Blood Country: Honeymoon from Hell, #2

To the Fans of Marco and Amanda.

Because you asked for this.

Also by Declan Finn (In Order):

Non-fiction

For All their Wars are Merry:  An Examination of Irish Rebel Songs * A Philosophy for Living  (With Dr. John Konecsni) * Pius History

Fiction

Clerical Error  (With Dr. John Konecsni) *  Sad Puppies Bite Back (A Parody) * On Tiber’s Edge: A Land & Sea novel (with Blaine Lee Pardoe)

The Last Survivors

Codename: Winterborn * Codename: Unsub

MurderCon

It was only on Stun! * Set to Kill

The Pius Trilogy

A Pius Man:  A Holy Thriller (#1) * A Pius Legacy: A Political Thriller (#2) * A Pius Stand: A Global Thriller (#3)

Miller and Williams

Too Secret Service (#1) * Dances With Werewolves (#2) *Night of the Assassins (#3)

Love At First Bite

Honor at Stake (#1) *Demons are Forever (#2)* Live and Let Bite (#3) * Good to the Last Drop (#4)

Honeymoon from Hell

The Neck Romancer (#1) * Blood Country (#2) * Wyverns Never Die (#3) *Saint & Monsters (#4) * Fae’d To Black (#5)

s

Saint Tommy NYPD

Hell Spawn (#1) * Death Cult (#2) *Infernal Affairs (#3) *City of Shadows (#4) * Crusader (#5) * Deus Vult (#6) * Coven (#7) * Hussar (#8) * Destiny (#9) *  Lightbringer (#10) * Dark Web (#11)*  Blue Saint (#12)

White Ops

White Ops (#1) * Politics Kills (#2) * Main Street DOA (#3) Gathering Storm (#4) * Eye of the Storm (#5)

Chapter 1: Playing in the Sandbox

Merle Kraft called Incoming! as another blast of white-hot energy came in. It cut through the air with a streak, though it didn’t come in as fast as a grenade. They could see it coming. The problem was, it was harder to escape.

The white orb slammed into the mountain above Merle and his team. Despite it being as large as a grenade, it exploded like a mortar around, ripping into the rock and sending boulders down on top of them.

Thank God the idiots don’t have any aim. Otherwise they would blow through our rock cover or shoot the mountain pass out from under us, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing we could do about it.

Merle and his people had been sent to the Sandbox once more in response to reports that jihadis were trying to shoot down practically anyone in their general vicinity. There were reports of growing vampire activity, plus other monsters.

Merle had found mostly jihadis with supernatural weapons. Yay.

George Berkley, the team were-puppy, had already been sent down to circle around the pass. The shape shifter was a big guy, with a good-sized furry alter ego, but the jihadis were more interested in target practice in the dark than situational awareness. The other members of Merle’s SpecOps team would have followed, but only George’s supernatural strength and speed would climb along the rocks before even the idiots below would notice.

Normally, the nature of jihadi weapons fire on full automatic would have been screwed to hell by recoil, and by firing from the hip ... and usually, not even using the sights, because in’shallah, y’all. Recoil was probably not a factor with the supernatural weapons, but that still left firing from the hip and not aiming.

Merle frowned and looked around at his men. Most were down with broken bones and burns. He had been able to avoid taking fire or being wounded, but that was mostly because he was fast. And he had special skills.

But he was the last man standing. Even George had been caught in the blast of one of the orbs. But it wasn’t silver shrapnel, and it wasn’t a direct hit. The big shapeshifter hadn’t exactly shrugged it off, but he bounced back in short order.

Now would be a really good time for a brother of mine to show up. I would even take Dalf right now.

Merle frowned, thinking how bad his situation must be to actually be nostalgic for dealing with his probably-Satanic brother. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at that hated overgrown hill where his enemy squatted.

You know what? If they can’t hit the broad side of a barn... and their attacks leave a streak...

Time to teach them that tracers work both ways.

Without a second thought, Merle backed away from the rocks he had been using for cover, and calculated a running start.

Merle darted forward, and leaped for the rocks. He ran up the wall, akin to parkour by Fred Astaire. He vaulted over the rocks and dropped down. He hit the mountain slope running. It was a 41% grade slope, as bad as the worst street in San Francisco. It was bad enough that he didn’t really need to run down the slope as much as fall down, but his run was aided by gravity.

The incoming fire was fast and furious. If the jihadis were aiming for him, they failed to anticipate where he would be. Merle caught the edge of the nearest concussion wave that shoved him off his feet. He threw himself into a dive, rolled farther than he would have liked, and sprang forward. He grabbed and hurled two flash-bang grenades to either side of him. They went up in a high arc, coming down towards his attackers position.

Despite how bright the supernatural blasters were, the flash-bangs were seven times brighter than the sun, with an explosion so loud, those on the receiving end felt like they were smacked with a 2x4 from all sides.

The nearest attacker was in the rocks on the right, and had taken the brunt of the flash-bang. His face was still turned to the sands, covering an ear with his free hand, while cradling his AK with the other.

The shooter was still recovering when Merle slammed into him with a fist cocked back over his shoulder. He didn’t punch him so much as plowed his fist into the man’s head, just behind the ear. He ripped the AK away and thrust the butt behind his ear.

Merle whirled around and aimed with the AK. While this violated the rule of never using a gun one had never fired before, Merle wasn’t particularly interested in hitting anything with it... but then, he wasn’t particularly good with firearms. That usually wasn’t an issue. He usually didn’t have to fight things that bullets could kill.

Hell, why does this guy have an AK? Merle thought. Did they not have enough blasters to go around?

Merle waited a beat, then ran, moving down the right side of the other shooters. He took up a position that was almost exactly at the attackers’ nine o’clock. He waited again, doing his best to aim the gun.

When the first gunman recovered enough to aim his weapon, Merle fired a quick semiautomatic burst of three rounds. The recoil on the AK was bad, but he reset after each shot in order to improve his laughable accuracy. The jihadi ducked and grabbed his head.

He probably felt the bullet go past him, Merle thought.

Another gunman looked around, seeming to be fully aware. He glanced around, looking for where the shot had come from. Finding no one, he swung his weapon back towards Merle’s team up the mountain.

Merle opened fire again. He had aimed for the man’s center mass. One bullet sparked off the top of his weapon, knocking it off-line. The orb of light streaked forward and blew up the side of the mountain.

The gunmen were now aware that they were taking fire from a different angle. They called out to each other and gestured wildly. The gestures were enough for Merle to figure out what they meant.

Half of them would keep attacking the team, the others were to fire at Merle.

Merle growled and opened fire with the AK, one shot at a time. His target now was anyone that looked ready to open fire on his team.

Merle fired three more shots, then leaped away from his cover. He darted into the darkness just in time for his position to be flooded with white light and explosions. He felt the pressure change in his ears as the attackers poured fire at where he had been. Merle made certain to look away from the point of impact so he could keep his night vision—something his attackers didn’t do.

At least that explains why they couldn’t hit anyone up the mountain. They’ve screwed their own night vision to hell and gone. Thank God they’re stupid.

Merle threw himself prone into the sand and the rocks. He waited again, scanning the attackers to see if any of them noticed where he had gone, or if they were going to resume firing on his men again.

Sure enough, eventually, someone turned away from trying to bombard Merle’s position and pointed back up the mountain, gesturing emphatically.

Merle aimed for the center of that man’s back. He fired two shots. One clipped the man’s arm. The second clipped his shoulder. He screamed in agony.

Merle blinked in surprise. Wow, I actually hit one.

Merle swung the AK to the extreme right flank and the extreme left, firing a round in each direction. He then fired another four rounds, evenly distributing them among the middle of the attackers.

One of the jihadis stood up, presenting a clear target. Not even Merle could miss him. He was as good as dead.

Merle took aim and pulled the trigger.

Click. Empty.

The jihadi stopped, facing Merle’s direction. Then he pointed and screamed at his comrades. The other gunmen turned to face him as well.

Merle blinked. Aw Hell.

Then the screams started, just in time. Merle sagged in relief so much, he didn’t even try to run.

Everything Merle had done was to wait for one moment. Running down the hill had given his men time.

But firing at them had given George Berkeley time.

On the opposite side of their flank emerged George, only partially shifted. Though his animal form was a cute, cuddly (enormous) Irish wolfhound, his partially-shifted form looked like every other nightmarish wolfman from horror films. George, who had always been big, had grown several more inches, stretching his uniform nearly to the breaking point. His arms had extended, ending in elongated fingers with five-inch claws. His muzzle didn’t have the curly fur of a wolfhound, but was clearly more wolf than hound.

The first jihadi’s head was ripped off before he knew what was coming. George threw the head like a football, using the projectile to headbutt someone else. George’s throwing arm came down in a swipe, removing the head of the gunman next to the first.

One of the gunmen with the supernatural blasters saw George and wailed in horror. He tried to level his weapon, but George took two steps and a running leap, outpacing the best Olympic athletes. George pounced on the attacker. The gun fired, and the blast took out more gunman, even as George ripped the man’s throat out.

By the time Merle got to his feet, tossed the rifle, and charged to help, George was already finished. Dozens of dead jihadis littered the landscape, some of them were even in one piece... after a fashion.

I hate the damn sandbox. At least Marco gets a relaxing honeymoon.

MARCO SCREAMED IN PAIN as Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Assassin stabbed him. The scream echoed through the Chicago church. The pain would have brought Marco to his knees, if it weren’t for the gangster behind him, holding him up, and the baptismal font he leaned against. The pain had been bad to start with. His humerus, ulna, and radius felt like they were all constantly in a state of breaking from the inside out.

But the arm had gone necrotic. Veins had turned black. Skin had turned gray and green. It had been confined to the length of the forearm, from the elbow to the wrist, but now it was leaking into his bloodstream. If it wasn’t fixed, the sepsis would kill him. Marco wasn’t interested in losing the arm, so the necrosis had to be stopped immediately.

Hence the stabbing.

Galadren, Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Assassin, wielded an athame. It had spells etched into the blade in Eldar runes. These particular runes were designed to dispel magic. Since Marco’s necrosis was caused by necromancy, stabbing him with the blade seemed the only way out.

The screaming pain that followed just came with the territory. Marco had already been enduring a nine or ten out of ten when he had been carried into the church. He had been able to shunt the pain to one side by sheer force of will. If he hadn’t, he would have blacked out on the way over.

The pain that followed the stabbing was indescribable. On the pain scale, it went off the chart. Marco didn’t even realize his knees had given out until he came to. He had blacked out.

Galadren stuck him mid-ulna, in the middle of a big black vein. Marco frowned. Galadren hadn’t actually stabbed him. He was pierced with only the tip of the athame. It hadn’t been more than a light jab, like with a syringe. The pain had come from the necrosis being ripped from his body. The necrosis had cleared away, leaving a patch of unhealthy skin about the size of a silver dollar.

Galadren nodded. We will have to do this again.

Hold on. Marco drove his arm into the baptismal font, up to the elbow. The pain flared again, but not as badly. The pain peaked at a ten. His vision became blurry at the edges. He staggered. He pulled the arm out. The clear patch had noticeably expanded. But not by much.

Marco winced. Gotta keep doing this.

The screaming continued.

Galadren kept his face as neutral as he could as he worked. He would have used the athame in quick, multiple jabs. But Marco’s writhing made that unfeasible. The black veins slithered under the skin, trying to expand. Stabbing only killed parts of it. The veins receded with every jab. He considered using the edge to open up slits in the skin, but rejected it, concluding that the less cut skin, the better.

As the necrosis faded back, Galadren felt bursts of energy from Marco’s body and soul.

The Eldar blood in Marco stirred.

As Marco’s mother would insist, no one could be born a half-elf. They were or they weren’t. The only times that could be considered in-between were points along the way to activating Eldar genes. As Galadren would put it, the magic Marco had been exposed to had awakened the elf in his soul. Galadren picked another vein, and jabbed again as he dwelled upon this. New elves were rare. Almost impossible. There were none in his recollection. Despite his uncertain recollection, he knew there hadn’t been one in centuries, but no idea of when or where she or he would be now. If Marco fully manifested as an elf, what would happen if he had children with a vampire? There were Dhampirs, but what would this be?

Marco looked at his arm. Heh, he said weakly. It’s working. We’ll need some bandages for the cuts, but otherwise...

Galadren jabbed him again.

Marco passed out.

Chapter 2: Morning After

Aweek later

Merle Kraft didn’t sit in the armchair as much as he fell. He let his head slap back against the headrest. His FBI-blue windbreaker was burned in several places. His hair was only slightly singed. He felt like he needed a cigarette, but he didn’t smoke. Even sleeping on the airplane for hours didn’t help him feel any better.

He glanced over at Jennifer Bosley. The President of the New York City Vampires Association was a beautiful blonde with deep brown eyes. Her outfit was pure Fifth Avenue power suit. It was probably worth more than his annual salary, but Merle couldn’t even count that high at the moment. Her form was curvy, and she moved with effortless grace. Her blonde hair terminated at the base of her neck, with her hair at the sides tucked behind her ears. Her full lips were unadorned, and her eyes seemed to just cut through whatever she saw.

Merle sighed. Mind telling us why we’re all here?

Bosley gave a mirthless laugh as she paced the length of the Catalano living room. I’m here because I came to bring news of the newlyweds to his parents. But apparently, we all worried for nothing. She rolled her eyes. He texted me, in the most casual fashion, that I should tell the Chicago Vampire’s Association and the Outfit that they were welcome for the dispatching of Alderman Wheeler.

Merle frowned, and assumed that he was Marco. It was the only thing that made sense.

On the other couch, Vatican operative Ibrahim Bram Javaharian frowned and nodded. He took a sip of his brandy and sighed. The Persian Vatican Ninja was also exhausted from his mission, even though he also had a long flight. What’s an Alderman Wheeler?

Bosley tried not to groan in frustration. The necromancer that sicced the zombies on the wedding.

Merle blinked. He fought to sit up, but failed. Really? They were right about that? Necromancer as Chicago politician. Of course. Should have figured that out first thing.

Bosley waved it away. He’s dead now.

Javaharian laughed. Things that tangle with Amanda and Marco usually get that way.

Bosley rolled her eyes. But there was something more. Wheeler had a street gang. They were members of something called the Gangster Disciples. And they were all armed with necromantic lasers.

Merle and Javaharian stopped laughing. Merle even pushed himself straighter in the armchair.

Merle squinted at her, as though coming through the fog. He glanced at Javaharian. Yeah. They told me a bit about it. It ran lasers through a special cremation diamond in order to make people into zombies. We figure that’s how so many of the zombies had no cause of death.

Bosley nodded. Exactly. I figure that Wheeler may have been a necromancer and a politician, but unless he also invested in a doctoral degree in physics or electrical engineering, he wasn’t making his own lasers from scratch. He wouldn’t get his hands dirty.

Merle nodded slowly. I remember thinking much the same thing when I left. But I didn’t put it together until now.

Bosley blinked and looked his way. Put what together?

Merle groaned as he leaned forward, balancing his scotch and soda in one hand. "I was just shot at in the Middle East by a sort of