Back in my day, we didn’t have so many blasted cryptids running around in the woods. When I worked for Game and Fish, I took my job as cryptid hunter seriously, and I kept nasty beasts to a manageable level. But things changed after I retired, and hunters started using a “holistic cryptid management approach.”
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“It’s so cute!” Gloria cooed. She bent over the tiny, growling demon.
“That’s not a puppy, Gloria. You can’t keep it.” I glared at the ugly creature cowering behind my backyard shed. “Rip it apart like a good werewolf and send it back to Hell.” She ignored me. Crouching next to it, she extended her hand…
I had always lived for darkness. No other time were gargoyles permitted to come alive and feast upon delectable, cursed things. The hunt was all we knew—all we desired. Each night atop my cathedral, I approached twilight with the same anticipation, blissfully unaware that one evening held the power to alter my destiny forever.
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I’d spent centuries avoiding typical societal celebrations of love. If experience was any indication, this Valentine’s night was shaping up to be as dull and tedious as every other.
A sudden movement caught my eye. A woman ran for the alley, her hair streaming behind her like golden ribbons. She ducked around the corner
Ten minutes to midnight, the arrow sliced through the window. Glass sprayed. An arrowhead thumped, piercing the wall an inch away from my right eye. I dropped to the floor, army crawled toward the shotgun on the coffee table, and pumped a round into the chamber.
With the weapon ready, I slunk toward
Well, this relic hunt sucked.
“Hurry up, Andy!” Louisa berated. “I don’t want to end up Swiss cheese because you stopped to read every footnote! I can’t hold this position forever!” She balanced on one foot, hands raised, struggling not to fall off the small pedestal and trigger whatever booby trap awaited the unworthy.
The black owl spoke into Vjun’s ear. “Are you sure you can do this?”
The vampire hunter rolled his eyes. “For the hundredth time, yes, I’m sure.”
He crept up a hill through dark trees, making his way by moonlight, Aryana perched on his shoulder. He held a crossbow, already loaded with a bolt dipped in fae blood.
“Forget deep-sea diving,” Gertrude Tesoro muttered, trying to enjoy Café Regatta’s scenic patio beside Helsinki’s Taivallahti Bay. “The hardest part of this job is getting paid.”
“Client inbound, Aunt Getty,” Cody’s voice came through her earbud.
Lars Korhonen, dressed like a CEO at a board meeting, stood out like a sore thumb among the Saturday morning coffee crowd.
“The wax man’s face is melting off!” Another one for the list of weird things that I say with surprising regularity.
“Melting how?” James Prothero asks.
I scowl at him over my shoulder. “How many ways can I mean melting?”
“Are we talking Wicked Witch of the West or Ark of the Covenant?”
Theodore Roosevelt clicked the hammers back on his double-barreled shotgun. The mustache atop his upper lip crinkled in a defiant sneer. “Steady, Bill. The hunt’s underway, and we’re the hunted.”
A low moan echoed amongst the ominous hilltops, climbing into an ear-wrenching wail that rattled my bones. I lifted my rifle and
“He serves the devil, you know.”
Clay, the child they had captured three days prior, shifted on the bench as Captain Thomas Kalapser stared him down. “I know.” A slight breeze entered the open window of the cabin, catching the corners of the maps strewn upon the table behind him.
“Then why?”
I never cared much for Bigfoot as a kid, even though I live in his backyard. Have you seen the crazies who hunt him? No thanks.
But I was concerned with the Canadian legend of a three-inch-tall gray creature that built nests out of dryer lint. Something people like to think doesn’t exist in
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