Full Boar

Chapter 3: Three Little Wolves and the Big Bad Pig

The call came from a shipyard down in the Navy Yard, down a dusty road that ended in a chain-link fence that seemed more rust than steel, hardly an obstacle for Mason. Really, the only major threat to Mason was visibility; his black pickup truck would stand out against the faded hills like a spot of ink on a sheet of paper. That didn't take long to solve, however, merely a five minute drive away, tucked behind a warehouse. Of course, that meant that Mason had to lug a duffel bag full of his goodies across the road. And knowing Mason and his goodies, they were heavy.

He dropped the duffel bag and dug inside one of the pockets. Wire, a blowtorch, an adjustable wrench, all these things greeted his questing fingertips. He found the wire cutters beneath the wire, and knelt, beginning to cut, to tear a hole through the fence. Normally, he could use a Mark of Sundering to split the fence open, just a little willpower and focus, but on the off-chance that whoever was calling had more than a passing knowledge of the Moon-Marks, he refrained. So far, he knew one thing, and that was that they didn't know.

It took a little bit for him to clip a large enough hole, but soon he yanked the chain-link fence apart like it was a pair of curtains. Hoisting the duffel bag onto his back, Mason booked it for the nearest shipping container. He stopped, and sniffed. Beast, he thought, now would be a good time to use that nose of yours.

He sniffed again. The metal and paint of the shipping container dominated his nostrils, but he smelled the rotting fish and watery grime of the Delaware just southeast of him. He smelled the fetid stench of gasoline, the rank odor of sweat-soaked clothes. And underneath it all, he smelled anticipation, like a young buck in heat, catching sight of a female, and the smell of wet dog.

A werewolf.

There always lurked that eager excitement among the werebeasts, especially the fresher blooded ones. Those who didn't yet dread the contest of wills between man, beast, and Moon but looked forward to the transformation, to the bloodlust, to the hunt. Mason didn't like that. While vampires were consumed with a lust for blood, it was a demonic lust, a more... intellectual lust. It made them wickedly intelligent but somewhat predictable. But when the man, the beast, and the Moon mixed together, there was no telling what would happen.

He glanced about. The shipping containers were arranged in alleyways. That could be useful. He crouched down by the corner of the container, drawing a steel buck knife. Mason paused, didn't even open it, but instead focused on his fingernail. The Beast howled, demanded release, so Mason granted just a little bit. His fingernail grew, extended, thickened, until he glared at a thick claw. It left curling shavings that glistened like silver hairs on the concrete as he carved the Mark of Ensnaring. Then, a flash of the knife left a stripe of red. He smeared it over the Mark, blinding it of him. Now, he could walk by unhindered, but anyone following would have their feet stick to the ground, their own shadows tangle about their legs.

He dropped the duffel bag to the ground, unzipped it. Canisters gleamed dully in a mesh athletic bag, and next to it sat a box of ammo with an old-style European family crest etched in gold on it. A silver cavalry saber, an old relic but well cared for, glistened with a brighter light to Mason's eyes than to any normal man's. It was decorative, plated in silver, a gift for a Union officer that Mason had found. And beneath it all was Bertha.

Bertha was big, bulky, black, and ugly as sin. She was expensive, temperamental, and Mason never left a job without her; she had saved his life more times than he could wish to remember. She was nasty too, liked cutting down men and laying them low. She was cranky, needed to be oiled and treated regularly, and never paid for any of her costly tastes.

Then again, that was somewhat standard for a M60 machine gun.

He yanked the Civil War sword out and buckled it about his waist, tucking it in his overcoat. Beneath it lay a Glock 43. That was for human obstacles, self defense, anything else. He yanked the ammo box up. It was lighter than it should have been, but Mason expected that; silversteel weighed less than lead.