Blood Trail

afraid he wouldn't be strong enough. He was an old man, older than he looked, and the Lord had given one old man a terrible burden to carry.
    Mark was not who he would have chosen to help him bear his cross, but the Lord worked in mysterious ways and apparently Mark had also been chosen. It made a certain sense he supposed, the boy was his only living relative, and by pulling that trigger tonight he'd proven he had the strength to enter the fray. Perhaps his own sins would be washed away in the blood of the ungodly he was to help destroy.

    Carl made his decision and took the three rounds he'd prepared from his vest pocket, standing them on the table. They gleamed in the overhead light like tiny missiles.

    "Holy shit! That's silver!"

    "Yes."

    Mark stroked one finger down the bullet head and laughed a bit hysterically. "You trying to tell me you're hunting werewolves?"

    "Yes."

    In the sudden silence the ticking of the kitchen clock sounded unnaturally loud.

    The old boy's flipped. He's right out of his tiny little mind. Werewolves. He's crazy.

    And then Carl started to talk. Of how he'd been out bird-watching in late spring and seen the first change by accident. How he'd seen the others by design. How he'd recognized a creature of the devil. Realized that this was why none of the cursed family ever entered God's house.
    Realized they were not God's creatures but Satan's, sent by the Great Deceiver to spread darkness on the earth. Gradually came to know what he must do.

    They must be sent back to hell. And they must be sent back in the form that was not a mockery of God's image. It must be done in secret under the cover of the night lest the Lord of Lies try to stop him.

    To his surprise, Mark found himself believing. It was the weirdest goddamned story he'd ever heard, but it had the undeniable ring of truth.

    "Werewolves," he muttered, shaking his head.

    "Creatures of the evil one," his uncle agreed.

    "And you're killing them?" And this is the guy who thinks eating a burger is a sin.

    "I am sending them back to their dark master. Demons cannot actually be killed."

    "But you're sending them with silver bullets?"

    "Silver is the Lord's metal as it paid for the life of His son."

    "Jesus H. Christ."

    "Do not blaspheme."

    Mark looked down at the rifle, now cleaned and reassembled, then back up at his uncle. The man was a moral nut case, something that had to be remembered. A well armed moral nut case and one hell of a shot, "Yeah. Sorry. So, uh, what about that thing in the woods tonight?"

    "I don't know." Carl laced his fingers together and sighed. "I shot him to protect you."

    Sweat beaded Mark's forehead as he remembered and his heart began to race. For an instant, he thought he might lose control of his bladder again. He'd looked at Death tonight and he'd never forget the feel of icy fingers closing around his life, no matter how badly he might want to. That experience, primal and terrifying, made it easier to believe the rest. "Maybe," he offered, swallowing heavily, "it was Old Nick himself, come to check on his charges."

    Carl nodded slowly. "Perhaps, but if so, I will leave him to the Lord."

    Easy far you to say. Mark wiped damp hands on his jeans. It wasn't going for your throat.
    "What about the woman?"

    "The woman?"

    "Yeah, that Nelson babe who wandered by this morning."

    "An innocent bystander, nothing more. You will leave her out of this."

    But Mark remembered the bits of pine stuck to a Blue Jays T-shirt and wasn't so sure.

    "A .30 caliber rifle at that range should've blown your fucking shoulder off." Vicki secured the end of the gauze and frowned down at her handiwork. "There's no way your collarbone should've been able to deflect that shot."

    Henry smiled at the incredulous disbelief in Vicki's voice. The pain had fallen to tolerable levels and the damage had been much less than he'd feared. Theoretically, he should be able to regenerate a lost limb but he had no real desire to test the theory. A broken collarbone and a chunk of flesh blown off the top of his shoulder, he could live with. "My kind has stronger bones than yours," he told her, attempting to flex the arm. Vicki made a fist and looked ready to use it, so he stopped.

    "Stronger?" She snorted. "Fucking titanium."

    "Not quite. Titanium wouldn't have broken." He winced as Donald dug yet another piece of buckshot out of his thigh then turned back to Vicki. "Do you realize your language deteriorates when you're