silently hoisted himself in through the window and crept across the room. Across the hallway there was another, smaller parlor and behind that the kitchen. The baying stopped. Sam thought he could hear the slick, wet sound of teeth pulling flesh apart.
Pressed against the wall, he edged down the corridor until he was on the other side of the kitchen door. Sam knew he was going to have to act quickly.
Just as he was about to kick the door open, the sound of breaking glass crackled from somewhere in the house.
A chair scraped—someone was getting up in the kitchen to investigate the sound. Sam needed a way out.
He ran up the stairs, and pushed open the first door he came to. He hid in what looked like the kid’s bedroom. He waited a short while, then crept back down the stairs. Outside the kitchen door he drew in his breath, readied his gun then—
“This is my hunt, boy,” a voice whispered.
NINE
Sam spun around and came face to face with a man who looked very much like his grandfather. Sam had only seen Samuel in pictures, but the resemblance was unmistakable—though in the earlier photos Samuel had a lot more hair.
Sam’s face fell. He looked at the kitchen doorway on the other side of which he assumed there was a family of very hungry werewolves, then back at his long-dead grandfather.
Samuel leaned in and whispered in Sam’s ear, “Hope that’s not a silver bullet in there. The little one is a Native American god—you’ll need something else to kill it.”
Sam looked at his grandfather and then inclining his head to indicate the other man should follow him, he silently slipped out the front door.
Once outside, he checked to make sure his grandfather was behind and retreated a little way down the block. Then Sam turned and took a good look at the other man. No question, it had to be Samuel Campbell. He was broad and in good shape, and most definitely alive. But it soon became clear that Samuel had no idea who Sam was.
“Why you edging onto my hunt?” Samuel demanded. “Who sent you? Did Mark and Gwen think I couldn’t handle this myself? Jesus H. Christ, I’ve hunted for two lifetimes more than them, and they still coddle me like an invalid.”
“Hold on. I didn’t expect anyone else up here with me,” Sam protested.
“Well, obviously neither did I,” Samuel retorted.
“We can probably clear this up pretty quick,” Sam continued. “I’m John.”
“Well, John, nice to meet you. I’m Samuel Campbell.” Sam’s long-dead grandfather held out his hand.
Sam shook it, and smiled gainfully. He didn’t know who was pulling what but he wasn’t going to get caught in Hell again. In an instant, he raised the barrel of his sawed-off and cracked Samuel in the nose. Samuel dropped onto one knee holding his face, blood dripping onto the sidewalk. A couple out for an evening stroll quickly reversed their direction.
Sam pulled out a flask of holy water, grabbed Samuel’s chin and forced it down his throat. Samuel choked a bit, but he certainly wasn’t smoking from the inside out. The old man tried to get up but Sam kicked his legs out from underneath him. Samuel fell heavily onto the ground.
He was still trying to staunch his bloody nose when Sam grabbed him again and sliced his forearm with a silver knife. No sizzling.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing?” Samuel cried.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Sam said, aiming his gun between Samuel’s eyes. “So you’re either an angel, a demon, or something in between. Which is it?”
“Jesus, boy. How do you know that?”
“Know what?” Sam said.
“How do you know I’m supposed to be dead?” Samuel said, pushing himself off the ground, while still trying to stop the bleeding from his nose and forearm.
Sam hesitated.
“Because you’re my grandfather,” he said eventually.
Samuel looked into Sam’s eyes. “Sam?”
“Dean told you about me?”
“Dean told me all about you; Stanford, your girlfriend, what a
Pressed against the wall, he edged down the corridor until he was on the other side of the kitchen door. Sam knew he was going to have to act quickly.
Just as he was about to kick the door open, the sound of breaking glass crackled from somewhere in the house.
A chair scraped—someone was getting up in the kitchen to investigate the sound. Sam needed a way out.
He ran up the stairs, and pushed open the first door he came to. He hid in what looked like the kid’s bedroom. He waited a short while, then crept back down the stairs. Outside the kitchen door he drew in his breath, readied his gun then—
“This is my hunt, boy,” a voice whispered.
NINE
Sam spun around and came face to face with a man who looked very much like his grandfather. Sam had only seen Samuel in pictures, but the resemblance was unmistakable—though in the earlier photos Samuel had a lot more hair.
Sam’s face fell. He looked at the kitchen doorway on the other side of which he assumed there was a family of very hungry werewolves, then back at his long-dead grandfather.
Samuel leaned in and whispered in Sam’s ear, “Hope that’s not a silver bullet in there. The little one is a Native American god—you’ll need something else to kill it.”
Sam looked at his grandfather and then inclining his head to indicate the other man should follow him, he silently slipped out the front door.
Once outside, he checked to make sure his grandfather was behind and retreated a little way down the block. Then Sam turned and took a good look at the other man. No question, it had to be Samuel Campbell. He was broad and in good shape, and most definitely alive. But it soon became clear that Samuel had no idea who Sam was.
“Why you edging onto my hunt?” Samuel demanded. “Who sent you? Did Mark and Gwen think I couldn’t handle this myself? Jesus H. Christ, I’ve hunted for two lifetimes more than them, and they still coddle me like an invalid.”
“Hold on. I didn’t expect anyone else up here with me,” Sam protested.
“Well, obviously neither did I,” Samuel retorted.
“We can probably clear this up pretty quick,” Sam continued. “I’m John.”
“Well, John, nice to meet you. I’m Samuel Campbell.” Sam’s long-dead grandfather held out his hand.
Sam shook it, and smiled gainfully. He didn’t know who was pulling what but he wasn’t going to get caught in Hell again. In an instant, he raised the barrel of his sawed-off and cracked Samuel in the nose. Samuel dropped onto one knee holding his face, blood dripping onto the sidewalk. A couple out for an evening stroll quickly reversed their direction.
Sam pulled out a flask of holy water, grabbed Samuel’s chin and forced it down his throat. Samuel choked a bit, but he certainly wasn’t smoking from the inside out. The old man tried to get up but Sam kicked his legs out from underneath him. Samuel fell heavily onto the ground.
He was still trying to staunch his bloody nose when Sam grabbed him again and sliced his forearm with a silver knife. No sizzling.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing?” Samuel cried.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Sam said, aiming his gun between Samuel’s eyes. “So you’re either an angel, a demon, or something in between. Which is it?”
“Jesus, boy. How do you know that?”
“Know what?” Sam said.
“How do you know I’m supposed to be dead?” Samuel said, pushing himself off the ground, while still trying to stop the bleeding from his nose and forearm.
Sam hesitated.
“Because you’re my grandfather,” he said eventually.
Samuel looked into Sam’s eyes. “Sam?”
“Dean told you about me?”
“Dean told me all about you; Stanford, your girlfriend, what a
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