement. Probably because Miss Callaway sounded like a schoolteacher.
After a lifetime of reading, I kind of liked my new life.
Even if I didn’t know the first damn thing about being a werewolf huntress.
Hopefully I was a quicker study than the last time I inherited a job.
Otherwise, come tomorrow, we’d all be dead.
7
Argos and I left in the morning, just as the sun crept over the distant trees. I heard the dog muttering Ruby in different tones and dialects as we walked along the overgrown path. Woden’s Spear grew heavy by my side, the flintlock pistol tapping against my breastbone with each stride.
One step.
Thump.
Next step.
Thump.
And so the rhythm went, leaving me wondering if the composition would end with a wound like Kalos’.
“Stop,” Argos said, lifting his black-and-white snout into the air. “We’ll divert the trail here.”
I rubbed the cracked blood off my fingertips, readjusting the other piece of cargo I’d received that morning: a calfskin pouch of demon blood. With it, we could redirect the blood trail to a place of our choosing.
Where we would lie in ambush, spear sharpened and ready to stick Albin like a boar.
The blood sloshed inside the leather as I set the container down. The dog stood over a noticeable patch of stained grass. One of the many places Kalos had fallen as I’d helped him over the last two miles.
“You’re sure this is far enough from the barn?” I glanced back through the dense weeds lining the path. As we’d returned closer to Philadelphia, the roadway itself had grown more manageable. But the underbrush at its sides remained wild and dense, blocking any view of what might lay beyond.
Three miles from the city, and already in a world reclaimed by the wilderness.
Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection Page 58
