Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

" S top here," Bryn said when the SUV reached the halfway point through the woods leading to Grady's house. "We should go the rest of the way on foot and surprise them."

The silver-haired man, clearly in charge of this operation, pulled the car to the side of the dirt track and barked out a few words in Russian. The other three men quickly selected their weapons and stood awaiting orders. It was pitch dark, the moon barely a sliver.

"Lead way," the silver-haired man said to Bryn.

Bryn dipped his head in acquiescence, but as soon as he stepped into an especially dense patch of shadow, he transformed and darted into the woods on silent cat's feet. As he ran, he heard the confused curses from the Russians until their leader told them to just "Stick to road."

Grady and Fedor had the farmhouse locked up tight. From the window, Bryn saw Gil sitting on the floor, leaning against a brick chimney, his hands tied with yellow nylon rope. Fedor sat on the sofa holding a rifle across his lap while Grady paced in circles, his pistol in his hand, stopping every few rounds to push the curtains aside and look out into the night.

Bryn went to the back door and the small porch overlooking the firepit. It was also locked, but he managed to push through a window screen and land in the dark, spacious kitchen. He padded slowly across the beige tiles and looked down the long hallway… directly at Fedor on the sofa. He crept forward until he stood in the last scrap of shadow. Gil sat only six feet away. His lip was scabbed and swollen and one of his eyes was black, but he was alive. Bryn intended to keep it that way… somehow.

Nothing else mattered to him.

The wooden door exploded off its hinges and flew across the room. The Russians opened fire, and brick, plaster, and wood rained down, filling the room with dust, gun smoke, and noise. Bryn transformed midleap and covered Gil's body with his own as Grady and Fedor dove for the cover of the narrow hall. Crouching, Grady aimed and hit the silver-haired Russian in the forehead. He was a good shot; Bryn would give him that. The man dropped, and Grady pressed his back against the wall as the other three all targeted him.

Fedor was shouting something in Russian, but Bryn doubted his cousins heard him. As Grady shoved another clip into his pistol, he yelled at Fedor to "Shoot them for fuck's sake!"

Grady's next shot hit one of the Russians in the thigh. Bryn caught sight of a door on the opposite side of the big brick hearth. He didn't know if it led to a closet or another room, but anything was better than lying here waiting to get shot. With as many bullets as flew around the small room, one or both of them would inevitably be hit.

"Gil," Bryn said into Gil's ear. "I'm going to create a quick distraction, and then I need ye ta follow me as fast as ye can."

Gil nodded, and Bryn conjured an apple-sized ball of fire. He sent it into the corner farthest from them, where it hit the wall with a shower of sparks, drawing everyone's attention.

"Now!" Bryn practically dragged Gil to the door, flung it open, and tossed him inside. It turned out to be a small closet that held a mop, a vacuum cleaner, and a couple bags of ice melt. Bryn pushed his back against the door as the gunfire continued beyond it. He could see in the scant light coming from beneath the door, but Gil clearly couldn't, because he pawed at Bryn, running shaking, bound hands over his face and body.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Gil panted.

"I am not hurt," Bryn said. "I'm fine." Except that acrid smoke had started to roll in under the door, and it was getting hard to breathe. They wouldn't be able to stay here long.

Gil found Bryn's face and held his cheeks in both hands, pressing their foreheads together. "I can't believe you came back here. For me."

"Pssht. I cannae believe you came after me . I told ye not to."

"I had to," Gil said.

Bryn nodded. "So did I. Now, you stay behind me. Before long, someone will figure out where we went. I can conjure fire, defend us. Hold out yer hands."

Bryn used a claw to slice through the nylon ropes. "I need ye ta do as I say this time, Gil. Promise me."

Gil took hold of the wooden mop handle. "Okay."

The door flew open, and Bryn prepared to summon his fireball. He lifted his palm… and turned into a cat.

Fuck! It must have struck midnight!

Through the smoke, he saw Fedor, the entire top of his head gone and blood and brains pouring out of the empty shell as if it were a jack-o-lantern on its side. He didn't see Grady, but three Russians lay dead. Unfortunately, the fourth—the man who'd grabbed Bryn by the throat—stood aiming an assault rifle into the closet. They had nowhere to go.

But Bryn wasn't giving up. He wasn't giving Gil up. He raised his back and bared his teeth, hissing and preparing to pounce.

He never got the chance.

A deafening shot rang out, and blood spread across the Russian's chest. As he crumpled to the side, Bryn snatched his soul and shoved it into his pouch. Through the thickening smoke, he saw Doddie MacNeil holding the shotgun he always kept by the door.

"Gil?" Doddie shouted. "Gil!"

"I'm here!" Gil scooped Bryn into his arms, and the next thing he knew, he was sandwiched between Gil and his uncle as they held each other. Flames from Bryn's distraction had alighted the curtains and the shiplap paneling on the walls, and the fire now crept across the ceiling.

"We need to get out of here," Uncle Doddie said just as a big chunk of the ceiling collapsed and the flames spread to the second floor, blackening the wooden beams.

With a hoarse cry, Grady emerged from the hallway. Blood coated his face, and he'd replaced his pistol with a butcher knife. He raised it over his head and ran toward them.

Uncle Doddie lifted the shotgun. "Don't make me do it, boy."

Gil dropped Bryn and faced Grady, stepping between Grady and his uncle. He caught Grady's wrist in his big hand and snapped it before driving his other fist into Grady's stomach, the force of the blow practically lifting him off his feet. The knife clattered to the floor, and Gil held Grady by his wrist, lifting him until he scrabbled for purchase with his toes, letting him dangle there the way Grady had let Bryn dangle over the frozen ocean.

Grady spit a glob of blood into Gil's face. "You big stupid fuck. I'll tell them it was all you, and they'll believe me. The Russians will believe me and so will the cops. You'll be dead or back in jail, and then…." Grady's eyes moved to Uncle Doddie and Bryn, who stood next to his feet.

And he calls Gil stupid , Bryn thought. The dumb fud could've run away. What the fuck is he trying ta do?

Gil chuckled. He stood tall with his shoulder back and his gray eyes reflecting the firelight "I'm not taking anymore shit from you. No more insults. No more threatening the people I love." He let go of Grady's wrist and before Grady fell, Gil took hold of the sides of his head and twisted, snapping his neck.

The humans couldn't see it, but Bryn bounded over and caught Grady's soul as it sprung from his head. It wriggled like a fish in his claw as he shoved it into his pouch. Never had a soul been more deserving of Hell. Then he jumped into Gil's arms and onto his shoulder, where he perched as they walked out into the sweet, fresh night air.

By the time they reached the powder-blue pickup, flames shot a dozen feet from the roof of the house. It would surely burn to the ground.

As Uncle Doddie stowed his shotgun behind the truck seat, Gil said, "I guess Grady was right. Those cedar shingles really are a fire hazard."

Uncle Doddie took the long way home and during the drive, Gil held Bryn in his lap and told his uncle everything that had happened since he'd taken the rap for the murder Grady committed. Gil finished with "I won't let any of this come back on you."

"None of this is coming back on either of us," Uncle Doddie said. "They'll find the SUV, and they might even find the bodies in whatever's left of the house. But they'll never know we were there. If there's an investigation, they'll figure Grady and the Russians killed each other. Hell, half of Cutler knew what that boy was doing. He was a bully and a twerp. He won't be missed."

Doddie parked the truck in front of the bay window, now covered with a sheet of plywood. Both of them trudged inside with Bryn trotting along at their heels.

"Coffee?" Uncle Doddie asked.

Gil shook his head. "I just need a shower and some sleep."

Bryn hopped up onto the kitchen table, and Uncle Doddie scratched him behind the ears. "This cat really must have nine lives, making it through the storm and now this. He's something special."

"Yeah," Gil said, with the first smile Bryn had seen since they'd left Grand Manan Island. "He is."