Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

B ryn ran all the way back to town. He was faster as a cat, but it still took a few hours to traverse the distance the gaudy truck had crossed in fifteen minutes. He didn't reach the waterfront until late afternoon, and he spent the next hour walking up and down, examining the boats and looking for whatever goons Grady had called to report to the Russians. Then he climbed atop the roof of the little shed across the street from the Drunken Scallop, where he had a view of the wharf, the harbor, and the main road through town. No way did he intend to let whatever little fuds Grady knew reach the Russians before he did.

He saw them coming from a mile away—two youths of probably fifteen or sixteen, one tall and gangly with greasy hair, a camouflage hoodie, and acne scars on his cheek, the other short and plump with baggy jeans and a red trucker cap. They milled about for hours, smoking a vape pen and looking at their phones to pass the time. Bryn leapt from roof to roof until he perched directly above them and clearly heard them discussing the hundred bucks Grady had offered them to deliver his message. They planned to spend it on a case of beer, fried chicken, and a game about auto theft.

Then, as soon as it got dark, Bryn leapt down and concealed himself in the shadows between two of the fishing huts. He knew exactly how to make sure these boys never delivered their message, and it would be simple enough to push the bodies into the harbor afterward. Nobody would find them until morning at the earliest. It was bitter cold tonight, and no one was around.

He stepped out of his hiding place to make his move, but something intercepted him.

Or someone. It was Brother Wilfred.

"No. I won't let ye."

Bryn cursed violently in Old Gaelic. He needed to get back to Gil! "Get out of my way or I'll go through ye."

"I'd like to see ye try." The old monk crossed his arms over his chest. "I am, as ye ken see, fairly insubstantial."

"And I'm an expert at snaring spirits." Bryn extended his claws and swiped at the monk's black robes… leaving a quartet of ragged tears in the coarse fabric. "Now…. Fuck. Off."

"Wait, please." Brother Wilfred held up his hands. "They are just lads. They're not evil, only fools. They dinnae deserve death."

"They're in my way."

"I'll run them off," the monk said.

"You? How? Going to convince them to go to church?"

"Maybe I will," Brother Wilfred said. "If I ken run them off, will ye let them be?"

It would be two less souls for the tithe, but Bryn was short on time. Besides, this he had to see. "Go on."

Bryn crept to the corner of the building just in time to see Brother Wilfred flicker into existence in front of the boys. Infernal blue light edged his dark robes and pointed hood, and his gaunt face looked even more skeletal than usual with cerulean flames dancing in his empty eye sockets. He floated a few feet above the ground and released a wail that would've made a bean sidhe proud. The boys scrambled to their feet and hugged each other. It was like something out of a cartoon. Bryn wouldn't have been surprised to see a flower-painted van and a stoned Great Dane.

Brother Wilfred's voice echoed and rasped. "Ye've nearly lost yer souls tonight. Ye have no idea how close ye've come to Hell. Repent yer wicked ways and never come here again."

Nodding, sobbing, and likely as not soaked with piss, the boys ran right past Bryn without noticing him. When they reached the road, Brother Wilfred materialized in front of them again, cutting them off and howling, "Turn ta the lord before it's too late!"

They both screamed, tripped over their feet in their haste to escape, and ran in the opposite direction, and he chased them for a block of so, wailing the entire time. Then he appeared in front of Bryn again.

"I daresay they won't be back tonight," the monk said.

"Don't get in my way again," Bryn warned.

"I suppose there's no convincing ye to abandon this path."

"I can't," Bryn said. "For what it's worth, I am no doing this to entertain myself. It's something I have ta do."

"Very well. We must each accept grace or turn or backs on it without coercion." A wind blew in off the sea and carried away the dark wisps of the monk's robes.

About an hour later, an expensive SUV stopped on the road across from the Scallop. It made sense; there weren't many other landmarks in Cutler that an outsider would recognize. A man in a dark suit with thinning hair got out of the passenger side and looked up and down the deserted street.

Bryn quickly changed his shape and jogged out from behind the fishing hut, waving his arms.

"Who the hell are you?" the man asked, his hand going to a pistol at his hip.

"I'm a friend of your cousin… of Ivan," Bryn said.

The man narrowed his eyes, looking Bryn up and down. "Ivan sent you?"

"I'm afraid not," Bryn said. "He's dead."

So quickly it impressed even Bryn, the Russian grabbed him by the throat, slammed his back against the side of the SUV, and pressed the nose of the gun under his chin. "You killed Ivan?"

"No," Bryn croaked, pretending to be much more hurt and afraid than he was. "Not me… his partner. Grady Leblanc. Grady and Fedor. They hacked him to pieces in the woods behind Grady's farm."

By now another man had gotten out of the driver's side. He was short and stout with thick gray hair and jowls like a bulldog. "You keep talking."

"They stole the latest shipment," Bryn said. "And they killed Ivan when he said he was going ta tell ye the truth. They're trying ta blame some poor fisherman for losing the goods and what's more, they've laid a trap for ye at Grady's farm. They want ta take over yer business, and they said yer stupid enough ta walk right into it."

The man who held Bryn's throat snarled. "Fedor would not dare. You are lying."

"For what?" Bryn protested, forgetting to act scared for a second. "Ye think I'm daft? What do I stand ta gain?"

"Why say anything at all?" the man with the silver hair asked. "What do you care if we walk into this trap?"

"The fisherman is a friend of mine," Bryn said. "Known each other for years. Ivan was a good lad too. Didn't deserve to get torn to bits like that. After Grady and Fedor kill you, they'll kill my friend. I don't think they should get away with it."

"Where is this farm?" asked the man with the silver hair.

Inwardly, Bryn breathed a sigh of relief. They'd fallen for it. "I can show ye, but ye have to go in shooting. They plan ta kill ye on sight."

"Won't be a problem." The silver-haired man opened the car door to reveal a back seat covered in guns: assault rifles, shotguns, handguns, and even a grenade launcher on the floor. In the third seat, two more men looked at Bryn with cold, glittering eyes. "Get in."

"Ye have ta promise not ta hurt my friend," Bryn insisted.

"We have to do jack shit," said the man who still held Bryn's collar. "We can kill you right here."

Bryn shrugged. "If ye do, ye won't know where they've laid all their traps. Ye'll walk right into them. They've been bragging they'll make ye look like fools, and without me, they'll be right."

The silver-haired man laughed. "The balls on this one, nyet ? We will… try to spare your friend."

"He's a big giant of a lad with a bright red beard."

"Fine. Get in car." The silver-haired man pointed, and Bryn got into the passenger seat. "If you lie to us, you will be very sorry."