Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
The smugness slid off the leader’s face.
“Given that you were hired to bring this kid back, I’m sure you know all that.”
“Well, I’ll level with you. I don’t know the dog’s name. Like I said, this isn’t the kind of job we normally take.”
“But a job is a job. Tell you what, send one of your guys down to Atlanta and bring the parents here. If they want him back, they’ll make the trip. He’s safe with me. He’s not going anywhere. Once the parents show up, we’ll take it from there.”
The leader sighed. It was a resigned kind of sigh. He was clearly put upon. It didn’t have to be like this. But now his hands were tied.
“You seem like a reasonable man. Do the math.”
“It’s not about math. And yes, normally I’m reasonable enough. But this is what you might call an emotionally difficult time of the year for me. I’m irritable, out of eggnog, and one of my freeloading creatures ate my cookies. You should leave while you still can.”
“None of that is my problem. Last chance.” The leader crossed his arms. “Send the kid out.”
“You’re right. This is your last chance. Leave now and everybody walks away alive.”
“Why does it always have to be the hard way?” The leader nodded at the Honeycomb trackers. “Bring me his arms.”
The shorter of the trackers dropped the lead of his iron hound. “Go on, Trigger. Get ‘im! Get ‘im!”
Trigger snarled. Foot-long iron spikes snapped erect on his spine. His fur stood on end. The huge canine bit the air and bounded forward. Two feet from the boundary of wards, he changed his mind and slid to a halt. The second dog, only a step behind, smacked into him, bounced off, and whined.
“Trigger! King! Get ‘im!”
The dogs paced back and forth, unsure. Trigger turned around and looked at his handler.
“That’s a clue for you,” Roman said.
The shorter Honeycomber frowned. He was clearly having second thoughts.
The leader glanced at the handlers. “I’m waiting to get my money’s worth.”
A moment passed.
The thinner handler swore and pulled a club off his back. “Fuck it, I’ll do it myself.”
“Roscoe,” the shorter handler said.
“I said, I’ll do it myself.”
The Honeycomber started forward. His eyes were bright. Roman knew that look. He’d seen it plenty of times before. Roscoe had left the Honeycomb and come all this way through the snow two days before Christmas. This wasn’t just about the money. He wanted to have some fun.
Roman raised his left hand, palm up, as if he were holding an invisible apple. Dark tendrils of power sank through his feet, seeking and finding knots of ancient magic buried below.
The skinny Honeycomber took another step.
Roman clasped his hand into a fist.
A huge bone hand with wicked curved talons burst from the ground under Roscoe and clamped him in its skeletal fingers, jerking him off the ground. His feet dangled. His mouth gaped in a terrified O.
Roman squeezed.
Bones crunched with a crack. Roscoe’s eyes rolled up, his head lolled, and he went limp.
Roman made a tossing motion.
The hand hurled the broken man off the property and toward the men on the road. They scattered, and he landed in the snow. The hand sank back into the ground.
The shorter Honeycomber dropped to his knees next to Roscoe and put his ear on the man’s chest.
“Not dead,” Roman said. “Just broken.”
The shorter Honeycomber whistled a shrill note. The two iron hounds charged back to him. He heaved Roscoe onto King’s back, reached into his shirt, pulled a bag out and dropped it in the snow.
“We had a deal,” the leader said.
“This weren’t no part of that deal. You wanted to find the kid. We found him. We’re going home, Wayne.”
“Suit yourself.”
The Honeycomber turned.
“He’s going to kill you,” Roman said.
The Honeycomber whipped around.
Wayne nodded.
Six crossbows twanged in unison. One bolt took the Honeycomber in the throat, three more sprouted from Roscoe and King. The iron hound went down with a metallic clang like someone had dropped a bag of nickels. Two more bolts sank into Trigger, one into his back and another into his side. The big dog spun, looking for an exit, pinned between the fire team and the house.
The crossbowmen reloaded with ridiculous speed.
Trigger turned his head, his eyes desperate, looking at Roman. Their stares met.
Fine, what’s one more? Roman nodded.
Trigger charged toward the house.
The two crossbowmen hiding on the flanks fired.
Two skeletal hands burst from the ground, lacing their fingers together in a protective cage around the porch. The bolts bounced off and fell to the snow. Trigger climbed the porch steps. Blood drenched his iron hide. Roman held the door open, and the dog sprinted into the house.
“It’s like that then?” Wayne asked.
“It always was.” Roman finished the last of his coffee. “You had your chance. Now none of you will leave here alive.”