Faster than the hound a.., p.1
Faster Than The Hound: A Dark Fantasy, page 1
FASTER THAN THE HOUND
William Meikle
Copyright William Meikle 2021
PART 1
HELLHOUND ON MY TRAIL
— 1 —
I came to L.A. from Scotland eighteen months ago, just turned twenty-one, with stars in my eyes and dreams in my head. But it doesn't take long here to find out that 'actor' isn't a job description, it's a sentence. After my third day spent in a line waiting to audition for a ten-second part in a commercial I took to working the three-card trick on street corners. And after a fifth day trying to persuade tanned blondes with perfect teeth that what they really needed was a wiry, ginger, freckled, Scotsman, I ended up working an irregular gig in the corner of The Twa Dugs. I played guitar pretty well, sang the old songs passably, and did some magic tricks—making the real look just fake enough that it wouldn't confuse the punters. George let me sleep in a box room upstairs and I made enough from the gigs and from the tricks on the corners to keep me, if not comfortable, at least alive.
Then, just last night, a punter found me and made me an offer I couldn't refuse.
Face said he was kosher—or at least, he wasn't darkside, which was good enough to get him some chat time with me. And now I was on a quest. A bloody quest for a magical relic—his word for it, not mine. But there was a promise of money at the end of it, and despite my grumbling to Face, I had to agree with her—I was actually pretty excited at the idea.
Not that I was going to tell her, of course—if I mentioned it she'd tease me for weeks to come. Besides, I didn't have a clue where to start—I was after something the punter had called the Halter. According to him, it was a strip of old burnished leather that might or might not appear to be hundreds of years old, might or might not be a leash—or collar—or belt—or even a bloody necktie for all I knew about it and, no mights about it, was definitely magical in nature. It was somewhere in the city, and he needed it—the world needed it, to stop the return of eternal chaos, cats and dogs sleeping together, mass hysteria—you know the kind of thing I mean.
Now all I had to do was find it.
— 2 —
I t had been Face's idea that we check out the club on Santa Monica Boulevard.
As soon as I entered the converted church that housed the Masonic Club I knew I had come to the right place. The floor, bare stone slabs, had been covered in a gaudy, almost cartoon-like array of primary colors. When I stepped back I got the full effect—a giant wolf’s head had been painted there, jaws slavering, head tilted back, howling at a moon only it could see.
At the far end of the church a narrow stage was set for a band and behind that a huge banner hung from the ceiling, another representation of the wolf, one that fluttered in a slight breeze giving it the semblance of life.
I left the crowd to it and went back stage, out an open door I found straight ahead of me and came out into open night air where a man was trying to persuade a black haired girl of the many virtues of sex-magic. He had her pinned against a long silver RUV out in the back car parking area, with a hand on either side against the bodywork to stop her squirming free and his face pressed up close to hers even as she tried to turn away. He was too big, too strong, too intent on having his way with her. My white-knight genes—or maybe it was just common decency—kicked in and I stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder. I let him hear the accent as it should be, unadorned by any L.A. influences.
"Maybe if you leave that lassie alone you'll get to walk away with all your teeth."
He turned and, in the same movement, pulled a quarter-staff out of his right hand grip. I'd seen that trick already—I was ready for it and had Face turned in my pocket so that I could draw my own weapon—she slid it through smoothly from the shadow so my action was like pulling a sword from a scabbard.
If I expected a reaction, the one I got wasn't anything I could have imagined. The man looked me up and down and smiled widely. When he spoke, he had my accent.
"Well, well—another Seton?" he said. "You're a long way from home—but I'm pleased to meet you, cousin."
The girl had already scuttled away somewhere into the darkness—I had to assume she was away and safe, because by then my opponent, taking advantage of my momentary confusion over him knowing my name, leapt forward to press his advantage. Only reflexes and youth saved me from getting my skull cracked. I got my staff up just in time and the two old woods cracked against each other with a retort as loud as gunshot.
" You're a fast one—this will be fun," the highlander said, and took a low guard as I replied with an attack of my own. Then there was no time, no thought, for anything but flow and rhythm, attack and defense as we stepped in the ritual around the clear spaces between the vehicles in the parking bay. We rang the rounds, beating them out like drum rolls—he was good—fast and strong and practiced—but I was younger—and faster still. It didn't take me more than a minute to know that I had the beating of him any time I wanted to. The problem was, he was so good that I'd have to hit him hard and fast to accomplish it—and that might mean putting him down to a place where I wouldn't be able to talk to him for a while. I'd come for information, not a fight.
So I played it out, leaving some openings for head shots untaken, defending when I should attack, and looking for a hit that might cripple him and put him out of the fight but leave him talkative.
Unfortunately for me, he was good enough to notice. He stepped back away from a hit that would have knocked him out had I put any strength into it, and smiled broadly again. I noticed when he spoke that his accent was now as equally broad as my own.
"Come on, laddie—don't hold back on me—you must be one of them soft Edinburgh Setons—all fur coat and nae knickers."
I put a wee bit extra into the next few moves just to show him I could, and he laughed again.
"Much as I'm enjoying the exercise, I've got a show to do and the wee lassie has done a runner, so no harm has been done, there's no honor for you to defend. Shall we call this one a draw and schedule a rematch for a later date?"
I lowered my guard a fraction and, as I'd expected he would, he made a move, a shot at the head that would have cracked me to the core. But my father had tried the same thing on me years ago, and I did the same now as I had then. I parried it easily enough, knocked his staff aside and banged him—hard but not too hard—on his left shoulder, enough to make the whole arm go dead for an hour or so and putting him out of the fight.
"Well done, lad," he said through gritted teeth as he slid his staff away into his right hand. It was only then that I saw he had a piece of burnished metal of his own. He didn't keep his in a pocket, but had it embedded into the palm of his hand, the flesh ridged and callused where it had grown around the edges to seal it in place. He saw me looking and smiled thinly.
"I kept bloody losing her when I'd had a few drinks—this was the only way to ensure she stayed where she was supposed to."
He put the hand out for me to shake.
"I'm Angus," he said, "from the Augustus side of the family. I'm guessing from the hair and freckles that you're from the Alexander branch—am I right?"
I nodded. I knew there was another scion of the family line—I'd heard the history often enough—but this was the first distant cousin that anybody from my side had met for a century or more. He must have seen the thought in my eyes.
"Aye—we've got some catching up to do—and some stories to tell I'll bet. I've got ten minutes yet. Come away inside—we'll have a wee drink and you can tell me what brought you to me."
I looked him in the eye, saw no more subterfuge there, only pain, and put my staff away where it had come from.
And with that he turned away—if I wanted what I had come for, I had no choice but to follow.
- 3 -
I t turned out that the silver RUV was his—and he was obviously doing better with his magic act than I was with mine. It was plush inside, well appointed with leather chairs, shiny TV set and music system, and had a drink cabinet full of good Scotch and imported beer. He went straight for the hard stuff and poured us two fingers each.
"Get that down ye," he said as he passed one to me.
He sat opposite me, tucking the sporran down so that he wouldn't expose his tackle, for which I was pretty thankful.
"So—how did you find me?" he said.
"I didn't know I was looking for you," I said, and sipped at his Scotch, "I was looking for some info."
"Info? About what?"
"I don't know really—he described it as a bit of old leather—maybe a halter—or a leash? Have you heard of the like?"
He'd heard of it all right—he went white at the very mention of it.
"You're in way above your head, lad. I don't know about any halter—leash—whatever it is. But there's a man—a collector if you like—who'd give you good money for what you've got in your pocket—enough for you to live the life of Riley out here, and like a king back home."
"She's not for sale," I said.
He laughed and showed me his gloved hand.
"Aye—that's what I said too. But he's insistent that one—and he's the man you'll need to talk to—he'll know about your halter if anybody does."
He paused to take a drink and in the quiet I heard it—a howl, high and far off—dog, coyote—maybe even wolf. But whatever it was it caused my countryman to go white again.
"Excuse me, cousin—I've got a costume change, and I’m late as it is."
The big RUV rocked and quaked on its suspension. The man's screams were now joined by something else—snuffling and growling. I smelled it, strong and musty even through the closed door—the unmistakable odor of wet dog.
I tugged at the rig's door—there was no give at all in it, locked as it was from the inside. The rocking and rolling got worse, the whole RUV creaking on its axles while the man inside screamed, louder than ever, the last wail of a man who knows he's done for.
Then it went quiet and I smelled something else—blood and shit—mainly blood. By the time I reached the driver's door the night had gone completely still. The rig stopped rocking, the last echo of the screams had stilled and even the smell started to dissipate in the slight breeze. I dragged myself up into the driver's cab and pulled open the sliding door that led to the main living area behind it.
What was left of the highlander lay sprawled on the floor, the center of a patch of seeping gore that washed the carpet, the seats and even some of the ceiling. His throat was torn, so viciously that his head hung at almost a right angle to his neck. His guts were on the outside, his kilt ripped to mere strips of bloody tartan as decoration. And his right hand was gone—by the state of the stump at his wrist I reckoned it had been chewed off.
There was, fortunately for me, no sign of his attacker, but that didn't make me feel much better—it had got in—and out—without using window or door—that meant it wasn't any kind of dog I wanted to meet any time soon.
I slid back out the way I came in, closed the door quietly, and walked away—not back into the venue, but through the parking bay and into the dark shadows of the cemetery that lay beyond, all my senses tingling, listening for a howl.
But there was only the gravestones, the silence, and another dead man to join those already here.
— 4 —
I went straight to the bar on my return and ordered a beer—the place was busy so all I got from George was a raised eyebrow that I waved away with a promise to tell him later. I took the beer upstairs to my room—I needed to talk to Face—and I had a feeling this was a conversation we needed to have alone.
Face had been with me for as long as I can remember. Where other kids had a night light, I had a talking mirror—and it was so naturally mine, so much part of me, that I'd never found it strange. She told me stories and sang me songs to get me to sleep as a kid, acted as personal Siri, internet, talking clock and encyclopedia all rolled in to one, and looked after the things I needed to keep hidden, both literal and metaphorical. In all that time—more than sixteen years now—she'd never played me false and I'd never had a reason to doubt her.
I put her down on the bedside table as I sipped on my beer.
"I'm sorry about your kinsman," she said almost as soon as I placed her down.
"Did you know he was a Seton before we got there?" I asked—might as well get to the point right away.
"No," she said. "I was as surprised as you."
"I doubt that. How much of what happened did you catch?"
"Not a lot—it's dark in that pocket you know—and muffled."
"Did you see his right hand at all?"
"No—what about it?"
"Nothing much—just another one of you—burnished metal, magic power—even a quarter-staff. That's not a coincidence."
She took her time answering.
"I didn't know," she whispered. "It's been so long, I thought she was lost to me."
"Who?"
"My sister," she replied. "What happened to her?"
As I've said, Face has been with me all my life, so I was inclined, beyond the point of reason, to give her the benefit of any doubt. I told her what went down outside and inside the RUV.
"The collector got her?" she said, and I heard a tremor in her voice I'd never heard before.
"So it seems. Whether it's got anything to do with this leash I’m after remains to be seen."
"It must," she replied. "You asked a question too many, your cousin opened his mouth too far—and paid the price—losing his link to the magic—and my sister, in the process. Of course it's all bloody linked."
"And you had no idea?"
"None," she replied.
And with that I put her away again while I finished my beer, but I had a sinking feeling in my heart. It was the first time she'd ever lied to me. I don't know how I knew it.
But I knew it just the same.
*
The crowd was thinning out in the bar as it approached midnight—George rarely threw anybody out, just let them come and go naturally. Some nights we'd sit up, the two of us, with the die-hards, playing three-card brag, watching sport on the TV or singing the old songs and telling stories. Tonight he had the TV on—but it wasn't sport that was showing.
RITUAL MURDER AT MASONIC VENUE was the scrolling headline.
"Anything you want to tell me?" George said.
I shook my head, but that didn't get me anywhere.
"I'm no' daft, lad," George replied. "I can add two and two and get four. This is trouble you don't need. If there's anything I can do—just ask. I've got pals in places you don't even know exist."
Not for the first time that night, I spoke first, letting instinct take control.
"Maybe there is something," I said. "What do you know about a guy they call a collector—maybe The Collector?"
George didn't exactly go pale, but he certainly stiffened, and any trace of a smile left his face.
"You don't want to go messing with that guy," he said.
"Probably not," I replied. "But I think I need to."
Then George did something unprecedented—he called time in the bar.
"Okay guys, that's it, drink up—we're closing early tonight."
There were no grumbles—all the regulars knew that arguing with George was a no-win scenario—and the bar emptied fast until there was only the two of us left. George locked up—then took down the Highland Park and two glasses.
That's when I knew it was serious.
*
I told him the story—or rather, I told him a story—about me wanting to sell a family heirloom. I spoke of a visit to a cousin I didn't know was a cousin, who knew a man who knew a man, who knew an over zealous collector willing to pay good money for it. I told him of a deal that had gone sour and of how I'd got out before the bloody part.
George didn't buy it—at least, not all of it—but he bought enough of it to keep pouring and keep listening.
"And now you want to find this collector?"
"Aye—I owe him, a cousin's worth."
"And this heirloom—it's that wee silver tray you sit and talk to, isn't it?"
I'd momentarily forgotten how sharp George was—I put the Scotch back on the table after only a small sip—a wrong word here and my whole story would unravel completely. So I merely nodded my head.
"The tray is what the collector wants?"
I nodded again.
"And you won't be warned off? I've told you—you don't want to be messing with him—he's a bad man, John—one of the worst in a city full of them."
I nodded again though, and he smiled thinly.
"Well—if it's the tray he wants—let him think he can have it. The best way to catch an animal is to use some bait that it likes."
— 5 —
I was still thinking about that the next morning as I made my way over to East Fifth St—the Jewelry district—sitting in a cab heading for Wilbanks and Grant, which George had reliably informed me was a front for the collector's more arcane habits.
