GHOST GAL: The Wild Hunt (8 page)

Max made his way casually down the three steps to the floor, peanut shells crunching beneath his heels. The way he moved, it was like he didn’t have a care in the world. As he approached the bar, a young dandy wearing clothes that cost more than some of the bar’s patrons earned in a year whistled an old Irish folk tune from the homeland.

“I’ll have an Irish Whiskey. Neat, and a chaser of Murphy’s Stout.” he told the bartender, an older gent whose name tag announced that his name was Bob and that it was his pleasure to serve you. The Slaugh tossed a wad of Max’s cash on the bar. “Make sure it’s the good stuff,” he added with as much menace as his host’s voice allowed, which, he was the first to admit, wasn’t much.

Apparently, it was enough in this case. With unsteady hand, the bartender nodded and pulled a nearly full bottle from beneath the bar. He smiled when the bartender began to pour and he tossed back the sweet elixir as soon as the man finished. The alcohol burned all the way down. It was a wonderful sensation. He immediately followed the whiskey by quaffing down the entire pint of cool draught ale. He slammed the empty glass back down on the polished oak with a satisfying THUNK! “Another.”

“Hey,” one of the mutts standing nearby said, finally finding his nerve. “Hey! You! This is our place, ya wanker. What are ya doin’ here?” He laughed, turned back to his smiling friends to show his manliness. They egged him on.

It was all the Slaugh could do not to laugh at the foolish gowl who believed himself a man worthy of speaking with such impunity to one of his betters.

“I said what’cha doing in here, eh, rich boy?” the idiot said again, louder this time.

As before, Max ignored him and ordered another drink.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” He clapped a hand on Max’s shoulder.

Whatever reaction the idiot had been expecting, he got the opposite. Moving faster than the mutt’s eye could follow, Max spun around on the barstool, grabbed the man’s arm in his grip, and broke it in two as easily as if snapping a twig. The crack of breaking bone echoed through the still quiet bar.

Seconds later, the only sound he heard was the mutt’s screams as he cradled the now worthless arm dangling at his side.

Ignoring the man’s pained cries, Max turned back to the bar. “One more,” he told the bartender as if nothing had happened.

The bartender’s complexion had been pale to begin with, but he was now three shades whiter since Max sat down at the bar. A tiny quiver ran through him as he lifted the bottle.

“Why don’t you just leave the bottle and I’ll pour my own,” Max said politely.

Unable to find his voice, the bartender nodded and took two steps backward, never taking his eyes off the man sitting at the bar.

“That’s far enough, Bob” Max said as he examined the bottle.

The bartender stopped as though frozen in place.

“It is Bob, right?” he said, wagging a finger toward the nametag without actually looking at the scared bartender.

Bob nodded vigorously until he realized that the man at the bar wasn’t looking in his direction. He added a simple, “uh huh.”

Max shook his head. “You don’t shake something as perfect as this, Bob,” he told the bartender. “Not the good stuff. This…” he admired the bottle. The glass was old, pitted. It had seen some history. “You treat something as special as this like a lady. Understand?”

The bartender nodded in mute terror.

“Stick around, Bob.”

“Uh huh.”

Max turned back toward the silent crowd. “Oh, I forgot you were here,” he said when he saw the idiot still crumpled on the floor holding his wounded arm. With a smile, he turned his attention away from the whimpering man and focused on his friends. There were only four of them.

“Everyone out,” Max said.

Although he didn’t raise his voice or shout, the patrons packed in to the various corners and booths picked up their belongs, dropped cash onto the tables as they vacated them, and moved toward the exit as quickly as possible. None of them wanted to draw attention to themselves.

“Not you,” Max said to the friends of the wounded mutt before they could move.

Nervous, they stood their ground. The Slaugh appreciated their courage, but could also smell their sweat and taste their fear from across the room.

The moment the last person went out the door, Max stood. As if on command, the door slammed shut as if pushed by some unseen wind. In the silence of the pub, the sound of the deadbolt clacking into place was deafening.

“What do you want, mister?” one of the mutt’s friends asked, trying hard not to stammer over himself.

“Yeah,” another said. “Look, we was just having some fun, mate. There’s no need to escalate things, if you know what I’m saying. We didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Escalating?” Max echoed as a smile creased his face. “Oh, we’ve not yet begun to escalate, my friend.”

“Please, mister,” the stammerer said, taking a step back.

“Look, let’s just call it even,” another said. “We’ll leave and you’ll never see us again. What do you say?”

“Sit.”

The four men did as they were told.

“Do you know who I am?”

“N—nu—no.”

“I didn’t think so.” Max sat down at the same table as the four ruffians, Keiran, Reilly (the stammerer), William, and Hugh, their last names were not important. Before this night was done, even their first
names would hold little meaning. His smile was gone, replaced by an emotionless blank slate.

Although each of them dwarfed him in height, width, and muscle, everyone inside the pub understood exactly who held the power. There was no question as to who was in charge.

“I am… My name is Max. At least for now. I’m looking to hire four strapping young lads who still have Irish blood flowing through their veins. Tell me, boys, are you true sons of Ireland?”

There were nods from all around the table.

“Excellent. I admit that you four were not my first choice, but you are the best candidates I’ve run across since I arrived in this blasted city of steel and stone.”

“Uh…ch—ch—choice for what?” the stammerer asked.

“Tell me, gentlemen, have you ever heard of The Wild Hunt?”

“The Wild Hunt? That… that’s folklore, man.”

Max smiled. “Is it? Fascinating. I take it then that you are all familiar with the stories?”

Nods from all.

“Good. Then you also must know that the Wild Hunt was made up of Slaugh, the specters of dead Irish sinners.” Max chuckled. “Sinners like me.”

“What do you know of Ireland, man?” one of the ruffians asked, although he did not raise his voice. “You’re American.”

Max touched his new face, his distinctly American face. “Only on the outside, my friend.” When he saw only a mask of confusion on the faces of his new friends, Max elaborated. “The Wild Hunt was made up of displaced souls who found new life in the body of those sinners they displaced. Like I did with the man whose form I now wear.”

The Slaugh waited for understanding to set in.

He was not prepared for what happened next.

The men burst out in peals of laughter.

“Oh, man,” one of them said around gasps for air. “You had us going for a moment there, mate. Ghosts, goblins, and spooks are boogey men for little kids. Do we look like children to you, mister?”

“Actually, yes,” Max said, his tone flat and even.

“Well, you can take your ghost stories and shove them, mate. We aren’t interested.”

“Your loss,” Max said. “The process is much less painful if you don’t fight it.”

“Pro…Process?” the stammerer asked. “What are you––?”

“Oh, did I not mention what was about to happen here?” he shrugged. “Forgive me. I’m still new to speaking English. You Americans talk so strange. You four have been chosen for a great honor.”

“We—we have?”

“Indeed,” the Slaugh said, the smile back in place. “You four are going to be my new Wild Hunt.”

“But you said the Wild Hunt was made up of dead Irish sinners.” another of the men said as realization started to dawn. His face blanched white. “We’re not dead.”

“Details,” Max said, his smile widened so much it looked as though his face was going to split open.

Suddenly, the temperature in the bar dropped. An unearthly howl split the air, seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. A fierce wind accompanied the wild screeching sound, echoing off the walls and bar as the souls of the Slaugh’s dispatched comrades joined him at last.

It had taken some doing to recall their essence from the ether where they had been sent so many long years ago, but now they were once more tied to the mortal plane. All they needed were new hosts to tether them fully.

That’s where the bar’s patrons came in. The ruffians were youthful, their bodies in prime shape with decades left ahead of them. They were ideal candidates for hosts. Plus, after spending even as short a time with them as he had, the Slaugh suspected that there would be no one to miss them and even fewer who would be surprised when they disappeared from the routine of their fleeting mortal lives.

Now and forever more, they belonged to the Slaugh.

They screamed, tried to escape. Two ran toward the door, which refused to open no matter how much they pulled against it. The remaining two thought to fight back. Neither action would work in their favor. All fighting back would accomplish was to provide sport for the specters of his brothers and that made taking over their forms all the more enjoyable. It was always more palatable to seize prey that fought back to those that surrendered without a fight.

It was over in minutes.

As silence settled once more over the bar, Max Conrad smiled as
his newly rebirthed brothers stood before him wearing their new bodies.

“Welcome back, brothers,” the Slaugh said with pride. “As of tonight, The Wild Hunt rides again and this world… this world shall burn beneath our feet.”

Howls of laughter filled the night as the hunt began anew.

A
lexandra Holzer shivered against the cold as she climbed the front steps of her family’s home. The Holzer family lived in a large rambling two-story house that sat in the center of a normally well-manicured lawn overlooking the Hudson River. The white painted exterior stood like a beacon in contrast to the green of the ivy that covered the side walls and the vibrant colors of nature that surrounded it most of the time. With winter kicking into high gear, the leaves were gone and only the gnarly naked tree limbs swayed in the icy breeze blowing in off the river. At night, the combination of trees, wind, and a bright moon overhead mixed with the evening fog in a manner that created a most spectacular spooky atmosphere.

There was a tree near the house that Alexandra particularly loved. It jutted close to the house near her bedroom window. She would never tell her parents, but she had used that tree’s thick, sturdy limbs to sneak out of the house on a few different occasions. Oh, it was nothing sordid. On those nights when she couldn’t sleep, young Alex would slip out her window, shimmy across the branch and down the trunk to the waiting ground. She loved walking the lawns at night. It was quiet. The only noise being the soothing sounds of the river and the occasional night owl. It was also peaceful. She had learned how to navigate the yard by nothing more than pale moonlight. She was so happy that the tree still stood to this day.

Sitting along the bank of the river at two in the morning was so relaxing.

She decided that the next time she and Joshua had a free weekend, they would come out and watch the flowing waters into the wee hours of the morning. She was sure he would enjoy that, but decided that maybe they would wait until it was a bit warmer before planning that trip.

Considering the family business, Alexandra enjoyed this time of the year the most around Holzer House, as some of the children living in the vicinity called it. She rather enjoyed that too. It gave the place an added bit of character.

The snow that had threatened to fall all week still hadn’t reared its
ugly head so she jogged up the six steps to the porch without fear of them being slippery. She had spent a lot of time playing on that large front porch. It was one of her favorite parts of the old house, second only to the balcony above that sat just off from her father’s study.

Although she no longer lived there, Alexandra still had a key and let herself in. She hung her coat, scarf, and hat on the coat rack in the foyer then tucked her mittens in the coat pocket. She carried the duffle bag she brought inside with her. It was warm inside the house and the wonderful smell of something cooking from the kitchen filled the house. She didn’t recognize the dish from the smell alone, but assumed it to be one of the many Parisian recipes that her mother loved to experiment with from time to time.

“Hello,” she called out, dragging out the word a few extra syllables.

“Hello, dear,” Her mother called from the kitchen.

Alexandra followed her nose and found her mother working feverishly over the stove where several pots threatened to boil over. Thankfully, the Countess Catherine Buxhoeveden was a master when it came to preparing her delicacies. Her hands danced around the stove as if she were conducting the New York Philharmonic Orchestra.