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

into the chairs, and John’s
heart jerked at the sight of the unnatural angle of his neck.
    Forsyth’s brows snapped down into a scowl.
“Damn it. That’s it for the drakul.”
    No . He’d seen Gray heal from six
bullets to the chest; a broken neck wouldn’t be enough to stop him.
To kill Caleb.
    Would it?
    The wendigo dropped to all fours, its
vertebrae visible through the thin hide of its back, nothing but a
skeleton hung together with ligament and skin. “Sean, Tiffany, fan
out and take it down!” John shouted.
    He fired, but this time missed, the bullet
punching a hole in the tent, and please Goddess don’t let it hit
any innocents outside. The rest of the SPECTR agents must be
closing in on the screams and gunfire; they just needed to keep the
wendigo contained a few minutes…
    Sean dropped to his knees, silver knife in
hand, and began to sketch a spirit ward to buy them some time. It
wasn’t a full ward, but it would at least slow the wendigo down if
it headed for the exit.
    Right now, however, it seemed more interested
in feeding than escaping. The wendigo launched itself at Tiffany.
She dropped her Glock and brought up her other hand, fire blooming
around her fingers. The creature crashed into her, momentum
carrying them both to the floor, but a howling shriek announced
she’d scored a hit.
    The wendigo jerked back, the imprint of her
hand on its face, across the nose and hateful little eyes. Steam
rose from its skin. It shied away from her, hissing and snapping
its teeth, then darted to one side, around her, before encountering
the spirit ward.
    The ward slowed it, and John closed in, Glock
in one hand and athame in the other. So close, he sensed its
etheric energy, foul and cold. His breath steamed.
    Its clawed hand shot out, and he slashed with
the athame, twisting on one foot to avoid its blow. It ripped
through his wool coat and suit beneath, the tips of its nails
leaving long scratches on his ribs. The silver edge of his athame
raked its upper arm, the thin skin peeling back and smoking , its
blood only oozing out sluggishly.
    Sean shot it, and it snarled in pain and
fury. It feinted at him—then, faster than John would have thought
possible, it changed direction and headed for the open tent flap
and freedom.
    Except Forsyth stood in its path.
    “Get back!” John shouted, and brought up his
gun. But he couldn’t fire from this angle, not without fearing he’d
hit Tiffany or Sean, or even Forsyth.
    Forsyth coolly pulled his gun and braced his
stance, as if he didn’t have a monster bearing down on him. Shots
rang out, one after the other, but the wendigo didn’t even slow.
Its jaws gaped; it would take a chunk out of Forsyth to fuel
itself, and be gone before they could stop it—
    A dark shape slammed into the wendigo and
knocked it violently to the side.
    * * *
    Pain flares through their neck, broken bone
grinding back into place, wrenched muscles healing. Gray blinks; he
is lying on his back, shattered chairs under him. A cowering mortal
woman stares at him in wide-eyed terror, even as she points a cell
phone in his direction.
    “ She’s fucking loading this to YouTube?
That’s it, I give up. The human species is doomed.”
    I have often wondered how your kind has
survived for as long as you have. This does not give me
confidence.
    Gunfire roars, painfully loud. Gray rolls off
the chairs and regains his feet, hunger and rage uncoiling in his
belly. This demon is becoming an annoyance.
    The wendigo streaks across the tent, claws
ripping up the thin padding laid over the ground. It will likely
try to escape or feed, or both. Gray will not allow either.
    He catches it mid-leap, and they both tumble,
bending and breaking chairs under them. Gray sinks claws deep, and
it tries to do the same. One of its hands is foiled by the coat,
but the other slides up beneath the buckles holding the leather
closed, long nails punching through skin, muscle, kidney, and
viscera.
    It hurts, a blaze of agony,