Hound of Night (Veil Knights Book 2)

by Rowan Casey

  I finally had to pull to a halt at the Sunset Boulevard junction, but at least there was roadside lighting here, more traffic, more residences—more light—and less darkness. It was only when I looked down at my lap I realized I'd forgotten another reason I wouldn't want to get pulled over—I still had a dead man's hand in my lap.

  It felt greasy to the touch when I lifted it, but there was no smell—at least not here, in the open with the top off of the Jeep. The mirror on the palm went misty again, and I thought I heard someone singing, far in the distance, but I had no time to check it out right then. I shoved the hand, wrist end first, into the deep inside pocket of my jacket. The fingers poked out of the top, as if waving a twee little hello at me, but at least I could cover them up if I did get stopped by a cop.

  I heard, muffled and far off, Face shouting something from inside my pocket, but the noise of the engine all but drowned her out, and I also had no time to extricate her for a chat.

  I hadn't got far enough ahead, and the hound had found us again.

  The light was still red when I heard the howl, still red when I went through it.

  Blackness rose up in the rear view mirror and green eyes—hungry eyes—stared back at me as I screeched onto Sunset Boulevard and put the pedal to the metal.

  "George?" I said into the dashboard phone a few minutes later. "It's me—I'm coming in, and I'm coming in hot."

  "Trouble?"

  "As much as you can handle and more," I said, then had to concentrate. It was gaining on me again. I flew past a Dodge pickup—I saw the driver's pissed off expression as I looked over—he wanted to be the fastest thing on the road. He tried to draw up beside me, but the Jeep had more than enough power to beat him off. He pulled in right behind me. He looked the type to tailgate me for a while to try to teach me a lesson. But he got the fright of his life—shortened as it was—when the hound chewed his truck's back end into a mangled mass of tire and bodywork. It picked up the vehicle by the rear axle, gave it a good shaking, and threw it right across the highway, causing another three fender benders and a whole host of near misses and screeching tires in the traffic going in the opposite direction. Insurance companies were about to get some very strange claims.

  I didn't have time to think it was funny. The hound howled; it was closing again as I had to negotiate traffic ahead. I threw all caution to the wind and to buggery with the consequences—I floored the pedal again, hit the horn and prayed that everybody would have the good sense to get out of my way.

  I wasn't at all sure that taking this trouble to the bar was the best thing to do. I might be about to get more than just myself killed, and maybe I should have been heading out to the beach or up into the hills to let it take me down on my own—but I wasn’t ready for that. I was terrified, and I needed a friend. George was the closest thing to one I had—and I trusted him to help. I only hoped he trusted me not to get him slaughtered.

  I also hoped he wasn't going to give me a hard time about the Jeep if we survived the next ten minutes. I'd already dinged the passenger side bumper twice against people who didn't move over fast enough, and I'd lost the driver side mirror before I hit the bar's car park doing fifty and slammed on the brakes into the turn. I slid in almost sideways and used Joe Patterson's big old Caddy at the far end as a backstop. We came to a halt in a crunch of bodywork and I leapt out, hitting the bar doors just as the hound arrived in the parking bay.

  George had said he'd get a few men around and he had kept his promise. There were a score and more of them standing in the bar waiting when I burst in. They didn't have drinks at hand. They had weapons—a couple of handguns, a variety of baseball bats and pickaxe handles, and several long knives that looked like they'd seen previous service in barroom brawls. I knew most of the men—locals and regulars, Scots and Irish in the main with a couple of Poles and a mad Russian vodka fiend who was the best three card brag player in the room. I didn’t have time to thank them for answering the call.

  George raised an eyebrow, a question as to what to expect, just as the entrance behind me burst open, both of the doors falling off their hinges and hitting the floor with a double slam. The beast was in the doorway, trying to force its way through. I hadn't quite realized just how big the bloody thing was; it was struggling to get its shoulders through the opening. Now that I saw it up close I saw it wasn't, as I originally thought, some kind of wolf. This was more of a wolf-hunter itself, a lean, muscular hound of the type the Irish bred to hunt for deer. Only this one appeared to have been blown up to cartoon proportions—the Hulk of the dog world. It was certainly angry enough, and getting more enraged by the second at its failure to breach the doorway. A howl of frustration blew through the bar, all wind and thunder and nature at its wildest—I saw hard men quail at that, and two of them took to their heels, heading out the back way without a look back.

  Then the doorframe finally gave way in a crunch of breaking wood and twisting metal and the hound was in and among us. The beast came through the door and padded across the floor, heading straight for me. Everything seemed to slow. Now that it was under the lights I saw it wasn't black at all—it was reddish brown, thick shaggy hair that was almost ginger, standing almost as tall at the shoulder as the top of my head. I heard claws scratch on the floorboards as it came forward. Its eyes were emerald green, almost no white showing, shining like great jewels inlaid in its skull, never taking their gaze from me. Its tongue lolled, dripping thick drool between yellowed canines.

  It stopped in the small square area reserved for dancing as the remaining men moved to surround it in a rough circle. We had a standoff for long seconds. It stared at me, I stared back, and I knew that I was in trouble if I gave in first.

  "Get the bastard thing," someone shouted.

  But no one moved. Everyone, myself included, was transfixed by the sheer power and electric energy that had filled the bar. I'd felt similar at a zoo on encountering an angry gorilla, but this thing in here wasn't caged, and it was hungrier than the gorilla had been.

  The hound growled…a low rumbling thing. Suddenly it dropped its head, sat on its haunches and rooted around between its legs, licking at its genitals.

  "I wish I could do that," someone said nervously. It was one of the Poles, standing at George's shoulder.

  "Give it a biscuit and maybe it’ll let you," George said, deadpan.

  That brought a laugh all around the room that did a lot to relieve the tension, but any relief was quickly stifled as the beast started to move again. It rocked back on its haunches and leapt, straight at the Pole standing beside George, flying through the air and hitting him full in the chest. Before anyone else moved the man's throat was torn open and the air filled with the coppery tang of blood.

  There was a second when none of us could quite believe what we’d just seen. A big burly chap to my right—Jim McLeod—good arm wrestler, terrible poker player, best beard in the city—took the initiative.

  "Fucking bastard!" he shouted, and broke a chair over the beast’s broad back.

  It turned on him, fast, blood dripping now with the drool.

  McLeod stepped back, but we all saw that he wasn’t going to be fast enough. The beast howled again, so loud in the enclosed space that some dropped to their knees, holding palms to their ears. The beast moved in on McLeod, who threw his arms up in front of his face, eyes closed, trying, but not managing to scream. The beast tensed, ready to spring. Everybody in the room knew that McLeod had less than a second left to live.

  Everyone except George. He stepped forward, and he looked angry enough to do someone some damage as he stood between the beast and the bearded man.

  "It’s a square go you’re wanting is it? Well, let’s see if you can take me, fucker."

  He swung a punch that connected with the beast’s head and knocked it sideways. It sprawled on the floor then tried to spring back. Its claws gouged splinters out of the wood floor as it fought to regain balance.

  McLeod seemed to have recovered his com
posure, probably driven by guilt at George stepping up for him. He didn’t give the beast time to rise. He stepped in and grabbed it from behind in a half-nelson, locking his hands behind its neck and applying pressure, bending its snout down towards the deep hair covered chest. The beast went crazy, thrashing from side to side, but it couldn’t break the big man’s hold.

  "Not so clever now, are you?" McLeod shouted, and put even more of his strength into the wrestling hold. The crowd yelled encouragement. Suddenly I had a flashback to a mass brawl, years before, in the schoolyard. But there would be no teachers arriving this time to break up the fight.

  "Kill the bastard!" George shouted. "Rip its fucking heid aff!"

  But he was premature. One of the hound’s rear legs raked down McLeod’s left shin, tearing through trousers and flesh with equal ease. The big man squealed in pain, and lost his grip. He stumbled, almost fell, and was off balance…just for a second, but it was enough for the beast to turn in his arms and lock its jaws around his throat.

  McLeod was dead before he hit the ground, his head hanging at an unnatural angle where it had almost been severed from his torso. The beast looked up and the green eyes found me again. It growled, a rumble that shook the bar like a small earthquake. It came forward—slower now, more watchful. But before it could reach me, the crowd finally moved in.

  "That fucker’s toast," someone shouted. "There’s only room for Twa Dugs here."

  They’d suddenly become brave. Whether it was the sight of people they knew being brutally slain, or whether it was pure bloodlust, the result was the same. They were now an angry mob—a bad thing to have in a Scottish pub at any time, in Glasgow, Aberdeen or the City of Angels.

  One of the armed men emptied his pistol into the beast but the bullets had no discernible effect other than to raise the noise level in the bar from deafening to thunderous.

  I stepped forward, planning to help, but George stood in front of me and pushed me back.

  "We've got this," he said. "It came for you. We came to stop it getting you."

  He turned back towards the fray.

  "Don’t kill it," I called, just as the hound chewed through someone’s leg and blood spurted.

  "Fuck that for a game of soldiers," someone else cried, and they started to thrash the beast with anything they could lay their hands on. The room became a rolling fight scene, a ball of arms, chair legs, knives, baseball bats, teeth and claw. It was difficult to tell which was the more bestial, the men or the howling, slavering hound.

  One man fell away, his lower jaw hanging by the merest bloody thread, looking wide-eyed at the mixture of blood and spit and teeth in his hand. Another writhed on the floor as his life flowed out from a torn femoral artery. The place stank of spilled beer, piss and blood, and the bestial howls were not all coming from the hound.

  Finally the sheer weigh and press of bodies of the men started to get the upper hand. The beast clawed its way free from a bunch of them and started backing away, much of the fight having gone from it, escape being its preferred option. A man moved towards it, but retreated fast when it growled and showed ts bloody teeth.

  For long seconds there was another stand-off, with the beast snarling and snapping at anyone who made the slightest move.

  "Fuck this," somebody shouted. "Let’s get it."

  They moved in. The hound snapped at the first man to reach it, and took a chunk out of his leg, but the second got in a heavy blow with a beer mug that sent it backwards, into the corner of the bar. George stepped forward, armed with a table leg that he pounded, over and over, against the head of the beast.

  "Fucking."

  "Lie."

  "Down"

  He punctuated each shout with a heavier whack. Finally, he stepped back. The beast lay, trembling, on the floor, mewling like a whipped pup.

  "Finish it off," someone called.

  But nobody moved. Something new was happening. The beast seemed to be shrinking away into the shadows, diminishing. It whimpered deep in its throat. Face shouted at me from my pocket; I couldn't make out what she'd said, and I didn't want to take her out on front of a crowd, but she seemed insistent. I stepped forward so that I would be between the mob and the beast and got her into my hand. Now that I was closer to the hound I saw it was reverting, winding down into a nest of writhing leather like I'd seen in the house up in the hills.

  I was now standing, shoulder to shoulder with George. He was panting, out of breath, and keeping both eyes on the dark corner as he spoke.

  "So what now?" he said. "Is this fucker done? Because it's well past time you bought me that drink."

  "Be right with you, boss," I replied, then I had to pay attention to Face.

  "Just get the bloody leash, will you?" she said. "Quick! It might revert again at any time!"

  I took two more steps into the corner. It was dark in there, and still smelled of blood and wet dog, but there was nothing lying in the darkness except for a coil of old, worn leather, four feet long and less than an inch wide, faded and cracked, but warm to the touch when I lifted it. It squirmed in my hand, as if trying to escape.

  "Give it here," Face said, a bit too eagerly for my liking. "I'll keep it safe."

  The leather squirmed again. I wasn't at all sure I could trust Face with it, but I was doubly sure that I didn't want a sudden reappearance of the hound any time soon.

  George looked over at me, and his eyes went wide as I fed the leash through the mirror to Face. It went fast—it felt like she was tugging frantically in haste from the other side. With a matter of seconds it had gone.

  And with its going, the atmosphere in the bar changed, as if a switch had been thrown. I heard the moaning of injured men, and the sound of tables and chairs being righted. The real world began to fill in again around me. Somehow, I was still alive.

  But I wasn't going to get a chance to reward George with a drink, for even as I turned toward him, a loud voice came from the doorway. I recognized the L.A. money accent immediately.

  "I believe you have something of mine, Mr. Seton," Thomas Black said, "and I'd like it back, please?"

  "Face," I said softly. "I'll have the quarter-staff now."

  I didn't get an answer and when I looked down, the tray was flat gray and still.

  "Face?"

  "Right now, please, Mr. Seton," Black said from the doorway.

  George bridled at that.

  "This is my bar, Mr. Black," he said. "I don't need any trouble here."

  Black laughed.

  "It looks like you've had quite a bit already."

  "There's always room for more," George said softly and stood up at my side. I put a hand on his arm. Face was still dark—there was no help coming from that quarter, and as I turned round I saw that Black had half-a-dozen men with him, all armed with automatic machine pistols, at least two of which were pointed at where George and I stood.

  I spoke directly to Black.

  "I've got a wee problem at the moment, but I'll come with you. I'll even come quietly if you let George here see to the dead and wounded and if you promise nobody else will come to harm."

  Black nodded.

  "The wounded and the rest can do what they like, but your pal comes along with us. He might come in useful."

  George looked ready to argue, but I nodded over to where the wounded were being tended to as best as could be done—there were three men down, broken and bleeding, and none of those standing looked ready for another fight. George looked at them, back at me, and nodded.

  We walked over to join Black.

  "Face?" I said again as I was grabbed by two of the gorillas.

  There was no reply.

  Part II

  Beyond The Veil

  9

  One of the gorillas took Face from me, along with my cousin's dead hand from my jacket pocket, and passed them both over to Black.

  "And the leash?" he said. "Where's my leash?"

  He wasn't smiling now. I decided the truth was going to be as
good an answer as any one I could muster on the spur of the moment.

  "That's where I have a wee problem," I said. "I gave it over to the other side—and now she's taken a strop and isn't talking to me."

  Black nodded, and the gorilla slapped me, hard.

  "Knocking me about isn't going to change the truth," I said once my head stopped ringing.

  "Maybe not, but at least I'll enjoy watching," Black replied. "So you passed it through to your pal beyond the Veil? That's your story?"

  "Cross my heart and hope to die," I replied. "She keeps things safe for me. I just have to get her to listen."

  "You'd better start using some of that fabled Seton charm," Black said. "Or your other pal here might not be your pal for very much longer."

  "No disrespect intended, Mr. Black," George said. "But I'm not afraid of you."

  "I'll have to see what I can do about that, shan't I?" the big man replied, and smiled, showing us his inner shark. It wasn't pretty.

  He turned to his gorillas.

  "Take them to the house. Let's show them our version of Highland hospitality."

  We were roughly manhandled outside, and into the back of a black SUV where we got squashed into the rear seat between two gorillas, pressed together so tightly our arms were trapped at our sides. They needn't have worried; I wasn't about to make a run for it.

  I had nowhere else to go, not without Face.

  George, however, had other ideas. He didn't need his hands. He rocked backward, then forward quickly, delivering a Glasgow kiss right across the bridge of his guard's nose. I kicked out sideward at the shins of the one on my side of the seat and wriggled free just clear enough to attempt George's move on my guy, but he was more than ready for me. I saw the butt of a gun coming at my head and didn't have time to get out of its way.