A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [102]
I find myself on the floor, staring up at a worried Dean. “I’ll be damned. You were right. It’s a dragon.”
“—buzzsaw with wings,” I sketch the size of the dragon with my hands. “I’ve never actually seen one. They’re so tiny!” I round on Bernie. “Did you know the yeti are the reason why dragons don’t cross the Connecticut?”
Bernie nods. “Figured. Dragons are always regional. Had to be something territorial.”
“So how did this one get here?” Dean asks.
Bernie rests his hand on the yeti’s. “Don’t know. They felt it maybe a week ago, so they came looking. They’ve been tracking it. Most dragons get clear of yeti territory damn quick. This one stays. It knows it don’t belong, but won’t leave.”
“That’s never happened before?”
“No. Never seen a dragon in a collar, either.”
“That’s just bizarre,” Catherine states. “No dragon would consent to a collar.”
I cut to the chase. “How do we take it down, take it out?”
Bernie shakes his head. “Can’t kill it without a license. Federally protected. Best thing is to trap it, get that collar off. Can’t figure why it’s staying if not for that collar. The two magics—yeti and dragon—don’t mix. They steer clear naturally. If the yeti can feel it, the dragon can feel it shouldn’t be here.”
“It looked happy enough snacking on chickens. Didn’t seem perturbed until it dive-bombed me. Er . . . him.”
“Dragons are mean sonsabitches.” Bernie warns. “Trapping it’ll be a job.”
“But one we need to do, and fast,” I say. “When he showed me what happened at the Kroeger’s, he screamed. The others, too, and hooted. That clears up who mentioned yeti to Ned.”
Bernie swears. “Kroegers have been here long enough. Probably know some old legends. I just didn’t think the yeti’d been anywhere near the killings.” He grips the yeti’s hand. It becomes agitated, starts to rise, going insubstantial around the edges. He’s ready to bolt.
“Don’t leave!” I appreciate their desire for secrecy and seclusion, but something tells me yeti-assistance is the only thing that’ll bag us a dragon. My brain snags on that. Bag a . . . “Bernie, you’ve got a NetShot 2500, don’t you? I saw one, when you showed me your old gear.”
He shakes his head. “1600. I left the Service before they issued the 2500. But that won’t hold a dragon . . . not even a 2500. They were only ever for werewolf pups and ghouls. And the occasional gnome that got abusive. Dragons would tear right through ’em, wouldn’t matter how you lined the nets. And I only have copper nets.”
I study the yeti. “I understand. But if you still have a net frame, we might have something the dragon can’t burn through.”
Midnight finds us hiding in the woods around the Kilpatrick farm. So far, watching the Kilpatricks’ fields has done nothing but spook the Kilpatricks’ horses, who keep scenting the werewolves. Calmer—or just stupider—the cows stand in clumps.
Turns out all five of Bernie’s daughters have the blood. Four werewolves pace around us as protection, the fifth back at our place with Bernie.
Bernie predicted the dragon would move to the next farm. Only sheer force of Daughters kept Bernie from coming with us, making me grateful they’re as stubborn as their father. Time meanders as we crouch in the damp night, the wolves ranging out then returning. Bernie’s arthritis wouldn’t appreciate the moist chill.
Hanging out in dark woods with a small pack of werewolves is high on Dean’s list of Things Never To Do. I say nothing when he presses close to me.
All remains quiet until just after 3AM when all four werewolves lift their heads in perfect unison. Seconds later, a wolf howl rises in the distance. A feral edge ripples through the pack as four heads swivel in the direction of the howl, and my property.
The pack flows into dark blurs, bounding away, leaving