“I’m guessing you have another devil’s trap by the door, but I can’t see it.” She scanned about the room, picking up each layer of protection she could see. “Wall hangings to cover warding sigils and the ones you have carved in the windowsills are some serious mojo. I’d recommend adding a couple to stop Banshee’s though…passed a band of them a couple of days ago heading this way.”
Picking up the silver fork she speared a lump of beef from the stew and popped it into her mouth, busting the theory she was a Were or a Ghoul. Silver burned the first, and the other couldn’t stomach cooked meat. She looked at him in expectation for a second and grinned at his shell-shocked expression. “Did I miss anything?”
His surprise disappeared under a glower. “What the f**k are you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not a threat to you and your town. In fact, I’m intrigued. Where did you learn all this stuff?” She waved her hand, indicating the silver, the wards and the other protections in the place. “I’ve never come across a place so well prepared.”
“Playin’ dangerous games, sweetheart,” Mason bit out, holding his hand up in warning as someone in the shadows behind her cocked a weapon. “People around here get jumpy when it comes to non-humans. I’ll give you the same warning I did those Ghouls on the barbeque outside. Get your kit, and walk. You ain’t human, you ain’t stayin’.”
Andy rose to her feet. Below average in height, she’d long ago given up trying to attain the grace her mother had possessed. Finding out at the end of the world she was not only adopted but a different species altogether sure explained a lot.
“Can’t say fairer than that I guess.”
Swiping a razor-sharp nail over the pad of a finger Andy watched blood well up from the small cut. Leaning forwards she drew a symbol onto the table in blood.
“What the f**k are you doing?” Mason demanded, his gaze sharp as it flicked from her to the symbol and back again.
Andy shrugged her pack on and picked up her glasses. “Copy the ward, wash the table and do the same with the water as you did with the symbol on the gate. It’ll keep those banshees out.” With that, she slid her glasses on and walked out the door.
Chapter Three
The day had been a long one. Mason walked into his room, and shut the door behind him with a quiet click. Still fully clothed he rolled onto the bed, and closed his eyes with a grateful sigh.
He was exhausted. As normal, he’d been up before sunrise to join the work-parties that kept the town running. He should have been exhausted, but sleep was elusive. Ordinarily it was an insistent bed partner, often claiming him before he managed to shrug out of his clothes. Tonight it danced just out of reach. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Andy, the woman from earlier.
He ground his teeth, and squeezed his eyes together until fireworks lit up the back of his eyelids. Correction, she wasn’t a woman. She was a paranormal. Not human, not a woman, no one he should be bothered about. A thing he shouldn’t worry himself about. With those wicked-looking blades strapped crosswise on her back then no doubt she could take care of herself. For someone to carry blades instead of a gun was a statement all in itself.
It said that the carrier was either a) stupid and about to buy the farm or b) they were good enough to get those blades into anything they came up against. To do that they’d have to be faster than a Werewolf, able to hear even a Vampire creeping up, and be able to outwit a shade. She’d looked too human, and way too cute, to be capable of half that.
Mason groaned as images of her lying in the darkness, her skin pale as she bled out, filled his head. His male protective instincts, rusty from inactivity, rushed to the fore. He shouldn’t have let her leave. Unlike other non-humans, she hadn’t offered them any harm. She’d even drawn them a ward…and as soon as he’d looked at it, he’d known she was telling the truth. The thing had hummed with power.
How he knew stuff like that, he had no idea. He just did. Since the war he’d been able to spot all manner of paranormals, and magic users, under their disguises. Not just non-humans either. Souls black with sin…that was the saying. He’d always expected a soul ready for hell to be as black as pitch, rotten through and through. They weren't though. If they were human, they were bright silver. Paranormals, as always, were different. Their souls were a whole rainbow of different colors. Amber for wolves, red for Vampires, black for the undead.
His eyes snapped open as he ran through his memories again. He’d done the usual cursory check to see if he could detect anything hidden behind the pretty face and had come up with nothing. Looked human on the outside, no monster lurking inside to leap out like a freaky jack-in-the-box. Still, Mason’s instincts had warned him there was something not right about her, and now it hit him.
Her soul had been black.
At three forty-five he gave up on sleep, and rolled out of bed, sat on the edge of the narrow cot and rubbed his eyes. They were like piss-holes in the snow—gritty and hot. He cast a baleful glance back at the lumpy mattress. He needed a bottle of whiskey, fourteen hours sleep and a new mattress. Preferably in that order.
The stink of sweat assaulted his nostrils. Mason grimaced and risked a quick sniff at his armpits. Shower time for sure. He walked out of his clothes on his way to the bathroom. Even here, in the safety of his own room, his rifle was the last thing to leave his hand. Propping it up against the wall beside the door Mason switched the water on.
“Jesus f**king Christ…that’s cold.”
Teeth chattering, he forced himself under the spray of frigid water. This time of morning, he had no chance of it warming up. The town attracted a lot of waifs and strays so they had most occupations, from a former hairdresser to a Hollywood gynecologist, but could they find a damn plumber? Until they did, the ailing boiler was only run for short periods, and carefully baby-sat in case it decided to go critical.
Pity it couldn’t do that with Jed and his pathetic pack of dogs in the room. He shook his head as he scrubbed down quickly with the hard soap produced in town. He still could not believe that animal had had the audacity to send one of his mutts into town, and demand a tithe.
“Five women, old enough to f**k and not too old to have kids. So we don’t want any dried up old-grandma’s. If the tithe is suitable, your town will be spared our wrath.”
“Spared our wrath.” Mason snorted, washing his sack and crack with quick economical movements. Who did the guy think he was? He didn’t give a flying f**k about Jed’s wrath. He tried anything in Mason’s town, and he’d end up like every other para that tried it…with Val scraping his brains off the bar’s floor.
Finally he stepped out of the shower and grabbed the thin towel draped over the rail. Like everything else here it showed signs of hard use. He dried off quickly and dropped the towel and his dirty clothes in the washing basket.
The clean ones he put on were nearly identical. He pulled an old T-shirt over his head, covering the multitude of scars that marred his torso, and grabbed his combat pants. Once they’d been black but now they were a faded grey. Clean socks went on next, after he gave his feet a quick check.
They said an army marched on its stomach, which was true. What was also true was that a soldier never neglected his feet or his boots. He laced up quickly and tucked the ends back into the top of the boots. Pulling his pant leg up, he strapped his knife to his calf. A legacy from his army days, it was Mason’s last line of defense. If he ever had to draw it, then the shit had hit the fan in a big way. Shrugging his shoulder holster on, he grabbed his rifle and headed for the door. If he hurried, he might be able to catch the morning hunting party.
An hour later, Mason was walking point. The small group of hunters fanned out behind him. Their faces were grim and professional. A sense of pride filled him. In this, at least, his former life had been of some help. Whenever they left the town to hunt, they took their lives into their hands. Out here, things fell into one of two categories—things that ran away from them, and things to run away from.
He pulled his rifle tighter into his shoulder, steps soundless as the group walked. Concentration wrapped around them so tightly it was like a cloak. Every gaze was alert to the smallest movement. The only major cover for half mile or so, this was where they were likely to find either game or become it.
Tension wound through his frame as he paused, raising his arm with a clenched fist. At the signal the group stopped, and assumed kneeling positions facing outwards from the group. Mason crouched to study the tree line.
All was quiet. There weren’t many birds around these days, anything bigger than a sparrow was an immediate candidate for the stew pot. But this was too quiet, as though nature herself was holding her breath, and watching the scene around the copse unfold.
Way too quiet.
Decision made, he stood and signaled to the group to skirt around. The likelihood of bagging some sort of game within the trees was good, but the risk was too high. They had a few hours left to find something elsewhere. He wouldn’t risk good hunters.
He sighed softly as they moved out. When the scientists had unleashed hell on earth, and changed the fabric of reality, why couldn’t they have created cows the size of trucks? He’d happily trade in Ghouls and wolves for a guaranteed good meal. And steak...he had re-occurring fantasies about a good steak.
“Keep it tight.”
His order was low as James, one of the newest hunters, edged into his line of sight. Not a place he wanted to be when Mason was on patrol. Anything that moved was getting shot on the basis that it was either food, or it was hostile.
The patrol continued in silence as they walked their pre-arranged route. Frustration began to mount in his chest as they walked further and there was still no sign of prey. Pickings were getting increasingly slim. Each hunting team came back in with smaller and smaller catches until recently, when most times they came back with nothing at all.
If they didn't bring something back in today Val was going to have to dip into the canned goods secured in bar’s kitchen. That was something he tried to avoid. Canned goods would last for years. They were his fail-safe in case the whole situation went tits-up and they had to move out of town. On the road, they would be too busy defending themselves to risk hunting for food.
Unease itched in the space between his shoulder blades. It started off a small itch, then grew and grew until his shoulders were tight with tension. Someone...no, something, was watching them. Mason’d bet his last bullet there wasn’t just one of them either.
Before he could alert the team, they were attacked. Hard and fast, everything happened at once. “Contact. Full right, six o’clock,” he yelled, rifle on his shoulder and already squeezing rounds off as the first Werewolf burst out of cover to his left.
“Weres!”
“No shit, Sherlock,” he muttered as his double tap took the first wolf between the eyes and splattered its brains over the one right behind it. The second jumped over the carcass, red eyes fixed on Mason as it snarled. Saliva dripped from its yellowed teeth as it crouched low, stalking him.