Page 66 of The Fallen
Bryn waited under the tarp until he no longer heard the men’s voices, and then he slinked out and dropped to the dirt track. Following the scent, he found his quarry around the side of the house, stacking logs into a firepit and pulling Adirondack chairs around it. He wound his way into a tangle of blackberry and wild rose bushes and watched as they brought out a cooler of beers even though it was not yet noon. He listened to them talk and learned that the Russians were called Ivan and Fedor.
“I take leak,” Ivan finally announced, clapping Grady on the shoulder as he stood unsteadily and staggered past Bryn’s hideout.
On silent feet, Bryn followed the man past the barn and down into the woods, thinking he must be quite shy to have to walk so far just to have a piss. Bryn waited as the man unzipped and with a groan of relief, leaned a shoulder against a tree to do his business.
As Bryn approached, his foot snapped a twig, and Ivan gasped. “Who is there?”
Bryn wiggled his backside and leapt, sinking his claws deep into the muscles of the man’s calves and letting them drag toward his ankles, blood soaking his jeans. He screamed as he went down face-first on the rocky ground, but it didn’t matter. By the time Grady and Fedor came to investigate, Bryn would be well hidden in the forest, and they’d have no idea what had happened. They’d be scared, jumping at shadows, and that would make it even more fun to taunt them until he finally killed them.
Ivan tried to drag himself away as blood poured from his broken nose. Bryn surged forward and curved his claws into his back. He sunk his teeth into the back of the man’s neck and tore away a chunk of flesh. Hot blood flooded his mouth as Ivanshrieked again. Bryn knew he should finish this, but he couldn’t resist letting this bawbag suffer a little longer. So, he let go, let the man stagger to his feet and stumble back toward the house. Ivan looked around wildly, his hand pressed to the back of his neck in a vain effort to staunch the flow of blood, but Bryn had already hidden himself in the bracken.
He let Ivan make it a dozen feet or so, just enough to think maybe he’d survive, before Bryn shimmied up a tree and pushed off with his back legs, colliding with Ivan’s chest and knocking him onto his back. Bryn bit into his lower lip and tore away the skin and muscle of his chin, exposing a row of teeth and the bone below. Frantic, reeking of fear, the man swatted uselessly at Bryn’s sides, but Bryn had his long claws sunk deep into Ivan’s shoulders. He heard footsteps coming down the dirt road and as much as it pained him, as much as he’d like to take this fud apart piece by piece until the pain and fear drove him out of his head, Bryn knew he had to finish the job.
With his back claws, Bryn ripped through Ivan’s shirt and his stomach underneath, tearing through muscle and organs. At the same time, he closed his jaws around the man’s windpipe and tore it out, leaving him to spasm and gasp. The soul bubbled from Ivan’s forehead, glowing and iridescent, and Bryn snatched it in his claw and wrestled it into the leather pouch.
The body finally went still just as leaves crunched under a pair of boots running through the woods. Bryn, sticky and matted with blood, turned expecting to see Grady before he darted into the underbrush.
Instead, he saw Gil.
White as a sail, Gil mouthed something unintelligible before he doubled over and lost his guts on the ground. Bryn hadn’t meant for him to see this, and he didn’t know if it would help his case to transform and try to explain himself.
He never got the chance to decide, because as soon as Gil stood, Grady pressed the barrel of a pistol to the back of his head. He looked from Gil to the mutilated body to Bryn. “Wh-what the fuck? What the fuck! What is that thing?”
The other Russian, Fedor, skidded to a stop in the leaf litter, swearing robustly in his language and pulling his own pistol. He aimed for Bryn, but Gil shouted and grabbed his arm. The bullet struck a branch, and red maple leaves rained down. Grady punched Gil in the ribs, and Fedor wrenched his arm free to take another shot at Bryn.
But Bryn was already gone, seething from the bracken as Grady delivered a few more blows to Gil. “I don’t know what that goddamn monster is, but if I even think I see it again, I’ll blow your goddamn head off.”
Grady turned to his companion. “Go down to the wharf to meet your cousins.”
Fedor squinted into the trees. “I say we should stick together. It is out there. I can feel it.”
Grady shuddered. “They’re gonna be pissed. They’ll think we’re avoiding them, and after they learn about this—” He gestured toward the corpse.
“He is to blame!” Fedor pointed at Gil. “He isvolshebnik! My family will make him pay. Keep your gun on him and if his demon comes back, kill him. Kill them both.”
With a last look at the body, Grady muttered, “Let’s get back to the house and lock ourselves in. I have some friends I can call in town. We have to get a message to your cousins before they think we’re behind this whole mess.”
Bryn watched as they marched Gil back to the house. Why had Gil chosen this moment to be a hero? If he’d waited just another hour, all three of these roasters would be on their way to Hell. No matter. Now, he had to save Gil, even if Gil could neverforgive him for the mess he’d made of that Russian. Bryn had an idea, but he’d have to time it just right.
CHAPTER 9
Bryn ran all the way back to town. He was faster as a cat, but it still took a few hours to traverse the distance the gaudy truck had crossed in fifteen minutes. He didn’t reach the waterfront until late afternoon, and he spent the next hour walking up and down, examining the boats and looking for whatever goons Grady had called to report to the Russians. Then he climbed atop the roof of the little shed across the street from the Drunken Scallop, where he had a view of the wharf, the harbor, and the main road through town. No way did he intend to let whatever little fuds Grady knew reach the Russians before he did.
He saw them coming from a mile away—two youths of probably fifteen or sixteen, one tall and gangly with greasy hair, a camouflage hoodie, and acne scars on his cheek, the other short and plump with baggy jeans and a red trucker cap. They milled about for hours, smoking a vape pen and looking at their phones to pass the time. Bryn leapt from roof to roof until he perched directly above them and clearly heard them discussing the hundred bucks Grady had offered them to deliver his message. They planned to spend it on a case of beer, fried chicken, and a game about auto theft.
Then, as soon as it got dark, Bryn leapt down and concealed himself in the shadows between two of the fishing huts. He knew exactly how to make sure these boys never delivered their message, and it would be simple enough to push the bodies into the harbor afterward. Nobody would find them until morning at the earliest. It was bitter cold tonight, and no one was around.
He stepped out of his hiding place to make his move, but something intercepted him.
Or someone. It was Brother Wilfred.
“No. I won’t let ye.”
Bryn cursed violently in Old Gaelic. He needed to get back to Gil! “Get out of my way or I’ll go through ye.”
“I’d like to see ye try.” The old monk crossed his arms over his chest. “I am, as ye ken see, fairly insubstantial.”
“And I’m an expert at snaring spirits.” Bryn extended his claws and swiped at the monk’s black robes… leaving a quartet of ragged tears in the coarse fabric. “Now…. Fuck. Off.”
