Supernatural Fresh Meat

TWENTY




As the western sky turned gold from the sunset, Sam drove out toward the coast and the little-known shop that sold spices and historical fishing equipment, Odysseus’s Spice and Curio Shop.

He entered the Point Reyes National Seashore and drove past the Bear Valley Visitor Center with its huge barn-looking building. Deer meandered in open fields, and quail scooted around in the underbrush as he drove past. The twisting road took him through forest and then past a handful of historic ranches. Cows grazed in the fields, gazing out at the wide spaces. He passed over a cattle guard into the Tule Elk Reserve. He watched them milling about, huge antlers shining white in the sunshine.

Then at last he saw the ocean. Steep cliffs descended to a wild and crashing surf. A bank of fog hovered out at sea, and the wind created white caps, flashing white on the blue. The gold of the sky reflected upon the water.

The spice shop lay almost at the end of a little beach access road. Sam drove past a small cafe that advertised the best BBQ oysters in the area, and a little touristy shop selling kites and wind socks. At the end of the tiny row of stores, he spotted Odysseus’s.

He pulled up and walked inside. The breeze coming off the ocean was chilly, and Sam wondered how Dean was doing out in the forest.

A little bell rang overhead as Sam entered the shop. The place smelled like brine and old rope, and was littered with antique anchors, barrels, and fishing nets. A long counter covered with jars ran the length of the place. More jars lined shelves on the wall behind it.

From a door at the back of the shop, a diminutive man stepped out. He looked at least ninety-five years old, with a wisp of white hair on top of his pale head. He stared at Sam through glasses so thick they distorted the eyes underneath. He slowly made his way to the counter, pausing by the cash register.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Odysseus?”

“Yes.”

“Marta told me that you could prepare some ingredients for me?”

At this, the little man moved away from the counter. He lifted a wooden board and emerged onto Sam’s side. Tottling closer, he said, “Marta said that?”

“Yes.” Sam held out his hand as the man drew closer. “I’m Sam Winchester.”

The man took his offered hand and shook it so powerfully Sam let out an involuntary grunt. “Wow. Quite a handshake you got there.”

The little man stared up at him. “I’m Johennie Odysseus, proprietor of this establishment. You’re taller ’an sasquatch. Where’d they grow you?”

“Kansas.”

“I see. I see.” He released Sam’s hand and tottered back toward the counter. “Marta phoned me to say you’d be coming by. Some of the spices she mentioned are pretty rare. Don’t have much use for ’em. They’re up there on the top shelf.” He pointed behind the counter, at a collection of jars too high up even for Sam to reach. “Got a stepladder around back. I’ll see that you get fixed up with what you need and send you on your way.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The man smiled. “Ooooh! ‘Sir.’ Don’t hear that too often these days. It’s all backtalk and twittering and talking during movies now. Movies used to be a treat. Now people act like they’re in their living room instead of in a movie house. Drives me to distraction.”

As he talked, Johennie lifted the wooden board and returned to the other side of the counter. He waved Sam toward him. “Come on through.”

Sam did so.

“Now let’s see here.” The man fumbled around in his apron for something and pulled out a list. Sam read the same herbs that were on his own list. “Let’s get started.”

In the back room of Marta’s restaurant, Bobby pored over an old leather-bound illuminated manuscript that dealt with a lot of Pacific-island creatures. “This is an incredible book.”

Marta stood at a small table, crushing some rock salt with a mortar and pestle. She looked over her shoulder at him. “It was compiled by a Spanish missionary who served in the Philippines in 1742. I came across it in the library of a hunter who was killed in the area a few years ago. He had no will and everything went into probate. His entire estate was auctioned off, and I got a few of the books.”

Bobby flipped to a disturbing drawing of an aswang. “Wouldn’t want to meet this sucker on a lonely banana plantation at night.” He carefully turned a few more pages. “This is the book with the incantation for the weapon?”

She nodded. “I marked it for you.”

Bobby saw a long blue ribbon hanging out of the pages and turned to it. Another rendering of an aswang stared up at him. A sharp proboscis stood out from a cruel, angular face. Eyes, wide and insectile, peered out from a slanted brow. Leathery wings opened wide, and clawed feet and hands flexed, ready to kill. “This matches the description Sam and Dean gave.”

“I thought so, too, when you described it to me on the phone.”

Bobby stared at the image for a few moments. “A Spanish missionary. That’s interesting.”

She raised her eyebrows. “How so?”

“Well, it might explain how this thing got here. The Spanish frequently traveled the Pacific Ocean then. This thing could have stowed away on a missionary ship and come to California.”

“They don’t like crowds. Maybe it was looking for a brand new world? Somewhere it could continue to kill unnoticed?”

Bobby nodded. “So it came to the New World. Only the New World was growing, expanding. It could have started out on the coast, then kept moving inland as more and more settlers took up residence in San Francisco. Maybe it’s been moving east, trying to stay in remote areas. A place gets too populated, it moves on.”

“And now it’s hit upon the wilds of the Sierra Nevadas. That’s good hunting ground there.”

“Skiers, hikers, boaters, gamblers in the casinos. There’s a constant influx of transient people.”

She stopped grinding the salt and met Bobby’s eyes. “This thing’s smart. This is the first time someone’s picked up its trail, and it’s been hunting for a long time.”

Bobby thought of Dean out there with it, armed only with the spice concoction he’d made. “I know. The sooner we get this weapon made, the better I’m going to feel.”

He saw a drawing of the weapon on the next page. A long whip ended in a stingray barb.

“We still don’t know if it’ll work,” she warned him.

He stared again at the insectile eyes, the sharp, cruel features. “It’s got to work. It’s the best shot we have.”