Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1) Read online

  BOTH BARRELS

  Legends of the Monster Hunter I & II

  Special Omnibus Edition

  Copyright © 2014 Emby Press

  First Edition

  Cover design by Brian P. Easton

  All stories contained in this volume have been published with permission form the authors.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the authors. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincedental.

  ISBN: 978-1-940344-06-5

  Kindle Edition

  FOR BETHAY AND LACHLAN

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Introduction by Miles Boothe

  The Code of The Monster Hunter by Brian P. Easton

  The Werewolf Hunters:

  The Artist as Wolf by Joshua Reynolds

  Rancho Diablo by John M. Whalen

  Wolfers by Matthew Baugh

  The Message of the Wolf by Gary Buettner

  Alpha by Marc Sorondo

  Hunting Vengeance by Steven Gepp

  Wolf’s Pawn by Chris Lewis Carter

  February: The Hunter’s Moon by James Ossuary

  Black Horse Trading Company by Miles Boothe

  New Fallen Snow by Miles Boothe

  The Vampire Hunters:

  Night and Day by Michael McClung

  ’Til the Sun is in the Sky by Rob Pegler

  Alderwood and Old Lace by Jaleta Clegg

  The Rookie by Jennifer L. Barnes

  Adaptive Strategies by William R.D. Wood

  The Fullness of Your Truth by Eric Pollarine

  The Vampire Hunter’s Requiem by John X. Grey

  The Spirit Hunters:

  Spirit in Black by Thom Brannan

  Nadya’s Nights: Frost by Indy McDaniel

  Damned Pretty Woman by Matthew Baugh

  There’s Something in the Woods by Edward Mckeown

  Our Fields by Paul Salvette

  Groundhog Day by Philip Norris

  Murder in Thy Name by Elisa F. B. Ramires

  Weeping Woman by H.J. Hill

  The Monster Hunters:

  Iron Bells by Joshua Reynolds

  Finally, the Source by Christopher Nadeau

  Emergence by Christopher Nadeau

  Tentacles and Petticoats by T.W. Garland

  Shock to the Corset by T.W. Garland

  Blood Red by Thom Brannan

  The Pretty Ones by Angel Propps

  Coward’s Run by H.J. Hill

  The Carpetbagger by A.J. French

  Antler and Eye by K.C. Shaw

  Knocking Them Dead by John X. Grey

  Gateway by Daniel Durrant

  Fallen States by Jason Papke

  Bats by Derek Muk

  The Gargoyle’s Curse by Mhairi Shaw

  Godspore by Marc Sorondo

  Windigo Dreams by E.M. MacCallum

  Fish Out of Water by Liam Cadey

  The Enemy Within by Liam Cadey

  Capital Vices by Lina Branter

  Kudzu Jesus by Edward McKeown

  The Last Payday of the Killibrew Mine by John M. Whalen

  Author Biographies

  Introduction

  It’s been several years ago that I had the idea for the first monster-hunting themed anthology and a lot of stories have been written and read since.

  Some of the characters featured in that first book, Leather Denim & Silver, have gone on to appear in continued stories, and some now live in novels of their own—John Whalen’s western monster-hunter, Mordecai Slate, has garnered some great reviews for Vampire Siege at Rio Muerto and Josh Reynold’s The Whitechapel Demon has launched occult detective Charles St. Cyprian’s adventures in grand fashion.

  And that’s just to name a couple of successes. Emby has more in the printing queue and new anthologies currently accepting stories… Monster hunting is more popular than ever and I, for one, couldn’t be more pleased.

  Emby Press was founded almost exactly a year ago when Use Enough Gun was suddenly orphaned and fast action was what it took to keep that book alive. That was followed by the challenge of starting over, of rebuilding a new machine and the final victory of bringing that book to press—and if you think that sounds an awful lot like a plot from a monster hunting story, well, I suppose that’s only fitting. Nor is it the only time that our favorite subgenre matches our pursuits…

  Writing is a also a lot like monster hunting: It’s mostly a solitary effort, goes widely underappreciated and is nearly impossible to describe to other people without making them think that you are crazy.

  But for those that it matters to, especially me, your efforts are very much appreciated. Without the support of everyone who has contributed to the series or helped to spread the word, none of this would have been possible—and Emby Press is just getting started. We are planning some moves you would expect as well as a few surprises you wouldn’t, so keep a sharp eye on the horizon.

  To the readers, I do sincerely hope that you enjoy these tales from the Legends of the Monster Hunter, volumes I & II.

  To the writers, I salute your tales past and future.

  And to all of you, thank you. I can’t wait to bring you more.

  Miles Boothe

  January 2014

  The Code of The Monster Hunter

  Brian P. Easton

  Given the choice between saving the damsel and slaying the monster, slay the monster first. If the damsel dies, it’s not your fault; if the monster lives, it is.

  Don’t lie to yourself about what you see and what you do. Hunting monsters is a bloody trade; make no excuses for it.

  Monsters neither abide by truces nor honor treaties. Aside from an assured destruction, your only option is to keep fighting. You can’t afford to relax, not ever.

  Ego is a liability. Bravado will get you and those around you killed.

  When in a hunting party, stay far enough away from your fellow hunters so one monster can’t take out two or more men at once. Keep scouts posted at the front, rear and on both flanks to protect the main body.

  Be neither frightened nor enthusiastic about death. The one will make you a coward and the other a fool.

  Monsters love to hurt the people you care about. If you don’t learn to live with loneliness, you will have to live with guilt.

  Most monsters are long on intimidation and short on courage. Overcome the former to exploit the latter.

  Don’t take a monster prisoner for any reason; it rarely turns out well for the hunter.

  Staying cool under pressure is advisable 99% of the time. The other 1% is for mad-dog crazy. Go berserk only if you have to.

  There are worse fates than death. If faced with one, suicide is a legitimate option. Take their victory from them.

  Don’t sit, eat or bind your wounds for the sake of comfort. Learn to live with pain, it will help you stay on task.

  Once you start to blur the lines between monsters and humans, you risk the perils of Nietzsche’s abyss.

  “Wanna-be” monster hunters will get you killed; learn to recognize and avoid them. The primary difference between a monster hunter and a monster killer is that only the latter survives the night.

  The hunt can create unlik
ely allies. Utilize them, but unless they have skin in the game never completely rely on them.

  Things like remorse, pity and compassion are commodities unsuitable for fighting with monsters. Don’t confuse yourself with a bona-fide hero.

  An impatient predator usually ends up dead. This is true for monster and hunter alike.

  Monsters don’t take vacations. Be ready to get bloody on a moment’s notice, and stay bloody indefinitely.

  You will rarely be more effective as a hunter than when you assume the role of prey.

  Don’t deceive yourself; you’re not getting out of this alive. The best you can hope for is to die with your boots on. In the meantime, take as many monsters with you as possible.

  The Artist as Wolf

  Joshua Reynolds

  It was November of 1920 and the clink of champagne glasses provided bright counterpoint to the tinkling of the piano keys. Charles St. Cyprian moved through the art-gallery crowd, Mediterranean-dark among the pale sea of the English upper-crust, snagging a glass from a passing tray. He took a sip, his eyes alert for a tell-tale flash of black.

  “Think he’s here?”

  St. Cyprian glanced down. Ebe Gallowglass took a gulp from one of the two champagne flutes she held, her dark eyes wide. She had short, dark hair, cut into a curl-edged bob, and slim, straight limbs the color of cinnamon. The latter were mostly hidden beneath a loose dress and the former beneath a matching cloche hat. “He’s here,” he murmured. “Do you really need two of those?”

  “Liquid courage.”

  “It’s champagne.”

  “That’s why I need two,” Gallowglass said, tossing back the dregs of the first glass. She started on the second. St. Cyprian snorted and went back to his watching.

  “He’s here,” he said again, his tone confident. Then, he was the Royal Occultist. A certain amount of expertise in otherworldly matters was a job requirement. Formed during the reign of Elizabeth the First, the office of Royal Occultist (or the Queen’s Conjurer, as it had been known at the time) had started with the diligent amateur Dr. John Dee and passed through a succession of hands since. The list was a long one, weaving in and out of the margins of British history, and culminating, for the moment, in one Charles St. Cyprian, and his assistant-cum-apprentice, Ebe Gallowglass.

  “So you said. Those pictures are horrible,” Gallowglass said, looking at the prominently displayed work of the artist for whom the soiree they were attending was being thrown. St. Cyprian followed her gaze. Dark shapes scampered across the canvas, black interspersed with red; the work of Gabriel-Ernest Smythe, the latest thing on the scene. The party was for Smythe by way of his newest patrons, to celebrate his success. St. Cyprian and Gallowglass were here for Smythe as well, though not to celebrate.

  “No worse than your average Pickman,” St. Cyprian said. Idly, he clinked the steel rings that occupied three of his fingers together. The rings, as well as a rather cluttered house on the Embankment had come with his current position. He drained his champagne glass and deposited it on top of the closest canvas-stand. “Though that’s not saying much, I admit.” He turned, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  “I like that one with all of the dogs playing cards,” Gallowglass said, bending so close to another canvas that the tip of her nose almost brushed the snout of the hazy lupine shape that slavered back at her. “That’s high art that is.”

  “Heathen,” St. Cyprian said. She blew a raspberry in reply, but he ignored her. “What’s the point of all of this? That’s what I don’t understand.” He gestured at the paintings scattered across the room, all of them similar in both execution and subject of rough beasts slouching towards grim tasks. Hints of beast-shapes, scuttling through forced perspective trees, and the odd splash of red on white. “It’s like he wants people to know.”

  “Maybe he does. Know what exactly?”

  St. Cyprian smiled slightly as he glanced at the speaker. “His secret passions, I imagine. Hello Bobbie,” he said, greeting their hostess. Roberta Wickham was a small woman, petite and red-headed, and dressed like someone who had money but no need to dress accordingly.

  “Hardly secret, Charley,” Bobbie said, grinning and tossing her hair. “I do so love it when a man is properly enthusiastic, don’t you?” she continued, looking at Gallowglass. The latter opened her mouth to reply, but Bobbie overrode her and turned back to St. Cyprian. “I’m surprised you accepted my invitation, Charley. I would have thought you would have gone into hiding with Bertie and the rest of the Drones.”

  “I don’t quite think I’ve fallen low enough to accept membership to the Drones, have I?” St. Cyprian said.

  “You tell me,” Bobbie said, smirking. She turned to the painting and her smirk faded to a sort of dreamy smile. “They are something, aren’t they?”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Gallowglass said, finishing her second glass of champagne. Bobbie gave her a measuring look then said, “She’s a bit young for you, Charley.”

  “She’s my assistant,” St. Cyprian said.

  “Is that what you fellows are calling it now?”

  “Catty,” Gallowglass said. She smiled and twirled the empty champagne flute. Bobbie winced.

  “Don’t do that. You have no idea how much those cost.”

  “Not as much as you bought them for, I bet,” Gallowglass said.

  “So where is the guest of honor, Bobbie?” St. Cyprian said, interrupting. Bobbie looked at him and frowned. She fluttered her fingers.

  “Around. Mingling, hopefully. This is for his benefit, after all.” She looked up, her chin lifting.

  “Yes. Artists can be a tad ungrateful, I’ve heard,” St. Cyprian said. “Biting the hand that feeds them and all that.” He smiled genially. “I’ve heard that no one has ever seen his studio; surely that can’t be true.”

  Bobbie chuckled and patted St. Cyprian’s arm. “Secretive types, your basic artist. Common knowledge, Charley. And why are you so interested anyway? Looking to steal him away for yourself? she said, raising her eyebrows.

  “I—” St. Cyprian coughed, momentarily taken aback.

  “You can tell me, you know,” Bobbie said, grinning. “It’d be a gas if it were true.”

  “If what were—” St. Cyprian began.

  Gallowglass came to his rescue. “Charley wanted to commission a portrait,” she said, beaming at the other woman. Bobbie frowned and looked back and forth between them.

  “He doesn’t do portraits,” she said, settling a basilisk glare on Gallowglass. “He’s not some petty busker, you know.”

  “Guarding his reputation or your property?” Gallowglass shot back.

  “One in the same, I believe, and I thank you for it Bobbie.”

  St. Cyprian hesitated a moment before turning, his eyes narrowing. A young man stood behind them, hands clasped behind his back. He had narrow, handsome features and dark, longish hair that curled over the edges of his collar. Eyes like dark, polished stones fastened on them. “Gabriel-Ernest Smythe, at your service,” he said, flashing a mouth full of startlingly white teeth. It wasn’t a smile. Not quite. “And you are…?”

  “St. Cyprian. Charles St. Cyprian,” St. Cyprian said. He didn’t offer to shake hands.

  “Ah,” Smythe said. He flashed his teeth again. “How fortuitous. I have so wanted to meet you.”

  “It’s all he’s been talking about,” Bobbie said, taking Smythe’s arm. “Have you?” St. Cyprian said.

  “Simply ravenous for the opportunity,” Smythe said.

  “Oh Gee,” Bobbie said, giggling. He patted her hand.

  “Bobbie, be a dear and go get me a drink, would you? I’m simply parched.”

  They watched Bobbie move off through the crowd. Smythe turned back to St. Cyprian. “I’m quite fond of Bobbie. It’s the hair color, I think.”

  “You can’t help it, can you?” St. Cyprian said. “Ravenous? Really?”

  Smythe shrugged elegantly. “I am what I am.” There was an ever so-slight lilt t
o his words, a ghost of a memory of an accent. Gaelic perhaps.

  “How philosophical,” Gallowglass said. While the two men had been talking, she had sidled around behind Smythe and was now pressed close to him. Or, rather, the small pepperbox pistol she had retrieved from her garter was pressed close to him. She cocked it with a thumb and Smythe twitched. “And what are you then?” she asked. “It’s loaded with silver shot, by the by. Just so you know.”

  “An artist,” Smythe said, not taking his eyes off of St. Cyprian. The latter snorted.

  “Depends on how you define art, I suppose.”

  “That’s a rather narrow view,” Smythe said.

  “Practically panoramic, actually,” St. Cyprian said. “1904, Cavan, Ireland. Thirty sheep were killed by a nocturnal predator, resembling a largish black dog. Five weeks later, near Limerick, a similar occurrence.”

  “Dogs kill sheep often enough. Beastly creatures,” Smythe said, shivering slightly. “Can’t stand them myself.”

  “1905. Near Badminton in Gloucestershire, a large black dog was shot as it worried at the carcasses of two sheep. The dog wasn’t found.”

  “Farmers are notoriously bad shots. Common knowledge,” Smythe said.

  “I didn’t say it was a farmer. A month later, near Hinton, the same again,” St. Cyprian continued, his voice pitched low. “Near Windsor Castle a year later, a sentry fired at what he described as a ‘lean black shape’. A few days after that, a dozen of the King’s sheep were slaughtered in their field. A month after that, further south, fifty-one sheep were ripped apart and scattered the length and breadth of a field. Petulance, perhaps?” St. Cyprian said.

  “Maybe the creature was only minding its business,” Smythe said. “If I have to guess.”