Thinning the Herd (19 page)

Tentacles unrolled and pounded like pile drivers into the ground beside him, spraying mud and grass into the humid air. Hal swerved and weaved. Dodged with elegant grace. Blazed with Desdemona's love and Louis's hoodoo.

Tentacles and hoofs stomped and slammed, but Hal eluded each one as adrenaline and purity of purpose fed him info in nanoseconds—distance, speed, moment of impact. He listened to the steady pulse of blood through his veins. Heard his lungs draw in each breath. Counted his movements to the metronome beat of his heart.

Hal leapt onto the Ancient's smoldering hoof and climbed the knotted limb in a whirling, deadly squirrel-dance, his catch pole puncturing holes into the sticky flesh. The Ancient roared. Hot wind stinking of rotten eggs howled past Hal as he anchored himself with his catch pole.

But the moist, green heart of Eugene/Springfield thumped beneath him. Promising lush life. Pounding out a hero's rhythm. Hal swung his catch pole up, angling it over his head like a katana and danced through a fluid kendo kata—samurai warrior ballet. Time's elastic flow shifted—action wormhole—and his movements blurred as he executed them.

Tentacles couldn't hold him. Fierce wind couldn't dislodge him.

Catch pole warrior.

Hal drew in a deep breath of rain-misted air. Breathed in life. Hippie life. Fortune-teller life. Duck life. Bicyclist life? Grudgingly.

Not just my people. My city, but
ours—
human and shifter alike
.

As Hal was bringing his catch pole up for another blow, the fire-pit gaze shifted, looked down. A tentacle shot past Hal and he heard screams from the ground. Desdemona's cry pierced him to his core.

The tentacle snaked into the air once more, but now it was coiled around Della.

“No!” Hal cried. “No!
NO!
”

“I
TOLD
YOU SO!” she screamed, her expression managing to be both terrified and furious at the same time. “BUT DON'T YOU STOP FIGHTING! I BELIEVE IN YO—”

The tentacle dropped Della, still shouting, into the god's maw. The massive mouth snapped shut.

Hal stared, stunned, his mind refusing to take in what had just happened. Della had died—no, been
devoured
—because she had chosen to guide the hero. Funny thing. He didn't feel very heroic at the moment.

Another tentacle whipped past him. Hal slammed his catch pole down into the Ancient's flesh, using every bit of strength remaining to him. The god looked at him, tentacle undulating in the air, but poised to arrow downward once more.

“Take me, damn you!” Hal stabbed down with his catch pole again and again. Ichor oozed. “Take me! You want a sacrifice? Then I'm your man.
TAKE ME!
”

And the Ancient obliged him. The tentacle looped around him, rolling him up like sushi. Hal kept his arms and catch pole above his head, free of the tentacle. Heat from the god's wide-open maw baked against Hal, drew his skin tight against his bones.

From far below, he heard Nick's plaintive howl, heard Desdemona scream his name.

“For my friends,” Hal whispered, not knowing if what he planned would work, but knowing he had no other choice. “For my love. For Della.”

Let's see how Louis's symbols work together
.

Hal touched the
vév
é
on the catch pole to the one Louis had drawn on his forehead. Light shafted out from the catch pole. Burned bright enough to shove back the unnatural gloom. Hal snapped the glowing catch pole against the tentacle. Twitching, recoiling, it flung Hal toward the Ancient's now-roaring maw.

And missed.

Hal somersaulted onto the god's face. Rose to his feet. He stood, poised on the burning rim of the Ancient's right fire-pit eye. He parried snapping, whipping tentacles with graceful and elegant twists of his catch pole. Lifted the catch pole and jammed it into the Ancient's green-flamed eye pit.

White light starred out from the catch pole, snuffing the hellish fire as it rippled across the pit. The Ancient bellowed. Stomped. Jigged. Quakes tremored through the god's being. Chasms split across its ichor-sticky flesh. White light shafted from the cracks, piercing the gloom. Tentacles spasmed. Flailed.

Then a burbling liquid sound rumbled through the splintering body. Hal locked his hands around his still buried-in-god-flesh catch pole. Knelt and braced himself.

The Ancient ruptured, splitting open like a machete-hacked coconut. Toppled. Hal held on tight as he rode the Ancient down to the ground. It slammed into the earth at Mach 3, splattering apart against the Walmart on Eleventh Avenue and launching shopping carts, blocks of concrete, and Hal into the air.

Hal hit the pavement shoulder-first and rolled, catch pole clattering away from him. Pain punched his shoulder. Seared his side. Tweaked his stomach. Hal rolled to a stop and lay there as the world continued to spin.

Once the sky wheeled to a stop, Hal pushed up from the concrete and searched for his catch pole. Sunlight streamed through tattered, fading clouds and the god-buckled pavement steamed. He glanced at his watch. Eleven thirty in the a.m., baby. He'd battled the Ancient all night and most of the morning. And he felt like it too. Muscles shaky. Head pounding. Throat dry.

Della hadn't been kidding. A pang pierced his heart.

Hal spotted his catch pole spearing a shopping cart and trotted across the broken parking lot. Sidestepped Ancient chunks. Yanked his catch pole free and angled it across his shoulder. He heard a ripping, tearing sound. Looked down. His T-shirt had torn from his left shoulder and down across his chest. The sacred mark of a true hero—the Ripped Shirt. His throat tightened.

To be worthy of such an honor—

Della's words curled through his mind:
Your head's always held high. You carry yourself with pride. Don't you know that?

Thanks, Della. For believing.

“You didn't get killed,” Desdemona said from behind him.

Hal turned around. “No,” he confirmed. Sunlight glimmered on her purple hair. Shaded her eyes deepest sapphire.

“Y'know what, creep?” she asked, stepping beside him.

Hal shook his head, helpless to do anything but smile.

“I'm glad.”

“You know what?” Hal said, holding out his hand to her. Smiling, she shook her head. “Me too.”

He knew their love couldn't remain in the open, but for now, standing in the middle of a god-shattered parking lot with pieces of said god scattered hither and yon, he was content just holding Desdemona's hand.

Hal studied the sky, looking for the rip, but saw nothing but blue beyond the clouds. “It looks like they managed to close the gateway,” he said, swinging his gaze back to Desdemona.

Desdemona nodded. “Louis and Hunter worked together once . . .” She hesitated, looked down, then swallowed hard. “Della, y'know. It closed with a sonic boom that must've shattered windows throughout Eugene.” She lifted her gaze to Hal, and smiled. “I guess you were too busy riding a god down to the ground to notice.”

“That I was,” Hal agreed.

Lawrence and Louis walked from god-piece to god-piece, working mojo on the Ancient's remains. Major mojo. Silver light radiated out from Hunter Lawrence's hands and from the pendant hanging at his throat.

Louis murmured prayers or invocations or whatever kind of rites were needed to return an Ancient to deepest soil and never-ending dreamless night.

Four of the shifters—Brianna, Nick, Galahad, and Selene—had Shifted with the sun, Brianna and Selene to True Form, Nick and Galahad to two-legged form. And Louis? Still in True Form. Shifting only when he willed.

The other four scavenged clothing from the demolished Walmart. Nick, once again dressed in a sharp—well, as sharp as could be got at Walmart—suit, held a huge economy-size bag of Fritos. His yellow eyes were content as he chewed.

The scarecrow stood silent—almost brooding, Hal thought—against the cart-return corral, scythe held against its chest. The creepy, loose-skinned guy in the Cool Cat Skechers was gone. Hal couldn't say he missed him.

The silver light shimmering from Lawrence's hands and pendant faded. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. He staggered, and Louis wrapped a supportive arm around him.

“At least we closed the rip before anything else came through,” Lawrence said.

“I'm sorry about your friend,” Selene said. “I wanted gods who wished to be served. Generous gods. Not”—she waved a hand around the destroyed parking lot—“this.”

“You made a lot of promises,” the scarecrow said. “I don't think Lloyd's going to forget those promises.”

“Who's Lloyd?” Hal asked, eyes narrowing.

“My partner,” Selene said. “In . . . uh . . . forming the shifter nation. He had to work last night.”

“Sex shop?” Galahad asked, eyes bright.

Selene frowned, and nodded. “Yes.”

Galahad—wearing Levis and a blue cotton-blend button-down—turned and looked at Hal. “I'll bet that's who's been trying to kill you.”

“Actually, we've
both
been trying to kill him,” Selene said. “Kinda glad I didn't succeed given how things turned out. But Lloyd has more personal reasons. You catch-poled him into a kennel once.”

Hal nodded. People made enemies in his profession. “Then he musta needed to learn some manners.”

“Again, I'm so sorry—” Before Selene could finish her second apology, Louis strode over to the scarecrow, snatched the scythe from his hand, and slashed it through Selene's neck. Blood gouted into the air, sprayed across the pavement. Selene's head tumbled from her shoulders. Rolled across the parking lot.

“Apology not accepted,” Louis said, tossing the scythe away. He stalked back to Lawrence's side, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.

“Remind me never to piss Louis off,” Hal murmured to Desdemona. She nodded agreement, eyes wide, face even paler than normal.

They left the parking lot and Selene's body, catching a bus to Desdemona and Louis's apartment. They needed rest. Food.

They needed to plan a funeral.

Epilogue

FLAMING ARROWS

Hal helped Lawrence and Louis push Della's Viking longship into the river. It jounced into the water, the slow current eddying around it. Even though they didn't have a body—and that fact hurt almost as much as losing Della in the first place—Louis decided to honor her long-ago request for a flaming Viking funeral.

Louis says, She didn't want to go into the ground, didn't want to be ashes waiting to be scattered; she wanted to go out in a blaze of glory that everyone who knew her would talk about for decades
.

Much smaller than the genuine article, Della's longship was filled with gasoline-soaked straw instead of a body clasping a sword and ready for the journey to Valhalla.

“Who carved the dragon's head?” Hal asked, straightening and stepping back from the water's edge. This section of the Willamette River was less trafficked, more isolated. Even so, what they were doing was illegal. “It's beautiful work.”

“A friend of Brianna's,” Lawrence answered. “And it's beautiful work, indeed. I think Della would be pleased.”

Hal thought Della would've been more pleased to have remained among the living, but he nodded all the same. He turned and looked at Desdemona. She wore a black and midnight-blue dress and held a bow in her capable, pale hands. He'd been as surprised as anyone to learn she'd studied archery in high school. “Ready, my love?”

She glanced at Louis, then nodded. She notched the arrow to the bowstring, then Hal used a lighter to set the wadding wrapped around the arrowhead on fire. Scowling with concentration, Desdemona aimed, then fired.

The arrow blazed through the early-afternoon sunshine, arching down to thunk into the longship. Smoke and the smell of burning wood curled into the air. A moment later, yellow and orange flames licked the boat's sides, then quickly engulfed it. It floated away down the river, a fiery piece of flotsam.

“We miss you, Della,” Hal said. “Rest in peace.”

Once the burning ship was lost from view, they returned, one by one, to the pickup Lawrence had borrowed, the attached trailer now empty.

Lawrence drove the pickup, with Louis riding shotgun along the muddy ruts leading to the main road. They planned to swing by the Country Fair and load up Desdemona's booth and goods. The fair was over, but vendors were still breaking down and cleaning up.

The truck bounced and jolted. Sunlight flickered through the trees, casting shadows of leaves and branches across the faces of everyone sitting in the pickup's bed. Hal relaxed, breathing in the clean pine-scented air, along with Desdemona, Nick, and Galahad.

Things had definitely changed since the god's rampage through Eugene. Everyone with a cell phone had recorded Hal's battle with the Ancient and he was in
huge
demand on the talk-show circuit, despite the fact that he kept refusing all interviews.

Fortunately, no one had been at Walmart during the aftermath. Otherwise shifter-transformation video—not to mention Louis's beheading of Selene—would've been uploaded on YouTube or sold to CNN. And that would've been very bad.

For shifters in general and for Louis in particular.

As for the sullen, one-button-eyed scarecrow, it had vanished after the beheading, leaving its bloodied scythe behind. No one had even noticed. Too busy staring at the head in the parking lot, he guessed.

Galahad had been oddly disappointed by the scarecrow's disappearance.

The pickup bounced onto Highway 126 and the ride smoothed out as they traveled toward Veneta and the Country Fair. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into a dirt parking lot shaded by tall, green-leaved trees. The pickup jolted to a stop. The engine shut off. Hal hopped out of the bed and offered his hand to Desdemona. But Galahad was already lifting her down, his hands around her waist. Desdemona lowered her eyes, her cheeks flushed.

So brave, his Desdemona. Pretending to be smitten with another in order to protect their clandestine relationship. Protecting their love at all costs. A hero's woman to be sure.

Hal grinned, slapped Galahad on the back. “Thanks for helping to protect our secret.”

“Glad to . . . uh, help,” Galahad said, removing his hands from Desdemona's waist. Stepping close enough to whisper into Hal's ear, he said, “You think later you could go over that whole one-shape monogamy insanity for me again? I'm having a hard time getting a handle on it.”

“Sure. When we get back to my place.”

Nick vaulted from the truck bed, sniffed the air, and looked around eagerly. “Do you think there's still any food?”

“Not for sale,” Hal said. He retrieved his catch pole from the truck, angled it over his shoulder. “Everyone's packing up. But can't hurt to check.”

Nick apparently agreed because he beelined for the remaining booths without another word.

“I'll go with him,” Galahad said. “Keep him out of trouble.”

Hal nodded. “Good plan. Remember, taking things that don't belong to you is
stealing
.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Galahad replied, flapping a hand at Hal. He sauntered away, following Nick's path.

Louis hopped from the pickup and accompanied Desdemona and Hal to her booth. It was still mostly intact, despite the wolf-man's attack. As Hal helped Desdemona pack up her goods and tear down her booth, he realized that he had everything he needed. His Desdemona. His friends. And a wise man to guide him. As needed.

A good meal. A hot shower. A few shots of whole milk, then he'd look into Selene's sex-shop running partner, Lloyd the Lycan. And ask a few questions. Like:
Why you trying to kill my ass?

Hal had just finished tucking the flaps of a box closed when the screams started. He rose to his feet, catch pole in hand.

Hands on her hips, Desdemona glared at Louis. “It's that bad luck of yours,” she said. “You need to stop it. Right now.”

Louis stared at her, nonplussed. “And how do I do that?”

“I don't know,” Desdemona said, reaching for her bow, “but you'd better start figuring it out.”

People scattered in all directions as they fled the monstrosity that crashed out of the woods, snorting and horns lowered—another of Selene's New Breed, this one a bull-man.

Hal strode out to meet it. “Name's Rupert. Hal Rupert. Bring it.”

“That's right,” Desdemona yelled from beside him. “Bring it.”

With an enraged bellow, the bull-man charged.

A dangerous life, this hero's life, but not one he'd ever refuse. Knowing he made a difference or eased someone's suffering or pushed back the forces of darkness made all the risk worthwhile. He wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

Best of all? From now on, this dogcatcher would never work alone again.