by Tim Waggoner
“Maybe it’s because he’s a badass,” Dean says defensively.
“A badass who ended up in the hospital,” Julie says.
Dean scowls at this, but Sam can’t help smiling. John Winchester insists on doing as much as he can on his own, and while Sam knows he does this to protect others—especially his sons—it’s gratifying to see it irritates someone other than him.
Julie continues, “Anyway, he found the pack and managed to kill most of them, but in the process he got himself clawed up pretty good. Luckily, he wasn’t bitten, so he’ll be back on his feet after a couple days in the hospital.”
More like a week, Sam thinks. That’s what the doctors said. But as hardheaded as their dad is, he’ll probably check himself out early, whether he’s recovered enough or not.
“They’re going to be staying with us a few days while John rests up,” Julie finishes.
Sam expects Stewart and Gretchen to react to the news without enthusiasm. No one’s thrilled to hear they’re going to have surprise houseguests. But the Underwood kids smile and step forward to shake the brothers’ hands. Sam doesn’t expect such a formal, not to mention adult, greeting from the other teens, and he feels awkward as he first shakes Stewart’s hand, then Gretchen’s. Her hand is warmer than he expects, but not unpleasantly so. Her grip is strong, but her skin is soft, and without intending to, Sam continues holding onto her hand after they’re done shaking. When he realizes what he’s doing, he pulls his hand away from hers too quickly, reddening in embarrassment. Gretchen smiles, amused, but there’s kindness and sympathy in her gaze.
Dean leans close to Sam’s head and softly says, “Smooth.”
Sam feels an urge to punch his brother on the arm, but he doesn’t want to look more childish than he already does.
Stewart looks at Julie. “Are they going to help us?”
“If they want to,” Julie says.
Dean frowns. “Help you with what?”
“Hunting, of course,” Stewart says.
Gretchen smiles.
“You boys ever heard of Sheepsquatch?”
* * *
Sam was pulled out of the memory by the sensation of his phone vibrating in his pocket. It only buzzed once, which meant he’d received a text or email. He slipped the phone out of his pocket, swiped his thumb across the screen, and saw the email notification. He had one message waiting. He opened the email and started reading silently.
After a minute, Dean asked, “Anything good?”
“Just the daily news of the weird,” Sam said. “I’ve been checking out the links, but so far I haven’t…” A new item came up on his screen, the headline written in large capital letters. CULTS CONNECTED TO KILLINGS? This sounds promising. Sam quickly read the article, and when he was done, he summarized it for Dean. When Sam finished speaking, Dean thought for a moment before responding.
“The town’s named Corinth? Like in rich, Corinthian leather?”
“Corinth is a Greek city,” Sam said, trying not to sound exasperated. Dean might be joking, but then again, he might not know about the original Corinth. “The town this article talks about is Corinth, Illinois. This Corinth’s got a couple problems. In the last two weeks, it’s had an explosion of religious cults, dozens of them. And in the last few days, several dead bodies have been discovered. The deaths are bizarre, too. People whose lungs are filled with water in the middle of a bone-dry street or who are struck down by multiple bolts of lightning.”
“Real wrath of God stuff, huh?” Dean said.
“More like gods,” Sam replied. “The article says there are fifty-three separate and distinct cults in Corinth, some only consisting of one member while others have a dozen or more.”
“Did anyone investigate the cults?” Dean asked.
“If they did, the article doesn’t say. Reading between the lines, I get the sense that as much as the town paper would like there to be a link between cults and deaths—”
“Sell a lot more issues that way,” Dean said.
“—there isn’t any compelling evidence for a connection.”
The brothers fell silent for a time while they chewed over what Sam had discovered. Eventually, Dean sighed.
“I don’t know, Sammy. Seems pretty thin to me.”
“Weird deaths are always worth a look,” Sam said. “Besides, we don’t have anything else on our plate at the moment.”
“True.” Dean glanced at the rearview mirror, and Sam knew he was looking at the trunk’s reflection. “Unless you count dropping by the Bunker to put Iggy into storage.”
Sam smiled. “So first stop, the Bunker—”
“—and next stop, Corinth,” Dean said.
* * *
“What do you think?”
Geoffrey stood next to Adamantine, but not too close. After watching Jimmy get electrocuted by the silver-skinned woman’s touch, he’d become determined to remain out of her reach at all times. Adamantine sat at a metal café table on the sidewalk outside a frozen-yogurt place called Chill Out. A cardboard bowl with the store’s name and logo emblazoned on the side sat in front of her. Inside the bowl was a pinkish coiled mound that looked like something that had come out of the south end of a northbound dog whose last meal had been soaked in pink food coloring. Geoffrey decided to keep this observation to himself, though. He didn’t want to upset the woman who could electrocute him with a touch. Besides, from what she’d said, this was the first food—and he used the term loosely—that she’d ever had, so why spoil it for her?
It was early evening, but this time of year, that meant it was full dark. A nearby streetlight illuminated the table where Adamantine sat, and her silvery skin gave off an unearthly glow in the fluorescent light. The effect was eerie, but beautiful in its own way, Geoffrey thought. People stared at the odd-looking woman as they passed by, but no one approached her. Geoffrey didn’t blame them.
Adamantine held a plastic spoon with a glop of yogurt on it up to her face. She stared at it as if she were assessing it down to the molecular level. Who knows? Maybe she was. So far, all she’d done was briefly touch the yogurt to her tongue, she hadn’t actually eaten any of it yet.
“I am… uncertain,” she said.
He didn’t want her to think he was mocking her, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
“It’s just a dessert. It won’t bite you.”
Adamantine looked up at him with a puzzled expression.
“Of course it won’t. It has no mouth, let alone any teeth.” After looking at him a moment longer, she returned her attention to the yogurt.
Geoffrey wasn’t a big fan of frozen yogurt. He preferred ice cream, but he’d rather not eat either on a chilly December evening like this one. Just seeing Adamantine hold the yogurt—the frozen yogurt—on her spoon made him shiver. But the cold didn’t seem to bother Adamantine. So far, nothing seemed to bother her. After killing Jimmy and taking on Geoffrey as one of her followers—the only one, so far—Adamantine had commanded him to show her around Corinth. I would like to become better acquainted with the domain I shall soon rule, she’d said. And so Geoffrey had taken her for a tour of the town, such as it was. Corinth, despite its classically inspired name, wasn’t anything special to look at. But since it was the only town Adamantine had ever seen, he supposed it looked good enough to her. Her head had swiveled back and forth as she took in everything around them—pedestrians, street traffic, shops—her expression giving away nothing of what she was thinking or feeling. Maybe she’s not doing either, Geoffrey had thought. Maybe she’s just experiencing.
Something about the yogurt store had caught her eye, and she’d stopped in front of it and demanded to know what its purpose was. Geoffrey tried to explain frozen yogurt, but she had trouble grasping the concept of food, let alone treats. She’d ordered him to go inside and “procure” some for her. His empty stomach had gurgled painfully as he stepped inside, and he got an empty bowl from a table next to the dispensers, chose strawberry, filled the bow
l and—since he had no money—went up to the counter, took a spoon from the container next to the cash register, and then headed for the door. There was no one behind the counter. The teenager working the register tonight was helping an older customer operate one of the yogurt dispensers. There was a handful of other people in the store, some of them sitting at tables and eating, others standing in front of the dispensers, trying to decide what flavor to get, but all of them ignored him as he made his escape. Geoffrey disliked stealing, but he liked the idea of the employee stopping him from leaving, causing Adamantine to come inside to see what was taking him so long, even less. She’d get angry, start throwing around electricity, and probably fry everyone in the place. He’d been relieved when he’d made it outside without anyone noticing.
Adamantine hesitantly brought the plastic spoon toward her mouth again, and this time she actually took a taste. She didn’t eat much, just a tiny smattering, but it was enough. Her mouth pursed and she shuddered.
“This is a most unpleasant sensation.”
She dropped the spoon into the container, stood, and walked away from the table.
Geoffrey followed, but not before snatching up the frozen yogurt and wolfing it down, shuddering as the cold substance slid down his throat. Waste not, want not. He finished quickly and tossed the empty bowl and spoon into a trash receptacle and then hurried to catch up to Adamantine. She continued looking around as they went, and Geoffrey had the impression that she wasn’t taking in the sights anymore, but rather looking for something—or someone. He was about to ask her what she was searching for when she abruptly stopped and turned to face the street. Standing on the sidewalk on the other side was a strange woman—stranger even than Adamantine—accompanied by five men and women. The woman and her companions stood still and all of them stared across the street at them. No, Geoffrey thought. They don’t give a damn about me. They’re staring at Adamantine.
The woman was taller than Adamantine by at least a foot, which made her seem like a giant compared to the people standing around her. Her arms and legs were thickly muscled, her shoulders and chest broad. She wore a brown leather vest, armless and with a laced, closed-in back. Her shorts were made of the same leather and ended halfway down her thighs. In her left hand she carried a white spear that looked as if it had been carved from bone. All of that would’ve been strange enough to see on the streets of Corinth, but the woman was covered with golden fur from head to toe, and her hands and feet ended in wicked-looking claws. Her head and face looked more catlike than human, and the only hair she had was the fur that covered her skull. Geoffrey thought she looked like a lioness that had suddenly decided to start walking on two hind legs. But again no one dared approach the strange woman, or stopped to snap a photo on their phone.
Suddenly Adamantine’s eyes glowed and sparks of electricity danced across the silver surface of her body. The cat-woman glared back and began growling deep in her throat. She took hold of her spear in both hands and stepped into the street. When a couple of her companions attempted to follow, she looked back and snapped at them.
“Remember your place!” Her voice was low and guttural, but the words were clear enough. The two stepped back onto the sidewalk and lowered their gazes, chastened.
Adamantine left the sidewalk and started walking toward the cat-woman. Adamantine gave no indication of whether Geoffrey should follow her or stay where he was, but since the choice seemed to have been left up to him, he remained on the sidewalk. It was obvious that the cat-woman was a being like Adamantine, and from the less-than-friendly way they’d reacted to each other so far, he thought it would be best to keep well away from them.
Cars stopped to avoid hitting the women and scared, angry drivers blasted their horns. Neither woman looked toward the upset motorists, didn’t seem to be aware of them at all. Their gazes were locked on each other, and at that moment it was as if nothing else in the world existed except the two of them. They stopped in the middle of the street with less than five feet between them, illuminated in the wash of headlights.
“I am Adamantine.”
“I am Wyld.”
These words came out stiffly and without emotion, as if they were part of a formal ritual of some kind.
“In the end there shall be One,” Adamantine said, and Wyld echoed her words.
The women fell silent then and peered intently at one another, as if trying to take the other’s measure. And then, without warning, Wyld attacked. She swept the tip of her spear upward, angling it toward Adamantine’s throat, immediately going for a killing strike, but Adamantine blocked the spear with her gauntleted forearm before the sharp tip could cut into her neck. Bone raked across metal with a loud scratching sound, but the spear left no mark on the gauntlet. Adamantine struck out with her left hand, slamming it palm-first into Wyld’s chest, releasing a burst of electricity as she did so. Tendrils of power spread swiftly outward from Adamantine’s hand to wreathe Wyld in a cocoon of dancing silver energy. The cat-woman’s body stiffened and she roared in pain, the sound so loud Geoffrey winced and slapped his hands over his ears. The cat-woman’s followers did the same, as did the drivers closest to the two women. Headlights popped and windshields cracked, and Geoffrey gritted his teeth. It felt like white-hot blades had been jammed into his ears, and a moan escaped his lips as he fell to his knees. Through the pain, he wondered if the roar was Wyld’s version of Adamantine’s electricity, a sonic power she wielded that was more devastating than her spear could ever be. He felt warmth trickling from his ears and nose, and he knew he was bleeding. He feared that if this noise kept up much longer, it would puree his brain.
Wyld’s deafening roar affected Adamantine as well. She yanked her hand from the cat-woman’s chest, and turned away, clapping both hands over her ears. The instant her flesh was no longer in contact with Wyld, the electricity coruscating across the cat-woman’s body winked out, leaving behind patches of singed, smoldering fur and a black scorch mark in the shape of a handprint burned onto Wyld’s leather vest. The cat-woman stopped roaring then, her voice cutting off with a wet click, and she grimaced and swallowed. Geoffrey wondered if using her sonic power had resulted in damage to her throat. He wouldn’t have been surprised, loud as her roar had been. His ears hurt like hell and they were ringing so loudly, he couldn’t hear anything.
There was nothing wrong with his eyes, though, and as he removed his hands from his ears and straightened, he saw Adamantine standing with her back turned to Wyld, hands still covering her own ears. She might be stronger than a human—maybe a lot stronger—but she’d been standing closest to Wyld, and thus had caught the worst of the woman’s sonic attack. Wyld took advantage of Adamantine’s distraction. She spun her spear around to get a stronger grip on it and then lunged forward, clearly intending to plunge the tip between Adamantine’s shoulder blades. But Adamantine, sensing the attack, spun around and swept her gauntlet upwards in a swift, vicious arc. The claws of the metal glove smashed into the spear and knocked it aside. Wyld maintained her grip on the weapon, though, and the impact caused her to almost lose her footing. She staggered to her left, and Adamantine allowed the momentum of her strike to spin her all the way around so she could attack with the gauntlet once more, only this time she sank the sharp tips of its fingers into the cat-woman’s left shoulder. Adamantine released a second burst of electricity, eliciting another ear-shattering roar from Wyld, only this one wasn’t quite as strong as the first. It was still painful as hell, though, and Geoffrey once more covered his ears. He expected Wyld’s followers to do the same, but this time they knelt on the sidewalk, hands clasped together in front of them, heads bowed, bleeding ears unprotected. At first, Geoffrey had no idea what they were doing, but then it came to him. They were praying. But were they praying for Wyld or to her? Maybe both, he decided.
That was the moment that Geoffrey realized what creatures like Wyld and Adamantine were, why they had such strange abilities, and why they sought out followers. They were gods, or a
t least beings so similar to gods as to make no difference.
I’m the disciple of a metal-skinned psychopath, Geoffrey thought. Life sure is funny sometimes.
Wyld continued roaring, her voice cracking, and blood began to trickle out of the corner of her mouth. She’d damaged something inside herself, Geoffrey thought, and he imagined her vocal cords tearing like strips of overcooked meat. Adamantine’s teeth were gritted, and a dark silvery liquid he assumed was her body’s equivalent of blood flowed from her ears and nose. She must’ve been in great pain, but if so, she ignored it and kept pouring electricity into Wyld’s body. The cat-woman shuddered and jerked, tendrils of smoke rising from her fur and curling from her mouth, as if she were cooking inside. Her roar diminished until it was little more than a kitten’s mewling. All the power was gone from her voice, and Geoffrey lowered his hands, the sonic bombardment over. Adamantine yanked her gauntleted fingers from Wyld’s shoulder with a swift, savage motion, rending flesh and sending gouts of blood into the air. The electricity cut out, and Wyld’s body stopped convulsing. She slumped to the ground and lay there, motionless and breathing hard, eyes half-lidded, as if she were only barely managing to hold onto consciousness.
Adamantine grinned as she gazed down upon her fallen opponent.
“Sorry, my sister, but as you know, in the end there shall be One.”
She stepped forward, pulled the bone spear from Wyld’s lifeless hands, took a two-handed grip on the weapon, and without hesitation plunged the tip through the cat-woman’s chest and into her heart. Wyld shrieked and her followers cried in despair. Blood bubbled past Wyld’s lips, and her clawed hands grabbed hold of the spear. She tried to pull it out of her chest, but Adamantine leaned forward, putting all of her weight behind the weapon, and there was nothing Wyld could do. A few moments later, her hands fell away from the spear, her eyes glazed over, and she stopped breathing.
Adamantine pulled the weapon free from Wyld’s chest and held it over her head, blood dripping from the tip.
