21 The Hunt

In their respective animal forms, John and Mingan slipped through the shadows, avoiding the lights of the house and the occasional campfire of the ranch's seasonal inhabitants.

Neither would escape notice if seen. John's appearance was that of a slender, shaggy sort of horse, large and over thin. If the ranch's inhabitants didn't assume one of their own horses had escaped and make chase, they'd likely wonder where the animal's master was on this clear summer night.

A flash of teeth and glowing blue-green eyes reminded Mingan that John's bestial form was no mere horse. Those teeth were fanged and sharp, as were his hooves. He was a carnivore, despite the similarities he had to the modern horse in shape and size. John raised his snout and huffed, scenting the air.

Mingan fell back and let John take the lead. Though Mingan knew the scent of their prey, John knew his lands. He would recognize if there were anything out of place. He nipped lightly at John's seaweed feathered fetlocks. The flame-eyed faerie beast turned and returned the nip, catching the edge of a gray ear. Mingan yipped, though it wasn't enough to draw blood. John, the faerie horse, snorted and grinned with fanged teeth before turning back to the path.

It was a game trail, used by deer which, John, in his way, resembled. It was far too narrow and winding for Mingan's tastes and he leapt from the path and into the brush. He delighted in scaring sleeping animals and tearing his way through the undergrowth, catching scent of a campfire in the distance. He yipped out an alert to John and galloped through the trees with reckless abandon, pleased he'd likely find their prey first.

The horse-like fae surprised him, appearing just below on a path. He was all but invisible, his seaweed-like hide blending well in the foliage in the darkness. The sound of his hooves was a light as Mingan's own padded paws in the brush. The only thing that had truly alerted Mingan to his companion's presence was the intense smell of swamp and earthy decay that followed the Kelpie.

The drunken laughter of the men they sought lead them on. John took the upwind position, knowing well the unease his scent would cause, though the men, as drunk as they were, were unlikely to be conscious of the change.

Mingan slipped in close, identifying weapons. Those nearest the weapons would be dealt with first, though he found it hard to resist going after the big man. He was the farthest across the campsite, propped up against a tree, half dozing as the other two laughed and talked, sharing raucous stories.

No, he would have to save the fat man for last. He was the leader, the eldest, the one who could have stopped it all. He was responsible. Mingan let out a low growl, and the eyes of the two men around the fire turned toward the sound.

"What the fuck was that?" said the skinny man, fumbling for his rifle. John was on him before he could grip the gun, fangs on his throat.

Mingan leapt into action, catching the youngest, the one they'd called Roy by the wrist, adding insult to injury. It was the same hand Mingan had shot earlier in the day. The boy wailed in pain, batting at Mingan with his good arm. Mingan released him and went for the other hand, snapping at fingers, catching and breaking two of them. The young man scrambled back, clutching at the bloodied mess of his hands in shock before Mingan turned to find the fat man rising.

He'd climbed to his feet, a rifle Mingan had not accounted for, leveled unsteadily in their direction. Mingan leapt, growling, drawing the fat man's attention, dodging and swerving as John pulled long ropes of intestines from the skinny man, who, somehow was still sputtering and gurgling despite the damage done to his throat.

The fat man's drinking habit was in Mingan's favor, and he was able to quickly dodge a shot and go for his arm, wrenching the gun loose. It discharged as it hit the ground and Mingan felt the burn of the buckshot in his hide. It was close range, and even with his thick fur and healing abilities, he'd be feeling it for days, assuming the injuries weren't debilitating.

Now, though, his focus was on one thing. He'd knocked the fat man on his back and stood, straddling him, enjoying the way the pale, red mottled flesh of the man's jowls quivered in fear. He was begging, pleading, having seen what John and Mingan had done to his younger companions.

The words were lost on Mingan, and he only curled his lips to snarl, the burn of his injured flank and the blood working its way down his hind leg making the rage he felt all the more volatile. He snapped first at the man's face, ripping his nose off. He could have gone for the throat, could have taken the man out in one motion. The fat man didn't deserve an easy death. No, Mingan would disable the fat man and then leave him to John.

John was not a gentle beast. He fed off the pain and fear of his prey. He also had a taste for the soft belly and delighted in eating those tender organs, slowly, torturous while the prey watched.