Page 8 of Sinistram
Fletcher’s looks like a hunter bar, Brent thought. Mounted buck heads with impressive antlers decorated the walls betweendart boards and Steeler pennants. The television over the bar was dark now, and the bottles of hard liquor beneath it didn’t bother with top-shelf brands, just the cheap painkillers that helped get patrons through the night. Classic road trip hits from the seventies played in the background.
If someone knew where to look, there were protective sigils carved into the scarred old bar, and Brent was willing to bet a trench filled with salt encircled the building. A silver amulet hung from a chain around the buck’s neck, one that Brent recognized from his own selection of charms. He felt certain that the other hunters all wore some variation just as surely as they carried salt and silver bullets. Everyone was armed. Concealed carry was a way of life up here.
“Don’t recognize you boys,” an older man said, after Father Leo moved on. “How’d you know Al?”
Brent guessed the stranger was old enough to be his father, with the grizzled look of someone who had seen things they would never be able to forget.
“We did a hunt with him and Mark a while back,” Travis fibbed, since it was easier than explaining and none of the man’s business. “Done a number of jobs with Mark and Father Leo. They asked us to come, and we came.”
“Humph. You’re not from around here.” The statement carried layers of meaning and more than a little judgment.
“Not all monsters stay in their territories.” Travis drew on the easy charm that made him good at questioning witnesses. “We lend a hand when we can.”
“Ah, well. If Wojcik and the Padre vouch for you, that’s good enough. God knows, we need as many hunters as we can get. Seems like there are fewer every day.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Bob.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Travis, and this is my hunting partner, Brent.” Travis was quiet for a moment. “Father Leo sounded like your area’s been hit hard lately.”
Bob took a swallow from his beer, although it was still morning. Most of the hunters in the back room also held cans, bottles, or glasses, fortification for the memorial. “Don’t know if the monsters got smarter or we got slower, but it’s been a rough patch, that’s for sure.”
“Anything else change?” Travis inquired gently.
“Not so anyone’s figured a connection,” Bob replied. “Believe me, we’ve looked. Maybe Jupiter is in retrograde or something screwy like that.”
A bell rang, silencing the chatter and focusing attention on Father Leo, who stood at the back of the room. He wore a black liturgical stole but otherwise had not donned vestments. A photograph of a man, Brent assumed to be Al, sat on the shelf behind him, but there were no other religious decorations, although the bar’s music had been turned off.
“Thank you for coming out to say farewell to Al Saunders, a friend, neighbor, and a damn fine hunter,” Father Leo said. “He protected this area from evil and gave his life in service. There is no higher praise.”
Everyone raised their drinks in tribute as Leo continued.
“We pray for his soul, that he finds peace and safety in the arms of our Lord, where all God’s creatures exist in harmony beyond the reach of harm and evil.”
“Amen,” rumbled through the crowd. This wasn’t a group for flowery sentiment. Brent bet that most, if not all, of the hunters had military or law enforcement backgrounds like his own, moving from fighting one kind of threat to another, an ingrained need to protect and serve.
Father Leo removed the stole and carefully wrapped it up before stashing it in his backpack. A few hunters moved forwardto speak to him in quiet voices. The rest of the hunters regrouped in threes and fours, nursing their beers. Mark moved from one group to another, short conversations that might have been questions or condolences. Brent figured Mark would catch them up later, in private.
“What’s the deal with Fletcher’s?” Brent asked when Mark rejoined them.
Mark sipped from his can of Iron City. “It’s been here close to fifty years, so I’m told. The story I got is that the original owner lost a son to a werewolf and offered a bounty to anyone who could kill the creature. Somebody did, and brought the head in for proof. Ever since, it’s been the place hunters gather where they know they’re welcome. Other folks too, but they know the deal.”
Brent had to admit that he envied their community, just a little. “You’re lucky. A lot of hunters are solitary types and not very friendly.”
Mark shrugged. “The hunters here come from all over this neck of the woods. Mercer, Meadville, New Castle, and beyond. There’s a lot of open territory and plenty of woods, plus lakes and streams. Handy for the creatures, but hard for us to track them down. We’re pretty good about working together when we need to. Only get a couple of fist fights, now and then,” he admitted.
Once the memorial was over, the hunters began to drift away until only Brent, Travis, Mark, and Father Leo were left. Father Leo poured out a measure of whisky in respect for Al in the yard outside while Mark ordered burgers to go for all of them, and they followed him back to his house.
“It’s not anything exciting, but it’s home,” Mark said as they joined him at the door. The cozy, well-maintained log cabin sat at the end of a dirt road.
Mark paused before he opened the door. “Don’t forget, Demon and Donny will be happy to see us.”
Brent remembered to brace himself an instant before two large, dark, furry shadows burst out of the house. One he recognized as Demon, Mark’s Doberman. The other he guessed to be Donny, a derpy werewolf who had become one of Mark’s best friends.
“Good boys,” Mark greeted the onslaught, ruffling Demon’s fur and patting Donny on the head. “Such good boys. Did anyone come by the house? Did you eat any intruders? Such good boys.”
Father Leo took the situation in stride, patting heads and scratching ears as the two canines milled around their legs. Brent and Travis couldn’t help smiling, especially since Demon, in particular, presented himself for tribute and let them scratch his ears. Brent felt a little awkward knowing Donny was also human, and offered a pat on the head in greeting.
“All right, all right, let’s go inside.” Mark shooed the two inside. He turned back to the others.
“Donny likes to shift when he comes to house sit. I guess that makes it more of a play date,” he explained with a shrug. “They both seem to enjoy it, so I don’t judge.”
