The third was a minotaur, though calling him that would end in your death. The Bullman had a black spot over one eye, and stood eight feet tall, head bigger than a buffalo and brute muscle all over his hairy body. He preferred being addressed by his full name, Andrew Jackson Fuller Smith, and he was prone to being quite pissed off at anyone who forgot. He had a permanent limp and scars on his neck and chest from his last encounter with MHI. Vanity alone made that cause for revenge—but after his son’s death in a building Hunters had set ablaze during a mission, he was doubly motivated.
After their laughter subsided, the Bullman spoke in a deep, booming voice, “Y’all want us to take out this Owen Pitt, is that right?” Being from Texas, most Bullmen spoke like redneck cowboys, accent and all.
“Yes,” Glen said.
“He has quite a reputation amongst the Hunters, dawg,” Björn said.
Andrew Jackson Fuller Smith frowned and whirled to glare at the gnome. “Who you calling dawg, Lawnman?”
Björn rolled his eyes and glared back. “Glen here, you Hereford. Relax.”
“I am no Hereford!” the Bullman objected. Glen and Happy stepped between them.
“Calm down, both of you,” Glen said.
“Yes. No worry. Be happy,” Happy said, grinning.
None of the others showed the slightest amusement at his joke. After a moment, the Bullman and gnome relaxed and everyone breathed again.
“I know his reputation, but we’re going to take him alone,” Glen continued. “You saw what he did to my brother. He’d do that to any of us.”
“I’m not against harming any Hunter, of course, suh,” Andrew Jackson Fuller Smith said and smiled. “They’ve earned it many times over. Even if it does require working with lesser, ground dwellers.” He aimed the last at Björn and smirked, looking down at the tiny gnome to be sure he’d heard.
“Chill, dawg. Just keep those clodbusting hooves of yours clear o’ me,” Björn replied, hands crossed over his chest. “Why should we trust a human against a human anyway?”
Glen locked gazes with the gnome and let his wolf eyes shine through—yellow, piercing—emitting a growl. “Because I am not human anymore.”
He knew from their reaction then that he had them all, and planning began.
* * *
For reasons Glen didn’t know or care about, his sources in the unofficial Monster Information Network, as Glen liked to call it, reported Owen Pitt had come to a private cabin in the woods south of Knoxville, Tennessee, on some kind of retreat. Just off Lake Santeetlah near Robbinsville, North Carolina, the cabin was supposedly owned by an old friend of Earl Harbinger’s. It was small, remote, and rustic. The perfect setting for an ambush, and Glen had sent a local friend to scout it out, who reported back that Pitt was alone. Perfect.
Glen himself went down ahead of his team and staked the place out for a couple days. Owen Pitt looked disgusting—a couple of years ago he’d been an accountant working for a boring corporation, with a single, drab existence. Now he was a badass, murdering, monster killer with a hot wife, the kind who should have been unattainable for a schlub like him. He was on top of the world. Motherfucker. Accountant boy would pay. His top of the world was going to hit rock bottom, Glen would see to that and enjoy every minute.
* * *
Owen stood in the kitchen in his socks, spooning shortening into the deep-fat fryer so he could cook up some fries to go with the burgers he was getting ready to grill. The fat crackled and began melting in the heating Fry Daddy. Owen smiled with satisfaction. After the sheer crazy of the past several months, the simple act of preparing a meal in a cabin in the woods was like a pleasant detour back to basics. Mmmmmm. Did he even remember what it was like to have a normal day anymore?
The cabin was rustic but well appointed, with woodsy décor such as antler lamps, log furniture, and high, rough-hewn ceiling beams. There was even a moose head hanging on the wall above the fireplace, where Owen had kindled a cheery blaze to keep the early evening fall chill at bay. Abomination, recently field-stripped, cleaned, oiled, and reassembled, lay gleaming on the coffee table in the living room.
“Best of all, it’s quiet,” he told Julie on the phone, talking to her as he dumped the julienned potatoes into the bubbling fat. “No one for miles around.” Julie was with the team investigating an odd attack in Greeneville, Tennessee, not far north, but they must have finished because he heard the whirring hum of chopper blades in the background as they talked.
“Careful.” She laughed. “You’ll jinx it. Next thing you know the missionaries will come knocking on your door.”
“Wouldn’t that be typical.” He carried the meat out the kitchen door to the back patio, where the charcoal had settled into perfect cooking coals in the barbeque, and set the patties across the grill. “Maybe next time you can join me.”
Julie emitted a sound of pleasure on the other end that almost caused Owen to drop the meat. He recovered just in time and took a breath, whispering silent praises to whatever God above had given him this woman.
* * *
Glen twitched when Björn appeared out of thin air after reconnoitering the situation. “He don’t suspect a thing, dawg,” the gnome said. Honestly, the canine metaphors were getting old. “Fat, dumb, and tall,” he almost spat the third word, “talking to some broad on the phone and cooking dinner. Very domestic.”
“Excellent. Now remember,” Glen said, “he’s my meat. Immobilize him. Injure him all you like, but I get the kill.”
“Long as y’all don’t dillydally around,” the Bullman said, flexing his enormous hands. He’d decided to go into battle unarmed. He was a weapon; he didn’t need to carry one. Glen felt the same way. Teeth and claws would teach Pitt a lesson, along with all those other MHI bastards. No one messed with him and his.
Happy didn’t speak; he just did a figure-eight spin with the mace he carried, which was basically a big spiked ball on a stick. Björn checked a pair of semiauto pistols—Glen didn’t know what kind they were and didn’t care as long as they weren’t loaded with silver—and nodded with satisfaction, baring a long, sharp fang. “Let’s go,” he growled.
They deployed through the woods with Andrew taking point. The Bullman would break down the front door, Björn planned on appearing directly into the kitchen, and Happy would go in the back. Glen followed Happy, since that seemed to be where Pitt was concentrating his activity. For a moment, Glen was distracted by the smell of cooking meat, but then Happy burst through the back door into the kitchen and all hell broke loose.
* * *
Owen set the phone down, still talking to Julie, while he kept an eye on the potatoes, fried up some bacon, and sliced a tomato. When a gnome popped into being on the counter, armed to the teeth, he had a bare half-second to react. He did so by swearing, scooping up the frying pan to use as a shield, shoving backward, and ducking as the gnome growled and raised two pistols. Owen also kept hold of the—thankfully very sharp and also double-pointed—tomato knife. A pair of bullets whistled past his ears, the sounds of the shots incredibly loud in the enclosed space.
Owen swung the frying pan on instinct, as the gnome fired again. The pan pinged and a dent appeared as a bullet ricocheted into a nearby beam, cracking the wood.
The back door splintered open to reveal an orc carrying a nasty-looking mace. At the same time, Owen caught sight of the front door smashing in and a Bullman shaking the remains of it from his horns. A guy who looked human but probably wasn’t, because Owen wasn’t that lucky, followed the orc—but he, at least, didn’t appear to be carrying any weapons.
His first thought was: Goddamnit, I’m on vacation! What the fuck? But shortly after, Owen realized he was deeply, eminently, and urgently screwed.
Nothing for it, he attacked, because fuck them if they thought he’d go down without a fight. The gnome, who was closest, fired two more shots; one hit the frying pan and the other clipped his left shoulder. Owen leapt forward and swatted the gnome with the pan, sendi
ng him flying into the wall. Owen stabbed him right through the center of mass before the stunned gnome could get out of the way. The two-pointed blade was great for cutting tomatoes and even more useful as a gnome skewer; he lifted the flailing creature off the counter and plunged him headfirst into the deep-fat fryer, which made the boiling oil practically explode in a crackling, Yellowstone-esque geyser.
From the corner of his eye, Owen caught sight of the mace swinging and instinctively ducked and rolled under a stroke that would have smashed in his head like a pumpkin if he’d been stupid enough to let it connect. Ducking, he reached up a hand and pulled his knife with a sucking sound from the fried gnome, so he at least still had that available.
His roll across the cramped floor space fetched him up against a cabinet, as the pan clattered to the floor and the orc just kept on coming. Owen dove between its legs as the mace came down again, thunking deeply into the hardwood floor, the spikes sticking long enough for him to regain his feet and look for something to throw. The floor split and crackled, opening in a widening fissure.
Oh, hello, deep-fried gnome. Owen picked up the fryer, yanking the cord from the wall in the process, and flung it in a spraying arc at the back of the orc’s head. It connected with a satisfying clang and the hiss and stink of cooking orc meat while Owen leapt into the living area and the orc roared with agonized rage.
He wasn’t much better off there, honestly, although at least he was closer to Abomination. The Bullman bellowed and charged. Owen was not nearly small enough to “flit,” but he made a fair attempt to jump aside. A horn caught him in passing on his right arm, opening a deep gash and causing him to drop the knife with a grunt of pain. Not that it would have done him any good against, well, that, but it was the principle of the thing. The Bullman spun on his hooves to face him, and Owen stumbled backward, slipped on a throw rug, and fell on his ass, bleeding and cursing.
Yep, still fucked.
* * *
Oh, sunuvabitch! This was what Glen got for not just doing the job himself. Good help was so hard to find. He got to the living area just in time to see Andrew Jackson Fuller Smith yank a mounted moose head from over the fireplace and fling it bodily at Pitt, on his back on the floor. He yelped and kicked his legs up in time to deflect it away from his head, though it bounced and came back down against his outstretched hands. There was a nasty crack as Pitt’s thumb caught the brunt of the snout and bent backward at an odd angle.
Well, he supposed he hadn’t said they couldn’t break Pitt, just no killing. Happy loped past Glen, mace upraised, and Pitt shoved himself back. This brought him within arm’s reach of the coffee table, where——
No! No, no, no, no, no. What the hell was that damn gun loaded with anyway? Whatever it was, it blew an amazingly huge hole right through Happy’s chest and out his back, spattering orc innards all over Glen and nearly deafening him to boot. Happy staggered and fell, dropping his mace, which fell on Glen’s foot, causing him to howl as its spikes tore into his flesh through his boot.
“No worry. Be—” The orc croaked then lay still, his death a punchline to the joke that was once Glen’s master revenge.
The Bullman wasn’t idle in the midst of all this, nor was he a coward. Even though he’d seen what the gun had done to Happy, he bellowed and charged right at Pitt before he could shift aim. Wrapping a massive hand around the weapon’s barrel, he twisted hard and yanked at the same time.
The two wrestled and rolled, grunting and growling for control of the weapon. The Bullman tossed Pitt around like a rag doll, but the man managed to keep a stubborn grip on his weapon. Then the muscles in the minotaur’s neck and shoulders bulged and throbbed as he threw more effort into it and finally got a solid grip with both hands on the weapon. Pitt’s face crinkled and his mouth twisted. He was no match for a minotaur. Pitt held for a minute, the weapon shaking between them, but Andrew Jackson Fuller Smith finally managed to overpower him and yank the shotgun away. Unfortunately, the Bullman pulled the barrel right toward himself rather than to the side. Pitt gave a frantic push, shoving the barrel right up into one of the minotaur’s nostrils, where it went off, blowing his snout to pieces and piercing his brain. He stumbled back, an expression of bovine stupidity on his face, and collapsed into the blazing fireplace, sending burning logs flying. Sparks set curtains and furniture alight.
“Of all the lucky fucking shots!” Glen growled.
He didn’t care anymore. It was him and Pitt, just like it should have been in the first damn place. Pitt’s gun had ended up out of reach due to the Bullman’s tight grip even in death—he’d taken it with him as he fell—and Owen was down and helpless. The reek of Pitt’s blood nearly made Glen lose control and shift, but he wanted to be himself for this, needed to see Pitt suffer and die for what he’d done to Cecil.
Pitt coughed and looked up at him, grinning through his pain. “This place was beautiful until you four arrived to fugly it up.”
Glen growled, baring his fangs. In his anger, he couldn’t really help a partial shift. He stalked forward with a bestial growl, claws extended. Pitt scooted away, or tried, anyway—as banged up as he’d been by the Bullman, he couldn’t go very far.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Glen Huffman. You murdered my brother”—Glen’s shoulders bunched—“and you’re going to pay for that.”
Pitt actually laughed. Laughed, the bastard, even though Glen could see he was hurting. “He tried to kill me first. You can see exactly how far it got him.”
“He put you in the hospital. I’m going to put you in the ground.”
Pitt’s gaze swept around the room, at the burning furniture, the bodies, his too-far-away gun. Glen let him assess the odds and tick over logistics, and savored Pitt’s dawning realization that he wouldn’t survive this encounter. “You’re welcome to try,” Pitt sneered.
“There’s no fourteenth story here, Pitt,” Glen growled, then he sprang.
* * *
Owen lunged sideways and grasped the moose head by an antler with his good hand. Groaning with the effort, aided by a spike of adrenaline, he swung it at Huffman and connected with his body in mid-leap.
Not that it did him much good. Huffman was deflected, barely, but it was enough for Owen to get the trophy between himself and the werewolf, who had half shifted. “Damn,” Owen grunted, “you’re even uglier than your brother.”
Huffman snarled, and his face elongated more. He aimed a snap at Owen, but his teeth sank into the moose’s nose instead. He wrenched his head and tore away part of the hide and a hunk of the polyurethane foam beneath, then dove in again.
Owen held him off desperately, jabbing a palmate antler at his eyes, connecting with a glancing blow that at least seemed to hurt him. Huffman shook his head, and Owen caught sight of the orc’s mace, closer than Abomination, which lay just beyond it. He dropped the moose and scrambled that way, picking the spiked weapon up and swinging it one-handed just in time to crash it into Huffman’s snout.
“Hey, at least you aren’t naked,” Owen said.
Which, of course, was when Huffman shifted completely—bam—just like that, and shook out of his shredded clothes. Pure animal malice shone from his yellow eyes, nothing human in them anymore.
Owen backhanded the mace into Huffman’s head, this time just trying to hold him off. A set of four claws ripped down his body from collarbone to beltline before Owen smacked him yet again, knocking him aside with as much force as he could muster…
…Which, honestly, wasn’t much. The werewolf was healing nearly as fast as Owen was dealing damage, while Owen was leaking precious bodily fluids all over the place. He’d better finish this before it finished him.
Huffman came at him again, jaws wide. With exquisite timing, Owen shoved the mace clear down into his open throat. “Choke on that, you mangy cur,” he panted. Abomination was just a couple of feet away, and he rolled toward it, scooping it up, bringing it around, pulling the trigger—
And missing.<
br />
Huffman had divested himself of the mace and was in midair, descending toward Owen like some kind of awful, fanged bird of prey, talons outstretched to engulf him. Owen slapped the bayonet release and braced. The werewolf impaled himself on the silvered blade, unfazed, because it missed his heart—of course it missed his heart, Owen could never be that lucky. Huffman strained toward him while Owen shoved upward on the gun. He managed to hold the jaws far enough away, but the claws were another matter, and they sank into his shoulders, ripping flesh.
Abomination slipped. He pulled the trigger again, but the enraged wolf didn’t even seem to notice the sudden giant hole blown through him. Owen was dreadfully handicapped and losing blood. He stared his own death in the fangs and had time to think, I’m sorry, Julie—
A deafening BOOM sounded from behind Huffman, and his head disappeared in a spray of bone, meat, and red mist. He collapsed bonelessly, in a bloody, furry mass.
Letting Abomination drop sideways with the body still spiked on it, Owen blinked several times, then wiped the gore off his face. Julie Shackleford stood there like a tall, gorgeous, avenging angel with long dark hair, holding a smoking shotgun and looking pissed. “Owen?”
“I. You. Julie?” Yes, Owen, very smooth. He would’ve rolled his eyes at himself if he had the energy. “How did you—?”
“I heard the door break down over the phone, and lots of crashing and swearing.” Julie strode over and knelt beside him, examining him like a worried hen with breathtaking brown eyes through her slanted, oval-framed glasses. “It sounded worse than when you usually cook. I’d been planning to have Skippy drop me here to surprise you after we finished at Greeneville anyway, and we were already on the way, so Skippy redlined the chopper” She brushed the side of his face with her fingertips. “Looks like we arrived just in time.”
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