Night of the Highland Dragon by Isabel Cooper

the wet folds of his coat slowed him as he yanked the revolver free of its holster. His arm was starting to hurt now, sharp pain whose immediacy suggested that the demon’s claws hadn’t gone too deep, but which was an unwelcome distraction nonetheless. A burning sensation came with it, and when William inhaled, the smell was like the demon’s breath, but more acrid.
    Acid, he thought. Bloody wonderful .
    He fired. The demon sprang. The first bullet whistled through the air behind it and buried itself in a tree trunk. The second struck the creature in the hind flank, and it screamed a third time, now in genuine pain. William fanned the revolver and kept firing, counting down each bullet. He had six before he had to reload; his other gun was full of plain lead, which only worked on minor demons, and then not always. He didn’t know how minor this thing was, and alone in the silent, dark forest, he had no intention of taking chances before he needed to.
    Bullet number three hit the demon in the side. Blood, a sickly glowing shade of green, ran from that wound and the first, but the creature kept coming. The force of the shots knocked it back so that it landed just short of William. It reared again and swiped at him with four sets of talons. He dodged sideways, and this time, though his coat ripped, the blow didn’t carry through.
    â€œGet away ,” he snarled back at the demon and kicked sideways, catching it in the face. Its teeth were formidable, but his boot leather was thick, and the blow caught the creature off guard. William heard crunching, saw the many-legged form scurry backward, and smiled, sickly satisfied with its pain.
    Now he had room to aim again. A breath let him fix the demon’s head in his sights. Another, and he pulled the trigger.
    Bonelessly, the creature twisted itself out of the way, and the bullet hit the ground.
    That was four. Two more bullets remained, and of course he’d had to block the demon’s first attack with his good arm. But now he had an idea.
    Before the demon could collect itself and come at him, William shot twice, aiming just a hair high the first time and low the second, fanning the revolver so that the two sounds were almost one. One missed, as he’d known it would, as the demon spun impossibly through space—right into the second bullet.
    Silver flared behind its eyes for an instant before its head split open. The gout of green blood was vast. A few drops hit William, sizzling on his coat. The creature’s body collapsed to the ground in the middle of a growing pool.
    William watched it for a minute, reloading his gun as fast as he could. Even in death or apparent death, demons could be tricky. He found a suitably long stick and nudged the body, gun in his other hand. The stick hissed as it made contact with the creature’s acidic blood, but the corpse didn’t move.
    Dead was dead in this case.
    He might have felt a sense of triumph, except that the demon’s master was probably still around. Such creatures did occasionally come through without being called, but those occasions were very rare, and with everything else happening in Loch Arach, an independent demon would be too great a coincidence.
    Either the demon’s master had sent it specifically after William, or it was here to guard the forest.
    William didn’t like the implications of either possibility. Also, his arm was bleeding, though not badly, and would probably hurt even more as his body stopped compensating for danger. His clothing was ruined in a damned conspicuous manner; he’d just shot six of his limited supply of silver bullets; and anyone wandering around the forest would have a very nasty surprise soon. Prudence suggested that he bury the demon and retrieve what bullets he could.
    The rain didn’t seem to be letting up at all, and he had nothing but his hands to dig with.
    No, he didn’t feel particularly triumphant.

Twelve
    â€œThree