Supernatural--Children of Anubis

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also Available from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Children of Anubis

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS:

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  Supernatural: War of the Sons

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  Supernatural: Heart of the Dragon

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  Supernatural: Coyote’s Kiss

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  Supernatural: Fresh Meat

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  Supernatural: Carved in Flesh

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  Supernatural: The Usual Sacrifices

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  Supernatural: Joyride

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  Children of Anubis

  Tim Waggoner

  SUPERNATURAL created by Eric Kripke

  Titan Books

  Supernatural: Children of Anubis

  Print edition ISBN: 9781785653261

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781785653285

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: April 2019

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © 2019 Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

  SUPERNATURAL and all related characters and elements are trademarks of and © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

  WB SHIELD: ™ & © WBEI. (s19)

  TIBO41706

  Cover imagery: Cover photograph © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

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  With the exception of the characters from the Supernatural series, this publication, including any of its contents or references, has not been prepared, approved, endorsed or licensed by any third party, corporation or product referenced herein.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  This one’s for D.J. Qualls. Party on!

  HISTORIAN’S NOTE

  This novel is set after the Season 12 episode “The One You’ve Been Waiting For.”

  ONE

  Clay Fuller ran through the dark woods, arms raised before him to protect his face. Branches slapped against his bare forearms, stinging and drawing blood. He barely registered the pain. He was too focused on surviving the next few minutes.

  His heart pounded in his ears like thunder. The only other thing he could hear was the thrashing of leaves as he dodged tree trunks and tried not to get his feet tangled in the underbrush. If he tripped and fell, he was a dead man. But if he slowed down, even a little, he would also die.

  Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, he thought. It was far from a comforting observation.

  It was only early November in Indiana, but the night air felt winter-cold. The trees around him formed a canopy that blocked much of the moonlight. His body shook, but whether from cold, terror, both, he didn’t know. Something else he didn’t know: which direction he was running in. He could be running deeper into the woods, and if that was the case, he was well and truly screwed.

  He kept running, but the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, and his legs felt like heavy iron weights. Each step became an effort. Despite his determination, he started to slow down.

  No! he thought. No, no, no, no!

  He couldn’t hear them coming after him, but he could feel them. The back of his neck tingled, as if someone—many someones—were watching him. He caught glimpses of swift movements at the edges of his vision. But whenever he turned to look he saw nothing.

  He realized then that the going was becoming easier. The trees were fewer and farther apart here, and the underbrush was sparser. He was coming to the edge of the woods. The relief was so strong that it nearly brought him to his knees. He pushed on, no longer feeling weary. He was exhilarated, and his body now seemed light as the air itself. He was going to make it! All he had to do was get out of the woods, and it would all be over. He’d be free, and more importantly, alive.

  The ground sloped upward, and he could see an edge of black asphalt lining the ridge at the top of the hill. A road. He had no idea which one, but it didn’t matter. Out of the woods was out of the woods. He’d be safe once he reached the road, and he’d pick a direction and start walking. Someone had to come by eventually.

  He was halfway up the hill when the first one attacked. He caught a dark blur of motion out of the corner of his left eye, and then he felt a hard impact on his left shoulder. The blow staggered him, but he managed to remain on his feet. An instant later the pain hit him, a white-hot agony that made him clench his teeth and draw in a hissing, pained breath. He took a quick glance at his shoulder and saw his shirt had been shredded, and blood poured from a series of deep cuts in his flesh. There was no sign of the creature that had tagged him. It seemed to have disappeared, but he knew it was still there, along with the others. They could bring him down at any time, so why were…

  Then he understood. They were playing with him.

  Terror brought with it a fresh burst of adrenaline. He attacked the slope with grim determination. This was his last chance. He saw nothing this time, but he felt an impact on his right calf, and the leg crumpled beneath him. He landed hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Fire blazed to life in his calf. He didn’t want to look down and see what had been done to his leg. Besides, he didn’t need to look to know how serious the wound was, given the amount of blood that had already filled his sneaker. The wound would be deep, skin torn, the muscle exposed, shredded.

  His surge of energy waned as quickly as it came, leaving him weak and shaky. He wan
ted nothing more than to close his eyes and rest. But if he did, he’d never open them again. He gritted his teeth and began crawling. He had almost reached the road when he heard growling. Soft at first, but quickly growing louder. It came from multiple directions—his right, his left, behind him—and he knew the hunt was over.

  They stepped into his view then. There were three: two males, one female. At first glance they appeared human, but then he noticed their bestial teeth, curved claws, and animalistic eyes—eyes that shone with savage anticipation. Their posture was an eerie blend of human and animal. They stood on two legs, but they were hunched over, heads thrust forward, nostrils flaring as they scented the air. They held their claws at the ready, fingers twitching.

  Clay had never been a religious person. He’d never thought much about what, if anything, might lie beyond this life. He’d figured that if there was any sort of afterlife, he’d find out about it after he died. But now, looking up at these three monsters—their snarling mouths dripping with frothy saliva—he hoped there wasn’t any life after death. If there was a Heaven and Hell, he had a good idea which one he was going to end up in.

  The trio of monsters rushed toward him. When he screamed, the sound could be heard for miles.

  * * *

  Amos Boyd rumbled down Brewer Road in his pickup, the words Boyd Fix-It painted on the doors along with a smiling cartoon fish wearing a baseball cap and holding a wrench. He was a rail-thin man in his sixties—a widower these last three years—and he spent most of his time working. It kept him busy, so he didn’t think about how much he missed his Emily. And, if he was being honest with himself, he still took on handyman work and odd jobs mostly so he had people to talk to. It could get lonely in his little house on the outskirts of Bridge Valley.

  Amos had just finished dinner at Biddie’s diner and was headed to the neighboring town of Cradock to install a new sink for a client. He didn’t mind working late. He liked to keep busy, and besides, what the hell else did he have to do? Instead of taking the highway, he’d opted to take Brewer Road. Brewer ran through a large stretch of woods, and he took this route whenever he could, especially in fall, when the leaves became a riot of oranges, reds, and browns. He drove with the driver’s window partially down, enjoying the cool night breeze. Emily had loved the outdoors. He always felt close to her again when he drove through here, almost as if she was sitting in the passenger seat, smiling at the beauty surrounding them.

  He was thinking about his wife and hoping that wherever she was, she was thinking about him too, when a man flew out of the woods and landed on the road in front of him. Amos jammed his foot down on the brake and gripped the steering wheel tighter as his truck skidded to a stop.

  “What the hell?”

  Amos wasn’t aware that he’d spoken. His nerves were jangling from shock and he couldn’t think clearly. He didn’t immediately question why the man had come flying out of the woods as if shot from a catapult. Nor did he wonder why the man didn’t stand up but instead lay on his back, looking up at the sky, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to speak but couldn’t manage to get any words out. He did notice the man’s clothes were torn to shreds and that he was covered from head to toe in some kind of thick red paint, but Amos had no idea where the man had found so much paint in the woods, let alone how he’d gotten it all over himself.

  His brain kicked into gear then, and he realized he was looking at a severely injured man that had jumped—no, had been thrown—from the woods onto the road. He was about to dial 911 when three figures darted out of the woods. They moved with a swift grace, and at first Amos thought they were some kind of large animals: wolves or mountain lions. But when the three gathered around the fallen man and were illuminated in the wash of headlights, Amos saw that they were people. Sort of. Blood dripped from fangs and long claws—the man’s blood, no doubt—and they stood like animals prepared to attack. They fixed their gazes on Amos, beast eyes gleaming, lips drawn back to more fully display their teeth. They growled low in their throats, a deep, dangerous warning. This is our prey. Keep your distance.

  Amos dropped his phone on the seat next to him, opened the glove box, and removed his Smith & Wesson revolver. He opened the driver’s side door and climbed out so he could get a better shot at his targets. He stepped to the front of his vehicle and raised his weapon.

  “Get the hell away from him!”

  Amos’s mouth and throat were dry. His words came out as more of a croak than a command, but since he was the one holding the gun, he figured it didn’t matter.

  The three lunatics continued growling, but while the men remained still, the woman started walking toward him. No, not walking, slinking, moving with the fluid grace of an animal. Amos was about to warn her to stay back or he’d shoot, but then he saw her fangs and claws— really saw them this time—and her inhuman, hungry eyes fixed on him.

  Without thinking, he fired three rounds in quick succession. One in the shoulder, one in the stomach, and one in the chest. She made small oof sounds as each round slammed into her, but while blood blossomed from each wound, there wasn’t as much as there should’ve been.

  The woman’s bestial smile was hideous, and she made a snuffling canine sound that Amos realized was laughter. She continued toward him, but one of the males let out a growl and she stopped. She gnashed her sharp teeth, her claws clicking together as her hands clenched and opened, clenched and opened, as if it was taking all her will not to rip out his throat.

  They stood like that for a while longer—the woman snarling, Amos aiming his gun at her—and then he fired once more. The round missed the woman, and then, moving faster than his eyes could track, she spun around and raced back to her companions. She plunged a clawed hand into the wounded man’s chest—causing him to cry out one final time—and removed his still-beating heart in a thick spray of blood. And then the woman and the two men disappeared into the woods, leaving Amos standing on the road, gun still raised, body trembling, a fresh corpse lying only a few feet away.

  TWO

  “Dude, I still can’t believe I killed Hitler!”

  Sam took a quick look around the small diner to see if anyone had overheard Dean. There were six other people present—a mother and her two young children, a couple in their seventies, and a brown-uniformed delivery driver—but only the mother glanced in their direction. Sam gave her a sheepish smile and shrugged. She frowned then turned away.

  “Inside voice,” Sam said to his brother, but Dean only grinned, still hyped from the case they’d just finished. Or maybe he was excited about the slice of pie sitting on the table before him. It was something called Razzleberry Delight, a multi-layered fruit-filled, cream-topped dessert that looked like a diabetic’s worst nightmare. The other customers were all eating slices of pie too, from traditional favorites like apple and coconut cream to more… interesting creations like candied bacon and jalapeno or cotton candy and butterscotch swirl. Sky-High Pies supposedly served the best pies for a thousand miles—at least, that’s what their slogan claimed. Sam had opted for a safer choice—pecan— and he had to admit it was damn good. Maybe the best he’d ever had. Everyone seemed to be enjoying their desserts, especially Dean, who was already on his second piece of what Sam thought of as death in a pie tin.

  After dealing with the Thule in Columbus, Dean had insisted they celebrate their victory over the Nazi necromancers by visiting Sky-High Pies, and while Sam had been reluctant to come here at first, he was glad they had, if for no other reason than it was nice to do something normal after their last case.

  They continued eating in silence for a time. Dean put the last forkful of Razzleberry Delight into his mouth, closing his eyes and sighing.

  “So what’s the verdict?” Sam asked. A few bites of his pie were still left, but he wasn’t sure he could finish them. If he couldn’t get them down, Dean would.

  Without opening his eyes, Dean held up a finger. He finished chewing, swallowed, then opened his eyes and
smiled.

  “Best. Pie. Ever.”

  “Better than Biggerson’s?”

  Dean’s smile fell away and his expression became reflective.

  “That’s a tough one.” He thought for a moment, and then said, “Sky-High Pies is better.”

  Dean glanced down at the remaining pecan pie on Sam’s plate. Without asking, he began eating.

  Sam smiled. Their lives were often chaotic—if not downright insane—and it was little things like Dean’s love of pie that helped counter some of the craziness. It was such a small, normal thing, but that was what made it so comforting, especially after a case like the last one. It was important that they paused to appreciate everyday pleasures, like a good piece of pie.

  “You know what would go good after this pie?” Dean asked.

  “More pie?” Sam asked.

  Dean grinned. “You aren’t wrong, but I was thinking about a cup of coffee. There’s a little diner about thirty miles from here called Josephine’s, which is supposed to have the best coffee in the state. Maybe we could swing by there and—”

  Sam’s phone buzzed, cutting Dean off. He had an email alert. Sam had set up search engines to alert him whenever a news item fitting the right parameters was posted somewhere. This message was one such alert.

  Dean’s expression became serious. Time to get back to work. “What is it? Another case?”

  “Maybe,” Sam said. “It’s a news story from Bridge Valley, Indiana.”

  Sam went on to tell Dean about how several days ago a truck driver came across the scene of a mutilation murder involving three people who “acted like animals” and who’d taken their victim’s heart. “The local sheriff said he suspects it might be the work of some kind of cult,” Sam said.

  “The sheriff’s an idiot,” Dean said. “If you’re talking animal people who steal hearts, you’re talking werewolves. And it sounds like it might be a pack.”