by Massey,M. D.
I looked up and sure enough, two huge dudes wearing dirty jeans, boots, biker leathers, and the club’s colors were standing on either side of the front door, both of them eyeing us up and down. I knew they could hear our conversation, even though we were a good thirty feet away. One leaned into to the other and called me a pussy, and they both snickered.
Great first impression, Colin. Way to go, I thought.
Belladonna heard them too and chuckled to herself. “Just follow my lead and try to look mean. By the way, can you leave that man purse behind? It kind of ruins the whole ‘I’m a big muscular Irish dude who can take care of business’ thing you have going on.”
I plucked at my Craneskin Bag. “This? Trust me, you’ll be glad I brought it along if things go sideways in there.”
She shook her head. “Whatever. I gave up trying to make you look butch a long time ago. C’mon, pretty boy, let’s go see what Samson knows about these corpses that keep popping up. Follow my lead and don’t get into a staring contest with anyone.”
“I know how to handle myself around wolves, Belladonna,” I protested quietly as we approached the door.
She marched right up and got chest to chest, or more like chest to stomach, with the one on the right. This guy had a good five inches on me, and could’ve given Hemi a run for his money in the huge mother-trucker department. He sported a bushy red beard with gray streaks in it, and was grizzled and scarred up like he’d seen some miles. He carried himself with supreme confidence, and had a feral look to him—even though he and his buddy were both still in human form.
I noticed he was wearing a “one-percenter” patch over a “sergeant at arms” patch on the left side of his vest. The other guy was wearing an “enforcer” patch. Interesting. Usually an MC like this would have two prospects guarding the door, not the head enforcer and one of his hit men. Apparently they were expecting trouble.
Belladonna wasted no time making her intentions known. “We’re here to see Samson, on official Circle business.”
The sergeant at arms sniffed and looked bored. “Don’t give a rat’s ass what you want or who you’re with. The pres’ ain’t seein’ no one tonight. We got club business to take care of, so you two ladies can kindly fuck off and come back tomorrow.”
I heard a lot of yelling and cat-calling coming from inside the club, and it sounded more like they were throwing someone a bachelor party than having a serious meeting. But with outlaw bikers you never could tell. They tended to mix business with pleasure as a rule, so this guy was probably telling the truth.
I laid a hand on Belladonna’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s just do what he says and come back another time.”
She shook my hand off. “I’m not leaving until I talk to Samson. Tell him I’m willing to pay the entry fee.”
He shook his head. “Hardbelly or no, bitches don’t pay the entry fee. Club rules.”
She nodded over her shoulder to me. “That’s what he’s here for.”
The grizzled old biker looked me up and down and shrugged. “His funeral.” He stepped out of the way to let us pass. “Ask for Sonny, he’ll hook you up.”
We walked inside the rowdy clubhouse, and I tapped Belladonna on the shoulder as we entered. “What did I just get volunteered for?” I yelled.
She yelled back at me over the background noise, which consisted of loud Southern rock and a lot of jeering and cheering for some chick in a bikini dancing on the bar.
“Nothing major, just a little light sparring with whoever they think can whip your ass. Since they’ll probably size you up to be a creampuff, it should be no problem for you.”
“Right, so I’m going hand-to-hand with an outlaw biker werewolf. No big deal.” I hoped she got the sarcasm in my voice, but it went right over her head.
She turned to clap me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit! You probably won’t even need that many stitches when they’re through with you.”
Before I could respond she headed off through the crowd to the end of the bar, where she flagged down the bartender. “I need to see Sonny!” she hollered.
The lady behind the bar pointed to a guy sitting a few seats down. He was a slim, bald man with earrings in both ears, clean cut except for a pierced soul patch under his lip. Like most of the guys in this place, he was inked up like the illustrated man, sporting full sleeves on both arms as well as tats on his neck and bald head. I spotted some prison tats; he’d done hard time. Belladonna walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
Sonny turned around and glanced at both of us, and his face lit up in a grin. “Well hello, what do we have here? You looking for a date, or to score? I take American Express, blow jobs and cash, by the way.”
Belladonna wasn’t fazed at all by his forward and crass manner, and she leaned in to yell in his ear. “We’re here to see Samson. I told your sergeant at arms we were willing to pay the entry fee.”
He looked me up and down and shook his head. “You sure college boy here is up for it? He looks like a bit of a sissy to me.”
I crossed my arms and tried to look tough, but my torn up jeans, Converse high tops, and “Whiskey for Breakfast” t-shirt definitely weren’t helping matters. Add to that the Craneskin Bag I had slung over my shoulder, and I looked pretty out of place in a biker bar. Belladonna just smiled.
“Trust me, he can handle it.”
Sonny nodded and reached behind the bar to pull out an airhorn, which he blasted overhead to get everyone’s attention. Within seconds, the music turned down and all eyes fell on Sonny.
He spoke loudly, projecting his voice despite the sudden quiet in the room. “Listen up, we got someone who wants to pay the entry fee!”
The club erupted in wild cheering and yelling; apparently, the Pack enjoyed a good fight. I leaned against the bar and waited for the cheering to die down, trying to look like I could handle myself. As soon as it did, Sonny leaned in and asked me my name and what club I was associated with.
“Colin McCool, no affiliation.”
Belladonna leaned over and quickly interjected. “He’s the Junkyard Druid—don’t let him tell you any different.”
The look on Sonny’s face went from amusement to respect. He nodded once, then turned back to the crowd. “Colin McCool of the Junkyard Druids will be challenging our sergeant at arms, Sledgehammer!”
The club erupted in cheers, and I noticed many of the bikers raising their drinks in my direction and yelling things like, “Nice knowing ya!” and “Hope your life insurance is paid up!”
I leaned in to yell in Belladonna’s ear. “You are going to owe me big time after this is over.”
She slapped me lightly on the cheek a few times and laughed. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. When’s the last time you had a decent brawl?” She paused and seemed to reconsider her words. “Never mind, forget what I just said. You only have to last three minutes anyway, so just try to stay out of his reach and pick your shots. The round will be over before you know it.”
“I want you to know, if I hulk out and kill everyone in sight, I’m holding you accountable.”
“Oh, suck it up, you big baby. This is going to be child’s play for you.”
By this time, several Pack members had bustled us over to a raised boxing ring that took up one side of the club. Sledgehammer walked in from the front entrance, peeling off his colors, jacket, and shirt underneath to reveal a chiseled torso that looked way out of place on a middle-aged biker. He was also one of the hairiest men I’d ever seen.
“You sure he hasn’t already transformed?” I asked. Belladonna shook her head.
“It’s against the rules. The rule is that if you’re not Pack and you want an audience with the alpha, you have to fight one of the Pack. But, since you’re human, he has to fight you in his human form.”
“So I’m still dealing with a guy who stands at around six feet seven and weighs in at over three-hundred pounds, who can bench press a Harley and who heals like Wolverine. Great.”
&n
bsp; She slapped me again on the cheek, hard enough to sting. “Go get ’em, Tiger!”
I sighed and handed her my Craneskin Bag. “Don’t lose this. It’ll eventually find its way back to me, but it has a mind of its own and it’s liable to let out all sorts of nasty stuff if I’m not around to keep it in its place.”
She held it gingerly with two fingers. “Ugh, I hate sentient magical items. Make this quick.”
I rolled my shoulders and neck out and leaned over to Sonny, who was busy taking bets. “What are the rules?”
He laughed. “Survive for three minutes. Or not—it doesn’t matter. So long as you stay in the ring and don’t run out, the fee is paid.” He paused and cocked his head to one side. “You want me to place a bet for you?”
“What are the odds?”
“Five to one against you. Sorry, but it’s the best I could do.”
I thought about it for a moment and pulled out five twenties from my wallet, which was what remained of the paycheck I’d just cashed. “Put a hundred on me.”
He chuckled and counted the money, tucking it away in his pants pocket. “I like your style, kid.” Then he leaned in and spoke in my ear. “Don’t hurt Sledge too bad, alright? You mess him up, and some of these wolves are going to take it out on you, Pack rules or no.”
“Great, I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, cracking my neck with a grimace.
I grabbed the bottom rope, used it to pull me up to the canvas, and rolled under the bottom rope. I stood up just in time to hear the bell ring and to see Sledgehammer’s massive fist coming right for the side of my head. Too late to slip or dodge the punch, I rolled with it, taking a glancing blow to the temple that made me see stars. I spun with the momentum, throwing a wild spinning kick that landed in his gut. I rolled away and stood on the other side of the ring, shaking off the effects of the punch and readying myself to weather this storm.
More like a hurricane, actually. Sledgehammer lived up to his name by leaping across the ring with a superman punch, which he followed with a flurry of punches delivered in a classic Western boxing style. Let me tell you, getting your ass kicked without losing your shit isn’t the easiest thing to do. But I’d had a few years of practice, sparring with all the killers at Camelot. So I stayed on the move, mostly keeping out of his way while I determined the best tactics for dealing with his superior reach and size. Since he was all hands, and showed no inclination to kick or grapple, I decided to use that against him.
First, I waited for him to throw a jab with his lead hand again, and when he did I leaned back and delivered a sharp side kick to his knee, buckling it slightly and stopping his forward momentum. Rebounding from that kick, I dropped to the floor and spun, hooking that same knee with the back of my own and turning it sideways at an unnatural angle. I heard a “snap” as his knee twisted and he fell hard to the canvas. I felt bad about his knee, but he was a werewolf, after all; he’d heal in no time flat. Better him than me.
I had to give him credit, because he didn’t grab his leg or show any other sign that his knee had blown. Sledge was tough, and he quickly got his good leg under him to get back to his feet. No way was I allowing that. I dove in for a single leg takedown, tucking my head under his arm as he pummeled my upper back and ribs with punches. Despite his superior strength, the blows were mostly weak and ineffective, because he had no base or leverage with me driving him back into the canvas. Soon I had him on his back, and after a brief scramble I ended up sitting high on his chest in the full mount, raining blows down on his face and head.
As I suspected, Sledgehammer was an old-school boxer, and not very skilled on the ground. However, he was very strong and could take a serious beating. Before I knew it, he’d grabbed me by the hips, eating punches the entire time as he threw me off him and into the ring ropes, a tremendous feat of strength considering his inferior position on the bottom.
I bounced off the ring ropes and landed on my feet, catching my balance just as Sledgehammer stood up. He was still a little wobbly on that left leg, and his face was battered and bleeding, but he was definitely game for continuing the fight. We both shuffled forward to close the gap when I heard a voice speak above the din and chaos at ringside. A hush fell over the crowd, and Sledgehammer stopped his forward momentum mid-stride.
“Enough! The fee has been paid, and I need my people whole and in one piece. Sonny, send the Circle hunter and druid back to see me when you’re finished with them.”
Sonny nodded, and Sledgehammer dropped his hands to his sides. He nodded at me with respect. “Next time, druid.”
“I’m not a—never mind. Sure, good fight. Sorry about the knee.”
He grinned. “Don’t be. That was the most fun I’ve had in months.”
“Can’t say the same, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
The big ’thrope laughed and shook out his leg a few times, producing an audible “pop” on the third attempt. He shook my hand and left the ring with a slight limp, but I had no doubts that he’d be good as new within the hour.
I, on the other hand, didn’t have near the recuperative abilities of a werewolf. Being a champion had its benefits, including aggression, improved reflexes, and being a bit stronger and faster than the average schmuck, but regeneration wasn’t part of the package. In the past, I’d relied on druid potions and salves for increasing the speed at which I healed after a hard fight, but I hadn’t had the need to brew any up in some time. I felt the side of my head where his fist had connected, and rubbed my hands up and down my battered and bruised arms, dreading how I was going to feel in the morning.
Once I was certain nothing was broken, I rolled out of the ring and walked over to Sonny. “I think you owe me some money.”
He pulled a huge roll of bills out of his pocket and peeled off five hundreds. “Happy to pay it, kid. You just made me a fat stack of cash.”
I took the cash and folded it up, stuffing it in the front pocket of my jeans. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
He nodded. “Pleasure’s all mine. Sledge is one tough son of a bitch. But I know what it means to be druid trained, so I was happy to take those bets.” He tucked his roll of cash back in his pocket. “Now, let’s get you back to see Samson.”
14
Journal Entry—Nine Months, Six Days A.J.
Well, I finally met up with Belladonna again, but only after a couple of days of her hounding me with texts and phone calls. Honestly, I was happy hanging around with Jesse at home, catching her up on everything that had happened since… well, since I’d lost her. Mom knocked on my door a few times, saying she was worried about how much I was talking to myself. I figured it was best to keep her in the dark; she wasn’t clued in, and her mind sort of blocked out anything weird by default.
A lot of mundanes were like that; their minds just chose to ignore any glimpse they might see of the supernatural world, the world beneath our own. It’s what made it possible for even the weakest fae to conceal their true nature; all that most human minds needed was the slightest little push to keep them believing fairy tales weren’t real, and myths were only that.
So instead, I told Mom I was just doing exercises that Dr. Larsen had assigned me, talking to Jesse as if she was really there. That seemed to satisfy her, although she kept checking in on me throughout the day. I fully expected her to call Dr. Larsen, and while I knew that doctor-patient confidentiality would keep my secret safe from Mom, it would also mean that I’d have to tell Dr. Larsen about Jesse.
Anyway, after a couple of days of staying in my room talking to Jesse, my mom told me that if that Donna girl kept calling, she was going to report her to the police for harassment. So I finally called Belladonna back, and she reacted with relief, then urgency. She insisted that I meet her immediately, so I agreed to drive into town the following morning to speak with her about whatever had her so riled.
The next day I met her for coffee at the same place as before, and she pulled out one of those old texts she’d borrowed, flip
ping it open to a passage that she’d marked with a sticky note. I snapped a picture of it and copied it by hand here:
“The typical haunting is usually nothing more than an echo of energy, a remnant of the deceased’s thoughts, memories, and emotions, or in extreme instances the combined thoughts, memories, and emotions of a group of deceased individuals. These phenomena are harmless, akin to seeing the reflection of a moving car in a window. The reflection itself may appear real, but it has no inertial influence on the physical world.
“On the other hand, ghasts, ghosts, and spirits are sentient, fully cognizant supernatural creatures that for some reason or another are trapped on this plane of existence and unable to move on to the next. Often, this is due to a traumatic event that has psychologically damaged the spirit’s “mind,” if one could truly say a ghost has a mind in the traditional sense. Unfortunately, this results in the ghost or spirit being trapped on this plane until they experience a triggering event that allows them to complete their journey to the world beyond.
“Tragically, many such spirits are never able to move on to the next realm of existence, and due to the laws of conservation and entropy (which, dear reader, still govern supernatural entities and phenomena) they eventually fade from existence entirely. Research on such cases is limited, but it is theorized by the foremost parapsychologists in the field (namely Chatterjee and Jorgensen) that once an entity expends sufficient energy over time, they lose the ability to remain coherent. It is further theorized that in such cases the spirit’s essence dissipates via a sort of cosmic diffusion, returning to the universe as heat, light, or sound energy, never to regain their previous cognizant, self-aware, autonomous state.”
Obviously, this is not good. Something must be keeping Jesse on this side, preventing her from moving on to her eternal rest. What if I’m what’s keeping her from leaving? What if she’s only here because I’m a complete mess? And if so, how can I convince her that it’s okay to move on?
