Chapter Four

“I didn’t know you were in the habit of going around and threatening kids,” Duncan spat, throwing Clay a sidelong glare as they moved at a brisk pace along the sidewalk. “I’m sure you feel like a total badass.”

Whyte Avenue traffic rushed past them.

Clay said nothing, his hands in his pockets. He was still fuming from what the girl in the coffee shop said during the tarot reading.

“Do you want to kill her because she’s probably a witch, or because of what she said?” Duncan probed to get to the heart of Clay’s irritability.

“Yes,” said Clay, refusing to clarify what he was answering.

It was both. Duncan knew that. That foolish girl and the nerve she touched. Now it was on Duncan to rein in this gigantic man-child before someone got hurt.

“You’re an idiot,” Duncan said evenly, not one to sugarcoat anything. “You don’t go making a scene in public and threatening people in broad daylight, witch or not.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Clay replied in a low voice. Duncan knew that tell. The brash hunter was furious. “If the kid’s a witch, that needs to be nipped in the bud.”

Duncan sighed, shaking his head. “You’re too emotional to know how foolish you’re sounding. Not all witches are bad people. There are some who even help us. You bulldozed in and bullied her, but she could have been our ally.”

Clay picked up the pace and tried to get ahead of Duncan, but he would not have it today and kept pace with him. Fourteen years of this guy’s volatile outbursts and tantrums, but he was not getting his way today.

They walked past a man on a soapbox with a megaphone, spouting hateful rhetoric on behalf of Christianity. He spouted on about the wages of sin and the salvation of God if they let Jesus into their hearts, all the while belting out the evils of homosexuality in between his regurgitation of the gospel. As they passed by, Duncan could only feel relief that Clay didn’t take the megaphone away and bludgeon him with it, or shove him off the soapbox. The last thing he needed to tell Jake was that his nephew got arrested. Again.

As soon as they were out of earshot of others, Clay spoke up. “Good witches, Duncan, are like wild animals as pets. Sure, they seem like a great idea. They may seem cute and cuddly, but they are wild and will eventually bite. How many witches gone bad have we put down? I don’t trust any of them.”

“You sound just as prejudiced as the man behind us.”

Clay turned and shoved Duncan back with both hands, ready to fight.

“Calm down,” Duncan barked, warning him, cold fury in his eyes.

Clay came to his senses and backed down, lowering the fist he’d raised. A fight here would be bad for both, especially with bystanders around.

Duncan sighed and put his hand on Clay’s shoulder, offering some warmth and affection as he extended the olive branch. “We’ll agree to disagree, but the girl is off-limits until we know more about her, okay?”

He shrugged Duncan’s hand off.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Clay growled, his chest puffed out and his eyes glimmering with rage.

Duncan’s frustration for his dense and hot-headed companion rose. “I don’t, but we both answer to Jake and I will get him down here if you don’t toe the fucking line.”

Clay clenched his jaw and backed down, deflated.

They walked in silence. This was for the best and the quiet suited Duncan, anyway. His foster brother and hunting companion would soon move on to something else that either excited him or pissed him off. Duncan never held Clay’s ire for long, and he often needed a firm hand to nudge him in the right direction. As talented as Clay might be, he was quick-tempered and prone to error. Dangerous if not reined in. Throughout the years, Duncan kept a close eye on him for those reasons.

Clay broke the silence as they approached a white sedan that blended in almost a little too well with the other cars. “Where are we going?”

It was a lovely five minutes while it lasted, Duncan supposed.

“There’s a fae named Kirk meeting us by the river at sundown. He used to help Jake. We’re getting some food in you first, though.”

It wasn’t the idea of being told he needed food that made Clay scowl; it was going to meet a fae. “Why?”

Duncan didn’t blame him for that reaction. Capricious ancient beings, the fae. As cunning as they were powerful, and dangerous, too. To make an enemy of one was dire, but to befriend one was worth the risk.

“Did you remember to eat today?”

Clay’s stubborn silence told him all he needed to know.

“Exactly. You’re hangry. I don’t want you fucking this up and offending him either,” said Duncan, gesturing for him to get into the car.

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He stood in the circle of mushrooms.

Kirk was a tall and willowy, olive-skinned man with dark hair who waited at a quiet spot on a paved trail along the banks of the North Saskatchewan River. The towers of downtown Edmonton loomed on the other side of the river valley, bathed in the orange glow of dusk. He turned to face Clay and Duncan as they approached, flashing a warm smile and revealing pointed canines.

“Well, you must be Jake’s boys,” he crooned and then did a double take on Clay, his eyes widening. “Lad, I must know. What’s your name?”

Clay hesitated, while Duncan mentally cursed at him for not brushing up on his fae etiquette before the meeting. If he offended Kirk, not only would Jake be down a contact, but he’d probably be down a nephew, too. He just hoped Clay wasn’t stupid enough to walk into this meeting carrying cold iron.

“I am myself, but you may call me Clay,” he said with a smile, his chest flexing as he righted his posture and introduced himself.

Kirk let out an amused laugh. “Oh, I like you, Tuatha’s child.”

Neither knew what he meant by that.

“Heh,” Clay chuckled, a slight nervousness edging his voice. “Uh, thank–”

Duncan glared at Clay hard and stopped him from uttering the words.

“You are most kind,” Clay said, correcting himself, grinning to hide his unease as he itched his beard.

Duncan’s shoulders sagged with relief, and he approached Kirk with a box of honey-glazed donuts from a local bakery.

“Call me Kirk, both of you,” Kirk said, issuing a sly smile to Duncan as he received the gift. “I appreciate your gift, er–”

The fae trailed off, blinking at Duncan expectantly.

“My apologies, Kirk, I meant to introduce myself sooner,” Duncan began, his throat dry when he realized he nearly offended the fae while babysitting that big red idiot this whole time. “I am myself, but you may call me Duncan.”

Kirk nodded, satisfied with this. “It is a pleasure to meet a pair of strapping lads with such strong Celtic bloodlines, too. How might I be of help today?”

The fae looked Clay’s way and held lasting eye contact. Kirk’s attention being solely on Clay made Duncan stiffen as his heart raced, not confident in whom their safety hinged on while unarmed in the presence of this powerful being.

“Uncle Jake wants us to set up in Edmonton for a while and work some cases,” Clay said as he stepped forward.

“What cases are you working on?” Kirk asked, his mouth already full of half a donut as he chewed loudly. “Mmm, honey glazed!”

“Cases where we find the monsters killing people and then take them out,” Clay answered, looking over at Duncan and flashing a smug grin as he relished in this shift of power dynamics.

Duncan scowled at him, horrified that he took pleasure in this and underestimated who they were speaking with. He could not break in and save the conversation. He’d be the one to offend the fae if he tried.

“Okay.” Kirk swallowed the rest of his donut. “But what would you rather be doing?”

“Right now I’ve got a bad feeling about a new witch, so I’m gonna take her out before she hurts somebody,” Clay admitted, though surprised he did.

“Is that all you want?”

As if compelled to spill forth each unfiltered thought when spoken to, he continued. "I want to kill a qliphoth.”

It didn’t take long for Duncan to realize that Clay had little choice in how much information he volunteered.

“Oh?” Kirk cocked an eyebrow, taking another donut and nibbling on it. “How lofty. You assume I’d know anything about that?”

“I hoped you might,” Clay blurted, his confident demeanour washing away as he too realized he wasn’t in control anymore.

Kirk studied him, curiosity in his dark eyes. “Tell me, lad, why do you fight against all things supernatural with such vitriol?”

“Seb killed my brother,” Clay said, holding a thousand-yard stare as he relived those moments. Duncan knew this wasn’t something Clay was keen to admit openly. “Took my body. I was his vessel for two years.”

“Ah, revenge then,” Kirk said, swallowing the last of his donut. “I know Seb. A ferocious general among the qliphoth. I am impressed to see you standing here. He probably made you do unspeakable things that left their mark on you. No wonder you hate all of us.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air between everyone. How haughty Clay was until Kirk flexed his power and showed both hunters they were but children trying to take their seats among the grown-ups. Fury sparked in Clay’s eyes. His chest heaved with his mounting rage, though he made no move against Kirk. Not yet, anyway. Duncan tensed, waiting for when he’d need to intervene. He was at a loss for what to do.

“Your bloodlust is terrifying. You wanna kill me?”

“Yes,” Clay said, his gaze locked with Kirk as they stood face to face–Kirk looking up at the taller and broader man.

“Anger is a common thing when a person loses their illusion of control,” Kirk explained with a warm smile. "I'm not offended, but I doubt you could kill me. Many have tried. I guess you’ll have more anger to work out wherever your fury next lands. Last question. Why do you enjoy killing my supernatural brethren so much?”

Duncan watched Clay and saw the vein in his forehead, growing more concerned at what Kirk had threatened to draw out. The door, once opened, would not easily close.

“For those I was too weak to save,” Clay said through his clenched teeth, a single tear running down his cheek as he tried in vain to hold the words inside. “That your kind stepped on like ants.”

Clay refused to acknowledge the sympathetic look Duncan gave him when he caught it in his periphery.

Kirk gave a slight nod of understanding. “For a slight moment, you feel power and control while nothing but a mortal man. Ever the hound, no matter what drives you, Tuatha’s child.”

Clay swallowed hard, still holding the aura of a man revisited by his demons.

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“Clay–” Duncan tried to speak, to snap him out of it, but could not form the words when Kirk raised his index finger to his lips. It was as though Duncan choked on a mouthful of sand.

“It’s not your turn to speak,” Kirk reprimanded, taking out another donut and biting into it as he encircled Clay, releasing the truth spell he had on him.

“This meeting was fate,” he continued. “I see that now.”

“Fuck your fate,” Clay cut in, watching Kirk with a glint in his eye that meant the fae would be dead right now if he had iron on him. “I will kill every damn one of you until I take my last breath.”

“How gallant. I don’t disagree,” Kirk mused, stopping in front of Clay after assessing his physique and stature, indifferent to the murderous intent directed toward him. “Though you’ll keep flailing helplessly until you know who you really are.”

Clay shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“Funny enough,” Kirk said, eating the last bit of the donut in his hand, and then licking his fingers, “you will sooner than you think. It’s decided. I will guide you down the path to kill a qliphoth. You have my word.”

Duncan’s eyes went wide. For a fae to offer such a promise when every word mattered. This was binding. It was ironclad.

Clay’s aggressive posture eased, if only by a little. “How will you do that, Fae?”

Kirk snapped his fingers and Clay’s clothes disintegrated off of his powerful frame, leaving him standing naked before him. It was nothing Duncan hadn’t seen before, as neither was bashful and lived in close quarters with the other. Even so, his jaw dropped at the sheer audacity of what Kirk had done.

Clay’s line of sight slid down to assess his own nudity and then he raised it back to Kirk, who he saw blushing at the sight of him. He towered there, muscular and covered in red fuzz from head to toe, wearing only an irritated and bewildered expression. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Hurt me, Daddy,” Kirk said with a playful grin, looking him up and down once more.

He snapped his fingers again as Clay’s favourite hunting attire enveloped him. His tan, firm duck overalls and a white classic t-shirt hugged his frame, lending the look of a strapping, yet deadly, farmhand. He even had a new pair of hiking boots on his feet. Clay’s hands traced along his pockets and he withdrew a phone he was sure had disintegrated along with his old outfit. With a shrug, he placed it back inside his pocket.

“Consider the new threads a debt repaid for your honesty. See your witch and we'll take it from there.”

With a wave of his hand, Clay vanished.

Duncan cried out in surprise, his voice returning to him. “Why would you do that?”

There was a hoarseness in his words, his mouth still dry from the momentary silencing Kirk inflicted.

“Oh, that,” Kirk chuckled. “Fae humour, I suppose. Did you like what you saw?”

Duncan spluttered. “W-what? No! I’m talking about the witch you just sent him after!”

Kirk shrugged. “The little girl in denial who talks to ghosts and plays with her crystals? Not an evil bone in her body. I know.”

“He can’t think clearly when he’s like this! You don’t understand–”

“Oh, silly boy. I understand plenty. They can learn a lot from each other. Trust your boyfriend, yeah?”

“He’s not my–”

Before he could protest further, Kirk was already gone, and he stood alone on the trail as the last of the sun had dipped below the horizon.

“Fuck!” Duncan reached into his phone and pulled it from his pocket, dialling. It rang once.

“Jake, we have a problem.”

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14 years ago

“Can the qliphoth die?”

Duncan Black, a scrawny young man of eighteen years and a head full of jet-black hair, followed his mentor. It was a question he had been pondering silently for a while, but finally voiced it. This was their most perilous hunt yet. They had no choice. They would finally come face to face with one in mere moments.

The mission was personal for Jake, the large middle-aged hunter dressed like someone from an old cowboy movie, his thick jean jacket protecting him from the late fall chill. He was rugged, his face weathered and scarred from battles past, and his bushy beard a mane of fire.

When Jake learned his estranged brother and nephew were murdered by a qliphoth on the night of Walpurgis, and that it possessed his surviving nephew’s body, they’d been on his trail ever since.

Duncan would follow this man anywhere.

“No,” Jake said. “None have heard of a way. They go back to their world for a bit before crawling back.”

Two years had gone by since their search began.

“What about the Starchild?” Duncan asked.

“That old fairytale? Something for people like us to believe in, I suppose,” said Jake as they pressed on.

“The destruction of the qliphoth shall be wrought by the hand of the Starchild,” Duncan repeated from the old tome he read, though the page was torn and missing the rest.

“Yeah, so the book says, but there’s a missing piece to it. Hogwash, Duncan. Best to let that go. Focus on the fight ahead.”

He nodded and dropped it, knowing Jake was right. This was no time for whimsy.

Duncan knew the only reason they closed in on it was because it wanted them to. He hoped Jake knew this, too.

The trail through the Northern Alberta pine forest led out into a remote farmyard as they broke through the tree line. Predawn, an ominous ambience. The yard was so silent one might hear a pin drop, and the metallic scent of blood filled the air. Duncan knew they were too late for whoever lived here.

Covered in blood, he emerged from the dilapidated yellow farmhouse of his latest victims, where he had slaughtered the inhabitants. To Duncan, he looked like any normal teenager, but he knew it was who they were searching for. Tall, red hair, and powerfully built–no older than sixteen. Duncan could definitely see the familial resemblance between this kid and Jake. Clayton, the missing nephew, no–the Qliphoth who hijacked his body–stood in proud defiance, studying them. The green and shimmering cat eyes unsettled him.

“Ah, Jacob,” the teenage boy said, like someone greeting an old friend. “I remember you from when I took your little brother for a ride.”

He sauntered down the steps, stopping at the bottom with his hands in his pockets. “Your daddy kicked you out and disowned you for being a homo, right? I figured since the kid here never knew you existed. But look at you now. Self-made man. A badass hunter.”

He watched how Jake remained stoic, marvelling at him for keeping his cool. The Qliphoth seemed less impressed.

“Here for your nephew?” The Qliphoth asked. Jake gave a curt nod. “Well, that’s too bad then. I’m not about to give him up. So what now?”

Jake looked back at Duncan. “Remember the incantation and set up the array. I’ll handle the rest.”

Duncan nodded, and Jake charged forth.

Jake and the Qliphoth collided like two forces of nature. A flurry of fists resounded across the frost-covered yard with each sickening impact. They met one another with equal ferocity and showed no sign of yielding to the other. Yet, Duncan couldn’t help but notice how sluggish the Qliphoth moved, almost as if there was a delay in its movements that gave Jake an edge by a narrow margin. As he studied the fight, he wondered if the Qliphoth was losing grip on the host's body. Was Clayton resisting his possession?

“Duncan!” Jake called out, not looking back. “Hurry!”

He gave a resolute nod, realizing that the seconds wasted spectating meant the difference between them living or dying. Jake depended on him to do this. He hurried in reciting the ancient tongues as he got to work painting the symbols on the gravel of the well-travelled driveway with a can of red graffiti.

He lifted his gaze and saw his master bleeding as the Qliphoth laughed, though battered and bloodied as well. They scrapped like ferocious beasts in a fatal duel.

Fear clawed at his insides as his blood ran cold. The Qliphoth regained his speed, having suppressed Clayton once more. To falter would be to throw their lives away. Hesitation was not an option with the array nearly complete. Duncan kept painting until he finished, not breaking his chant.

Done.

A bright crimson light erupted, blinding all as it engulfed the yard and the Qliphoth shielded his eyes. When he tried to make Clayton’s body turn and flee, it would not move.

“Damn you, kid! Stop resisting me!” The Qliphoth bellowed in Clayton’s voice, straining to move a muscle, any muscle.

“F-fuck you!” Clayton said, regaining enough control to speak, not yielding and clawing back control of his body. “I can’t hold him! Hurry!”

Jake unleashed a feral cry his Celtic ancestors would be proud of and tackled his nephew down onto the symbol. Clayton’s voice cried out, mixed with the preternatural roar of something neither man nor beast. Jake stood up, joining the incantation as he backed out of the array. How this boy’s body contorted and thrashed was unnerving.

The light shone brighter, burning both Qliphoth and host.

Duncan didn’t believe Clayton would survive this. He watched on, thinking it better to die than remain under the Qliphoth’s control. In one final cry, Clayton fell limp as his eyes reverted to a human appearance, light brown, and he panted, his chest heaving as he smelled of singed hair. The array vanished with the light, leaving scorch marks on the gravel where the paint was. Clayton said nothing and did not move.

Jake rushed to his side and knelt down. “Boy! Boy! Stay with us!”

Duncan watched in awe.

He still drew breath.

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It had been a week since they’d saved Clayton from the Qliphoth, yet the boy was in rough shape all week. They brought him back to their home base, an old farmhouse on an acreage in the remote Saskatchewan prairie, far from any semblance of civilization, as the nearest town was a one-hour drive.

They covered every mirror in the home.

Stoic and contemplative, Duncan sipped his Earl Grey at the kitchen table and read several local newspapers from the surrounding area to ferret out anything suspicious. Nothing so far.

The stairs creaked and Jake made his way down, rounding the corner from the living room and coming to sit across from Duncan. He snatched a paper and let out a low grunt as he adjusted his seating to get more comfortable.

Those old man noises made Duncan look up from over the paper. “How’s Clayton?”

Jake nodded once. The fight last week had been hard on his body and the swelling had finally subsided, though the black eye and cuts on his face were still healing. “By some miracle, he’s fully healed. That’s what’s puzzling me.”

“Did I hear right?” Duncan asked, folding the newspaper down. His curiosity piqued.

“The ritual damn near killed him, never mind the wear and tear on his body. Two solid years and nobody I know lived over six months with one of those bastards taking them for a joyride. They feed on the soul until there’s nothing left. By all rights, he should have died. I was expecting him to. He shouldn’t be this healthy. It’s just unheard of. The way he was able to fight against the possession, too.”

Duncan pondered this, taking a moment to sip his tea and use the silence to gather his thoughts.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Qliphoth aren’t in the habit of leaving survivors behind or losing control of a host. What makes him so unusual?”

Jake set his jaw, thinking about it, stroking his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Not one to beat around the bush, are ya? I’ve never seen wounds heal like that, but I’ve tested him with cold iron, salt, rowan, and silver. No reaction to any of it. Human, as far as I can tell.”

“Hm,” Duncan began, tapping his fingers on the ceramic cup. A momentary silence lingered between them, both thinking about this unusual boy who slept in their home. “Salt test rules out ghosts and qliphoth, cold iron too. We definitely drove it out.”

“Cold iron also works against fae and witches,” Jake added.

“You used rowan on him. He’s not covered in hives,” said Duncan, “so we can definitely cross witch and fae off the list.”

“Silver didn’t bother him, so he’s not a therion.”

Duncan nodded. “Nasty fuckers.”

They had already taken him to consecrated grounds before coming home, which ruled out him being a vampire since he could enter the grounds. A sacred space seemed to deter several kinds of monsters, no matter the faith.

He took another sip of his tea. “Is your nephew a demigod?”

A hearty laugh erupted from Jake. “Oh, Duncan! That’s a good one! They’re a myth! Besides, even if that were possible, he’s a spitting image of his dad. It’s like looking at Blake when we were that age. His parents are both human. Ha! Demigod.”

“Who walks away from a qliphoth possession fully intact, though? Is he a revenant, perhaps? Let’s try burning him.”

“Duncan, empathy, we’ve talked about this,” Jake sighed in reprimand and then pursed his lips. “He’s just as confused as we are. I explained to him why I was testing him, and he took the lighter and burned himself with it. Nothing except a minor burn that healed in minutes.”

“Scrappy kid, though. Feisty, like his old man. Told me he never remembers getting sick or being hurt for long. I think he thinks that’s normal.” Jake laughed and shook his head. “I’ve got no fucking idea what’s going on. I just know he’s definitely not a monster.”

“Curious,” said Duncan, setting the teacup down on the kitchen table. “If he’s as special as you say, he might help us, then. We should train him and learn his limits. I’m curious about what he can do. He could be useful to us. The guild needs to know about him, too.”

A low rumble of disapproval sat in Jake’s throat. “No, Duncan. We’re not telling the guild anything. If we tell the guild, they will take him away and nobody will ever see him again.”

That he hadn’t considered. The guild was a massive network of hunters like himself and Jake, with chapters scattered throughout Canada. Their headquarters were in Ottawa, and even rumoured to have pull with the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, or RCMP for short. It contained the paranormal incidents to keep the public from panicking. If Clayton’s mysterious condition was a paranormal threat, he would vanish.

“Alright, though he’d still be doing the Qliphoth’s bidding if it weren’t for us tracking him down and exorcising him. The least he could do is join our cause.”

“No, Duncan. He’s a person, not a tool or a weapon. And he’s suffered loss just like us,” Jake said in a low voice that broke, his eyes misting. “He’s lost his dad, and his brother, and his mom had no choice but to give him up for dead. After what he’s seen and been through, I’m not even sure he could go back to his mom either. Sure, we could use his help, but it’s his choice to make.”

Jake took another moment to reflect. “His mind is another matter. He’s not okay. The nightmares, the crying in his sleep. I tried to wake him and he lashed out something awful. It may not be safe to let him join us for now. He’s too unstable.”

Duncan listened intently, mulling those words over, and nodded. “You’re right.”

“He needs family, Duncan. I might be all he has now. Maybe he needs someone like you to help him through this, too. I don’t know. Someone closer to his age than me.” Jake wiped his eyes, the silent tears the only sign he cried at all.

“I’ll do anything you ask, Jake. It’s the least I can do for you.”

Jake got up from the table and circled around to Duncan, lifting him out of the chair and pulling him into a hug. Duncan hesitated a moment and then returned the embrace, uncomfortable yet receptive to this man’s affection.

“Maybe I’m a sentimental fool, and maybe I’m just missing your dad today, but thank you for humouring this old man, Duncan. I tried to raise you the way he would have wanted. Don’t know how he’d feel about you hunting, though, as damn good at it as you are. But you’re a loyal son and I’m proud of you.”

Jake and his father were lovers. Partners. Today was the five-year anniversary of Gordon Black’s death.

How he envied the sentimental. Not that he didn’t feel love or loss, just that he wasn’t a bleeding heart like the old man holding him. The man who raised him as his own son.

Duncan leaned against him, so vastly outsized, and squeezed. “I’ll be whatever Clay needs me to be. I promise.”

He meant it.