wasn't turned on like the guys around her; if anything, she felt a mild contempt for Vichnia. Mostly because of the way she had treated her and Sunny, but also because she chose to entertain men in such a prurient fashion. She did not consider herself a prude. She could appreciate an exotic dancer just as she could a ballerina, and she had to admit, Vichnia was one of the best she had ever seen. She had a fluid, sensual grace that empowered her erotic display. Yet there was an underlying strength and discipline that gave it a hard edge, what with her precise movements and meticulous postures. It reminded her of a master practicing Tai Chi. She could certainly understand how she got her stage-name of Steel Gazelle.
As well, she saw nothing wrong with a woman making a career as an exotic dancer, as long as it was for self-expression. But she saw no point in dancing just to tease people, to titillate and excite them without following through. It was one thing when she did it to Sunny, because the whole point was to get her so excited she couldn't control herself. But she figured if she were to do it too often, Sunny would take a baseball bat to her head. It was inconceivable to her that any woman would routinely lead men on with no concern for the possible consequences.
She looked over at Sunny, who sat enraptured, staring at Vichnia. It upset her so much that it soured her stomach. She wanted to trust Sunny, but the thought that she could have the hots for someone else made her crazy.
Maybe I am jealous. It's just that she's never looked at me like that. Then again, I don't do for her what Vichnia's doing now, so maybe I shouldn't be surprised. I just don't have it in me. Sunny's made it easier for me to express my feelings than I used to, but I'm still somewhat reserved, even in private. I love her so much that I can't imagine living without her, but I still have trouble showing it. I always thought she loved me the same way. Maybe I was just taking her for granted. Maybe she's getting bored with me. I wish I knew. All I do know is she's paying way too much attention to Vichnia, and it's tearing me up inside. I wish we had never come here. I wish her father would come and take her away.
An odd noise roused her from her reverie. It had started out low, barely perceptible, but it had grown until it became a conspicuous distraction. Frowning, she noticed that Sunny also heard it, and looked around trying to find its source. She examined the common room herself, but not for the sound. It seemed to her everyone heard it--patrons, barmaids, bouncers, musicians, Tyco himself--and they were also searching for its source. Only Vichnia seemed oblivious, and she figured it was because she was too wrapped up in her concentration.
Sunny glanced at her. "You hear that?"
She nodded.
Baffled, Sunny stared at the ceiling. "If I didn't know any better, I'd swear it sounded like a jet."
She snapped her head up. It did sound like a jet!
By that time, the noise had become loud enough to drown out the music. The musicians stopped playing and she glanced at the stage, but Vichnia continued dancing for some moments until it dawned on her that she was performing a cappella. She ceased and looked down at them in an irritated fashion, but then she heard the roar. Her spine tingled when Vichnia jerked her head up. Though others were now watching the ceiling, she was the only one to do so immediately. Then her blood ran cold when she saw that the look on Vichnia's face was not confusion, as with everyone else, but abject fear.
From "Beast of Exmoor"
Sir Differel Van Helsing shifted her posture, but in a slow, careful manner that avoided large body movements. She had been sitting in the same position too long and her muscles had become sore, but she didn't want to call attention to herself or she might frighten off her prey. Despite the pad beneath her, the rock outcrop was too hard to be comfortable. At least there was no wind, but it had started snowing a couple of hours before. Not too heavily, but enough for the camouflage netting that covered her to be dusted like a powdered donut. Though bundled against the cold--she wore a fur-lined snorkel parka with thick leggings under her ankle-length skirt while wrapped in a blanket--she felt chilled after several hours of inactivity, and certain parts of her body, such as her face and hands, had to be either exposed or covered only by a thin garment. She couldn't use any kind of heated wrap that might melt the snow and make her look unnatural, though she wore battery-operated thermal socks under her fur-lined mukluks. On top of all that, the coffee in her thermos had grown cold, and lunch had been an unheated portable military ration consisting of a meat and cheese pocket sandwich, crackers, a nutrition bar, and trail mix. After eating it she understood why some soldiers referred to them as mystery rations and considered them inedible. Fortunately she had the foresight to bring along a few extra snacks.
She pulled an apple out of a pocket and polished it against her parka as she leaned forward and peered through the spotting scope draped in more netting. As bad as she thought her situation was, she wouldn't have traded places with the poor ewe staked out on the heath about twenty yards in front of and below her. As least it wore a thick coat of wool, but to her it looked rather miserable standing out there in the snow unable to move farther than the length of its tether. Besides which, it was meant to be bait to lure her target within range of her Weatherby Mark V .460 Magnum rifle. She realized that ammunition may have been overkill, since it had been designed to bring down rhinoceroses and elephants, but she didn't want to take any chances. No one knew what the Beast of Exmoor was, and she wanted to kill it with a single shot if possible.
She took a bite of the apple as she sat back. Since the seventies, locals had reported seeing a phantom cat haunting the Exmoor region straddling Somerset and Devon along the Bristol Channel. They described it as resembling a panther, between four and eight feet long from nose to rump, and either black, gray, or tan in color. Various theories had been proposed to explain it, including misidentification (which she considered unlikely since the locals were very familiar with the regional wildlife), a new version of the black dog myth (which she thought ridiculous since people still claimed to see black dogs), or an outright hoax (which she couldn't discount). One that she had favored at first was that it was a pet released after the passage of the 1976 Dangerous Wild Animals Act, which made it illegal for private citizens to own big cats. However, after she investigated more thoroughly, she found four pieces of evidence that convinced her otherwise.
One was the longevity of the Beast. If it was the same individual it would be at least as old as she was, and while she had no idea how long big cats usually lived in the wild, she figured twenty-two years was getting rather ancient. Another was that the Beast had been seen before 1976; in fact, local records indicated it had been observed for centuries; the seventies were just when it came to national attention. The third was it displayed an odd behavior pattern. The Beast was often blamed for dead sheep and red deer found on the moor, as well as the occasional moor pony foal or farm calf. However, roughly every seven years the number of killings sharply increased for a year or so, then dropped off; over 200 animals had been killed or disappeared between 1983 and 1984 alone. She had consulted zoologists and ethologists who were experts on big cat behavior and none of them could describe anything similar in any known species. Finally, a big cat killed its prey by biting the throat and suffocating it. When the current outbreak began, she asked Dr. LeClerc to examine a number of bodies. Most showed the telltale signs of having been killed by dogs or people, but a significant minority had had their necks broken by a powerful bite.
But if it wasn't an escaped or released big cat, she had no idea what it might be.
"Base to Differel." Aelfraed's voice came over her radio. "Base to Differel. Come in Sir Differel. Over."
She set the half-eaten apple aside. "Sir Differel here, Base. Over."
"Report, please. Over."
She smiled. Politeness was unnecessary and inefficient for radio communication, but since it was her he was speaking to, he couldn't help himself.
"All's quiet. Haven't seen a thing all day, except for a few ponies, some Devon cattle, and the Emperor of Exmoor
and its harem. Wish I had a camera." The Emperor was a red deer stag that was the largest wild animal in Britain. "What of the other posts? Over." Half a dozen other snipers had been positioned in that local area, gunning for the Beast.
"Nothing different, Madam, though LCpl. Bennings thought he saw something ninety minutes ago. Unfortunately it was too well hidden to identify. Over."
That was the perennial problem with the Beast. The BBC described it as "famous yet elusive". During the height of the '83 outbreak, Royal Marine snipers had been sent in to kill it, but whereas many of them reported seeing it, none felt a successful shot was feasible. Their commanding officer had reported that it seemed to behave with high intelligence, seemingly almost human-like at times, and that it "always moved with surrounding cover amongst hedges and woods." The attacks did decrease during that time, but increased again as soon as the Marines withdrew. She hadn't expected the Caerleon Order to fair much better, though she had hoped that better camouflage and tempting it with food would work. She began to wonder if they had become involved too late.
"Any news on the search for Patsy? Over."
"Unfortunately no, Madam, and with the storm front moving in the constabulary holds out little hope of finding her alive. Over."
She frowned as a grim mood settled in her mind. That had made the current outbreak different from all previous. There are had been four since the first confirmed sightings: 1976 as well 1983, which helped to make the Beast national news, followed by 1990, and finally the current one that had started the previous year. Unfortunately, it coincided with the invasion of the Fomorian wizard-king Grendel, and the United Kingdom had been too busy fighting for its life to worry about a cryptid. By the time Grendel had finally been defeated, the current Beast outbreak had wound down. She followed it mostly out of curiosity for the rest of the year, but was too busy rebuilding the Order to get directly involved, until five days before when Patsy Conover, a nine year old farm girl, had disappeared. Her Majesty then ordered her to deal with the situation, and while she assigned what few agents and guards had survived the invasion to help the local constables with the search, she and Mr. Holt planned and organized the hunt in the hopes of eliminating the Beast once and for all. Not that that would help little Patsy, but it might prevent any more children from being taken.
She suspected only Vlad could find her. Not for the first time she keenly felt his loss.
"What time is it? Over."
"Three, Madam. Over."
"Wait another hour, then come and collect us. Make sure you have plenty of hot food and coffee at the pub, and I think I'll take a long bath tonight. Over."
"Already on it, Madam. Over."
She grinned. That was Aelfraed, always thinking ahead.
She opened her mouth to sign off, when she spotted something creeping across the heath towards the ewe. Though the heather partially obscured it, the newly fallen snow made it stand out better than it otherwise would have.
"Stand by." She reduced the magnification on the scope to widen its field of view and swung it around as she peered through it. Once she spotted the creature, she zoomed in on it.
"Have spotted the Beast. Repeat, have spotted the Beast. It is taking the bait."
It was well within the range of the rifle. Technically she should try to get off a shot before it disappeared into deeper cover or ran off, but she decided to study it first.
"Begin recording. Over."
"Recording begun. Over."
"This is very interesting." She paused as she mentally catalogued its characteristics.
"How so? Over."
"It looks like a bloody big housecat; triangular ears on the top of the head, apple-shaped face, larger cranium, less pronounced snout, lime-green eyes. That could explain the photos and videos dismissed as showing pets. I estimate the length to be six feet; that could explain the variation in size, based on misjudgment. Color is dark gray; under different lighting conditions it could look black or tan. That could explain the color variation, and its ability to hide so well in this kind of environment.
"It's not simply a scaled-up version of a domestic feline; there is some added bulk to it, but the proportions are very close. It has rather long legs and a lanky body; more like a cheetah than a leopard, though not as extreme. This thing would be quite fast, and its bulk suggests it would be fairly powerful. I wish I had a camera." She paused again, fascinated by the sight of the phantom cat.
"Considering that we should soon have an actual body, that seems irrelevant, Madam. Over."
She smirked as she snapped back to reality. "Yes, of course. It's getting closer; I'm going to try for a shot. Over."
She slowly reached down beside herself, pulled off the cover, and picked up the rifle as she carefully rose to one knee. Raising it to her shoulder and steadying it on the thigh of the supporting leg, she sighted the Beast through the telescopic site as she thumbed off the safety. It didn't have the magnification of the spotting scope, but at that distance she didn't need it.
"I'll wait for it to emerge from the shrubs, to get a clear shot, unless it decides to move off. Over."
"Understood. Over."
It emerged from the heather into the open ground in front of the rock outcrop in a full crouch. The ewe saw it and started bleating as it tried to run away. It paused; she centered the crosshairs between its eyes. It stood stock still, staring at the helpless farm animal as if readying itself for a charge, and she gradually put pressure on the trigger to fire.
Then it stood up to its full height and looked around. Puzzled, she glanced up from the scope as she eased off the trigger. "What the..." It almost looked like it was searching for something.
"Madam?"
"Stand by." The Beast sauntered out into the open, paused and gazed about, then started prowling again. Did it suspect a trap? she wondered. It came within a fathom of the frantic sheep. It stared straight at it for a moment, then ignored it as it walked past towards the outcrop.
"Bloody hell. It's not interested in the bait."
"Maybe it has already eaten?"
"Perhaps, but I assume not. It's definitely hunting something, just not the ewe. It's coming towards me."
"Shoot it, Differel, before it gets too close."
She looked through the sight again, her finger on the trigger, but the cat didn't come straight for her, and it casted about in a leisurely fashion.
She raised her head. "I don't believe it's hunting me either. I don't think it even knows I'm here."
"Don't take any chances. Protect yourself."
He was right, of course, and yet... "No, something's wrong. I think we've made a mistake."
"How so?"
Before she had a chance to respond she heard a hiss behind her, like a muted calliope whistle. She pivoted, rising to a squat, and threw off the blanket and netting. Further up the outcrop, no more than fifteen feet away, sat a monstrosity. Looking like a skinned cat, it was a dull brick-red covered in dark reddish-brown squamous patches, with six legs, and two tails that lashed back and forth like cracking whips. It had a single yellow eye just above the bridge of its snout, its teeth were fused upper and lower bony plates that resembled chisels, and its ears were thin and sharply pointed. In lieu of whiskers, however, fan-shaped structures sprouted from its upper lip, its cheeks, and its eyebrows.
Oh, bugger! "We have made a mistake. I'm staring down a Cat From Mars."
"St. George defend us!"
"I certainly hope so, because these four-sixty rounds won't do a bloody bit of good unless I hit it in the eye or the open mouth. I knew I should've brought one of Vlad's anti-material pistols!" Their 20mm shells would have blown a hole in the Martian Cat big enough to drive a lorry through.
"Tell Mr. Holt to get out here with an L82 ASAP. I'll try to--"
It leapt at her. She swung the rifle up and fired before it slammed into her. It threw her onto her back; the spotting scope went flying and she cracked her head on the limestone rock. She saw stars, h
eard Aelfraed calling her name, and then oblivion sucked her down.
"Madam!" Aelfraed shouted into the microphone. "Sir Differel! Differel!" Only silence came out of the speakers.
"Shouting won't do any good!" he heard Mrs. Widget say behind him.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to be calm. "I am well aware of that, Dear Sister."
"Don't 'dear sister' me, Brother Mine. We can't waste any time, we need to get going."
He turned and flashed a knowing smile with a raised eyebrow. She was fishing a Parker Hale PDW submachine gun out of the weapons trunk. "'We', Madam?"
She inserted a 180-round drum magazine into the weapon. "It will take too long to collect the other snipers or recall our people engaged in the search." She cocked the gun and eyed him over her granny glasses. "Differel may not have much time. We're the only ones who can reach her quickly."
He nodded. "Mr. Holt."
Differel's Master-at-Arms came in from one of the public house's backrooms carrying a large rifle case. For a moment, he reminded Aelfraed of an American Roaring Twenties gangster.
"I'm on it," he said as he placed the case on a table. With him was Maggie King. Differel had hired her six months ago, ostensibly to be her lady's maid, but actually she was training her to be her double. She did bear a remarkable resemble to their mistress, almost mirror-perfect, but her hair was brassy blonde and her eyes sky-blue, and she had a more pronounced bosom.
Not that he paid attention to those sorts of things.
"I'd like to come, too," she announced. Holt appeared to ignore her, but Mrs. Widget gave her a concerned stare.
"My Dear," he replied, "we appreciate your loyalty, but you haven't completed your training yet, and there will be considerable danger."
She gave him a determined look. Another way in which she was exactly like Differel was that she was very strong-willed. "She saved my life, Aelfraed. If there's anything I can do to help, I have to try."
"We could use her help," Holt remarked.
He smiled. "Of course, we completely understand. Would you give her a hand, Helena?"
Mrs. Widget removed a British Army L92A1 submachine gun and handed to her along with a 100-round Beta C-Mag drum magazine.
Meanwhile, Holt removed a British Army L82A1 anti-material sniper rifle from the case. At nearly five long and weighing over thirty pounds, with a recoil like the kick from an angry mule, he was probably the only Order operative who could handle a monster like that, aside from the late Vlad. It was based on the American Barrett M82 and was designed to be used against unarmoured or lightly armoured vehicles, crew-served weapons, ammunition