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Before I could congratulate myself on my rather suave escape moves, the rabid excuse for a grizzly threw herself headfirst into the tree’s base. I swung up another branch higher before diving for a third tree in a spray of pine needles and small twigs, my heartbeat drowning out the sound of the bear’s ministrations below.
I took a moment to breathe and look down on the scout the hell bear had been busy maiming before I so rudely interrupted. Satisfied he’d hold on for a bit longer, I calmed my mind and raised my sixth sense to see the essences of the sins and virtues upon which each living being thrived. I focused on the hell bear, the ordinary kaleidoscope of rainbow colors giving way to pure amber, copper, and burgundy tones tied to the sin of wrath.
Closing my eyes, I pushed out all outside influences and drew up the void I used to store essences within. No sounds trickled into my ears; no movements penetrated my feet. Even my calloused fingertips lost the feel of the bark. I had become a vacuum and, with a deep exhalation, extended psychic tendrils, drawing forth the stray essences from the hell bear bit by bit until the void hummed and crackled with wrath. It clung to me - the feeling of anger, the taste of vengeance, the need for retribution - as though I were blanketed in fiery exultation.
Satisfied I was topped up, I pointed my palms forward and released a blast of wrath-filled sparks wrapped with tiny threads of stored humility and justice. I didn’t have enough Virtues stored to send her back to her animal form, but the extra oomph of wrath should do the trick.
And it did. Her demonic features withdrew, revealing an abnormally large rusty brown bear. She whined as I leaped down and moved in her direction, sparks still sizzling up my arms. Giving one final mewling cry, she folded back on herself, her fangs receding up into her mighty jaws.
Feeling more at ease, I released the essence from my palm, slowly lowering myself to a crouch and hesitantly approaching, my hand outstretched.
“Shhhh…” my whispered voice became melodic, even as her bright, worried eyes shifted between me and her former prey, hunger in her pained gaze and seared flesh.
“It’s okay,” I kept my voice low, combing my fingertips through her oddly soft coat, still matted with clumps of venom and blood. The great beast nuzzled into me with a head that could snap my body in half should she fall from my hypnotic spell. Getting this close to a hell beast was always a risk, but I would risk it all for a single touch.
Pressing my palm against the side of her head, I allowed a cool stream of my thoughts to permeate her consciousness. Her amber eyes began to cloud, and she released a drowsy summoning call from her muzzle before she shifted to her side in slumber.
Moments later, two tiny young bears, barely stable enough to walk, stumbled into the clearing. Cautious eyes that matched their mothers’ took me in, and then the fallen beats beside me before the larger of the two released a series of heart-wrenching cries containing the tiniest filaments of natural compulsion. When it was clear that I wasn’t going to move, the smaller of the two, a tawny beauty with far more determined eyes, began to approach, her larger brother with dark fur patched with scuffs of gold around his collar following cautiously in her footsteps.
I shushed them both, hands outstretched, and as soon as they reached their mother, I eased them into sleep without fuss, thanks to their highly underdeveloped mental barriers. I then withdrew a small black case and a vial from the fanny pack around my waist, injecting the three divine beasts with a highly potent sleeping draft derived from a deadly heavenly creature called the Cortis snake. I then watched as their burgundy auras dissipated to a soft amber glow, melding into the tranquility of the green surrounding them.
Once I was sure they were out, I took out my knife and made a small incision into the back of each’s neck, pressing a small metal disc carved with the local Ravenwing shifter pack symbol in each hole. This token would ensure that the Ravenwings would be paid a bounty from the Demonic hierarchy for the safe return of such a highly treasured and protected hell species.
I then focused on the bleeding man still curled in the fetal position nearby. You’d think taking care of this dude would be my priority. But really, I didn't feel all that generous. There was little in this world I hated more than divine beast poachers. Too often, casters like him would believe themselves above such magnificent embodiments of power and worth.
I crouched beside the man and mentally ticked off a list of injuries, including a gruesome gash across his belly whose smell was threatening to cause a reappearance of my Reese’s puff cereal. The remaining wounds were deep but clean. Even so, getting him back into shape would take a host of trained healers. That is unless I used my gifts, which became an even more risky endeavor with Alberta swarming with guild ambassadors and scouts for the upcoming Guild Selections.
“Angel,” a low croak came out from the lips of the glassy-eyed scout.
I snorted. “Sure, bud.”
“You’re… an angel.” The crackling voice came again as a blood-covered hand with a gnarled finger reached out to me.
I smacked the hand away because that finger looked gross, and I wasn’t a huge fan of random touching. His eyebrows creased before relaxing, his eyes drifting back to closed. The ragged movements of his chest steadied while I debated the merits of letting him die. Groaning, I again convinced myself of the value of my vows and placed my hands just above his chest. I wouldn’t heal it all, but he’d live.
“Well, my good sir, it looks like it's your lucky day,” I said, and I could have sworn I saw the corners of his lips twitch. “I’ve decided I don’t hate you enough to let you die.”
???
I would never get the stench of piss, blood, and vomit out of my skin on time for that evening. I scratched at a bit of particularly caked-on blood stuck to the back of my hand as I stepped off my old ‘91 Honda XR250L dirt bike. I beat my leather-clad foot stiffly at the rusted kickstand that often required 50 Hail Marys and a virginal sacrifice to Lucifer to move. Usually, double dipping on the sacraments was a bit excessive, but I’m not the discriminating type, and whoever is willing to help can damn well do it.
I shoved my hand into the front pocket of my jeans and pulled out a few sticks of gum, taking my aggression out on a few well-blown bubbles. It helped release the tension in my jaw as I crunched across the pebble and dirt-strewn driveway scattered with clumps of crabgrass and dandelions, leading to grossly overgrown rose bushes.
My mud-covered boots made audible clicks as I stepped onto the creaky front porch attached to the rusted shack that had once proudly been a mobile home. My eyes were met with warm flickering light from old fluorescent bulbs illuminating the dilapidated porch swing and tarped Harley Davidson frame. I tugged at the temperamental handle of the heavy metal entrance door, jiggling the latch repeatedly until it loosened enough to allow me to yank the door open.
The tinkling entrance bells and creaky hinges announced my presence as the door swung shut behind me, sealing me into the log-warmed single room covered in yellowed shag carpet, oiled tarps, and chipped wooden panel walls. It smelled of old pipe smoke, coffee, Ax body spray, and diesel from the shotty generator attached to the back of the building.
“Yo Zane!” I called as I went to the back, stepping over messy piles of old electronics and motorcycle parts that occupied more of the eclectic single room than any of the meek furniture or the small kitchenette.
When he didn’t answer, I banged on an aged cherry-colored chest of drawers next to a military cot from the Vietnam era. The perpetually stuck stop drawer popped open with a click, adding the scent of mothballs to the stagnant air, and I pulled out a pair of navy blue fatigues and a white tank top to replace my current attire, which would need a funerary pyre later.
The door chimes tinkled again, announcing the arrival of the alpha I was here to see. He was six and a half feet tall with scarred, tanned muscle and a perpetually disgruntled expression. His face was handsome in a “you should see the other guys” kind of way, with a slightly crooked nose and sharp jutting cheekbones. To wrap up the package that was Zane, his arms and neck were covered in ancient black spell-warded tribal tattoos and oil stains from the constant mechanical work he did for his pack.
“One of these days, I’m going to count those clothes against your payout,” came his deep raspy voice.
“Then maybe I’ll actually charge you the going rates,” I said, cocking a hip. “You’ve been alpha of this pack for longer than I’ve been alive; you damn well know what a fair rate looks like.”
“Then maybe I’ll get someone that’s actually worth the going rate.” his cocky lopsided grin made me pull my face into my most childish scowl, scrunching my nose and wrinkling my forehead as I had as a child. “Did you tag the guy?”
