Blood and Silver - 04

by James R. Tuck

  Yellow eyes glared at me. Wide shoulders bunched with tension as the Were-cougar tensed to jump.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  His long, thick tail fell down, thudding the ground to act as a balance for his leap.

  My fingers twitched against the triggers.

  The 1911 has a five-pound trigger pull and a travel distance of one quarter of an inch. It is nothing, a breath, a thought, to fire them.

  The guns jerked back into my arms, bullets slapping fur-covered chest mid-leap.

  Blood and muscle blossomed under his neck in a gruesome flower of death. The impact changed the direction of his upper body, cartwheeling him around to land at my feet in a limp heap. Fur ran back into skin as the corpse morphed into a human. I stepped over it, reholstering the .45’s under my arms. Pulling the strap for the AR-15 secured it across my back. My hand settled on the pistol at my hip. I drew Bessie from her holster.

  The Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum is a huge gun. It’s a revolver and dead reliable. Semiautomatics, no matter how well made, will jam eventually. Revolvers don’t. Pull the trigger and a bullet comes out. The .500 cartridge is a huge load, designed for killing big game. Most pistols are not powerful enough to hunt with, Bessie was purposed for it.

  Sighting down my arm, I pointed the barrel at the great white. Charlotte still hung to its back, fingers morphed into needle-thin claws dug into gill slits. It spun around, trying to dislodge her. Lucy stood in front of them. Thin fingers dug into the skin of her chest, wadding it into two handfuls. Lucy took a deep breath, yanking her hands apart. Her skin pulled like taffy until it shredded. A three-foot horn slid out of the hole.

  Lucy screamed into the night as the horn continued to push out of her chest. It was a long wail of pain that carried out until she ran out of breath. Choking on the scream, her skin exploded.

  Bits of Lucy flew across the parking lot, sticking wetly to the Weres fighting around her. In her place a black rhinoceros stood, glistening in the sodium lights of the lot. Masego. He blinked and snorted. With a shake and a stomp, he flung thick goo in streams around himself. He was massive. A thick tank of an animal built for nothing but power. Lowering his head, the rhino charged the Were-shark, driving his horn deep into that gleaming white stomach.

  I jerked Bessie up, pointing her to the sky. My shot was gone, blocked by Charlotte and now Masego the rhino. A howl turned my attention to Ragnar. The bowlegged Were-lizard had fully transformed into a Komodo dragon. Its jaws latched on the old wolf’s leg. Ragnar crumpled to his knees, the Komodo dragon still holding on, jaws moving as he chewed.

  The Were-snake that Ragnar had been holding off lunged forward. Stepping close to the fallen old Werewolf, he drew himself up. His head came back, neck flaring like a hood. The thin bottom jaw unhinged, dropping down almost to his breastbone. He leaned back to strike with those vicious fangs. Venom splatted on the Werewolf’s upturned face and began to smoke and sizzle, blisters rising immediately as Ragnar screamed again.

  Bessie swung down and I centered her on the back of his serpent skull. Squeezing the trigger kicked the gun up, recoil trying to break my arm. Thunder rolled and a ten-inch spout of fire split the night as the bullet flew at the Were-snake like the Judgment of God.

  And completely missed.

  The Were-snake jerked his head out of the way with that supernatural speed that lycanthropes have, turning toward me with a hiss I could not hear. My ears had closed down with the blast of the gun. The Were slithered toward me. I squeezed the trigger again, aiming for the center of his body.

  He slipped the bullet again.

  His body twisted as if he no longer had a spine, or at least not a human one. He kept moving forward, his torso twisted, bending bonelessly. Three more bullets flew at him and every one of them missed as he wove and spun with liquid lycanthrope grace.

  And then he was on me.

  Long, scaly fingers, much longer than human and without joints or bones, clamped on my arm. That oily-slick head drew back, foot-long fangs jutting to strike. I didn’t have time to draw another gun or the Bowie knife at my hip, and Bessie was out of bullets.

  So I cracked him across the mouth with the empty pistol.

  One fang snapped off and spun into the night air. Scales along that cheek split apart, revealing bright pink flesh underneath. Blood and venom began to pour as the Were shrieked—a shrill hiss that made my skin ripple. He pulled away with a jerk, trying to scramble to safety.

  Not so fast, you slippery bastard.

  A twist of my wrist clamped fingers on his arm. There was no bone, just a tube of scale-covered muscle. Pulling him close, I slammed the pistol against his skull again. Soft snake bone caved in. Gore, black in the sodium lights of the lot, spattered across my arm, burning hatefully with venom.

  Empty, the Smith & Wesson .500 is four-and-a-half pounds of stainless steel. I used it as a club, as a hammer, pounding it into the Were-snake’s face and head. His struggles became weaker after three blows and stopped with five. I let his arm go and he slid to the ground and lay in a boneless, quivering heap of scales. He stayed a snake-man, so he wasn’t dead, but he was damn sure out of the fight.

  I holstered Bessie, not having time to reload her. The Komodo dragon still had Ragnar pinned. It lay across his back, weight pressing him down. Those jaws chewed, working on his leg. Ragnar was unmoving underneath the dragon as it tore a hunk of flesh off his leg. A flip of its elongated head tossed it back down its gullet. Jaws working, it swallowed the hunk whole. Bone lay bare, glistening ivory tucked in the bloody mess of the wolf’s leg.

  The AR-15 swung around into my grip and I fired off a burst aimed at the dragon’s wide side. It darted away and only two of the bullets punched into its thick tail. Blood spurted black into an oily trail behind it. I ripped off another two bursts as it zigged and zagged across the lot. Bullets chewed the asphalt but missed the Were as it slithered away into the dark.

  My finger hit the button to release the clip on the rifle. It slid out, clattering to the pavement. My left hand had another one and was pushing it into place when I heard Boothe shout my name. His gun came up, spitting bullets in my direction.

  I had time to flex my knees so I could leap away from the gunfire when a sledgehammer with claws knocked me ass over teakettle across the ground.

  14

  Black flooded my vision, rushing in like a tidal wave. Air was driven out of my lungs in a hard, sharp blow. My hearing shattered, a shrill ringing filled my ears as my head bounced off asphalt. My eyelids were thousand-pound weights, pulling me into the darkness, dragging me under to its peaceful depths.

  Get up!

  My mind screamed at me through the fog, clawing its way back to alertness. I shoved my eyes open, trying to focus on what was happening around me. I shook my head to clear it. Asphalt scraped the skin, raw and on fire, pulling me back up.

  A lion-man stood over me, mouth open in a snarl, one clawed hand slicing the air to tear out my throat.

  Violently, I twisted my body away. Razor claws raked across my chest, biting into and slashing through the tactical vest I was wearing. It fell apart like wet tissue paper, held on by one shoulder and the waist section. I kicked out, boot heel driving into the Were-lion’s stomach. He staggered back.

  Hands and knees scrabbling, I moved as fast as I could. Something banged hard on my arm. My fingers found the barrel of the rifle that was still hanging on my arm by the sling. Scrambling, I got my feet under me as fast as I could, clutching the AR-15 upside down by the barrel.

  Leonidas roared in my direction. Carrion breath, sickly sweet, swept over me even from seven or eight feet away. The world swam, waves of distortion riding from the edges of my vision to the center. I stumbled back a step. Dizzy, I kept myself from falling by using the rifle as a cane.

  The Were-lion sprung, claws unsheathed.

  Both fur-covered arms swung toward me trying to scissor down around me. To trap me so that lion mouth of his could close on my jugular or some
other soft, fleshy bit. Without thought, I swung the rifle as hard as I could. The polymer stock flashed up and caught the lion just under his jaw. Leonidas jerked to the side from the impact, his forward charge stopped cold.

  He stood for a second with his head to the side, eyes squinted shut. His head moved back down to face me. We were only an arm’s length apart. He made a noise with his throat, tongue working around in his cheek. Pulling a face, he spat. A white tooth arced to the ground, stuck in a thick, bloody puddle.

  “That hurt.” Blood trickled down his chin as he growled.

  Clawed hands clamped on the rifle, yanking it away with a ripple of muscle. Both hands closed on it and with a jerk of his arms, the rifle snapped in two pieces. He looked up with a feral smile on his face.

  Both Colt .45 barrels were pointed at his face.

  I pulled the triggers. Thunder rolled out of the barrels and bullets seared toward his head.

  I missed.

  Leonidas just wasn’t where the bullets were. He threw himself backward with shape-shifter speed. It was so fast he seemed to blink out of existence for a second. My eyes tried to follow him, but they kept jerking off track. I emptied both clips in his direction, squeezing the triggers until the slides locked back empty.

  With a curse I shoved the one in my left hand back in its holster and pulled out a new clip, which rode under each gun in the shoulder rig I wore. Practice let me drop the clip out of the pistol in my right hand. Leonidas crouched about ten feet away. It was a distance he could cover in a blink.

  I shoved the clip toward the bottom of the gun, trying to get it in before Leonidas could attack. My hands trembled. My head swam, doing an Olympic-level breaststroke. Through wavy vision I saw the muscles along the Were-lion’s chest and shoulders bunch, getting ready to jump. The clip rattled against the opening it was supposed to slip into, jangling out of place.

  Fuck! I was not right.

  Head injury. The thought was detached, coming from the back of my brain.

  The Were-lion drew a huge breath for his victory roar and I fumbled with something I should have been able to do in my sleep. I dropped the clip, frantically reaching to my waist, hoping I could get the Bowie knife out in time. My fingers danced around, clumsily tearing at the small strap that held it in place. I had to get it out before he attacked or I was a dead man. Leonidas tensed. He pushed off the asphalt, body stretching in the air, coming to kill me. To kill me dead.

  A rhinoceros slammed into him, driving him through the motel wall.

  Masego staggered back from the wall, shaking his head, and fell on his wide, black ass. Blood streamed from holes that had been gouged in his thick black hide. On one shoulder he had a triple row of serrations that looked like a shark bite. Fur was glued on his horn with blood where he had gotten in damage of his own, but he was hurt bad. He fell over on his side and lay, his great big ribcage bellowing in and out.

  I took a second to look around and take stock. Ragnar was sitting up now. His gnarled arthritic hands wrapped his shirt around his leg, making a gore-soaked mess. The Lord of the Forest lay still on his side. His head still had that great sweep of antler, but he was a man now. His eyes were glassy, empty of life, tongue hanging from between his teeth. A hyena sat on his body. Heavy jaws pulled gobs of flesh out of a hole where his stomach once was, tossing them in the air and swallowing them whole.

  Boothe knelt on the ground, surrounded by a heap of dark furred bodies that were slowly changing to bare skin. One arm cradled against his stomach. It was twisted and bent, the broken end of a bone jutting out raw and bloody. He brought up his pistol and aimed at the hyena. The gun shook violently as he held it and squeezed the trigger. The bullet went wide and missed, but it was enough to send the greasy beast running off into the night, leaving its meal behind.

  Sirens cut through the night. Still far away, but coming closer. A thud and vibrations through my feet made me look behind me. I turned to see Charlotte pinned to the ground by the Were-shark only a few feet away. She was battered and looked broken. The giant shark-man lifted her up, pounding her to the asphalt again. Spider legs swung limply, broken and crushed. That giant maw yawned open, teeth bristling as he picked her up, moving her limp body up for a bite. A white skein slid wetly over his black eye.

  Everything was in slow motion; the world encased in a thick syrup of time. I picked up half of the rifle the Were-lion had destroyed. I tried to run but stumbled instead, falling against the Were-shark’s back. The skin on my arm tore, shredded by the sandpaper sharkskin. That close, I could see the silver-gray pattern of that rough skin. His big, triangular head swung toward me, teeth flashing death, the white skein over his black eye making him blind during his moment of attack.

  I shoved the broken rifle into those jaws, ramming and wedging it as deep as I could.

  The Were-shark jerked back, trying to shake its head and dislodge the thing holding its mouth open. I threw my body across that wide, triangular snout, using my weight to hold it in place. The skin ripped open on my side. Pain burst like a forest fire. It was distant, but there. I pushed it away. I’d have to deal with it later. My left hand fumbled out a handful of bullets that went to Bessie. They rattled in my palm, clacking together. They were heavy bullets weighing a few ounces apiece.

  Big bullets.

  Silver bullets.

  I took that handful of silver bullets and jammed them as far down that big throat as I could.

  Slick, wet muscle closed over my arm, the throat trying to pull me in farther. I let go of the bullets and jerked my arm back. It slid out with a moist sucking sound, coming free with a pop. The shark-man began to convulse and stagger around, smoke curling out of its mouth as the silver began to eat away his stomach.

  I fell back, crashing to the asphalt. Exhausted. My brain rolled around in my skull. I just wanted to close my eyes and sleep. Every inch of me was weighted with lead. I was too heavy to move. The bitter taste of aspirin filled my mouth, and my throat was so dry the sides of it stuck together.

  The sirens were louder. Closer. We had to go. There were too many bodies on the ground to stay and explain. With a groan that hurt to make, I rolled over and pushed myself up to my knees. My vision tunneled down to a quarter-sized hole in a cloud of bruise purple. I took a deep breath that pulled in as much pain as it did air and sat up with my eyes closed.

  My head spun, the centrifugal force of it trying to throw me back down. My mind screamed at me that I was not safe. After a second, I was able to drive my eyes open. A gorilla stood in front of me, its hand held out.

  George was covered in blood, fur drying into a stiff, plastic-like shell. Cuts and gashes checkered most of him. His monkey hand was larger than mine as he pulled me to my feet. My stomach cartwheeled in protest to the movement.

  I told my stomach to shut the hell up, I didn’t have time for it.

  Behind him stood the two Were-lions we had come to rescue. Marcus was still in his suit. That tailored, high-dollar suit with the faint chalk stripe. The silk tie was gone, but other than that he looked fresh and dapper, ready for a hard day at the office. His mate, Shani the lioness, had changed into a set of silk pajamas that probably cost about what one of my guns would. She was clean, bright, and shiny in the night. She could have stepped out of a magazine advertisement. Both of them stood in a parking lot filled with destruction and carnage completely unmarked. Not a hair out of place.

  I guess we had done our jobs well. Their asses were safe. The sirens were closer. Blearily, I looked George in the eye.

  “We need to get the hell out of here.”

  15

  The sirens were close enough that the sound had separated. Instead of one loud chorus of siren, I could hear individual sirens caterwauling into the night, heralding the arrival of the police. It sounded like a lot of cops would be here any minute.

  My forehead pressed against the open trunk lid of the Comet. The metal was warm, my forehead hot. My head weighed fifty pounds. It hung from my neck, s
tretching my vertebrae with its mass. Pain radiated out along my shoulders to crawl up my neck and across my scalp. Red and black pulsed from the edge of my vision keeping time with the wail of the sirens. I was looking at a problem. Inside the trunk lay a dead man in a pool of blood. He was naked and a huge rack of antlers curled out from his head.

  The antlers were the problem.

  “They won’t fit like this.”

  Blearily, I looked over at the gorilla standing beside me. Blood caked his fur. A hundred tiny cuts and slashes crisscrossed his skin; deep ones yawned open like watermelon-colored mouths. He had his monkey arms crossed and his monkey hand cupping a monkey chin. Monkey lips turned down in a frown. I would have laughed at the absurdity of it, but I know laughing would have made my head explode.

  “You have to fold him up. You can’t lay him out like that.”

  Big brown eyes cut over at me sharply. “I’m trying to be respectful.”

  We didn’t have time for this. The sirens were getting louder. There were too many bodies on the ground for us to stand around playing nice. We had to go.

  “You got three choices here, George.” I stood up, still holding on to the trunk. “Fold him, break the horns, or drag him out and leave him here. Pick one, ’cause we are out of time.”

  He sighed. The air pulled long through his wide nose and then rushed out in a blast of hot air. His hands looked like catcher’s mitts as they hooked the Lord of the Forest under his arms and lifted. The Were-deer was loose in his skin, death making him flop around, robbing him of all resistance. George pulled him up into a sitting position, then folded him in half like a towel and stepped back.

  The antlers still stuck up too far.

  My hands closed on the tines, hard antler cool and slick in my palms. Leaning in, my weight pushed them down. As they sank there were several loud, wet pops. I couldn’t tell what was dislocating and I didn’t care. When they were low enough, I shut the lid. The points of the antlers scraped the inside of the trunk lid with a loud, cutting screech that made my right eyelid twitch and flutter. I turned to George.