Page 8 of Sanctuary

Roman squeezed.

Bones crunched with a crack. Roscoe’s eyes rolled up, his head lolled, and he went limp.

Roman made a tossing motion.

The hand hurled the broken man off the property and toward the men on the road. They scattered, and he landed in the snow. The hand sank back into the ground.

The shorter Honeycomber dropped to his knees next to Roscoe and put his ear on the man’s chest.

“Not dead,” Roman said. “Just broken.”

The shorter Honeycomber whistled a shrill note. The two iron hounds charged back to him. He heaved Roscoe onto King’s back, reached into his shirt, pulled a bag out and dropped it in the snow.

“We had a deal,” the leader said.

“This weren’t no part of that deal. You wanted to find the kid. We found him. We’re going home, Wayne.”

“Suit yourself.”

The Honeycomber turned.

“He’s going to kill you,” Roman said.

The Honeycomber whipped around.

Wayne nodded.

Six crossbows twanged in unison. One bolt took the Honeycomber in the throat, three more sprouted from Roscoe and King. The iron hound went down with a metallic clang like someone had dropped a bag of nickels. Two more bolts sank into Trigger, one into his back and another into his side. The big dog spun, looking for an exit, pinned between the fire team and the house.

The crossbowmen reloaded with ridiculous speed.

Trigger turned his head, his eyes desperate, looking at Roman. Their stares met.

Fine, what’s one more? Roman nodded.

Trigger charged toward the house.

The two crossbowmen hiding on the flanks fired.

Two skeletal hands burst from the ground, lacing their fingers together in a protective cage around the porch. The bolts bounced off and fell to the snow. Trigger climbed the porch steps. Blood drenched his iron hide. Roman held the door open, and the dog sprinted into the house.

“It’s like that then?” Wayne asked.

“It always was.” Roman finished the last of his coffee. “You had your chance. Now none of you will leave here alive.”

Wayne grinned. “And here I thought this would be a boring job. Sit tight. Don’t go anywhere.”

The team backed away from the property line and fanned out, melting into the woods.

* * *

The dog had collapsed in the living room, right on the edge of the rug. The nechist pondered him, unsure. As Roman strode into the room, the melalo waddled over to the iron hound and slapped Trigger’s nose with his wings.

“No hazing!” Roman snapped.

The melalo darted behind the couch.

“If he does that again, bite him.”

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