The next hit did not sound like knocking. It sounded like a demolition charge. It was the sound of something trying to erase the concept of a door from reality.
The heavy wooden frame splintered with a dry, agonized crack. The top brass hinge shrieked as the screws were ripped violently from the jamb. The small bell over the glass, which had chimed cheerfully for customers just hours ago, twisted on its mount and fell silent.
Marcus tightened both hands around the handle of the cast iron skillet he had grabbed off the rack. The metal was cold and rough against his palms, but it felt impossibly small and stupid compared to the tectonic force battering the other side of the wood.
Eira stood half in front of Liri, one arm thrown out as if that slender limb alone could shield her sister from the nightmare. Liri was pressed into the corner of the booth, her fingers clawing at the red vinyl cushion, eyes huge and glassy, breath coming in thin, high-pitched shivers that rattled in her chest.
The deadbolt latch blew. It didn't just unlock; the metal housing shattered, spraying fragments across the floor.
The door flew inward. It slammed against the interior wall hard enough to crack the plaster and leave a dent in the drywall.
Two shapes stepped inside.
The smell hit first—a wave of stench so thick and sour it was almost a physical presence. It smelled like a dumpster full of spoiled meat left to rot in the August Texas heat, mixed with the copper tang of old blood and wet, unwashed fur. Marcus gagged, his eyes watering instantly, throat closing up in revolt.
Then his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing, and the bile in his throat turned to ice.
They were enormous.
Seven feet tall at least, but height wasn't the problem. It was the mass. Each one was four times his size in sheer bulk. Their shoulders were as wide as truck doors, packed with ropey, shifting muscle that rippled under thick, gray hide. Their torsos were barrel-shaped and dense, built to absorb impact.
Their faces were worse. They were a biological wrongness that made Marcus's instincts scream.
Not quite human. Not quite animal. Small, yellow eyes were set too deep under heavy brow ridges, gleaming with a malign intelligence. Their cheekbones were flat and wide. Their mouths stretched too far back, revealing jaw muscles that could crush bone.
And where noses should have been… blunt, ridged snouts twitched wetly as they sniffed the air conditioning.
Pig men.
It wasn't a mask. It wasn't high-end cosplay. They breathed, their chests heaving with wet, rattling inhalations. They stank. They radiated a palpable, directed hate that filled the room.
Their small, piggish eyes swept the diner with predatory efficiency. They took in the overturned chairs, the booths, the sisters pressed into the corner like trapped birds.
Then they locked on Marcus.
Their lips peeled back, thick and rubbery, revealing square, rust-stained teeth that looked like they had been sharpened on rocks.
Marcus swallowed once, his throat clicking dryly. "Wrong day to pick my place," he muttered, the words tasting like dust.
Both creatures stepped forward, their heavy boots—or hooves, he couldn't tell—cracking the linoleum tiles with the weight.
The whole room froze. The hum of the refrigerator seemed to stop. Marcus tightened his grip on the skillet until his knuckles turned white, his heart thudding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
The sisters pressed back into the booth, eyes wide with terror. But the first ones to move were the Glimmucks.
Under the adjacent table, Nix and Pearl reacted with a speed that would've been impressive if it weren't so desperate. They abandoned their scavenged crumbs and dove deeper into the shadows. In a blink, only their glittering eyes and perfectly coiffed hair were visible, peeking out from behind a silver napkin holder and a battered ketchup bottle. One of them, Nix, tried to curl up behind a stack of laminated menus, clutching a glass salt shaker to his chest like a holy relic that might offer some protection.
The Pig Men stopped short, sniffing the air loudly. Their broad, flat noses twitched, the nostrils flaring wetly. One snorted, a guttural sound, and swung its heavy head from side to side, tracking a scent. The other raised a thick arm, pointing with a clawed finger that was stained dark.
The first Pig Man's eyes locked onto the shivering Glimmucks under the table. A nasty grin spread across his tusked mouth, saliva dripping onto his chin.
One Glimmuck yelped, a high-pitched squeak of pure terror, and scrambled farther under the bench. But it was no use—the Pig Men had already zeroed in. Their nostrils flared, drawn by the rich, impossible scent of gold and the trouble that always seemed to come with it.
The closer Pig Man lunged.
It covered the distance between the door and the bar in two pounding strides, the floor shaking under its weight like a mild earthquake. It moved with terrifying speed for something so massive.
Marcus jerked sideways, instinct taking over. He swung the cast iron skillet with every ounce of strength in his shoulders, aiming for the creature's temple.
CLANG.
The pan hit solid bone. The sound was deafening, a ringing impact that vibrated all the way up Marcus's arms to his teeth. The pig man's skull rocked to the side, and it grunted in pain, stumbling a half-step.
But it didn't fall. It didn't even go down to one knee.
It turned back toward him slowly, its expression darkening from hunger to rage. The yellow eyes narrowed.
Then it swung.
Its arm was a tree trunk, a blur of gray muscle. The backhand strike missed Marcus's head by inches, the wind of it ruffling his hair. The fist slammed into the stainless steel counter behind him instead.
CRUNCH.
Glass shattered. A row of pint glasses exploded into glittering dust. The steel dented inward as if it were tin foil.
Marcus ducked under the follow-up swing, his heart hammering in his throat. He was fighting a tank with a frying pan.
The second pig man peeled off from the main engagement, moving toward the booth with slower, deliberate strides. Its attention was fixed on Eira and Liri. It ignored the chaos at the bar, focused entirely on the prize.
Marcus grabbed the nearest object he could reach—a heavy ceramic coffee mug with the diner's logo on it—and hurled it with a pitcher's accuracy at the back of the second creature's head.
The mug shattered on impact. Shards of ceramic sprayed the air. The pig man didn't even flinch. It kept walking.
Desperate, Marcus snatched a dinner plate next and sent it spinning like a frisbee into the first creature's face. It shattered against the snout, drawing a line of black blood.
Then a metal napkin holder. Then a salt shaker. He was throwing anything not bolted down. None of it did more than annoy them, like swatting flies away from a bull.
The first pig man lunged again, abandoning finesse for brute force. Marcus backpedaled, his shoes slipping on spilled ice and broken glass. He hit the floor hard, the air driven from his lungs in a painful whoosh.
A massive hand slammed down exactly where his chest had been a split second before.
The floor tiles spiderwebbed under the impact, cracking into sharp fragments.
Marcus rolled desperately, scrambling back to his feet, the skillet still clenched in his white-knuckled fingers. He was breathing hard, sweat stinging his eyes. The thing turned with him, snorting, its breath hot and foul washing over him.
Eira's voice cut through the chaos.
It wasn't a scream. It was a command. She shouted something sharp and musical in her own language, the words resonating with a power that vibrated the air.
Marcus risked a glance.
The second pig man was almost at their booth, reaching out a massive hand to grab Liri.
Eira stood her ground. Her eyes were glowing a hot, unnatural green, illuminating her face from within. She raised her hand, her fingers tracing a complex pattern in the air. Her movements were precise, disciplined, even though her shoulders shook with exhaustion.
The air in front of her palm shimmered, distorting like heat off asphalt.
She whispered a last word, her voice cracking with strain, and pushed her palm forward.
BOOM.
A bolt of pale, concentrated light shot from her hand. It slammed into the pig man's chest with the force of a cannonball.
The creature flew backward. It was lifted off its feet as if hit by a speeding truck. It crashed through a table, smashing it to kindling, and skidded across the floor amid splintered wood and twisted metal. It slammed into the far wall and slumped, stunned.