“Glad I’m here to give it.”
“Me too. I saw the Mustang go off the overpass. I thought you and Della . . .”
“It was a close thing,” Lawrence said. “According to Della, we flew off the overpass and landed—tires down, mind you—on a truck full of hay bales.” He shook his head. “Just pure dumb luck.”
“Me and pure dumb luck are more than nodding acquaintances.”
Lawrence eyed him for a moment, then said, “I believe that.”
“Where’s Della? I think I figured out why—”
The Ancient roared. Spat a whirlwind of heat and greenish light from its maw. The whirlwind spun across the road, tossing cars and screaming people into the sky. Headlights shafted into the night. Tentacles coiling and undulating, the Ancient stomped. A smoldering-ember-edged hoof plowed into the road like a meteorite. Smoke curled into the air from the new crater.
The world falls apart.
“But it doesn’t have to,” Hal began, then stopped as a familiar voice lifted into the air.
“WHOOOOoooooOOOOOoooOOoOoOOOO!”
Joy surged through Hal. “Nick!”
Two furred four-legged figures streaked through the Scotch broom, but only one dropped Hal’s catch pole into the weeds at his feet. The other raced over to Lawrence. Briana. So she survived, after all. Nick leapt up, pushing against Hal with his front paws. Whoo-whooed ecstatically.
Hal grabbed the fur at either side of the yōkai’s face and bent down to touch foreheads, laughing. “I’m glad to see you too! Where’s Gally?”
“Here,” said a dulcet-toned voice, a voice that arrowed straight into his heart.
Hal swiveled around. Even with her purple hair tangled, black lace skirt torn, pale face dirt smudged and bruised, Desdemona had never looked lovelier. And, cradled in her arms, Galahad.
“Mew.”
Relief poured through Hal like beer from a tapped keg. “Same here, buddy,” he said, voice low, tight. “Same here.”
“You’re staring,” Desdemona said.
“My queen,” Hal murmured. Desdemona rolled her eyes. Oh, yes. My Queen. My Heart. Unable to bear the distance between them for another second, Hal strode through the Scotch broom and wrapped his arms around her. Pressed her rain-wet body against his. Tipped up her chin with one finger.
Desdemona looked at him with night-shaded eyes, but in the light of a dozen burning wrecks he saw deepest blue rimming her pupils. And the deepest unspoken love. Her lips parted.
“You’re squashing Gally, fruitcake,” she said.
Hal chuckled. Words of coded love. “We’re alone, my Valkyrie.”
“You sure the hell ain’t alone,” a voice snorted. “And you’ve got more fighting to do, Hal Rupert, so get your skinny ass over here.”
Della, minus a few pink rollers and her night cream, stood beside Lawrence, hands on her hips. Hal realized others waited as well, including Goth boy Louis, minus lipstick, goggles, shoes, and shirt—and in need of a shave.
Reluctantly, Hal removed his arms from around Desdemona’s corseted waist.
“Mew!” Ears flattened, eyes reflecting flames, Galahad skewered him with a cat’s unblinking death glare.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to squash you,” Hal said. He sank to one knee, not even noticing the wet grass through his already soaked jeans, and looked into the yōkai’s green eyes. “I missed you.”
Galahad’s ears swiveled upright. He gave a long, slow blink. “Mew.”
Hal nodded, throat tight. Touched Galahad’s orange fur. “I got held up by a few things, but I was on my way.” The yōkai rubbed the side of his face against Hal’s fingers. Purred.
Scooping up his catch pole, Hal rose to his feet. Walked across the grass, his boot soles sinking into the marshy soil, and stopped beside Della and Lawrence.
Hal’s gaze skipped around the others gathered there: Nick and Brianna, an amber-eyed cougar, a scarecrow with one button eye and a scythe, and a blond . . . man . . . in a red flannel shirt and floppy skin. With a misaligned grin. And were those Gally’s Cool Cat Skechers on his feet?
Hal shuddered, suddenly cold. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His arms goosebumped. Had he heard a dentist’s drill?
The misaligned grin widened.
“This dumb-ass lycan,” Della said, pointing a finger at the cougar, “is the one responsible for this whole damned mess.”
The cougar’s tail switched back and forth above the grass. “Rowr.”
Della rolled her eyes. “Fine. This dumb-ass lycan, Selene. Happy now?”
Hal tapped one end of his catch pole against the ground, capturing the cougar’s attention. Nodded his head toward the rampaging Ancient. “Sure as hell doesn’t look like Fenrir,” he said. “Tell me what it is and what happened. But be brief. I’ve got Ancient ass to kick.”
The lycan tilted her head and regarded Hal for a long moment. “Mrawr?”
“Rupert. Hal Rupert.”
Recognition flamed in her feline eyes. Her head dipped. Selene told him everything. As quickly as possible. Told him how things had plunged south with heart-stopping speed from the moment Desdemona, Nick, and Galahad were dumped from their recycle bins.
Revealed to Hal her plan. Flawed. Incomplete. Bitterness curled through her mrawls. Spoke of slaughtering Louis and feeding his magical blood to the fire. Spoke of lightning strikes and slashed-open skies. Of failure. She yearned still for a shifter nation, its borders sealed with blood and magic.
“Not today,” Hal said, voice level. “Not ever. Not on my watch.” Selene held his gaze for a few moments, then looked away, tail lashing.
Okay, then. He and Selene had things to discuss. She could choose to talk over coffee or to his air-whistling catch pole. But first he had to clean up her mess.
Hal looked to where the Ancient waited. Tentacles rippled. Plucked up a two-legged yummy and flicked it into its stinking maw. Hal thumped his catch pole against the soggy ground. Remembered.
The world falls apart . . .
Shifters hide from humans and humans slay shifters . . .
Hal stepped forward. Fingers clamped over his shoulder. Frowning, he glanced back.
Della, stray blond locks curling against her dark face, shook her head. “Not alone, Hal Rupert,” she said. “This fight ain’t yours alone.”
“That’s something I wanted to talk to you about—or Lawrence, actually,” Hal said. “But, first, how do you figure?”
“That thing over there is wearing Louis’s blood. And her lust.” She angled her head in Selene’s direction.
The cougar’s eyes narrowed. “Mrawl!”
“Yes, lust,” Della snapped. “For power. For magic. Now shut your mouth. I don’t have time for your foolishness. I think we’ve seen quite enough of it for one night.”
Selene jumped to her paws and loped into the glistening shrubs and ferns.
“Shifter nation.” Shaking her head, Della focused her attention on Hal. “Now, as I was saying, you and your big-ass pole have been fighting all night, and you’re drained.”
Startled, Hal glanced at the dark, cloud-quilted sky. “All night?”
“All night,” Della affirmed. “Day’s trying to dawn, but that thing won’t let it.”
Hal opened his mouth, but Della touched a finger to his lips. “Listen to me,” she said. He closed his mouth. “No one’s denying you have a hero’s undefeated heart. But you’re mortal, boy. This is a fight you can’t win if you go it alone.”
Rubbing his chin, whiskers rasping against his fingers, Hal considered Della’s words. Considered his aching muscles. Considered the weariness coiled around his spine like a steel snake. Considered the Ancient and the tentacles it drummed like impatient fingers upon the hoof-buckled road. Waiting. Yoo-hoo.
Della was right.
And he’d seen the truth in
his dream.
“As long as we fight against each other—humans and shifters,” Hal said quietly, holding Della’s dark gaze, “and not together, we’re doomed to failure. This is our fight. None of us can afford to work alone.”
“I knew there was a brain guiding all that bravado,” Della said. “It sounds like we need to armor you up.”
“You guiding me now?” he asked.
A smile curved Della’s lips, lit her eyes. “I appear to be damned either way, so hell yeah. I’m guiding you, darlin’.”
Hal grinned. “So what’s the game plan?”
“While you keep that thing distracted,” Della said, indicating Lawrence, Louis, and herself, “we’ll focus on closing the stupid-ass dimensional rip it came through. The shifters and your Valkyrie will keep us safe so that we only have to worry about closing that damned hole in the sky.”
“I plan to do more than just distract Ancient and Grumpy,” Hal said. “Much more.”
“And I hope you do. But you’re gonna need some help.” Della looked her at nephew, and nodded. “Louis. It’s time, boy.”
“Uh . . . I thought he was bad luck,” Hal murmured.
“Well, right now we can use any kind of luck. Good. Bad. Dumb. Maybe point the bad at the Ancient.”
Hal pondered. Maybe they should have Louis cross the Ancient’s path a few times, just to be sure. Della’s nephew walked barefoot through the grass, rain beading on his dreads, his pleather pants. He stopped in front of Hal and offered a rueful smile.
“Glad to see you breathing again,” Hal said.
Louis nodded. “Thanks for looking for me. Appreciate it.”
Della handed Louis a small pocketknife. Louis took the knife from his aunt, pulled out the blade, and poked the point into the tip of his middle finger. Blood welled. He handed the knife back to Della.
Louis traced his bleeding finger over Hal’s forehead, speaking words in what Hal supposed was French or Cajun or maybe a mingling of Cajun and Haitian Creole. The skin beneath Louis’s finger tingled and blood-etched symbols burned within Hal’s mind.
Symbols of power and blessing. Vévé. Full of hoodoo. Hal didn’t know much about hoodoo or voodoo, but he felt magic burrowing beneath his skin, taking up residence. Strong dark-of-the-moon magic. Smelled sun-heated fur and musk and green leaves.
Louis added a few symbols to Hal’s catch pole, then stepped back to regard his handiwork, his eyes lambent even in human form. He backed into Lawrence. The Wiccan folded his arms around Louis, held him tight.
“Sealed and blessed,” Lawrence commented. “Good job.”
A smile brushed Louis’s lips. He licked the blood from his finger.
“Thanks,” Hal said, offering a quick smile. He squared back his shoulders. Took a deep breath. Time to finish this dance—a tango between mortal and Ancient, choreographed by the Specter of Extinction.
He spun on his heel. Twirled his catch pole.
“Wait!”
Desdemona’s voice turned Hal around. She bent and eased Galahad onto the grass. The orange tabby strolled over to Nick, pausing to shake water from his paws with every other step. His ears angled back. Wet and displeased.
Lacing her arms around Hal’s neck, Desdemona stretched up on her toes and kissed him. Deeply. Her lips tasted of rain, sweet with hope and the faint taste of cloves. He locked his arms around her slender waist and pulled her hard against him.
A kiss for her very own creep. Hers, and hers alone. Desdemona’s creep.
His heart pounded so hard in a mad-squirrel jig of joy, he feared it’d explode from his chest and spray his luminescent Desdemona with blood. The sort of love faux pas he’d rather avoid. But he’d spill every drop in his veins if she asked it of him.
No heart explosions. No blood spray. No love faux pas. Just the feel of Desdemona against him, wet skin and lace, her heart pounding in time with his, igniting a white-hot fire within him. Flooding his veins with light, pure and incandescent. Streaming strength into his muscles. Into his bones. Into the very fiber of his being.
The Ancient roared.
Hal ended the kiss. Pulled back from his alluring and magical beauty. Her eyes opened. Wonder kindled in their blue depths. She slid her arms from around his neck. “Don’t get killed,” she whispered.
“Keep those lips warmed up and ready. This bad boy’s coming back for more.”
Desdemona rolled her eyes, but roses blossomed on her cheeks.
Spinning his catch pole in a deadly figure eight, Hal studied the Ancient. A tentacle poked at burning debris. Bored. Flicked a car off the interstate. Petulant.
“Hey, Sulfur Breath!” Hal shouted. The tentacle paused, quivered in the air. “I’m eighty-sixing you from this dimension. Let me show you the door.” Catch pole twirling, Hal sprinted for the gnarled, knotted so-called god.
Tentacles unrolled and pounded like pile drivers into the ground beside him, spraying mud and grass into the humid air. Hal swerved and weaved. Dodged with elegant grace. Blazed with Desdemona’s love and Louis’s hoodoo.
Tentacles and hoofs stomped and slammed, but Hal eluded each one as adrenaline and purity of purpose fed him info in nanoseconds—distance, speed, moment of impact. He listened to the steady pulse of blood through his veins. Heard his lungs draw in each breath. Counted his movements to the metronome beat of his heart.
Hal leapt onto the Ancient’s smoldering hoof and climbed the knotted limb in a whirling, deadly squirrel-dance, his catch pole puncturing holes into the sticky flesh. The Ancient roared. Hot wind stinking of rotten eggs howled past Hal as he anchored himself with his catch pole.
But the moist, green heart of Eugene/Springfield thumped beneath him. Promising lush life. Pounding out a hero’s rhythm. Hal swung his catch pole up, angling it over his head like a katana and danced through a fluid kendo kata—samurai warrior ballet. Time’s elastic flow shifted—action wormhole—and his movements blurred as he executed them.
Tentacles couldn’t hold him. Fierce wind couldn’t dislodge him.
Catch pole warrior.
Hal drew in a deep breath of rain-misted air. Breathed in life. Hippie life. Fortune-teller life. Duck life. Bicyclist life? Grudgingly.
Not just my people. My city, but ours—human and shifter alike.
As Hal was bringing his catch pole up for another blow, the fire-pit gaze shifted, looked down. A tentacle shot past Hal and he heard screams from the ground. Desdemona’s cry pierced him to his core.
The tentacle snaked into the air once more, but now it was coiled around Della.
“No!” Hal cried. “No! NO!”
“I TOLD YOU SO!” she screamed, her expression managing to be both terrified and furious at the same time. “BUT DON’T YOU STOP FIGHTING! I BELIEVE IN YO—”
The tentacle dropped Della, still shouting, into the god’s maw. The massive mouth snapped shut.
Hal stared, stunned, his mind refusing to take in what had just happened. Della had died—no, been devoured—because she had chosen to guide the hero. Funny thing. He didn’t feel very heroic at the moment.
Another tentacle whipped past him. Hal slammed his catch pole down into the Ancient’s flesh, using every bit of strength remaining to him. The god looked at him, tentacle undulating in the air, but poised to arrow downward once more.
“Take me, damn you!” Hal stabbed down with his catch pole again and again. Ichor oozed. “Take me! You want a sacrifice? Then I’m your man. TAKE ME!”
And the Ancient obliged him. The tentacle looped around him, rolling him up like sushi. Hal kept his arms and catch pole above his head, free of the tentacle. Heat from the god’s wide-open maw baked against Hal, drew his skin tight against his bones.
From far below, he heard Nick’s plaintive howl, heard Desdemona scream his name.
“For my friends,” Hal whispered, not knowing if wh
at he planned would work, but knowing he had no other choice. “For my love. For Della.”
Let’s see how Louis’s symbols work together.
Hal touched the vévé on the catch pole to the one Louis had drawn on his forehead. Light shafted out from the catch pole. Burned bright enough to shove back the unnatural gloom. Hal snapped the glowing catch pole against the tentacle. Twitching, recoiling, it flung Hal toward the Ancient’s now-roaring maw.
And missed.
Hal somersaulted onto the god’s face. Rose to his feet. He stood, poised on the burning rim of the Ancient’s right fire-pit eye. He parried snapping, whipping tentacles with graceful and elegant twists of his catch pole. Lifted the catch pole and jammed it into the Ancient’s green-flamed eye pit.
White light starred out from the catch pole, snuffing the hellish fire as it rippled across the pit. The Ancient bellowed. Stomped. Jigged. Quakes tremored through the god’s being. Chasms split across its ichor-sticky flesh. White light shafted from the cracks, piercing the gloom. Tentacles spasmed. Flailed.
Then a burbling liquid sound rumbled through the splintering body. Hal locked his hands around his still buried-in-god-flesh catch pole. Knelt and braced himself.
The Ancient ruptured, splitting open like a machete-hacked coconut. Toppled. Hal held on tight as he rode the Ancient down to the ground. It slammed into the earth at Mach 3, splattering apart against the Walmart on Eleventh Avenue and launching shopping carts, blocks of concrete, and Hal into the air.
Hal hit the pavement shoulder-first and rolled, catch pole clattering away from him. Pain punched his shoulder. Seared his side. Tweaked his stomach. Hal rolled to a stop and lay there as the world continued to spin.
Once the sky wheeled to a stop, Hal pushed up from the concrete and searched for his catch pole. Sunlight streamed through tattered, fading clouds and the god-buckled pavement steamed. He glanced at his watch. Eleven thirty in the a.m., baby. He’d battled the Ancient all night and most of the morning. And he felt like it too. Muscles shaky. Head pounding. Throat dry.
Della hadn’t been kidding. A pang pierced his heart.