Thinning the Herd (10 page)

15

SO MUCH FOR THE SECURITY DEPOSIT

Lawrence unlocked the apartment door and ushered Hal inside. The dark apartment smelled of sandalwood and spiced apples. Relocking the door behind him, the Wiccan switched on the lights.

“Please,” Lawrence said, “make yourself comfortable. Tea?”

“No, thanks. Whole milk, if you have it.”

“Sorry, no. Soy?”

Hal shook his head. “Nope. But thanks.” He leaned his catch pole beside the sofa.

“Tea for one, then,” Lawrence said with a quick smile.

Hal walked around the small living room as Lawrence went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. The furniture was simple and natural. Matted and framed pictures of trees—sunlight etching green leaves and rough trunks—adorned the walls; on the coffee table, books—
To Be One with the Earth: The Wiccan Handbook
;
The Witches
' Spellbook
;
They Walk the Forests Still: A Study of Ancient Gods
—incense and burner, and, strewn throughout the room, candles of every color and shape.

No sign of Louis, until Hal peeked in the bathroom and saw the clutter on the counter—black lipstick, black nail polish, earrings and other body jewelry, a jar of Manic Panic, Blue Moon in particular.

“Louis lives with Dezzie,” Lawrence said.

Hal turned to meet the Wiccan's gaze.

“Most of the time, anyway,” Lawrence said. “I hope he'll move in with me one of these days.” Light faded from his face as a stark possibility darkened his gray eyes.

“We'll get him back,” Hal promised. “We'll get all of them back.” He returned to the living room. “So . . . what's first on the agenda?”

“It's not that simple, Hal,” Lawrence said. He smoothed his long honey-colored hair back and looped an elastic band around it. With his hair tied back, Hal realized the sides were buzz-cut—a faux 'hawk.

“Why
isn't
it that simple?” Hal asked.

“Because we're dealing with gods.”

Hal wasn't sure he heard right. Gods? Fragments of a dream returned to him, uneasing him.
Monstrous creatures, neither human nor animal, stalk from within thick autumn-leafed forests and, howling beneath the forever eclipse, hunt human beings
and
shifters, tearing them apart and tossing them aside.

“Even gods need their asses kicked now and then,” Hal said, voice low. “So line 'em up, wise man, and let's get to it. We've got people waiting on us.”

Lawrence looked at him for a long moment and then he smiled. Shook his head. “The Fool by any other—”

Someone rapped knuckles against the front door. Hard knuckles.

Lawrence's head jerked around, startled.

Hal grabbed his catch pole, locked his fingers around it. The hair on his arms lifted. Sound tunneled down to just the beat of his heart, slow and steady.

Lawrence walked to the front door. As he leaned in to peer through the peephole, the door burst open. Splinters of wood and metal exploded into the room. Ripped from its hinges, the shattered door fell on Lawrence.

A snarling, hell-eyed beast stomped into the apartment. This one wasn't a wolf-man, no. This was an
elk-man
with a rack of antlers two yards wide. It snorted. And stomped in on two hoofed legs, antlers gouging chunks out of the wood-and-plaster doorframe. It stank of wet fur, sour milk, and fly-blown decay.

The elk-man's gaze locked on Hal. Its eyes glowed red. Sparked flame.

“Yeah, punk, it's me you want. Name's Rupert. Hal Rupert.” Hal jumped onto the sofa. “And I've got your ass-kicking warmed up and ready.” He twirled the catch pole in his hands. “Let's do this.”

The beast charged. Hal somersaulted off the sofa, skimming over the jagged antlers, and smacking the catch pole between the elk-man's beady red eyes. It roared. Hal landed on his shoulder and rolled up onto his feet. Wheeled around. Ducked low.

Someone in the next apartment pounded on the wall. Pissed-off.

The elk-man charged again, blowing stinky snot out of its nostrils. Hal stepped to the side—out of stinky-snot range—just as the beast reached him and thumped it with each end of the catch pole as it passed.
Thwack-thwack!

More elk-man trumpeting. More wall-pounding.
Lots
of wall-pounding.

As Hal swung his catch pole around again, something furred arrowed in through the doorway and hit the creature in the ribs. Bounced away, growling. Bared fangs.

A shifter . . . but from where . . . ? Who . . . ?

Something hard and reeking of dying flesh cracked Hal across the face. Antler, he realized as he flew across the room, hitting the sofa with enough force to topple it. He hit the floor hard.

More trumpeting. More snarling. A helluva lot of wall-pounding.

Hal scrabbled to his feet. He'd allowed the lycan's unexpected arrival to distract him. Tasting blood, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Scarlet streaked his skin. He grinned.
Now
it was a fight.

The wolf danced around the beast, darting in to bite its calves, tearing out chunks. Leapt for the belly. The elk-man bellowed in pain. Trumpeted. Flung the lycan away with a sweep of its jagged antlers. The wolf hit the wall and slid limply to the floor.

More wall pounding. A muffled: “GONNA CALL THE COPS, ASSHOLES!”

Hal dropped his catch pole, pulled the broken pole halves from his belt, then ran straight at the flaming-eyed creature. His heartbeat drummed through his consciousness, a metronome for perfect action. Time slowed, stretched thin like a rubber band, and Hal vaulted up. He slashed the ends of the pole halves in an X across the elongated elk face. Spun past and down, then swiveled. Time snapped forward and bull's-eyed the beast right in the ass. The elk-man bellowed.

“THAT'S IT!” from the other side of the wall. No pounding this time. Ominous.

Hal whirled around the elk-man, hitting it with the pole halves across the ribs, the gut. Having regained its feet, the wolf darted in, dancing and nipping, tearing hunks of flesh from hoofed legs, from furred belly.

The elk-man trumpeted, its eerie cry rising like a banshee wail.

A voice, low and silver-toned, a chiming bell, said, “Hold.”

Everything stopped. Time didn't just slow down, it froze.

Hal, heart pounding, glanced at the shattered doorway. Hunter Lawrence stood there, blood trickling from his scalp and along his face, dripping onto the floor. A halo of silver encircled each of his upraised hands. Light starred out from the crescent moon pendant hanging at his throat.

The hair on the back of Hal's neck lifted and electricity tingled down his spine. Mojo. Big-time mojo. The wolf turned its head . . . so slowly . . . and looked at Lawrence.

Lawrence spoke softly in a language Hal didn't recognize, his graceful hands gesturing as he spoke. The silver circle spiked, brightened, and filled the room with cool light.

A figure appeared in the doorway, a scowling guy in a striped Rastafarian-dreads-filled hat, his mouth open, but whatever scathing retort or dire threat he was about to make died in his throat as his gaze skipped around the room, bouncing off Hal, the wolf, the elk-man, Lawrence. His mouth remained open. His eyes squeezed shut. Opened. His gaze skipped around the room again, counting one-two-three-four. The guy nodded. Snapped his mouth shut.

Hal shook his head. “Now's not a good time.”

“Go,” Hunter Lawrence said.

The Rasta dude said, “I'll . . . um . . . come back when you're . . . uh . . . not so busy . . .”

“Go. While you still can.”

The guy vanished.

The elk-man bellowed. Strained to move, muscles bulging, knotting. The wet-fur stink intensified. Lawrence resumed murmuring, eyes shining, face tight. His hands twisted, fingers flashing. “Now, Brianna,” he said.

The wolf leapt, lips wrinkled back on its muzzle, fangs gleaming in the dim light as it slashed open the beast's throat. Dark blood spurted across the room, splashed the lycan's face.

The elk-man gurgled and stomped its hoofed feet in a frenzied death dance. Collapsed to its knees, elongated and clawed fingers clutching its wounded throat, trying to stop death by hand.

It emitted one last liquid bellow, then toppled to the floor, causing it to shake. Blood pooled around the antlered head. The hellfire light in the elk-man's eyes ebbed, then winked out.

Hal crouched beside it, poked it with a pole half. The huge body shuddered once. The smell of fresh shit joined the stink roster. Hal glanced up at Lawrence. “Wicca, huh?”

Lawrence nodded. Touched fingertips to the pendant hanging from around his throat. The silver light faded. He staggered, catching himself with a hand to the doorframe. The blood-soaked wolf padded over to him and licked his hand. A smile flickered across Lawrence's lips. “I'm fine,” he whispered. “A little tired, that's all.”

Hal slipped the pole halves through his belt. Bent and picked up his catch pole. He glanced at the lycan. “Thanks,” he said. “Appreciate the assist.”

“Where are my manners?” Lawrence said. “Hal Rupert, meet Brianna Lawrence. My sister.”

The wolf looked at Hal and snort/sneezed. Her eyes—one blue and one brown—intrigued him. She lifted a paw and he shook it. “A pleasure, Brianna.”

It wasn't unusual for a shifter to be born into a one-shape family. Perhaps it was a recessive gene, a distant lycan in the family tree. No one really knew. Hal imagined it was the same with
y
ō
kai
litters, most were ordinary animals, but a few carried the same recessive shifter genes—like Galahad and Nick.

What
was
unusual was the simple acceptance Lawrence displayed toward his sister. Most families went into denial or fell apart if a lycan revealed their true nature to their loved ones. A few parents might claim their lycan child was possessed and summon an exorcist, but at least no one was put down with a silver bullet or burned at the stake like in the bad old days.

Well, mostly, anyway.

Lawrence pushed himself away from the damaged doorway and sank to the floor. He sat cross-legged, his lycan sister beside him. His fingers brushed against her fur. He nodded at the elk-man's body. “What the hell
was
that?”

“Not sure, but I'd call it an elk-man,” Hal said. “Or maybe an
ex
–elk-man.”

“Someone wants you dead.”

“Nothing new there,” Hal said. “Comes with the territory.”

“As . . . dogcatcher? Really?”

“Most people don't know the half of it. Deadly profession.”

Lawrence opened his mouth, thought a moment, then closed it. Studied Hal.

It's dawned on him. Bad-ass Rupert is in the house.
“You're bleeding,” Hal said.

“Am I?”

Hal walked to the bathroom and wet down a washcloth. His gaze skipped over the articles of Goth grooming scattered on the counter and felt a sharp pang. Louis. And Desdemona? Would he spill her out of a monster's belly? Kiss her alive like in
The Matrix
? Awaken her stilled heart with his love?

Yes. Without a doubt. And to a romantic-heroic score penned by Hans Zimmer.

He hoped Lawrence felt the same way about Bad-Luck Louis.

Switching off the bathroom light, Hal walked back to the living room, and handed the warm washcloth to Lawrence.

“Thanks,” the Wiccan murmured, pressing the wet cloth against his bleeding scalp. He winced. “We need to get moving before something or someone else tries to kill you. You're being
hunted
.”

“Hunted?” Hal sat down in front of Lawrence and studied the Wiccan's face. “So you're saying that this wasn't just a normal half-assed attempt on my life but something more deliberate—am I reading you right?”

“You are.”

Hal considered that. “Okay. Why am I being hunted?”

“Because you're the hero. That's why Della sent you. As long as you breathe, you can win the day. But if you're dead, they win—and no one else can stop what will happen.”

“Who are
they
and what will happen?”

A rueful smile tugged up one corner of Lawrence's mouth. “They are the bad guys—and no, I don't know who they are. And as for what will happen”—his smile vanished—“a god will awaken. A hungry god. According to Louis's reading.”

A god
. Hal drew in a deep breath of fetid dead elk-man air. Wished he hadn't. “What did Louis say, exactly?”

“That the world falls apart,” Lawrence said, his gaze inward. “Moon and sun battle for the sky and a permanent twilight shadows the land.”

The words tingled like electricity along Hal's spine, goosebumping his arms.
His dream.
Memory flared, incandescent, white with heat, and he heard himself saying, “The world falls apart. Oceans rise and continents sink. Shifters hide from humans and humans slay shifters. Gods walk the forests. Hungry gods. Heartless gods.”

Dizziness whirled through Hal. He felt a warm hand on his forearm. “The world falls apart,” he whispered. “Again and again and again. In fire. With blood. Sacrifice and betrayal. Over and over and over again. The world falls apart.”

Hal blinked. What had he been saying?

“Cernunnos guide us,” Lawrence breathed. He released his tight grip on Hal's arm. “You've seen it too. The world ending.”

“Ain't happening. Not on my watch,” Hal said, rising to his feet. “Louis's gotta be wrong at least once. And I'm telling you that once is now.” He offered his hand to Lawrence. “Let's kick some Ancient ass.”

“What?”

“Kick ass. Take names. Rescue our sweeties.”

“Do you even know where to look?”

“No,” Hal admitted. “But I'll start where I lost them. Underground.”