The Myth Hunters

He was alone with the Hunters.



The roar of the Kirata echoed all around him, some distant and some much nearer. Over his shoulder he caught sight of the two he had seen out on the road as they gave chase, barreling between houses and into backyards, clawed feet tearing up flower beds and vegetable gardens. One dropped on all fours and came on even faster, and Oliver forced himself to look ahead, afraid he would stumble, knowing he could run faster if he bent himself to it.



He could practically feel their claws tearing his flesh.



Ahead of him, behind a small, simple building whose tall windows suggested a schoolhouse, there was a playground. A slide and a wooden swing-set and a trio of seesaws, all in a row.



Two more Kirata stood there, the wind ruffling their fur. One, taller and more lithe than the others, was white and black. Oliver glanced around, looking for some exit. To the left was only farmland, and beyond that, open country. To the right were cottages and the Truce Road, where he would be completely exposed. But it couldn’t be more dangerous than the situation he was in, so he diverted toward that opening, feeling the vulnerability of his unprotected back even more.



Images he had seen a thousand times on television flashed in his head, big jungle cats bringing animals down and tearing at them, dragging their bloody viscera through tall grass.



Screams built up at the back of his throat but he could not set them free. His legs ached and his chest hurt with the pounding of his heart and his fingers were white with terror where he gripped the shotgun.



The Kirata closed in.



A roar split the night above him.



Above him.



Oliver staggered to a halt and stared upward at the Kirata that perched on the roof of a cottage. The tiger-man tensed to spring. Oliver swung the shotgun barrel up, set the stock against his shoulder, braced his feet, and pulled the trigger.



The blast blew a hole through the tiger’s upper torso. It hit the ground a corpse and its blood rained down, spattering Oliver, the copper stink of it filling his nostrils. His hands shook, but his grip on the shotgun never loosened, even as he muttered something that was half curse and half prayer.



The way out to the Truce Road was open, but he knew that there must be more out there and there were probably others on the way. Those giving chase were almost upon him. He had nowhere to run. Trapped in the space between two cottages, he turned and cocked the shotgun, wishing he had a better weapon, or that they would wait patiently while he reloaded.



It was a twelve-gauge. Five shots. Then he was dead. And that was if the Kirata even let him get five shots off.



He took a step toward the Truce Road, turning in jerky motions, knowing there were no options left. The two Kirata who’d first spotted him came tearing around the corner of the cottage on his left. Oliver was surprised to find his breathing steady as he crouched into a firing stance and pulled the trigger. The shotgun bucked in his hands and the blast echoed off the cottages. The Kirata running upright was taken in the shoulder, fur and blood and bone flying as it spun around with a roar of pain almost as loud as the shotgun itself.



Three rounds left.



But the second Kirata was on all fours, running low to the ground and faster than the first, tearing up grass and soil with its claws as it knifed toward him through the night. The other two had come around the cottage on his right, but they were an afterthought. A low growl like a car engine rumbled from the throat of the tiger-man as it bore down on him.



Oliver tracked it with the barrel of the shotgun, trying to get a bead. He misjudged its speed. The monster was too fast, and the realization sent a shiver through him. He pulled the trigger and the ground a foot to the right of the Kirata thumped with the impact, throwing up clods of dirt.



Then it was upon him. Too late to fire again, he lifted the shotgun up in front of him with some vague intention of defending himself, using it as a club or even jamming the stock into its jaws. It would buy him only seconds of life, but he found in that moment that he wanted to wring every possible second out of it.



“I’m sorry,” he said softly, not sure to whom the apology was directed. Perhaps Julianna. Perhaps his family. Perhaps himself.



The Kirata leaped, claws snickering through the night air and jaws wide. He thrust the shotgun out in front of him.



The fox struck the Kirata from the side, appearing as if from nowhere, looking tiny and insignificant next to the thunderous locomotive power of the tiger-man. But Kitsune had been stealthy and quick, and her jaws closed on its throat in midair. The moment seemed eternal and he saw her twist in the air, paws pressing against the beast’s head, using leverage and tearing. The Kirata’s throat ripped open and blood fountained from the wound. The two animals crashed to the ground together. Kitsune rolled and was up almost instantly, springing back on her four legs in defense, copper fur glinting in the moonlight, ready for more.



The Kirata staggered as it tried to get up onto two legs. Its eyes were putrid yellow in the night and gleaming with predatory lust. A flap of skin and fur hung down from its throat and blood ran from that ruined flesh like rain from an overflowing gutter. Then it faltered, and collapsed.



Oliver could not breathe as he looked at her. Kitsune barked, her focus not on him at all, and he spun to see the other two— including the white tiger— racing toward them, both upright.



He leveled the shotgun and fired, and the orange and black Kirata’s leg gave way in tatters and broken bones. It went down, but the white tiger came on. Oliver had one shot left and he knew he had to make it count.



Which was when the blizzard hit, gale-force winds and driving snow that existed only in that space between cottages. The Kirata roared in surprise and perhaps even fear as the wind drove it backward. It dropped to all fours to combat the wind and shook snow from its eyes as it started toward Oliver and Kitsune again.



The winter man took form just beside it, reached out with his left hand even as the blizzard died, and grabbed a fistful of its fur and skin. The Kirata grunted and turned, claws coming up to attack . . . and Frost drove the elongated ice dagger fingers of his right hand into its face, puncturing its eyes and thrusting deep into its brain.



It fell dead in a light dusting of snow.



The wind ceased, save for the ordinary nighttime breeze.



Oliver opened his mouth to shout something, but Kitsune was beside him, woman now instead of fox, and she clapped a delicate hand over his mouth. With her other hand she was already propelling him forward. He fumbled with the shotgun, trying to get a better hold on it, and he lost his grip. It hit the ground at his feet and he tried to stop, tried to go back for it, but Kitsune would not even allow him to slow down.



“Run,” she said, a whisper harsh upon his ear. “Marra has come.”



The winter man led the way, and they were running again. As they left the space between those two cottages Oliver took one glance back at the Truce Road and saw several Kirata gathering, starting after them. A guttural voice called to them and they stopped and turned, giving up the chase at the command of a new arrival. The figure that joined them in the street was taller than a man, perhaps seven or eight feet, and seemed to have a human body, but its head was that of a ram, heavy horns blacker than the night.



Then Oliver was around the corner and still running. Kitsune was beside him and she reached out and grabbed hold of his free hand, practically dragging him along. Up ahead, Frost had stopped and grabbed the reins of a pair of saddled horses, and suddenly Oliver understood where they had gotten off to in those moments when he thought he had been abandoned, when he thought he was going to die.



The privileged life he had led had prepared him, in some strange way, for this. Once upon a time it was common for people to know how to wield a sword or shoot a gun or ride a horse, but in the modern world such pursuits were only for the wealthy. Until today, he had only ever shot skeet. And he had never ridden a horse out of need. But he could get himself in the saddle quickly enough.



He mounted the horse in a single swift movement, gripping the reins in both hands, cursing himself for having dropped the shotgun. Kitsune climbed up onto the mare beside him.



“Ride east for Perinthia. Stay off the road!” the winter man rasped in the darkness. And then Frost was gone, disintegrating into snow and wind and sweeping up into the sky.



A roar erupted behind them. A second came from the roof of a house just ahead and Oliver glanced up to see a Kirata up there, preparing to jump.



“Ride!” he called to Kitsune, and he snapped the reins.



The horses were swift and the terrain familiar to them and they galloped as though they had been waiting all their lives for such a flight. The tiger-men gave chase, but they could not keep pace with the horses, and in moments Oliver and Kitsune were riding east into the night, away from the village of Bromfield and toward a city where every citizen would likely be on the lookout for him.



Yet exhilaration made him shout and he glanced over at Kitsune, whose hood had been thrown back by the wind. Her hair blew behind her like the wings of a raven and she laughed at his exuberance, her smile, for once, entirely without guile or mystery.



On the eastern horizon, the black sky had a tinge of cobalt, a whisper of dawn.



CHAPTER 13



Halliwell had fallen asleep in his chair and slept there all night, shifting uncomfortably while CNN droned on in the background of his dreams. The light of day and the stiffness in his aging body had woken him shortly after eight o’clock, and the long, uncomfortable night had conspired with his old bones to make him feel ancient. He was not on the clock until the afternoon shift, which began at two, so he had taken his time showering and making himself an egg, cheese, and bacon scramble for breakfast, a treat he gave himself once a week.



And he had watched the clock.



It was unlikely a sheriff’s detective from Wessex County, Maine, was going to get much cooperation from the Paris police, but if he could be patient until eleven or twelve, he figured the San Francisco P.D. might be slightly more cooperative. The Paris cops might cooperate once they understood that he had a pair of killings that also included blinding as their primary feature, but then, he didn’t speak a word of French, and what little experience he had with the French suggested that they had an attitude about that sort of thing.



So he had eaten breakfast and kept an eye on CNN for more news. There was a brief report, but it told him only that both victims had been children. No gory details. Blinded how, exactly, he wanted to ask. But first he needed to find someone who might actually have an answer.



It was only as the clock ticked toward noon and Halliwell went to pick up the phone, prepared to dial information for San Francisco, when he realized the call would cost him. Other than Sara, with whom he rarely spoke, there wasn’t anyone he called out of the area. He had the minimum long-distance coverage and it seemed foolish not to let the sheriff’s department pay for the call, especially if he was going to be on awhile, trying to get the information he needed.



As he made this decision, Halliwell had an odd sensation. He was tempted to eat the cost of the call, just so he could make it from here and not have to answer questions from Jackson Norris. The sheriff had every right to get an update on the investigation. Hell, it was the sheriff’s investigation, really. But Halliwell now realized that there was more to it than just the job. Somehow, without him being aware of it, the case had become very personal. The mystery of what had happened to Oliver Bascombe and his sister Collette, how they had seemed to simply disappear— the brother twice now— was getting under his skin. The witnesses who’d seen Bascombe with a woman in a fur coat had said she looked Asian, but he’d considered the possibility that they were mistaken, and that it was Collette with him.



He would have given anything to talk to either of them, but mostly the brother. Oliver Bascombe would have been able to solve a lot of mysteries for him. Most important amongst them, of course, was the identity of the man who killed Alice St. John and Bascombe’s own father. It could be a coincidence, these murders in Paris and San Francisco. After all, how could it be anything else? All the news would say was that the victims had been blinded, but that didn’t mean their eyes had been removed. And even if the murders in Maine were identical to the others, they couldn’t possibily be the work of just one man. The odds were absurd.



Halliwell needed answers, and he was starting to realize that he needed them for himself, not just for the job. On the other hand, he couldn’t get all proprietary about it. Whatever he discovered he would have to report to the sheriff anyway.



Shaking his head, bemused by his reluctance, he grabbed his thick winter coat from the rack by the door and slipped it on, double-checking that his service weapon was properly strapped into his holster and that he had his identification and keys.



When he arrived at the office, he was ninety minutes early for his shift, but he managed to make it past the front desk and the deputies’ break room without anyone taking note. Halliwell shared a large corner room with tall windows and a clanking iron radiator with two other detectives, but at the moment it was empty. He went through the paperwork and mail in his in-box, some of which would require his attention later, then shoved it all aside and picked up the phone. The wooden chair creaked beneath him, as he imagined it had even on the day, decades earlier, when it had first been purchased for the department. He dialed information and asked for the police department in San Francisco, California— homicide division, if they had a separate number— and scribbled it on the corner of his desk pad with a pencil so depleted it ought to have been used to score miniature golf.



Turned out San Francisco homicide did indeed have a separate number. When he dialed, it rang only once before being picked up. The cop on the other end was a detective named Beck. Halliwell introduced himself.



“What can I do for you, Detective Halliwell?”



“Before we go any further, you might want to call me back, look in to it, so you know I am who I say I am.”



Halliwell had been through this before. Reporters would say anything on the telephone, try to trick someone into revealing information that nobody else had. Whatever it took to get the scoop.