by Tim Waggoner
Certain that no one was near, Alan motioned for Sylvia and Spencer to join him. They scaled the fence and dropped down beside him. It rankled to be sneaking into the jakkals’ territory instead of making a frontal assault, but the wounds to his left shoulder and right hand hadn’t fully healed. The cut Spencer had received across his ribs from the silver blade still bled. The pack wasn’t at full strength. The jakkals outnumbered them, and while the carrion-eaters weren’t as strong and fast as werewolves, they did have that deadly bite of theirs. And thanks to Morgan, they likely knew they were coming. They would be prepared.
So as much as it galled him, he knew a head-on attack would most likely result in the pack’s defeat. They had no choice but to use guile and stealth as well as fang and claw. And while it wasn’t what the wolf half of him wanted, the human part knew it was the best chance they had of victory.
Alan began jogging northeast toward the center of the park, where the jakkals’ den was located, and Sylvia and Spencer automatically fell in behind him. The wolf in him chafed at this slow pace. It wanted to run, but he restrained the urge. He and his boys had activated a trap the last time they’d been here, and he expected there would be more scattered throughout the park. The wolf part of him might hate being cautious, but Alan knew it was necessary. He’d warned Sylvia and Spencer to be on the lookout for traps, and with any luck, between the three of them they would—
Alan had no idea how they activated the trap or which of them had done it. One moment they were jogging through the park, and the next a plastic trashcan exploded in a burst of light and noise. He caught the harsh tang of chemicals in the air an instant before he felt multiple impacts on his right side. It felt like small fires blazing in his arm, side, and leg. He cried out in pain and collapsed. He heard both Sylvia and Spencer fall as well, and he wanted to make sure they were all right, but he hurt too much to move.
At first, he wasn’t certain what had happened. They must have set off a bomb—maybe one connected to a motion detector. What he didn’t understand was the pain. Werewolves hurt when they were injured, of course, but the sensation faded almost at once as their healing ability kicked into gear. But this pain wasn’t ebbing. If anything, it was increasing. And then he saw why. Scattered across the ground all around them were pieces of silver. Most of the metal had been deformed by the blast, but a few items were still more or less intact. The jakkals had packed silver jewelry and utensils into a sealed plastic container hidden inside the trashcan. Terrorists might have used nails or ball bearings to make a crude but effective bomb. It seemed the jakkals had put their own spin on the idea. Smart, he thought.
“Sylvia? Spencer?” he called. “Are either of you badly hurt?”
It took an effort for him to grit out the words through the pain, but he managed. For a moment, neither of them answered. The sound of the explosion had affected his hearing, and he couldn’t detect their heartbeats or breathing. He feared they were mortally wounded, but then Sylvia said, “Minor wounds here. Irritating, but not fatal.”
“Same,” Spencer said. “My right leg got chewed up pretty good, though. I’m not going to be running marathons any time soon.”
Now that they were easy targets, he expected the jakkals to come racing out of the shadows, claws and fangs bared, ready to finish off their enemies. But no one came.
They had to have heard the explosion, he thought. They know where we’re at and that we’re hurt. So why—
Because they weren’t predators, he realized. They knew how to protect themselves, but when it came to killing, they were woefully inexperienced. A lucky break for Alan and his pack.
“Do your best to get the silver out,” he said.
Using his claws, he dug into his wounds until he could feel the pieces of silver embedded in his flesh. He yanked them out one by one, making the wounds worse. But leaving the silver in wasn’t an option. It wouldn’t kill them—only a direct hit to the heart could do that—but the pain it caused was excruciating. If they didn’t remove it, all they would be able to do was lie here writhing in agony. Eventually, the jakkals would realize they could kill the wounded werewolves while they were helpless, and that would be the end of Alan’s pack, one that could trace its ancestry back to the Alpha himself. He would not allow such a hallowed line to end here. Not like this.
So they clawed, pried, pulled, and dislodged the silver shrapnel, burning their hands as they did so. They succeeded in removing most of the silver, but each of them was left with a few pieces that had buried themselves too deeply in the flesh to be taken out. At least not without the proper equipment to prevent blood loss.
Alan took a quick inventory of their injuries. Most were relatively minor. But as Spencer had indicated, his right leg was a mess. He could stand on it and likely walk as well, but he would do no running until it healed, and since the wounds had been caused by silver, they would repair slowly. Unless Spencer could feast on a fresh human heart to jump-start his healing powers, as his brother had done.
Sylvia’s right arm had sustained the most damage, but she assured him it remained useable. As for Alan himself, his right knee had taken the worst hit from the barrage of silver. He was still fairly certain he could walk and even jump if he had to, but he didn’t want to run on it until it was necessary. He wanted to avoid straining it too much in case it gave out on him in the battle to come.
The three werewolves looked at each other. It seemed the jakkals weren’t going to be the easy prey that they’d imagined.
They started moving again, much more cautiously.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dean heard what sounded like an explosion coming from deeper in the park. The three of them stopped running and listened.
“What was that?” Sam asked. “A grenade?”
“Maybe,” Dean said.
They both turned to Garth.
“Don’t look at me,” he said, sharp teeth distorting his words. “I’m no explosives expert.” Still, he cocked his head and listened. “Whatever made that noise, it wounded the sheriff and his family. I can hear them whining in pain.”
“You think it was the jakkals?” Dean asked.
“Has to be,” Sam said. “Who else is there?”
“Good point,” Dean acknowledged. “Let’s keep going. I want to get to Crowder before the jakkals finish him off.” He smiled. “Can’t let them have all the fun.”
He started forward once more, but even as he took his first step, he knew something was wrong. He saw the tripwire—thin, barely visible, set up at the height of his shin—but not in time to avoid hitting it.
Before he could react, Garth’s clawed hand grabbed his jacket and yanked him backward. He heard a series of twangs and three thin blurs shot through the space where he’d been standing a split second ago. He then heard the sound of metal embedding itself in wood—thuk, thuk, thuk!—and then the silence returned.
Garth pointed to a nearby game booth where a trio of crossbows were bolted to the counter. But instead of pointing inward toward a target, they pointed outward toward the path. The crossbows were empty. Dean looked around and saw the bolts sunk deep into the front of a food booth that, according to the faded sign above the counter, once sold “Tonions! The World’s Largest Deep-Fried Onion Blossoms!”
“Want to bet those bolts were tipped with silver?” Sam said.
“Don’t have to bet,” Garth said. “I can smell the silver from here.”
The three continued onward, but keeping a much closer watch on their surroundings. Where there was one trap—or two if you counted whatever had made the explosion they’d heard—there were bound to be more.
* * *
When Kayla heard the explosion, she jumped. She was holding Joshua, who’d been sleeping, but the sound—or more likely her sudden movement—woke him. He looked around, confused and frightened, and began to cry.
“Shush!” she said. But she spoke too loudly and instead of calming the baby, she only made him cry harder.
; “Soothe the child,” Muriel said.
What do you think I’m doing? Kayla thought. She would never say something so disrespectful to an Elder out loud, though, so she kept her mouth shut and tried rocking the baby back and forth. His cries turned to small whimpers. It seemed to be good enough for Muriel. She continued working, ignoring both Kayla and the baby.
They stood within the chamber of Anubis, and Muriel was making preparations. She was getting ready to conduct the Rite of Awakening, the spell that would restore Anubis to full consciousness. The preparations were primarily the same for the Rite of Renewal, but the elixir for the Awakening required a slightly different mix of ingredients, and of course different words had to be spoken. Muriel could conduct both rites smoothly, quickly, and precisely, without making even a minor mistake. She was the family’s best chance to raise Anubis so the god might protect his chosen people.
Muriel would also be the one to offer herself as a vessel for Anubis. None of the family had ever done so before—not counting what had happened to Nathan earlier. This was the first time they’d ever purposely needed to rouse their god. Kayla knew serving as Anubis’s vessel was supposed to be a great honor, but she was secretly glad her grandmother had volunteered. The idea of allowing the god to possess her frightened Kayla, and she was grateful she didn’t have to experience this “honor.”
“That sound,” Kayla said. “It was the silver bomb we made, wasn’t it?”
She knew she shouldn’t speak lest she distract Muriel, but she couldn’t help it. She had never experienced an attack like this before, and she was terrified.
Muriel didn’t answer. She was adding various ingredients to the mixture bubbling in the brazier’s copper bowl. The smell of spices filled the chamber with a cloying miasma that Kayla found oppressive. But the baby grew quiet and closed his eyes. Perhaps he found the stench comforting. He was an iwiw child. No surprise that foul odors would be pleasant to his kind.
Kayla resented being tasked with caring for the baby. He might be a child, but he was still iwiw. If it had been up to her, she would’ve made a small bed out of a blanket and left him on it.
Muriel spoke. “Try to keep calm, Kayla. Do not let your fear do the work of the iwiw for them.”
Kayla didn’t see how anyone could remain calm in a situation like this. Muriel, however, seemed to manage it. She finished putting ingredients in the elixir, then used the Blade of Life Everlasting to cut her palm and add her blood to the elixir. The elixir for the Awakening required twice as much jakkal blood as amaranthine, and Muriel had to cut her hand a second time when the first wound healed too soon. Then Muriel wiped the blade clean, returned it to its place on the shelves, and watched the elixir brew.
Kayla heard another noise then, much softer than the explosion. The twang of crossbows. The explosion came from the southeast corner of the park, but the sound of the crossbows came from the north: they were being attacked from two different directions.
“Grandmother—”
“I heard it, my child.” Muriel didn’t take her attention from the elixir as she spoke. “Trust your family to deal with the iwiw.”
It wasn’t her family she didn’t trust. It was the werewolves, and the spy they had sent into their midst. The others might believe Morgan’s story—even Erin—but Kayla didn’t. She was certain Morgan would betray them when the right moment came. Why couldn’t anyone else see this? How could they be so blind? And Greg was the blindest of them all. He was so besotted with the iwiw girl that Kayla wondered if he would turn on his family if Morgan asked him to. She didn’t think he would. Greg could be stupid, but he loved his family as much as they loved him. But his feelings for Morgan—actually, make that his animal attraction to her— might cause him to hesitate at a crucial moment and get him killed. Maybe get them all killed. Anubis too, who would be unable to protect himself unless he was Awakened.
“I think we should wake Anubis now, Grandmother. We need his strength—before it’s too late.”
Muriel glanced at her granddaughter. “Our god expects his children to fend for themselves. It is one of the reasons he sleeps. He wants us to make our own way in the world as much as possible. He wishes us to be strong and independent. We call upon him when necessary, but only in the direst of circumstances. I admit that we are close to this point, but we are not yet there.”
“The fighting has begun, Grandmother. You know that as well as I. What more do you want before you act? For one of our family to die at the claws of an iwiw?”
Anger twisted Muriel’s features. They became even more distorted as she assumed jakkal form. Her clawed hands twitched, and for a moment Kayla thought Muriel might strike her. Muriel restrained herself though, and Kayla thought it was only because she held the baby.
Muriel became human once more.
“I will do what I believe is right, and I will do it when I believe the time is right. This is my last word on the subject. Question me no further.”
Muriel returned her attention to the bubbling elixir. It had been an unappetizing brown color, but now it was edging toward red. A good sign.
Kayla gritted her teeth. It seemed that Greg wasn’t the only willfully blind member of their pack. Kayla despaired of ever getting Muriel to see the truth, and she was desperately trying to think of an argument that might win her over when the shooting began.
TWENTY-NINE
Garth stopped running and motioned for Sam and Dean to wait. They stood between a carousel and a Ferris wheel, both in severe states of disrepair. He frowned, nose wrinkling.
“Another trap?” Sam asked.
Garth shook his head. “Something smells weird. I’m not sure what it is.” He sniffed the air once more. “It’s a mix of some kind of chemicals, but I can’t identify them.”
“Is it another bomb?” Dean asked.
Garth shrugged. “Could be, I suppose. But there’s another smell blended in, kind of like spoiled meat.” He whipped his head around, frowned, and said, “We got company.”
Sam heard the sound of bare feet slapping on asphalt before he saw the two figures come running toward them from the direction of the Ferris wheel. At first he thought they were jakkals, but they didn’t possess bestial features. They looked like human males, and while they moved rapidly, they did so with stiff, almost mechanical motions. Their eyes glowed with crimson light, and their faces were completely without expression. Sam judged both men were in their mid to late twenties. One was stocky, broad-shouldered, bearded, and covered with black body hair so thick he almost looked like a Hollywood version of a werewolf. The other man was tall and thin, with numerous tattoos and a scraggly brown goatee which matched his unruly hair. One more thing: they were both naked.
“Aw, man!” Dean said. “I do not need to see those things come flopping toward me.”
Sam knew exactly how his brother felt. They’d never had to fight killer nudists before.
Neither brother bothered telling the naked men to stop or they’d shoot. Despite the creatures’ stiff, jerky movements, they moved fast. Instead, Sam and Dean raised their guns and fired in unison.
The rounds struck the men in their chests, and the impact caused them to stagger back a couple of feet. Neither of them went down, nor did they cry out in pain when they were hit. Their expressions didn’t change in the slightest. No blood came from the wounds, just small trickles of clear fluid.
“Oh,” Dean said. “They’re zombies.”
That sounded to Sam as likely a theory as any other, and the brothers raised their guns a bit higher, aimed, and fired once more.
The zombies—if that’s what they were—started forward once more. The bullets slammed into their foreheads and they went down.
Dean grinned. “Headshots take down zombies every time. I love it when the movies get something right for once.”
Sam wasn’t so sure it was that simple. What would zombies be doing here? They already had werewolves and jakkals to deal with. What was this, some kind of monster
convention?
Sam stepped toward the bodies to get a closer look, making sure to keep his gun trained on them as he approached. Just because they looked dead—or dead again—didn’t mean they were. The stocky one had rolled onto his side when he fell, but the thin man had landed on his stomach. Sam leaned in to get a better look at them while keeping out of grabbing range. Both men’s arms were splayed out in front of them, and Sam could see what looked like bite marks on the underside of their right wrists. He frowned, trying to recall if he’d ever come across any lore describing undead beings with wounds on their wrists, but he came up empty. Whatever these things were, they were new to him.
And that’s when the zombies pushed themselves off the ground and stood up, so fast that Sam was barely able to register it. One moment they were lying on the asphalt, then he blinked, and they were standing upright.
Sam raised his gun to fire again but thought better of it. He and Dean had already wasted a pair of silver bullets apiece trying to put down these zombies, or whatever the hell they were. No use throwing away any more ammo.
Dean rushed forward and as the zombies attacked, he swept his Colt through the air and struck the hairy man across the jaw with his weapon. He rammed the gold blade into the zombie’s chest. He gave the blade a vicious twist as he pulled it free, releasing a gush of clear fluid that filled the air with an acrid smell.
Instead of going for the chest, Sam thrust the gold blade into one of the skinny zombie’s crimson eyes and pushed it deep into the creature’s brain. Sam hoped a more severe brain injury than a single bullet wound would take the thing out.
Both zombies shuddered as if their central nervous systems were short-circuiting, and then as before, they collapsed to their knees and fell forward. Sam and Dean quickly stepped back as they hit the asphalt face first. Still holding their weapons, the brothers stood looking down at the unmoving corpses.
