Monster Hunter Alpha-ARC

  “Anybody ever tell you that you’re not a very likable person?”

  “Once or twice.” Harbinger relented. “Well, near as I can figure, the Hum isn’t actually the moon itself, but the lunar cycle causes whatever makes it. That’s the Hum that we hear. It’s a low-frequency sound, stronger in some places, though nobody knows why. Even some humans can hear it once in a while, but it doesn’t affect them like it does us. Maybe it’s magnetic fields, and we’re just more sensitive. Maybe it’s something magical. Hell if I know, but whatever it is will trip our internal switch, guaranteed, right along with the full moon. You’ve got three nights a month where you will not be able to control it.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.” She could deal with three lousy nights. Harbinger just scowled and watched the road. “What? There’s a catch. There’s always a catch.”

  “It’s complicated…Three nights you have to change, but you’re going to want to change all the time. Like a dog, when something runs, they want to chase it down. That’s us, only worse. Something pisses you off, you want to kill it. You want something, you just take it. Something turns you on…” He stopped himself, glanced over at her, and began to blush. Heather was surprised, but Harbinger seemed downright old-fashioned. “Sorry.”

  “I’m a cop, Harbinger, not a nun. I started on a big-city department, and the attractive ones always get loaned out to vice on prostitution stings.” Heather had never thought of herself as beautiful, but she knew that she at least qualified as pretty. “You’ve got assets, you work them. Thirty-six D, baby.”

  Harbinger coughed politely. “Gotcha.”

  Mr. Tough-guy-monster-slayer hadn’t struck her as a prude. “I’ve seen things that would blow your mind. Just a word of advice: The hooker with all her teeth? That’s the undercover cop.”

  “Ahem. Well, let’s just say it can get ugly. New moon, with some practice, you can control yourself, even changed if you have to. The closer it is to the full moon, though, the harder it gets, and on the full moon, it’s tough as a human, and changed, not a chance. I’ve had years of practice, and I still lock myself into a vault on those three nights.…Well, I did. I’m still not used to thinking I won’t have to do that anymore.”

  Heather went back to looking out the window. They were covering a lot of ground, but it was all neighborhoods where the scouting parties had already checked. She’d taken a map and a marker and had split Copper Lake’s tiny neighborhoods into sections for the other groups to check. Nobody had questioned her authority when she’d given out the assignments. Apparently, if you acted as if you were in charge, everyone just assumed you were. “Turn left up here.”

  Harbinger complied. “You getting something?” he asked hopefully.

  “Confused. That’s about it.” Heather was feeling pretty good right then. The bouts of rampaging hunger had settled down, as had the out-of-nowhere anger. She didn’t feel too different, though every light on the dash seemed too bright, the engine was too loud, the air flow from the heater was obnoxious against her exposed skin, and she was being assaulted with so many confusing smells that she could taste the air. “Level with me, Harbinger. How hard is this going to be?”

  “That depends entirely on you,” he answered, completely evading her question.

  “Don’t be such a chickenshit. Give it to me straight.”

  Harbinger didn’t respond for a long time. This seemed really difficult for him. She started to say something else, but he cut her off. “You need to know I am, or was, I guess, a rare one. Honestly, there’s only been a handful of us ever to control it. It takes an iron will. It gets easier, but I’ve worked at this for a really long time. Almost everyone turns pure evil. Most that keep it contained, it ain’t because they want to. It’s because they’re afraid of someone like me coming along to take them out, so they keep it low key. I’d say ninety percent are dead within a few months of getting turned, another nine percent make a year, tops…” he trailed off. “That one percent left, though, they’re the dangerous ones. Most of them don’t give up the hunt—they’re just clever enough to hide it.”

  “And then there’s a few like you.”

  “I suppose. We’re an odd breed.”

  Heather wasn’t the quitting type. The trophy case she’d broken back at the school had held a bunch of items with her name etched on them. She’d made the boy’s hockey team out of spite just because somebody had once told her girls couldn’t play. It was similar reasoning that had caused her to become a police officer. Life had beat her down at every opportunity, but she still sucked it up and got along. There had been plenty of opportunities to give up. She’d lost so many people, so quickly. After the personal tragedies of the last few years, nobody would have batted an eye if she’d just given up, but having inherited an Irish temper and Finnish stubbornness, she was just too damned obstinate to let life win. So, if Harbinger could beat this curse, so could she.

  “You said that you’ve been doing this a long time?”

  He chuckled as he glanced over at her. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.…” She didn’t blink. “Hell. All right. I was born in 1900.”

  “And?”

  “Nineteen and nothing. One-nine-zero-zero,” he explained. Heather stared at him blankly. “Nineteen hundred A.D. You know, the one after 1899. I fought in World War One. I’ve got grandkids older than you. You’d like this one great-granddaughter of mine, though. I think you two would probably get along great. She don’t take no crap off nobody, either.”

  Heather closed her eyes. If it wasn’t for the fact that she’d watched a cut on her knuckles heal in four seconds in addition to a bunch of other weird supernatural goings-on, she would just have assumed that Harbinger was stoned, but at this point, anything seemed plausible. “So, werewolves don’t age?”

  “No. We still age. Just really slow. The transformation is a rejuvenating process, like a monthly tune-up. Plus, you heal faster and you don’t get sick. I haven’t had a cold since the Twenties. If it wasn’t for the uncontrollable bloodlust, this curse does have its good side. I’ve smoked about a million cigarettes, but got fresh lungs every full moon. Oh, your fillings will fall out when your teeth change into fangs, but you don’t have to worry about cavities ever again.”

  It was insane. “That’s just so…Wow…Hell. I don’t even know.”

  “Transformations burn calories like running a marathon. So we eat a ton. When we go to buffets, my team always teases that I don’t get full, I just run out of time. I try to fatten up every month. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised after the beating I took earlier if I didn’t lose thirty pounds today alone.”

  “Wait!” Heather came out of the seat so suddenly that Harbinger stepped on the brakes. The truck slid in the snow.

  “What? Do you sense the amulet?” he asked quickly, scanning back and forth for threats.

  “No. Not that. You mean that I can eat whatever I want, all that I want, and I can’t ever get fat?”

  Surprised, Harbinger stammered his response. “Well, of course.”

  It was a remarkably exciting idea. “Doughnuts, cookies, chocolate? Oh my God. Pie?” Heather asked. Harbinger just nodded along through the list. “Seriously…Pie?”

  “Hell, you can do all that and wrap it in bacon if you feel like it.” Harbinger waited for a further outburst, but none came.

  Heather sat back, deep in thought, wearing a giant grin. They got moving. About half a block later, she spoke again. “If I’d known that, I would’ve gotten bit by a werewolf years ago.”

  “Well, there is all the murder,” Harbinger pointed out.

  “I know, but all-you-can-eat pie!” Heather chose to look on the bright side. Besides the temper, she’d also inherited her mother’s sweet tooth. Unfortunately, Mom had gotten fat and developed type 2 diabetes by the time she was forty. Heather loved to eat and hated to work out but exercised religiously because she had vowed not to end up like her mom, fat and with amputated toes. “Pie, Harbinger. That’s
awesome.”

  Harbinger just shrugged. “If I said anything, I’d be a hypocrite. If R.J. Reynolds has a corporate jet, I probably paid for it.”

  They reached her street. It was eerily quiet, cloaked in fluffy white and completely dark. “Pull over up there. The blue one. That’s my house.” Not that the color mattered, since every house was plastered in snow. “I just thought of something.”

  “Snack run?” Harbinger asked, only partially in jest.

  “We live until morning and I’m going to eat an entire birthday cake and wash it down with a Super Big Gulp. No. Something that the prisoner said about my grandpa earlier got me thinking.” The truck stopped, and she hopped out quickly, dragging the Winchester along. Harbinger left the engine running and followed with another one of those old tommy guns of his. She had to shout to be heard over the wind. “Somebody else came by asking about my grandpa, too, looking for a necklace. He said his name was Peterson.”

  That got Harbinger’s attention. “Handsome fella? Little shorter than me?”

  “Yep. He seemed nice at first, but there was something off about him.”

  “That was Nikolai Petrov, Stalin’s favorite werewolf.”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “I’ve almost managed to kill him twice now. I caught his stink on your clothes earlier. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  They started toward the house. Harbinger kept moving his head side to side, always searching. Heather couldn’t explain it, but she knew that there were no werewolves near. They were close, but not close enough to be an immediate problem. The whole weird sense thing was kind of cool. She heard the other engine long before she saw the lights. “There’s somebody coming.” Heather pointed down the road.

  Harbinger had to squint for a long time to even see it. He swore. “I feel like I’m blind.”

  It was an SUV, a Cadillac with all the extra chrome, spinning rims, and obnoxious bling. Heather immediately noted the Illinois plates. More tourists. Which meant that she needed to warn them. She started waving.

  * * *

  The roads were barely passable. Visibility was awful. Loco was driving. Lins was in the passenger seat with the window rolled down, more worried about catching whatever Jo Ann had than frostbite. Horst had the middle row to himself, trying to figure out how he could salvage what was left of his company, and Jo Ann was in the back, making strange wheezing noises. Risking one glance, Horst winced when he saw that she was faring even worse, her face a mottled purple and gray, like one big spreading bruise, and her sweat had taken on a thick, mucuslike sheen. Little bubbles formed on her nostrils and popped every time she exhaled.

  After that, he kept a scarf over his nose and mouth, and his eyes forward.

  Most people would think it strange that he felt not even the slightest bit of concern for Jo Ann’s wellbeing. Sure, he liked her okay. She was easy on the eyes and helpful to have around, but Ryan Horst didn’t really like anyone. People were just kind of there. Some benefited him, others didn’t. If she died, it would be really inconvenient, but that was about it.

  The thing that was really bugging him was that this job was a total failure. His company, and by extension, he personally, would look bad. Horst didn’t really care about people, but he sure did care about what the important ones thought about him. Kelley was dead, Jo Ann was probably going to die, and he figured that Lins and Loco would bail on him now that he wasn’t going to be able to pay them. At this rate, he would never make it big.

  They were close to the hospital when he saw the headlights. It was the first active vehicle they’d seen since sliding out of the grocery-store parking lot. A large pickup was parked on the side of the road, lights on, the exhaust cloud indicating that it was still running. Two figures were clumping through the snow by the truck. Horst swiveled his head as they crunched past. It was a man and a woman, both bundled up, both carrying guns. The woman was trying to flag them down, probably to warn them that her stupid town was covered in monsters. Loco just kept on driving. The man gave them a slow appraisal, then a cold nod as they passed on by.

  Recognition slapped Horst right in the face. “That’s Earl Harbinger,” Horst said. He’d hit the jackpot. “Stop the car.”

  “We’ve got to get Jo help first,” Loco stated.

  “Stop the car, idiot. Harbinger’s the werewolf,” Horst exclaimed, but they didn’t so much as slow down. “Loco, listen to me. He’s worth a fortune.” Horst spun around. Harbinger and the woman were already out of sight. By the time they got Jo Ann dropped off, they’d lose him.

  And Horst would lose millions of dollars.

  He turned back. “Stop the car. That’s an order. We need to pop that guy, right now.”

  Loco didn’t budge. He was too stupid to listen to reason. “She’s dying. We don’t have time.”

  Shit! “Harbinger’s the oldest werewolf in the world. The PUFF on him is huge, and he’s getting away.”

  Lins looked over the seat, suspicious. “Why didn’t you tell us that before?”

  Because I was going to keep most of it. “Because I didn’t want you distracted. But I got the intel right from the government.” Well, Stark, anyway. “Harbinger’s head is worth at least a million bucks.”

  Lins’ motives were easy to understand. He didn’t even have to think about it for long. “You heard the man, Loco. Pull over.”

  “We’ll go back for him once we get Jo some help,” he insisted. “The hospital is just over there.”

  “Screw that!” Lins shouted. “I didn’t come up here to get some disease, I came up here to get paid!”

  “No,” Loco said with more force.

  Horst glanced out the back window. Harbinger was sure to drive off in the other direction, taking all that ridiculous PUFF with him, and there was no way he was going to admit defeat that easily. Loco was a moron. Horst reached into his coat and unsnapped the thumb break on his shoulder holster. He turned forward, voice low and deadly as the FN Five-seveN cleared nylon. “Last chance. Stop this car or else.”

  “You gonna shoot me? Kill me and Jo both?”

  “She’d want us to catch him. She was committed to this company.”

  Loco laughed. Horst had never heard him laugh before. It was a mirthless sound. “You’re a real piece of work, Horst.”

  Decision made, Horst pushed the muzzle of the FN deep into the seat ahead of him and said, “Larry, grab the wheel,” then pulled the trigger. The concussion of the 5.7mm was sharp in the enclosed space. Stuffing flew from the hole in the fabric. Loco bellowed as the bullet slammed into his back. Lins went for the steering wheel and tried to jam his foot over the brake. The big man was tough, though, and got a hold of Lins’s shirt, so this time Horst lifted his gun and shot Loco in the back of the head.

  Lins got control of the vehicle as Loco’s heavy skull hit the steering wheel. They slid to a stop, sideways, in the middle of the road. The safety glass was broken, and there was blood on the dash. Loco moved slightly and groaned in pain. Horst must have only winged that big noggin and would gladly have pumped a few more rounds into it, but Lins was now blocking the shot. His only remaining employee reached over, found the door handle, and spilled Jason Lococo out into the snow.

  Chapter 17

  We owned the night.

  The other side was tenacious and damn tough. The nefarious bastards were in it to win it. That just meant that we had to kill more of them before they got scared.

  Travis was a wrecking ball. It turned out that Bullmen were extremely robust. Their hide is nearly impenetrable, and they heal at an astounding rate. Not as quick as a lycanthrope, mind you, but one day Travis could soak up half a mag from an AK-47, and the next he’d be anxious to go out again. He did get shot a lot, though, because he wasn’t very fast and was too damn big to make very effective use of cover. We had to keep him way ahead of the vulnerable mortals of first squad, because Travis tended to fly into fits of rage. Charlie began to tell campfire stores about him, as something that transl
ated roughly into “Furious Water Buffalo.”

  Sharon was a surprise. Singer was her assigned name, and she’d received it because of her talent. Her father had been a sailor. Her mother had been a siren. That particular relationship had worked out better than normal, with the sailor not being drowned then eaten, and Sharon had been the result, brought back to human civilization and raised to be a civilized young lady. That had mostly worked out, until the government had decided that a half-siren still belonged on the PUFF list.

  Ironically, she’d never hurt a fly until the government had helped her find that side of herself. Though she was far stronger than a human, she was not as tough as me or our Texas Longhorn Furious Water Buffalo, but the girl was a terror of a different kind. Her song haunted the jungle. She could get into a man’s mind and twist it so that you couldn’t see straight. Sentries were unaware, patrols got sloppy, and no man could withstand her interrogations. All she had to do was bat her eyelashes a few times, say a few words, and the prisoners would spill their guts. She didn’t even speak the language.

  We had to bring on a local from the ARVN to translate. His name was Van. Destroyer had worked with him once before, and said he spoke just about every dialect in the region. His French was better than his English, and his English was better than mine. I was surprised how young he was, but he proved valuable, and the kid was hilarious.

  We were very effective. The humans of first squad were as good a bunch of soldiers as I’d ever met. Destroyer was a consummate professional. Even while riding in the close confines of a chopper, sitting across from a hunched-over Travis, disguised only by being covered in a big blanket, the man didn’t ask any questions. He got us in, covered our butts, and got us out. The two of us were never friendly. Destroyer obeyed orders and didn’t talk much. I don’t think he liked the assignment or me.