The Eternity House
by Katherine Fawcett
Steve floated down the stairs.
The smell of coffee, its hints of caramel, nuts and fire, made him grateful to still have his olfactory. It reminded him of weekend mornings before the accident, when he and Jeremy would wake up, limbs intertwined, and rock/paper/scissors for who would brew a fresh pot. Obviously, he no longer had a sense of touch or taste, or any of the tangibles like that, but man-oh-man, a guy could still appreciate the scent of dark roasted beans, no matter his physical state.
But wait. Coffee?
He stopped and hovered above the landing.
Neither he nor Jeremy drank the stuff anymore. They must have a guest. Strange. There was no one on the books, and they didn’t usually get walk-ins. It wasn’t the kind of establishment people just stumbled across, unless they were hopelessly lost. People almost always reserved through their website: www.theeternityhouse.com. Guests were delighted to find something off the beaten path, something cheaper than Airbnb, with its taxes and surcharges. And although technically people were welcome to stay at The Eternity House for as long as they wished—there was a flat rate per stay—no one had ever lasted more than a week.
It was Jeremy and Steve’s little game. At first they’d had a hoot with it, betting on how long the guests would last before they fled. Snooping through the personal items they’d inevitably leave behind.
Eventually they noticed patterns. Singles usually outlasted couples. Women outlasted men. Couples with children outlasted childless couples. Couples with mountain bikes often didn’t last a night.
Walk-ins: they were the wild cards.
−− −− −− −− −− −− −− −− −−
The Eternity House was always guest-ready. Fresh towels, fresh linens. A bowl of fruit on the counter. Tourist brochures. That morning, Jeremy was sweeping the kitchen.
“Do I sense a visitah?” said Steve in his best Vincent Price ghoulish voice. “An unsuspecting walk-in, perchance?”
Jeremy nodded towards the lobby where a large pair of men’s work boots, old and mud-splattered, lay akimbo on the mat. Above them hung a black canvas coat, sleeves still rolled up.
“Okie dokee,” said Steve. “Game on!” He looked at the Guest Check-In book on the table by the front door. On the Sign Here line was a crude X. Arrival Time said 3:20 a.m. He peeked through the slot in the metal Payment Box bolted to the wall. At least there was a wad of cash.
Jeremy set the broom against the wall and flicked the foyer lights on and off a few times. Rattled the chains in the front hall closet.
“No, no, no,” said Steve gently. “Not just yet. Let’s let the poor soul rest for a bit first.”
Jeremy ignored Steve and let a coffee mug fall to the floor.
“Darling,” Steve sighed. “I know you’re keen. But the sun’s barely risen.”
Jeremy said nothing.
Surprise, surprise.
Even before the accident, it seemed they’d run out of things to talk about. Back then, all they really had in common was Latin dancing, having sex, and ordering sushi. Steve’s family had never really liked Jeremy. And Jeremy was allergic to Steve’s cat. They didn’t always get each other’s jokes. But they’d lusted for each other. Their love-making was so good that seemed good enough.
Now, obviously, the carnal was done with, and here they were, running this cute little country inn and playing Haunted House together for the rest of time. Steve knew Jeremy barely tolerated him, but truth is, Steve still loved the guy. Always had, always would. He may no longer have been able to pinch his boyfriend’s backside while they danced, but he still yearned to hear his laugh. To inhale his exhales. To share dreams, fears, passions. Steve had thought they would bond, after the accident. Shouldn’t the afterlife be an even deeper place to build a relationship?
He tried.
He really did. But Jeremy was so restless. Bitter. Resentful.
When Steve suggested marital counselling, Jeremy had scoffed and wafted away.
Steve set a jar of blackberry jam on the counter beside the basket of fresh pastries. Jeremy sighed, picked up the jam, cocked his translucent head at Steve like: ‘Wrong again. Why are you always such a moron?’, put it back in the fridge, purse-lipped, and replaced it with marmalade.
Steve wasn’t exactly sure what the problem was, but apologized anyhow. “I’m sorry, Babe. I just thought—”
A door creaked open. They both spun around. The hallway was filled with a backlit figure, slowly moving towards them. Lurching. Staggering. Steve whispered, “Who is that? Is that our guest? I’ve never seen anyone so—”
Jeremy shushed him, but Steve carried on talking.
“Why’s he walking like that? Why does he smell like that? Like, decay. Like horribly bad breath. Can you smell it?”
When the guest’s face came into the light of the kitchen, it was even more clear there was something awry. Had he been in a fire? Some kind of industrial accident? Maybe he was —
“A zombie,” said Jeremy. Out loud.
Steve snapped his head to Jeremy. He spoke! Steve felt a tingle in his heart’s area. It had been so long since Steve had heard the timbre of Jeremy’s voice. He reached out to hold his lover’s hand. But of course, it wasn’t there.
“An eff-ing zombie.” Jeremy again, louder now.
He was right. There was indeed a zombie in the foyer, which, for any innkeeper, presented some challenges. But for Steve, this was an opportunity for connection with his partner. Something to talk about.
“Yes! So exciting!” whispered Steve into Jeremy’s ear as a piece of rotting flesh dropped from the zombie’s forearm onto the linoleum. “A man without a soul, right here at The Eternity House! Right here in front of us.” He knew he was rambling but he couldn’t help it. “A dead man walking. A vacant, spirit-less body. When you think about it, he’s the very opposite of us. So interesting! So fun! Right, Jeremy? Right?”
“I think he’s a perfect opportunity.”
Steve didn’t know where this was going. “A perfect opportunity? Like, for what?”
But Jeremy had already started drifting towards the dead guy. The air in the room turned suddenly cold. Steve gasped as his darling draped himself over the oozing, pulsating, living corpse in the kitchen. Jeremy was a delicate cloud of lacy mist, hugging a monstrous, gangrene-covered stump.
“Noooo!” Steve choked.
But as mist sank into flesh, the zombie’s eyes began to sparkle with Jeremy’s life-force. There was a “whooshing” sound that Steve thought might have been a joke until the creature gave a shake and a twitch, like he was trying on a new jumpsuit. Then there was a click, barely audible—the sound of a closing door when someone’s sneaking out—and in that moment, Steve knew Jeremy and the zombie had merged.
“Jeremy!” cried Steve. “My love! What have you done?”
“Sayonara, sweetheart,” said the spirited corpse, who still smelled pretty bad, but now moved with the grace of a man who enjoyed samba dancing, the company of tall men, and a nice assorted sashimi tray.
−− −− −− −− −− −− −− −− −−
Just like at a normal inn, guests at The Eternity House pay per night now. Men, women, couples, families, even mountain bikers. Some check in for just a few days; others stay for two weeks or more. The place is always clean and welcoming, the aroma of fresh coffee and pastries in the air. Steve doesn’t try to make anyone leave early by rattling chains or flicking light switches or other spooky shenanigans. He’s an attentive, melancholy and invisible host who discreetly hovers. And waits. And wonders. And wishes, that a stranger—rotting and rancid—will stagger through the door for him like he dreams of.
Katherine Fawcett is a Squamish-based author, teacher and musician. Her latest books are The Swan Suit and The Little Washer of Sorrows. She’s hosting an online Horror Writing Workshop on Monday, Oct. 28. Details at katherinefawcett.com.
In Our Garden
by Kate Heskett
Grace switched off the TV. Usually she’d stick it out until the weather report, but today’s news felt even gloomier than usual, and she could see a slither of sun making its way across the carpet.
“Might as well go and see for myself,” she said.
Outside the empty house Grace slipped her socked feet into her new designer red gardening boots and pulled on her matching jacket. The sky was cloudless, but the first part of getting the job done properly was dressing for the part. This season there would be no excuses.
Her red boots crunched through the rotting snow as she made her way between the raised beds still tucked away under white blankets. Bare trellises stuck out like rows of wooden graves marking the sites of last year’s failed attempts to grow tomatoes and peas and scarlet runner beans.
The vegetable garden had been her late sister’s idea and at its peak had provided everything they needed for Thanksgiving dinner and beyond. But since her passing Grace just hadn’t managed to get it right. The only things she could successfully propagate were pestilence and premature death.
Her sister would tell her to be patient, that learning how to create an harmonious garden takes time, that it’s all about slowing down and observing the connections between the plants and the animals, and helping everything work together. She’d wanted so badly for it to keep going after she’d gone.
It was why Grace responded to the flier in the first place. She usually dismissed unsolicited mail as scams, but the picture on the front of the prospering vegetable garden pierced her heart with shame.
“Participants wanted!” it read. “Seeking home gardeners to trial a new range of heirloom seeds in the Pacific Northwest. Non-GMO, guaranteed fully organic, these varietals may be the answer to sustainable food production! Future-proof your food! Sign up for your free samples today!”
When the little envelopes finally arrived they all had funny names, like Mondas Mung Beans and Silurian Snap Peas, and each seed was individually encased in its own silver capsule that also contained a “Completely natural, bio-dissolvable food source to nourish the seed until it adjusts to your unique soil.” She couldn’t wait to get started.
−− −− −− −− −− −− −− −− −−
When the snow finally melted Grace wasted no time getting the precious seeds into the ground. Usually she would second-guess every pairing and placement. “Should the cucumbers go next to the potatoes or the peas?” But this year she had a newfound confidence. At some point over the winter she’d taken to carrying the seeds around with her like worry dolls. Whenever something bothered her she’d remove a seed from her pocket and pinch the cap between her fingers, daring it to break. But it always sprung back into shape. A resilient little pod of action potential.
In a few short weeks Grace’s garden was an abundance of new life. Green sprouts unfurled daily, reaching up towards the strengthening sun. Grace walked the rows in her floppy straw hat, clapping her hands together in delight every time she discovered something new emerging. She still wasn’t sure exactly what she was growing, but she was looking forward to eating it. She could probably do with a vitamin boost. She’d recently found a lump on her neck, up in her hairline behind her right ear. It felt kind of squishy, like one of the raised moles on her sagging belly. At least being where it was no-one would be able to see it. She couldn’t even see it herself.
−− −− −− −− −− −− −− −− −−
Over the next few months the lump began to grow exponentially, stretching down along Grace’s spine. She considered getting it checked out but she knew her doctor would want to poke and prod and make a fuss. And it’s not like she was feeling sick. She actually felt better than she had in a long time. Stronger, and full of purpose. Not just purpose, but something she could feel in her bones, a kind of electric tingling that made her want to wriggle her fingers and toes. In the hot weather she’d ditched her fancy boots and taken to walking around the garden barefoot. She’d make her morning coffee and drink it slowly sitting on a log at the centre of the rows. Here she’d compile her own daily news.
“Lump, would you look at that! The beans have grown half a foot overnight! And the zucchini is in flower!”
Indeed, Grace’s garden was the envy of the neighbourhood. Her lettuces never burnt in the late frost, her tomatoes didn’t wilt in the extended heat. One lady even stopped by to ask what her secret was.
“Oh you know,” she said airily, “just getting back to doing things the old way, organic like.”
The lady nodded sagely, “We could use more of that.”
−− −− −− −− −− −− −− −− −−
Despite feeling stronger, Grace began to notice that she was having trouble getting dressed in the mornings. Determined, she tried to force her favourite floral blouse over her thickening neck, ripping it right down the seam.
“Lump, look what you’ve done!” The shredded garment fell to the floor and a flash of anger surged behind Grace’s eyes. Perhaps lump was getting too big?
She shuffled slowly towards her bedroom mirror to get a better look. Sitting down at her dresser she was shocked to see dust bunnies take flight. And her hairbrush and combs looked as though they hadn’t been moved in months. How long since she’d sat here? Grace tried to bring her reflection into focus.
“Could just wear button ups,” she said, turning back to her closet.
“Yes, Lump, I suppose it will have to be button ups from now on.”
She patted herself on the back for reassurance. Well, she patted Lump. What she hadn’t been able to see in the mirror was that Lump now stretched all the way down her spine to her tailbone.
−− −− −− −− −− −− −− −− −−
Sitting became uncomfortable. Grace spent the late summer wandering her garden, letting her feet guide the way, the grass tickling her toes. She could feel the weight of lump pushing down on her shoulders but she didn’t mind. It was familiar now, like a never-ending hug. Until one day, after pulling up weeds from the carrots, she discovered that she couldn’t stand back up. Crawling into the house on all fours she noticed some of last year’s Halloween candy that had slipped behind the couch. Too tired to haul herself onto the couch, Grace ate the candy, grateful for its simple sugar, and fell into a deep sleep curled up in the entryway. During the night, lump stretched out to support her aching hips and knees, and to protect her face from the hard floor.
--
The next day, unable to make her coffee, Grace crawls back into her garden. She moves creakingly between the beds, overflowing with pungent ripe fruits and vegetables left on the vine to rot. On all fours, up close, she hears the birds above devouring what they can reach, underneath the ants and the flies feasting.
“It’s beautiful, Lump. Do you think my sister would be proud?”
Lump nods.
“The trial!” Grace twists her head painfully towards the house. “We need to tell them what we’ve learnt!”
She tries to turn but lands flat on her belly, arms and legs refusing to cooperate.
“They are not ready,” Lump replies, “We are ready.”
Grace’s fingers curl towards her palms and plunge deep into the soil.
Her toes scratch at the dirt, long nails extending down into the earth, growing sinuous.
“But the others?” she whispers.
“They will come. Give them time.”
Fingers and arms and feet and legs stretch down and out and under the garden beds, rooting into place as Grace and Lump stretch together towards the sky, intertwined, skin becoming bark, hair becoming leaves, minds one.
“We have everything we need right here.”
Kate Heskett is a Whistler-based writer, canoe guide and collector of stories. They are an award-winning poet and their work was recently published in the Lupine Review. Originally from Australia, Kate is firmly stuck in the Whistler bubble, trying their best to grow more than just kale and still working on their first novel.
The Creature from Black Lake
by Alan Forsythe
So this happened a few years back, though I have never told anyone about it till now. It has to do with the time, five Octobers ago, when I talked my friends into looking for the creature from Black Lake.
“What Black Lake?” said my friend Bill, when I proposed the little adventure I’d cooked up.
“Green Lake is Black Lake, they changed the name back in the ’60s, for obvious reasons,” I told them—them being the aforementioned Bill, his girlfriend Joan, my girlfriend Kate, and Brock, who was just this guy who always hung out with us, despite no one ever having asked him to.
“And there’s a creature in the lake? That’s news to me.” That was Joan, and Kate readily agreed, although she seemed to just be teasing me. I could tell she was up for a “scary” adventure, no matter how much she may have doubted my story.
I explained to them that no, there wasn’t a creature dwelling within the lake, but one that stalked the far shore, around the ghost town of Parkhurst. In fact, the creature was why Parkhurst became a ghost town.
“What’re you talking about? Parkhurst became a ghost town when the old mill closed in the ’50s. Not because some Sasquatch or something killed everyone,” Bill said. I was beginning to suspect he was actually afraid to go.
“I didn’t say a Sasquatch, it’s something different… or so they say. Although humanoid, it’s not furry, more scaly, with large bulbous eyes, huge claws and a mouth filled with razor sharp fangs.”
“Uh, uh, so what is it, the Boogeyman?”
“Dude if you don’t want to go, we don’t have to go. But seriously, if you don’t believe this story, then what are you afraid of?”
“Yeah Bill, I mean, I’m not buying it either, but what the hell, sounds like a fun little pre-Halloween adventure.”
I knew Kate would be in, and once she was, so was Joan and after that, well, what choice did Bill have?
−− −− −− −− −− −− −− −− −−
We headed out the following afternoon. A crisp fall day, mostly clear, with a few clouds clinging to mountain peaks.
To save time, we paddled across the lake and tied the canoes up at the abandoned dock below the wreckage of the old steam shovel.
“How do you think this thing ended up here?” Asked Kate.
“Who knows, another Black Lake mystery.”
“Green Lake.”
“Not originally.”
Brock had, as usual, joined the four of us, although, as usual, no one had invited him. He wasn’t in the best shape, and had already started to lag behind the rest of us as we moved deeper into the woods.
The trail to Parkhurst isn’t so much a trail as a hiking route, marked through the woods by small coloured tabs, or sometimes just a trail blaze carved in a tree. Even in the bright afternoon, the woods remained surprisingly dark.
We pushed on, into the woods, following the route marked on the trees.
“We should have started earlier, it’s getting cold.” I drew Kate closer to me. “It’s not far now.”
“Where’s Brock?” Bill was behind us all, or actually Brock had been, but yes, where had Brock gone?
We all yelled for him, and waited for an answer back, but to no avail.
“He must have given up and headed back to the canoes.”
“Then we should go back for him,” Bill insisted, but what was the point? I asked. If he was too tired to go on, he was fine on the old dock till we got back.
“What if he’s lost?”
“How could he be lost? He must have still been in view of the lake from back there, even Brock could figure it out.” Bill was doubtful. We moved on nonetheless.
−− −− −− −− −− −− −− −− −−
We kept moving, deeper into the woods. The clouds had settled in, and it was darker and colder.
Although we soon made it to the abandoned and derelict buildings that the “town” of Parkhurst consisted of, they were half collapsed and overgrown with moss. Their dark doorways stood in a challenge for people to enter. In the growing dark, the ghost town of Parkhurst felt ominous indeed.
“I’m starting to think this wasn’t such a good idea.” Joan cast a skeptical eye over our destination, and shivered in the growing cold.
As if right on cue, a horrible wail echoed through the woods. It sounded very distant, but that was a small consolation.
“What the hell was that?” Kate huddle close against me.
“It’s our signal to leave, that’s what it is.” And never had Bill and I been in greater agreement.
We made off in a brisk walk back towards the lake, our fear pushing us at double time. There was the sense that something could reach out of the woods at any time and snatch us away.
However, as it turned out, what we feared wasn’t behind us, it was ahead of us. We heard a rustling in the woods, and a distinct hissing sound. Bill, who was in front, held us up.
“Guys I’m not sure what that was, but it’s definitely in front of us.”
“Bill, don’t, you’re scaring me.”
“Guys I’m not trying to scare anyone, but we all heard it, and I’m sorry, but it’s close, I think it’s...”
Bill never finished his thought, as a large grey streak plunged out of the woods, engulfed him and dragged him away. It was so fast he didn’t even have time to scream in terror.
Joan did, though; a blood-curdling scream of absolute horror. Kate and I rushed to her.
“What the f**k, what the f**k just happened!?” She was trembling and inconsolable, but we had to move.
Kate shook her. “Joan, we have to move, we have to move now!”
The thing, whatever it was that had taken Bill, was moving to the right of us. We plunged forward, towards the lake. At first I was holding Kate’s hand as we ran headlong through the woods, and I assumed she had Joan’s, but soon I lost it, caring only about, yes I’m ashamed to admit it, my self-preservation.
I heard Joan scream, looked back; Kate was still with me, but Joan was obscured by a large, grey scaly back. The creature raised one clawed hand and tore into Joan.
Kate screamed, and the creature turned back to look at us. Its head was oblong, with two large, completely black eyes. There was no discernible snout or nose, but below the eyes was a large, gaping maw of a mouth, lined with razor-like teeth. It hissed that horrible otherworldly hiss at us, then dragged Joan’s body into the woods with it.
Kate was paralyzed with fear. I grabbed her and dragged her forward, towards the lake. We could still survive, I thought, if we could make it to the canoes.
We made it to the old dock, somehow. There was no sign of Brock, although at that point we would have been more surprised to find him alive and well.
Kate stood shivering with cold and fear as I untied our canoe. I jumped in.
“Kate, come on, let’s go!”
But it was too late. The creature emerged out of the woods. Two large, clawed hands tore into Kate. She looked directly into my eyes, as she screamed her last.
I turned in the canoe and paddled as hard as I could. That horrible wail filled my ears again as I alone made my way back to safety.
Born and raised on the North Shore, Alan Forsythe has been skiing Whistler since he was 10, and writing fiction for almost as long. You can find his collection of short stories and novels on amazon.ca.
All Hallows’ War, Part 2: The Newcomer
by David Song
Find Part 1 at piquenewsmagazine.com/local-news/tales-of-fright-and-delight-7747220.
Astrid Gunnarsdóttir knew that her father would never approve of her presence on an active front line, let alone right in the middle of a human military barricade. Yet here she was, nonetheless.
It had been four years since the aptly-named Blood Pact, an alliance of lycanthropes and vampires, declared war on humanity. They’d swept across Europe and North America, killing countless people or turning them into newborn monsters. At first it looked like they would dominate the world, but one had to credit the humans for not going down easily.
Astrid wasn’t that type of vampire. She was part of the Vigilante Order, a group that believed it unethical to prey on sapient lifeforms. Her kind had fought their former brethren for more than a century, but of course humans didn’t know that. In their collective consciousness, all vampires represented an existential threat.
Astrid had travelled to the Sea to Sky, one of the war’s most volatile theatres, to extend an olive branch. She’d meticulously crafted a human alter ego to embed herself in one of their militaries. Her goal was not sabotage or assassination, but field research: to understand human customs in the hopes of making formal, peaceful contact.
That mission had brought her to a place named Creekside. It had once been a lively residential zone, but its cute little storefronts and houses had been taken over by soldiers. Astrid knelt behind a portable titanium barrier, posing as one of them: Corporal Jane Smith, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry.
She’d procured the uniform and dog tags from a fallen soldier who happened to possess the most generic name imaginable—perfect for her use. Though Astrid felt regretful about hijacking that woman’s identity, she told herself it was for a greater good.
“So…” The infantryman next to her began to speak. “How long’ve you been here?”
“Just arrived,” she told him, keeping her eyes on the dark highway winding south. “You?”
“Yeah, same.” A pause, then: “I, uh, don’t mean to be sexist or nothing, but you’re real pretty for a soldier.”
Astrid rolled her eyes. In this case, her appearance was a drawback: luscious blonde hair, piercing sky blue eyes, symmetrical heart-shaped face, tall and slender physique. Vampires were naturally beautiful, but she didn’t want to be attractive here. She wanted to blend in with the rank and file.
All that grime intentionally smeared on her face, all that dried mud caked in her hair—itself covered by a ballistic helmet—and she still couldn’t look forgettable.
Glancing at the infantryman, Astrid saw he was virtually a boy: clean-shaven with several zits across his young face. There was no insignia on his uniform, meaning he was a private of the most basic variety. His right index finger quivered inside the trigger guard of his rifle, unlike hers which rested properly just above the trigger.
“Hey…” she read the name printed on the right side of his camouflage jacket. “Miller. Trigger discipline, remember?”
He nodded, making the adjustment.
The other eight troops in Astrid’s section were armed with a mix of automatic rifles, machine guns and grenade launchers. Various other sections were posted at their own barricades, as were armoured fighting vehicles equipped with six-barreled rotary cannons. The elevated storefronts housed snipers.
Cacophonous noises began to reach Astrid’s ears: howling, snarling and the staccato drumbeat of many rapid footsteps. The Blood Pact force was still a few kilometres away, but they were coming. Astrid looked at the sergeant who led her section, resisting the urge to warn him. There’s no way a regular human could know what she did.
Instead, she had to wait until one of their snipers called out on the radio: “All units, be advised. Contact, five hundred metres and closing fast.”
Everyone tensed up at that message. Miller gulped nervously as sweat began to drip down his brow.
The lycanthropes came into view: a toothy, bloodthirsty wave of oversized wolves. Interspersed among them were numerous vampires, their fangs and fingernails elongated for battle. As they closed with astounding speed, section leaders hurriedly gave orders to open fire.
Astrid calmly looked down her rifle’s sight as barrels blazed around her. She pulled the trigger once at a time, shooting vital organs with inhuman accuracy. Five wolves fell before her in the span of two seconds, then four vampires in equally rapid succession.
Wow, she thought. Firearms are fun.
The armoured vehicles engaged with their cannons, obliterating dozens of hostiles with bursts of high-calibre ammunition. Monsters were exceedingly difficult for humans to hit with small arms, but not even they could outrun the big, radar-guided guns.
Then Astrid heard a different sound: a deep, powerful roar coming from the east, not the south as their current targets were. She knew that noise… that battle cry.
Oh, no.
Another lycanthrope burst from the terrain to Astrid’s left. He stood larger than an African bush elephant, with jet-black fur, a skull thicker and shorter than that of most wolves, and a face marred with old battle scars.
Canaan, the lycan alpha, was here.
In the blink of an eye, Canaan rammed an armoured vehicle and upended it easily. He pivoted with terrifying speed and flipped a second one before pouncing atop a third to mangle its armament with his jaws. Next, he threw his massive frame into the assembled soldiers.
Bodies and barricades scattered like bowling pins. Astrid dive-rolled and came up on one knee—and that’s when she realized he had someone in his mouth.
Miller’s limp corpse looked incredibly fragile between Canaan’s broad, conical teeth. His green eyes were wide and lifeless, his pubescent face locked in an expression of horror. Astrid’s heart sank at the sight.
Canaan swallowed the unfortunate boy as his predatory amber eyes focused on her. “What’s this?” he rumbled. “You seem confused, little fang.”
“No,” she said with decidedly more resolve than she felt. “Just here to protect people from murderers like you.”
He laughed, though in wolf form it sounded like a series of short barks. “You’re doing well so far.”
Canaan stepped forward, and Astrid emptied the remainder of her magazine into his face. The bullets dug deeply into his flesh, yet before her eyes those injuries began to mend. Her silver rounds, poisonous to most monsters, didn’t seem to affect him at all.
Well… damn.
Astrid braced herself for a melee she would almost definitely lose. Yet out of the corner of her eye she spied movement. Was that…
A large halberd buried itself in Canaan’s flank, causing him to howl in pain. That weapon left as quickly as it had arrived, flying through the air and returning to the hand of a figure in glistening obsidian armour.
The helmeted warrior adopted a fighting stance, but glanced over at the one he’d saved. “What are you doing here, Astrid?”
“Um…” In spite of everything, Astrid felt hopeful—even starstruck. It was the Knight-Watcher, one of the greatest warriors in vampire history. She’d known all along that her brethren had been wrong about him. Here he was, making a difference!
Canaan’s angry growl returned Astrid’s attention to the matter before her. The wound inflicted by the halberd wasn’t healing as blood gushed from it, but he was still a force to be reckoned with. They weren’t done yet.
The Knight-Watcher nodded at Astrid, and she knew they were on the same page. Together, they charged the lycanthrope alpha.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
David Song is a reporter for Pique Newsmagazine, covering sports and arts.
