Monster Hunter Nemesis (32 page)

“Franks is actually going to tell us a story? I’d better update my dream journal.”

Shackleford shushed him.

“Shut up and listen, Pitt. This is complicated.”

* * *

Earl Harbinger sat alone in the dark. The only light was from the glow of his cigarette.

His cell phone was sitting lifeless on his desk. It had been half an hour since Stricken had called to give him the news.

This is professional courtesy. It’s better you hear it from me now than you get the sanitized version later. I regret to inform you that Heather Kerkonen was killed in action when her STFU element tried to take down Agent Franks.

Earl couldn’t even remember how he’d responded.

I know you don’t like or trust me and I understand why, but I’m sincerely sorry, Earl. We had a job to do. Heather was a good woman. She died serving her country.

Earl had ended the call, not even bothering to tell Stricken that he was as good as dead. He had warned Stricken not to take her, so now there would be hell to pay. Earl would take STFU apart, bit by bit, so Stricken could watch his empire fall, and once he had nothing less to lose, then he’d eat Stricken’s black heart.

That decision made, he sat there for a time, feeling nothing but emptiness. Normally he was a man of action. Hesitation wasn’t in his nature, but this was such a kick in the gut that Earl was in shock. Heather was so vibrant, so alive, that he couldn’t imagine losing her . . .

She was gone.

He should have been there. MHI should have taken Franks down. He’d made the wrong call. This was on his head. It was rare for Earl Harbinger to be at a loss as to what to do. All he knew was that Franks had to die for taking Heather, and then Stricken had to die for putting Heather in that monster’s path.

His phone lit up. There was a text message from Julie on it. He needed to talk to her anyway. It was time to rally the troops.

Owen’s old friend dropped by for dinner. Surprise.

Earl didn’t care. Why was Julie bothering him with nonsense?

Him and his three friends had so much fun staying with us and following Owen around last time that he came back.

Earl scowled at the message as he thought that through.

He wants a souvenir this time. He saw something special when he was in the basement. Can you pick something up for us? Call me.

Owen and Franks had fought Hood’s people in the tunnels. That’s where they stored the
special
things they found. “Motherfucker . . .” Earl muttered.

Franks was
here
.

Earl ran from the room.

* * *

Franks didn’t give them too many details. He only told the Hunters what they needed to know. He left off any of his personal details, as well as the part where he’d killed or injured a bunch of their competitors. They might not like that. Hunters could be a sensitive bunch of drama queens.

“So why is this Kurst guy so dangerous exactly?” Shackleford asked. She could tell immediately that Franks wasn’t going to answer that one. “All right. I’ll take your word for it. He’s bad news, I get it, but there’s nothing we can do about it. They’re not PUFF applicable. In fact, they’re government property, so they’re way out of our jurisdiction.”

“We’ll tell Earl.” Pitt said. “I’m sure he’s going to love the part where you kicked his girlfriend off a train, but I don’t think we can do anything about Nemesis.”

“Not without breaking the law,” Shackleford added.

“And MHI never breaks the law or violates any MCB regulations,” Pitt said. “MHI is completely law-abiding.”

“Totally.”

Now they were just messing with him.

There was a buzz from the front of the mansion. Shackleford and Pitt exchanged glances. “Motion detector.” Pitt hobbled along on his damaged foot to a monitor in the hall. “It’s Earl’s truck. Looks like you can make your case to the man himself.”

“Wait here,” Shackleford told him.

Franks did. She probably didn’t expect Franks to actually listen, but he didn’t really feel like participating in the Hunters’ internal discussions anyway. Harbinger would probably be angry at him for bringing MHI into this affair. Harbinger was by nature a volatile individual, but he would see reason, which meant he would help against Nemesis. If there was one man who rivaled Myers’ dedication to protecting humanity, it was Earl Harbinger.

“And don’t vandalize any more of my furniture, jerk.”

They went onto the porch to greet Harbinger. Franks remained leaning against the piano. There was some cursing and shouting. Harbinger sounded rather agitated. Franks perked up. He must have heard about the incident with the STFU werewolf on the subway. That might complicate matters.

Harbinger entered the mansion, but before the others could follow, he slammed the heavy door in their faces. Harbinger looked down the hall, saw Franks, and snarled, “You son of a bitch.”

Franks nodded in greeting.

Pitt’s surprised exclamation and banging on the door was muffled as Harbinger threw down the steel security bar, locking the other two out of the mansion. Then he turned and began walking quickly toward Franks. His eyes were glowing gold. That was not a good sign. The walk turned into a run, and then Earl Harbinger was charging straight toward him.

Of the possible receptions Franks had expected, this one had been low on the list.

Harbinger roared, leapt across the distance, and tackled him. The Hunter was half Franks’ mass but the speed of the impact still launched him back. They fell across the antique piano with Harbinger wrapped around his torso. Half of the piano’s legs snapped off, and they crashed to the floor with a discordant jangle of keys.

“What are you doing?” Franks asked right before Harbinger rose up and punched him in the face. The blow was blindingly quick. The bones of Harbinger’s hands were like steel rods. He moved so fast that Franks had absorbed half a dozen blows before the first one really registered. The back of Franks’ head smashed a hole through the wood. The piano vibrated and made terrible noises.

Shoving Harbinger back, Franks kicked out, sweeping the legs. Harbinger hit the carpet, but instantly rolled and sprang back up. Franks was fast, but Harbinger was faster, and while he was getting up, Harbinger slammed one fist into Franks’ eye socket, dropped an elbow on his neck, and stomped on his ribs. Franks was becoming very annoyed.

The werewolf might have been quick, but Franks had size, strength, and durability. He weathered the punishing blows until he was able to reach out, gather up a handful of leather coat, then he yanked Harbinger toward him and head-butted him so hard it would have killed any mortal man. Even Franks saw stars.

Shaking his head to try and clear the fog, Harbinger stumbled back. Franks still had a lock on the coat, and using superior weight and leverage, he hurled his opponent at the far wall. Harbinger flew across the distance, knocking furniture everywhere, and disappeared in a cloud of splinters and dust. Apparently the interior walls were not nearly as solid as the exterior.

Starting toward the hole he’d made, Franks felt a twinge. He put one hand on his abdomen, and it came away covered in blood. There was a deep laceration on his torso. Harbinger had grown claws.

They were playing for keeps.

Drawing his Glock, Franks approached the hole. On the other side was another room, a guest bedroom from the look of it. There were bits of wood spread everywhere, but no Harbinger. Shackleford and Pitt were still banging on the door, but between that heavy thing and the armored shutters, they would not be getting in anytime soon. Franks moved carefully, changing the angle, slicing the pie, looking for a target.

The wall behind him broke apart as Harbinger leapt through and sank his claws into Franks’ shoulder. As the werewolf dragged him through the wall, Franks turned the Glock past his head and fired it at Harbinger’s face, but only succeeded in putting several rounds through the ceiling and damaging one eardrum. Harbinger ripped a chunk out of Franks’ back trying to take out his spine, but Franks shoved the Glock under his elbow and fired repeatedly, striking Harbinger in the chest.

There was a flash of red and blood shot from Franks’ wrist. The Glock went spinning away. He caught of glimpse of Harbinger grimacing from the pain, but then he realized that the bullets were lodged in the leather jacket.
Damned minotaur hide.
The furious Harbinger was tugging him down the hall. Franks grabbed the claw impaled in his shoulder and squeezed. It caused his own wounds to grow in a flash of blood, but the werewolf wouldn’t be getting away. Still locked on Harbinger’s hand, he twisted hard to the side. Bones splintered until the werewolf let go.

Harbinger fell back, shaking his arm loose so that the bones would realign, then he tore off his restrictive, indestructible coat and threw it aside. Franks stood up. The two of them faced each other across the hall. Harbinger was rapidly transforming, and already within the few seconds since he’d first come in, he was almost entirely in werewolf form. His clothing was ripping as bones pushed through at new angles, hair was sprouting through his skin, his jaw was extending, and the voice that rushed past those sharp teeth was guttural and almost incomprehensible.

“You killed her!”

Who?
Franks had killed a lot of people lately. “Narrow it down for me.”

The werewolf leapt at him, but Franks was ready. He swung one meaty fist and hit Harbinger in the snout. Blood and saliva sprayed across the hall, yet the werewolf still managed to rake claws down his bicep. Harbinger’s foot grated across Franks’ stomach in an instinctive attempt to disembowel him, but the claws were still stuck inside Harbinger’s boots, so it didn’t do him any good.

Franks fell backwards, but on purpose this time, using the werewolf’s momentum against him, and he tossed Harbinger down the hall. He hit the hardwood, rolling and bouncing, but sunk his nails into the floor and stopped himself. Harbinger got right back up, and this time when he stepped forward, his feet were so misshapen they slipped from the boots.

The two of them stood across from each other. Harbinger was almost fully shifted into his other form now, which was an impressive specimen of muscle, cunning, and fury. This was no ordinary werewolf, but Franks was no ordinary golem. Neither of them was capable of fear. Both of them were warriors who understood that mortal life could only be truly appreciated while at the ragged edge of death. MCB agents and Monster Hunters everywhere had been arguing in bars and placing bets about the potential outcome of this particular fight for years.

Battling Harbinger was not conducive to completing his mission. There was still some measure of intelligence behind those golden eyes. He did not know why Harbinger had attacked him so viciously. He could try to reason with the werewolf, explain the importance of his errand, and enlist MHI’s help against their mutual foe . . .

Fuck it.
This was the supposed King of the Werewolves and Franks had been eager to test him for a very long time.

There was a coatrack next to the door. Franks picked it up, pointed it like a spear, and charged. Harbinger rushed him, but Franks caught him in the ribs and knocked him back. Harbinger lashed out and snapped the end off the coatrack, then he stepped
up
the wall, and threw himself down on Franks. Claws sliced cleanly through Franks’ cheek before he could retaliate by driving the jagged end of the rack deep into Harbinger’s stomach.

They broke apart. The werewolf fell back, trying to pull the pole out of his guts, while Franks pressed one hand to his face. Blood was drizzling down his throat, trying to choke him. He could stick his fingers through the dangling flap of flesh and touch his exposed teeth.
Too bad.
Franks had been fond of this face.

Franks reached into his pocket, took out his flask of Elixir, unscrewed the cap, and downed the
whole
thing. Some of the glowing liquid spilled out from the hole in his face and mingled with the blood pouring down his neck. Incredible pain tore through Franks’ body, beginning in his stomach and radiating out through every nerve ending.

One dose was world-shattering agony. The flask held nearly five times that. It took pain to whole new levels that would break mortal minds just trying to understand. A wave of heat rolled up inside of him. Every vein on his body stood out, hard as a rock. The fractured edges of broken bones liquefied into molten calcium before solidifying back into one piece. Boiling hot tears of blood fell from his eyes.

Ouch.

The pain subsided enough for Franks to at least see clearly again. The fully transformed werewolf had dragged the improvised spear out and tossed it aside. Harbinger shoved his guts back in while quivering muscles gathered around the hole and sucked closed.

Every muscle in Franks’ body seemed to burn with stored energy. The Elixir hurt, but for times like this, it was
so
worth it.

“Come get some.”

They rushed at each other. Franks swung, but the werewolf ducked and slid beneath the massive arm. Hot blood flew as Harbinger tore open his calf. Jaws snapped, trying to hamstring him, but Franks had already moved. He clubbed the werewolf over the head, then kicked him in the mouth. Jaws snapped closed so hard that teeth shattered.

Harbinger lit into him, biting, tearing, and snapping. It was death by a thousand cuts. Realizing that Franks’ superstrength would be his end if given room to work, Harbinger was trying to keep them nice and close. Franks caught him by the throat and squeezed. He didn’t know how well a lycanthrope could regenerate when deprived of air, but they were going to find out. He choked the werewolf with one hand and went to punching him in the face with the other. Harbinger’s skull fractured. Blood poured from his pointy ears.

The two of them spun and rolled down the hall, crashing and banging through furniture. Picture frames fell and shattered. They hit a door, which burst open, dumping them into the kitchen. Franks had almost succeeded in choking out the werewolf, when he got sloppy, and didn’t withdraw his fist fast enough. Harbinger’s teeth snapped shut on Franks’ hand.