“Put it out! Put it out!”
Elora watched as the huge thug stumbled back into the coffee table, catching behind his knees and falling over, kicking his legs in the air as he went down. Reuben’s mouth was agape, the gun was still trained on her uncle, his finger looking ever twitchier as it hovered over the trigger.
“Now Elora, run!” Nat shouted as he let go of her leg and fell forward against Reuben. Grasping his gun arm with both of his hands, he pushed it away.
For the length of a heartbeat, Elora remained rooted to the spot, dazed by the connection she had been released from and the thought of leaving her uncle behind.
“Go!” Nat shouted as he struggled with Reuben, the pair of them locked together, faces grimaces at each other. Elora scrambled to her feet and with one last glance at her uncle, bolted for the kitchen door and pelted down the narrow corridor to the stern of the Molly. If she could get away, she could get to a phone and ring the police. Behind her, Reuben was screaming at Pinky, so she guessed the flames must have died when Nat lunged at Reuben. Yet by now she was at the stern door and once she was on the canal bank, there was no way Pinky could catch her.
She flung open the door and ran straight into the arms of a third man who grabbed her about the waist and shoved her back inside the Molly.
“Having problems?” he asked, a tone of sarcasm thick in his voice as Pinky gripped her by the shoulder.
“Shove it, Kitch,” Pinky replied, fighting for breath. “This little bitch is as vicious as a pit bull.”
There was a clatter from the living room. A glass smashing, Reuben cursing and then a gunshot that silenced everything.
“No!” Elora screamed. She thrashed against her captors but couldn’t break their hold.
“Guess the old man won’t be causing us any more trouble,” Pinky chuckled.
With another scream of fury laced with frustration, Elora stomped her heel down hard on top of Pinky’s foot. He yelped with pain but held fast, shoving her against the wall with a brute force that jarred every bone in her body.
Reuben appeared, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead. “Lock her in her bedroom. Make sure she can’t climb out of the window.” He turned to Elora. The amused tone was absent from his voice now, replaced by anger and hatred. “Carry on, you little bitch and you’ll get what your uncle got. Silk maybe paying well but I may not be able to help myself.”
Elora met his eyes and spat in his face. “I’m going to kill you,” she said.
Chapter 3
All Teeth and Claws
Bray was being followed. He had been aware of it for the last thirty minutes and if he had to guess, he would say that his pursuer wasn’t being all that careful. Which led him to believe that he was a random target. Nobody would follow him if they knew who he really was and what he was capable of; and if he was the intended target, then they had greatly underestimated him.
Bray took a sharp turn down an alley. Behind him, heavy footsteps echoed down the street followed by a click, as if talons or claws struck the pavement. He paused to let his pursuer catch up before moving on, drawing whoever or whatever was stalking him into a quieter part of the city, away from people and CCTV cameras.
Behind him Bray could hear laboured breathing, the light rasping sound of a creature with huge lungs, sniffing the air and tasting him upon it. The footsteps quickened, suggesting the beast was close and eager to reach him. Bray pressed on, into an industrial area and across a patch of waste ground. A large disused warehouse loomed ahead of him, the silver moon hovering above, silhouetting the square frame and throwing him into shadow. Not that the creature wouldn’t already have a clear view of him. If he guessed right, its eyes would be extremely keen in the dark and its nose would have capabilities beyond that of any bloodhound.
The warehouse was a hangar-like affair, built of breeze block and steel with a corrugated iron roof. The large sliding doors were unlocked, and he slid them open wide enough to slip through. He let his hand linger on the cold metal frame, deliberately leaving a scent so that his pursuer would be in no doubt to where he was.
A vast dark space opened out before him, empty and deserted. A fractured skylight allowed a sliver of moonlight to penetrate the gloom. A musty smell coated the air, the copper and plastic tang of old wiring mingled with more than a hint of rat droppings. The place had been empty a while.
Bray wasted no time. Moving swiftly past long-abandoned aisles of rusting machinery, he clambered on top of an ancient generator and swung onto the steel girder above. Half-upright, his arms outstretched for balance, he edged silently along the narrow beam just as a large wolf-like snout poked through the gap in the shed door. Bray crouched low to the girder, keeping still and watched his pursuer enter.
The creature sucked in the air hungrily and sniffed the spot on the door where Bray had left his handprint. Straining to locate its prey, it heaved the doors open with razor-sharp claws. Once inside, it dropped to all fours and began to follow the trail towards the machinery, moving with the stealth of a seasoned predator, its dark grey fur merging into the shadowy gloom but occasionally picked out by shafts of moonlight from the fractured skylight.
Bray narrowed his eyes and dropped silently to the concrete floor behind the beast with the dexterity of a lithe cat.
His orders were simple. Find the creature that had been roaming the city and eliminate it.
For weeks the news media had been full of tales of a madman roaming the streets of London, apparently choosing random victims to mutilate - a savage killer of superhuman strength who had left a trail of disembowelled and often limbless corpses behind. The killer seemed to prey on lone individuals who were careless enough to find themselves alone at the early hours. Bray knew better. Bray’s master knew better, and that was why Diagus had ordered him to seek and destroy. And to mete out justice.
The creature was a bulworg. Part wolf, part bull, part rock troll. All teeth and claws and bred to kill. Bray had seen plenty back home on Thea. They made good guards, protectors, even first-wave soldiers. A single bulworg could rip through an enemy platoon in moments, without fatigue, without fear. A pack of them could change the outcome of a battle. He had heard of bulworgs being taught to read and write, although it seemed unlikely. Bulworgs had little more intelligence than the average wolf and could only follow the simplest orders. He had never heard of one on Earth. He couldn’t guess how it had penetrated the barrier between the worlds. It had to belong to someone. Either way, the bulworg must die.
Bray trod carefully in its footsteps, staying out of range of its vision until he was close enough. With his left hand, he opened the smuggler’s pouch - an invisible pocket that hung in the ether between worlds - and pulled his sword free. To an outsider it would have seemed that he pulled his sword from thin air, the pouch being undetectable by eye or touch. But the sword was solid enough. He could feel the weight of it.
He adopted a defensive stance, legs shoulder-width apart, left foot planted slightly in front, balancing his weight on the ball of his right. Both hands grasped the hilt of his sword as he levelled the grey steel point-first at the creature.
Bray’s voice was calm but edged with authority. “By the order of the Shadojak, I command you to yield.”
The creature halted and rose back onto hind legs until it stood upright like a man, albeit a man of eight foot with a mass of grey fur, muscle and twisted sinew. Its claws made a click-clack sound on the floor as it slowly turned to face him, yellow eyes full of hatred, snout pulled tight in a rictus grin, canines on either side dripping hunger-driven saliva from needle-sharp points. It sunk lower, leg muscles bunching up ready to pounce.
Have it your own way, thought Bray. It wouldn’t have made any difference if the beast had yielded. It still had to die.
The bulworg came at him, bursting forward with a speed that belied its bulk. Bray dropped to his knee and rolled to the left, feeling the impact of the bulworg’s paws as they slammed into the ground where he had just been. Before he finished his roll, Bray spun around, leaping into the air with his body parallel to the ground narrowly missing the beast’s tail as it whipped by. Landing deftly, he immediately went into a forward roll letting his reflexes propel him out of harm’s way as a large clawed foot hit the ground beside him.
The bulworg howled in frustration and punched a steel support, causing the building to shake and leaving a massive dent in the inch-thick steel. It was fast, but Bray was faster.
He changed his grip on the sword, grasping it in one hand and bringing it above his head while extending a leg forward to form the scorpion stance. The bulworg began to pace around him, sizing him up, searching for a weakness. Bray didn’t flinch as the beast’s yellow eyes drilled into him. The creature’s fury burned brighter at being thwarted by a mere man. Bray felt a flicker of sympathy. It was true, he was a man - but only partly.
The creature grunted, then sprang. This time, Bray pivoted on his heel, dropped low and brought his sword down, swinging it in a lethal arc. The blade caught the beast’s thick wrist joint, severing the paw. In the same fluid motion, he grasped the other wrist with his free hand and spun to the side, using the creature’s own momentum to fling it face-first into the floor. He followed it down, landing on its back and driving his knees into its kidneys. As the bulworg raised its head to scream, Bray reached under its jaw and pulled it back, exposing the vulnerable neck, then slipped his blade across it, feeling the cartilage and windpipe give before his cold steel.
An ugly hiss escaped the beast’s throat as blood bubbled from the gash. It struggled momentarily, fighting to draw air into its lungs. Bray held the jaw firm, refusing to allow the beast a final bite. The creature bucked and writhed in a futile attempt to dislodge him before finally going limp and sagging forward. Bray held tight for a few moments more, ensuring the beast had succumbed to death before relaxing his grip.
He stood and walked to the open door and scanned the wasteland beyond. Empty. You couldn’t be too careful. He had dispatched the bulworg swiftly, yet he knew that his master, Diagus, would have berated him for not being swift enough. If any witnesses or passers-by had been present, he would have needed to eliminate them too. Secrecy was paramount.
He returned to the dead beast, wiping the blade of his sword with a cloth he found on the warehouse floor, before returning it to its scabbard in the smuggler’s pouch.
Throwing the bloodied cloth down beside the body of the limp beast, he circled it, checking for any identifying marks. A gurgling sound belched from its gut as he pushed it onto its back with his foot. The slash at its throat opened wide like a second mouth, blood trickling from the corners. Bray lifted a paw, admiring the size and sharpness of the claws. There was nothing to indicate the owner. Yet it was highly unlikely that the bulworg was a free agent, roaming as it pleased. No, this creature was either brought to this world, or sent.
