The Daemonicon Chapters: Books 1 - 3

by Ryland Thorn

  The intercom offers a prolonged buzz in reply, and there is a heavy, reassuring clunk of metal moving within the door. Jack pushes it open, and he and Lennox step into a room that is in no way a normal row house entryway.

  It is like they have stepped into a government building, or the foyer of a corporate headquarters. The floor and walls and ceiling are all dark granite that his polished and fitted together seamlessly. Despite the appearance of windows on the outside of the house, there are none from within. When the door swings shut and locks behind them, it is like they are sealed in a stone box lit by the recessed halogen lights on the ceiling.

  Where from the outside, the row house looks comfortable and inviting, inside it is cold and hard and intentionally intimidating.

  There is an intricate design built into the middle of the floor. It is a cross bound within a circle, the edges of which are inscribed with many of the same occult symbols of protection that Jack and Lennox both wear as tattoos, done in blues and yellows and reds. It is the Brotherhood’s emblem, and its colorful presence serves to soften the harshness of the room only a little.

  At the far end of the room, there is a rotund, elderly man seated behind a small desk, reading a newspaper. A small, black cat is curled up asleep in the exact center of the desk, and on the floor nearby there is a food and water dish sitting next to a litter tray.

  “Morning. Deedee is expecting you,” the man says, lowering his paper. His name is Samuel, and he has a friendly, cheerful demeanor. If he had a white beard, he would have been an excellent choice to play Santa at Christmas. But Jack isn’t fooled. Samuel is wearing the uniform of a security guard for a reason. Underneath the jovial manner, Samuel is as tough as granite. There are weapons in the walls that are powerful enough to turn the whole room into cinders, Jack and Lennox included. Samuel can activate the weapons with the punch of a button, and Jack knows that he is more than willing to do so if he is provoked.

  Jack is uncertain if even he could survive such an event.

  Nor is Samuel working alone. The cat has its part to play also. Like all cats, she can sense those with demon blood in their veins and will respond with hisses of fear and fury.

  She is called Nergal and has become familiar with Jack and Lennox and a few others like them who are part of the Brotherhood. She no longer fears them and doesn’t bother to rouse herself from her peaceful slumber at their presence. But Samuel would instantly be alerted should anyone else with such tainted blood be standing before them.

  “Morning, Sam,” Lennox says brightly. “How’re things?”

  “Can’t complain. Or I could, I guess, but who has time for that sort of thing?” Samuel doesn’t seem bothered by Jack’s lack of greeting. He gives them a smile that seems warm and open and probably is. Not that it would stop him slaughtering them both in a heartbeat if he feared they were hostile. “Stand in the circle, if you would.”

  Jack and Lennox are happy to comply. Nergal, awakened by the conversation, yawns and stretches. She stares at Jack with cold, yellow eyes, but makes no other movement.

  “Elbows in,” says Samuel. He presses a button on his desk next to Nergal, and there is a slight lurch and a hum of machinery. The part of the granite floor outlined by the Brotherhood emblem starts to sink. “And a word of warning. Deedee is in a fury. About what, I couldn’t say.”

  By the time he is done talking, Jack and Lennox have already sunk out of view.

  Chapter Six: The Singed Grimoire

  Beneath the row house is a man-made catacomb that extends over several levels. It is the Lair, and in times past Jack has seen it all. It is the lifeblood of the Brotherhood and includes everything from computer rooms for monitoring social media for signs of demonic incursions through to workshops for manufacturing weapons.

  There are even nursing wards to house those poor souls too damaged by their own demonic blood or possession to function in normal society. And to patch up Jack and those others like him, should there be a need to do so.

  Each level is hidden behind steel doors that form yet another layer of security, and the platform Jack and Lennox are descending upon bypasses them all.

  It takes only a few seconds for the platform to reach the bottom level. When it does, it slows and then stops with a metallic thunk and the sounds of steel bars locking into place.

  Lennox turns to Jack with an uncertain grin. “Ever notice how much this feels like the bottom of a well?” she asks with anxiety in her voice. It is as if she is expressing one of her fears. “We could drown down here if it filled up with water. And the walls –they feel like they’re closing on to you. It’s kind of unsettling.”

  Jack grunts an acknowledgment. He doesn’t have the same visceral reaction as Lennox but can understand her anxiety. It does feel like being stuck in a well. In addition to being at the bottom of a circular shaft, the air is cool, and there is even moisture on the walls, legacy of the depth they have reached. Only the lights set into the walls break the illusion. And the dry, flat hardness of the platform upon which they are standing.

  If the doors in front of them didn’t open and the platform failed to rise, it could prove difficult to get out.

  Fortunately, there is no such malfunction this day. Jack barely has time to complete the thought before the doors slide open and Lennox breathes an audible sigh of relief.

  They step into a room that is the complete opposite of the corporate foyer above. It is warm and inviting, like a comfortable armchair, full of wood paneling, antique furnishings, and rich carpets. It is like an early Victorian drawing room or perhaps a period display in a museum, and Jack feels happier and more relaxed just being there.

  The elegant chairs, the display cabinets with stained-glass on the front, the marble-topped table, and even the ornate chandelier on the ceiling are as familiar to him as his own name. He grew up surrounded by furnishings like this, and for a moment he luxuriates in the atmosphere of it all. All it needs is a roaring fire, and he could happily sit in one of the chairs and pretend that this modern world of technology and demons and hate is no more than a nightmare.

  But this room is not just a display. Nor is it merely a comfortable place for those in the Brotherhood to relax. It is a vault as well, a repository for artifacts of the occult and antique weapons designed for use against creatures of Hell.

  Within the display cabinets rest items of lore and power. Ornate crossbows complete with silver-tipped bolts. Elegant crosses that have been blessed by holy men and women throughout time. Knives akin to those Jack carries, etched with occult symbols designed to ward off danger. And books filled with arcane knowledge that is dangerous for any with the taint of demon blood in their veins to read.

  The most perilous one of these sits in a place of pride in the middle of the room. It is a massive tome bound in black leather with tooled, silver corners, and the symbols etched into the front match those of the Brotherhood’s emblem without the cross. The top half of the book looks burned as if it has once been dropped into a fire.

  It is the Daemonicon, the Singed Grimoire. It is the most powerful book of demon lore known, and its malignancy is such that Jack can literally feel it. He can sense the evil bound within its pages like a tingling on his skin and an itch that works its way up his spine. Like a whisper in the back of his mind that is trying to get him to listen.

  The book is so big that it barely fits on the table and so thick and heavy that a small man might struggle under its weight. It is rumored that its pages are made from the skin cut from the backs of virgin altar boys while they still screamed in horror and pain, and the ink from their blood.

  Even for Jack, whose demonic side has long been under control, it feels like a delicious temptation. Like a dessert that is too full of sugar and cream to be healthy. In the darkest parts of his heart, Jackson Kade knows he would like to open that book and read from the pages, just to see what would happen.

  What that temptation is like for Lennox, who still must take a suppressant to keep he
r blood under control, he can only guess. Jack sees her staring as well, and her expression is one of wanton desire the like of which might embarrass a whore.

  He looks away before Lennox notices the direction of his gaze.

  For good reason, the Singed Grimoire is kept locked beneath a glass dome that is strong enough to stand up to hammers. The message is clear. Jack and Lennox can look, but they cannot touch.

  The allure of the book is such that neither Jack nor Lennox are aware when they are no longer alone in the room.

  Chapter Seven: Deedee

  “What is the point of having a pager if you never use it?”

  The voice is abrupt and aggressive enough to wrench Jack’s gaze from the Daemonicon. He sees Lennox flinch and look briefly ashamed, and together they turn to face the speaker.

  Deedee Vale is a woman approaching her seventies. She is short and plump and wears a brown robe that could belong to a medieval monk except for the embroidered Brotherhood emblem at her shoulder. She has a leather belt cinched about her waist from which an ornate metal cross and rosary beads hang, as well as a number of pouches.

  Deedee wears thick glasses and is supporting herself with the aid of a cane. While it is not visible beneath her robe, Jack knows that her left leg is artificial. Deedee had lost the original, as well as three fingers on her right hand, in a vampire attack thirty years earlier.

  She hadn’t followed Jack and Lennox down the shaft from the foyer. Instead, she has arrived in the drawing room via the stairs at the back. Now she surveys them like a strict grandmother might survey naughty children, her attention focused on Jack.

  Jack has fought monsters all his life. He knew Deedee when she first entered the Brotherhood. He has lived long enough that there is little left that can unsettle him. Yet Deedee’s fury leaves him flustered. He steps away from the Daemonicon toward her and starts to answer.

  “I was occupied – ” he begins, but she sniffs the air and cuts him off, turning her head away in disgust and raising a hand to stop him.

  “Stay where you are, young man,” she says despite Jack being several times her own age. “You smell like a wet dog that’s been digging in garbage, and that’s an odor that lingers.”

  Lennox snorts a laugh at this comment, but all that does is draw Deedee’s attention her way.

  “And you, young lady. What do you think you were you doing while our antiquated friend here was ignoring his pager? I would have expected someone your age to pay attention to an emergency call!”

  Deedee might look like a lovable grandmother with her round face framed by a mop of shaggy gray hair, but she has a force of personality second to none. Yet Lennox is equal to it. She offers the old woman a broad, playful grin and says, “We were taking care of a wight. Nasty brute. Thought you might like us to stop it murdering the plebs at Coven Street station.”

  Deedee stares at Lennox for a moment. “Don’t call them plebs. They are civilians or normals. It isn’t their fault that they don’t understand our world. We are hiding it from them.” Then the old woman draws herself up to her full height. “And what the Hell do I care about wights when we have a full Hell-beast on the loose?”

  Jack is surprised. “A Hell-beast? Here? In New Sanctum?”

  “I wouldn’t care if it was on the damned moon, now would I?”

  Jack glances at the Singed Grimoire safe under its dome. “I thought they couldn’t be summoned without the Daemonicon itself,” he says.

  Deedee’s expression becomes a grimace of annoyance. “I used to think so too. Turns out we were both wrong. They can. But it isn’t like a wight. The lore for summoning them can’t be found on some random website, and it takes more than a thimble-full of demon blood to raise them. Whoever called this thing from Hell went to considerable effort to do so, and they have power.”

  Jack digests this stoically. It has been a long time since he has had to deal with a Hell-beast. He knows that his usual knives and handgun are inadequate to the task. Hell-beasts are tough.

  “I’ll need supplies,” he says. “Weapons, ammunition. And holy water, lots of it. This isn’t going to be fun.”

  “No shit,” Deedee snorts in response.

  In all this time, Lennox has been looking between Deedee and Jack with a confused expression. “I know about wights and ghouls and have seen ple – normals who’ve been possessed by demons,” she says. “I’ve known those with demon blood in their veins to read minds or walk away from collapsed buildings with barely a scratch. My own allows me to cast energies about and shape it like clay. But I’m still learning. You know that. So. What in all of Hell is a Hell-beast?” she asks.

  Jack is happy to see that she is not afraid of the question, or of the possible answer. She is curious. She just wants to know what they’re facing.

  Perhaps happy isn’t exactly the right word, he thinks. He is proud of her.

  “Hell-beasts are creatures from Hell that are more like beasts than human beings,” he says, his voice flat and hard. Even talking about such creatures makes his blood boil. “Think of a bear twice the size that it should be, with flesh that looks flayed. Or a giant, skinless slug that moans like a banshee and can move at a fast walk. Ravening monsters, full of fury and madness that want only to kill and feed on the dead. That’s the type of thing that we face.”

  Jack looks away from Lennox and down to the floor. He now understands Deedee’s fury. It is justified, and Jack feels as if he should have responded sooner. He should have looked at his pager and answered it as soon as he could.

  Not doing so has potentially put lives at risk.

  Deedee offers an affirmative grunt. “The one that has been summoned is a Cerberus. A Hell-hound with more than one head. It has already killed, and the more time we waste talking about it, the more chance it has to kill again.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Lennox asks. “Where is this thing? How do we kill it?”

  In answer, Deedee gives her an assessing, judgmental look, then flicks a glance at Jack. “Is she up to it?” Deedee asks.

  Jack doesn’t even have to consider. He just nods.

  “Good. Good.” Deedee looks around. “Nathanial!” she shouts loudly. “Get in here! Bring your toys!”

  Chapter Eight: Nathanial’s Toys

  Nathanial might have been waiting for Deedee’s call. He appears in the drawing room within moments, bearing with him a number of cases stacked on a trolley.

  Nathanial is tall and slim with narrow shoulders. He wears the same type of brown robe as Deedee, but the top part is hidden beneath a thick, woolen sweater. Nathanial has pale skin and white hair with a distinctive lock of black above his left eye. His eyes are light blue, so he is not a true albino, and Jack hasn’t met him before. Nevertheless, Jack can sense that Nathanial has the blood of a demon running through his veins, just as he and Lennox both do.

  “Nathanial works in monitoring and supply,” Deedee says. “He was the first to identify the incursion. Nathanial, this is Jackson Kade and Lennox Valdis. They are one of our best demon hunting teams.” She doesn’t give any information about what abilities Nathanial’s demon blood might confer, although Jack is sure that she knows about it.

  “Hi, Nate!” Lennox says brightly. “Call me Lex.”

  Jack says nothing but offers a silent nod in greeting. Nathanial’s head bobs an acknowledgment even though he doesn’t really look at either of them. Nathanial doesn’t make eye contact. He seems nervous but not of them in particular. It is as if he is habitually anxious.

  Nathanial parks the trolley in front of Jack and quickly arranges the cases in a semicircle in front of him and Lennox. His movements are brisk and precise, and he pauses only twice. The first time is when he first looks at Lennox. Really looks at her. When he does, it is like he is jolted back on his heels, as if he is startled by her appearance. He stares for some moments before he blushes massively and wrenches his gaze away.

  Lennox grins openly at him, not in the least put out.


  The second time is when he sniffs the air and frowns in revulsion. He glances quickly at Jack and then back away as if he’s identified where a foul odor is coming from and is uncertain what to say.

  Then he dismisses the odor and continues with his work, opening each of the cases before standing back. For his part, Jack doesn’t say anything.

  Nathanial is still pink when he coughs to clear his throat. “What we have here,” he begins, not looking at either Jack or Lennox directly, “is a selection of tools and devices that might help you against the Hell-beast. You’ll recognize most of them. The crossbow is collapsible for easy transport. It uses bolts tipped with silver, not useful directly, but they’re hollow and mechanized. They will inject holy water into the Hell-beast if you hit a weak spot.”

  Nathanial’s voice is high and almost musical. He doesn’t wear glasses, but the way he fidgets suggests that he might once have done so. It’s like he has a subconscious need to adjust them that he has to fight.

  “The shotgun might be your best bet. It’s light and quick to aim and use, and this Hell-beast moves fast. The shells contain the usual mix of holy water and garlic salts and sage, like those for your handgun,” he nods toward Jack. “Which I’d caution against using if you have a choice. It’ll be like a bee sting. It would only make the Hell-beast angry.”

  He speaks quickly and clearly, but there is a hint of uncertainty in his voice. Methodically, as if ticking each item off in his mind, Nathanial moves onto the next. “This is a grenade launcher. It should finish the Hell-beast, but it’s inaccurate, and you only have three grenades. That said, one should be enough. The grenades themselves have been thrice blessed, and the shards should be toxic even without the Hellfire they release.”

  Nathanial pauses. This time, he does meet Jack’s eyes. “Be careful. I understand that you’re more durable than most, but these shards will be toxic to you as well.” He flicks a quick glance at Lennox. “Both of you,” he adds and blushes again.