A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters (32 page)

Time springs back to full speed as I release my Focus and shriek. The little beast shoots upward then arrows straight for me. Hoots rise into the night. I stand, lifting my arms and shrieking as the thing descends. Family swarms from the trees.

The Winged Death hisses and spits, comes to a dead stop in midair by billowing its wings then twists back on itself and flies away, tail lashing the air. A flash of silver in moonlight makes my Focus snap back, and time slows again, the band of silver encircling the slim neck confusing. The dark sky spins. Stars dissolve, becoming the wooden-beam ceiling of Bernie’s living room.

I find myself on the floor, staring up at a worried Dean. “I’ll be damned. You were right. It’s a dragon.”

 

“—buzzsaw with wings,” I sketch the size of the dragon with my hands. “I’ve never actually seen one. They’re so tiny!” I round on Bernie. “Did you know the yeti are the reason why dragons don’t cross the Connecticut?”

Bernie nods. “Figured. Dragons are always regional. Had to be something territorial.”

“So how did this one get here?” Dean asks.

Bernie rests his hand on the yeti’s. “Don’t know. They felt it maybe a week ago, so they came looking. They’ve been tracking it. Most dragons get clear of yeti territory damn quick. This one stays. It knows it don’t belong, but won’t leave.”

“That’s never happened before?”

“No. Never seen a dragon in a collar, either.”

“That’s just bizarre,” Catherine states. “No dragon would
consent
to a collar.”

I cut to the chase. “How do we take it down, take it out?”

Bernie shakes his head. “Can’t kill it without a license. Federally protected. Best thing is to trap it, get that collar off. Can’t figure why it’s staying if not for that collar. The two magics—yeti and dragon—don’t mix. They steer clear naturally. If the yeti can feel it, the dragon can feel it shouldn’t be here.”

“It looked happy enough snacking on chickens. Didn’t seem perturbed until it dive-bombed me. Er . . . him.”

“Dragons are mean sonsabitches.” Bernie warns. “Trapping it’ll be a job.”

“But one we need to do, and fast,” I say. “When he showed me what happened at the Kroeger’s, he screamed. The others, too, and hooted. That clears up who mentioned yeti to Ned.”

Bernie swears. “Kroegers have been here long enough. Probably know some old legends. I just didn’t think the yeti’d been anywhere near the killings.” He grips the yeti’s hand. It becomes agitated, starts to rise, going insubstantial around the edges. He’s ready to bolt.

“Don’t leave!” I appreciate their desire for secrecy and seclusion, but something tells me yeti-assistance is the only thing that’ll bag us a dragon. My brain snags on that. Bag a . . . “Bernie, you’ve got a NetShot 2500, don’t you? I saw one, when you showed me your old gear.”

He shakes his head. “1600. I left the Service before they issued the 2500. But that won’t hold a dragon . . . not even a 2500. They were only ever for werewolf pups and ghouls. And the occasional gnome that got abusive. Dragons would tear right through ’em, wouldn’t matter how you lined the nets. And I only have copper nets.”

I study the yeti. “I understand. But if you still have a net frame, we might have something the dragon can’t burn through.”

 

Midnight finds us hiding in the woods around the Kilpatrick farm. So far, watching the Kilpatricks’ fields has done nothing but spook the Kilpatricks’ horses, who keep scenting the werewolves. Calmer—or just stupider—the cows stand in clumps.

Turns out all five of Bernie’s daughters have the blood. Four werewolves pace around us as protection, the fifth back at our place with Bernie.

Bernie predicted the dragon would move to the next farm. Only sheer force of Daughters kept Bernie from coming with us, making me grateful they’re as stubborn as their father. Time meanders as we crouch in the damp night, the wolves ranging out then returning. Bernie’s arthritis wouldn’t appreciate the moist chill.

Hanging out in dark woods with a small pack of werewolves is high on Dean’s list of Things Never To Do. I say nothing when he presses close to me.

All remains quiet until just after 3AM when all four werewolves lift their heads in perfect unison. Seconds later, a wolf howl rises in the distance. A feral edge ripples through the pack as four heads swivel in the direction of the howl, and my property.

The pack flows into dark blurs, bounding away, leaving us to jog behind. By the time we stumble into our yard, we’re gasping for breath. In the pasture, my sheep race back and forth, wild-eyed and bleating. Herbert snorts and paws. Five wolves fling themselves into the air over and over, trying to reach the dark shape swooping and diving. The yeti crouches, swinging its arms above its head, shrieking. In the midst of the confusion, my eyes find the body on the ground.

“Bernie!” Dean kneels by him. Long claw gouges run down Bernie’s chest, the tatters of his flannel shirt and overalls gaping over bleeding flesh. His blistering curses reassuring me, I spin to the Uncanny, bringing the NetShot up.

In the stark glare of the outside lights, the yeti becomes even more unearthly, hair whirling, huge shadow dancing in crazy patterns. I sight above his head, knowing it’s the best shot at the dragon. Sure enough, despite the snapping teeth of the leaping wolves, the dragon circles his head, feinting, striking. “DUCK!” The yeti crouches lower. The dragon dodges. I fire.

The net shoots out of the launcher barely visible. To my relief, weighted edges spin out just as designed. I’ve never woven a net for a NetShot. Bernie has, so I trusted his guidance. It glitters, suddenly visible, then winks out; enough to draw the dragon’s sharp eye but not enough to warn. In the next instant the dragon tumbles to the ground, wings and limbs tangled.

The wolves circle. It screeches and flaps, trying to writhe away from wherever the yeti-hair net touches its scaly hide. I shoulder aside the wolves to get to it—the netting leaves bright white scorches on it. I don’t want to torture the thing, but how to restrain it? “Dean! Get my knitting needle case!”

“WHAT?” His incredulous yell makes a laugh bubble up, but the dragon’s pained noises kill it.

“Just DO IT.” I gingerly lift the netting away from the dragon. It strikes like a snake, a lancing bite catching my finger. “Dammit! I’m trying to HELP!”

That works. The dragon stills the frantic beating of its wings and quiets. Untwisting the net, I lift, making sure the weighted edges stay flush with the ground. When the net hangs over the dragon like a little tent, it lays panting, baleful yellow eyes staring at me. Blood drips from my finger. The dragon’s head shoots out, catching the droplets. I try to ignore it as Dean drops down beside me.

“Put some needles around the edges to hold this up. The net hurts it.”

Using size 15s, Dean jams knitting needles into the ground like miniature stakes, twisting the net around the top of each until it forms a net-cage.

“We care that it hurts?” a feral voice growls.

“Your father will.”

“Yep.” Bernie’s voice. Two daughters half-shifted to their intermediary humanoid forms support him.

“It started for the sheep,” one rasps. I recognize Laura, the youngest. “Then Dad came out and it went for him. It was after
him
. Didn’t even look at me.”

Bernie pulls away from his daughters to kneel down, wincing. He widens a hole in the netting, reaching through. His fingers shake but the dragon stays still, and he touches the collar without getting bitten, mumbling under his breath. The dragon’s tongue flickers out, licking blood from his fingers.

Bernie’s mumbling ends and crackling tree branches bring us around. The dragon hisses, eyes narrowing. Ned Dietrich walks toward us in the jerky, unnatural way I’ve only ever seen in zombies.

“Dammit, Ned,” Bernie sounds cross, but resigned. “Never know when it’ll start on humans, eh? Suppose making me the human takes out two birds. You can stop worrying about me talking, and get everyone yelling for Uncanny blood.” He releases the dragon’s collar.

As if the movement cuts a set of invisible strings holding Ned up, he drops to his knees, gasping. His hand lifts, massaging his chest and throat. A fine leather—leather? no, dragonhide—gauntlet encases his left forearm, like a falconer’s glove. A silver bracelet buckles around it, a match for the dragon’s collar. Ned glares at Bernie, jaw clenching.

“The guy defending the monsters gets killed by one. That’d turn even the most level- headed,” Bernie says, and under his disgust I hear disappointment. “You should know me better. I’ve never said word one.”

Ned looks away but his voice lashes out. “You expect me to believe you weren’t just waiting for the best time?” He sneers.

The daughters circle again, closing on Ned. All but Catherine shift back to full wolf, growls rumbling. I gape when Dean pushes into the circle, standing in front of Ned. “Whoa, you’re just going to kill him?” Dean says.

Catherine’s cold eyes settle on Dean and he quails. Without hesitation I wade in and position myself in front of him. Still, protection doesn’t mean agreement. “He tried to kill their dad, Dean.”

Without warning, one of the wolves darts forward, catching Ned’s pant leg, sinking teeth through denim into the boot and leg beneath. Ned’s howl of pain and Bernie’s shout of “Jennifer!” doesn’t cover the sound of denim and leather rending. A second wolf flings herself bodily at Ned, knocking him flat.

“Heather, don’t!”

Despite agreeing, I don’t want to be this close. Short women still make for big wolves. Grabbing Dean’s arm I haul him out of the circle, stumbling when he digs in.

“No! Think! What happens when he disappears after these attacks, after yeti were mentioned?”

The wolves hesitate.

“He’s right,” Ned snarls, holding his torn boot together over his bleeding leg. “If I disappear, you just bring it on.” He shoots Bernie a dark look, but I can see it’s nervous bravado.

The wolves look at each other. “Have him arrested for dealing dragons?” one snarls. I recognize Karen in the cool logic.

“No arresting, no killing,” Bernie limps forward, grips Ned’s arm, yanks him to his feet. “Me and the yeti are going to chat with Ned.” The yeti drifts forward at Bernie’s words, reaches out, catches the back of Ned’s neck in one large hand, and drags him across the yard to the barn.

“Dad,” Karen starts, but Bernie shakes his head.

“No. I promised your mother.”

“She didn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter. I promised. No more.” He follows the yeti, leaving his daughters simmering with suppressed violence. Dean keeps me between him and them.

I stare at the dragon, wondering what the hell to do with it. Wondering if I’m the only one who noticed, through Ned’s torn and sagging boot, the flash of cloven hoof.

 

Grinning at the armload of yeti- hair, I offer an unconvincing protest. “They don’t have to—”

“They want to. You got rid of a dragon.” Bernie’s eyes twinkle. “Let them. It’s important to them.”

“They realize as soon as I start spinning this, there’ll be an explosion of interest.”

“They trust you to guard your business secrets.”

I don’t need to be told what that means from a species as paranoid as the yeti. I can’t wait to start spinning, the silky feel against my hands intoxicating. Weaving the net was sublime. “I didn’t do—” I begin.

“You did good.” His proud smile is even better than the yeti-hair. “Knew you were special.”

Embarrassed, I change subjects. “So. Ned.” Bernie hasn’t brought it up but I have to ask.

He digs out his pipe, staring at it. “Satyr,” he finally says. “Half, anyway. Boy’s all kinds of screwed up.” He squints past my left shoulder. “You know . . . not many human/satyr pregnancies go to term,” he says carefully. “Usually the woman’s . . . too traumatized. Understandable. Ned’s mother—” He stops, unable to continue, tears collecting at the corners of his eyes.

I suck in a breath as the last pieces fall into place. The product of an Uncanny sexual assault would certainly have some identity issues. He must hate that side of himself. I can’t imagine how it happened that Ned’s mother chose to carry to term. My heart aches for the unknown woman. “You’re the only one who knows?”

“Was. Now there’s two of us.”

“Great.” Not a comforting thought. “Think he intended to kill you?”

“Yep.” Bernie shrugs. “Odd man. Not
bad,
really.”

“Bernie. He tried to
kill you
. That’s bad. Really.”

“Desperate people. He wanted his monster war. Probably thought he could push secession through, too, if it looked like dragons were invading. The yeti was just a happy accident.”

I remember the yeti dragging Ned like a broken doll. I doubt he considers that accident so happy anymore. “You keep your daughters from killing him because he’s a desperate, unhappy man, or because he’s Uncanny?”

Bernie chews on his pipe stem. “Don’t know.”

“You’re an odd man yourself, Bernie.”

“You’ll get odd too, spending time with yeti.”

“Think I’ll be spending time with them?”

“Let’s put it this way. You know how they call me the Vermont Shaman. None of my girls can inherit the position. Needs a human.”

I blink. “Are you saying—”

He puts a hand on my shoulder and meets my eyes, smiling. “I’m saying I’m damn glad you moved to Vermont.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

M
y name is Random Delaney. I’m a vermin hunter, but I’m not allowed to use real bullets. Bullets and lasers are a little hard on spaceships, and that’s where I generally ply my trade. I have a lot of other cool ordnance, though, some of which I don’t understand. I was trained by a Skikka, and you know how those guys are, all about the mystery, you can never see behind the veil, yada yada ping pong. Some of the stuff I use, he didn’t even tell me what it was called, which makes it hard to reorder.