The Hunter ducked under the beast’s hindquarters, retreating again in the opposite direction as it flew through the window to Victoria’s Secret. Stunned only for a moment, the ghast flung itself to its feet, its inhuman eyes darting over the terrain until they locked onto its adversary. A deep, phlegm-laden growl escaped its chest.
It paced warily into the aisle, black lace panties from a display model tangled in its teeth. Nicholas’ brow knitted briefly at the spectacle, but he matched the beast pace for pace, holding the distance between them. He kept himself sideways, backing as he circled left, fingers flexing around the hilt held steady below his waist, the sword’s tip at eye level. His eyes never strayed from the beast’s flanks, alert for any sudden movement.
Against the ghast’s speed, distance was his only sure defense. The bigger the gap one had to cross, the more time Nicholas had to react. He was counting on it now.
Its growl rose sharply to a snarl and it sprung; prepared, Nicholas lunged into it, plunging his sword into the beast’s ribs with its own weight. Before the creature’s momentum was lost, he turned, hurling it past him with a massive arcing swing and a grunt. The injured beast tumbled into the intersection, crashed into the base of the modest fountain, and lay still.
The other ghast was just struggling to its feet. Nicholas retrieved and holstered his revolver, then strode to the beast and took off its head with a clean, one-armed slice. Its body twitched and spasmed as communication with the nerves was severed. Just like a long-legged spider, Nicholas thought. He watched until it stilled, then turned and walked silently to the last creature.
It lay broken on its side, glaring at him, blood drooling from its maw, its breath coming short and quick; Nicholas had missed the heart and punctured a lung. The injury was probably already healing—just like its spine, which had snapped on a corner of the fountain’s wall. The bones cracked and popped, visibly shifting under the skin.
Ghast were unbelievably vexing to kill. But, thought Nicholas, thrusting his sword into the beast’s brain, after the fourth dozen time or so they began to seem routine. He dug around with the tip for a moment, watching the creature writhe beneath him.
A whisper tugged at the back of his mind. On instinct, he whirled, whipping his sword high over his head and barking a single word.
“Invictus!”
The warm glow of familiar energy flooded his chest and raced outward, filling his limbs with power. His sword slammed down with the force of a speeding truck, crushing a steel trash can out of the air.
Nicholas blinked, then looked down the concourse for the thing that had thrown it—and blanched, eyes wide.
“Mother of God.”
The creature he faced was a vision straight from the set of a B horror movie. Towering over seven feet tall, its hunched form was covered in a leathery gray hide which clung tautly to the powerful muscles underneath. Its too-long arms hung almost to its knees, its sinewy legs ending in grotesquely splayed feet. It was utterly bald, bat-like in its features, its pointed ears flicking forward as it watched Nicholas through suspicious, beady eyes. Its squashed, ridged nose snuffled the air. Half of a corpse hung from its wicked fingers, probably already drained of blood.
The monster bellowed, a trumpeting din reverberating off the walls, and Nicholas retreated around the corner.
