"Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality." — Edgar Allan Poe
"You are going to be amazing."
Those were Olo Dodge's last words to his daughter, and they had been overly optimistic. He clearly hadn't pictured her standing behind the counter of a rundown gas station just outside Ashton, Idaho—one of those places pretentiously labeled a travel center but in reality little more than a fluorescent-lit box attached to a dingy convenience store.
Gwendolyn Bernadette Daisy Dodge—though she clung to "Gwen" for the sake of her own fleeting sanity—sat slouched behind the counter, flipping through songs on her iPod in the hope of staving off sleep. The November night outside was bitterly cold, snow falling thick and relentless against the wide glass windows. Inside, the hum of refrigerators and the occasional drip of the soda machine were her only companions.
The midnight shift was a monotonous mix of boring, lonely, and vaguely creepy. Most nights she could count her customers on one hand. The only real thing she looked forward to was the early-morning gathering at five-thirty, when the town's notables drifted in for their caffeine ritual: Police Chief Marvin Mullins, Mayor Wilson, and the two game wardens—Darby MacAlpine and his eternally sour partner, Drew Adkins.
Sometimes Darby arrived before the others, still adorably half-asleep, and Gwen treasured those brief moments when she had him all to herself. He was the highlight of her day, even if he had no clue she liked him. Gwen was painfully aware she wasn't the kind of girl men usually noticed. She wasn't fat, but she wasn't skinny either. She'd never been interested in makeup, and her striking blue eyes usually stayed hidden behind the curtain of her chin-length black hair. Her mother had dubbed it her "lezbo hair," a cruel dig Gwen tried to ignore.
She'd inherited a warm golden complexion from her Polynesian grandmother, and at six-foot-one, she towered over most of the men in Ashton. Being tall was a blessing in some situations but mostly a curse when it came to romance. Guys just didn't seem to know what to do with her.
She was spiraling into these same familiar self-deprecating thoughts when the automatic doors whispered open. Gwen straightened, ready to mutter the usual bored greeting—except no one was there.
Her lips twisted. "Great. Now we've got a ghost."
She muttered to herself rolling her eyes and turned back to her iPod, trying to decide between the aggressive catharsis of Disturbed or the comfort of Montgomery Gentry. That was when she heard it: a rapid skittering sound, claws on tile, like a dog trying to sprint across a slick floor.
Her shoulders sagged. "And now a damn raccoon."
But what stepped—or rather lurched—into the fluorescent light as she heard the door open again was no raccoon.
A nightmare face crested the counter. Eyes cloudy and milky, skin drawn tight and black as if long dead, lips shriveled back to expose a mouth full of jagged yellow teeth. Its long nails curled like talons as it lunged toward her—
—and then a massive hand clamped around its throat.
The creature gave a strangled surprised shriek as it was lifted off the ground and hurled like a ragdoll. It crashed through a pyramid of Yeti coolers and obliterated the nacho bar in an explosion of plastic and stale cheese.
And there, standing in the doorway, cigarette dangling from his lips and smirk firmly in place, was Darby MacAlpine. Six-foot-six, broad-shouldered, light brown hair shaved close on the sides and braided in the back, neat goatee framing his grin, green eyes sharp even in the dim light. And—as always—he wore flannel.
Gwen pointed at his cigarette and squeaked the first not so intelligent thing that came to mind: "Smoking. Not supposed to smoking."
Darby chuckled at her flustered self. "Take a deep breath, Waffles, and call Drew." He jerked his thumb toward the writhing, cheese-smeared monster. "I'll deal with Shmigal."
Her fingers trembled as she fumbled through the station's Rolodex, dialing Drew's number on the ancient landline. As the phone rang, Gwen's wide, tear-filled eyes stayed fixed on Darby. He advanced with casual confidence toward the creature, which hissed and backed away, its milky eyes rolling with terror. But when it realized there was no escape, it lunged.
Darby moved with startling speed for a man his size, sidestepping neatly and driving his fist into its skull with a wet thump. The creature was sent sprawling across the tiles in almost comical fashion.
"Eh, hello?" Drew's voice sounded surprisingly sharp for an old man dragged out of sleep.
"Drew—there's a thing here—fighting Darby—"
Before she could finish, Darby's boot came down on the monster's skull. It popped like an overripe melon, gray matter splattering across the floor. Gwen gagged and swallowed back vomit.
"Never mind. He killed it."
On the other end of the line, Drew chuckled. "Well, I'll call the chief and head that way. Just breathe, kiddo."
Darby stood over the mangled body, cigarette glowing, smirk intact. Then he sniffed the air and tilted his head. "Hmm. You brought a friend."
Before Gwen could ask what he meant, the glass doors exploded inward.
Something huge lumbered in—a hulking monstrosity, vaguely bear-shaped but horribly wrong. Deformed. Twisted. A grizzly that looked like it had been put together by someone who only had vague instructions on what a bear was supposed to look like.
The beast let out a bone-rattling roar.
Darby puffed his cigarette and smirked. "Yeah, yeah. So scary. Come get your ass kicked."
Gwen's heart seized. His teeth looked sharper. His body was swelling, stretching, muscles bulging beneath his flannel.
The monster and the man charged each other, colliding with an impact that shook the shelves and rattled the glass. Gwen dove behind the counter, gasping for breath, her panic spiraling.
No matter how strong Darby was, he couldn't possibly survive against a goddamn grizzly.
Her mind flashed back to the year before, to when she first met him. She'd been newly dropped out of college having quit halfway through her first year due to a guy she went on one date with turning into a stalker
. Darby had been the one to make her feel safe, showing up at the gas station whenever he could, sharing TV shows, cracking jokes, and giving her the dumb nickname "Waffles" because of her morning toaster waffle breakfast routine.
Her fear boiled into anger. She wasn't going to let this end with Darby dead.
Her eyes landed on a can of body spray. Her fist closed around it. She grabbed a lighter too. She wanted to hear him call her Waffles again. She wanted the chance to tell him how she felt.
Gwen stood up but was stunned by what she saw, Darby was bigger hairy and looked like a halfway transformed werewolf as the beast shoved him against the counter Gwen took the opportunity lit the lighter and sprayed flame into the monsters face. The bear thing reared its head back in pain and Darby took the opportunity to bite down on its throat then with a mighty shove tore the things throat out completely.
The monster collapsed, thrashing and bleeding. Darby stumbled, his form seeming to shrink, to deflate, back into the man she knew.
Drew arrived just then, ran duster thrown over his shoulders, snub-nosed .357 revolver already cocked. Without hesitation, he aimed and fired. The bullet punched through the beast's skull, and it went still.
Darby scowled. "You crusty old beaver. I had everything under control."
"Oh yeah? Sure looks like it." Drew gestured to the wrecked store, the blood, the gore.
Before Darby could retort, Gwen snapped. "What the fuck is going on!?"
Darby raised his hands. "It's okay, Waffles—"
"If you tell me to breathe, I'll fry you too!" She waved the lighter and deodorant like weapons.
Darby chuckled. "Okay, okay. I surrender."
"You're a freaking werewolf!"
He rolled his eyes. "That's just racial profiling. I'm Fjalladrottinn. Werebear, if you want the simple version."
Gwen blinked. "And… Shmigal? The bear thing?"
"Druids."
She threw up her hands. "Of course! The horrific monsters are Druids. And my favorite piece of eye candy is a fluffernutter!"
Drew chuckled. "I think she's handling this nicely."
Gwen stomped her way into the little cash office and sat down, trying her best to calm down. She soon heard Chief Mullins arrive, and after hearing him chastise the two men, the three of them dragged the bodies outside. After a while, she must have dozed off, because she awoke hearing Darby's giant lifted diesel pull up to the store. He came inside, kneeling down next to her. She noticed he had changed into undamaged clothes, cleaned off all the blood, and was smirking at her as she hid behind her bangs. Darby nudged her, and she ignored him, but he did it again and said, "Favorite piece of eye candy, huh?" She elbowed him in the chest, earning a chuckle and a sore elbow—Darby was way more solid than he looked.
"What are you going to do with the bodies?" she asked without looking at him.
"Take them home and burn 'em like usual," he responded, shrugging.
"Like usual? So this happens a lot?"
He leaned against her, and she couldn't help but smile at this, as it reminded her of a large-breed dog that wanted attention.
"Not the whole attacking-people thing. I usually take 'em down before it comes to that, but I'm still learning and establishing my territory, so some get through."
He suddenly seemed ashamed and said in a soft voice, "I'm sorry, Waffles. I got lazy, almost got you hurt tonight, and I don't know how to make it better." Gwen was shocked that he would blame himself for the attack.
"It was a boring night anyway," she responded, shrugging.
"Hmmm. Well, do you wanna come home with me?" he said, nudging her again, but then seemed to realize exactly what he said, and before he could correct himself, she nudged him back with a smirk.
"Only if you have protection."
He stood up and made for the door. "I'll get deodorant and a lighter."
They both chuckled as she followed him out, noticing the store was truly a mess with blood and debris everywhere, and the destroyed entrance door had caution tape, which she and Darby ducked under. Outside, Drew and Chief Mullins were talking to her manager, Ellen, who, judging by the strong smell of alcohol wafting from her, had been thoroughly enjoying her Saturday night before getting called about her destroyed store. Gwen nabbed her emergency bag with its change of clothes out of her Chevy Cruze and yelled over to Ellen, "I quit."
Gwen admired Darby's barely street-legal four-door forest green Ford F-350, lifted on massive tires with an eight-foot bed. She liked that he wasn't one of those overdone country fanboys rolling coal and sporting rebel flags in freaking Idaho. Darby needed a monster to get him places no one else could, as he used it in his game warden job. The struggle was real, though, as she clumsily climbed into the passenger seat. After checking his cargo—which Gwen tried really hard not to think about—Darby climbed into the truck, popped a cigarette into his mouth, and gave her a smirk.
"Ready to roll out?"
She nabbed the cigarette and tossed it out the window. "As I'll ever be."
The truck roared as they peeled out of the station parking lot.
"I don't even know what to think right now. I mean, when I started work, everything was boring as usual, my life was its normal day-to-day disappointment," Gwen sighed. "I feel scared, angry, confused, relieved, annoyed, and shocked."
Darby shrugged. "At least you're not bored."
She chuckled. "How do you always know what to say?"
He shrugged again. "Fjalladrottinn are empathic."
Gwen mulled this over. "So—psychic? I'm thinking of a number between one and ten."
He shook his head in the negative. "Emotions, not thoughts. But people are driven by emotion, so it gives us an advantage... ish."
She cocked an eyebrow. "Ish?"
"A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away—"
She slugged his arm.
"Haha. Well, back in the day, the Fjalladrottinn controlled the most ferocious and deadly Nordic kingdom long before the Vikings ever came around raiding both Europe and North America. The bastards were relentless, bloodthirsty, and nearly impossible to kill. Seriously, we ain't weak to silver like other were-creatures and can even regrow limbs. Well, the story goes that Odin decided to turn this horrific threat into a bulwark standing between humanity and all the nasty things out there."
"How'd he do that?" Gwen asked.
"He went to the Fjalladrottinn king and offered his people the ability to always know the hearts of their enemies, and the king greedily accepted."
They pulled onto Darby's road and crossed a stone bridge over a stream as he continued. "The king then led an immense invasion of the British Isles, aaaaand the Fjalladrottinn rapidly realized they could feel the emotions of their victims—the terror of the children, the helplessness of the parents." He seemed pained. "The story ends with nearly all Fjalladrottinn either killing themselves or going insane, unable to cope with all the emotions. It was so bad that when their homelands—which would come to be known as Iceland—were rediscovered, people thought it wasn't populated. We can't even congregate in large groups, 'cause our emotions are some of the strongest. One temper lost, and everything goes to shit." He sighed.
Gwen felt bad for him but asked the burning question. "What about the things at the gas station, the Druids? What the hell are they? I thought Druids were nature-loving hippies?"
He chuckled. "Like a lot of things pop culture got wrong, they don't worship nature. They just want to dominate it and claim its power for themselves. Normal people who use grotesque magics to take the strength of whatever poor creature's skin they put on. The nasty critters pop up all over the world. The Navajo call them skinwalkers, the Romans called them Druids. Meh, I think they're leeches, stealing the strength of others for their own twisted end."
She nodded, but then the thought hit her like a punch in the gut. "That Shmigal thing was going to take my skin, wasn't it!?"
He chuckled, and she slugged him again. "I'm serious, damnit!"
He smirked at her. "Well, you do have nice skin."
She glowered at him from behind her bangs. "Why, though? I'm just a person."
"A druid that steals someone's skin takes their spirit and uses their likeness to attack other victims—all with the goal of collecting spirits, or souls, or whatever."
She shuddered at the thought of that thing wearing her like a cheap suit as they pulled up to a gorgeous plantation estate, even with a double wraparound porch.
"That's a long way from the South, and a lot of house for one guy."