The roof wasn’t finished by a long shot. That plastic sheeting wouldn’t slow them down much, and those lads were so slim they could drop down through the trusses and beams without any trouble. But they’d have to stand still for a moment to tear a hole through the plastic, and during that time they’d be vulnerable. I rose from my crouch and addressed the room.
“Does anyone have a gun?” The looks I got in response suggested that I’d asked about something profoundly distasteful, like trickle-down economics or the poetry of William Blake. “Okay, how about a knife?”
Ben had a decent knife clipped to his belt. He nodded at me and handed it over, hilt first.
“Thanks,” I said. I grabbed the shovel Granuaile had used and unscrewed the wooden handle from the blade. I used the knife to whittle the end of the handle down to a sharpened point, unbinding the cellulose a bit to make the work go easier. I had a makeshift javelin in less than thirty seconds. Switching the javelin and knife between my two hands, I held the tip of the javelin over the fire to heat it up a bit and kept an eye on the ceiling.
Granuaile and Oberon figured it out by watching me.
“Oh, no, the roof …” she breathed.
“That’s right,” I said. “That’s their best shot.” I gently tossed the knife at her feet. “If they get through, they’re coming after me because of the compulsion Hel put on them. And once they do that, stab ’em in the back and duck.”
“Will that kill them?”
“Probably not. But it will distract them, maybe give me a chance to draw my sword or save my life — you know, that kind of thing.” I flashed a quick grin at her to try to lighten up the message. It didn’t seem to relax her very much. The tip of the javelin was beginning to smoke and glow orange: good. I moved back to the north wall to encourage the skinwalkers to attack on that side, if they were coming at all. I boosted my reflexes and strength with temporary bindings, hoping they would be enough to let me get a decent shot. I’d get only one.
<How are they going to get up there?> Oberon asked.
My guess is an alley-oop. One of them will toss the other up. They’re strong enough to manage it. They proved it a few seconds later.
Take two Fords from the 1940s and scrape them against each other at an excruciating three miles per hour, then feed that sound through the amps at a Motörhead concert: That’s what the skinwalker sounded like when he landed on the roof directly above me and tried to paralyze us all with fear as he tore at the plastic sheeting. Most everyone flinched, startled by the noise and the direction it came from. I didn’t hesitate once I saw the skinwalker silhouetted against the dark cobalt of the starlit sky; I threw the javelin straight up, hoping it would connect, then reached back to draw Moralltach from its sheath.
The javelin flew true, but the skinwalker was so fast that it was able to jerk back and take it in the shoulder joint instead of the middle of the chest. My boosted strength served me well; the javelin plowed straight through to the other side, no doubt ruining the skinwalker’s shoulder, and the impact bowled him backward off the roof. He shrieked as he fell. He missed the ward of the Blessing Way, unfortunately, but I figured neither of them would view attacking the roof as a good idea anymore.
<Heh. I think you made your point, Atticus.>
Gods Below, Oberon, that was horrendous! You just violated the Schwarzenegger Pun Reduction Treaty of 2010.
<What? No, that didn’t qualify!>
Yes, it did. Any pun relating to a weapon’s destructive capabilities or final disposition of a victim’s body is a Schwarzenegger pun, by definition. That’s negative twenty sausages according to the sanctions outlined in Section Four, Paragraph Two.
My hound whined. <No! Not twenty sausages! Twenty succulent sausages I’ll never snarf? You can’t do that — it’s cruelty to animals!>
You can’t argue with this. Your pawprint is on the treaty, and you agreed that Schwarzenegger puns are heinous abominations of language that deserve food-related punishments for purposes of correction and deterrence.
<Auggh! I still say it’s your fault for renting Commando in the first place! You started it!>
Who started it is immaterial. You violated the treaty by continuing it.
<This is terrible. Terrible! But, wait, it’s the end of the day and I’m still up, 4–3! That means I earned back ten penalty sausages!>
That is a ridiculous figure, Oberon. One.
<Eight.>
Three.
<Five!>
Fine. You may discount five penalty sausages by virtue of your minor victory.
Oberon lay down and put his paws over his eyes. <Oh, great big bears, negative fifteen sausages! It’s a nightmare, that’s what it is.>
His words were more true than he realized, but for far weightier reasons than the loss of meat products. If I was reading things right, skinwalkers were the worst nightmares of the Navajo world, all their other monsters having been dispatched long ago by Monster Slayer, and I am sure there was nothing more horrifying in their minds than being taken by one. It was a nightmare for me too, because there wasn’t anything I could do magically to defeat these guys, and physically they were far faster and maybe stronger than me. I was unprepared, like a bad Boy Scout. Their magic was as old as mine, if not older, crafted independently and far removed from the European traditions with which I was familiar.
I remembered a bizarre day of my education, when the archdruid taught me how to unbind vampires, beguile dragons, and tame manticores. “You’ll probably never need to use this,” he said, “but if you ever run into one of the beasties, you’ll be glad I took the trouble. Now, stop looking at that girl over there and pay attention, gods blast you!”
I had been an unruly and easily distracted apprentice at times. But I was fairly certain there was nothing in Druid lore that would help me deal with this. It would take days or weeks of experimentation to come up with something new and effective, but I didn’t have that luxury. Nor did I have anything to chuck skyward should they try the roof again; I was fresh out of shovels or anything else that could be converted to a projectile weapon. Well, maybe I could fling the discarded shovel blade like a square Frisbee.
Thankfully, the skinwalkers had no intention of attacking again. They had plenty of wounds to lick, not to mention a sharpened stick to yank out of a torso, and they weren’t (yet) hungry enough for my flesh to continue their assault in such a state. They made plenty of spitting and cursing noises as they staggered away, and mildly hopeful expressions bloomed on the faces of the Navajos.
Frank let that feeling settle in and get comfortable before he said anything. “They’ll be back. If not tonight, then tomorrow.” That caused some restless shifting of feet. “An’ if you’re thinkin’ you might call in sick tomorrow, think about it again. This project here can’t fail. It ain’t just your job at stake, it’s everyone’s. Besides, that man out there woulda wanted us to finish. An’ you know we can finish it right.” The workers all nodded solemnly, Sophie choked back a sob, and Frank led them in a new song.
Granuaile shot a querying glance in my direction. “That man?” she whispered.
I replied in the same low tones. “He’s talking about the construction foreman. The one the skinwalkers killed.”
“You mean Dar—”
“Shh!” I held up a hand to stop her. “Some cultures, including Navajos, don’t speak the names of the dead.”