The shadow of banshee hi.., p.6
The Shadow of Banshee Hill, page 6
“If all else fails, we could always cross the Atlantic. I hear that they’re giving away land like soup over there,” proposed Cillian.
“One step at a time, mo chroí. One step at a time. Now, gaddap, my gorgeous stallion!”
“Your wish is my command, m’lady.” Cillian neighed loudly, stomped the ground with his foot, and then galloped off down the dirt road with haste.
As she rode him bareback, Martha pretended to whip her man as he clopped along. With the late hour’s passive breeze blowing, and the insects chirruping their nightly ritual singsong, it was a delightful moment to be a part of—one that she knew she would look back fondly on until her last moments.
But the ship of hope that he and she were aboard, unbeknownst to them, was about to collide with a bleak iceberg named Theodore James Ashworth III that was hidden beneath the surf.
CHAPTER FIVE
December 20, 2012
Boston, Massachusetts
United States of America
Once outside The Devil’s Drop, Cillian stealthily made his way closer to Emily and Bronc. He crept behind a dumpster, well hidden by a maze of shadows and graffiti street art that littered the alleyway walls. Standing a little over six feet in height and with a powerfully built carriage that housed large shoulders, Cillian was all-in-all a towering figure to hide from sightline.
From his initial observation, the conversation between the mysterious woman and the blood-guzzling cowpoke seemed heated. Hands were being raised, flared, and then thrown about in a quarrel-like manner. Emily was surprisingly the more aggressive one participating in the spirited tête-à-tête.
Compelled to know what was being said between the two, Cillian tuned into their exchange with his enhanced hearing. As with most rumours and whispers, the story of Bronc losing his tongue to a hunter was bogus hearsay.
“Listen, ma’am, Bronc done told you everythin’ he knows,” Bronc said, his drawl thick and oozy. The wrangler briefly took off his hat in an expression of honesty and held it over his heart. His unwashed, blond hair was severely matted to his head. “They call him, The Cruel One. That’s all Bronc could find out.”
Emily furrowed her brow, not sure whether to believe him or not. “The Cruel One? Really?” she asked, her breath visible in the chilly late-night air. “Sounds a little too on point, don’t you think?”
“That’s what they call him. You were lucky that Bronc was able to find that out. Nobody is talkin’. Everyone is lookin’ over their shoulder. This Cruel One feller is known for being one sick motha. If Bronc were you, Bronc would stay well clear,” he advised, placing his hat back upon his greasy crown. “But somethin’ tells Bronc you still wanna rope that bull.”
“I want to rope, brand, and slice that bull’s balls off.”
“Yeah . . . good luck with that. Don’t say you weren’t warned.” Bronc released a slight chuckle. “Anyways, time to pay up, lady.”
Emily looked at him straight in his dead eyes and tried to read him. “You’re telling me that you heard nothing else? Not a thing more?”
“Yup,” he answered, wearing his best poker face, which was lacking.
“Nothing at all?”
“Listen, Bronc told you everythin’ he knows—pay up, bitch!”
“If that’s all you know, I guess that’s all you know.” Emily exhaled dramatically. “I’m a little disappointed that’s all you could dig up.”
Bronc dropped his head and peered at her menacingly from under the rim of his Stetson. “A word of advice that my granddaddy once told me. Don’t mess with somethin’ that ain’t botherin’ you.” He then grinned, deliberately revealing the tips of his deadly teeth. “Bronc wants his money, and he wants it now.”
Emily Corvo was no fool. She knew Bronc purposely exposing his pearlies was an unmistakeable threat of violence. He was soulless, after all, and Emily was certainly aware that having her warm blood on his hands wouldn’t be a problem for him. “No need to take offence, my buckaroo friend—I believe you. It’s all good—it’s all good, man.” Emily reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a folded brown envelope. She handed it to him. “I appreciate your efforts. You’ve earned this.”
“Pleasure doin’ business with you.” Bronc tore the envelope open. “Mind if Bronc count?”
“No, go right ahead. I would do the same,” she nonchalantly replied, slyly slipping her left hand up the right sleeve of her coat. “I’ve trust issues myself.”
To his surprise, there was nothing inside—not a single dollar bill, not even a dime. “Well, if this don’t put pepper in the gumbo. What kind of game are you tryin’ to play here, shugah? You tryin’ to pull a fast one on old Bronc?” he growled, tearing up the envelope into several pieces. “You think you can rip Bronc off?”
The glint in his eyes made Emily’s muscles go tense, but she hid it well. “Let me explain,” she stammered, while taking a step backward and holding up her hands in supplications. “Hear me out, I’ve a good excuse for not paying you.”
“Excuses are like backsides; everyone has ’em and they all—stink!” Bronc licked his lips and advanced toward her. “You’re usually not Bronc’s type, but tonight he will make an exception,” he said before fully bearing his aching fangs.
Just as Cillian was about to make his presence known and come to the rescue of his fresh fixation, the damsel in distress took matters into her own hands.
Emily’s expression darkened; her unblemished complexion became blotched with pique. She swiftly pulled a garrotte out from her sleeve and with incredible accuracy she hurled it at the Bronc as he was about to lunge at her. Its silver cord wrapped around his neck. “Lookie here, it looks like this little girlie-girl has lassoed herself a cowboy. You should’ve known by my reputation that it’s not wise to prod me, Bronc.”
“You sneaky cunt!” he grunted in reply.
Emily had brought the garrotte with her for protection because she knew of silver’s ability to severely sear the skin of a revenant. Its chemical makeup wasn’t agreeable with them. It was poisonous to the touch and could be fatal with long-term exposure. Some said this was due to the holy connotations associated with silver, while others said it was due to the element’s purity. Either way, Emily didn’t care. She wasn’t particularly concerned with the how’s or why’s. She was just glad that it did.
Yells of agony poured from Bronc’s mouth as he frantically squirmed to break free.
“This should stop you from constantly referring to yourself in the third person. What’s that all about? It’s weird, Bronc—really weird! Did you get kicked in the head by a mule or something when you were a kid?”
“Please, stop!” Bronc begged, his eyes flashing like that of ensnared prey. He couldn’t make use of his fingers against the silver. Never in all his years roaming the planet had he found himself under the thumb of a lesser being—especially a 135-pound woman.
White-hot rage was upon her. Showing not even an iota of emotion, Emily gripped the garrotte’s wooden handles and pulled. The metallic cord cut into his neck as if it were a warm block of butter. The scent of searing revenant flesh filled every crevice of her nostrils, but she was unfazed. It was obvious that this wasn’t her first rodeo—Emily had smelt its distinctive stench many, many times before. “You know why you deserve this?”
Bronc struggled to reply. “W-W-Why?”
“Because you’re a disgusting abomination that has no right to live.”
Claiming to be just a curious spectator and not a supporter of either, Cillian continued to evaluate the situation at hand with raised eyebrows. If pushed to choose between the two, he would have to confess that he found himself rooting for the attractive brunette over the dirty blond. He was genuinely impressed by what he was seeing. Emily was dealing out pain like a pro and was handling the volatile situation perfectly. She was aggressive and certainly direct—two characteristics that Cillian held in high regard.
“Oh, I bet that smarts,” Emily remarked callously between gritted teeth. She tightened her grip on the garotte. “Now, listen up, and listen good, fuckface. I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me all that you know. One chance. Understand?”
“Bronc done told you, he dunno anythin’ else!”
“Who is The Cruel One? I need a name.”
“Bronc don’t know,” he responded, grimacing.
“I don’t believe you.” With a sparkle in her eyes, Emily yanked on the silver cord, cutting further into the skin of his neck. “I know you know more than you’re telling me.”
Bronc’s eyes started to bulge out from his skull. Any more pressure and they would have exploded forth from their sockets. “Please, stop,” he mewled desperately with his tongue floundering around in his mouth like a fish out of water. “Please! Enough!”
Ignoring his cries of distress, Emily pulled tighter. Blood spilt out and over his thin lips as he attempted to beg for mercy, but he couldn’t form words. The pain was excruciating.
“Last chance saloon, Bronc. Tell me who The Cruel One is, and I’ll let you go free. If you don’t, then . . .you know what happens next.”
Bronc nodded vigourously while releasing a series of unintelligible mumblings.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Emily kept to her word and relaxed her grip a tad. “I hope you’re not lying to me.”
Bronc helplessly fell to his knees and coughed up a wad of blood. He then began to whimper like a scolded puppy.
“C’mon now, stop the theatrics,” Emily stated coldly. “Out with it. Time’s not on your side.”
Bronc cleared his throat and spoke in a quavered voice. “The Cruel One is from one of those shithole countries over there in Europe. Rumour has it, he’s as old as dirt—old—real old. They say he’s been bangin’ about for thousands of years. That’s all Bronc knows, ma’am.”
Emily frowned and tightened the noose around his neck again. She knew from experience over the last couple of years with revenants that the more pressure she induced, the more truthful and detailed an answer she’d receive. That she was confident of. “I think you know more than you are saying.”
Bronc screamed loudly. “Nobody knows his real name. But . . .”
“But—what?” she snapped with a dangerous edge to her voice. “You’re making me do something I don’t want to do.”
“Okay . . .okay . . .okay. Word is that he’s the one who killed your mama, and he has your pa locked up underground somewhere. That’s everythin’ Bronc knows!” he screamed afresh. “It’s the truth.”
Emily was visibly taken aback by the new information.
“Bronc’s not lying!”
“Where does he have my father?”
“No idea,” he furthered, grunting in pain. “But as sure as day follows night, you find The Cruel One, you will find your pa,” Bronc answered.
Unmitigated anger filled Emily’s spirit. Not in all her wildest dreams did she think that he was holding back a nugget of that magnitude. Her aggression had hit pay dirt. “I appreciate your honesty.” Emily knew he was telling her everything, and by doing so, he no longer was of any use to her or her cause.
Bronc felt the noose tighten again. He had a sense of what was going to be coming his way. “You’re not goin’ to let Bronc go, are you?”
Emily inhaled a deep breath and then let it out. “Nope.”
With eyes screwed shut, the Texian made peace with his maker.
With a face flushed with anger, she yanked on the garotte with all the strength she could gather. The silver cord cut through Bronc’s neck and spinal cord, instantly severing his head from the rest of his body. Before his Stetson could even hit the ground, Bronc’s corpse burst into a flash of flames and then quickly crumbled, falling into a pile of ash.
A bit of his dusty remains landed on Emily’s parka, but she wasn’t bothered by it in the least. She simply brushed herself off and began to walk away down the alley as if nothing supernatural had just happened. No remorse—no pity—no compassion was on display.
Killing creatures of the night, whether guilty or innocent, was at its mainstay a cathartic act for the formidable twenty-seven-year-old who was currently white-knuckling it through life. She found a certain comfort in the straightforward concept of reprisal.
Everything considered, it had been a successful night for her. She had accomplished her mission and received paramount information that could help find the whereabouts of her missing father and possibly identify the fiend who had murdered her mother.
The hope-filled tank that Emily had been running on was beginning to run low. As a matter of fact, she had been cruising on close to nothing for a while now. She was getting dangerously close to giving up. However, the information that Bronc had just coughed up reignited the resilient flame of determination just as it was on the verge of being extinguished forever.
Emily Corvo was on a personal crusade. For three long, bitter, and traumatic years, she had been tirelessly hunting down those accountable in a quest for vengeance. But with every bit of information that came to light, she found herself travelling deeper and deeper down a dark rabbit hole that appeared to have no end in sight. She believed with all her heart that her father was still alive and that he had been falsely accused of her mother’s murder. Emily knew her dad well, and she knew of his unshakeable love for her mom. He would never hurt his partner of over thirty years, never mind take her life in such a ghastly fashion and then go on the lam, bringing public shame on the family name.
The person or persons accountable for this crime had left a clue—six puncture wounds on the exsanguinated neck of her mauled mother. That visible and horrifying mark indicated who, or rather what, they possibly were. After months of tireless research using every tool available to her from microfiche readers at the city archives, to a litany of unsolved case reports given to her by friends in blue, Emily concluded that the perpetrator wasn’t a person at all but a creature from folklore. She was one of the few who had learned that one of the biggest secrets of modern times was that blood-drinking immortals were real and walked amongst the living.
Cillian couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed. The sheer gall of Emily to terminate the life of a revenant on his turf should have made his blood boil and awarded him the divine right to carry out his eye-for-an-eye policy, but if anything, Cillian found himself roused. She must be a hunter of our kind.
In all his time as an immortal, Cillian had only come into direct contact with a handful of hunters—all of whom he had defeated and feasted upon with delight. But those unwise huntsmen did not smell like Emily, and they certainly did not emit the same frequency as her.
While adjusting his position to get a better look at her, Cillian accidently knocked over an empty beer bottle. A hollow, glassy echo sounded loudly. “Bollocks.”
Looking directly toward where the sound originated from, Emily saw a large, dark silhouette. “Come out and show yourself,” she ordered brashly, reaffirming her grip on her trusty garrotte. “I’m armed.”
Cillian confidently stepped out from behind the dumpster. “I can see that.” With his shoulders back and his posture upright, he was obviously in no way intimidated by her. Even still, he held his two hands up, palms out, so Emily could see that he wasn’t carrying a weapon of any sort and was of no immediate threat. “Don’t worry—I will not hurt you,” he said through a fractured smile, his face partially hidden by the darkness.
Emily cocked her hip and blew out a puff of air. “As if you could.”
“Are you a hunter from the Coterie?”
“Who wants to know?” she asked, a warning present in her voice. Emily’s eyes darted to the right and left of the dark stranger, scanning the alley for any other hidden surprises waiting to make an appearance.
Cillian walked forward out of the gloom and wiped several strands of hair from his sculptural face that was absorbing every single bit of luminosity the waning moon had on offer. “I want to know.”
“And who the hell are you?”
“I’m Cillian.”
“Well Cillian, if I were you, I would mind my own fucking business. Just turn around and walk the fuck away,” Emily barked. “You don’t want any of this.”
The brass neck on this one, he thought, enjoying her boldness. Cillian sunk his hands into his coat pockets and took another step forward.
Emily centred her weight and readied herself for an altercation. “Are you deaf?”
“No, I’m not. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“I’m warning you; don’t you dare take another step closer,” she cautioned. Emily had learned early on in her journey for justice that if you give a revenant an inch, they’ll take a country mile. Or more fittingly, if you give them your hand, they’ll take your arm.
Cillian decided not to push his luck. He had witnessed that her bite matched her bark, and then some. Bronc could testify to that if his leftovers weren’t blowing about on the frosty December breeze. “Fair enough. Don’t worry. I’ll not take another step.”
“Good! And yeah, I’m a hunter from the Coterie,” she lied, hoping to intimidate him. Emily didn’t even know what he was referring to, but she figured it might worry him enough to pause and reconsider his actions.
Lifting his strong chin, Cillian inhaled deep to evaluate Emily’s scent. It was a difficult one to extrapolate, which surprised him since he prided himself on his special ability to identify the innerworkings of a person based on their aroma alone. “No.” A wandering moonbeam threw light onto his ivory fangs, making them glisten momentarily. “You’re not one of them.”
“How do you know that I’m not?” she asked, her eyes immediately drawn to the sight of his gleaming choppers.
“They’ve a certain odour. I’ve never in all my time smelt your sort before. To be honest, I’m not even convinced that you’re fully human. But I will say you’re nicely packaged as one.”
“Yeah right, whatever. If I’m not human, then what am I?” Emily replied, almost sounding as if she hoped he had an answer.
