by Mae Clair
All because of the blade.
A flash of orange through the trees made him pause and suck on his bottom lip. Mitch was close, unaware he was being tracked. He’d have to wait until the guy’s back was turned. Even then, if Mitch pivoted at the last minute it was doubtful he’d suspect anything wrong. Buy a man some wings and beer, bond over plans to hack up a bug-eyed creature, and you had a friend for life.
Sidestepping a root jutting from the ground, Shawn inched closer. A fly buzzed near his head and he swatted it away. Within seconds it was back, louder than before.
He stopped abruptly.
Not a fly.
The drone grew in volume, drilling into his skull. Something foreign, something evil.
The creature!
A blood-curdling cry rent the air, launching a flock of birds from the treetops. Shawn’s teeth clacked together. Instinctively, he dropped to one knee, clutching the knife to his chest. His breath hitched in his throat, growing ragged.
He’d heard that unholy shriek before, the sound forever embedded in his mind.
Leaves matted on the ground, wet with rain…his hand drenched with the lifeblood of the demon…the piercing scream of something primordial and unholy…an explosion of crushing pain…daylight tumbling into a black abyss...
His head spun, memories that were not memories hurling rapid-fire through his mind. Light plunged into shadow as the sun was blotted from view and the sweep of a wing spurred a cyclone around him. He tucked and rolled, propelled by the buffeting whirlwind. Pressure built in his head until he thought his eyes would pop.
Get up. Fight it! Kill it!
Terror gripped him, the sheer malignancy of the creature pinioning him in place. Overcome, he dropped the knife and babbled a plea for mercy. For one insane moment, he remembered Hanley sounding every bit as pathetic.
Get up. Fight it! Kill it!
Sickle-sharp talons raked through the air awakening the memory of death.
His chest flayed open, blood bubbling from his mouth….
Shawn screamed and rolled to the side. “Mitch! Painter!” Panic ripped the words from his throat. “Help me kill the fucking thing! Get over here!” He bolted in the direction Mitch had gone, the pounding of his feet swallowed by the roar of the creature’s wings.
Branches stuck his face and grazed his hands. He tripped over a rock and almost fell. Righting himself, he stumbled forward, barely pausing to gulp a breath. Terror drove him, dark and blood-soaked, robbing him of courage.
“You bastard, Obadiah! You didn’t tell me it killed you.”
If he could only get away. Hide. Rethink the plan.
Coward.
Shawn burst through a tangle of trees just as a rifle shot exploded in the air. He nearly collided with Mitch, clutching at the big man to keep from falling.
His face the bloodless white of a cadaver, Mitch stood with his mouth gaping open, his rifle raised for another shot.
And just that quickly the incessant droning ceased. The roar of wings retreated in the distance.
Pivoting to look behind him, Shawn sucked air into his lungs.
The nightmarish creature vanished into the sky.
* * * *
Quentin jogged into the open where Shawn stood with the heavyset man just as a lanky redhead burst from the trees. The latecomer waved a rifle above his head.
“It was here! It was here! Did you see the fucking thing?”
“No shit!” Shawn Preech was clearly shaken to the core. “It tried to kill me, you asshole. Where were you?” The words held an edge, but quaked too much to carry a threat. Hands on knees, Shawn gulped air like a fish on dry land.
The redhead barely noticed him, quickly churning up the distance to the heavyset man. He looked close to hyperventilating. “Did you hit it, Mitch?”
“Couldn’t.” The big guy shook his head. His hands trembled noticeably. “I missed it. Couldn’t get past those eyes, like they were boring into my head or something. I’m not too proud to admit I went weak in the knees. It’s going to take a hell of a lot to kill that damn bird. Maybe more than we’ve got.”
Shawn straightened up. “You should have shot it, Painter.”
The redhead—Quentin guessed he had to be Painter—was starting to calm down. His eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you? Where’s your rifle?”
Shawn recoiled, lapping a tongue over his lips. “Jammed on me early. I took it back to the car.”
Mitch rounded on him incredulously. “You were out here unarmed?”
“I dropped my knife.” Shawn looked away, zeroing in on Quentin for the first time. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Quentin wondered the same thing. How had he gotten caught up in something that was probably better avoided? Shoving his hands in his pockets, he stepped closer. “I was hiking. I heard you yell.”
“Did you see the Mothman?” Mitch asked. “Did you hear it scream?”
The unholy sound had made every nerve in his body stand on end. “I heard the birds. Saw them burst from the trees.” An inner voice warned him not to mention the creature. He’d seen it wing away when Mitch triggered his rifle, but he didn’t want to be a collaborating witness on whatever tales these three decided to spread. He glanced at Shawn. “Are you all right?”
A grunt and a curt nod served as his answer. Shawn tugged his shirt down. “Never better, but you’ve all seen what a menace this thing is. Even you.” He hooked a thumb in Quentin’s direction.
“Quentin Marsh.”
“Yeah, I remember you from the River. Tourist at the hotel, right?”
Quentin returned his nod.
“Might be time to bring in Pete Weston’s men.” Painter was jittery. He didn’t seem able to stand still. Pacing back and forth, he glanced over his shoulder repeatedly as if expecting the Mothman to swoop into their midst. “I’m all for admitting I’m outclassed and letting guys like Caden and Ryan Flynn handle this.”
“Me too.” Color had returned to Mitch’s face, but of the three he appeared the most shaken.
Quentin couldn’t blame him. Mitch had stared headlong into the creature’s eyes; an unnerving encounter Quentin had experienced firsthand. He expected Shawn to be more traumatized, but the dirt track racer looked angrier, less terrified with every passing second. He and the others had obviously come to the TNT with the sole intent of hunting the Mothman. That Preech ditched his gun had made him the most vulnerable, probably why the creature singled him out.
“So, we go back and report it.” Shawn wiped his palms on his jeans, glancing at each in turn. “You too.” He pointed to Quentin. “Even if you didn’t see the thing, you know something happened. The more voices we have shaking up Mason County, the more likely Pete Weston is to get off his butt and do something. He isn’t going to like the idea of tourists turning into Mothman snacks. If you add your voice to what we say, it’s gotta help.”
Quentin hedged.
Mitch and Painter looked at him expectantly, Painter bobbing his head on a skinny neck. Both were clearly in agreement with Preech’s reasoning. He needed to talk to Caden Flynn anyway. Maybe he could be the voice of sanity in what was likely to become an embellished tale.
“Yeah, okay. But I got turned around in here when I heard you yelling. I’m going to need help getting back to the road.”
“Mitch and Painter can show you.” Shawn was already turning away. “I gotta go back for my knife. I’ll meet all of you at the sheriff’s office.”
“Yeah, okay.” Mitch clapped Painter on the back.
As Shawn disappeared into the woods, Quentin looked between his two guides, wondering why neither found it odd Preech had been hunting the cryptid armed only with a knife.
* * * *
Shawn backtracked at a brisk jog, his mind working overtime. He needed to get the knife before anyone found it. Not that anyone else would be able to call on its power. That ability came from Obadiah, the warlock inhabiting his b
ody. The same black magician who’d met his death in the area that would become the TNT.
He ground his teeth.
All those thoughts...images in his head...he should have realized the truth before. Obadiah had been killed by the Mothman, a brutal attack that ended with his body ripped to shreds. No wonder he wanted the thing dead. His need for vengeance had nothing to do with his wife.
It has everything to do with Willa!
Clenching his jaw, Shawn willed the internal voice silent. That was something he hadn’t been able to do before. Learning the truth had given him a meager amount of leverage. Obadiah remained coiled in his mind, feeding on his strength, filling him with insatiable hunger.
“Don’t worry, old man. I still intend to kill the thing, but this time we do it my way.”
With Mitch, Painter, and the tourist backing him up, Pete Weston would be forced to flush the thing out. If it took every law officer in the state of West Virginia, Shawn would make sure the cryptid couldn’t hide. The time of reckoning had come.
For Obadiah. For the Mothman. For Shawn Preech.
Threading between pockets of trees, he slowed and glanced from side-to-side. He’d dropped the knife somewhere near here. He’d told the others he’d meet them at Weston’s office, but there was no way he was leaving without the weapon.
He kicked apart a cluster of weeds to peer closer. Bending, he rummaged through the grass, rifling aside small stones and twigs. He turned in a circle, flattening toadstools and thistles as he widened the arc. It took several minutes of searching but eventually his fingers butted against a hard wooden handle.
An exhale of relief whistled through his teeth.
He didn’t understand what gave the blade power, but the rush he got from holding the knife was a better high than any drug could give. Closing his eyes, he tried to place his failure in context.
He’d never seen the Mothman up close before, but the next time he would know what to expect. No cowering, no running. He would face the demon as a man, the one destined to slay it. Weston and the Flynn brothers might flush it from the trees, even riddle it with bullets, but he would hold the satisfaction of plunging the dark metal blade into the creature’s heart. The knife had already drunk its share of blood in the past.
He sensed that now. Felt a feather touch of memories awaken.
As the malignancy of the weapon surged through him, the whispers of those other deaths flirted at the edge of his consciousness—Marsh and Cornstalk, one dead by his hand, the other because of him. And the killing that had been the most astonishing to discover, buried deep in his ancestor’s subconscious—the slaying of the Mothman’s offspring.
* * * *
Gripping a ceramic coffee mug by the rim, Caden set it in front of Shawn.
The younger man nodded his gratitude, his knee bouncing up and down like a yo-yo bolstered by speed. Hollow-cheeked and red-eyed, he perched on the chair beside Caden’s desk. His antsy fidgeting suggested he was ready to bolt from the room at any moment.
“Then what happened?” Resuming his seat, Caden spared a glance for the report he’d been writing before returning his attention to Shawn. At the back of the room, Ryan interviewed Mitch Kennit and Sid Painter at a table littered with papers and used Styrofoam cups. They’d already polished off a full pot of coffee and half of another. Shawn and his friends had been three shades past rattled when they burst into the office, jabbering about a Mothman attack. Only Quentin Marsh, who spoke to Wayne Rosling at Rosling’s desk, appeared subdued. He hadn’t committed to seeing the cryptid, only to being in the area.
“Why do you keep asking what happened?” Shawn drummed a frenzied beat against his thigh. Rap-rap-rap-rap. “Why aren’t you out there, hunting that winged freak down?”
“We have several deputies in the vicinity.” Available patrols had been rerouted to the TNT yet again. The continued surveillance without results was starting to mimic a Boy Who Cried Wolf parable, but public safety couldn’t be ignored. Shawn, Mitch, and Painter would blab news of the attack from one end of Point Pleasant to the other. If Pete Weston didn’t flush the creature from the woods, there were enough residents eager to arm themselves and protect their town. It had happened before.
Whatever was at fault for spurring the Mothman into bouts of terrorizing, the creature was no longer content to lie low. Shawn Preech was proof of that. “Why would you go out there in the first place?”
“Huh?” Shawn’s mouth fell open. “You’re not seriously asking why we’d want to off the Mothman?”
“You’ve lived here all your life, Shawn. The creature’s been part of that. Why go after it now?”
Shawn stared blankly. Caden could almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he scrambled for an answer. It didn’t take long to find one. “Man, that fucking thing tried to kill me just now. It chased after Clark Richards when he was biking the other day—told me he thought he’d have a heart attack—and it damn near scared the bejesus out of old lady Quiggly. You seriously got to ask why now?” He shook his head vehemently. “Cornstalk cursed us with that damn bird. It’s time we get rid of it for good.”
“So, you, and Mitch, and Painter decided to do that?”
“Yeah, why not?” Shawn slurped coffee, then dragged a hand across his mouth. “Hey, you wouldn’t have anything to eat around here? It’s getting on toward lunch and I’m starving.” More knee-bouncing as if he’d ingested a barrel of caffeine.
“We shouldn’t be too much longer.” Caden picked up the report and studied it again. “You said your rifle jammed shortly after the three of you split up, and you carried it back to the car.”
“Yeah.”
“What were you shooting at when it jammed?”
“Uh…” A blank look that lasted for all of ten seconds as Shawn scrambled for an answer. “I thought I saw something in the trees. I took aim, but it turned out to be nothing.”
In the background, Painter’s voice lurched higher as he relayed some particular point in his story. Neither Mitch nor Painter had been friends with Shawn, yet the three had teamed up on a whim. Earlier, Shawn had told him they’d made the plan over beers and wings in the River Café. He couldn’t imagine Shawn being that persuasive, but once plans were made few men would back out for pride.
“You no longer had your rifle with you.” Caden waited while Shawn let the statement sink in. “How were you going to hunt the Mothman without a weapon?”
“Thought I’d team up with Mitch or Painter.” Shawn scratched his cheek. His fingernails were ragged and dirty. “Told you I had a knife.”
“What kind of knife?”
“Hunting knife. Big one.” He slurped more coffee. “It’s in the car.”
“Go get it.”
“Huh?”
Caden leaned back in his chair. Across the room, Quentin Marsh stood, then headed toward the coffee pot. “Get the knife. I want to see it.”
“What the hell for? What good will that do?”
“It’ll back up your story.”
“I got Mitch and Painter to back up my story. I even got the tourist over there.” He jabbed a finger in Marsh’s direction. “I don’t need more back up than that.”
“If I say you do, you do. Especially if you want to get out of here in time for lunch.” Caden was being hardnosed but didn’t care. Something about the encounter felt off. When it came down to it, something about Shawn felt off.
Heaving a disgusted sigh, Preech shoved from the chair and stomped toward the door. A muttered string of profanities trailed behind him.
“Make sure you come back or I’ll toss your report in the trash.”
The door slammed.
Caden rubbed his eyes. It was going to be a hell of a long day. They still didn’t have a solid lead on Hanley’s death, a situation that had the city council and residents in general putting pressure on Weston. Once word spread about the Mothman, concern would give way to panic. People were already whisp
ering the cryptid had caused Will’s murder. Fear and paranoia had a way of morphing into mass hysteria.
“Just so you know…” Marsh appeared beside Caden’s desk, his voice low. “I didn’t tell them about the other encounter with the Mothman. I haven’t said a word to anyone.”
Caden nodded. Before he could comment, Shawn returned and stomped across the room to his desk. He dropped the knife in the center of Caden’s paperwork.
“There.” Preech jutted his chin. “Satisfied?”
Caden picked up the weapon, noting the swage at the tip. There was no visible notch, but the blade was the right size and style for the weapon used in Will Hanley’s murder. He prodded the tip lightly and felt the pad of his thumb catch on a small nick. The defect might not be visible, but would it be enough for Redmond to flag in an autopsy report? As Caden had told Weston, half of Mason County carried hunting knives. Imperfections in a blade were common after repeated use.
“That’s a hell of a knife.” The etching of a spider decorated the handle a few inches from the base. Apparently hand-carved, the grooves in the image had blackened over time. Caden eyed Shawn directly. “You use this for hunting?”
“Sometimes.” Shawn dropped in the chair. The heel of his right foot beat a rapid tempo against the floor. “My dad did.”
Caden had never seen Shawn’s father with the knife and suspected it was a lie. “It looks old.”
Shawn shrugged. “Like I said, it was my dad’s. I don’t know where he got it.” He swiveled to retrieve his coffee, then downed a healthy gulp.
Caden nodded to the etching on the handle. “Kind of a weird mark for a hunting knife.”
“I’ve seen that symbol before.” Wandering closer, Quentin Marsh peered over his shoulder.
