Harry

The house looked somewhat shabby when we pulled up. Hell, even my home looked better from the outside, and I lived in the basement of an old boarding house. The siding of the place was dingy, badly in need of a power wash. The grass was a little overlong, the sidewalk too short, coming to a stop a foot before the front steps.

There was a toffee brown VW Bug in the driveway. That little detail pissed me off. I didn't want to have anything in common with this son of a bitch, even a similar taste in cars.

Michael pulled his minivan up to the curb and threw it into park, exiting with a brisk sense of purpose. Gard stepped lithely from the back, managing to give even our less than grand transport a sense of panache. They approached the house shoulder-to-shoulder, a wall of capable force, with me tagging along in the back like someone's scrappy sidekick. Even with my blasting rod and staff with me, I felt like the weak link.

"This feels a bit like overkill," I muttered. "Three of us against a middle-aged pencil-pusher with delusions of Bundydom. Or is it Dahmerhood?"

The sharp look I caught from Michael for the comment shut me up and made me feel abruptly ashamed of myself. I can't help it. When I'm scared or angry my mouth starts running, often to my detriment. But Michael didn't need that right now. We were here to confront his daughter's killer. I needed to show a little goddamn discretion for once. I pressed my lips into a taut line and resolved to keep my mouth shut until we'd caught the guy.

Gard reached the door first and rapped sharply. I focused my concentration and listened. It's an ability I've acquired that's more mental than magical. With enough practice, anyone could probably do it. All my mental acuity was focused on trying to hear what was going on inside the house. There was a shuffle of feet and then the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked.

"Gun!" I shouted, dragging Michael away from the door by the elbow.

Gard leaped to the side, just in time for a round of buckshot to slam through the front door. I shoved my body in front of Michael's taking the brunt of the attack on my leather-clad back. The spells worked into my duster were proof against most bullets. Still, it felt like a dozen hard pokes against my shoulder blades as they impacted.

Wayne Huber came through the door, clutching a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. He was fit for his age, generic-looking, and going bald. Stick him in a lineup and he wouldn't have stood out. There was a madcap glint in his eyes as he raised the barrel to fire again.

Gard hit him so hard and fast he didn't have time to squeeze the trigger. No weapons, just her bare fist. It was enough to drop Huber to the ground, a mark about an inch deep carved into his cheekbone where Gard's ring had gouged the skin. With the blood on the stone, she could do any number of nasty things to him. I was voting for something that would melt his entrails.

The shotgun tumbled out of his hands and Michael stooped to pick it up, aiming the primed weapon at Huber. I didn't think he'd shoot, but the look in his eyes was still a little scary. I'd never seen him so pissed. This man was allegedly responsible for murdering his daughter. There was no telling what he'd do.

Gard jammed a boot into his back and drew the ax she'd brought along from her back, holding it at the ready.

"Wayne Huber," she said coldly. "We've heard a rumor you hired Mr. Williams to watch over your storage unit. In a lot where the corpses were found. Care to explain? If you don't..."

She stroked the handle of the ax lovingly.

To my surprise, Huber began to laugh. A wheezing cackle that echoed eerily down the street. The sound seemed too big for him, and it grew deeper with every strained breath.

"You don't scare me, you bitch."

Gard shoved the heel of her boot between Huber's kidneys, and still, he kept laughing. The sound became deeper still until it sounded more like the eager huff of animal breath. He bucked against her and, astonishingly, was strong enough to knock her off, even with her leverage.

Huber staggered to his feet, and then it began. His bones popped and snapped, arms and legs elongating, skin stretching taut as he shot up like a tree. It came at a cost, stealing muscle off his frame. Soon there was only ashy skin spread thin over an enormous skeleton. By the time it was done growing, it was easily ten feet tall, casting us all in a massive shadow. If it weren't moving, I'd have assumed the thing was dead. Nothing natural could survive the starvation it would take to reach that level of emaciation. Nothing human was so gaunt or had vermillion eyes. Hunger and hate burned out from them.

Its mouth opened wide, exposing a row of sharp, glistening teeth and a hair-raising shriek split the afternoon air.

"Fuck!" I hissed. Michael didn't even reprimand me for the curse. His eyes were wide, showing white at the edges. He had the gun at the ready, stock pressed into one broad shoulder.

"What is it?"

"A wendigo."

A Wyldfae of such enormous power and incredible viciousness that it had become synonymous with death in many Native American tribes. A fae so dangerous that most wizards didn't dare tangle with them. Someone had, though. The skin of its chest was warped, stuck in rivulets like candle wax. Someone had set the thing on fire. Something intensely powerful.

Then, with another chilling shriek, the wendigo charged.