And he could hear something else.
Something was stalking them. Ramirez had got out. He was here.
Naylor pulled the pin on an incendiary grenade and tossed it into the house. It exploded inside the building. Soon it would be engulfed in flame. Ramirez’s millions in stashed cash, his priceless artefacts, Garcia and the bodies of Naylor’s fallen squad mates would soon all be nothing but ash. The only trophies were the golden knife Naylor still clutched in his left hand and—
“Contact!” McDowell shouted.
Naylor saw it; saw the bulk of the skinwalker silhouetted against the sky as it slunk along the roof of the covered boathouse walkway.
“He’s mine!” Naylor shouted and the words came out funny: deeper, with a rattle along the edge that was just short of a growl.
He flung off his helmet and MP5, tossing them into the burning house along with the rest of his grenades. He sprinted towards Ramirez, covering the ground with easy speed. He was aware of everything: the sounds of the night, the route to the boat and how long it would take his friends to get there. He felt like he could close his eyes and find Ramirez by scent alone. He had never felt so alive.
The Ramirez creature dropped in front of him but Naylor was ready for it. He swung the golden dagger up towards the creature’s throat. His hand thudded into Ramirez’s leathery paw as the creature blocked the knife with contemptuous ease. Its claws extended, slicing into Naylor’s captured hand like five switchblades.
Naylor roared — a brutal animal roar of pain and rage ripped out from between his fangs and only then did the Ramirez creature notice the change.
Naylor swiped upward with his right hand, the hand bound in the fragment of the skinwalker pelt. Only it wasn’t his hand now; it was a sleek, black javelin of sinew and claws. The one-armed Ramirez had no defence. Naylor’s claws raked up his chest and tore out his throat.
Naylor tasted blood as the last beats of his prey’s heart sprayed its lifeblood over him as it fell.
He lifted his head to the night sky and roared.
The motor launch chugged away down the river. Behind them, the compound blazed in a red and gold mirror of the sunrise that was just beginning to creep over the hills behind the house.
Naylor closed his left eye, the human one, and marvelled at the rich colours.
He looked over at Lowe who lay against the gunwale, swathed in bandages from the boat’s first aid kit. “You look like hell,” Naylor said.
Lowe looked back at him. “You can talk,” he said.
Naylor smiled, feeling the unfamiliar length of the incisors on the right side of his mouth. He looked down at his paw: the black jaguar fur reached halfway up his bicep before giving way to human skin. But the changes didn’t stop there. His right eye was bright yellow with a slitted pupil, his right ear was pointed and wouldn’t keep still. It kept moving, searching out sounds on the riverbank.
“That was some mission,” McDowell called back from the wheelhouse.
“Yep,” Naylor replied. He hefted the rest of the skinwalker pelt he had taken from Ramirez’s body. “But I reckon they’re going to get a lot easier from now on.”
Skadi’s Wolves
Kirsten Cross
Dozens of unblinking eyes were watching every move Ælrik made. It was impossible to see the rest of their blue-stained faces in the shadows that clustered around the perimeter of the campfire. Only the whites of their eyes shone like malevolent stars in the darkness. The fire sent up greasy plumes of smoke, and every so often the resin that seeped out of the pine branches reached boiling point and erupted in a violent fizz and crack that sounded like condensed lightning. No matter how many times it happened, it never failed to make Ælrik flinch.
Flinching was something you didn’t want to do in front of the ‘Painted People’. These damn Picts saw any indication of fear as a sign of weakness — a sign that would instantly draw a violent and bloody response.
So the fact they were so frightened of what they called ‘Skadi’s Wolves’ that they were even talking to Ælrik, a soldier and messenger of the hated King Æthelstan, without hacking him to pieces in the process was all the more astonishing.
The warlord and his priest squatted opposite Ælrik and his companion, a tousle-haired Dane named Jurgen. The lad was only in his nineteenth year, but already he had the mind of a far wiser and more experienced statesman on his young shoulders. If he lived, he’d go far. If he lived. His sword-arm was strong too, and in these times of turmoil that was probably much more useful than all the pretty words any silver-tongued envoy could pour onto the unimpressed heads of the Painted People — heads that bristled with lime-hardened spikes of white hair. To Ælrik’s eyes they looked for all the world like hedgepigs that have rolled into a ball to defend themselves from the attentions of an over-curious wildcat.
The priest had spent the entire time muttering and drawing symbols into the dirt with a charred stick. His rotten teeth caused him to slur and stutter, but Jurgen could just about make out the guttural noises and interpret them into words. He translated the gibberish for Ælrik. “They come when the moon is full, he says.”
“Who do?”
“Skadi’s Wolves.”
“Yes, I keep hearing this name. Who is this Skadi? Is he some kind of warlord?”
Jurgen shook his head. “Skadi is an ice giantess. She is one of the most feared of all the northern queens. She is the one who punished Loki for his crimes.”
“Ah, right. So a myth, then.”
Jurgen snorted. “As real to me as your mythical Fisher of Men is to you, my friend.”
Ælrik rounded on the young Dane. “Blaspheme against the name of our Lord one more time and I’ll kill you myself, understand?”
“Your lord, Ælrik, not mine. Anyway, I thought you Christians were supposed to forgive us simple Pagans?” Jurgen raised an eyebrow. “And perhaps this is a conversation for another time and not one we should indulge in now?” He gave an almost impercievable nod towards the Picts and lowered his voice. “They’re nervous enough as it is of our presence, Ælrik. One wrong move and we could find ourselves skewered and roasting over this very fire. They eat people, you know. They really do.”
Ælrik snorted. “No they don’t, you young fool. But I agree that perhaps our spiritual debate can wait for another time. Continue.”
Jurgen shifted uncomfortably. The Picts may be happy to squat for hours in front of a fire, but he had become used to the relative comforts of the Berwick garrison and, in particular, cushions. “According to the priest, Skadi’s Wolves single out warriors. Anyone with a sword is fair game. They leave the villagers and farmers alone, unless, of course, they can’t find any warriors. Then they’ll feed on anyone they can run down.”
“So what we actually have is a bunch of Norsemen raiders, dressed as wolves and led by a woman, and spoiling for a fight.” Ælrik rolled his eyes. “Jurgen, you’re a soldier. Do you honestly believe this nonsense about ice queens and men that shapeshift into wolves?”
“Says the man who asks some dickless monk to give him absolution every holy day, and then promptly goes out the next day killing and slaughtering. Be wary of what you make jests towards, my friend.”
Ælrik stared open-mouthed at Jurgen. “You cannot possibly be telling me that you actually believe that some ice goddess—”
“Giantess.”
“Whatever. Some ice giantess is hunting down soldiers with a pack of slathering, demonic wolves? Can’t you see this is just a matter of simple campfire stories made up by a bunch of backward fools who still believe that painting their skin blue will make them invincible in battle?”