Blood and Silver - 04 (2 page)

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Authors: James R. Tuck

BOOK: Blood and Silver - 04
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A pile of old cinderblocks lay on the ground, scattered from where I had slammed into them. As my eyes cleared, I saw the man who had thrown me was now a full-fledged man-beast. Half man, half lion, he stood like a special effect in a big-budget movie. Sand-colored fur covered him and he had grown in size, more muscular than before, bigger than me. Thick black talons flexed in and out at the end of his fingertips. His body shook. Dreads colored like dirty honey bounced around his leonine face. They had grown out into a thick mat of a mane.
Back turned to me, he had the dog’s chain again. His arm lifted, making the dog dangle. Pawing at the air, it struggled to breathe through the choking collar. Blood dripped from its fur, spattering the ground at his feet in a crazy pattern of swirls. High-pitched yelps of pain were choked by the collar and still cut over the low growl that was thrumming from the Were-lion.
Violence coiled inside me like a spring, tension tight, waiting to be unleashed. Anger coursed through my body. My old friend rage washed away the pain in my back with a tide of adrenaline. Eyes squinted, my vision narrowed to a laser-fine focus; only the Were-lion was in my sight. The skin on my fingers scraped as they closed on two of the cinderblocks next to me. They weighed nothing in my anger.
One in each hand, I charged, closing the space between us in the blink of an eye. Fury tore from my throat in a scream as I slammed the two cinderblocks together against his skull.
They shattered into shards of concrete and dust from the impact, falling apart in my hands.
The dog fell from the lion-man’s grasp, yelping as it hit the ground and immediately curling into a ball of blood-slicked fur. The lycanthrope dropped to his knees, bonelessly slumping to the side. I was on top of him in a second, fists pounding against the side of his face. Anger drove my fist again and again, trying to batter my way through bone. He was still conscious. He stayed half man and half beast, even though his face was slack and his eyes were closed. If he had passed out, he would have shifted back into a human. I kept beating on him, not giving him a chance to recover. Not even one damn second. One second would be too much. Give him even one second of respite and he would recover, and I would lose the slim advantage I had.
There was a flash of motion to my left. I jerked toward it. Something struck me in the side; then I was tumbling across the ground with a wolf trying to eat my face.
Two-inch-long curved yellow fangs snapped viciously at me. Fetid canine breath left the skin on my cheeks moist, and hot spittle flew as I fought to keep that mouth away from me. Everywhere my hands fell on the wolf to hold it back found muscle vibrating with power. Coarse fur rubbed along my arms, feeling like cotton candy made of steel. I was on my back with the wolf on top of me. My mind registered its size because we were pressed against each other. It weighed a ton as it pressed over me, the wolf was damn near as big as I was.
My hands scrabbled, trying to find a weak spot to exploit. Digging, I found the wolf’s trachea under a thick ruff of fur. It felt like a softball in my palm. Squeezing with all the strength I had, I clawed my fingers under it, trying to crush it. My arm was burning with effort when I felt it give and pop in my grip with the wet, hollow sound of dislocating a joint.
With a yelp that strangled out in a gurgle, the wolf pushed off, leaping away. It swung its head from side to side, coarse fur ruffling around its neck. It shook from snout to tail, gagging on its own blood. Black nails had dug long red furrows across my thighs and chest. The denim of my jeans gapped open atop the slashes. Thin, hot streaks cut across where the skin was broken, blood soaking out to the edges of the cut jeans.
It hurt like a bitch.
I didn’t try to get up. In a fight, you are at your most vulnerable when trying to stand up. Instead, my hand closed on the gun under my left arm and pulled it out. The grip filled my hand with a comfort. My heartbeat slowed and my nerves stopped jangling. I always feel better with my gun in hand. It slid out of the holster like a nickel-plated messenger of death, glinting in the afternoon sun. Colt .45 model 1911, made by John Moses Browning and standard issue for our troops for near a hundred years. The 1911 is as reliable and intuitive as a semiautomatic handgun can be. This one was covered with swirls of engraving. The ivory grips were carved into the face of a skull. It was one of a matched set that I had taken off a Yakuza assassin a few months back. The other was at home. One big-bore semiautomatic and a backup gun should have been enough for a day out to a street fair.
Should have been.
The safety was thumbed off the second I pulled it free of the holster. I had it pointed at the group of men who now stood surrounding me. They had been closing around me in a half circle. They stopped midstep when the gun flashed out. It’s hard to feel anything but helpless when you are flat on your back, but having a big-ass gun helps. The 1911 holds seven rounds of silver-jacketed death. Eight if you carry one in the chamber.
I always carry one in the chamber.
“Everybody stay right where you are.” I swung the gun back and forth from one to the other in a smooth arc, red laser sight bouncing from chest to chest. “Next person to take even one step toward me eats a bullet.”
The five men were all different but dressed like the Were-lion was—black military BDU pants, boots, and a black shirt. Each had small touches of individuality, but they still looked like they were wearing some sort of paramilitary uniform.
And they were all lycanthropes. I could feel their power pressing against my skin in a mishmash of sensation. Flashes of fur short and thick, fur coarse and greasy, rubbery skin wet and rough, thick pyramids of horn, and the oil-slick feel of snakeskin. The impressions slithered and crawled over me until they took hold of my mind. Pressure built in my skull as I drew in my power to sense the supernatural, closing it like a fist. I tamped the impressions down in my mind. Pulling my power close inside made the sensations fade. It’s a bitch to concentrate when all of that is going on and I was a little occupied.
The lycanthropes around me were all different sizes and shape; the only thing similar about them was the clothes they wore. The one on the left crouched, ready to spring. Yellow eyes gleamed in the sunlight, and they had the same feline cast as the Were-lion’s. He wasn’t nearly as large as the lion—smaller, sleeker, but similar in build and feel.
Next to him stood a long, thin man with black eyes set in a wide face. His dusky skin was hairless and slick. Even holding his position, he swayed gently back and forth. A bloodless, forked tongue flickered over thin lips. I knew from the feel of him I was looking at some kind of snake. I would bet money he was venomous.
His neighbor was short and stocky, standing on squatty, bowed legs. His skull had shifted, elongating his face into a reptilian snout. Matching black eyes blinked slowly at me, and hard, pebbled skin formed across his brows and cheeks.
A small, greasy man with a wide chest was helping the Were-lion to his feet. Small, sharp teeth flashed in a wide grin, too many teeth for just human, and dark brown hair shot coarse from his head.
The fifth one was a giant of a man. He would have towered over me, and I am not short. Hell, normally I am the biggest man in any given situation, but this one stood an easy seven feet tall. His head was shaved like mine and gleamed in the springtime sunshine. Everywhere his skin showed it was fish-belly pale. Thick and rubbery, it covered massive limbs. Arms like slabs of beef hung loose by his side. Webbing stretched between his knuckles, skin solid to the first full joint of each finger.
The greasy Were hopped from one foot to the other, tugging on the Were-lion’s arm. His voice was a raspy bark. “Leonidas, he is down on the ground, showing his belly.” A finger shot in my direction. The arm and hand it was on covered in a thick layer of wiry brown hair. “We can take him.”
The Were-lion shook him off with a growl and stepped in, closing the circle around me. Blood matted dreadlocked hair, and his face was twisted with anger. The wound from the cinderblocks was closed up already. Damn lycanthropes. They heal like magick.
“He is right, human. Put the gun away, you are outmatched.” A taloned finger flicked a dread from across his eyes. “Put it away. Take your beating like a human and we will let you live.”
I didn’t move from the dirt and gravel. Sharp rocks dug into my back and shoulders. Liquid heat was building in the muscles of my arms from holding my gun up while lying on my back, but they weren’t trembling.
Yet.
“I don’t know. I see seven assholes and I have eight silver bullets. I’d say I was matched pretty damn good.”
The tension in the group cranked up to eleven. They all began to cast eyes at Leonidas, the Were-lion. I had gotten their attention by saying the magic words:
silver
and
bullets.
Silver is good against most supernatural threats. It slows monsters down, equalizes the equation. To lycanthropes, silver is poison. They can heal most damage done to them, except for silver. Not only does a silver bullet cause the same trauma to them that a regular bullet does to a regular human, but it sets up a violent, allergic chain reaction too. If they don’t get the bullet out of them, it can lead to anaphylactic shock and death. With regular bullets, you have to completely destroy the brain or the heart to kill a Were. Toss silver on the bullet and you have a fast-acting poison to lycanthropes.
It changes the game. Evens the odds.
“Bullshit.” This was from the giant. It sounded like the word was stuck in his gullet. He choked it out, wet and messy. “Nobody uses silver bullets. They’re too expensive.”
My eyebrow cocked up. “You can be the first one to find out.”
I could feel the tremble starting in my shoulders. The gun didn’t shake yet, but it was getting heavy. Really damn heavy. I was going to have to do something to change the dynamic we were in. A standoff was not in my favor. My arm would quickly fatigue until my aim would be worthless, even at this close range. If I moved and took my gun off them, they would jump on that moment of weakness and distraction like quicksilver. I had no idea how to change the situation without opening fire, so I continued to buy time.
“The name is Deacon Chalk. Surely you didn’t roll your furry asses into town and not check out the local players.”
Leonidas waved his hand dismissively. “You are not our prey. We don’t care who you are.”
“Turn around, leave the dog with me, and clear the hell out of my town.” The tremble that had been twittering in my shoulders now ran down my arm, spasming my triceps muscle. Fire poured into every fiber of my arm. The muzzle of the gun moved side to side. Tightening my grip steadied it. But only a little.
“Be warned, asshole.” My own voice was a snarling growl now. “I will shoot before I lose control of my gun. Make your choice right now. Walk and live. Stay and die.”
There was a moment where time froze, clear and sharp and fragile. None of us moved. None of us breathed. We just stayed locked in a bubble of potential violence and bloodshed. Tension crackled the air, ozone hot.
Then, the pressure changed.
All of them leaned slightly forward, drawing into themselves, getting ready to leap in tandem, murder in their eyes. My finger tightened on the trigger, arm tensing to absorb the shock of recoil that would happen the split second the hammer fell.
Death held his breath, waiting for blood to be spilled. I would not be able to take them all out before they tore into me. But some of them were dead meat, they just didn’t know it.
A midnight black hot rod roared into the lot, grinding gravel under its wheels as the brakes locked down.
Its monster grill loomed like a killer whale over a family of seals. Dust flew forward, swirling over the hood and front tires. The engine snarled with pure American horsepower. The 1966 Comet Cyclone is the epitome of what a hot rod is supposed to be. It stood with attitude. Badass black with chain-link steering wheel and a growling engine that put the lion to shame.
She is a beauty and she is all mine.
The heavy door swung open. A small brunette with bubblegum streaks stepped out. A shotgun racked in her hands, its distinctive sound
click-clacking
loud over the engine’s growl. She brought the barrel down, sweeping it back and forth over the lycanthropes that were regrouping. They had been driven back by the car’s entrance.
“Which one of these assholes do you want me to shoot first?” Tiff’s eyes flashed, black and pink hair swirling out.
The cavalry had arrived.
God bless her.
I scrambled to my feet, using the distraction of the car to my advantage. The lycanthropes looked from me to Tiff. The bowlegged one made a swift, shuffling move toward her. She pointed the shotgun at the middle of his chest.
“Take one more step!” The words pushed from behind clenched teeth.
My .45 was still pointing at the Weres. Moving and adrenaline had washed away the burn in my muscles. “I’d listen to the lady. That gun has double-aught silver shot in it. She can’t miss your ass from there.”
Those black eyes turned toward me. Slowly, he took a step back. I shook my gun, waving them back. “Keep moving. All of you move your asses back.”

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