There was a flash of red and blood shot from Franks’ wrist. The Glock went spinning away. He caught of glimpse of Harbinger grimacing from the pain, but then he realized that the bullets were lodged in the leather jacket. Damned minotaur hide. The furious Harbinger was tugging him down the hall. Franks grabbed the claw impaled in his shoulder and squeezed. It caused his own wounds to grow in a flash of blood, but the werewolf wouldn’t be getting away. Still locked on Harbinger’s hand, he twisted hard to the side. Bones splintered until the werewolf let go.
Harbinger fell back, shaking his arm loose so that the bones would realign, then he tore off his restrictive, indestructible coat and threw it aside. Franks stood up. The two of them faced each other across the hall. Harbinger was rapidly transforming, and already within the few seconds since he’d first come in, he was almost entirely in werewolf form. His clothing was ripping as bones pushed through at new angles, hair was sprouting through his skin, his jaw was extending, and the voice that rushed past those sharp teeth was guttural and almost incomprehensible.
“You killed her!”
Who? Franks had killed a lot of people lately. “Narrow it down for me.”
The werewolf leapt at him, but Franks was ready. He swung one meaty fist and hit Harbinger in the snout. Blood and saliva sprayed across the hall, yet the werewolf still managed to rake claws down his bicep. Harbinger’s foot grated across Franks’ stomach in an instinctive attempt to disembowel him, but the claws were still stuck inside Harbinger’s boots, so it didn’t do him any good.
Franks fell backwards, but on purpose this time, using the werewolf’s momentum against him, and he tossed Harbinger down the hall. He hit the hardwood, rolling and bouncing, but sunk his nails into the floor and stopped himself. Harbinger got right back up, and this time when he stepped forward, his feet were so misshapen they slipped from the boots.
The two of them stood across from each other. Harbinger was almost fully shifted into his other form now, which was an impressive specimen of muscle, cunning, and fury. This was no ordinary werewolf, but Franks was no ordinary golem. Neither of them was capable of fear. Both of them were warriors who understood that mortal life could only be truly appreciated while at the ragged edge of death. MCB agents and Monster Hunters everywhere had been arguing in bars and placing bets about the potential outcome of this particular fight for years.
Battling Harbinger was not conducive to completing his mission. There was still some measure of intelligence behind those golden eyes. He did not know why Harbinger had attacked him so viciously. He could try to reason with the werewolf, explain the importance of his errand, and enlist MHI’s help against their mutual foe . . .
Fuck it. This was the supposed King of the Werewolves and Franks had been eager to test him for a very long time.
There was a coatrack next to the door. Franks picked it up, pointed it like a spear, and charged. Harbinger rushed him, but Franks caught him in the ribs and knocked him back. Harbinger lashed out and snapped the end off the coatrack, then he stepped up the wall, and threw himself down on Franks. Claws sliced cleanly through Franks’ cheek before he could retaliate by driving the jagged end of the rack deep into Harbinger’s stomach.
They broke apart. The werewolf fell back, trying to pull the pole out of his guts, while Franks pressed one hand to his face. Blood was drizzling down his throat, trying to choke him. He could stick his fingers through the dangling flap of flesh and touch his exposed teeth. Too bad. Franks had been fond of this face.
Franks reached into his pocket, took out his flask of Elixir, unscrewed the cap, and downed the whole thing. Some of the glowing liquid spilled out from the hole in his face and mingled with the blood pouring down his neck. Incredible pain tore through Franks’ body, beginning in his stomach and radiating out through every nerve ending.
One dose was world-shattering agony. The flask held nearly five times that. It took pain to whole new levels that would break mortal minds just trying to understand. A wave of heat rolled up inside of him. Every vein on his body stood out, hard as a rock. The fractured edges of broken bones liquefied into molten calcium before solidifying back into one piece. Boiling hot tears of blood fell from his eyes.
Ouch.
The pain subsided enough for Franks to at least see clearly again. The fully transformed werewolf had dragged the improvised spear out and tossed it aside. Harbinger shoved his guts back in while quivering muscles gathered around the hole and sucked closed.
Every muscle in Franks’ body seemed to burn with stored energy. The Elixir hurt, but for times like this, it was so worth it.
“Come get some.”
They rushed at each other. Franks swung, but the werewolf ducked and slid beneath the massive arm. Hot blood flew as Harbinger tore open his calf. Jaws snapped, trying to hamstring him, but Franks had already moved. He clubbed the werewolf over the head, then kicked him in the mouth. Jaws snapped closed so hard that teeth shattered.
Harbinger lit into him, biting, tearing, and snapping. It was death by a thousand cuts. Realizing that Franks’ superstrength would be his end if given room to work, Harbinger was trying to keep them nice and close. Franks caught him by the throat and squeezed. He didn’t know how well a lycanthrope could regenerate when deprived of air, but they were going to find out. He choked the werewolf with one hand and went to punching him in the face with the other. Harbinger’s skull fractured. Blood poured from his pointy ears.
The two of them spun and rolled down the hall, crashing and banging through furniture. Picture frames fell and shattered. They hit a door, which burst open, dumping them into the kitchen. Franks had almost succeeded in choking out the werewolf, when he got sloppy, and didn’t withdraw his fist fast enough. Harbinger’s teeth snapped shut on Franks’ hand.
There was a flash of fire up his arm as Harbinger tore his head back and forth, severing muscles and tendons, trying to bite clean through Franks’ wrist. They hit the stove and bounced across the counter. Franks let go of Harbinger’s neck and started hitting him with that hand. Each time he hit the werewolf, it lifted him off the ground, left a dent in his torso, broke ribs, and flattened lungs, but that damned stubborn werewolf kept chewing on his arm.
There was a butcher’s block. It fell over and knives spilled free with a clatter. The first one Franks got his hand on was a long, serrated bread knife. Not ideal, but it would do. He stuck it under Harbinger’s ear and dragged it across the werewolf’s neck, splitting it wide open.
That got him to let go.
He lost the bread knife, but immediately replaced it with a butcher knife. He slammed the blade deep into Harbinger’s armpit, levering it back and forth, spreading the rip, looking for the heart. The werewolf backhanded him, but it wasn’t as hard as before. The stab wound had taken some fight out of him. Slippery with blood, Franks lost the kitchen knife, which was why he always preferred textured handles for serious work. He didn’t mind leaving the blade in there though, since lycanthropes had a hard time regenerating around a foreign body.
Air was whistling through the hole in Harbinger’s neck and bubbling through the hole in his chest. Franks kicked Harbinger in the stomach, sending him flailing back into the cabinets, knocking half of them off the wall. Franks followed up by taking hold of Harbinger’s mane of hair and slamming him headfirst into the sink. That entire cabinet imploded. Pipes broke and water sprayed.
There was a frying pan there, and Franks thought briefly about beating Harbinger with it, but then he saw the much larger, heavy-duty KitchenAid mixer, picked it up, and slammed it down over the werewolf’s head. It made a very satisfying crunch before it broke. Then he spied a meat cleaver on the floor, so Franks snatched it up. Systematically chopping the werewolf into pieces would do the trick.
Only Harbinger was far smarter in his transformed state than Franks had expected. Werewolves were supposed to be too savage to pick up an aerosol can of oven cleaner, turn, and crush it open directly in front of their opponent’s eyes. Or
maybe Harbinger had just gotten lucky . . . Either way, the caustic acid went off like a grenade right in Franks’ face.
That stung.
Even with that, Franks remained analytical. One eye had been instantly blinded. The other was swelling shut. Harbinger had used the opportunity to get up and free the butcher knife from his lung, and his body had already begun healing. The werewolf leapt back, just ahead of Franks’ wild meat cleaver swing.
They were both slipping across the tile. There was blood everywhere. Franks had to overwhelm the werewolf before he could fully regenerate from his wounds, but Harbinger, even in his bestial state, was too clever to be pinned down. He ran for the door. Franks raised the cleaver to throw it, but Harbinger yanked open the refrigerator door, and the thick steel blade stuck into the stainless steel with a clunk.
His opponent had fled. Franks yanked the meat cleaver out, kicked the refrigerator closed, and followed the blood trail. Harbinger was moving. In a battle of attrition, time benefited the werewolf. Franks left his own red trail behind him. Harbinger had gnawed his left wrist down to the bone. Franks curled that hand into a fist and squeezed, estimating that he’d lost at least half his muscle control there, but he was still combat effective. His damaged vision was going to be a bigger problem.
Harbinger had gone up the stairs. Franks leapt up them in three bounds.
The werewolf intercepted him at the top, attacking from his now blind side. Harbinger came in, clawing and snapping. The two of them crashed through a doorway, through a wall, and into a bathroom. He managed to hit Harbinger with the meat cleaver, embedding it in his collarbone, but Harbinger sliced his chest open from one side to the other.
This was really starting to piss him off.
Franks slugged Harbinger in the chest, hard enough to stop a car. It knocked the werewolf clean through the shower stall, through the tile, and the wall behind it. However, it snapped Franks’ damaged wrist, and now that hand was hanging limp and useless. He followed, stepping through the broken tile and squirting pipes, smashing a bigger hole through the wall so he’d fit.
They were in an office filled with paintings. The dossier said Shackleford was an artist. Since blood was spattering across all the canvases, she was probably going to be very upset afterwards. Oh well. Harbinger was already up, so Franks simply kicked him through the next wall too.
The Elixir of Life had magnified his strength to absurd levels, so Harbinger’s body actually covered quite a bit of distance to embed itself in the far wall of another office. Franks picked up a filing cabinet and lifted it overhead. It felt very full. Franks tossed it at Harbinger, but the werewolf dodged aside and the cabinet exploded through the wall. Harbinger hurried and ducked through the hole.
“Slippery bastard,” Franks said as he followed, crashing through the hole.
Their new doorway opened onto a balcony overlooking a very large space. It appeared to be a ballroom with mirrored walls. Franks stepped through, but the instant his foot hit the other side, jaws like iron clamped around his leg, and Harbinger bit deep. Teeth sliced through muscle and blood vessels.
Franks roared and clubbed Harbinger’s skull, fracturing it enough to put bone fragments into the werewolf’s brain, but even then he didn’t let go. Alarms were sounding in Franks’ mind. If he lost that leg, he’d lose his mobility, and then it was over. Desperate, Franks pushed off toward the railing, dragging the latched-on werewolf with him.
They toppled over the edge.
The floor rushed up to meet them. They both landed at an awkward angle. On impact, Franks felt bones break, but more importantly it knocked Harbinger’s teeth off of him. Franks kicked Harbinger with his other leg, sent him sliding across the polished hardwood.
Franks tried to push himself up, but his ruined arm flopped about uselessly. He shifted, used his other hand, and struggled upright, only to find that his other leg was buckling beneath him. Harbinger had crippled it as well. He was becoming combat ineffective. This called for desperate measures. Franks reached into his blood-soaked pocket and pulled out another flask of Elixir.
He had never used more than five doses at once. He was unsure what would happen if he did.
But he wouldn’t find out, because Harbinger was on him before he could open it.
Teeth sank into his shoulder, punching clear to the bone, and then Harbinger twisted and shook, tearing him apart. Claws flayed open his back and ripped a kidney in half. Franks struck out with his good hand, but Harbinger released, moved aside, and counterattacked that arm. That bicep opened to the bone. Franks bellowed in fury, but Harbinger followed up, and bit him on that arm, pulling and ripping, yanking him across the floor.
He had intended to take the werewolf apart, piece by piece, but it was Harbinger who was doing that to him instead. Franks twisted his head as far as his neck would allow, and bit the werewolf on the nose. He really chomped down hard. The werewolf yelped and let go.
Franks was running out of options. He looked to his dangling hand and the white bones sticking out, thought why the hell not? Then he stabbed Harbinger in the neck with his jagged wrist bone.
The surprise in those golden eyes told him that the werewolf hadn’t seen that coming. Franks jerked his arm back in a flash of red. Harbinger collapsed.
The two of them lay there for a moment on the dance floor in a mingled puddle of blood, struggling for breath. Even a powerful werewolf could only regenerate from so much damage before their system began to shut down.
“You are a worthy adversary,” Franks muttered as he tried to sit up.
Harbinger was also struggling to rise. Apparently neither one of them was much for giving up.
The werewolf lurched toward him, teeth snapping. Franks fed him one arm and felt the crunch as Harbinger chomped it to the bone. But then Franks used his elbow to begin hammering the werewolf’s head into mush. Thud. Even with his blood drizzling from dozens of wounds, Franks’ blows were slow, methodical, but still incredibly powerful. Thud. Harbinger sunk his claws deep into Franks’ abdomen and began pulling things out. Thud. Neither of them was going anywhere until this was over. It was a race to see if Franks would die from blood loss and organ failure before Harbinger was beaten to death.
Then they both got hit by a truck.
The approaching noise of the engine hadn’t even registered. The steel shutters over the ballroom doors flew apart as blinding headlights filled the space. The impact of the front bumper knocked him and the werewolf apart.
Franks found himself flat on his back on the other side of the dance floor. He tried to sit up, but his body was too broken. Those headlights were scalding his one barely working eye, so he tried to lift a hand to shield it, only to discover that with the impact, Harbinger had kept that arm. Franks glared at the bloody stump. “Damn.”
Car doors slammed. A female figure moved in front of the headlights. It was Shackleford. “Franks is over here. He’s in pieces!”
He coughed up a knot of blood. “Sorry we messed up your house.” That made him realize just how bad a shape he was in. He rarely apologized. “Good fight though.”
Then Franks died.
PART 3
The Contract
CHAPTER 15
Now Franks remembered how he’d ended up in the small white room.
The interrogator was studying him. “That’s correct, Franks. Your mortal body has been ruined.”
“So that’s it?”
“Like I said before, that’s not my call.”
When he’d been told that this was going straight to the top, Franks had not realized just how high up they’d been talking about. “Send me back.”
“And why should He? You let your pride and your anger get in the way of fulfilling your part of the covenant.”
“Because I’m not done yet!” Franks roared and slammed his fists into the table. The fact that he didn’t so much as dent the surface told him he was no longer in the mortal world.
The interrogator sat there, studying
Franks dispassionately. “That’s not your decision to make. Haven’t you learned anything over the last three centuries? You’ve had far more time to learn than a regular mortal is granted, and still, you expect patience? You expect mercy, yet never grant it. You ask for charity, but are incapable of dispensing any. Justice demands that you be sent back to Hell.”
Franks leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “You’re not a regular interrogator, are you?”
“I have stewardship over the special cases. You might not remember much about the war, but we’ve met before.”
It came back to him in a flash, just a glimpse of a battle, terrible beyond imagination. They fought across a bridge of light between the stars, with the being before him wielding pure energy as if it was a flaming sword. “You . . .”
The archangel nodded. “It’s been a long time. You’re still just as stubborn as before, which is why you were offered The Deal to begin with. We need something like you to stop the things like Kurst. You may be an aberration in The Plan, but he threatens to break it entirely.”
“Don’t underestimate Kurst. He’ll crush mankind if given the chance.”
“Mortal life is fraught with perils and tests, but everything on The Plan is for their own ultimate good. Much like you, our current threats are off The Plan. This is why we’ve allowed you to fight the battles that mortals aren’t equipped to. . . . It turns out today is your lucky day, Franks. An inspired soul has taken it upon himself to repair your sorry corpse. They’ve saved your life. This isn’t MHI’s fight. Keep them out of it. They have a different purpose waiting for them.”
He didn’t really want their help anyway. “Fine.”
“Good. You will require assistance. There are still a few humans who heed the old ways and who are aware of The Deal. I have sent a message to one of these to assist you. His name is Michael as well . . . No relation. Congratulations, Franks. You have been granted a temporary respite in order to deal with our current problem. No reaction? Normally, this would be where a repentant man would say thank you for another opportunity.”