After that, everything got a little crazy.
The Captain finally seemed prepared to shoot me, raising his rifle right before the explosion went off. The shockwave sent him flying out onto the street. I, on the other hand, had already leapt into the cab of the vehicle—no sense playing the hero only to get blown up.
Fortunately, the van took the brunt of the blast; the wheels on the left side rose, and for a moment the whole damn thing threatened to tip over—which would have sent me flying face first into the passenger side window—but then, miraculously, it careened the other direction, slamming us down hard enough to pop both tires on that side. I could make out shouting and the sound of gunfire after that, causing me to duck down.
But they weren’t shooting at the van, I realized, they were shooting at Robin.
With silver bullets.
Robin hardly slowed as the bullets collided with his body, tearing gaping holes in his clothes, but little else. In fact, the silver slugs seemed to careen off him, ricocheting everywhere. Two men went down from friendly fire before the rest realized their bullets were having no effect. Before they could reach for their handguns with the iron bullets, however, I felt the van list even further, the hubcaps grinding into the cement with an audible shriek the moment before Christoff burst out of the back in his werebear form, carving his way through the first soldier he encountered.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to watch what happened next; there was a sniper to take out, after all. If Hilde chose to fly in the way she had before, I needed to make sure she could land, unopposed. So, I crept forward towards the passenger side, the side where the sniper waited. I could see he’d spun, training his rifle on Christoff—easily the biggest target. I swore to myself. If he got off a clean shot, I knew I’d end up scooping Christoff’s brains off the floor, so I did the only logical thing I could think of considering my bright orange coat ruined all chances off me sneaking up on the guy: I leapt out of the van and ran straight for him.
Sniper rifles are nasty things. They’re engines of war that scare the living shit out of any soldier who’s ever been on a battleground—invisible death from above. But they have their drawbacks. They are meticulously tuned and calibrated for the slightest modifications in temperature, wind-speed, elevation, and even humidity. But they’re also fucking heavy—so bulky, in fact, that no one in their right mind would use one in close quarters combat. Especially since the slightest impact would fuck up all their precise calibrations. Snipers were trained to fight strategically. Which meant that the likelihood the sniper would abandon his rifle the instant he saw me coming was very high—and I had banked everything on it. Unfortunately, that was about as far as I’d gotten, in terms of planning, which is probably why—the instant I got close—I was suddenly fighting for my life.
Because this Russian sniper was multi-talented. The prick.
I stopped mid-run and swung a kick out at the sniper’s hand before he could raise it completely, sending the pistol he’d been drawing flying across the garage. Sadly, that didn’t slow him at all; he came up with a knife in the other hand, thrusting at my sternum, which I barely managed to avoid by throwing myself to the side, crashing into a cart full of tools.
The sniper rushed me, leaving me almost no time to react. I managed to reach back and grab hold of something lying on the edge of the cart in time to parry. The tire iron I’d snatched off the cart clipped his forearm as he lunged at me, sending his thrust wide enough that it only clipped my shoulder, tearing a jagged hole in Callie’s ghastly jacket. Whoops.
I countered, lashing out with one foot, then followed that up by chucking the tire iron at his head as hard as I could. He swatted it away with a gargantuan paw.
Another fucking legendary partial shifter?! Who were these guys?
I realized I had to get closer if I wanted to keep him from using his werebear form against me. That, or put him in a checkmate situation. I snatched the edges of the tool cart and whirled it around with all my might, sending the tools scattering across the floor as I flung the whole damn thing at him. He hopped to his left, letting it fall harmlessly to the side, and grinned at me.
I was out of weapons.
But, then, I didn’t need any.
Hilde burst through the glass above our heads, right on time. The sniper looked up just as a pane of shattered glass fell and impaled his leg, cutting through tendon and bone. He roared in pain as blood gushed from his wound.
Sadly, that wouldn’t be enough to stop him, and I knew it; wereanimals could heal faster than any other creature I’d seen when hit with anything other than silver ammunition, which I was sure included giant shards of glass. Luckily, I had another option, and it was sitting in the corner of the room.
I dove for his sniper rifle, whirling back around as fast as possible.
Sniper rifles are heavy. They’re cumbersome and impractical at spitting distance. But, if your target is a trained killer who’s too busy trying to get a massive piece of glass out of his leg to pay attention to you, they can also be really, really effective.
Especially when you let the muzzle practically rest against his forehead for support before pulling the trigger.
His head exploded like a watermelon, spraying chunks of brain and shards of bone all over the wall. I lay next to the rifle itself, breathing heavily after having held my breath to take the shot, my heart pounding fiercely in my chest.
Once my hearing came back, I realized the sounds of fighting had all but ceased. I turned to look and saw Hilde standing at the bay door, which remained open, staring out at something going on outside. Probably the cops, I figured, given all the noise we’d generated between the explosions and rifle fire. I rose on shaky legs and made my way down to her, fully prepared to go to prison, while keeping an eye out for survivors.
There weren’t any.
I counted seven soldiers in total, some of them partially shifted, locked somewhere between man and bear. Of course, there were also parts of each scattered about—a dismembered paw here, a man’s leg there. Hilde’s handiwork, judging by the clean cuts.
Once I made it to her side, I realized Christoff was also there. Naked. Fortunately, the older Russian man spotted a pair of coveralls on a rack nearby. He snagged them and tugged them on quickly. They were stained with oil and grease but covered everything. I was moment’s from looking away when I caught the nametag plastered across the breast pocket.
Which read, I shit you not…
Yogi.
Despite everything, I burst out laughing.
Christoff didn’t so much as bat an eye at me; his attention was devoted to what was happening outside. I tracked their eyes and felt my own widen. Not the cops, after all. The Captain, the last surviving member of the Fighting Bears, had apparently survived the explosion—which would have made him a lucky son of a bitch, if it weren’t for the fact that now he was facing one very pissed off Robin Redcap.
The Captain, having shifted into his werebear form, was almost as big as Christoff, though not quite. What impressed me, however, was his speed; he shuffled and swiped with such ferocity that he reminded me more of a bobcat than a bear. But if I was impressed by the Captain, I had to admit I was astounded by Robin.
Our little redcap was all grown up.
Having completely torn through his Red Sox jacket—rest in peace—Robin’s back had become a roadmap of striated muscle, as broad and thick as a Mr. Universe contender. But he didn’t move like a weightlifter; bodybuilders were all about form over function, their muscles to be admired, not used. Robin moved like a man who’d spent his entire life laboring—pulling, pushing, lifting, and dropping. Like a Greco-Roman wrestler, his hips were parallel to the ground, prepared for anything.
When the werebear finally reared up to swipe a tree-trunk-sized paw, Robin struck, grabbing the creature by one furry arm and twisting, tearing the arm right out of its socket. When he lunged in to snap at Robin’s throat in retaliation, he let him. The bear’s jaws sunk m
aybe an inch into Robin’s flesh, but no further. Robin grunted, clasped both hands around the bear’s neck, and began to squeeze.
I’d never seen a werebear’s eyes about to literally pop out of its head, but I’ll admit I found it fascinating. In the end, however, I was denied that joy as Christoff raised a pistol he’d taken off one of the dead and fired, clipping Robin’s shoulder. Before I could ask what the hell Christoff was doing, Robin whirled.
I inadvertently took a step back, realizing that the mass the redcap had put on had come at a price; his eyes danced with malice and anger, like an animal in so much pain it couldn’t even recognize the outside world except to lash out at it. Blood dripped from his ballcap, running down his face and into his beard, which had grown and hung between his nipples. He huffed, fingers grasping at nothing, as if aching to crush the skulls of his enemies. He snarled and took a step forward.
“I need him alive,” Christoff called out in a soft voice.
“He’s beyond reasoning with,” Hilde said. “The bloodlust has him, now.”
Christoff sighed regretfully and raised the pistol once more.
“Wait,” I said. “I have another idea, before ye go puttin’ him down.”
“I was going to aim for leg, first,” Christoff replied, as if offended.
I rolled my eyes but stepped forward. What I was about to do could get me killed, I knew, but I had to try something; even if it meant burning for all eternity under the watchful eye of a vengeful God I refused to cater to. Still…maybe, just this once, the Lord would let it slide. I took another cautious step forward and did the only thing I could think of to stop a rampaging redcap.
I prayed.
Chapter 32
It’s funny what you can recall from your childhood—fragments and snippets of conversations, the way your house smelled around the holidays, the bedtime story you were read every night before bed. Staring at Robin, his face in anguish, kneeling as I prayed, I realized I never knew how valuable those childhood memories could be—the lessons they could impart. The “Our Father” prayer that had been drilled into me day-in and day-out during my Catholic school tenure until it became so rote that I forgot the meaning behind the words, for example. Or the bedtime stories Dez used to tell me featuring pixies, knights, and boggarts, which included a particularly gruesome tale about a redcap that only briefly mentioned how to frighten the thing away.
Don’t judge her too harshly, she parented largely through trial and error—same as most.
Basically, what I’m getting at is that I’d never been more thankful for being raised Irish and Catholic.
I continued reciting the Lord’s Prayer until I could see recognition in Robin’s eyes. He’d shrunk considerably, but was still much broader and denser than when I’d first seen him—back when he was built big, but chubby, like an athlete whose glory days were behind him and beer was all he had to look forward to. I finally stopped speaking, mouth dry, and edged closer, snapping my fingers to get his attention. “Oy! Robin, ye in there?”
Robin rolled his eyes. “I was always in here. I’m not the Hulk.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Are ye sure? Because other than the turnin’ green bit…”
“You have it in reverse,” Robin said. “I don’t become bloodthirsty, I am bloodthirsty. What you just saw is what I really am, deep down. But either way…thank you. It becomes harder to come back, the more blood I soak up.” He adjusted his hat—which had mercifully stopped bleeding all down his face—and rose, teetering. He shook his whole body, like a dog kicking off water. Christoff, sparing no time now that he wasn’t facing off against Robin’s animosity, marched past us, headed for the last of the werebears.
“I’ll see if he needs help,” Hilde said, trailing him.
I gave Robin a once over. “Ye need new clothes,” I said, finally.
Robin grunted, inspecting the tattered remains of his jacket with a sigh. “You’re right. If only I had clothes that magically healed themselves…” he trailed off in response to my murderous expression. “How is that a touchy subject?” he asked, baffled.
“Too soon,” I muttered. “Too soon.”
Before I could say anymore, Hilde screamed.
Robin and I wheeled around and found the Valkyrie clutching Christoff’s arm, holding on with everything she had to prevent him from flying away into what looked like a Gateway of some kind—a bear-sized portal ten feet in the air that seemed to be sucking up everything below it, including Christoff. Cool air spewed from its edges, sending Hilde’s blonde locks whipping back and forth and making the skin on my arms pebble. Finally coming to terms with what I was seeing, I ran, Robin hot on my heels, trying to get to her.
She looked back at me and screamed something, the sound of her voice lost in the wind. Then, in an instant, she and Christoff were simply gone—sucked into a vortex which closed immediately, leaving behind only a chill in the air that didn’t mesh with the early morning sunshine. I took a few halting steps forward, my arm still held out as if I could snatch Hilde and draw them away.
I fell to the pavement, my adrenaline finally spent, body aching, my brain fried. After all that…after turning back time, I still hadn’t been able to save them. What had I missed?
Robin knelt down beside me and grabbed my shoulders. “Quinn, we have to go. Now. Regulars are coming to take a look, now that all the shooting’s stopped, which means the cops will be here any minute. Come on.” He tried to raise me to my feet, but I refused to stand. After everything, all I wanted was to sit here. If the cops came, so be it. Maybe Jimmy was right; maybe everyone would be better off if I stayed away. Frankly, jail seemed like a cozy place, right about now; I doubted anyone I cared about would be there.
God, how was I going to explain this to Jeffries?
To Christoff’s kids?
“They aren’t dead, Quinn!” Robin hissed. “Didn’t you hear her? She told you to find them. You can’t do that if you get arrested.” He cursed, turned, and ran back towards the garage. I frowned. Is that what Hilde had said? To find them? Easier said than done, I decided.
I glanced up, wondering how many onlookers would be crowded on the street, only to see something shiny a few feet in front of me. A small disk, the size of a foundation case, but thicker—like a hockey puck. I crawled forward and picked it up off the ground, then scanned the sky. This was exactly where the portal had opened, I noted.
I flipped the object over in my hands, checking it over for markings of any kind, but found only serial numbers that meant nothing to me. It looked burnt out, like a bullet casing, little more than a shell of its former self. But it was possible—it could have caused the rift. Technology to create Gateways existed; I’d stolen some, once. From Grimm Tech, the company owned by Nate Temple and operated by my friend, Othello.
Robin was right, I realized.
There was a chance, a slim chance, that we could find them.
I turned to tell him as much just in time to see him throw two fistfuls of grenades through the open bay door and take off towards me, waving his hands in the universal “get down” gesture. I didn’t listen—I was too busy staring at the building behind him exploding. Which is probably why I ended up lying flat on my back a moment later, the wind knocked out of me.
Robin lifted me up off the ground, slinging one of my arms over his shoulder as he carried me out towards the street. “Best I could do,” he said, his voice dull and low, what with my hearing momentarily impaired. “I doubt they’ll know what to make of that.”
Smaller explosions began popping off as the bear’s armory caught fire, and I nodded, dumbly. Of course. Hiding evidence. I started to walk under my own power, then shoved Robin up into a very narrow alley between two buildings, turning my body to shield his from view as two patrol units came roaring past. Apparently, no matter how hush-hush the neighborhood, even Russian sympathizers had limits to how much noise they could tolerate before calling the cops.
Robin and I stayed there for a moment be
fore I showed him the device I’d found. “I need to get this to a friend of mine,” I said. “She’ll be able to track ‘em down, if anyone can.”
“Alright, well then, where to?” Robin asked.
“Well, first we need to find a car,” I said. “And then I need to find a phone. I need to tell Jeffries what just happened.” My phone, unfortunately, had died an ignoble death alongside the soldier I’d pushed into the pit. Which sucked, since Othello had given me that phone as a gift…at this point, I was going to end up owing her all sorts of favors.
“How about that car?” Robin asked, pointing to a brand-new, freshly washed Audi sitting outside a massage parlor, gleaming in the morning light. Its license plate read DEWME4.
“I t’ink it belongs to someone. And that it’s probably locked,” I added, cocking an eyebrow.
Robin snorted. “Locks don’t work on us.”
Oh, right. There was that.
A slow smile crept across my face. “Well, if we’re goin’ to steal a car…might as well be a nice one,” I said, finally. Because sometimes, when you’re having some of the worst couple days of your entire life, the universe owes you a little something.
Like a joy ride.
Chapter 33
By the time we were headed back towards the city, storm clouds obscured the sun—the beginnings of one of those freak spring showers that come rushing up on you before you’ve had time to close the windows. I had my window down, letting the air in, watching the trees sway as we blew past. A peal of thunder echoed as I went back over the last several hours, trying to process what had happened.
“Something on your mind?” Robin asked, glancing at me before returning his attention to the road. I’d let him drive. As much as I enjoyed the idea of driving a luxury vehicle around, I didn’t feel like being pulled over in a stolen car. This way, I could at least blame him. I mean, he did say locks didn’t work on Fae; I doubted he’d spend very long in handcuffs.
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