The Book of the Claw (Vesik 10) Read online

  The Book of the Claw

  Eric R. Asher

  Also by Eric R. Asher

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  The Steamborn Trilogy:

  Steamborn

  Steamforged

  Steamsworn

  The Vesik Series:

  (Recommended for Ages 17+)

  Days Gone Bad

  Wolves and the River of Stone

  Winter’s Demon

  This Broken World

  Destroyer Rising

  Rattle the Bones

  Witch Queen’s War

  Forgotten Ghosts

  The Book of the Ghost

  The Book of the Claw*

  The Book of the Sea*

  The Book of the Staff*

  The Book of the Rune*

  The Book of the Sails*

  The Book of the Wing*

  The Book of the Blade*

  The Book of the Fang*

  The Book of the Reaper*

  The Vesik Series Box Sets

  Box Set One (Books 1-3)

  Box Set Two (Books 4-6)

  Box Set Three (Books 7-8)

  Box Set Four: The Books of the Dead Part 1 (Coming in 2020)*

  Box Set Five: The Books of the Dead Part 2 (Coming in 2020)*

  Mason Dixon – Monster Hunter:

  Episode One

  Episode Two

  Episode Three

  *Want to receive an email when one of Eric’s books releases? Sign up for Eric’s mailing list.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Eric R. Asher

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Note from Eric R. Asher

  Also by Eric R. Asher

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Eric R. Asher

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Edited by Laura Matheson

  Cover typography by Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae

  Cover design ©Phatpuppyart.com – Claudia McKinney

  ~

  Embrace the family you choose.

  ~

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thunder crashed above Hugh, the rolling boom drowning out the screech of the dark-touched vampires as they died at the hands of Camazotz. Lightning flickered behind the old god, casting him in a gory silhouette of blood and fangs. Hugh’s arm throbbed with a bolt of pain that crawled across his flesh like the curve of a werewolf’s jawline, though he hadn’t been struck. The fires of a pack mark.

  This was a place of hope, but he felt a hollowness in this battle. War had left Quindaro long ago, and while much of its history might have been lost on the shores of the Missouri River, its soul remained. The world had changed in the century since, or was it two now? It was hard to track these things as time did nothing but extend beneath the years of immortality.

  Fighting was something the old wolf had experienced plenty. War. Death. These were not strangers to a werewolf who lived a handful of years, much less millennia. But here they stood once more upon hallowed ground, and the free lands, and the rivers ran red with blood.

  Alan shrieked as the claws of a dark-touched found purchase in his shoulder, and Hugh was pulled from his reverie like a demon freed from bondage. The rush of pack magic surged through him, lighting his veins on fire as the fur on his distended forearms thickened, and his claws grew to the length of daggers.

  Hugh barreled into the caped shadow of armor and obsidian flesh, tearing the vampire away from Alan as sure as the vampire had torn away the flesh of Alan’s shoulder. Silver-black teeth snapped at Hugh from beneath the gray metal helmet. There was no conscience here in this beast, only the desire to feed, to kill.

  “Get back!” Hugh barked out as Alan tried to close on them once more. One of the death bats, a child of Camazotz, surged in front of Alan.

  “Hold him!” the death bat said, his voice lisping as fangs coated in the brackish blood of the dark-touched extended.

  Hugh headbutted the partially exposed nose of the vampire, a satisfying crunch accompanying the loosened grip at his throat. He forced the neck of the dark-touched back, and the death bat struck. The edge of the vampire’s wing, pulled taut, sliced through flesh and bone until the resistance left Hugh’s claws, and the vampire collapsed onto the earth.

  “Thank you.” Through the gore, Hugh realized the slightly broader nose and deeper skin tone of the death bat before him belonged to Cizin. He was the vampire Camazotz had sent to infiltrate Vassili’s Pit when Vassili was still in charge.

  Camazotz bellowed behind them, smashing a dark-touched vampire’s skull into the brick-work ruins of an old Quindaro hotel. The vampire was rent asunder beneath the grip of Camazotz, and Cizin hurried after the vampire lord.

  “He hasn’t transformed,” Alan said. “He could have saved more of his bats.”

  Hugh frowned as the chaos of the battle faded around them. “I know. I am afraid he has not fully recovered from his encounter with the harbinger at Greenville.”

  “But he said—”

  “One does not always speak truth, Alan. Not me, not you, and certainly not a vampire lord. But one should always be respectful.”

  Hugh nodded at the form of Camazotz striding toward them. Alan glanced over his shoulder. Whatever retort he had been about to say died on his lips.

  “The battle is done,” Camazotz said. “They were more organized than last time, but their lines were sparse. I suspect they are nearing the end of their resources in this area.”

  “You are a generous lord, and a welcome ally,” Hugh said. “This battle would have cost us many more lives without you and your children.”

  “It still cost us too many lives,” Camazotz said. “But it is not only the dark-touched who dwell here. There are darker things afoot in these woods. Are you still seeking the lost nation?”

  Hugh smiled. He knew the stories, and the fictions that many in the supernatural community liked to tell about the nations of Native Americans who gathered in Quindaro, but there was much exaggeration. What might have surprised more of them was that much understatement lived in those stories. “There are few old Wyandot left in the area. It was them I sought. The remnants of the Kansas City Pack. Descendants of the Wolf clan.”

  “I wondered,” Camazotz said, rubbing at the golden skull set in the middle of his beaded necklace. It was hard to make out the tattoo on his chest in the dim light of the woods. “I’
ve heard Edgar refer to them as the Quindaro Pack.”

  Hugh offered a small smile. “They have not used that name in many years.”

  “Did your tattoo just glow?” Alan asked, his voice still more wolf than man. “I could’ve sworn that just glowed red. The eyes on your tattoo.” Alan stepped closer, narrowing his sunburst eyes and leaning in toward the vampire lord.

  Hugh bristled for a moment, concerned how the old vampire might react to having a werewolf, still in his bulky form, so close to his chest. But he said nothing as Alan studied the circle of stone idols with the hunched man sitting in the middle, instead pulling his torn shirt to the side.

  Camazotz smiled and rested his right hand on the hilt of one of the green stone daggers sheathed under his arm. The old god tended to walk around with his shirt open, but after the battle with the dark-touched, it was torn and rent, and now exposed the full-circle of his tattoo and the sleek definition of the muscle beneath the blood of his enemies. Camazotz was a force of nature, and Hugh had long ago learned to respect those old gods who were.

  Zola had once told him a mad theory that the red glow was the soul of one of the hero twins Camazotz had slain in legend. Hugh had his doubts. He suspected it was more a concentration of the god’s powers.

  Satisfied with his studying of Camazotz’s tattoo, Alan turned his attention back to Hugh. “I thought Splitlog was going to meet us here, no?”

  “That was the plan,” Hugh said, inspecting the bodies and dismembered vampires that littered the ground around them. Splitlog was probably smart enough to take cover when he realized there was another battle. Hugh wouldn’t blame him for finding shelter elsewhere. “Wait here for a while. If he does not return, we will make our way to the old brewery.”

  Alan blew out a breath. “I only wish the place was still standing, and still brewed beer.”

  Hugh smiled and patted Alan on the shoulder as the larger werewolf slowly shifted back into his human form. The bowling-ball-like muscles of his arms smoothed into the rounded muscles of a part-time bodybuilder before his fur fell away. “You know, just once, it would be nice to have a lair that wasn’t underground.”

  “It may be underground here, but it is sacred ground. This city once stood for freedom. Once stood for what was right in this country in a time where so very much was going wrong. It is an honor for us to spend time on these lands. Do not forget that.”

  “Will you shelter with us tonight?” Hugh asked as Camazotz started to turn away.

  The old god shook his head. “I will return to the cave hidden by the river. Some of my children are restless, claiming they’ve seen things in the waters. I suspect it was merely one of the water witches, or some other creature native to these rivers, but I would prefer to be overly cautious in these times.”

  “Ashley and the coven were tracking a Mishupishu,” Alan said.

  Hugh inclined his head. “The thought had crossed my mind. It is odd that they appeared in the Mississippi, so close to the Piasa Bird’s lair. Now, to find them here? That would be an odd thing, indeed. The creatures are known to stay far to the north. Monsters of the Great Lakes, it is a rare thing to see them so far south. A man of the Ojibwe Nation once told me a story of the Mishupishu here. But the hour was late, and the singing maidens floated high above us.”

  Alan frowned at Hugh, but the older werewolf turned away and stepped onto an overgrown path. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I am doubtful Mishupishu are here in numbers, though I do not discount the idea entirely.”

  “I understood that part,” Alan said. “What you mean by the singing maidens?”

  “The stars,” Hugh said. “What you know as the Pleiades? The Wyandot Nation often refers to as the seven sisters.”

  “I thought you were Cheyenne,” Alan said.

  “In a way,” Hugh said, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “But I know the stories of many nations. I am afraid a great deal of what I remember are but fragments of tales that have long been forgotten.” Hugh trailed off, lost in thought as he spoke so quietly that Alan could barely hear. “… dance among the leaves of the trees.”

  “Of course,” Hugh said. “We may call upon you, if that is favorable.”

  “Favorable or not, we are your allies against the dark-touched. Do not hesitate.”

  Cizin whispered something to Camazotz as the pair walked away. Cizin turned back toward Hugh and Alan and nodded before they vanished into the shadows, trailed by the surviving death bats.

  “Why doesn’t Cizin look like the others?” Alan asked. “The others literally look like bats.”

  “Many beings throughout history have had the power of shapeshifting,” Hugh said. “While Cizin may look human, or even like the humans turned vampire, he is something else, a child of Camazotz. Never doubt that his loyalties lie with his lord.”

  Thunder crashed in the distance, drawing Hugh’s attention back to the moment. “Come. We make for the lair. With any luck, Haka will be back with barbecue.”

  “He’s not going to be happy with you,” Alan said. “You sent him away for the best of the fighting.”

  Hugh harrumphed. “He is still injured, Alan. Another night and I expect his leg will be nearly normal again. Let the dark-touched who attacked him serve as a reminder we must not lower our guard.”

  “It’s smart.” Alan stepped up beside Hugh, pushing a hanging limb out of their path. “I won’t argue that the boy needed some rest, but I still feel like we should be putting more time into rebuilding the River Pack. We are few, and our enemies are not.”

  Hugh remained silent for a time as the rain started to fall. Drops crashing against dry leaves made it hard to hear what was around them, for even a werewolf had difficulty isolating sounds in the chaos of a thunderstorm. Lightning split the sky once more, and Hugh followed the overgrown path down to a roughly paved road.

  They stayed on the road until the rain reflected the lightning on the metal support beams of the ancient brewery. Hugh stopped before the structure, watching the water drip from the steel and splash against the brick and stone below. He remembered this place from other times, as if different eras now stood one on top of the other. Hugh remembered when the dark tunnel hid the slaves escaping from Missouri, and it wasn’t lost on him that it was the same tunnel that led to their lair here.

  Hugh walked between the fragmented pillars of the stone foundation, crowned with a blocky spire of ruined bricks. Even these ancient supports would have fallen without the intervention of steel. He stopped before the short rounded archway that led into the tunnel.

  “There are not so many werewolves in the world, Alan. Thousands may seem like a grand army, but thousands can be slaughtered in one twist of fate. I am scarcely willing to turn a commoner even if it is their will. The life of a wolf is not an easy one, but we are fortunate not to be walking it alone.”

  “How long until we die out?” Alan asked. “I feel like we can still do good in this world, Hugh. Look at what we’ve done with the rehabilitation in parts of Saint Louis.”

  Hugh gave Alan a broad smile. “One is not required to be a werewolf to help those in need. You must simply extend a hand in generosity.”

  “It’s never simple.”

  “In some ways, it is always simple.” Hugh crouched and walked into the tunnel as lightning lit the skies behind him. Alan was right in many perspectives, Hugh knew. The River Pack was woefully small, and had been since they’d lost Carter, Maggie, and the others. But the wolves would return, those who were born into it, or, yes, those who were turned. And when those wolves arrived, the River Pack would be ready to welcome them home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hugh made his way through the low archway of old gray brick and dirt. At the end, where it looked like a wall would block any farther entry, he pushed through. The wall protested for only a moment before a crack appeared in the center, and the old tunnel gave way to a short metal staircase.

  Once inside the lair—a sur
prisingly modern structure hidden beneath the ruins—the werewolves could stand upright once more. A massive sectional couch formed from thick leather filled the front room, not unlike the River Pack’s lair on Howell Island near Saint Louis.

  “Shower,” Hugh said. “Haka may not be here yet, but when he returns, we will eat.”

  “No one’s here,” Alan said, frowning.

  Hugh glanced toward the hall. “I am not sure if sparring with blood mages or battling dark-touched is more exhausting. Cotter and Warpole are likely resting elsewhere, as Elizabeth and Cornelius could exhaust Hinon himself.”

  Alan didn’t ask anything more. He headed back to one of the empty bedrooms and water rattled through the pipes a short time later. Hugh suspected the younger wolf hadn’t asked anything more because the surviving Kansas City Pack members—Cotter, Warpole, and Splitlog—liked to tell some of the old stories when they gathered together. Alan had heard the name Hinon enough times to know he was a god of thunder, but Hugh doubted Alan understood the depth of that meaning.

  He retired to the room he shared with Haka and started a shower of his own. One of the more exorbitant luxuries the Kansas City Pack had installed were tankless water heaters. At first Hugh thought they were a waste, but as the unending warmth stripped away the blood and grime that hadn’t fallen away with his fur, he was grateful for it.

  Hugh donned a set of ancient flannel pajamas. They were worn, and patched in places, but they’d been a gift from a friend a very long time ago. There weren’t many physical things Hugh was attached to, but there were a handful he held on to, even if the memories of the lost didn’t need them.

  He looked down at the gray werewolf-claw slippers Vicky had sent him this past Christmas. Hugh had never taken to the Christian customs like some of the Wyandots had over the centuries, instead keeping with the old ways, but he held no ill will to those of the pack who didn’t. Many white men called him a Pagan, as if that would somehow insult his belief system. Hugh slid his feet into the clawed slippers and padded down the hall, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the horrors he’d seen that day.