Beast Out Of Hell Read online

  "Were attack phone tree," Xochi hit back. "Guess the hippies aren't as clueless as we thought."

  They followed Were Jamie's path through the paddock easily, but once Lucy and Xochi had passed through the line of trees into the shaded forest, twilight dropped like a black lace veil.

  That doesn't help.

  "Hadn't realized how late it was getting." Lucy shifted her eyes up at the sky. Grey clouds billowed overhead, making the darkness and gloom more pronounced.

  "We're going after a pack of biker Werebeasts, of course it’s going to be dark," Xochitl said acridly. "Couldn't have done this at noon."

  Lucy stopped short. "This is one of the most stupid things we've done. We don't have a plan."

  "That's right," Xochi agreed, moving west toward the glimmer of the setting sun.

  The woods around Granny's land were old, ancient even. Untouched giant redwoods loomed high above them, their bases wide and sturdy.

  "Christmas trees," Xochi pointed to a cluster of Douglas fir.

  "Too soon," Lucy said, queasiness clutching at her stomach. "I might have to skip Christmas this year."

  "What's one little rampaging Were Santa?" Xochi said lightly. "I'm not missing out on presents. I'm going to Mass, and I'm making tamales. You can Grinch out if you want, but ain't nobody taking away my Christmas."

  Lucy had to laugh. "All right then."

  She heard the splashing of water before they saw the narrow stream. Lucy pointed to the broad, muddy prints at its banks.

  "Jamie?" Xochitl asked.

  Lucy picked a clump of white fur off the ground by the water. "Think she's shedding."

  "Maybe the panic?"

  "Maybe Werebeasts shed when dogs shed. In the spring and fall."

  "Spare me."

  Lucy climbed over a dead, fallen tree. "There's a small trail up ahead." She pointed. "I think I see tire tracks."

  "Straight to the camp then?"

  "I guess."

  They continued in silence for a short while. Lucy tried to formulate a plan, but she kept coming back to the bigger picture.

  What's gonna happen after?

  "So hypothetically, once we get the kid, we should head straight up the I-5 to the Oregon border and do the handoff?" she asked, clinging to Granny's promise of a contact.

  "Shouldn't take more than a day," Xochi took up the thought.

  "I don't like this. Any of this."

  "That girl Jamie is erratic. How can we let her run around loose?"

  "They're both just kids. They need a chance. They haven't done anything—"

  "Yet. They haven't done anything yet."

  Lucy grimaced at Xochitl. "What are we doing?"

  "I guess we're just helping." Xochi gestured toward the tracks. "The girl may or may not be a menace, but we know those Hell Hounds are bad news. We can't let the Hell Hounds have her."

  "Or the boy."

  "Or the boy," Xochi agreed.

  "So, we get Jamie and Reaper back to Granny's," Lucy decided. "And then we reevaluate."

  "One small hiccup," Xochi added. "A camp full of big burly bikers led by a Wereloon with delusions of grandeur."

  "Right," Lucy said and slid the Beretta from its holster. "That is a little hiccup."

  Chapter 10

  REAPER

  Muir Woods

  Hell Hound Camp

  1 hour ago

  Reaper's head drooped onto his mangled chest, his jaw gaping open — dislocated by the savage wrenching on the metal horse bit wedged between his teeth. His sweat-soaked hair clung to the sides of his sliced up face. Salty, bloody tears dripped from the tip of his nose onto the damp ground.

  No more.

  He rasped and wheezed pathetic, pleading whimpers.

  Please, no more.

  "Think you broke him, boss," Slicer squawked gleefully and jerked Reaper back by his hair. The Were's eyes sparked with hatred.

  "Nah, Haywood's a fighter," Zeke said and wiped his hands on a checkered bandanna before stuffing it in his back pocket. "Take that thing out of his mouth."

  Slicer grinned wickedly as he slowly elongated a single knifelike nail and pointed it at Reaper's eye; Reaper flinched.

  "Pussy," the Hell Hound snickered and slashed through the leather bindings with one stroke.

  The metal bit fell from Reaper's mouth, ripping out one of his molars. He cried out as pain zinged through his jaw.

  "Look!" Slicer held up the tooth. "Got me a Reaper souvenir!"

  "¡Órale!" Poncho shouted and shook a small plastic baggie filled with white powder. He dipped his pinkie into the bag, drew out a small mound and snorted it up his nose. "¡Órale!" he shouted again.

  A blue inhaler rested between Poncho and Two Toes.

  The Russian's drug?

  Two Toes snagged the baggie from Poncho, took the inhaler and sprayed the Were drug onto the white powder.

  "That's some good shit!" Two Toes whooped and rubbed his nose.

  "Gimme some!" Grub reached for the drugs.

  Zeke stormed over to Two Toes and snatched the bag from his hand. "Quit fucking around!" He picked up the inhaler and looked at Slicer. "Get the kid down."

  Slicer shoved Reaper's head to the side.

  Clank. Clank. Clank.

  The Hell Hound wrestled with Reaper's chains.

  Jolts of pain rocked Reaper as his legs dragged, one by one, across the muddy forest floor.

  His limp body swayed back and forth, sagging by his still chained arms like dead weight and tearing at his taxed shoulder muscles.

  Clank. Clank. Clank.

  Reaper dropped like a rock onto his side.

  "Turn him over," Zeke said.

  Slicer rolled Reaper onto his back with his foot.

  Dirt and mud smeared into Reaper's ripped up chest.

  Zeke leaned over Reaper. "I told you…" He pressed his knee on Reaper's stomach. "Ain't no way out."

  Reaper screamed, coughing up blood; his vision blurred with blinding pain.

  Zeke squeezed Reaper's cheeks together and plunged the inhaler into his mouth.

  Reaper sucked in the Were drug.

  A pungent, floral — old lady perfume — chemical smell hit his senses.

  The Were drug called to Reaper.

  His hand trembled. He reached out, eager for the next hit.

  "Once an addict..." Zeke crowed and pressed down on the small plastic tube.

  Puff. White dust plumed in the air. Reaper inhaled long and deep.

  "Always an addict."

  Sweet and metallic. Smooth and clean.

  Reaper's body spasmed. A flash of heat burned his throat and nostrils and radiated up into his brain like a bright yellow flame as his shredded chest knitted itself back together.

  His bones cracked. His muscles stretched. His fangs extended.

  Reaper dug his claws into the dirt and howled up at the fading sun.

  "Well, ain't that interesting." Zeke's voice floated like a fine mist in the back of Reaper's mind.

  But it didn't matter. He was invincible.

  Chapter 11

  Muir Woods

  Somewhere

  Right now

  Sweat ran down the sides of Xochi's face and slid down her neck.

  They'd been tracking Jamie at a run for far longer than Xochi liked, the Weregirl changing her mind and doubling back with illogical frequency.

  I hate fickle Weres.

  Shortly after crossing a dirt road, Lucy came to an abrupt stop at yet another trickle of a creek splitting the dark earth.

  Xochi readjusted her Karambit knife harness. "Maybe you're just shit at tracking tonight," she suggested with undisguised irritation.

  "Always possible," Lucy said, more serious than Xochi would have liked.

  "Lighten up, Luce. I just mean Werechica is glitching. ¡Híjole! Make up your mind already! Where are you going?"

  Xochi wasn't sure if Lucy
had heard her. Her friend stood stock-still, staring ahead like a hunting dog.

  I swear, if she raises one foot, I'm feeding her dog kibble tonight.

  "Do you see a glint through those trees?"

  Xochi's eyes followed Lucy's pointing hand. While dusk had nearly encompassed the forest, a speck of chrome flashed though the trees, begging for investigation.

  Carefully, Lucy and Xochitl approached. Six Harleys were parked in a straight line. Xochi recognized Dicer's Fat Boy by the custom Hell Hound logo on the tank. She heard a small, unusual sound from Lucy. "Are you sniffing the air?"

  Lucy nodded slowly. "Something smells rotten."

  Xochitl inhaled the clean forest air deeply. A sickening odor faintly floated through the healthy redwood and forest floor aroma. Xochi wrinkled her nose. "Sure enough."

  "That way." Lucy hastened toward a collection of looming redwoods entwined by a dense thicket; Xochi followed, unquestioning.

  They pushed through crowded coyote brush, thorns snagging at Xochi's pants.

  I hate stickers.

  A messy campsite awaited them. The circular camp was nothing more than a mess of sloppy tents, dirty bedrolls — unfurled and crusty — and garbage scattered around a dead and cold campfire.

  "Pinche slobs." Xochi's eyes roved over mounds of empty and shattered beer bottles, food wrappers and gnawed bones. Once she'd stepped into the clearing, the loathsome reek was overwhelming: urine, decay, vomit, char, and a sweet noxious odor.

  That's what it smelled like when I pulled Leticia out of that crack house. ¡Híjole¡ Haven't thought about her in years. Bet she's dead.

  "Camp looks abandoned and in a hurry," Lucy assessed, detached.

  "So where are these Hell Hound pendejos?" Xochi scanned the area for clues.

  There was no sign of any other personal items or any indication where anyone had gone.

  "Douchebags probably hide their shit in the forest."

  "Don't really care about their raggedy-ass chonies and porn rags."

  "Probably watch their porn on their phones."

  "Not here they don't." Xochi waved her phone above her head. "No bars. I hate no reception."

  Lucy chuckled, then she hurtled forward. "Hello, what's this?"

  One of the trees was slashed and marked with dozens of deep gashes.

  "Bears mark their territory by clawing trees," Lucy offered.

  "National Geographic much?" Xochi scoffed.

  "Seriously." Lucy stepped closer to the trunk. "Maybe Werebeasts mark like that too."

  "Better than the alternative." Xochi started to move back toward the center of the camp, looking around for any sign of Jamie.

  "Holy hell!" Lucy called out from behind the tree.

  She doesn't sound right.

  The odd catch in Lucy's voice made the blood drain from Xochitl's face. She drew her Bowie knife.

  The tree trunk hid Lucy's body, but from the clench-jawed, non-stop swearing Xochi could tell where her friend stood.

  She pressed herself around the trunk.

  Behind the tree, no more than a few feet from the camp was a large pit.

  Lucy crouched by the edge.

  Xochi couldn't tell if she was crying or laughing.

  Lucy turned her head. She was white-faced and shaking with rage.

  Her feet didn't want to move, but Xochi took step after step, slowly moving toward the pit.

  Have to see.

  The square pit's walls of damp earth seemed about six feet deep and about ten feet wide all the way around.

  Twisted skeletons, broken and damaged, covered the bottom of the pit — at least three layers deep.

  "Those are not human," Lucy said before Xochi registered what she was looking at.

  Bone pit.

  Something about each skeleton looked wrong. Long leg and arm bones, normal hips and torsos...

  The skulls! Not human. Dog. ¡Madre de Dios!

  "Hounds?" Xochi breathed out the word. "Ferals?"

  "Xochi," Lucy's voice shook. "These have been here a while. I think the Hell Hounds eat them and then dump the bones."

  Reaper.

  "No!" Xochi turned and stormed back into the camp. She didn't want to hear any more. She didn't want to see anymore. She didn't want to think. She flung her baseball cap on the ground, stomped her feet, and kicked at a boulder. "No! No! No! No!" She took a breath. Her eyes cleared. She heard Lucy's footsteps behind her. She focused on the flat rock she'd been kicking.

  A wide trail of ants was continuing to climb from the forest floor to the top of the boulder. They swarmed a weirdly crumpled beige mass, carting off what they could carry.

  Tortilla?

  Morbid curiosity got the better of Xochitl. She slid the flat of her blade under the flap and flipped it over.

  Flames, chain and wolf skull stared back at her.

  Reaper's tattoo.

  Xochi sharply turned, bent over, and threw up every bit of apple pie and coffee in her stomach.

  Heaving, she thought she was going to faint.

  All of a sudden, Lucy was next to her, holding on to her, pushing her hair back.

  "We have to find that kid," Xochi choked out the words, hands on her knees. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth.

  A low and shattering sound rocked the forest like earth-bound thunder. Lucy and Xochi both jumped involuntarily and spun in the direction of the blast. Distant flames lit up the night sky.

  Without another word, Lucy and Xochi raced toward the explosion, toward the fire, toward...Oz?

  Chapter 12

  REAPER

  Muir Woods

  Oz

  At the same time

  Reaper stumbled blurry-eyed through the smoldering rubble of Sugree's candle shop. His head felt heavy and his mind cloudy as he came down from the Were drug.

  What'd that shit do to me? I can't feel my fingers.

  His body felt as if it were splitting in two, each half going in opposite directions. His stomach flip-flopped. He doubled over and vomited.

  Stabbing pain zinged through his tender chest. He clutched at the newly formed skin throbbing under the raw, jagged scars zigzagging down his torso.

  He sucked in a quick breath; ash and smoke filled his nostrils. The stinging metallic scent of blood bombarded his senses.

  Piercing human screams echoed throughout the commune.

  Reaper reared up.

  Flames licked at the rooftops of Morey's Metalworks and Patty's Herbal Apothecary.

  Oz is on fire.

  Poncho hunched over Patty's half-naked body splayed in the doorway of her shop. The Hell Hound yanked his serrated hunting knife from the woman's corpse and licked the blade with his thick fat tongue. Blood oozed down his chin.

  Fuck!

  Through the smoky haze, Reaper caught sight of Two Toes straddled over a man's corpse.

  Emmanuel?...Manny?

  Two Toes clawed into Manny with his bare hands like a rabid dog clawing into dirt. Blood and guts squirted from the man's stomach, spraying across Two Toes' pockmarked face. The Hell Hound hooted and giggled in crazed delight.

  I'm gonna be sick.

  Reaper choked on the bile pooling in the back of his throat. He wiped a grimy arm across his mouth, tasting dirt and beeswax on his tongue.

  What the—

  Crushing fear smashed into him. He staggered back, tripping over a severed arm.

  Still wrapped around the index finger, Sugree's silver snake ring was missing one of its blue topaz stones.

  What did I do?

  Reaper looked down at his bloodstained hands. Small bits of seared flesh crusted under his fingernails.

  Oh, God. No!

  He rubbed his palms frantically against his blood-soaked jeans — desperate to snuff out the memory of what he'd done.

  Please! Help me!

  Slicer howled from across the commune.

  Reaper spun arou
nd. He froze.

  Morey's wife dangled by the neck in the hulking Werebeast's grip — a gaping hole in her chest.

  Not Meadow.

  Her long grey braid slapped at her chewed up face as her limp body spasmed and twitched.

  She was good to me…to everyone.

  Slicer lapped up the thick red juice dripping from Meadow's still-beating heart. Tears streaked down Reaper's cheeks as he watched Slicer bite into the bloody meat. The Were's jaws parted into a nasty toothy smile, his eyes burning like flaming black coals.

  As if a bomb had been detonated, an ear-crushing roar blasted through the commune; Reaper stumbled back on his heels. A fireball mushroomed into the black sky as shards of wood exploded out from the metal shop like shrapnel — one side of Morey's Metalworks caved in on itself.

  The scorching blaze reflected off Tiny Tin in the center of town — Morey strapped to its life-size, metal frame. The This Ain't Kansas sign, twisted and charred, lay at its copper pipe feet.

  Morey!

  Maggot and Grub gnawed on the man's arms and legs, snapping and snarling at each other as if they were wild wolves fighting over the best pieces of meat and not psychotic men out of their minds on home-cooked Were drugs.

  Reaper darted for the tin sculpture, but the sweet scent of strawberry shampoo brought him up short.

  Jamie?

  He whipped around and searched the dense woods; his Were sight sharp, focused. Dark shadows became light as the forest transformed into a kaleidoscopic array of vivid greens, rich browns and intense reds.

  The forest foliage shifted slightly.

  Jamie's thin frame poked out from around an ancient redwood. Her silky platinum hair cascaded over the black rose tattoo winding down her arm as she pulled a small young woman — Alma — further into the woods.

  Alma tripped on a tree root and tumbled onto her side. The girl's dress was ripped, and her face was streaked with dirt and tears.

  Reaper raced to the two girls.

  "Jamie," he hissed. "What are you doing here?"

  Alma froze, staring up at Reaper like a deer caught in headlights. Her body trembled, and her head shook uncontrollably. She scrambled back into the shrubs and flung herself through the trees, limping and stumbling away from Oz. Away from the nightmare. Away from the monsters.

  Away from me.

  "Alma," Jamie cried out, her hands ripping at her hair.