The Mad Hunt

The baying of hounds began the hunt. They howled and raged and pulled at their leashes. Behind them a large man in a fur cloak filled the library door. He snapped the heavy leather that wrapped around their necks.

"Hunt, my hounds," he said in a deep bass that rattled the metal shelving.

Then he let them loose.

The animals tore through the building, quiet now except for the heavy snuffling breaths. Giant hounds, hairy and smelling of earth and campfires and cold rain. Their noses were down, thick heads sniffing everything. One ran to the DVD shelves and gave a low growl at a man holding a copy of Fate of the Furious. Another lifted his leg on the newspapers.

The librarian came around the circulation desk and said, "Sir. Are these service animals?"

The large man turned to her. He said, "I am the Woden, and this is my hunt. Join or die."

"Sir, you need to get your animals under control."

The Woden turned to the open door and said, "Come, my legion, to the hunt."

Through the library doors came a gust of frigid wind. An old woman reading a magazine gasped as the pages fluttered in the gale.

A crowd entered the building. Wild ones of all types, all walks of life, all shapes. Men and women and creatures in heavy garb that snaked their way to and fro. They streamed forth in haphazard cacophony, pouring into the building and chanting, "Hunt, hunt, hunt."

The librarian said, "You can't do this. Please leave."

The big man pulled an ax from his cloak. Not a long handled fire ax, but a thick, wicked tool of death stained red from blade to shaft. "Join or be hunted," he said.

The librarian set her jaw. The hunting party moved through the building. The dogs continued to sniff and snarl and snap. She gazed into the face of the man and saw a hole where one eye should be, a dark pit of tangled and twisted flesh. The other eye was bright and blue and cold.

The librarian said, "What are we hunting?"

The Woden laughed. "The last of its kind. A tome that I am keen to devour. Better Off Dead by the scribe Lee Child. The tales of the man Reacher-"

"Here you go," the librarian said, plucking the book from a bestseller display. "Do you have a library card?"

The Woden grinned. With his free hand he patted at his cloak. The twisted grin faltered. Then he held out the wicked ax to the librarian. The librarian took the instrument of death with some effort. After searching the folds of the great cloak, the Woden produced a dirty, stained card. They traded ax for card.

The librarian led him to the circulation desk. She checked the book out to him.

The Woden hid the book and the card in the folds of the cloak and produced a horn. He blew three ragged blasts and shouted, "Come, my hunt. To the Auto Hut for blades of wipers!"

And the mad hunt, creatures and human and hounds, left the library.