LOT'S MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: The Huntsman

There's a guy waiting for us when we step out of the church and into a dimly lit room.

"I am se Dræfend, se Hunta. The Huntsman," he says. He sounds like some rich guy that should be holed up in a ritzy castle in England, sipping tea.

The Huntsman doesn't look like anything I expected. I thought he'd be stockier and maybe be wearing fur ... or a long-flowing cape and look all evil. Instead, he's a tall, shirtless blond wearing old-looking baggy pants. A frayed rope around his waist holds them up. He has these black leather boots that look really old, too, and are covered in scuff marks. His eyes are all squinty and look like bright green half-moons. His teeth are more like an animal's and have been sharpened to points. Oh yeah, a bunch of small gold earrings line his ear just above where a large silver hoop hangs from his earlobe. More metal rings, some of them with green and blue gems in them, line one side of his chest.

This is who the monsters are scared of? After what I've seen tonight, this guy doesn't look like much.

"The one with you is Deirdre of the Sidhe," the Huntsman tells me with a bow to the redhead. He says a couple of words I don't get and then, "The voice of All-Sorrows."

Unlike all the other monsters, nobody here stops to tell me what the hell they're talking about. They're talking about a ton of stuff I've never heard of. Maybe they'll explain at some point.

When they don't, I pipe up and ask, "All-sorrows?"

"It's another title for the bean-nighe, séo láf, the widow. The banshee." His eyes dance across the redhead. Still watching her, he murmurs, "Her voice calls us to our purpose."

I'm not sure what he's talking about but don't get a chance to ask him anything else. Acting like I'm not there, the guy walks up to her and grabs her by the hips. Seriously, he pulls her close and starts making out in front of me.

When they come up for air, so to speak, he whispers, "Se hamor, the survivor of many battles, the one left to weep and sing for the dead and dishonored."

She doesn't say a word. Instead she puts a finger to his mouth, tracing his lips and the curve of his face. Yep, then they're at it again.

He's had his tongue down her throat for about ten minutes now. I reckon banshees don't need to breathe.

I cough and say, "Hey, tell me you don't greet everybody that shows up here like that."

The guy pulls away from Deirdre and starts to snarl at me. Thinking better of it, he mutters something to her too low for me to hear.

In response to whatever he said to her, she runs her fingers down his chest and answers in a real thick Irish accent, "Whenever you ask." After sucking on his ear, she steps into the shadows and disappears.

After she's gone, the Huntsman gets real quiet. Maybe he's waiting for me to start talking.

So I do.

"This is yours." Then I pull out the knife I got from Mr. Unger.

"Blüthund," the Huntsman mumbles when he sees it.

"It's yours." Then I shove the knife, handle first, at him.

"Blede se gast." Smirking, he takes it and grips it by the blade until it starts to cut his hand. As blood slowly drips between his fingers, he says, "The ghost bleeds. It's an old saying that means something akin to blood is the weeping of the soul."

The knife blade glitters silver for a second as the Huntsman's blood on it vanishes, like the knife's drinking it in. Then shadows start swirling around us, slinking across the walls. The longer I stare at them, the more I see that they aren't just blobs. Instead, there are sleek bodies and tapered muzzles. One pauses to look at me before it darts off again to chase the rest of the inky shadows around the room and disappear into the dark.