Chapter 1
I’ve been shot one hundred and fifty-three times. Stabbed, cut, or bit so many times I’ve lost count. I’ve been blown up, electrocuted, frozen, buried alive, set on fire, and was once hit by a train. I’ve fought in both world wars and a few others. I’ve killed men on all but two continents. I’ve killed monsters on them all. Other dimensions? Twice.
I guess you can say I get around.
Husband, father, grandfather, and now great-grandfather, I’ve seen whole generations come and go. I’ve loved, protected, and watched over my family, the Shacklefords, for decades. With a couple of notable exceptions, most of them have turned out pretty good. Which is important, because in the grand scheme of things, the Shacklefords are a very special bunch. This particular journal is not about them.
I run Monster Hunter International, the best outfit in the business. You work for MHI for very long, and you’ll see some things. I’ve run into some of the weirdest beings in God’s creation and killed a whole mess of them. You wouldn’t believe the shit we’ve fought. There are a lot of innocent folks alive right now only because one of my Hunters stepped up and did what had to be done. The bravest men there have ever been look at me to be their leader, and that’s a humbling thing. But this journal ain’t about them, either.
I’ve already written those things down. Now I need to focus on the hard part. This is the third journal I’ve attempted to write. If you are reading these words, then I can only assume that you know the truth about me. This book is about things I’d rather not share, things I’d rather have forgotten. But no one lives forever. I’m hoping that some of the things I’ve learned might help after I’m gone. A wise man once told me that we’re no smarter than the Hunters that came before us. The only reason we’ve got a clue is because those guys bothered to write stuff down. So here goes.
I’m a werewolf.
You’ve got no idea how remarkably hard that was to write. I stare at those words and want to tear the page out and burn the evidence. We tend to be a secretive bunch.
See, I bear a curse. You learn to deal with it, or it deals with you. Crying about it won’t change a thing. Embracing it will destroy you. I have stared into the face of evil, and I’ve been the face of evil. I’ve done some bad things in my life. Good thing I’ve lived a long time because I’m still trying to even that score. Some folks would call it penance. I call it my job.
I am a Hunter. I am a Monster. I was born Raymond Earl Shackleford Jr., son of the greatest Hunter who ever lived, in the year 1900. I’ve held many names since.
Today they call me Harbinger.
* * *
“Well, ain’t you Mr. Melodramatic?” Earl Harbinger muttered to himself after rereading the first page of the journal. Frankly, it was surprising that he’d managed to fill so many pages in it already, and reading through them had given him something to keep occupied while waiting for the meeting. The leather-bound book went back into an internal pocket of his battered bomber jacket and a pack of Marlboros came out. Shaking one loose, he put it to his lips while pondering on the book.
Writing his personal history had been Julie’s idea. Originally he’d been resistant to the idea of chronicling his life, but the fight with the demon Rok’hasna’wrath had cost him dearly. Earl pulled out his Zippo and lit the cigarette. The lighter was a perfect example of the damage the minor Old One had inflicted on Earl’s mind. The Zippo had been engraved with the MHI logo, and he knew it had been a birthday present, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember when he’d gotten it or who it was that had given him the gift. It was one of hundreds of little things he had lost. Random memories had been ripped from his mind and swallowed whole or torn into indecipherable shreds and scattered. Rocky, devourer of souls and reaper of worlds, had been a real asshole that way.
There were gaps, blank spots, fuzzy bits where the original events were lost but he could recall telling the stories to others, like a weird secondhand report. He didn’t even know the entirety of what was missing. The journals had been started as tools to find out just what had been taken away. He’d written one chronicling the Shackleford family history and another about Monster Hunter International. The realization of the sheer number of events he could not recall had been a slap in the face.
Thinking about it left Earl bitter. It was too bad that Z had driven Abomination’s bayonet through Hood’s black heart. Martin Hood had gotten off far too easily for Earl’s tastes. Rocky had robbed him, but that creature had only been summoned to perform the job. It had been at Hood’s bidding, whereas his old friend had wanted to make it personal.
Ironically, the thing that had brought him here was also about personal business. Once again, the past had come back to haunt him, but when you’re over a hundred years old, you build up an awful lot of past.
The bar was kept purposefully dim. It hid the grime and, once the crowds came in the evening, would help mask the unattractive. There was an old-fashioned jukebox playing country music. He had picked a table in the back. It was still early in the day, so the only other inhabitants were the solitary types with nothing better to do than down a couple of beers before lunch. Earl took a slow drink of his. It was just the kind of out-of-the-way dive that somebody like Conover would pick for a clandestine meeting.
It had been decades since they’d last spoken, but Earl had not hesitated to drop everything when he’d gotten the message. Making up some excuses, he’d told the rest of his team that he was taking some vacation time—which had shocked everyone—promised he’d be back before the full moon, loaded some gear in his truck, and driven the six-hundred-some-odd miles to rural Illinois.
Earl didn’t like lying to his people. Hunters lived or died based on trusting their team, but this wasn’t MHI business. And if it was what he feared, then he definitely didn’t want to involve them.
He studied the other patrons, normal working stiffs, just regular Joes. A tired bartender was watching the TV on the wall and eating stale pretzels. There was one almost-but-not-quite-pretty waitress wiping tables. His heightened sense of smell confirmed that everyone here worked for a living. They stunk of chemical fertilizers, truck cabs, engine grease, and French fries. Earl could usually tell what someone did for a living long before they opened their mouths. If any of them were undercover Feds here to snoop on his business, they were extremely good at it. Considering the kind of work that he’d once performed for Conover, he’d fully expected the place to be bugged and surveilled by all sorts of government types. Instead, the most interesting scent was the fry cook, and that was only because Earl was hungry.
The captain’s message had been short. He hadn’t elaborated on what business they needed to discuss, but it sure as hell wasn’t to reminisce about the old days. There could only be one reason. The Russian was back. Earl took a long drag from his cigarette as he stared off into space. The single baddest son of a bitch Earl had ever had the sad displeasure of squaring off against. Sure, he’d won last time, but a lot of people had died in the process. Good people. Sadly, Rocky had left most of those memories, the spiteful demon prick.
The Russian had dropped off the grid years ago. Earl had hoped that he’d had the decency to just die, but had known that was wishful thinking. There was only one reason he could think of that would bring Nikolai Petrov to America, and Earl had known the time would come eventually. Driving all night had given him time to think about what it meant, and it had made him glad that he was doing this on his own. His Hunters had faced some terrifying things, but Nikolai wasn’t just another monster.
This time was going to be different. He wasn’t going to play Nikolai’s games. Things had changed since Vietnam. No contest, no bullshit, no hide-and-seek. This was going to be a straight-up, old-fashioned execution.
Thoughts of revenge were interrupted as a sudden rectangle of daylight appeared at the front of the room. A tall, stately gentleman with silver hair entered. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, but somehow he even made that look a little too professional. Kirk Conover had arrived. The man stepped into the room, subtly breaking the bar into quadrants and scanning each one for threats like the trained operative that he was. Conover’s head dipped briefly in acknowledgment as he glanced at Earl’s table. Satisfied there were no obvious watchers, the former liaison officer of Special Task Force Unicorn started over.
Earl was distracted by a female voice. “You can’t smoke in here.”
He looked up to see the almost-pretty waitress standing over him, hands on her hips, disapproving. He let the cigarette dangle from the edge of his lip. It was only half done. “We’re in a bar.…”
“No smoking,” she said sternly.
“Seriously?” The frown said she was serious. He didn’t think he could use the excuse that he had a medical condition, either. Saying that the nicotine helped keep him from massacring everyone in the room in a fit of bestial rage, though partially true, probably wouldn’t help his case. “Please?”
She shook her head. “It’s a state law. Sorry. We could get fined.”
“That’s a stupid law,” Earl muttered. Everywhere he went now there were laws stacked on top of other laws until there was a mountain of laws ready to collapse in a giant avalanche of meddling. “Fine.” He flicked his tongue, put the lit cigarette in his mouth, swallowed hard, and ate it. It burned going down. “Happy?”
“Gross,” the waitress said as she quickly retreated.
“Hey, get me a drink too, honey. Whatever that cranky bastard is having,” Conover called after the waitress. He stopped in front of Earl’s table. Conover had aged, as was to be expected, since they hadn’t spoken since Vietnam. The fighter-pilot-turned-spook had always been tall, several inches over Earl’s average height, and in good shape. Now he was approaching old age and didn’t seem quite so tall anymore, but still very fit for a senior citizen. Kirk had aged, but he’d aged well. “Well, you’ve still got a way with the ladies, I see.”
“You were the lady’s man, not me.” Earl gestured with his bottle of Sam Adams. “Have a seat, Cap.”
“I retired as a colonel,” Conover replied as he pulled up a chair. “And that was a while ago. But damn, Earl…You look nearly the same.…Well, you did get a shave and a haircut.”
“A couple since then, I suppose.”
“Good thing, too. You looked like a filthy hippie.”
Earl shrugged. “You kept us awful busy to worry about the state of our grooming.”
“Things were crazy there at the end.” Conover gave a little chuckle.
He hadn’t meant it to be funny. Earl and the other special members of the task force had been one step above slave labor, and this particular air force officer had been their overseer. Earl studied his old boss. Conover watched him back, and the two sat in uncomfortable silence for some time. People always told Earl that he had an unnerving way of looking at people, but Conover had been one of the few that had always been tough enough to look him in the eye. At least that hadn’t changed.
The waitress came back and left another bottle on the table. To be fair, Conover had been as decent a sort as could be expected, given the circumstances, and had actually looked out for the monsters, mutants, and misfits under his control. The Perpetual Unearthly Forces Fund was as blind as lady justice and far less merciful. If your kind were on the list, you were fair game. An individual had to earn the right to be PUFF exempt, so the government always had some special volunteers. After fulfilling the terms of the government’s agreement, Conover had kept his word and made sure that Earl’s name had been put back on the exemption list.
His former boss may have gotten old, but he hadn’t gotten soft. Conover stared back at him, unblinking. There was no guilt there. This was a man given hard orders who’d done his duty, that was all, and that was something Earl could respect. They hadn’t spoken since the last evacuation, and he was curious about the other survivors. “Have you seen Sharon Mangum?” Earl asked finally.
Conover smiled, still with that lopsided way that the Saigon bar girls had found so charming. “We got married not too long after your tour was over.”
“I’m shocked,” Earl said, perfectly deadpan. The two of them had a thing there going toward the end. The fraternization rules sort of went out the window in an oddball outfit like theirs. “I figured that might happen. Extremely late congratulations are in order.”
“Best thing that ever happened to me. The agency bounced us all over the place afterward. She hated that part, as you can imagine. But we settled down finally when I got stationed in DC. Moved out here when I retired.”
“Family?”
“We’ve got a son and three daughters.”
“Human?” Earl asked.
“Mostly.”
“Good to hear, Cap.” With Sharon’s condition, it could have gone either way. “She was a fine girl. Saved my bacon a few times.”
Then Conover let out a long sigh. “She died last year,” he said. “Car accident.”
It had to have been a bad accident to kill a half-siren. “I’m sorry. I know how you feel.” So much for trying to be cordial. “I’m guessing you didn’t send me that mysterious letter just so we could shoot the bull over some beers?”
“It did get your attention, didn’t it?” Kirk gave a sad little laugh before taking a long drink. “Old times…We were never really buddies, were we, Earl?”
Conover had been a decent man to work for, considering the circumstances, but Earl had still been there against his will. He didn’t mind war. In fact, he was rather good at it and would have gone if he’d been asked rather than threatened. “I like to think of us as business associates with a relationship based on mutual respect. Well, and the fact that I’d have gotten executed if I disobeyed your orders.”
“Smart-ass. You know, when you got assigned to me, your file said you had authority problems and I’d probably have to terminate you.”
“Aw, they were still just sore because of that time I punched out Jimmy Carter.” Sure, he’d only been governor then, and that little stunt had cost MHI some business, but he had deserved it.
“You always were the lone wolf, weren’t you?” Kirk asked rhetorically. “Well, back to business. I’ve still got people who owe me. When certain things pop up, I hear.”
Men like Conover tended to accumulate a lot of favors. “Nikolai’s back, ain’t he?”
“Afraid so. Last we’d heard he’d gone freelance. Mercenary werewolf for hire. Worked for various bad people eating other bad people, and then all of a sudden, nothing. He just disappears. Until this week. Any idea what would bring him out of the woodwork after all these years?”
Earl shrugged. “Nikolai’s a badass Russian. Badass Russians only have three emotions: revenge, depression, and vodka. Where is he?”
“It isn’t that easy, Earl. First I’ve got a question about what happens when you find him.”
“You know exactly what’ll happen when I find him.”
Conover nodded. “Yeah, stupid. I contacted you, remember? You’re about the most determined killer I’ve ever met. Once I set you on Nikolai’s trail, that bastard’s good as dead. I’d swear you’re not part wolf. You’re part bloodhound. Not the what, Earl. I want to know the why. I’m retired. This isn’t going in a report. You can level with me.”
Earl paused. How was he supposed to answer that? Nikolai was dangerous. He was everything bad about werewolves rolled up into one exceedingly ruthless and intelligent package. He was the big bad wolf. He was evil, but there were plenty of evil people in the world, and he didn’t go around hunting them all down. “Revenge is as good a reason as any, I suppose.”
“You can do better than that.” Kirk leaned back in his chair and studied him. “That was war. We did what we had to do.”
Since Kirk understood monsters better than most people ever could—hell, he’d married somebody that technically was one—Earl figured he might as well level with his old commander. “There’s something else…There are certain rules, ways of doing things. It’s been the same since the beginning. There’s always one who’s the strongest. He sets the rules.”
“They form packs once in a while, that’s about it. You trying to tell me that there’s some werewolf society with rules? Werewolf law? I must’ve missed that briefing.”
“Not in the way you’re thinking of it,” Earl answered. “Maybe rules ain’t the right word, but it’ll do. New werewolves break them because they don’t know better. Most folks, when they turn, they go right to doing whatever urge strikes. For the ones that live, though, after a while, they’ll sense what the rules are, and they either obey them, or somebody like me comes along and takes them out.”
Kirk studied him for a moment. “Somebody like you, meaning a Hunter, or an Alpha werewolf?”
Earl nodded at the terminology. As usual, Kirk knew more than he revealed. “Same difference.” Even though it wasn’t. “Some old werewolves break the rules, but most know better than to piss off the strongest. When he finds out, then there’s hell to pay.”
“What’re the current rules?”
“There’s only a couple. But basically, leave humans alone. They live by the rules, and regular people never even know we exist.”
From the look on his face, it was obvious that Kirk’s suspicions had just been confirmed. “I thought so. You know, I’ve learned a few things about werewolves since we last worked together. Most of them don’t care. They do whatever they want, regardless of what some old guy says.”
“I didn’t say it worked well, but you don’t want the world’s werewolves instinctively following the example of a real aggressive leader. The way it is now is better.”
“What happens if there’s a new boss?”
“They’ll all sense it. The rules will change…and you don’t want somebody like Nikolai setting the rules. He doesn’t see us as people who are different. In his mind, we’re superior and humans are prey. The curse will spread. Packs will grow. You do the math.”
Kirk nodded thoughtfully. “I figured it was some sort of monster psychology like that.”
“So why does the Russian have to die?” Earl leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. His minotaur-hide coat creaked. “Because I’m the king of werewolves, and I said so.”
Apparently, that had been the answer Kirk was looking for. “Nikolai is in America.”
“Figured that was the case. Where?”
“North of here. Middle of nowhere, Michigan. He was spotted arriving in the US last week. Intel says he was heading for a town called Copper Lake. Heard of it?”
“Can’t say I have. How do you know all this?”
“I’m retired. Not dead. I’ve still got friends in the business who like to keep me informed.” The nebulous answer indicated that he was not ready to give up all his secrets.
“Are the MCB planning to take him out?”
“The Monster Control Bureau doesn’t even know he exists. When the task force was shut down, we passed most of our files on, but not everything. Back then the MCB were just glorified cops and damage control. Our op was national security on a need-to-know basis. They didn’t need to know.”
“Good. They’d just complicate matters.” The last thing Earl needed was Myers’s goons getting in the way. “So, I answered your question, Kirk. Now you answer mine. Why’d you bring me in on this?”
Conover’s beer was half empty. He swirled the remainder around and stared at it. “You and me, we’re the last surviving members of the task force.”
“Turns out the Destroyer is still alive,” Earl pointed out.
“Really? Pitt the crazy Green Beret? Huh…Didn’t know that. He must have gone on to something so classified that even my department didn’t get a whiff of it. Well, Nikolai was our problem, and I don’t like leaving problems unsolved. I’m too damn old now. I can’t take him. Hell, I couldn’t back in my prime. You, on the other hand, can. Sure, I could call the MCB. They’d go crazy if they knew Stalin’s pet werewolf was roaming around their turf, but I’d like this to stay in the family.”
Earl could tell there was more. “And?”
Conover studied the tabletop, mulling over his answer. “Sharon used to have bad nightmares, all the time, our entire marriage. And it was always the same thing. Golden eyes and white fangs…The Russian would come for her, and he’d take our kids, too, just out of spite. She never had closure. He killed most of the task force. She always felt that he’d come back to finish the job.”
Nightmares. Earl didn’t have nightmares. He gave them.
“That son of a bitch stole years of Sharon’s life, and I couldn’t protect her. Now that I know he’s alive, I need you to destroy him, Earl, absolutely destroy him. I want him to feel how she felt. I’ve seen what you can do. Do it for the task force. Do it for her. And when you’re finished…Then I can go to Sharon’s grave and tell her it’s finally over.”
Earl raised his bottle. “For the ones that didn’t make it.”
They clinked their beers together. “To lost friends and a shitload of dead communists.”
Earl Harbinger could drink to that.