Eater of Lives(SPECTR #4) by Jordan L. Hawk

sir.” John wasn’t exactly reassured,
but he couldn’t refuse Forsyth, either. “Let’s head in.”
    He pulled out his badge and pushed his way
through the crowds, flashing it to clear the way. Murmurs began to
spread around them, competing with the music blaring out of the
tents. Goddess, there were so many people here. How were they going
to find the wendigo before it shattered whatever thread of control
its host might still have over it?
    “John!” Caleb said urgently. “She came
through here.”
    Thank the gods. “Find her!”
    Caleb started off, his long strides carrying
him through the crowd, his head turning from one side to the next,
nostrils flared. He backtracked once, before breaking into a trot,
heading straight for one of the tents.
    A man stood at the entrance, holding a
clipboard. When he spotted Caleb, he hurriedly put his arm out.
“Hey! Show’s already started—you can’t go in.”
    “SPECTR business,” Sean began to say—and the
next instant, the tent inside erupted in panicked screams.

Chapter 10
     
    Mortals flood out of the tent, their mouths
and eyes wide with panic. They knock one another down in haste,
including the man with the clipboard. Gray braces himself; a few
collide with him, then start screaming again when they notice his
eyes and hair and teeth. It is absurd; he is no threat to them, and
they will hurt themselves, behaving in this manner.
    But it does leave his path to the tent open,
so he strides in. A few mortals remain inside, cowering amidst
overturned folding chairs; he smells their fear-sweat and hears
their frantic breathing. They are of no interest to him.
    The wendigo stands on the runway in the
center of the tent, fully manifested. Its body is tall, easily
seven feet, but ghastly thin, nothing more than skin stretched
across bones, hairless except for the lanugo of starvation. Teeth
like knives show behind its shriveled lips, and yellow nails tip
grossly elongated hands. The reek of spoiled meat, kept too long in
a freezer, floods the tent, and Gray’s mouth waters.
    Blood coats the runway, staining tattered
remnants of cloth still hanging from its bony body. Ruby-red eyes,
like something albino, search the litter of overturned folding
chairs beside the catwalk for more prey. With a movement fast as a
striking snake, it thrusts a hand down, hauling up a struggling,
screaming mortal from his hiding place. The mortal’s long
dreadlocks and brown skin are annoyingly familiar.
    Gray suppresses a sigh. I suppose we must
save him.
    “ I guess,” Caleb agrees with a
singular lack of enthusiasm.
    “Unhand the mortal,” Gray orders, and the
walls of the tent vibrate from the bass roll of his voice. The
wendigo’s misshapen head snaps toward him, and in that moment,
John’s gun roars.
    The wendigo staggers under the punch of
silver-jacketed lead, its grip slackening. Will’s clothing tears,
and he falls free amidst blood and shredded cloth.
    “Will! Get back!” John shouts, because he
cares about this stupid mortal in a way he can never care about
Gray.
    Before Caleb, only the hunt mattered. So it
must be again.
    He charges across the room, Caleb’s
telekinesis sending the scattered chairs flying out of their way.
The surface under the runway groans beneath his weight when he
leaps onto it, cheap wood cracking.
    The wendigo drops into a crouch, snarling
like a wolverine. Frost coats the surface of the catwalk around it,
and there is a thin lace of frost even over its red eyes. Gray
advances, ready to grapple, to sink in claws and fangs, to
feed—
    One boot slides in the melting layer of
frost, throwing him off balance.
    The wendigo doesn’t let the opportunity
escape. It lunges forward, grabs Gray’s out flung arm, and bites
down hard.
    The layers of elk hide and kevlar coat resist
its sharp teeth. With a screech of fury, the wendigo backhands Gray
with enough strength to snap his neck and send him flying off the
runway into the chairs.
    * * *
    Gray smashed