Copyright © 2023 by Brad Magnarella

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art by Deranged Doctor Design

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Blue Curse

  Available Now

  Author’s Notes

  Be the Croftverse

  Croftverse Catalogue

  About the Author

  The Blue Wolf Books

  BLUE WOLF

  Blue Curse

  Blue Shadow

  Blue Howl

  Blue Venom

  Blue Blood

  Blue Storm

  LEGION FILES

  Camp Dread

  More Coming!

  1

  “Man, I have been looking forward to this,” Rusty said as he wheeled our cargo van from the pickup window. “I can’t believe you’ve never had a Big Top Burger.”

  “Maybe because I’ve never wanted to wait that long in a drive-thru line,” I growled.

  “Aww, it’s so worth it, boss. In fact, I wanna pull over so I can watch you take your first bite. You’re gonna think Heaven slapped you right in the mouth.”

  I snorted at his Kentucky-ism but shook my head. “We have a case to get to.”

  His look of anticipation sagged along with his wiry frame, though I couldn’t deny that the greasy smells from our bags were making my mouth water. I was waving him toward the road when I stopped suddenly.

  “Pull over,” I said.

  Rusty straightened excitedly. “Aw, thanks, boss. I know it’s kinda weird, me watching, but—”

  “Not for the burgers,” I cut in, the moisture abandoning my mouth to a steely bite. “For that.”

  He followed my finger to where a fight had broken out on the far side of the dumpsters, mostly out of sight of the lot.

  “Oh, crap,” Rusty said. “Yeah, yeah.”

  Normally, I’d have let this sort of thing go—we were part of an elite unit, not a citizen patrol group. But a guy was out cold on the ground, and the three thugs who’d put him there were still stomping him. That wasn’t the worst part. What must have been the victim’s girlfriend was frantically trying to protect him.

  I caught one of the thugs saying, “This ho must want to get knocked out, too.”

  “Call the police,” I told Rusty. “Tell them they’re gonna need ambulances for four.”

  He nodded and slowed enough for me to get out. It was the laughter now that raised my hackles. The thugs were celebrating the beating they were putting on the guy while mocking his girlfriend. She was straddling the victim, legs bracing his torso, arms wrapping his head as she sobbed and pleaded for them to stop.

  “If that’s what she wants,” another thug laughed, “we’ll serve up a two-for of KOs.”

  As he stepped in, his booted foot angling for her head, I grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him into the side of a tricked-out truck. The banging impact left a round dent. He collapsed, head lolling in his lap.

  A second thug wheeled toward me. He had a moment to take in my seven-foot, four-hundred-pound frame before my right fist rocketed in. The collision of knuckles on jaw was less a crack than a shattering.

  He landed against another vehicle and stared back at me, eyes vacant, mouth dangling by the sinew. Then he sat hard, with blood, saliva, and tooth fragments spilling down the front of his shirt.

  The final thug jerked a pistol from the back of his pants and aimed it at my chest.

  “Yeah?” He grinned crazily, eyes engorged with adrenaline. “Who’s in charge now, mofo?”

  He glanced over at the guy whose mouth I’d just retired from active duty as he toppled slowly onto his side. That was all the opening I needed. My arm shot forward, my hand swallowing his grip on his weapon.

  “It’s still me,” I replied with a growl.

  I squeezed, compressing metacarpals and phalanges until they began popping like twigs. The thug screamed and beat my shoulder futilely with his other hand. I twisted his arm, forcing him to his knees.

  “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!” he begged, tears rolling down his tattooed cheeks.

  I went to one knee so we were out of view of the restaurant and pried off my helmet. His pain seemed to suspend for a moment as his eyes widened in disbelief and horror. Mostly horror. I brought my blue, fang-lined muzzle forward until it was nearly touching his nose and stared him down.

  “I’ve got your scent now,” I growled. “If I have to hunt you down, I’ll be your worst fucking nightmare. Do you understand?”

  I twisted his arm another degree. “Yes yes yessss!” he panted tearfully. “I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I promise!”

  I yanked the bent gun from his ruined grip and smashed my forehead into his, sending him to the ground. I barely felt anything. Neither did he, now. I replaced my helmet and straightened from his limp body.

  It had happened quickly, about ten seconds from start to finish. The young woman was still covering her boyfriend.

  “It’s over, ma’am,” I said in my East Texas drawl. “You’re safe now.”

  She looked up with damp eyes, then around at the three downed thugs. She may have been small, but she wore a look of resolve. I could see her mind making the connection between their condition and my arrival.

  “Mind if I take a look at him?” I asked.

  She studied my helmet, the large breathing apparatus accommodating my muzzle and modulating my growly voice.

  “Are you a doctor?” she asked in confusion.

  “Former special forces. I have medical training. Help is on the way, but he might need to be stabilized.”

  I looked over at our van where Rusty was on his phone with the dispatcher. He gave me a thumbs-up. The woman climbed off her boyfriend.

  I spent the next several minutes palpating his torso, neck, and extremities, and then inspecting the cuts and contusions. He was breathing, thankfully, and his pulse felt strong. When I patted his cheek, his eyelids fluttered open.

  “Rico?” the woman said hopefully.

  “Belle,” he breathed, drawing a smile from her before his eyes closed again.

  “He’s concussed,” I explained. “But nothing feels broken, and I don’t see any obvious signs of internal damage. He’ll still need to be checked out.”

  “Those guys claimed Rico cut them off in traffic,” she said. “But he didn’t.”

  “Yeah, the cowards were just looking for a fight. You saved him from getting hurt a lot worse than he did. Rico owes you a night out.”

  When sirens sounded in the distance, I backed toward our van. We didn’t need to deal with local law enforcement. We were already behind schedule. I eyed the thugs a final time. They wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

  “Just stay with him, ma’am,” I said. “The police and ambulances will be here in a couple minutes.”

  “Wait, what’s your name?”

  “Wolfe.” It was my last name, but it also covered what I’d become.

  She folded her hands in front of her. “God bless you, Mr. Wolfe.”

  2

  “This stays between us,” I reminded Rusty as our van shot across the county line.

  “You got it, boss. But, dang, you should’ve seen yourself.” He mimed the yanking, punching, and head-butting, then let out an appreciative laugh. “That was badass.”

  “Yeah, well, the Centurion suits won’t think so, and we just got out of their doghouse.”

  “Hey, these freckled lips are sealed.”

  As the adrenaline from the encounter waned, I began downing my burgers, one after another. In the windshield’s polarized glass, I caught the faint impression of my hulking figure, a taloned hand pinching a half-eaten burger, dabs of condiments clotting the hair around my muzzle. When I noticed Rusty watching, I pushed down the rest of it and chased it with sixty-four ounces of iced-tea.

  “Amazing, right?” he asked.

  “Pretty darned good,” I agreed, wiping my mouth. “But how about keeping your eyes on the asphalt?”

  We were entering mountain country in southern Oregon, and the road had begun to wind. Rusty gripped the wheel at ten and two, but not for very long. He adjusted his foam trucker hat, took two rapid swigs of Red Bull, scratched an ear, then smoothed his muttonchop sideburns. Our equipment manager had ADD, but this was something else. He glanced over at me, then back at the road.

  “What’s up?” I asked, speaking as his captain now.

  “So, this job we’re headed to… I’m not sure I’m getting my head all the way around it. Some campers freaked out over some spooky stories and now their counselor is missing? What does one have to do with the other?”

  “That’s what Sarah’s looking into,” I said, referring to our chief investigator and medic. “The data she’s collected so far suggests there could be a supernatural connection. She’ll brief us when we arrive.”

  “This just doesn’t feel like a Legion job,” he said. “I mean, usually there’s a lead team, we have our mission meeting at the compound, some drilling, maybe. Then you give me the equipment list, and I make sure we’re all locked and loaded. But this? It feels like a couple dudes on a road trip being asked to help out a friend. Super ad hoc.”

  “Yeah, and what have I been drilling into you guys? The need for adaptability. That’s why we keep an essentials kit in here.” I jerked my head toward the van’s cargo hold. “This’ll be good practice.”

  “Maybe,” he allowed. “But what about the rest of the team?”

  Following our just-completed mission, there’d been a screwup with air transport—no room for the cargo van. Rather than wait for it to get sorted, I volunteered Rusty and myself to drive it back to our compound outside Vegas. I needed a little freedom, and I wanted the rest of the team to get their R and R while Sarah looked into a case deemed “low probability.” We’d just crossed into northern Nevada when she called and requested our presence, the case’s status having climbed to “medium.”

  “Me and my MP88 aren’t enough for you?” I said to Rusty, half-joking.

  “Naw, it’s not that, boss.”

  “Then why don’t you tell me what’s really bugging you?”

  He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “I don’t like spooky camp stories.”

  A snort escaped my snout. “We’ve seen things in our time with Legion that go way beyond ‘spooky.’”

  “Yeah, but the spooky stuff is what keeps you up at night, gives you bad dreams.”

  “If we need support, we’ll bring in the others.”

  His eyes brightened. “Even T-cakes?”

  “Takara,” I corrected him, referring to our dragon-shifter teammate. “And I’d be careful about saying that to her face. She’ll give you a lot more than bad dreams. But yeah, we’d call up all three.”

  “All right, boss. I feel better now.” He drummed his hands on the steering wheel for several beats before pausing and squinting toward me. “But no one’s gonna tell that story about the Hook Man, are they?”

  An hour later, Rusty turned off onto a dirt road and drove past a painted wooden sign hanging between two poles: Camp Courage. We circled an empty activities field and a cluster of log-cabin buildings.

  “Where are the kids?” Rusty asked, peering around.

  “The camp relocated them to a nearby school until we give the ‘all clear.’ It’ll just be us, the camp directors, and their head of maintenance.”

  “Makes the place kind of creepy, being empty like this.”

  I knew what he meant. It wasn’t just the ’80s-slasher-film look, either. The air felt charged, as if someone or something was watching from back in the trees. Though I couldn’t see anything, it was putting my wolf nature on edge.

  I spotted Sarah down a desolate road, waiting for us in front of the cabin that would operate as our command center. She was wearing her tactical belt and vest with civvies underneath—khaki slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up—and had cinched her brunette hair into an all-business ponytail. She blinked mechanically behind her glasses as we parked, no smile or wave.

  Rusty jumped down from the driver’s seat and arched his back, sending a series of pops up his narrow spine. “Ooh, baby, that’s nice.”

  “Hey, Sarah,” I called as I got out.

  “Jason.” She issued a single nod. “I’ll brief you after you unload.”

  And that was Sarah McKinnon in a nutshell. Not much personality, but she possessed genius-level smarts and was damned good at what she did. Though I reported to her, we were equals in the Legion Program. She handled the info, I trained and led the team in the field, and we collaborated on mission planning.

  Rusty reached back into the van. “It’s your lucky day, Sarah.” He reappeared with a half-crushed to-go bag and dangled it like a tantalizing treat. “Got you a Big Top meal.”

  She regarded the bag flatly as several cold fries spilled out. “I’m not hungry.”

  The cabin was spacious and basic. The camp had put some effort into cleaning and patching it before Sarah’s arrival, but there were still holes in the walls and floor planks, and the space reeked of mouse droppings.

  When we finished setting up, I locked the cabin door, removed my helmet and peeled off my suit to the waist. A cracked mirror on the far wall framed what I’d become—a massive wolfman with peaked ears, a powerful muzzle, and shaggy hair that gleamed under the fluorescent bulbs. Even four months after my transformation in Central Asia, I was still getting used to the sight of myself as the Blue Wolf.

  “Can we start?” Sarah asked.

  “Go ahead,” Rusty said as he untangled a pair of computer cables. “I’m almost done.”

  I joined her at a table where she’d arranged the mission info, including a large map of the camp and surrounding wilderness.

  “There are six main cabins in the camp,” she began. “Each sleeps twelve, plus a counselor. The unusual activity was concentrated around Cabin B, a girl’s cabin.” She tapped a building set slightly apart from the others. “Robin Bloom was their counselor.”

  “The missing girl,” I said.

  “Woman, legally. She’s nineteen.”

  Little corrections like that used to bug me, but it was just Sarah’s style. She dealt in exacts.

  “Bloom was a popular counselor,” she continued, “partly for the stories she told after lights out. They were of the frightening variety often shared around campfires to excite a fight-or-flight response—urban legends and their equivalents.”

  Rusty, who’d been sauntering up, hesitated with a worried look. “You’re not gonna tell the stories now, are you?”

  Misunderstanding him, Sarah said, “I’ll keep them brief. On Sunday night, Bloom told the story known as ‘The Hook Man.’”

  “Aw, c’mon!” he complained.

  “And elements of the story appeared to manifest outside the cabin.”

  “Are you freaking serious?” Rusty cried.

  3

  The urban legend of the Hook Man varied, depending on who told it. I’d heard at least three versions growing up.

  In the one Sarah told, a couple is parked at an overlook at night when an emergency radio broadcast announces that a killer with a hook for a hand has just escaped a nearby institution. When they hear something outside the car, the boyfriend goes to investigate and is gone a long time. A rain cloud passes at one point. As it’s tapering off, the police arrive. They coax the woman out, telling her not to look back. But as she’s getting into their squad car, she peeks and sees her boyfriend suspended in a tree above his car, his body torn and his throat slashed.

  “That rain she heard, boss?” Rusty said in a cringing voice. “It was his blood.”

  “The same night that Bloom told the Hook Man story,” Sarah continued, “several girls in the cabin heard noises—something sharp and metallic scraping the cabin walls, liquid dripping on the rooftop at intervals. But when they went outside in the morning, there was no evidence to suggest anyone had been there.”

  “Maybe someone pulling a prank?” Rusty asked hopefully.

  “No evidence,” Sarah repeated, deepening the worry lines across Rusty’s brow. “On Monday night, her story was about the Bandaged Horror. This one has to do with a man who mutilated animals as a disturbed boy. Years later, he’s mangled in a sawmill accident, becoming mutilated himself. After his death, he’s seen roaming the woods in festering bandages alongside the animals he tortured, all of them searching for human prey.”

  Rusty didn’t appear as bothered by this one. “Sounds a little like Olaf,” he remarked. “Except for the mutilating-animals part.”

 

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