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They walked across the park, moving with caution. Hounds typically lived in the rocky crevices behind and near waterfalls, sometimes choosing to sleep in the pools of water directly below the rapids. Darien counted on the Hounds being there now, too tired to notice as they approached the closest tar pit.
Darien motioned for Kylar and Jack to stand by as he walked quietly to the edge of the pit. It was raining again, the air so cold his breath fogged before him. The area was eerily quiet, not one bird chirping. Not even magpies dared to linger here.
He had nearly made it to the edge when the pit rumbled, and Darien caught sight of the dripping spikes rising out of the tar.
Are you kidding me? Darien thought, holding very still.
Bandit stood at attention in his shadow. If there’s one sleeping in there, the Familiar whispered, there’s bound to be more.
Darien scanned the park, noticing the thin, sharp spikes protruding from every single pit. Covered in tar, he’d thought at first glance that they were branches or roots.
And he hadn’t expected Hounds to be able to breathe while submerged in thick, viscid tar.
This is an all around bad idea, Bandit said.
Thanks for being positive.
Positive? I can be positive. I am positive that this is a bad idea.
Darien crept closer, easing his free hand into his jacket pocket. Another step, and his fingers closed around the glass vial. One vial would probably get him enough Venom to last at least a month, worst case scenario.
He looked over his shoulder at Jack. “If they wake up,” Darien mouthed, “distract them.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “Do you hate me that much?” he mouthed back.
“What do I pay you for?”
Jack looked like he wanted to shout, but didn’t. “To be bait, apparently!”
Darien knelt beside the pit and bit the cap off the vial. With gloves protecting his hands, he slowly dipped it into the tar. The pits got hotter the closer you got to the center, so here, at the edge, the tar was warm but not hot, though no less sticky. If you fell into one of these things, you’d have a hell of a time trying to get back out, not to mention the damage it’d do to your skin. It would trap you like a fly and rapidly burn you to death, if you didn’t first fall in and suffocate.
A roar shook the whole damn park.
The Hounds in the other pits were awake, more by the waterfalls rising from the noise. Darien heard Kylar and Jack swear. Sensed them releasing their safeties and taking aim.
Another roar. A shout. The crack of morstone bullets and bloodcurdling snarls rent the air. Behind him, bone snapped and crunched, and the bodies of Hounds hit the grass as Jack and Kylar felled them.
“Shit—Darien!”
Darien had just filled and closed the vial when he looked over his shoulder—
Just in time to see Jack being dragged into a tar pit.
Darien moved, Kylar at his back. They sprinted for Jack as the tar-covered Hound—eyes glowing red, horns dripping black—dragged Jack to the edge of a massive tar pit in the center of the park.
With the layer of tar covering the Hound, the bullets Jack emptied from his gun did shit. The Hound was unaffected; it wouldn’t let go.
Darien opened a switchblade and hurled it at the Hound. The force behind his throw—more power and speed than a bullet—embedded the knife in the creature’s head. It roared and let go, but there were a dozen more where that came from.
“Truck!” Darien barked as he skidded to a halt next to Jack. He pulled him to his feet by the shoulders of his jacket and shoved him toward Kylar. “Get in the truck—now!”
They ran, and Darien took off after them, hanging back far enough to intercept any attacks that came their way. There were a few, and he had to use bullets and knives to fend them off, aiming for the Hound’s eyes—anywhere that wasn’t completely covered in crusts of old tar and oozing layers that were fresher, the dark color glistening in the overcast light.
Jack and Kylar made it to the truck before Darien—
Something smoked him in the side of the head. He fell, tasting dirt, vision turning white.
It cleared right on time for him to see the Hound that had attacked him—diving right for his throat.
