American Monsters. Derek Landy

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      Amber drop-kicked the one in her hand, tore the other one off even as she felt its blood trickle down to her scalp, and stomped on it till it shut the hell up.

      She stared down at the mess she’d made, couldn’t help but feel like she was beating up teddy bears.

      There was a high-pitched whine and a bogle came at her with a goddamn electric saw. She jumped back, tried to kick it, but it was too fast. Her scales would probably protect her against the saw, but she didn’t want to test that theory. She jumped on to a display table that proved as wobbly as a rickety boat, and the bogle circled her like a shark with a whirring, serrated disc for a fin. Around and around it went, cackling madly, going faster and faster, but then it must have tripped, because suddenly the disc vanished and the cackling stopped, and chunks of fur and flesh flew up and the saw cut off.

      She stayed where she was, making sure it wasn’t a trick, but then another bogle rammed into the table legs and Amber found herself leaping off, getting a foot on to something in the dark and springing off that, before crashing into the sports section. She got a foot tangled up and fell, bringing down a rack of sportswear around her.

      She stayed on the ground for a moment, groaning. There was movement around her, stifled cackling, and when she looked up she saw a bogle holding a golf club.

      “Bwuuh!” it squealed, and swung the club right into her face.

      Black scales formed before the impact, but it still hurt like hell, and Amber rolled sideways, grabbed a shelf and pulled herself up, turning just in time to take a baseball bat right to the jaw. She whirled, tripped over her own feet and went stumbling, overturning a display of tennis racquets.

      The bogle with the baseball bat chortled, leaped off a display of catcher’s mitts and scuttled away. Amber let it go, focusing instead on remaining upright.

      When her vision stopped spinning, two small figures came into view, standing on the overturned display and brandishing racquets. These bogles were wearing toddler tennis clothes – the one on the left wore white shorts with its T-shirt, while the one on the right wore a white pleated skirt. They even had headbands.

      The first bogle threw a ball high into the air – only it wasn’t a ball: it was one of the security guard’s eyes – and when the bogle swung the racquet the eye exploded on contact. The bogle howled in dismay, and now the one in the skirt threw its eyeball into the air, swung the racquet and connected beautifully. The eye hit Amber in the face with a wet smack, and she charged after them. The bogles jumped down and ran away, screaming.

      She frowned when she heard a strange sort of gurgling behind her. Recognising a distorted version of the Rocky theme tune, she turned to watch a bogle wearing boxing gloves emerge from the darkness.

      “You’re kidding,” she said.

      The bogle shuffled forward, threw out a series of jabs, moving its head from side to side as it got closer.

      “This is insane,” Amber said loudly. “Who’s dressing you? Are you dressing yourselves? How do you even know that movie?”

      The little boxer-bogle paid her no heed as it closed in.

      Shaking her head in frayed disbelief, Amber took a step and kicked it and watched it sail away over the racks of clothes.

      Then she heard a warbling voice from the other side of the partition.

      “Plahby-pluh!”

      Amber frowned, moving forward slowly.

      She peered round the side of the partition, seeing nothing but gloom and display stands. She carried on.

      “Tooty-plahb!”

      Then she saw them, maybe eight or nine, lined up in formation on the floor ahead, all of them wearing football helmets that covered most of their bodies.

      “Bloe! Blah! Blee!”

      The bogles charged forward and the quarterback stepped back and Amber just had time to catch the glint of the pistol in its hands before it opened fire. She dived out of the way even as the recoil flipped the quarterback head over heels, and then the helmets were flung off and the rest of the bogles came at her with the butcher knives they had been concealing underneath.

      She cursed, rolled away from them, her scales deflecting some early slashes, but they were too fast. In an instant, they were all over her, knives stabbing downwards. She turned over and over, but they kept their balance like they were goddamn log rollers or something. Amber’s clothes were being hacked to shreds, but her scales covered her, head to foot. Some of the little bastards were attempting to force the tips of their knives in between her scales to get at the skin beneath. The ones on her head were trying to stick their knives in her eyes, her ears, her mouth.

      Amber thrashed, knocked a few off, struggled to sit up and then a tsunami of bogles descended on her. She managed to turn over on to her belly, tried to crawl, but they flattened her to the floor again.

      Then their master walked into view.

      “Aw crap,” she muttered.

      

      MIDDLE-AGED AND SAD-LOOKING, PAUL Axton dragged a cheap plastic chair behind him. He sat on it, and looked down at Amber.

      “So you’re the Shining Demon’s new representative,” he said. “Prettier than the last one, and that’s no lie. Astaroth’s demons tend to be the best looking – have you noticed that? I could have been one of you, you know. I could have asked to be a demon, to be tall, and strong, and handsome. Red, too, and horned, but you can’t have everything. Of course, I didn’t ask to be any of those things. I just asked for the ability to communicate with these fascinating creatures.”

      Amber wanted to respond, but the fascinating creatures kept trying to stick knives in her mouth.

      “Naturally, I’ve heard about you,” he continued. “You discovered your demonic heritage only a few months ago, didn’t you? Which means you’re sixteen years old. That’s the age when all this happens. When you go through your … changes. But, instead of a heart-warming family moment, your parents proceeded to hunt you clear across the country. Bill and Betty Lamont. Quite a notorious couple, in certain circles.

      “Interestingly, though, they are not the only parents who like to eat their young. Lions, polar bears, certain types of prairie dogs … they all indulge in infanticide when the mood takes them. Lots of others, too. And that’s just the mammals. But only demons like your parents have absorbed the strength of their offspring in such a blatant fashion.

      “How long has it been going on? A hundred years? More? You had a brother and sister, didn’t you, that your parents and their friends consumed? I can barely imagine what that must have felt like. That rush of power. That taste of immortality. And then it was you on the dinner platter.

      “Only you turned the tables, did you not? Now that you’re Astaroth’s representative, the hunters are the hunted, and the hunted is the hunter. Although, obviously, СКАЧАТЬ