Harvester of Bones by Jordan L. Hawk

Author:Jordan L. Hawk [Hawk, Jordan L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Widdershins Press LLC

Six

Gray emerges, tilting his head back and smelling the wind. Night is beside him in an instant, detectable only by his scent and the glow of his eyes.

The fifolet has passed through recently, perhaps within minutes. If they are lucky, it will still be nearby, and they can eat it and go home.

The trail beckons them across the road, toward the swamp. The ragged remains of its latest victim hang from a tree, the flesh of his torso peeled away to reveal the rib cage. Several of the ribs have been violently removed. Blood pools on the ground, dripping slowly from the remains of the corpse.

“God,” Caleb says, horrified. “If we’d just been a little earlier…fuck, if the line at the outfitters hadn’t been so long, we would have gotten here in time to save him. Damn it!”

But it was, and it is too late to change things, Gray pointed out. At least once we catch the fifolet, it will never kill again.

“Right. Let’s go get the fucker.”

The trail of the fifolet heads deeper into the swamp, along a bayou. They return to the vehicle and remove the canoe, before putting on the waders.

“We look stupid,” Caleb says in disgust. “I’m glad no one else is here to see this fashion disaster.”

It is better than losing our boots to the mud.

“Marginally.”

Gray carries the canoe easily with one hand, leaving Night to bring the paddles. As they pass the remains of the mortal, Caleb stirs uneasily. “I’d like to call the death in, but that would take too long. I just hope no poor bastard stops to look around before we can get back.”

Once the canoe is in the water, they paddle as silently as they are able. Many of Gray’s former hosts have traveled in such a fashion, as it seems have Night’s, given he knows how to handle the paddle without making a splash. The bayou passes beneath the interstate and crosses a human-made canal, but the trail of the fifolet draws them further up the bayou rather than down the canal. Deeper into the swamp.

Soon the noise of the interstate is behind them, its light fading to nothing. The swamp is almost as dark tonight as it was when he walked here so long ago, before the coming of electric lights and noisy machines. Cypress trees close in around the bayou, their knees protruding from the water, spanish moss hanging from their branches like hair. Dead trees, fallen and half-sunk into the mud below, threaten to damage the canoe if not spotted quickly enough. The more solid patches of ground offer places for animals to congregate: deer stare warily from the trees, and a cluster of raccoons on the shore stop and watch the canoe go by.

At least here they don’t have to worry about screaming humans. They do not even have to worry about John—at least, not about his immediate safety. For just this little while, there is only the hunt, simple and pure. No past, no future, only the eternal now, each moment a world unto itself.

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