Supernatural: E-Book

Tim Waggoner

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A brand new Supernatural novel inspired by the record-breaking show starring Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles.Sam and Dean Winchester have spent their lives on the road, battling every kind of supernatural threat. Over the years, after dozens of bloody adventures, they have faced everything from the yellow-eyed demon that killed their mother to vampires, ghosts, shapeshifters, angels and fallen gods. With the help of allies—both human and supernatural—they've discovered that every threat they vanquish opens a new door for evil to enter in.Sam and Dean travel to Indiana, to investigate a murder that could be the work of a werewolf. But they soon discover that werewolves aren't the only things going bump in the night. The town is also home to a pack of jakkals who worship the god Anubis: carrion-eating scavengers who hate werewolves. With the help of Garth, the Winchester brothers must stop the werewolf–jakkal turf war before it engulfs the town—and before the god Anubis is awakened…A brand-new Supernatural novel, set during season 12, that reveals a previously unseen adventure for the Winchester brothers, from the hit TV series!

Leseprobe

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

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Children of Anubis

Tim Waggoner

SUPERNATURAL created by Eric Kripke

Titan Books

Supernatural: Children of AnubisPrint edition ISBN: 9781785653261E-book edition ISBN: 9781785653285

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

First edition: April 201910 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 wanted 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.”

“Sure does,” Sam said. He slipped his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “Looks like that coffee is going to have to wait.”

“How far away from here is Bridge Valley?”

“I don’t know. A few hours, I guess,” Sam said.

Dean stood. “Well, if we’re hitting the road, I’m getting some pie to go.”

* * *

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this, Grandfather.”

Fifteen-year-old Greg Monsour stood next to a wooden table on which a tall, lean figure lay. His head was shaped like a canine’s, with a long snout and high pointed ears. The man—although Greg had trouble thinking of him as such— was wrapped in graying strips of cloth from head to toe. This was fine with Greg. He had no desire to see what was beneath the bandages.

His grandfather and grandmother stood at the foot of the table, both smiling encouragement. Nathan and Muriel Monsour were both in their early sixties and short—Nathan only an inch over five feet, Muriel a couple inches under. Their hair was so white it almost glowed, especially when compared to the brown skin of their Egyptian heritage. They were both thin, almost to the point of looking unhealthy, but that was a family trait, as was their height—or lack of it.

“Our people always look hungry to remind us of where we came from,” Nathan had once told him. Greg wasn’t sure what he’d meant by that, but he’d never worked up the courage to ask. His family was big on tradition—it was practically a religion with them—and one thing you didn’t do was question tradition. Elders must be shown respect and their wishes obeyed in all matters, the family must remain separate from the world of humans as much as possible, and the rituals that sustained Anubis must be performed with absolute precision, lest something go horribly wrong. Greg didn’t see any harm in asking questions, though. How else were you supposed to learn? But the Monsour way was simple: keep your mouth shut, listen, and do what you were told. It drove him nuts sometimes, and he couldn’t wait until the day he was an Elder. Maybe then he’d be able to change the rules, or at least loosen them a little.

Nathan wore a long-sleeved white button shirt, khaki slacks, and black shoes. He always kept his shirt collar buttoned as a nod to formality. Greg thought he’d be happier wearing a suit and tie all the time—if Muriel would allow it. She wore a flannel shirt, jeans, and sandals, and she kept her hair back in a ponytail. She was less rigid about tradition than Nathan, at least in some things—like how the family dressed—but not, however, on what they were about to do. What he was about do.

“Your mind is wandering,” Muriel said. Her voice was gently chiding, but a stern look had come into her eyes. Greg broke off his musings and forced himself to concentrate.

The three of them stood in a small room that, aside from the table, contained shelves of stone containers, all of which were labeled with hieroglyphics. Greg’s ancient Egyptian wasn’t as good as his grandparents would’ve liked, but he knew enough to identify what was inside the jars. More or less. A stone column was located in a corner of the room, well away from the table and its occupant. A small fire burned in a recessed area atop the column, heating beneath a copper bowl containing a bubbling mixture. The room already smelled of age—mildew and wood rot—and the brazier added a miasma of exotic spices that made Greg think of a funky little shop where old hippies sold “all-natural” health supplements. He was familiar with the smell. Normally, the entire family attended the Rite of Renewal, and Greg had done so since he was an infant. But today was different. Today he was conducting the rite all by himself for the first time, which was why Nathan and Muriel—his teachers—were in attendance. This was partly to keep him from becoming too nervous, but it was also a precaution. No need for the rest of the family to be endangered. If he screwed up, only the three of them would die.

No pressure, he thought.

“Is the amaranthine prepared?” Nathan asked, intoning the words in a solemn voice.

Greg resisted the urge to glance toward the brazier and double-check. He was supposed to show confidence.

“I have to add the final ingredient.”

He was so nervous his voice cracked on the last word, but his grandparents acted like they didn’t notice.

“Then do so,” Muriel said. Her tone was more encouraging than Nathan’s, but her gaze was just as serious.

“Yes, Grandmother.”

Greg thought of his first lesson in conducting the rite, delivered by his grandparents when he was fourteen.

“Why do I have to learn the rite?” he’d asked. “Everyone else knows how to do it.”

Too late, he’d feared his question would offend Nathan’s sense of tradition, but he’d only smiled and said, “Everyone in the family must know how to perform the rite. What if some ofus are incapacitated? What about when we die? No matter what, the rite must be performed, once a month, during the cycle of the full moon. It is the jakkals’ sacred duty and our great honor.”

Greg walked to the shelves and opened a polished wooden box. Inside, a bronze dagger lay on black velvet. Hieroglyphs were etched into the metal, and although the light in the storeroom wasn’t especially strong, the symbols seemed to glimmer. He removed the Blade of Life Everlasting, gripped the handle with both hands, and pressed it flat against his heart, point upward. He then crossed to the brazier, taking ten measured steps. Why it had to be ten, he didn’t know. Would the rite fail if he took nine steps or eleven? It seemed like such a small detail, but his grandparents had drilled into him the importance of getting every single detail of the rite correct. He did not want to disappoint them.

When he reached the brazier, he stopped and held the blade over the bubbling amaranthine with his right hand, keeping the left pressed over his heart. He spoke a series of words in ancient Egyptian, doing his best to pronounce each distinctly.

“We praise you, Great Anubis, son of Nephthys and Set, Lord of the Sacred Land, Protector of the Dead, Guardian of Eternal Shadow. You, who inhabit the borderland between life and death, darkness and light, dreams and waking. We brew for you this holy elixir so that you might drink deep and continue your long slumber until such time as your people once more have need of your guidance, strength, and savagery. We pray you find our offering worthy, Dread Lord, that your eyes remain closed, yourheart silent, your limbs still, until the next cycle begins.”

Despite his determination to conduct the rite properly, he feared he rushed the words. His grandparents didn’t say anything. He held his left hand over the amaranthine, then pressed the edge of the knife to his palm.

This was going to hurt.

He gritted his teeth—which, without his being aware of it, had sharpened—and drew the blade slowly across his palm, slicing through skin and deep into the muscle beneath. He made a fist and let his blood run down into the amaranthine. The mixture turned black, and a coppery tang mingled with the smell of weird spices.

The blood streaming from his fist slowed to a trickle and then stopped altogether. He opened his hand. There was no sign of the wound, and no blood on his hand either. His body had reabsorbed it as he healed. Pleased and relieved that he hadn’t messed up anything yet, he returned the Blade of Life Everlasting to its case. There was no blood on the dagger. He wasn’t sure if his body had reabsorbed it or if the blade had drunk it as payment for its service. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Then he returned to the brazier and lifted the copper bowl containing the now-completed amaranthine. He felt his flesh burn, but he forced himself to ignore the sensation. Pushing through pain was part of the ritual, and he would heal soon enough. All he wanted to do now was finish the last part and get this over with.

He carried the amaranthine to the table. There was an imperceptible gap between the cloth strips over the figure’s mouth. He lifted the bowl to the gap and slowly poured the mixture into the mummy’s mouth. Anubis remained still as death, but Greg—with his people’s enhanced hearing—could detect the soft sounds of swallowing. When the last of the amaranthine was gone, Greg let out a relieved sigh, but then crimson light began to glow through the bandages covering Anubis’s eyes. The sight terrified Greg. During all his lessons in attending to Anubis, he’d never seen the god do anything like this. Something was wrong. “Grandfather, Grandmother, what’s happening?” he cried.

“Step away from the table,” Nathan said. He spoke softly, and for the first time in Greg’s life, he heard fear in his grandfather’s voice. “Before Anubis—”

Nathan’s eyes went wide, his mouth fell open, and he transformed. His teeth became fangs, his fingers lengthened into claws, his ears grew pointed, and short golden fur sprouted on his cheeks and chin. But his eyes—which normally would have been a bright amber—glowed with a strange crimson light. There was no sign of Greg’s grandfather in those eyes.

Nathan rushed to Greg’s side, moving fast as lightning, and grabbed the boy’s wrist in a grip like iron. Startled, Greg let go of the empty bowl. It hit the mummy’s chest and fell to the floor. Greg tried to pull free, but his grandfather’s grip was too strong. His touch was so cold, it burned. The pain intensified, becoming so bad that Greg was tempted to transform and gnaw off his hand. Maybe he’d grow a new hand, maybe he wouldn’t. So long as the pain stopped, he didn’t care one way or another.

Greg began to transform out of reflex, but his change came slower to him. Despite Greg’s youth, his grandfather was an Elder, and far more powerful. Jakkals could heal almost any wound, except those caused by gold, but injuries inflicted by one of their own people took far longer to heal. There was no way he could survive an attack by Nathan, and he knew it. At first he couldn’t understand why Nathan had suddenly become a mindless, vicious animal, but then he realized what must have happened. He was no longer looking into his grandfather’s eyes, but rather those of Anubis. He’d done something wrong during the Rite of Renewal, and Anubis had partially awakened. The god had possessed Nathan and was using the Elder to defend himself against what, in his dreamlike state, he viewed as an attack.

Nathan raised his free hand, his claws still lengthening, but before he could strike Greg, Muriel was suddenly there. She backhanded her husband so hard that his jaw broke with a sharp crack. His head snapped back, and he collapsed to the floor, stunned.

Muriel quickly moved past Greg and lowered her head, placing her mouth close to Anubis’s ear. She then spoke in ancient Egyptian.

“Great Dark One, return to your slumber. All is well.”

Greg looked at Anubis’s cloth-wrapped body. The crimson light emanating from the god’s eyes dimmed, and his chest ceased its rise and fall. His eyes went dark once more, and his lungs stopped working. With a shaking hand, Greg touched the god’s bandaged wrist, but he felt no pulse. Anubis had returned to his slumber.

Now that Greg was free of Nathan’s grasp, he inspected the flesh where his grandfather had grabbed him. The skin on his wrist was dry and leathery, almost as if he had aged in the place where Nathan—or rather, Anubis—had touched him. He expected to see the skin return to normal as his body’s supernatural healing capabilities went to work, but seconds passed and his wrist looked no better. This isn’t good, he thought, fighting to keep a surge of panic at bay.

“Don’t worry,” Muriel said. “Anubis was not fully awakened, and so was not at his full strength. Your wrist will heal, although more slowly than you’re used to. You’ll be fine.”

His grandmother’s words reassured him.

A moment later, Nathan groaned and rose stiffly to his feet. His features were human once again, and his eyes no longer glowed crimson. His lower jaw tilted too far to the right. He reached up and put it back into place with a sickening click. He opened and closed his mouth experimentally, and then smiled.

“I’m all right,” he said.

Muriel stepped to his side, and he put his arms on her waist.

“We’re lucky Anubis didn’t fully awaken,” she said. “Otherwise, he might’ve taken full control of you, and if that happened—”

“You wouldn’t have been able to knock me out so easily,” Nathan said, smiling.

Muriel smiled back, but Greg could feel the tension between them. They’d all just had a very close call, and they knew it.

Anubis existed in a twilight state, neither fully alive nor fully dead, and when he was awakened, the god himself didn’t rise to fight. Instead, he possessed a vessel, and when the time came, the jakkals willingly, even joyfully, consented to be used by their god. But no one could resist the ancient one’s power, and he could take control of anyone he wished, regardless of whether they gave him permission. Anubis could’ve just as easily possessed him or Muriel as he had Nathan, and there was nothing they could’ve done to stop him. Greg wondered what it would be like to have the god’s spirit take over his body. He’d been taught that serving the god as a vessel was the greatest honor a jakkal could hope for, but Greg found the idea terrifying. Did you lose consciousness when Anubis took over, or were you instead aware the entire time, a passive presence in your own body, able to do no more than observe? Either way sounded awful.

“I’m so sorry, Grandfather,” Greg said. “I didn’t know that could happen.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Nathan said. “Mistakes happen. It likely occurred because you mispronounced a word or two of the invocation.”

“Or you didn’t let the amaranthine brew long enough,” Muriel said. “The Rite of Renewal is more art than science. But you did well enough for your first try.”

“That’s right.” Nathan clapped Greg on the shoulder. “You’ll get it right next time.”

Greg knew his grandparents were trying to make him feel better, but it wasn’t working. He looked down at the slumbering form of his people’s god and feared that the next time he tried to conduct the rite by himself, it would go even worse.

THREE

As the Impala cruised past the Welcome to Bridge Valley sign, Dean turned off the radio—a classic rock station, naturally—and sat up a bit straighter in the driver’s seat. Regardless of what they suspected was happening in a given case, they needed to be hyper-aware of their surroundings. When you were a hunter, you had to be ready to shift gear at a moment’s notice. If you couldn’t do that, you wouldn’t last very long. So while the news report sounded like they had a werewolf pack on their hands, they had to remain open to other possibilities—which meant paying attention.

They’d stopped at a rest area a few miles outside town and changed into what Dean thought of as their monkey suits. Even after all this time using their FBI-agents-investigating-a-mysterious-death bit, Dean still hadn’t gotten used to wearing these clothes. The shirt collar always itched, and the pants felt a little tight. He wondered if they’d shrunken a little the last time they’d been dry-cleaned. Without realizing it, he removed one hand from the steering wheel and tugged at his pants, as if trying to loosen them.

Sam smiled. “What’s wrong? All that pie catching up to you?”