I’m going to destroy this. I’m going to find a way. It was part of him, he knew that. The one time he’d injured it, it had injured him as well. He’d nearly died from it. Ironically, Molly had saved him that night.
It’s always Molly! Molly and our baby! There’s nothing in the world I love like I love them. Why can’t I tell them that! Why can’t I make her understand?
The answer came to him. Fire. He would destroy the strap with fire.
Garret stopped in the dark kitchen, rummaged in the drawers, and seized the box of matches. He’d burn his wolfstrap in the yard, right there between the chopping block and the path to the cellar house, right there in the middle of their daily life, he’d burn it like a pagan sacrifice of old.
Then he’d go back into the house, wake Molly at that very moment, offer her the ashes of it, and beg her forgiveness. He’d win her back. No matter how long it took, no matter what he had to say or do. She was afraid of him, and that was the worst feeling of all. It was going to end. Now.
Despite how much he loved his family, and would lay his life down for them without hesitation, he had always feared that someday he would make a mistake and hurt one of them. It was the waking nightmare that followed him into his sleep. It followed him everywhere.
Now that same dread was following Molly as well. For once, they were both on the same page. Both of them were afraid of him.
I’m not going to let it happen. I can do whatever the hell I want with this thing, and I’m going to burn it. Garret stomped to the back door, not caring how much noise he made. He would be waking Molly as soon as it was done anyway.
He was out the back door and down the steps. Had he merely glanced to the side as he exited the back door, he would have seen Sheriff Halstead pressed against the side of the house. But he didn’t see, so when Halstead swung his rifle, the butt of it connected with the back of Garret’s head, hard and solid.
If only Garret had seen, a great many things would not have had to happen.
A few minutes later, Garret came to in his kitchen, which was dimly lit by oil lamps. The back of his head ached, and his vision was fuzzy. He blinked heavily, and again, trying to see. He could feel the ropes grinding his wrists and ankles, the coarse fibers cutting into his skin. A bitter tasting rag was tied between his teeth and around his head. It was one of Molly’s kitchen towels, and it had soured.
The lamps were lit, but they weren’t sitting where Molly normally put them. Neither was the table. It had been shoved back against the wall. As far as Garret could tell, he was sitting near the center of the room. He blinked again, and his vision cleared a little.
What he saw awakened him instantly, galvanizing him with the strength and will to murder. Molly sat opposite him, with about six feet of open space between their knees. Both of them were tied to their kitchen chairs with rope from the barn. Garret could smell the traces of manure clinging to them.
Six men stood around the kitchen, and all of them were farmers Garret had known since he was a boy, all except one: Sheriff Halstead. Halstead was cradling a rifle in one arm, and Garret’s baby in the other.
The kitchen was cramped with their bearded faces, their stocky arms, and their firearms, but Garret saw only his wife, tied to a chair, and his baby in a stranger’s arms. Heat filled his body.
“Garret, don’t!” It was Molly. Unlike him, she wasn’t gagged. They wanted him to be able to hear her, but not vice versa. She shook her head as tears ran. “Don’t, Garret.”
“Don’t do what, Ms. Malvern?” asked the sheriff, tilting his head as if genuinely curious.
Mrs. Vilner! Garret yelled into the gag.
The sheriff stepped close to Garret and knelt down. He was wearing the same green vest as always, the same big white cowboy hat was pulled low over his brow, and the same gold star glittered on the vest. He’d recently added a gold watch chain, running to his side pocket.
His eyes glittered like two black stones, still wet from a creek bed, when he said, “What is it she doesn’t want you to do, Mr. Vilner?”
Halstead turned his gaze to the baby in his arms. He shifted the precious bundle and tightened his hold. It was horrible, like watching a thick blacksnake coil around a nest of bird eggs. Garret was frothing. Only Molly’s repeated pleas, “Garret, please don’t,” kept him tied to the chair.
All six of the men had their guns pointed at Garret. Three of them had suspicious expressions on their faces, curiosity, doubt even. But Mr. Stevens, Mr. Orem, and the sheriff had nothing but hatred for Garret.
They know. They’re sure, or they wouldn’t be here now.
“Mr. Vilner, there’s little point in this,” the sheriff said, glaring out from under his white hat. “Mr. Stevens, Mr. Orem, and I have already seen what you are. The others are here as witnesses, just to make this is air tight when we drag your body into town.” The sheriff leaned closer. “There’s some debate though. Which one will you be when you’re dead? A boy, or a wolf?”
Garret thought furiously, but intellect had never been his strongest suit, and desperation began to overcome him. That, and of course, fear.
“Frightened, are you?” the sheriff asked. “You should be. Only a fool isn’t frightened of death.”
Molly cried quietly, shaking her head. “Don’t, Garret. He won’t hurt our baby. I know he won’t.”
The sheriff simply said, “Are you willing to take that chance, Mr. Vilner? It’s my job to safeguard this town. I don’t know whether you’re a witch or a demon or Satan himself, but I know that you have killed and killed and killed again.”
It wasn’t me! Garret yelled into the dish towel. Molly, tell them it wasn’t me!
Halstead kept going, beginning to seethe as he spoke. His grip on Garret’s baby tightened. “You’ve killed more of our friends and family than I could count. People lost their homes, their livestock and their businesses because of you. I don’t even know how long you’ve been at it. How old were you when you killed your first person? Could you walk yet? Let me ask you this…”
The sheriff pushed himself into Garret’s face and shifted the precious bundle in his arms. “Was it an adult you killed first… or was it a baby?”
It wasn’t me! Garret bawled into the gag. I swear it wasn’t me! Molly tell them what happened, please!
But Garret knew they wouldn’t listen to Molly even if she’d tried to explain. If they were here now, then that meant they were finally beyond their fear of her wealthy father. Mr. Malvern loved his daughter, and his daughter loved Garret. It had thus far been enough to keep Sheriff Halstead at bay. Something had happened, something new, something that had pushed them over the brink. Not that it mattered now. All that mattered in Garret’s universe was what was going to happen next.
Molly was staring blankly at the sheriff. “It was you,” she whispered as tears fell to her dress. “You set Garret up.”
At last, the sheriff turned to his head enough to see her from the corner of his eye. “Very astute, Ms. Malvern.” He spat on their kitchen floor.
Molly sobbed once, letting her head hang. “He was trying to save that girl’s life, Sheriff. You made it look like they were going to rob her.”
“And he killed two men to do it, Ms. Malvern,” snapped the sheriff. Suddenly he flushed with rage. “He’s made a fool of me time and again! Ms. Malvern, you promised me it wasn’t him. You promised me that he would never harm anyone, and I believed you. Then Mr. Orem, Mr. Colson, and I watched him tear the Samuelson boy to pieces.”
Garret broke down and began to weep into his gag. His baby was crying. Molly hung from the ropes if she couldn’t hold herself up.
“Sheriff,” Molly whispered. “Don’t do this.”
Molly raised her head. She was looking at her baby, but she tore her eyes away long enough to look at Garret. The look in her eyes was the end. “Garret, remember the morning I broke up with you?”
How could he forget? Her parents had caught them t
ogether, and her father thought Garret had raped her. She’d told him she never wanted to see him again. She’d tried to slap him.
“Remember when I said I never wanted to see you again?” The words came quickly and brokenly. “I broke up with you because this is the way it always happens with people I love. I end up destroying them, like I did to my sister. Sooner or later, somehow I knew we’d end up here. But I was too selfish. I wanted to be with you, so I married you anyway. I’m sorry. I love you, Gar. Please, please don’t do it.”
Garret was losing his mind.
Halstead nodded as if it all made sense. Then he said “Fine, get on with it.” Orem and Colson grabbed Garret’s chair and turned him around so he was looking at the wall. He couldn’t see Molly and the baby.
Garret strained to his full human strength. The ropes creaked and the chair crackled, but it wasn’t enough. He would have to shift to break free. Garret knew it. Halstead knew it. Halstead was counting on it. Garret also knew every rifle barrel in the room was trained on his back.
Molly whispered it one more time. “Don’t do it, Garret.” But then she said, “Sheriff?” her voice rose. “Sheriff stop it!”
Garret’s baby was already crying, but suddenly, the child screamed.
Halstead thought he knew the truth about Garret. And he did know some. But not enough. When he’d tied Garret’s ankles, Halstead had left Garret’s feet touching the floor.
I love you Molly. In the blink of an eye, Garret surged. He knew he was going to get shot, more than once, but if he could get his head clear, it might not be enough to kill him. So as he shifted, he pushed off of the floor, leaping as hard as he could. The ropes snapped and the chair exploded as he surged upwards.
Garret had hunted with rifles all his life. He knew how accurate they were, and he knew why the men had brought them. They knew Garret was a wolf, and they knew how wolves could run, so they suspected they would probably have to kill him at a distance. What they didn’t know was how Garret could heal.
As he leaped upward and shifted, the concussion of multiple firearms rocked the kitchen. Garret gasped. Slugs and buckshot ripped through his legs, stomach, and even one through his chest. Pain rippled everywhere. But it worked, he’d gotten his head above their firing pattern. Rifles were accurate and powerful, but their length and weight meant that the men holding them couldn’t readjust their aim quickly enough to kill him with second round. That meant he was going to kill them instead.
You touched my family.
Most of the time, Garret didn’t realize when he’d reached a turning point in his life. The critical moment would wing past him, soaring on his half-baked decision. This time, that didn’t happen.
He knew something was about to change. He didn’t have presence of mind, and certainly not the time to explore the ramifications, but he knew everything would change from here.
He only knelt on the floor for the tiniest fraction of a second, but in that instant, everything sharpened, clarified, and intensified until the moment seemed frozen, filled with liquid glass. Every color was brighter, from the open red mouth of the sheriff to the red blush on the cheeks of his lovely wife. The lilies stood out on the counter, every crack and crevice and grain in the wooden floor and table looked as if it had been hand polished, and the lamp glowed like the sun.
In that instant, there were six men with guns, all in various states of stumbling, reloading, or drawing a bead on Garret. One of them was in the act of pulling the trigger. There was also Molly, the defenseless baby, and Garret himself, with a blood-slicked chest from the buck shot and slugs that had just burrowed inside of him.
A year prior, he had lain on the floor of a church, beaten nearly to death, while the entire town burned to the ground and the mangled dead were strewn through the streets. He had held Molly with his weakened arms, and as her sister died, something had broken inside of Molly.
So, as they had laid there, and Molly cried the emptiest tears Garret had ever heard, he had made the Decision: No one would lay hand on his family ever again. No matter what the cost.
Powered by every human and wolf instinct that had driven men and animals since the dawn of time, Garret hit the motley pack of men like the dark-furred shadow of death. All of them were still armed. It didn’t matter. They were trapped in a small room with one of the world’s oldest and most dangerous predators: a father who fears for his family.
Garret hit Stevens, knocking him into three others. Moving like the wind, Garret the wolf bit down and ripped Colson’s throat out, nearly severing his head. He continued the motion down the line, biting, tearing, and crushing before the men could hit the floor. Halstead was standing between Garret and Molly, trying to level his rifle with one arm.
Garret had attempted the same move not two years ago, trying to take aim at a monster. But now it was Garret who was the monster. He hit the Sheriff and bit down on the arm in which the sheriff dared to hold his baby. Garret ripped the sheriff’s triceps loose and flung them away, then his biceps, then all the little strands of muscle that covered his forearm. The baby fell away. Garret partially shifted back, enough to catch his son and deposit him in Molly’s lap on the way by. He’d stripped the sheriff’s right arm down to bones and a ruined hand. As a wolf, he could have easily killed the sheriff any number of ways, but for a split second, he shifted back to fully human and broke Halstead’s neck across the edge of the counter. He did not want to kill the sheriff with wolf teeth, he wanted to kill him with his bare human hands.
Garret flew around the kitchen, as wolf, man, sometimes both, sometimes neither, destroying and killing. Blood flew everywhere, men cried out, making sounds no man should ever make. They begged for mercy, they crawled for the doors.
Garret disemboweled Orem, the fat hairy ogre, by the sink. He tore Mr. Dillon’s face off halfway into the buttery. Mr. Donnegal made it off the front porch. Garret killed him in the yard.
Garret was here and there, shifting in the blink of an eye, driving himself so quickly from one form to another that his injured body pled for mercy. It received none. Neither did those who had threatened his family.
Six men and gallons of blood, yet it all took less than sixty seconds. Garret flashed back into the kitchen and shifted to a young man, chest heaving, naked, covered with blood from his mouth to his knees, the bullet holes in his own body still seeping. He glared around for anyone else who had to die. Bodies and parts of bodies were strewn around the kitchen. Blood spattered the walls and the ceiling and pooled in lakes and smears on the floor. Some of it had wolf pawprints in it. Some had human barefoot prints in it.
Molly was sitting on the floor, white as a sheet, holding their baby clutched to her chest. The baby was making an agonized shriek.
Garret stumbled over to her, and almost fell on them both before crashing to the floor beside her. He pushed himself up on his hands and knees. His whole body felt like it had been fed through a saw mill, and he was having trouble breathing. His left lung didn’t seem to be working very well. Molly didn’t acknowledge his presence. Her eyes were open wide, deep and dark as the sea.
Garret’s baby screamed and squirmed in agony. Molly had unwrapped him. His tiny naked body lay in the blanket as he cried. He was unharmed, except for his chubby left leg. A row of puncture wounds ran up it, seeping his precious baby blood.
Garret had bitten him. Garret had injured his son.
No matter what the cost.
And that was the cost.
They did not injure Garret’s baby.
But he did.
Twenty minutes later, Garret stumbled across Main Street and turned up Seventh Avenue. Main Street was well lit with gas lights, even at night, but the avenues weren’t. Mr. Malvern’s generosity had only extended so far. Shops and private residences passed by on the sides of the rutted dirt street. Most of the buildings were only there because they had been rebuilt, and quite a few burned-out husks still stood in the dark, their charred boards s
lowly beginning to rot back into the ground. Most of the houses and shops were dark. A few had a lamp burning in a window—a small orb of light floating behind a glass pane.
Only the last house on the left was fully lit. Warm light poured from all the windows in both stories, including the extravagant bay windows on either side of the front door. Though it was one of the farthest houses from the center of town, it was also one of the first to be rebuilt. Due to the nature of its business, the proprietor had more money than most people. Instead of cheaply whitewashing it, like most had done, he’d taken the opportunity to paint the wooden siding light blue, with pink trim around the windows and porch.
Gasping and wheezing, Garret staggered up onto the porch. All the shifting during the bloodbath had sealed most of his injuries, but he was in pain, and his body was still full of bits and pieces of metal. He felt like he had something in his lung near where he’d been shot in the chest. He couldn’t stop coughing. All the shifting and healing had also left him ravenously hungry and weak, but those were small issues.
He fell against the pink door, then turned the handle. He would have left a bloody print, but most of it had dried on the way here. The door was unlocked. As far as he had been told, this establishment was always open, day and night. He pushed through it and into an atmosphere thick with perfume, fire logs, and beneath it all, the thin scent of sweat.
A woman in a lacy dress that covered everything from her nipples down rounded the corner. Her ingratiating smile disappeared as soon as she saw him. She backed up a step.
“Where is he?” Garret asked her, leaning on the bannister to the second floor.
She looked him up and down, and she paled. His bare chest certainly wasn’t an unusual sight in a place like this, and his work pants probably weren’t either, but the tacky blood smearing him from head to toe probably was.
She fumbled, the exaggerated curls around her face bouncing when she said, “I-I can’t talk about our clients. You-you need to go.”
Garret went up the stairs without sparing her another glance. He opened the first door he came to. The room was decorated with cheap black and white copies of famous art pieces, which were hung overtop of a loud, but probably also cheap red wall paper. On the plain bed Mr. Grayson, the local wainwright, was wallowing a naked woman with flabby arms and her hair done up in a ridiculous pile atop her head.
Ironclad Page 33
