The Monster Hunters

  He followed her into the bedroom. Heather hadn’t specified what she was looking for, except that it was related to the amulet and the fact that the prisoner had said her grandpa had stolen it. Heather immediately went to rummaging through the back of her closet. With the power out, it was extremely dark back there, but she didn’t bother to turn on her flashlight, and Earl wasn’t about to point that fact out because it would probably just disturb her more.

  Now that his vision seemed pathetic, Earl had to use his own flashlight to scan the walls. The room was more feminine than he’d expected for some reason, with frilly pillows, pastel colors, and scented candles. Maybe it was because the entire time he’d known her he’d only seen the tough side of the girl, but it was a little surprising. Also humanizing, but that didn’t exactly help along his thoughts about the potential need to hurry up and shoot her. His light fell on some portraits.

  At first Earl thought the lady in the picture with Heather might have been the Queen of the Elves, since she was about the right size, as in morbidly obese, but she had bright red hair. The man standing next to her was dark and thin. “Your folks live around here?”

  “Used to. They’re dead,” she answered, not looking.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s been a rough couple years. Mom got sick first, not that she was exactly in good health before that. Dad wasn’t exactly the nursemaid type and really couldn’t handle it, so I ended up quitting my job and moving back here. I got a job at the sheriff’s department. It was supposed to be temporary. Crap.” There was a crash as Heather knocked something off a shelf. “Mom died, but then Grandpa got sick, so I ended up sticking around. . . . Then, right after Grandpa died, Dad . . . well . . . It’s complicated.”

  “It’s really none of my business.”

  “That’s okay. After Grandpa died, my dad changed. They weren’t close or anything, but Grandpa’s death really did something to him. Messed Dad up. Mom was gone. He started having all sorts of psychological problems, insomnia, and it got worse. He wouldn’t talk about it. He wouldn’t get help. He got really depressed. . . . Shot himself last Christmas. So I guess it’s been almost a year now.”

  That was a tough one. “My condolences.”

  “Really screwed it up, too. He was in the hospital in a coma for weeks before he slipped away. He really should’ve asked me for advice. Heaven knows I’ve responded to enough suicides to know how to do it right. . . . Wow. That’s morbid. Sorry.”

  Earl didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “I guess I’m still a little angry at him. Sad, but bitter, too. Well, anyways, everybody is gone, but I don’t know . . . After Dad died, I just felt like I should stay here. I can’t explain what changed. You know, I moved away from Copper Lake as soon as I could when I was younger. I used to hate this place. But somehow I ended up right back where I started.”

  “Life’s funny like that.” He moved to the next picture. “This your grandpa?”

  Her head popped out of the closet. Heather had discarded her skullcap, and her hair hung in front of one eye. “Yep. That’s the famous Aksel Kerkonen.”

  He was a weathered old man, scowling hard at the camera with his wiry arms folded. A gangly teenage girl stood next to him, and it was only the hair color that tipped Earl off that it was a much younger Heather in the picture. “He don’t look friendly.”

  “He wasn’t.” Heather went back to looking. “He was a morose, bitter drunk, with an awful temper. He was kind of a local legend, since he kicked the crap out of roughnecks a third his age, got into a few knife fights, and the only reason I think he never went to prison is because everybody in town was too scared of him to testify.”

  “You didn’t like him, I take it.”

  She came out with a long wooden box and set it on the bed. “Oh, I didn’t say that. I loved Grandpa Aksel. I was about the only person he liked. The guy was a real character.” Heather opened the clasps and lifted the lid. “This was his. He was a sniper during the Winter War.”

  Earl shined his flashlight onto the bed. The rifle was an old Mosin Nagant. “May I?” Heather nodded, and Earl lifted the long bolt-action from the case. The wood had been worn smooth by hands and much use. The bolt worked easily for a Nagant, probably polished by a good smith at some point. No scope, which was odd by American precision-rifle standards, but scopes hadn’t been as good back then, and not nearly fog proof, which really mattered when you were fighting in the miserable cold, spitting distance from the Arctic circle. Earl knew his tools and could tell that this rifle had been used hard but well cared for. “M28.” He moved the receiver into the light. “Sako. 1939. The Finnish ones are supposed to be more accurate, I hear.”

  Heather was removing items that had been stashed under the rifle and setting them on the bed. “You seem like somebody who knows guns.”

  Earl shrugged. “Eh. I got shot by one of these once. Right in the kisser. Pow! That hurt.” She gave him a strange look. “It was a Russian version, though, back in ’45. Race to loot Hitler’s experimental occult bunker . . . Long story. Never mind. What’re you looking for?”

  Heather held up a small book. “This belonged to Grandpa, too.” She flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “I’d forgotten about this, but your Russian friend was asking about an amulet that Grandpa might have had. Check it out.”

  He traded her the rifle for the book. It wasn’t that different than the little leather-bound journal in his own pocket. Earl held up his flashlight to the yellowed pages. The letters were rough, almost drawn rather than written. “I can’t read Finnish.”

  “Me, either, and Grandpa was barely literate anyway, but look at the picture.”

  Earl found the little ink drawing she was talking about. Aksel Kerkonen hadn’t been much of an artist, either. “It looks like a pointy blob with a hand in it.”

  “That’s what I thought when I first found this after he died, but look at the line around the back. But if that’s a claw, then it’s what I was asked about earlier. Now I’m thinking that line means it’s supposed to be a necklace.” It could be the amulet. After all, Earl hadn’t got the best look at it while it had been ripping him to pieces. The claw in the picture was also short a finger. “And check this out.” She moved in close to him and turned the page. “What’s that look like to you?”

  There were a bunch of stick figures, one of which had a gun, a couple of directional arrows, more words in Finnish, and a very cartoonish picture of an explosion. It took him a second to realize what he was looking at. The stick figure’s actions were numbered. “These are instructions.”

  “Bingo!” Heather said excitedly. “The prisoner said Grandpa stole their amulet, and I’m betting this is about how he did it. Maybe it can help us get it back, and I can get cured.”

  Earl realized that she was standing uncomfortably close, close enough to feel the feverish warmth coming from Heather’s skin. Distracted by the book, she brushed against his chest. Her hip touched his leg. Earl stepped back politely.

  Heather caught his uncomfortable reaction and frowned. “Chill out, Harbinger. I’m not going to eat you.”

  Though it was a possibility, it actually hadn’t been what he’d been thinking about at that particular moment, but Earl Harbinger had been raised to be a gentlemen. He tried to get back on task. “Know anybody who reads Finnish?”

  “A bunch of the old-timers will. We’ve got a pretty big immigrant community here. There were a few at the gym.” Heather placed the archaic Mosin on her bed. “Let’s get back.”

  Earl noticed something gleaming in the case. “Hang on a sec.” There was a stripper clip loaded with five rounds of ammunition. He picked up the clip and examined it under his flashlight. It was 7.62x54R for the Mosin, but there was something extremely odd about the projectiles. “Strange. These are sabots.”

  “He had a box of those with the rifle. What’s a sabot?”

  “An undersized bullet that doesn’t fi
t the rifling, so it’s held in place by a cup that falls off in flight,” he explained. Heather shrugged; that meant nothing to her. “Pure silver bullets are junk. Stuff’s too light, too hard, and a pain in the ass to make right, so I’ve seen Hunters improvise things like this before. These are silver, but it doesn’t look quite right. They’re too shiny.”

  “Let me see,” Heather said, the impatience obvious in her voice. She held out one hand and Earl dropped the stripper clip onto her palm. As one of the bullet tips touched her skin, there was a flash of orange sparks and an audible snap. Heather jerked away and cried out. The ammo went flying. She clutched her hand to her chest. “It shocked me!”

  “Let me see,” Earl said. Heather stuck out her injured hand hesitantly. There was an obvious burn mark where the bullet tip had touched her skin. Heather withdrew her hand and put it to her mouth, wincing. Earl picked up the old ammo. “That ain’t normal. Just touching silver should irritate a werewolf, maybe burn a little, but nothing like that. It don’t mess you up unless it’s put inside you, usually at high velocities. What is this stuff?”

  Heather took her hand away from her mouth long enough to say “Electric-shock death bullets.”

  Earl gathered up the strange ammo. It could come in handy. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  Chapter 19

  It got dirty from then on. I would change and hunt. Nikolai would respond with a new challenge. I’d kill his side, and then he’d kill mine. The body count climbed. He’d hit a village on our side and arrange the bodies like they were posing for a portrait. I responded by crawling into a tunnel complex and painting it red. Months passed.

  He was goading me, pushing me to dark places that I’d thought I’d long ago controlled. I was transforming constantly. It was beginning to change me, to affect my judgment. Santiago would have been very disappointed in my behavior.

  But I had to stop him. Nikolai was terrifying. He was everything I was not. He had no reservations, no hesitation, no mercy. Nikolai had to be defeated; otherwise it was like saying that my way was wrong and his was right.

  What drives such a man? One part logic and one part savagery. I could not catch him. I couldn’t outwit him, and in order to match him, I found myself doing things that I’d never thought I’d allow myself to do.

  I’d not let the animal out to play like this since the island jungles hunting the Japanese. I was enjoying myself far too much. I was free, and I felt justified. Pride made me stupid. I was walking too close to the edge. I would shortly pay the price.

  * * *

  Look at those pathetic slugs. Let’s kill them.

  Nikolai crouched in the shadows behind a shed, dressed in clothing stolen from the dead, watching the civilians as they continued their search for survivors. “What would that accomplish?”

  They just deserve it. You want a reason? You used to not need a reason. Look where your reasons have gotten us. Fine. They’re weak, they’re stupid, and they’re made of delicious meat. We’re the top of the food chain. It’s our job to eat them.

  The voice continued its rant as Nikolai concentrated on the potential threats. There were three trucks working as a convoy, with humans in the back of each and more in the cabs, all armed. Two groups of four were moving between the houses on both sides of the street. He could parallel those, take them out quietly as soon as they got out of view of the vehicles. Then they could pick off whoever they sent after the missing, then kill the remainder at his leisure. It wouldn’t be very hard.

  He shook his head to clear out the red fog. Feeling a burst of anger, he once again couldn’t tell if it came from him or the Tvar. Reasoning was difficult. His other half was pushing, becoming more and more demanding. Nikolai knew from long experience that he had to put his foot down or risk losing everything. Killing these men would serve no purpose. “No.”

  We’re weak. We’re hungry. They’re right there! Kill them! KILL THEM! DEVOUR THEM!

  “Quit shouting at me.” That further enraged the Tvar. Nikolai grimaced against the sudden pain in his head. It was fighting to assume control of their body. It took all of his will to resist the fresh bloodlust pounding in his veins. Three years in desolation had tamed the Tvar, or so Nikolai had thought. He’d been fully in charge for so long that he’d forgotten just how forceful his other half could be. The bones in his hands cracked, and he clumsily dropped his rifle into the snow. Fingernails lengthened into claws. Nikolai curled his hand into a fist and drove the sharp edges deep into his own flesh. “I refuse.”

  Don’t deny me. You owe me. Get up. Get up and fight!

  Shuddering against the pain, he concentrated, just as his mentor, Koschei, had taught him. Giving in to the Tvar made it stronger, and each time he let it take control he’d be that much more likely to lose himself forever. He never should have let it free, but he’d been so desperate after Harbinger had murdered his wife. Rage had overcome intellect and the Tvar had come back with a vengeance. Being chained had angered it. It would not be put away quietly this time.

  The images flashing before his eyes were of slaughter. The Tvar was excited. The delicious hot taste of blood could coat his mouth and quench his thirst. Swallowing hard, Nikolai made himself picture Lila’s face as he’d last seen her alive; eyes as blue as the summer sky. She stood in the doorway of their home, waving, until he was over the hill and out of sight, just as she did every month, proud of his sacrifice yet eager for his return. The image jerked violently to that of her torn corpse. Logically, Nikolai knew the Tvar had done that to anger him, to goad him into changing.

  The mission came first. Nikolai’s breath hissed out between his teeth. The cloud of steam clouded his vision just as the Tvar’s anger had clouded his thoughts. He gathered all his strength and pushed the Tvar away from his conscious mind, but it was winning the battle for their body.

  It had been a long time since he could think clearly—since Lila’s death, in fact. Blood welled between Nikolai’s clenched fingers. Twitching, he forced his hand open, grasped his rifle, and dragged it against his body. His jaw ached as it began to extend. Teeth ground and cut through gums as they sharpened and grew. He maneuvered the muzzle under his chin. “I warned you.”

  No. Wait. If you kill us now, you’ll never have your revenge. Remember Harbinger. Remember what he did to her.

  The muzzle of the Val was freezing cold against his throat. “You will be silent.” He was not bluffing. He’d had enough. He would not live as an animal again. She would not have liked that. Lila would be disappointed. Nikolai’s finger found the trigger.

  You win for now, coward.

  The bleeding claws slowly retracted as the ache in his jaw subsided. Nikolai let the rifle rest against the shed as he sagged, exhausted, into the snow. Bitter, the Tvar retreated from the front of his mind. For the first time since he’d found Lila’s body, his head was clear. He was alone.

  Lila had been torn to pieces. The smells had told a story of terrible violence. He’d found Harbinger’s patch, he’d found Harbinger’s message, and the place had reeked with Harbinger’s scent. Enraged, he had broken his sacred promise to his beloved, freed the Tvar, and set out on the hunt.

  Lying there in the snow, weakened, freezing, Nikolai thought back to that day. When not distracted by the roiling anger of his other half, Nikolai was a very analytical man, and now he forced himself to remember the details. Every time he’d tried to do that before, the Tvar had interrupted and steered his thoughts back toward revenge. The Tvar had hated his sweet Lila. It had begged him daily to be rid of her so that they could return to their old ways.

  This was Harbinger’s fault. Nikolai did not believe in God, and even if he did, he knew there could never be forgiveness for the things he’d done, but for the first time in his long life, Nikolai had found simple happiness. Then the Hunter had forced his hand.

  Yet the bastard Harbinger had seemed confused before they had fought. Surely he would have known why Nikolai had come here. Harbinger had unearth
ed the probable location of Koschei’s amulet and murdered the only person Nikolai loved. Why should he be confused? The purpose of Nikolai’s presence should have been obvious. Perhaps it had been an act to enrage Nikolai before the fight, to distract him from his righteous purpose.

  But Harbinger was no actor. Their war had taught him that Harbinger was straightforward, direct. If he’d killed Lila, he wouldn’t have denied it: he would have bragged about it. Harbinger was not devious enough to try to confuse the issue. And despite all of their battles, Harbinger had always avoided harming the innocent. He had a strange respect for humanity that even Nikolai’s human side could not fully comprehend.

  The scent was there. The patch. The message. It was obvious. Nikolai shook his head, unsure again who was doing their thinking. Lila had been slaughtered, but Harbinger had not reveled in the slaughter during the war. Even Harbinger’s bestial side had been direct, killing swiftly, without mercy, but then moving on. Perhaps he’d changed, but men like Harbinger didn’t change. Their course was set in stone, and then seen through to their inevitable conclusion.

  Why would Harbinger even want the amulet? He never cared for the traditions or the challenges. Harbinger was a king who’d abdicated his throne to live as a man. It made no sense.

  The Tvar returned quietly, padding back into his thoughts, sniffing nervously at Nikolai’s suspicions. Enough of this, Nikolai. Please.

  It was not like the Tvar to ask. Normally, it only demanded. What did it not want him to know?

  There is no time for weakness. There is only time for revenge. For killing. Doubt makes you weak.

  “Doubt makes me human.”

  Another truck turned onto the road below. The wolfsbane in Nikolai’s pocket threw off his sense of smell, but somehow he knew who had just arrived. Harbinger was here. Nikolai would have his suspicions confirmed, one way or the other. Rising, he took up his rifle and staggered through the snow.

  “There,” Heather said, pointing. Earl had to squint hard to even make out the tail lights. “That’s Aino Haapasalo’s bunch. His family immigrated when he was a teenager. He should be able to translate.”