Extinction Agenda (21 page)

Chapter Twenty

Trizs, Hungary

C
ole had taken a long jump through a Dryad bridge only once before. Unlike the mildly dizzying couple of steps that characterized most trips, his first international trip felt like plummeting through space with a giant fan at his back to push him along even faster. That was due to the nature of the bridge, which had also put the unhealthy tone into Tristan’s skin. This time he felt as if he’d closed his eyes and stepped off the edge of the stage into a pit. There was no sound or any sensation apart from the yawning in his gut that made him certain he was about to hit a brick wall at any second.

After several minutes of that, he staggered through another curtain, accompanied by the uneven bass line of a song he didn’t recognize. The others were there as well, holding their heads and opening their mouths wide as if on an airplane and trying to get their eardrums to pop. Whatever music he heard in his head was merely an echo from the Hub, resonating in the thrum of passing through the Dryad bridge. The bass lines were really there, however. All the pounding notes and reverberations weren’t in time to any music, but instead came from outside the thin walls of what Cole could now see was a substandard strip club.

“Holy shit!” Waggoner said as he looked outside through the smoked glass of a narrow window.

The other man must have been one of the first ones through, because Paige and Cole were still trying to get their heads to stop rattling. Another thump filled the small building, causing glasses to rattle behind a dirty bar and cheap imitation crystals to knock against each other while dangling from a ceiling made to look like a night sky.

Cole rubbed his temples and looked around. The curtain was set up only a few inches in front of a wall adorned with vaguely familiar Dryad glyphs written in chipped white paint covering a corner of the club. Two raised platforms on that side of the room were barely high enough to be called stages, and the poles leaning precariously in the middle didn’t look secure enough to hold a child. Two men wearing heavy coats waved furiously at the Skinners and spoke in voices that were partially lost amid the commotion.

Now that he knew someone was yelling at him, he could make out the haggard voices shouting in a Slavic dialect. He might not have known what the men were saying, but he could read flailing arms well enough to know he was supposed to come down from the stage. As soon as he hopped over the edge of the platform, glass shattered and a piercing shriek filled the room. Cole recognized that shriek well enough to drop the moment his feet touched the floor. Paige had been around gargoyles as well, which meant she was quick to follow his lead and pull Waggoner down seconds before the flapping creatures crashed through the window and circled crazily near the ceiling.

As his wits slowly returned, Cole enjoyed the view of tracked-in dirt, cigarette butts, and loose change littering the club’s floor. Warped boards rattled against each other as one of the locals made his way over to the side of the stage. “You speak English?” the man asked.

“Yeah.”

“You are Skinners from America?”

Before Cole could answer, he accidentally locked eyes with one of the creatures stuck to the ceiling with a set of hooklike talons. The gargoyle had stretched its flat body so it could survey the club using the narrow black eyes wedged near the front of its body. Those were the sharper of its two sets of eyes, the ones it used in flight. The gargoyle let go of the ceiling to slice through the air like a piece of paper taking a pendulous path toward the floor. “Above you!” he shouted.

The man had the solid build of a farmer, complete with muscles that were too big and bulky to have been sculpted in a gym. He swung himself around while spouting words in his native tongue, which had the sharp tone and rough edges of profanity. Although he had a rifle in his hands, he knew better than to fire a shot at the gargoyle. Instead, he used the stock of the weapon to swat the creature away. Since none of the creature’s blood was spilled, the others flapped near the ceiling like oversized bats. Disturbing, but no immediate threat.

“Milosh is outside with the others,” the man with the rifle said.

“What’s going on here?” Paige asked.

“Same thing as everywhere. The wolves are staking their claim and we are in their way.”

Cole’s scars had been burning since the moment he stepped through the beads, but now they flared up enough for him to reflexively reach for the spear strapped to his back. The man with the rifle didn’t need an early warning system to tell him there was trouble nearby. The rasping snarls coming through the broken window did that job well enough. The two dancers who’d been near the stage, who had the flawless beauty of nymphs, hurried to seek shelter behind the bar as the bartender pulled a shotgun from where he’d stashed it. Both he and the man with the rifle fired at the window, sending a curious Half Breed away.

“That won’t hold them for long,” the man with the rifle said. “You must leave now and take those things with you.”

“Care to lend us a hand?” Waggoner asked.

The man looked at him and let out a single, scoffing breath. “If you need my help, then you won’t be any use to Milosh.”

Paige stood up, brushed herself off, and pulled the Beretta from under her jacket. Her other hand wrapped around the wooden weapon holstered in her boot, which she gripped tight enough to cause blood to well up between her fingers. “Where are they?”

“Step outside and look down the road. If you miss them, you are blind.” When a burst of automatic gunfire set off a chorus of vicious howls, he added, “And deaf.”

“Is there a back door to this place?”

The man pointed in the direction the nymphs had gone and then placed the rifle stock on his shoulder so he could sight along the top of its barrel. While stepping toward the window, he fired three careful shots that were much too high to be aimed at any werewolf. Cole took a quick look in that direction to confirm his suspicion. The shots had been fired at a pair of gargoyles flapping their skinny, bony arms to gain some altitude using the thin layers of skin stretched on their bony frame. Hooked talons scraped at the darkened sky when one of the shots caught one through the middle of its body. The creature didn’t make a sound until it dove straight down and the wind passed between the layers of its flesh. A small group of Half Breeds that had been approaching the club dug their claws into the dirt and snarled at the rifleman. Some of the blood from the wounded gargoyle spattered upon their backs, which didn’t distracted them at all until the creature glided into their line of sight. One Half Breed attacked the gargoyle, tearing its thin body to shreds. The scent of one gargoyle’s blood brought down the others that had been circling overhead.

One by one the gargoyles descended. They spread their bodies out to catch the wind, which slowed their fall while putting them in prime position to wrap around the Half Breeds. Talons dug into the werewolves’ ribs and chests. Howls became muffled as they were enveloped, and Cole knew he wouldn’t get a better chance to leave the club. “Will our stuff be safe here?” he asked the bartender.

The man with the shotgun laughed heartily. “Nothing is safe anywhere, my friend.”

Cole felt a solid slap on his shoulder as Waggoner stepped up to the bar. “I like this man’s outlook. How about one for the road?”

Apparently, the bartender was willing to part with some liquor as long as it meant clearing the Skinners from his place. Either that or it was his way of supporting the troops, because he splashed some vodka into shot glasses so they could toss it back. But before Cole could indulge, he and Waggoner were dragged outside by Paige.

“Maybe we should try another angle,” Cole said.

Paige led the charge, with Waggoner reluctantly bringing up the rear. “If you’re thinking about sneaking up on anyone,” she said, “I doubt that’s much of an option.”

The road leading to the club was lonely and unpaved. Apart from a few cars that were upended along the side of the road, there were only power lines and a few packs of werewolves rushing in different directions, like sections of shadow ripped away from the night and tossed into a blender. They were far enough away from a town that the stars themselves provided enough light for the Skinners once their eyes became acclimated. “I think I see them!” Cole said.

There was movement farther down the road, which amounted to a confusing mess of shadows lunging at each other. Suddenly, that group was illuminated by the strobe effect of an assault rifle fired at full auto into the faces of an impending werewolf horde.

“Yep,” Paige said. “That’s them all right.” Without another word, she gripped her weapons and ran into the fray.

Fueled by the vodka still warming his system, Waggoner took off as well. He had his curved wooden weapon in hand but wasn’t gripping it nearly tight enough to draw blood. The expression on his wide face drifted between eagerness and terror. “Do you know how to use that thing?” Cole asked.

That question was enough of a challenge to tighten Waggoner’s fists around the weapon until blood flowed from his hands. “Damn right I do.”

“Then prove it.” It wasn’t the most inspiring speech to send a man into battle, but it was all Cole could afford to give before Paige got too far ahead of him. It was enough to get the other man trotting alongside him.

Turning to his right, he saw the vague outline of a shaggy body behind a pair of eyes that caught the dim glow from above. The thorns of Cole’s weapon burrowed into his palms as he willed the spear to stretch to its normal size. Its metallic spearhead glinted in the moonlight, and the forked end reached toward the ground like a serpent’s tongue. When the Half Breed bared its teeth and leapt at him, Cole threw himself to the ground and twisted around to hit the dirt on his right side. He dug the forked end of the spear into the earth and propped it up so the metallic end was waiting for the Half Breed. Without a way to defy the laws of gravity, the werewolf landed on the spearhead and its weight forced the sharpened point to emerge from its back.

Lying on the ground like that meant he could feel the approach of the other werewolves. Two of them thundered toward him. The one at the front of the group lowered its head and opened its mouth. Saliva poured from crooked fangs in anticipation of the tender meat it intended on ripping from Cole’s neck and face. Before it got close enough to have its meal, however, the Half Breed was knocked off its stride by a narrow projectile that hit its upper body with a solid thump. It rolled onto its side and slid the rest of the way toward Cole, who scooted away and jerked the spear free. A third Half Breed leapt over that one, but Cole was ready for it. He bent at the knees and brought his spear up to catch it in the chest. Although the Half Breed was fast enough to keep from impaling itself, it still received a nasty gash along its left side as the spearhead raked across its rib cage.

“On your right,” Waggoner said from behind Cole.

When he tried to step aside to clear a path for the other Skinner, a set of jaws clamped down on his ankle. He felt the fangs press against the thick leather of his boots. Willing the forked end of his spear to pinch shut, he slid that end of the weapon along his trapped leg into the werewolf’s mouth and then willed it to open again. The wooden tines weren’t strong enough to brace the Half Breed’s powerful jaws apart, but the smaller splinters that Cole brought up from the wooden surface made the creature think twice before tearing his foot off. The Half Breed pulled its head back and then drew its weight down onto its haunches in preparation for a lunge. It was held in place by a narrow piece of wood that hissed through the air to drive into the creature’s chest.

At first Cole thought the werewolf had somehow been stuck by a piece of flying debris. The object lodged in its chest looked like nothing more than a stick with one end that had several pieces cracked away as if it splintered while being crudely ripped from a branch. That’s when he realized the stick was identical to the projectile that caught one of the other Half Breeds a few moments ago. Waggoner stepped up to grab it by the splintered end and clench his fist around it. His other hand was wrapped around the middle of his weapon, which still had the string tied from end to end. Cole could now see the string wasn’t just there to keep it in place when strapped across his back.

The Half Breed reared its head back and began clawing at the ground. Waggoner pulled the stick out from where it had landed. It came loose amid a bloody spray caused by a sharpened end that had split apart to form two hooks where a single tip had once been. With a little more effort, Waggoner willed the hooks to curl back together to form an arrowhead. He notched the stick on the string, drew it back, and fired it into the third Half Breed.

“Damn,” Cole said as he drilled the metallic spearhead through the first creature’s eye before pulling it out to pivot and deal with the second. “I haven’t seen that one before.”

Waggoner’s shot sailed true, and the arrow hit the Half Breed in the eye. Because it was made from specially prepared wood, it went all the way through and was stopped only when the splintered end snagged something within the beast’s skull. He then put the Half Breed down by cracking the end of his longbow against its temple so Cole could impale it through the top of its skull. “Still some kinks to work out,” Waggoner said, “but it works pretty well.” He retrieved his arrow and reached over his shoulder to place it in the leather harness, which was just big enough to hold four more of the arrows flat against his back, where they could go all but unnoticed.

Farther down the road, Paige and some of others were firing their guns at a group of Half Breeds. The pack was being thinned out by a cluster of people who took a stand near a pair of SUVs parked in the grass about 150 yards away from the club. Four of them were illuminated by headlights, but there was enough commotion in the shadows to convince Cole there had to be a fight going on there as well.

He and Waggoner ran to catch up with the others. When he heard the telltale screeches coming from above, Cole shouted, “Down!” and threw himself face first to the dirt. Gargoyles might not have been sturdy, but they were fast, their cry a way to catch their prey’s attention, not to warn them. If anyone on the ground stopped to look at where that sound was coming from, they would be too late to do anything to avoid the airborne attack. Unfortunately, Waggoner had forgotten about that.