Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

B ryn wasn't surprised to see Brother Wilfred hovering like an old garbage bag when he emerged from the woods behind the church.

"If you do this, you condemn yourself to many more years of the curse," the old monk said in the tone of a parent telling a toddler that if he eats all that candy, he's probably going to be sick.

Bryn responded as any toddler would. "Worth it."

"Is it? Ye've waited so long to regain the full use of yer powers. Ye've spoken of little else. Take a moment to rein in your temper and consider yer actions."

Ever since Bryn had met Gil, he'd burned with the desire to find the person who taught Gil to make himself small, to make himself quiet, to curl his big shoulders and hang his head. In another age, Gil would have been a warrior, led a clan…. Bryn had wanted to find the person who'd told Gil he wasn't worth fighting for, that other people always mattered more. Well, he'd found at least one of them… and he has every intention of making Grady Leblanc bleed.

He hopped atop an old tombstone, sat on his haunches, licked his paw, and used it to smooth his glorious mane of smoke-colored fur. He took his time grooming, making sure to clean thoroughly between his toes, before he looked up at the old monk. "This… isn't about me. It's about giving a good man a chance at a life."

"Ye'll pay the price," Brother Wilfred said.

"Then I'll pay. Now do me a favor and fuck off." Bryn leapt down into the high grass and picked his way to the sidewalk. It wasn't hard to track Grady's rancid stench, and Bryn stayed underneath cars and behind bushes until he saw his obnoxious red truck. The tailgate was down, and Grady sat with one of the men who'd rammed their boat into Gil's little trawler. His partner came out of a store holding a brown paper bag, and Bryn crept through a boxwood hedge to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"My cousins will not believe this nonsense about the bad storm," one of the men said in a heavy Russian accent. "They're going to be angry about so much money lost."

Grady shrugged. "I plan to tell them the dumbass stole the goods. Betrayed all of us. I figure it looks better to say Gil turned on us than that we were so stupid we entrusted the product to a moron who couldn't make a simple delivery."

The Russian nodded and scratched his bearded chin. "This is good thinking. The storm story sounds silly, but a thief…. This my cousins will believe."

"This they know how to handle," said the other man. "Of course, you might have to prove your loyalty by taking care of this thief yourself."

"I'm prepared for that," Grady said. "This asshole knows more than he should… stuff about me. It'll be better for everybody when he's gone."

"This thing will not be pretty," said the first man.

"It is what it is," Grady said. "Now, your family's driving up here, right?"

"Up from Long Island," the second Russian said. "They should be here sometime late tonight."

Fuck , Bryn thought. If they arrived after midnight, he'd be unable to change. He still had access to some of his magic, but the curse would make things much, much harder. Bugger that monk! Bryn wished he could drag that roaster off to hell for the tithe.

Now, though, he was on a hunt—his favorite thing on the green earth and the one he did best. If he focused on that, he wouldn't be plagued with doubts or nasty thoughts about opportunities lost. He'd conclude this affair well before dark… but not too quickly. No, he intended to play with them.

"Let's head up to my farm," Grady said. "We'll make sure to have a nice welcome ready for your cousins."

The three men got into the truck's cab, and as it started to pull away from the curb, Bryn shot from the bushes and launched himself into the bed. As he wriggled under a wet, smelly tarp, he hoped Gil had done as he'd asked and gone somewhere public. Bryn hadn't known when he'd suggested it, but doing so would also keep him safe. Even Russian thugs were not likely to attack him in a diner or a movie theater.

Bryn hoped that for once, Gil's hatred of causing any conflict would protect him.

The trip from town took about fifteen minutes. Grady lived farther up the coast in a cedar-shingled saltbox perched on a cliff overlooking the water. A red barn stood a couple hundred yards down the dirt path from the house, and a few acres of thick woods separated the property from the road. As they bumped along the narrow, rocky track through the pines and birches, Bryn's heart soared. Nobody would hear the screams as he disemboweled these cretins and left them crawling through the dirt with their guts dragging behind them.

Beside, a handful of souls would get at least one nuisance off his back.

Bryn waited under the tarp until he no longer heard the men's voices, and then he slinked out and dropped to the dirt track. Following the scent, he found his quarry around the side of the house, stacking logs into a firepit and pulling Adirondack chairs around it. He wound his way into a tangle of blackberry and wild rose bushes and watched as they brought out a cooler of beers even though it was not yet noon. He listened to them talk and learned that the Russians were called Ivan and Fedor.

"I take leak," Ivan finally announced, clapping Grady on the shoulder as he stood unsteadily and staggered past Bryn's hideout.

On silent feet, Bryn followed the man past the barn and down into the woods, thinking he must be quite shy to have to walk so far just to have a piss. Bryn waited as the man unzipped and with a groan of relief, leaned a shoulder against a tree to do his business.

As Bryn approached, his foot snapped a twig, and Ivan gasped. "Who is there?"

Bryn wiggled his backside and leapt, sinking his claws deep into the muscles of the man's calves and letting them drag toward his ankles, blood soaking his jeans. He screamed as he went down face-first on the rocky ground, but it didn't matter. By the time Grady and Fedor came to investigate, Bryn would be well hidden in the forest, and they'd have no idea what had happened. They'd be scared, jumping at shadows, and that would make it even more fun to taunt them until he finally killed them.

Ivan tried to drag himself away as blood poured from his broken nose. Bryn surged forward and curved his claws into his back. He sunk his teeth into the back of the man's neck and tore away a chunk of flesh. Hot blood flooded his mouth as Ivan shrieked again. Bryn knew he should finish this, but he couldn't resist letting this bawbag suffer a little longer. So, he let go, let the man stagger to his feet and stumble back toward the house. Ivan looked around wildly, his hand pressed to the back of his neck in a vain effort to staunch the flow of blood, but Bryn had already hidden himself in the bracken.

He let Ivan make it a dozen feet or so, just enough to think maybe he'd survive, before Bryn shimmied up a tree and pushed off with his back legs, colliding with Ivan's chest and knocking him onto his back. Bryn bit into his lower lip and tore away the skin and muscle of his chin, exposing a row of teeth and the bone below. Frantic, reeking of fear, the man swatted uselessly at Bryn's sides, but Bryn had his long claws sunk deep into Ivan's shoulders. He heard footsteps coming down the dirt road and as much as it pained him, as much as he'd like to take this fud apart piece by piece until the pain and fear drove him out of his head, Bryn knew he had to finish the job.

With his back claws, Bryn ripped through Ivan's shirt and his stomach underneath, tearing through muscle and organs. At the same time, he closed his jaws around the man's windpipe and tore it out, leaving him to spasm and gasp. The soul bubbled from Ivan's forehead, glowing and iridescent, and Bryn snatched it in his claw and wrestled it into the leather pouch.

The body finally went still just as leaves crunched under a pair of boots running through the woods. Bryn, sticky and matted with blood, turned expecting to see Grady before he darted into the underbrush.

Instead, he saw Gil.

White as a sail, Gil mouthed something unintelligible before he doubled over and lost his guts on the ground. Bryn hadn't meant for him to see this, and he didn't know if it would help his case to transform and try to explain himself.

He never got the chance to decide, because as soon as Gil stood, Grady pressed the barrel of a pistol to the back of his head. He looked from Gil to the mutilated body to Bryn. "Wh-what the fuck? What the fuck! What is that thing?"

The other Russian, Fedor, skidded to a stop in the leaf litter, swearing robustly in his language and pulling his own pistol. He aimed for Bryn, but Gil shouted and grabbed his arm. The bullet struck a branch, and red maple leaves rained down. Grady punched Gil in the ribs, and Fedor wrenched his arm free to take another shot at Bryn.

But Bryn was already gone, seething from the bracken as Grady delivered a few more blows to Gil. "I don't know what that goddamn monster is, but if I even think I see it again, I'll blow your goddamn head off."

Grady turned to his companion. "Go down to the wharf to meet your cousins."

Fedor squinted into the trees. "I say we should stick together. It is out there. I can feel it."

Grady shuddered. "They're gonna be pissed. They'll think we're avoiding them, and after they learn about this—" He gestured toward the corpse.

"He is to blame!" Fedor pointed at Gil. "He is volshebnik ! My family will make him pay. Keep your gun on him and if his demon comes back, kill him. Kill them both."

With a last look at the body, Grady muttered, "Let's get back to the house and lock ourselves in. I have some friends I can call in town. We have to get a message to your cousins before they think we're behind this whole mess."

Bryn watched as they marched Gil back to the house. Why had Gil chosen this moment to be a hero? If he'd waited just another hour, all three of these roasters would be on their way to Hell. No matter. Now, he had to save Gil, even if Gil could never forgive him for the mess he'd made of that Russian. Bryn had an idea, but he'd have to time it just right.