Page 4 of Curse the Flame

My shoulder aches, but my instincts are as sharp as ever. Still on the ground, I grope for the Colt. My fingers close around the grip a second before a low growl rolls through the woods and, in an instant, I’m back on my feet, searching for the source of the sound.

It comes from somewhere to my left. It’s too loud for any dog, and there aren’t any bears in Brooklyn—if I’m still in Brooklyn—unless somebody finally got careless at the zoo.

Another growl answers from behind me.

“Johnny Wallace!”

Nothing. No surprise. The pervert ran through some sort of magic mirror and left me here to deal with whatever the hell is making that noise.

Fine.

I peer into the darkness, gripping the gun tighter when I see something flash. Eyes? Were those eyes? The growl sounds again, much closer this time. No doubt it’s some kind of wild animal, but I’m a city boy, born and bred, and a molded killer.

I’m ready for anything—and those might’ve just been my last words right there because who can be ready for what comes at me next?

The air shifts. Whatever predator is out there is stalking me. Toying with me. The leaves rustle, and a branch cracks somewhere ahead of me.

I keep the Colt steady.

The forest goes back to being silent.

The little hairs on the back of my neck stick up.

I know that kind of silence. Heard it before ambushes. Felt it in ruined villages where the Germans were close enough that even a cough could get a man killed. There’s always a moment when the whole world seems to hold its breath.

Then something comes crashing through the trees in front of me.

Running on instinct, I fire before I get a good look at it.

The first bullet catches it somewhere near the shoulder, assuming this fucking thing has shoulders. It screams, rearing up on two legs before dropping back onto four. Or six. Christ, maybe eight. It’s the size of a horse, but no horse has a mouth that opens that wide. Pale skin stretches over a body made of ribs and knotted muscle, while two long arms—or front legs—end in claws that snap at me as it charges.

I fire again and again. My Colt—government-issued and a gift from Teddy Thanos—holds eight rounds; seven plus one in the chamber. I keep count and I squeeze the trigger, the bullets punching into its chest without slowing it one bit.

No.

“Come on,” I spit out through gritted teeth. I take two steps back, plant my feet, and put the fourth shot through one of its eyes.

Black fluid explodes from the ruined eye. The monstrous thing jerks sideways, but doesn’t stop coming.

Of course not.

I empty another round into its mouth as it lunges for me, ready to bite my goddamn arm off.

Its head snaps back. Momentum carries the body forward, close enough that one claw slices through the front of my coat before it crashes into the grass beside me. The ground shakes beneath my boots.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then its legs twitch.

I aim at the other eye and pull the trigger again until I hit seven. It’s gotta be dead, but I like to be thorough, and all I have is one bullet left.

One bullet for Johnny Wallace.

Where is he? Where did you go, Johnny Boy?

PROLOGUE, PART II

AIDEN