Chapter 2

2

T he child-hunters came out of the woods right on schedule.

Roman had parked himself on a chair in his living room, by the massive tinted front window and had a bit of his coffee. The front yard sloped slightly from the house, and this spot gave him a beautiful view of the entire battlefield. The nechist promptly arranged themselves around him, with Kor flopping himself on his lap.

They didn't have to wait long. First, a scout snuck up the driveway to view the house. He crouched by some snow-fluffed bushes, stared at the Striga skull for a bit, then retreated, and a few moments later two assholes circled the property in opposite directions and went to ground, one on the northeastern side and the other on the southwestern. They set up crossbows for the intersecting fields of fire and went still. Roman sent a couple of kolovershi to keep an eye on them.

Finally, the main force came up the driveway in a modified diamond formation: the two Honeycomb dickheads in the lead, armed with a dog each, followed by a pair of professionals; then the leader sandwiched between two more guys; another pair, and a rear guard.

"Someone was a good boy and read his manual on small unit tactics," Roman murmured.

This wasn't the way he would've gone about the raid, but he had a feeling they'd decided to bet on intimidation and surprise. One moment the woods were empty, the next there was a trained, well-armed squad taking position by the house. It would give most people pause.

He wasn't most people.

Roman put a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

The leader was tall and light-skinned, with a square jaw, short nose, and grayish stubble on his chin. Thick neck, some roundness in the face—well-fed. He hadn't been taking any long treks through the deep wilderness with a fifty-pound rucksack, eating MREs and pinecones recently. This was a mercenary, successful but gone a bit soft.

The leader squinted at the Striga skull on top of the stop sign, looking smug and slightly bored. The rest of his crew looked about the same—too much time at the gym, too much love for tactical sunglasses, too secure in their badassery. Active duty in the line of fire made people mean, lean, and half-feral, like starved wolves. These weren't wolves. They were guard dogs. Every single one of those guys knew where their next meal was coming from and where they would be sleeping that night.

Roman could practically hear what they were thinking. This is overkill. We are better than hunting down a kid and dealing with some jerkwad in a house in the woods. But we're high-speed professionals. We'll handle it, and we'll look sharp while doing it.

The leader's mouth moved. Roman read his lips: "Cute."

Aw, sweetness, if you think that's cute, you'll love what happens next.

The leader flicked his fingers. The SEAL-wannabe on his right with a full-on beard pulled a machete from a sheath on his waist and banged on the stop sign with it.

Knock, knock, knock.

"We have guests," Roman said.

Kor smiled, baring needle fangs.

The mercenary knocked again.

"I guess we'll have to go out and say hello. They came out all this way, we might as well be neighborly."

Kor stretched and hopped down. Roman picked up his coffee mug, stood up, and went out onto the porch.

The leader took in his ensemble of sweatpants, sweatshirt, and Eeyore slippers and gave him a big grin. "Hey there!"

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?" Roman took a gulp of his coffee.

"We're here for the boy and his dog."

No pleasantries. Straight to the point. They were certain the kid was in the house, and they were sure they could take him out of it.

"Is that so?" Roman asked.

"This doesn't have to be complicated," the leader said. "We're not going to hurt him. We're just going to take him back to his family. It's not safe for him to be running around the woods with the magic up."

"So he's a runaway?"

"He's a kid. He overreacted. His family is worried and wants him back."

Heh. "Do they now? And they hired you to bring him back? You get a lot of jobs finding lost kids?"

The leader shrugged. "You got me. This isn't something we normally do, but who am I to tell rich people what to do with their money? A job is a job."

"And you needed Honeycombers for it?"

The shorter of the trackers grinned. Honeycombers lived in a former trailer park warped by magic. Everyone with a crumb of common sense had moved out when the trailers started splitting like dividing cells. It was a place where people took a wrong step, walked into a wall, and were never seen again. Those who stayed remained because the Honeycomb was lawless, and they liked it that way.

The Honeycombers weren't picky about who paid them. They would do almost anything if the price was right. If you had to hire them, you were up to no good.

The leader smiled. "Whatever gets the job done. Look, you seem like a man who values his privacy. You live all the way out here, miles from town. You don't like to be bothered."

Nice how he worked that threat in there. You live all alone and nobody will hear you scream. Roman smiled into his coffee mug.

"Oh, I'm not bothered."

"Let us take the kid off your hands, and you can keep being not bothered and continue with your holiday decorating." The leader nodded at the half-finished Christmas tree. "It will be like we were never here."

Now that part was true.

"Sounds good. But I just have a few questions."

"Shoot."

Oh, I will. "What's the dog's name?"

The leader didn't say anything.

"See, finding runaways is one of the things I do. When a family wants their child back, they trip all over themselves trying to tell you everything about them. Before I leave the parents' house, I know the kid's middle name. I know their pets' names, their best friends, their grandmother's name and address. I know what they were wearing the last time they were seen and their favorite food."

The smugness slid off the leader's face.

"Given that you were hired to bring this kid back, I'm sure you know all that."

"Well, I'll level with you. I don't know the dog's name. Like I said, this isn't the kind of job we normally take."

"But a job is a job. Tell you what, send one of your guys down to Atlanta and bring the parents here. If they want him back, they'll make the trip. He's safe with me. He's not going anywhere. Once the parents show up, we'll take it from there."

The leader sighed. It was a resigned kind of sigh. He was clearly put upon. It didn't have to be like this. But now his hands were tied.

"You seem like a reasonable man. Do the math."

"It's not about math. And yes, normally I'm reasonable enough. But this is what you might call an emotionally difficult time of the year for me. I'm irritable, out of eggnog, and one of my freeloading creatures ate my cookies. You should leave while you still can."

"None of that is my problem. Last chance." The leader crossed his arms. "Send the kid out."

"You're right. This is your last chance. Leave now and everybody walks away alive."

"Why does it always have to be the hard way?" The leader nodded at the Honeycomb trackers. "Bring me his arms."

The shorter of the trackers dropped the lead of his iron hound. "Go on, Trigger. Get ‘im! Get ‘im!"

Trigger snarled. Foot-long iron spikes snapped erect on his spine. His fur stood on end. The huge canine bit the air and bounded forward. Two feet from the boundary of wards, he changed his mind and slid to a halt. The second dog, only a step behind, smacked into him, bounced off, and whined.

"Trigger! King! Get ‘im!"

The dogs paced back and forth, unsure. Trigger turned around and looked at his handler.

"That's a clue for you," Roman said.

The shorter Honeycomber frowned. He was clearly having second thoughts.

The leader glanced at the handlers. "I'm waiting to get my money's worth."

A moment passed.

The thinner handler swore and pulled a club off his back. "Fuck it, I'll do it myself."

"Roscoe," the shorter handler said.

"I said, I'll do it myself."

The Honeycomber started forward. His eyes were bright. Roman knew that look. He'd seen it plenty of times before. Roscoe had left the Honeycomb and come all this way through the snow two days before Christmas. This wasn't just about the money. He wanted to have some fun.

Roman raised his left hand, palm up, as if he were holding an invisible apple. Dark tendrils of power sank through his feet, seeking and finding knots of ancient magic buried below.

The skinny Honeycomber took another step.

Roman clasped his hand into a fist.

A huge bone hand with wicked curved talons burst from the ground under Roscoe and clamped him in its skeletal fingers, jerking him off the ground. His feet dangled. His mouth gaped in a terrified O .

Roman squeezed.

Bones crunched with a crack. Roscoe's eyes rolled up, his head lolled, and he went limp.

Roman made a tossing motion.

The hand hurled the broken man off the property and toward the men on the road. They scattered, and he landed in the snow. The hand sank back into the ground.

The shorter Honeycomber dropped to his knees next to Roscoe and put his ear on the man's chest.

"Not dead," Roman said. "Just broken."

The shorter Honeycomber whistled a shrill note. The two iron hounds charged back to him. He heaved Roscoe onto King's back, reached into his shirt, pulled a bag out and dropped it in the snow.

"We had a deal," the leader said.

"This weren't no part of that deal. You wanted to find the kid. We found him. We're going home, Wayne."

"Suit yourself."

The Honeycomber turned.

"He's going to kill you," Roman said.

The Honeycomber whipped around.

Wayne nodded.

Six crossbows twanged in unison. One bolt took the Honeycomber in the throat, three more sprouted from Roscoe and King. The iron hound went down with a metallic clang like someone had dropped a bag of nickels. Two more bolts sank into Trigger, one into his back and another into his side. The big dog spun, looking for an exit, pinned between the fire team and the house.

The crossbowmen reloaded with ridiculous speed.

Trigger turned his head, his eyes desperate, looking at Roman. Their stares met.

Fine, what's one more? Roman nodded.

Trigger charged toward the house.

The two crossbowmen hiding on the flanks fired.

Two skeletal hands burst from the ground, lacing their fingers together in a protective cage around the porch. The bolts bounced off and fell to the snow. Trigger climbed the porch steps. Blood drenched his iron hide. Roman held the door open, and the dog sprinted into the house.

"It's like that then?" Wayne asked.

"It always was." Roman finished the last of his coffee. "You had your chance. Now none of you will leave here alive."

Wayne grinned. "And here I thought this would be a boring job. Sit tight. Don't go anywhere."

The team backed away from the property line and fanned out, melting into the woods.

* * *

The dog had collapsed in the living room, right on the edge of the rug. The nechist pondered him, unsure. As Roman strode into the room, the melalo waddled over to the iron hound and slapped Trigger's nose with his wings.

"No hazing!" Roman snapped.

The melalo darted behind the couch.

"If he does that again, bite him."

The dog whined softly. Blood dripped from the two bolts embedded in his hide.

Roman knelt by him.

On the blankets, the kid lay unmoving. The German Shepherd had woken up and was watching Trigger. Didn't get up to get a sniff though. Interesting.

"We're going to do this quick."

Roman grasped the shaft of the bolt sticking out of the dog's back and jerked it free. The dog snarled.

"Hey, you came to me, remember? You ran into the house. Just one more."

Roman grabbed the other bolt and yanked it out. The dog jerked and whined but didn't snap.

Outside, twilight had fallen, and the fireplace didn't illuminate much, but he served the god of darkness. His night vision was better than a cat's. Darkness was home, shelter, and friend, and if he needed light, he could always make his own.

Roman turned the bolt over in his hand, examining the arrowhead. A black Annihilator broadhead, steel, shaped like a triangle cut out of a circle with convex curves. Reusable, durable, could be resharpened in the field. Most bolt heads cut slits into the target. This one punched holes.

He turned the shaft. A spidery script wrapped around the bolt, written in silver permanent marker. This was a military incantation, designed to activate once the bolt launched from the crossbow. He'd wondered why it cut through the dog's iron fur like it was butter.

None of the jokers that had come up to the house looked like active Military Supernatural Defense Unit personnel, and even if they had been at one time, using military incantations on civilian bolts was against the law. Most likely one of the local MSDU mages was moonlighting, selling enchanted bolts to the highest bidder. Or maybe they had a veteran who'd retired.

Roman clicked his tongue. This was a good deed that begged to be punished.

But the dog required attention first.

"Let's see if you qualify for the Black Volhv special." Roman set the bolt aside, rubbed his hands together, and cracked his fingers.

Magic swirled around his fingers, clinging to them like dense smoke. His mouth shaped the Russian words, suffusing them with power.

"Oh, Chernobog, God of Bone,

In the name of Darkness, in the name of the Final End,

Grant your creature your strength,

Heal the wounds and make it whole."

The darkness slipped from his fingers, clutched the dog, and seeped into the open wounds. The flesh knitted itself closed.

Roman petted the dog's head. "Congratulations. You're evil enough."

The dog stared at him, puzzled.

Evil in the pagan world was a relative term. Evil in the human world was not.

The window in the kitchen creaked, and a tiny bird flew into the room and perched on the table. Kor flicked his ears. Roman looked at him. The korgorusha closed his eyes into mere slits.

The bird shifted from foot to foot. It was barely five inches long, with gray on its back, a white throat and belly, and a cap of light, reddish brown.

"Dobry wieczór," Roman said.

The brown-headed nuthatch opened his beak and Dabrowski's voice came out. "Good evening to you, too. Look at you, a full menagerie."

Yeah, he was one to talk. "Is that a new bird?"

"He's Popper's son, from last year's clutch." The druid's voice vibrated with pride.

"Very handsome."

"He is. And such a good boy."

"What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"Some heavily-armed dickheads showed up at my place asking about you."

Well, at least someone on that crew had some brains. A smart soldier did his recon. "What did you tell them?"

"I mostly talked about how I love my trees while braiding my vines into fancy shapes around them. Trees need good fertilizer, you see. And human bodies make really good fertilizer. Very nutritious when properly processed. I also mentioned that I personally don't bother you unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Thanks," Roman said.

"Do you need help?"

"Nah. I've got this."

The kid's eyelashes trembled slightly.

"Let me know if you change your mind. Last I saw, they were going up the road to see Schatten next."

"Really? Why would they do that?"

The little bird laughed. "I may have sent them that way."

Yes, and Ludwig would love that. "You know how he enjoys visitors."

"Oh yes, he's a regular Martha Stewart, that one. The soul of hospitality."

A distant blast thundered.

"They found Schatten!" The druid cackled.

"Damn it." Roman frowned.

"What?"

"I owe him twenty bucks. I told him that magically rigging those IEDs would never work."

"That was a sucker's bet. Well, I'm off. Whistle if you need something."

The bird hopped up and flew back to the kitchen and out the window.

"It's hard to lie there without moving," Roman said. "I know you're awake. You might as well throw in the towel."

The boy sat up. The shepherd sat in front of him, putting herself between the boy and Roman.

Trigger turned to look at the kid, his iron fur ringing with a metallic jangle, and the little puppy bared her teeth.

"Let's start with who you are and why people are chasing you?"

The boy didn't answer. His mouth was a hard, flat line across his face.

"Don't feel like talking?"

No answer.

Roman sighed. Story of his life. "Well, it is what it is. The die is cast. For whatever reason, I decided not to let them have you, so you are stuck here with me. Unless you want to make my life easier and walk out to the welcoming committee outside?"

The boy shook his head.

"Do you have a name, or is that a secret?"

"Finn."

"And lo, he opens his mouth and sounds come forth." Roman shook his head. "Do I need to let someone know where you are? Is anybody worried about you? Did you run away from home?"

"No."

"Is that no to a particular question or to all three?"

"No to all three. My sister will find me. She will come for me."

"Oh, good. Then we'll just have to wait for your sister. But you must understand one thing. Some of the people tracking you can't track anyone anymore. That's a heavy burden. If I have to start taking lives, we'll revisit this conversation. Killing cannot be done lightly, and I'll need to know why I'm doing it."

No response.

"Are you hungry?" Roman asked.

Finn nodded.

"Well, let's get you and your hound fed."