The Witch and the Werewolf Read Online Free Page A

point it looked like a second Moon.
While Dutch was not opposed to running folk over in the pursuit of
the greater good, he figured chasing an imaginary werewolf for a
crazy old preacher probably didn’t qualify as the greater good. He
put the car in park and checked his gear one last time.
    The shotgun was an off the
shelf Mossberg from Academy. The Persuader 500A was sleek and black
and, more importantly to Dutch, simple to work on. The shotgun
wasn’t nearly as important as the ammunition it fired, a gift from
the priest, and the silver filled buckshot rounds were worth more
than the car he’d stolen. A bandolier of the pricey shotgun shells
was draped over his shoulder, left to right, and ended in a leather
sheath concealing the silver infused steel kurki at his hip. There
were half a dozen silver throwing blades stuffed in various hidden
locations in the black leather overcoat he wore, as well as two
foot-long Kabar combat knives sheathed in each of the high black
combat boots. Dutch bit down a laugh when the priest insisted on
all the silver gear and said nothing. It would still kill, he was
sure. He just wasn’t sure he’d be killing or capturing any
werewolves that night. Looking at the guy in the limo, drinking
from the bottle and hooting with the rest of the heathens in the
street, Dutch was sure he wasn’t going to have to use any of the
stuff in the first place.
    This is stupid, he
thought. What the hell am I doing? He felt like he ought to be
hanging out with the rest of the partiers, waiting for the end. The
priest’s offer, and the job, symbolized a dangerous little bit of
hope.
    Hell, he thought. It’s the
end of the world, maybe I can survive the night if I pull this
off.
    The priest had been
explicit in his instructions. No werewolf, no night in the shelter.
He had to get the guy if he wanted access. That werewolves didn’t
exist and he’d be kidnapping an innocent man for no good reason
didn’t mean much to him. At least he’d survive the
night.
    He felt the padded case
inside his left inside pocket once more, content that the vials of
potions the good Father had given him were still there. That a
presumably Catholic priest was dabbling in magic made him laugh.
That he’d gone along with it, in the name of actually having a gig
the last night of the world, made him laugh even more. He removed
one and kept it safely in his fist. Nope, no such thing as
werewolves, but he kept the vial in his hand
nevertheless.
    The sounds and smells were
even louder outside the enclosed confines of the luxury car. The
odor of pot was thick in the air, mixing with the stink of sweat
and the gallons of vomit that were appearing as folks gorged
themselves on wine, women, and song. For a moment he wanted to fade
into the crowd and lose himself in the moment. The crowd surged
around him and he knew it wouldn’t be hard to do.
    “ Hey bud,” a young man he
was sure was just barely out of high school began drunkenly,
holding out a bong. “How about a hit?”
    “ No,” Dutch said, trying
to push past the boy. He was insistent, though.
    “ Come on man, it’s the end
of the world,” the boy told him. “And I want to get fucking high.
You look like you could use a hit. You look like you need to get
high.”
    “ Please get out of my
way.” That the boy was staring him down was also funny. Dutch came
in at just over six feet tall and weighed a solid one ninety. He
was big and, in most cases, intimidating. The kid wasn’t
intimidated, though. He was stoned out of his gourd.
    “ Come on, bro. Just a
couple of hits. We’ll get high, we’ll laugh, we’ll cry…”
    “ Not tonight.”
    “ Fucking asshole. What the
hell else do you have to do?”
    Dutch didn’t have time to
mess with the boy anymore. He brought the pistol grip of the
shotgun up underneath his chin, cracking bone and teeth. The boy
stumbled backwards, gripping his bloody face.
    “ You fucking asshole,” he
screamed. But instead of retaliating he