The Crystal Spears: The Warlock's Friend, #1

By Dean C. Moore

The greatest of monster hunters forms an unlikely alliance with the greatest of warlocks to hunt down the creatures that neither of them is equipped to go after alone.

Their world is one of heroic fantasy, with dragons, vampires, elves, faeries, werewolves, gnomes, and more.

Alliances are always tenuous. The warlock, the hunter, and their band of groupies embarking together on their quest are no exception. But they must unite against a peril far worse than any nightmares they have of each other. 

***
note: all the episodes in the series, The Warlock's Friend, are stand alones, with complete story arcs. 

Other fantasy action-thrillers with a sense of humor by the author:

BLOOD BROTHERS
FRANKENSTEIN REBORN
FRANKENSTEIN REVILED
FRANKENSTEIN REAWAKENED

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean C. Moore
• Release date: Mar 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9798215350065

Book preview

ONE

That was no ordinary werewolf.  Gasping for air, Heldor pressed his back against the tree.  His shoulders were just an inch or so wider than the trunk.  Not exactly perfect concealment.  And what was he doing hiding behind a tree, anyway?  They paid him to be a hunter, not to play hide and seek with demonic beasties. 

My, it got light all of a sudden.  He looked up and the top half of the tree was gone.  He looked forward and the creature, still flossing with the twenty-inch diameter hardwood sticking out of his canines, dropped the timber, and then turned on all fours towards him. 

Look, hemlock may not do shit to werewolves, but it takes care of all sorts of other nasties.  So I’d definitely appreciate you fine-tuning your bent for landscaping.

The creature snarled, drooled, and crouched down, readying to pounce.  Heldor let loose with the crossbow, striking Drooler’s left eye.  On a smaller animal, the arrow would also have pierced the brain, and he could commence the barbecue.  This was more like getting a splinter caught in his eye.  The beast wailed, tried helplessly to extract the impediment with one of his paws.  He actually squatted on the ground, and tried to get the arrow between the foremost claws of each of his forepaws so he could pull it out.  Following another gut wrenching cry when he realized he was not going to succeed, his focus went right back to Heldor.  He didn’t look any happier.

That’s it, Heldor.  Make the hell beast angry, that’s the ticket.  Raising his voice, he said, Look, pal, as you can tell, I’m no good with pets.

The creature lunged savagely, jaws snapping repeatedly as if it just couldn’t wait to get his mouth around him.  Heldor didn’t move.  He didn’t even flinch.  It was only at the last second that he feinted right, when he would have been little more than a blur.  As the creature swallowed dirt, tasting it to make sure his tormentor was in there somewhere, Heldor made his way up the furry mountain to the werewolf’s shoulder.  Once on top, he felt like a small child riding an elephant.  The animal, still making sure the mouthful of forest patch included a human, allowed Heldor the time he needed to switch cartridges in his gun for silver bullets.

Perhaps he should have been a little quieter about closing the cylinder, gingerly sliding it in instead of flicking it.  The beast’s sensitive hearing more than compensated for his inability to feel Heldor’s slight weight past its dense mat of fur.  It immediately rolled over in an effort to crush him, which it would have succeeded in doing just fine had Heldor not tucked the gun under his belt so he could switch cartridges in his Crossbow.  Firing the arrow into the closest standing tree, he rode the rope off the mount.  Taking advantage of his ambidextrousness, he didn’t wait to land; he drew his gun and fired with his left hand the six silver cartridges at the beast’s head.  He wasn’t going to take a chance on the thing having a heart, so that was the next most deadly place. 

The creature, which had rolled over back on to his feet and leapt straight for him, never made it, dropping to the ground as dead weight. 

Heldor released the line and proceeded to dig the silver bullets out of the creature’s head.  No offense intended, he shouted heavenward.  He examined the first bullet he’d retrieved with the aid of his bowie knife strapped to his calf so as not to get in the way of the sawed off shotguns strapped low down to each thigh.  He mumbled, just in case this thing has its own guardian angels.  He stuffed the first bullet back into his pant pocket.  God knows, mine have gone missing.  As he fished around for the second bullet, he realized that, even lying on its side, the beast’s head was nearly as wide as he was tall.  He continued pleading his case skywards in a raised voice, Silver’s damn expensive.  And people don’t seem to pay a hunter what he’s due like they used to, possibly because there are just too many of these vile creatures to go around, straining everyone’s pocket book.  I’m sure big picture beings that you are, you can appreciate my predicament.

He twisted up his face at the mangled up bullet in his hand.  Damn it.  That’ll have to be resmelted and recast.  Good thing you’ve been too cheap to buy bullets for years, and have been content to make your own.  He looked heavenward again.  Don’t mind me.  I talk to myself.  If I’m crazy, then none of this is happening.  If the demi-god defense ever wears thin, you should try it.

He rattled the last of the five bullets around in his hands once he’d collected them all up as if he were about to roll the dice on his future any more than he did every time he set across this forest anymore.  Then, he pocketed the bullets and yanked the arrow out of the eye.  Can’t afford to waste arrows either!  Retrieving the satchel where he’d left it, he returned the arrow to its resting place inside the sheath.  Then he collected up the rope he fired and started coiling it around his arm.  He walked around the fallen creature and whistled. 

Rope stowed, he pulled out his knife again, and started skinning.  Again, no disrespect intended, he shouted heavenward.  But if you think wolf meat goes for a premium, wait till you hear what werewolf meat goes for. 

Half way through his skinning the animal disappeared.  Damn it!  He sighed, wiped the bloody knife against the ground, and holstered it.  I guess I should have known there was magic behind this.  It’s not like someone is breeding these things oversized out of consideration of your meager budget.

There it was.  The twig snapping underfoot.  You can come out now.  I’ve known you were there the entire time.  Seems pointless for even a madman to talk to himself this much, don’t you think?  So who do you think I was ad-libbing for?

She didn’t take the bait.  She usually did.  Still, shy and illusive were her middle names.  Drop dead gorgeous were her first names.  And she seemed to be about the one thing in this forest that could always outrun him, disappearing before he ever got too close.  His Lady of the Forest, he called her, all veiled and white and ghostly looking, except for the beauty part. 

When he went to investigate the noise, he found this time was no different.  He bent down and examined the twig.  Let’s hope it’s her.  You aren’t exactly at a hundred percent after beasty boy back there, wherever he went to, he added after throwing a glance over his shoulder at the imprint left in the brush by the disappearing werewolf. 

Heldor picked up his crossbow, folded it down and nestled it between his shoulder blades in its own holster.  He looked around for the pistol, found it with some ado, and slipped it in the small of his back beneath the belt.  The thing was pretty much useless for what he came up against in these forests.  But it did save on silver, come time to take out a werewolf.

He decided it was time to pay Cleo a visit, see what she had to say about all this.  Funny, he remembered when he avoided witches like the plague.  These days, he hunted them just to put an end to all the magical creatures in their employ.  Seemed like a less tiresome way of working, just going straight to the source.

The forest spoke to him, as it always did, as he wended his way towards Cleo’s.  Only, he didn’t like what it was saying.  There were too few animal noises, and what there was suggested fight or flight responses between all parties. 

No sooner was he on the trail that led straight to Cleo’s than the trees took it upon themselves to uproot and come after him, batting him hither and yon with their branches.  Seriously?  What did I do, step on a fallen leaf?

One of the trees, with his wizened face etched into the trunk, pinned him under several of his roots.  He was in the middle of hacking his way out from under them with the bowie knife, thinking—What the hell do you have in your arsenal, Heldor, besides this knife, that’s any good against killer trees?—when they settled down in response to words of power.  Only they weren’t his words of power.

The trees backed off, and walked back to their original resting places.  After he peeled himself off the ground he noticed Cleo, her arm extended, wielding the magic.  Come on, she said.  Let’s get out of here.  It isn’t safe.

Really?  Because you could have fooled me.  He sheathed his knife.  It was that or wedge it in her back, as she’d turned on him dismissively, not waiting for him to respond to her entreaty.  For now, at least, he wasn’t ready to stab a beautiful woman in the back, at least not until he found out everything he needed form her.  He went with plan B, and hightailed it after her. 

They reached a very anonymous piece of wooded area in the forest, long after he’d lost any sense of where he was.  So much for the trail that led straight to her house.  She held her hand out and mumbled more words of power.  Maybe it was Greek?  Possibly a language of her own invention?  Maybe if he spent less time killing witches and more time getting to know them better he’d have a clue. 

When she was done with the spell, her small cottage materialized out of the mass of jungle vines.  I see you’ve gone incognito.

You blame me?

Guess not, he said, following her inside.  She was arresting in her own way when she finally turned back to face him again.  The long flowing auburn hair spoke for itself.  The form fitting leather didn’t exactly deter from the beauty.  You’re dressed like a hunter, he said.

With the likes of you chasing down witches, what do you expect?

He stepped up to her, gave her a disarming kiss, and by the time he pulled back, his bowie knife was at her throat.  Thanks for reminding me.  I suppose you’re going to tell me you weren’t to blame for that werewolf from the land of the giants back there.

She laughed and pushed his blade away.  I could be.  But then what’s the explanation behind all the other bizarre goings on in Thresdar?  Surely, you don’t think I’m behind all of it.  No witch is that powerful.  Except maybe for...

Damian.  I must be getting positively thick to have not connected the dots for myself.

Don’t go too hard on yourself.  It’s not like the blood gets to your brain too often.

His eyes dropped briefly to his crotch.  He’d forgotten about the hard-on she’d given him.  It gets diverted to other regions busy keeping me alive, too, which are no less stiff and sore at the end of the day, such as the muscles keeping me standing before you for protracted periods.

She smiled despite herself. 

I suppose you witches are so beguiling as part of your magic, he said.  Stun the enemy, give you more time to figure out what to do with him.

You’re catching on.

She took his knife out of his hand and stuck it back in his holster for him.  You’re going to take my word for things?

Only because it occurred to me those trees back there are parts of your defense network, as is this invisible cottage, and the hunter attire.  Something’s got you running plenty scared, and it’s not me. 

She snorted, poured them some tea from a kettle over the fire in the stone fireplace.  Drinking an herbal brew a witch prepared for me, he said.  That’ll be the day.

Maybe you’d like to go back out there half exhausted.  You think whatever force is behind all these goings on is going to let off while you quietly sneak up on Damian?

And why would you help me, your sworn enemy?

Don’t flatter yourself.  My list of enemies is long, and right now, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

He took the mug she handed him, hesitating as he read her face and eyes for any sign of betrayal.  It occurred to him he didn’t have a hell of a lot to lose.  She was right; he wasn’t about to get very far with the pace of things outside her little time-out hovel.  He drank down the potion.  You’re right.  That definitely hit the spot.  While you’re in such a generous spirit, mind giving me a warding spell that makes me invisible like this hovel, for when I’m too weak to fight any longer?

She grunted dismissively. 

Yeah, figured that was too much to ask for, he mumbled.

She went and grabbed one of the herbs she had drying upside down against the wall, handed it to him.  Chew on one of the leaves, and it’ll make you invisible.

Yeah, right.

The tree itself is warded.  Or maybe you think my forest magic isn’t up to par even after what you saw outside?

He smiled at her.  Thanks.

Don’t get too dependent on it.  The more you use it, the less effectively it works, and the sicker you get.  I expect the body learns to throw off the drug, after a while.  Haven’t perfected the magic enough yet to beat the body’s own defense mechanisms.

I’ll keep that in mind, he said.  Now as to the matter of making mad passionate love before I head back out there.

She laughed, sat in the chair and pulled off a boot.  Heldor took it as a sign to take of his brown leather trench coat.  You need to learn to read women better, Heldor.  I just needed to get off my feet.  You’re not the only one who’s been running for his life.

Oh yeah?  Pray tell.

She sighed as she slipped off the other knee high moccasin, at the end of whose tassels dangled spiked weapons meant for throwing.  Again, great hunter garb, no doubt about it.  If he didn’t know her personally, he’d have been fooled. 

You’re lucky I had enough juice in me to undo my own warding spell.  Took all my magic to make it back here alive.  She shook her head as she ran her eyes over his fine form.  I definitely have more respect for you hunters of late trying to survive out there without any magic at all.

What was stalking you?

Whatever it is, it could track without the aid of a scent.  That was the first spell I cast. She let him have a moment for the shock to set in, seeing the expression on his face, and noticing his eyes had dropped to the floor contemplating the possibilities.  She continued disrobing, figuring it was the best way to get his attention back on her, throwing the next item at his feet where his eyes were riveted.  When he looked back at her, she said, It can also track blind.  The second spell I cast created a swatch of forest big enough for a rhino to get lost in without a beam of light.  Once again his eyes wondered off the mark, this time going to the fireplace.  She threw another article of clothing, which landed on the stone lip of the fireplace.  Once more his eyes found her.  It moved through a solid wall of forest that not even an experienced tracker like yourself could have navigated.  The third spell I cast removed any trails even a rat could pass along, and any sense of direction, in case the thing moved like birds, using the planet’s magnetic fields to navigate.  And I hardened every tree and shrub and plant to a diamond’s toughness.  Not even a werewolf could have made it through.

And yet one did, he said, recalling his own encounter with one.  He collapsed into the soft chair beside her, his eyes going to the ceiling this time.  When a pair of panties landed on his face, blocking his view of the ceiling, he pulled it off and returned his eyes to her, sitting there stark naked.  He snorted.  You hardly need magic to put me under your spell.

Come on.  Since I put the fear of God into you, the least I can do is supercharge you a little.  My saliva will boost what your own adrenaline can do, at least for a while.  As to my other bodily charms...

Enough with the overkill already.  He leapt off the chair at the same time she did, the two of them colliding in midair like fighting falcons.  The subsequent romp on the floor hardly deterred from the impression of bestiality.  At times she clawed like a cat, raking his back with her nails.  At times he lapped like a dog, determined to drink up her sweat as if it were the fountain of youth.  They broke furniture like bulls in a china shop, sometimes from rolling around.  One time, because he misjudged how much effort it took to make love on the table where she kept her magical herbs sorted by colors.  Once doused in the powders, they resembled flamingos or parrots, depending on what pool of color they rolled into.  As the colors smeared together and adorned more of them, the growing phosphorescence and multi-layered colors made them resemble chameleon lizards. 

With her legs wrapped around his waist, he crawled up the ladder to her loft bed like a tree monkey.  Once there, they dove into the softness of the mattress like diving killer whales.  Their teeth drew blood.  When she got angry at how carried away he was getting, she fought for real, punching, kicking, gouging, doing everything she could to knock him out, until she’d squeezed the last bit of venom out of herself and the spitting mamba could settle back into being just another lovebird.  And when she got too carried away with her scratching, he bent her across him, determined to see if her back or legs would break, or if the art nouveau poses of a gymnast belonging to another era would call him back in time to the world of lovemaking instead of the world of war craft.  After tiring in the role of the human stretch rack, only then perhaps did he release the real animal in himself. 

Afterwards he watched her don her hunter’s outfit again.  As passionate as that was, you never once lost yourself in me, nor I in you, she said.

That bother you?

Not at all.  Just surprised to find we’re two of a kind.

The image of the hunter had now nearly taken full shape on her again.  Don’t tell me you sleep in that getup, he said.

What makes you think I sleep?

He took a deep breath and let it out.  Is it really that bad?

In case you thought what we just exchanged was more generosity on my part, think again.  I needed recharging too, to conjure the spell that keeps me awake through the night.  As to these duds, I might have to learn to actually use these weapons if my magic isn’t enough to keep the next intruder at bay.

Maybe I should stay.

Very gallant of you.  But right now, I’d say getting to Damian is more important.

His castle is far too far from here to be trying to approach at night.

He’s not at the castle.  He’s at the tavern.

How do you know? 

When we’re at full power, we can sense each other’s presence.  Some of us can, anyway.

He smiled.  I charged you up that much, huh?

It was her turn to smile.  Don’t flatter yourself.  I had some kinks in my back you helped to iron out, and some sore muscles that needed stretching.  Now that my energy is flowing better...

I’ll be bidding you adieu.  He swore he saw her face tighten briefly with a show of remorse.  But wishful thinking had a way of blinding a man better than bewitching beauty. 

He donned his leather hat, and bowed to her.

She chuckled briefly.  You fight with your hat on?

Of course.  I’m nothing if not a gentleman.

It would limit your range of vision.  Not very sensible for a hunter. 

Damn sensible when the rain comes.  Good night, goddess.  Don’t forget to check out my ass when I turn around.  Might be the last thing you ever see.  Like to know you died happy.

She held her face in check until he turned around.  Though he’d like to believe she was biting her lip now.  Out of courtesy, he donned his leather trench coat only when he was outside.  The instant her cottage disappeared behind him, the forest felt lonely.  To a man like him it usually felt nurturing. 

Off to kill the wizard.  The most powerful wizard in all the land.  This should be interesting.

TWO

His own human frailties and lack of superpowers of any kind be damned—it was time to behead a warlock.

From some distance off, Heldor studied the pub situated in a patch of forest not located on any map.  No roads led to it, which explained the lack of vehicles of any kind.  He’d have trouble getting a nimble trail bike, far less a horse to navigate through this tree-infested section of forest.  You’d think the owner just didn’t want the business.  In any case, it would be where he’d find Damian, the warlock scheduled for beheading; or burning alive; or flash freezing; or whatever the hell worked against his kind.  No two wizards seemed to have the same weakness, and he never knew what they might be until something actually worked.  Damian, being the most powerful of them all, possibly didn’t have any.  That would be just his luck. 

Audible even from a hundred yards away, the raucous laughter emanating from inside the tavern had a nervous quality to it that his hunter’s disposition would have picked up on before anyone else’s.  Damian’s presence could have that effect.  But then again, in these parts, so could a lot of other things.  In the magical realm of Thresdar, especially in this old growth forest region, there was a good deal more to be frightened of than just Damian.  More by the day. 

That’s exactly why you’re here.  He was certain Damian was behind whatever was just not right about Thresdar.  It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on; just his hunter’s instincts once again alerting him something major was up. 

Heldor stepped into the pub.  The din fell off as chairs scraped back.  Customers got to their feet, their twitchy fingers heading to their weapons.  Furtive glances at the one exit, and an increasingly hushed silence, rounded out the repertoire of responses.  Relax.  There’s only one person I’m after, and last I checked, he ain’t an actual person, nor is he among the living.

They took him at his word and returned to distracting themselves from their other fears with their drinks, games, and tall tales. 

Heldor’s eyes swept the interiors.  The rear of the tavern was raised a foot or more from the central pit area, providing a strategic overlook.  Thick, exposed timber-joists framed the high-ceilinged interiors.  From the unsettled glances at the large arched door every time someone walked in, his entrance being the latest disturbance, it didn’t take a genius to realize that the central floor space was kept clear to accommodate a hurried mass exodus.  They didn’t exactly do ballroom dancing in here.  He’d been coming long enough to know that no one ever wanted to get that up close and personal with the exotic life forms packing the place.  Their pedigrees were always in question.  Some, genetic freaks.  Others, magical folk.  Some a little of both.  Not all were of this world.  But all had one thing in common; they didn’t trust strangers, and they were real slow to warm up to him.  The kind of slow that could get him killed if he raised his hand too quickly to shake someone’s hand.  For having no roads leading to it, Morlock’s pub was the ultimate in crossroads. 

The creaking floorboards buckled under the weight of the rough and tumble frontier types, helping to keep nerves on edge.  If they weren’t covered in bearskins and beaver caps, they were sporting ceremonial ware customary to Native Americans that included moccasins, feathers, and more to the point—tomahawks.  The cowboys playing cards with the Indians messed with his mind, but only because he’d seen one too many bad westerns once upon a time.  The cowpokes with their six-guns and jingling spurs didn’t help nerves any, nor did their leaning back on chairs to decide on a card, that put a little too much pressure on the loose floorboards. 

Some characters in steampunk attire, wielding their unusual weapons were in evidence tonight.  Their form-fitting leather wore more snugly than his; they seemed to also favor different shades of brown.  The numerous gauges stitched into their outfits that measured and assessed the environment around them and also gave them readings of what was going on inside their own bodies made them look like walking timepieces to Heldor’s eye.  Though their arm-long lightning rods which spit electricity, or invisible rays which parboiled you from a distance, the weapons a mess of tubes and wires and transistors, deterred from the walking timepiece analogy.  As to their heads being part machine, part human, using the most primitive parts of both, he couldn’t imagine they were pleasing to any one’s eye, save Dr. Frankenstein, who was also in evidence, showing off his Frankenstein monster on a chain.  They looked mostly like a kinky S&M couple ahead of their times.

The vintage-era sci-fi folks that looked lifted from the pages of 1950s comics, intermingled with representatives of various fantasy realms, that included, among other things, at least for tonight, talking, card-playing apes, dogs, and giraffes.  The beasts were playing one another at a table all their own like a mock parody of the Arthur Sarnoff painting. 

Some of these creatures Heldor was certain he’d only read about.  That was the thing about the multiverse, somewhere there was always a real life version of anything you could imagine in this world.  Artists these days seemed more like psychics tapping into these alternate realities, than creators of anything new. 

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were enjoying a table to one of the side walls.  Perhaps they had gotten the genetic enhancements suitable to their role playing fantasy and frequently time traveled back to the actual period Sir Arthur Conan Doyle set them in.  Or perhaps they resided in some other period in history, and chose to stand out for the extra adoration they’d earn as mythical figures come to life.  Maybe, come time to more carefully investigate the goings on in Thresdar, they would come in useful.  Assuming the peculiarities didn’t all disappear with Damian’s beheading. 

The couple characters in space suits, popping in unannounced, removed their face plates to groans and hisses.  They weren’t exactly the most attractive sorts.  Space men, off mining some asteroid, taking a break?  Long periods of time spent underground would at least explain the Mole Men look they had going for them, replete with hairless, wrinkled faces and albino pink eyes. 

That was the second reason for the empty floor in the center of the pub; it served as a teleportation pad.  In truth, the tavern had been sited on a nexus of ley lines, just strong enough to allow for the comings and goings of anyone savvy enough to work the universe’s major energy grid.  That didn’t include Heldor.  Chalk up one more human frailty he’d live to regret come time to get to hell out of Dodge.

The latest humanoids to arrive had clearly been modified for off world life, but which off-world exactly was hard to say, being as Heldor lived in a time prior to such advances in space travel.  Their craniums were greatly expanded relative to normal humans, and the skeletal features of their skull and face were just as much insect-like as human-like.  Maybe they weren’t genetically engineered humanoids at all, but simply a closely related naturally occurring lifeform.

He remembered when Humboldt County wasn’t quite so exciting, and all he had to worry about were the potheads. 

A boy of eleven or twelve years of age, trying to find a welcoming lap to sit in, just got backhanded and brushed off repeatedly for his efforts.  Something tells me that lad yearns for better times, as well.  He gave Heldor a strange look.  The creepy eyes betraying the porcelain doll face.  Maybe it’s just shellshock, Heldor.  If you want to set the world right, you could do worse than by giving him a second of your time. 

He knelt down beside the kid.  New to Thresdar?  The boy nodded his head.  Yeah, that explains it.  If you can’t grow fangs around here, the next best thing is to stow your heart someplace where only you can find it.  The kid shook his head.  Heldor smiled.  Not ready to let go of your feelings, huh?  Well that makes you a hell of a lot more courageous than this lot, myself included.  The boy nodded slowly.  You have a name? 

Winston. 

Heldor pulled one of the spent slugs he’d reclaimed earlier out of his pocket.  Well, Winston, shot a werewolf with this, as big as a house.  Ought to make one hell of a good luck charm, I reckon.  He pressed it into the lad’s palm. 

Not that I put much store in luck, he said, standing.  Guile and treachery’ll get you a hell of a lot further.  Unless you’re downright lethal like me.  Then you can afford to add a few character embellishments of your own, like a sense of humor.  You can even try being a nice guy.  Save the nice guy part for last though.  He ruffled his hair and moved on. 

That’s right, Heldor.  Add to the kid’s abandonment dramas by cutting in and out of his life faster than a turn in the wind.  You should have known to leave the humanity thing for someone with a bit more experience.  Something about that boy made him special, though Heldor couldn’t quite put his hands on it; it was in the eyes.  In at least one way he was different, but in every other way he was just like the rest of them, looking for all the right things in all the wrong places. 

Heldor felt the soft leather of his trench coat flapping behind him as he walked towards Damian, predictably located to the rear of the pub.  They shared one thing in common, a predator’s taste for the big picture view.  There’d also be a minimum of blind spots where he was seated, since he’d cut off any chance of someone approaching from behind.  Heldor’s long hair picked now to itch the back of his neck; probably just nerves, considering what he was contemplating—taking out Damian in a place where his defenses would already be up.  His wild eyes were a given; they certainly wouldn’t alert Damian to anything out of the ordinary.

The warlock’s smooth, polished beauty and manner, were also a given, contrasting heavily with his own rugged handsomeness and rough-hewn demeanor.  Where Heldor sported a five o’clock shadow—from yesterday—Damian’s face looked barely capable of growing hair.  Against Damian’s perfect manicure was the blood under Heldor’s unclipped fingernails.  Damian’s exquisitely tailored clothes looked suitable only to French Renaissance ballrooms.  They were an exercise in contrasts, alright, explaining why they’d become fast friends, and why he’d put off doing what he should have done a long time ago. 

So, Damian, drinking tonight?

You know I don’t drink in the company of friends.

Damn considerate of you.

Heldor slammed his crossbow down on the table, aimed at Damian, one hand still on the trigger.  With the other hand he poured from Damian’s whiskey bottle into a shot glass.  He swilled the drink, pounded the empty glass on the table.  So, how’s my favorite serial killer?

Honestly, Heldor, I haven’t killed anyone in over two hundred years.  You need to learn to let go.

Okay.

Heldor pressed the trigger on the crossbow. 

Damian caught the arrow between his fingers.

I love how you do that.

Damian flashed his eyes at him by contracting then dilating his pupils; it was how he hypnotized others. 

Heldor turned his eyes away.  Stop that.  I'm not one of your pets.

Damian smirked and handed back the arrow, which Heldor slipped into the crossbow.

You shouldn’t drink.  You’re slow enough as it is.

Heldor slammed down another shot of whiskey.  I appreciate the concern.  But not all of us have ice running through our veins.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he poured another drink, and eyed Damian testily.

Stop it.

Heldor reached for his mouth with the filled shot glass.  Damian's lightning fast reflexes interceded.  Heldor bristled, but Damian was too strong for him to get his hand back.

You’re hurting my hand.

Damian was looking off in the distance and listening intently.  The strange predatory animal sounds outside that only he could hear were getting closer.

Damian released Heldor’s hand.  He shook it out.  Damian's eyes went to the pub door.

Testing.  One.  Two.  Three.

The door crashed in and some hell-beast paused only briefly to eye the candidates for supper.  Heldor, reaching for his bow as the door flew off the hinges, sunk an arrow square into the beast's head before he could focus his eyes.

Damian chuckled.  He doesn’t seem too impressed by your logic.

The creature with eye-teeth the size of Damian's whiskey bottle, and horns to match, leaning on its larger ape-like forearms, pounced at one of the locals coming at it with a chair. 

The beast made kindling of the chair and grabbed the man in its mouth.  The Mole Man in the spacesuit seemed desperate to press a button on a device, possibly the one he used to work the nexus.  But the bones of his arms being crushed by the creature’s jaws were putting a real crimp in his getaway plans.

Heldor heard Mole Man’s spine snap.  The creature continued to crunch the humanoid’s bones in his mouth.  They sounded like shattering glass.

Check his references for me, will ya? Damian said.  I could use a good chiropractor to crack my back.

The locals, no newcomers to being the underdog, brandished their overturned round tables as shields, using the perimeters of the tables to steady their weapons.  The gunfire—an assortment of lead, Tesla-like electricity arcs, and laser beams, not to forget about the one guy with a flame thrower—did little but antagonize the creature. 

No one was leaving.  That meant something about the creature precluded it, disrupted the nexus somehow.  It also meant that things were about to get a good deal uglier still.

Flame Thrower, figuring he had the best chance, considering the amount of flammable fur covering the beast, headed straight out into the middle of the floor to give the creature a better dousing in flames from close up.  It was a great idea in theory.  In reality, he was only half a man.  The top half, bitten off by the creature, left just the legs standing at attention before they buckled.  The tank of gasoline the monster had imbibed along with the russet haired young man didn’t seem enough of a provocation to spit out either. 

The steampunk types tried their hand next, braving the lack of cover to get closer to the beast.  Their rifles not only fired lightning bolts, but the central rods broke off into subsidiary shafts of lightning.  The beast’s disturbingly fast reflexes were temporarily diverted by the task of chasing after the ever-propagating shafts of lightning, snapping at them to keep them from taking a bite out of his ass.  Eventually it occurred to it that attacking the source made more sense.  Lightning Propagator One was lucky enough just to lose the two arms he was using to steady the weapon.  He shrieked as he observed himself squirting blood at the severed elbows.  Considering his love of steampunk, those arms could be replaced with artificial ones, an idea which seemed to currently offer him no solace.  His compatriot wasn’t so lucky.  The creature bit off his head.  Strangely, that didn’t stop the rest of him from firing on the beast.  Possibly it was due to some backup system in his suit or half-man/half-machine nervous system, a failsafe to make sure he still finished off the prick that ended him.  The creature was more successful on his second try, removing the middle part of his attacker with its jaws.  That just left his legs below the knee and this torso above the sternum.  The top part, no longer anchored, spun on