The Daemonicon Chapters: Books 1 - 3

by Ryland Thorn

  “Is everything bad that happens in this town your fault?” she asks. This time, Jack can hear an echo of her usual, playful banter in her voice. He marvels at her resilience, but her words do little to mitigate his shame.

  Surprisingly, she places a hand on his arm. It is so unexpected that he flinches a little. “Jack, for someone who has been walking the earth for as long as you have, you can be an impossible idiot. I was gone for all money. The demon was in control and you saved me. If you hadn’t done what you did, when you did it, we would not be having this conversation now. If you had even waited for just a few more minutes, the suppressant might not have been enough.”

  Jack can hear the belief in her voice. There is no doubt in her mind that her words are true. And yet, he is still far from confident that he did the right thing.

  “Jackson Kade, look at me,” Lennox demands. Her tone will brook no argument. He does so, and finds to his surprise and confusion that she has regained part of her grin. “I think you were being gentle. If there is ever a point in the future where you need to hit me again to help me keep control, then don’t hold back. I am not as delicate as I look. I can take it. You don’t have to protect me.” Then her grin broadens. “And as for that other thing that you’re so carefully not talking about, maybe you don’t have to protect me from that, either.”

  Jack doesn’t know what to think. Nor does he have much time to think it before she switches topic again.

  “Where is the tar man?” she asks.

  Jack takes a moment to gather his thoughts. He nods, thinking that perhaps it is best to focus on the task at hand.

  “He got away,” Jack says. “But I know where he’s going. If you’re up to it, let’s get to it.”

  Chapter Fifteen: A Ducati in the Night

  Jack doesn’t even think to retrieve his gun. In his mind, it is lost in the decomposing remnants of the Hell spawn upstairs. It might take forever to find it, and they simply don’t have that much time. The tar man is already on his way to Madame Brigette’s. If Jack and Lennox want to learn what Madame Brigette might know about whoever murdered Samuel and stole the Daemonicon, they have to get to her as quickly as they can.

  Jack has no choice but to lean on Lennox as they make their way to the Ducati. Both of his legs are damaged now. The original wound has not miraculously healed, and the lingering pain and weakness caused by the demon spawn mean Jack cannot move very fast.

  Yet his determination is undiminished. Jack sets his jaw and wills himself to place one foot after the other.

  As Lennox starts to understand the extent of Jack’s injuries, her normally playful demeanor turns into worry.

  “Are you all right?” she asks. Given that Jack is leaning much of his weight on her, the answer is obvious. So she rephrases her question. “Do you need to rest? Or, you know, go to the hospital or something? Get that leg seen to?”

  Despite his pain, despite the way that his legs are shaking, Jack can’t help but bark out a laugh. After all that has happened, she is worried about him.

  “What would I tell them? That an amorphous glob of demonic secretion wrapped its vile form around my leg and started to drain my strength?” Jack’s lips are curled into a half-smile. “How long do you think it’ll take before the hospital staff starts talking about ‘psychological evaluation’?” Then he regains his normal gruff seriousness. “This weakness will pass. The tar man has to be stopped. I’ll be fine.”

  Lennox looks dubious, but she accepts him at his word. Together, they make their way to Lennox’s bike and climb on.

  <<<>>>

  Jack and Lennox are again riding along one of the major arterial routes that keep the New Sanctum traffic flowing, heading to Madame Brigette’s Arcane Emporium. But the mood now is quite different from what it had been when they first started this journey.

  Lennox is still riding fast, but she is more subdued. She is no longer reveling in the speed and danger. Jack doesn’t know if the suppressant she took has taken the edge off her normal glee, or if she is reflecting on how close she came to letting her demon take control for good.

  As for Jack, he is also more than usually introspective. He knows that the demon was in control of Lennox’s actions, but her motivation had to come from somewhere. Could it be that all her flirting is real?

  And did that change anything?

  With a sigh, he dismisses his thoughts. There will be time enough for such considerations later, when the tar man is dealt with. Now it is time to enjoy the wind in his face, to breathe the cool night air, and to gather his strength for the coming confrontation.

  On impulse, Jack hooks his worn, purple sneakers beneath the passenger foot pegs. These ones are solid, fixed in place. They do not fold upwards at the pressure he puts on them. Then he lets go of Lennox’s waist and leans back as far as he can with his arms flung out wide and his trenchcoat billowing out behind like a superhero’s cape.

  He senses Lennox ease off the throttle for just a moment. Perhaps she is worried that he let her go and is trying to see if he is okay. Without looking at her, he gives her a thumbs up, and she immediately cranks it back up again.

  Jack finds himself buoyed by the air pressure generated by the speed. It is surprisingly relaxing. Jack stares at the featureless black of the night broken only by the dim glow of the moon shining through the clouds. He is aware of the cars and occasional trucks that are sharing the road, aware of them because of the growls and echoes they make as he and Lennox pass by.

  He is being buffeted by the wind and parts of his coat, so he shuts his eyes and just breathes.

  Lennox guns the engine and the Ducati’s front wheel leaves the ground. Dimly, Jack knows that she is doing it for his benefit, perhaps to scare him a little. And perhaps to try to recapture some of her joy. But he is feeling more peaceful than he has in ages.

  It is more restful than he would have imagined. It feels as if he is floating on a cloud, as if he is flying all by himself. He can feel the headlights of other traffic passing over him and then away, like searchlights in the night, and wonders what the drivers must think of the bum riding like this in the dark.

  Jack breathes deeply, relaxing even more. He thinks about unhooking his feet just to see what might happen, and can’t help but think he might continue to float in the air if he did. But he is not so far gone into madness to try. Jack knows he will simply crash to the road and bounce and clatter and scrape to a halt. He knows it will hurt. And he knows he will survive it to live with that pain.

  So instead, he just relaxes and enjoys the sensation of speed and strange comfort for as long as he can.

  Chapter Sixteen: Crossing a Line

  Madame Brigette’s Arcane Emporium is in East Omen, one of the oldest suburbs of New Sanctum. The streets here are narrow and mostly empty, and the buildings have a pre-gothic feel to them. They are made of stone and concrete columns, but the gargoyles and grotesques are not as prevalent as they are in other parts of the city.

  Oracle Drive forms part of the shopping district. Like the outdoor mall where Jack and Lennox had battled a Hell-beast earlier in the day, the buildings are uniformly two-storied. But instead of conveying a feeling of openness and welcome with large, glass frontages, these buildings are darker and appear hunched, like a wall of old, frightened trolls guarding their treasure.

  Jack and Lennox have pulled up a little way from the Emporium. Madame Brigette’s shop stands separate from the structures on either side. It is a square block of a building, a heavy, brooding construction given its space by open alleyways to the left and right.

  It is a dark place that appears to Jack to be filled with malice despite the warm light in the window and the cheerful neon sign advertising its name. The Emporium is still open, despite the late hour.

  The tar man is nowhere in sight. Nor is there any evidence of his motorbike anywhere.

  Jack grumbles under his breath. “Where is he?” he mutters, and even he can hear the anxiety in his voice. He is grimly aw
are that there is a possibility that the tar man had been lying. He might have sent Jack and Lennox here simply to get them out of the way as he attacks another part of the city.

  That thought alone is enough to make Jack’s stomach clench into a cold knot of dread. If proven true, he and Lennox will have no easy way to find him.

  Lennox doesn’t answer Jack’s question, but he hadn’t expected her to do so. The visor of her helmet is open, and Jack can hear her clearly. She is staring at the Emporium with a puzzled expression.

  “There is something…” she begins. Then, “I see it!” Lennox exclaims. She turns to Jack. “The shop is protected. I can sense demon magic around it. There are glyphs embedded into the ground.”

  Jack has to grin. He has known Madame Brigette for a long time and is not surprised. “Are they active?” he asks.

  Lennox shakes her head. “No. They are not active. I’m not sure what they are meant to do, exactly, but there is power in them. And they have the scent of age to them.” She is still looking at Jack, and there is enough light cast by the street lamps for him to clearly see her expression. She gives him a teasing half-smile. “Kinda like you,” she says playfully.

  Jack just grunts. Usually, Lennox would take that as a sign to stay focused on the task at hand. But this time, she takes her teasing a step further. She reaches toward him and ruffles his hair. “It’s not a bad thing, you know,” she says. Then she wrinkles her nose. “Although it might help if you washed your hair every now and again.”

  Once again, Jack is conflicted. He knows that the line he has drawn between them has become blurred. Lennox’s demon has seen to that. He isn’t quite sure what to say.

  Before he can figure it out, the quiet stillness of the night is interrupted by a terrified, blood-curdling scream.

  <<<>>>

  Jack utters a curse and is off Lennox’s bike in less than a heartbeat. The scream is enough of an indication that the tar man is indeed there. Jack’s spawn-scalded leg has recovered at least part of its usual strength. He is able to hobble toward the Emporium.

  “Stay here!” he shouts at Lennox, who has taken the time to kick the Ducati’s stand into place and is removing her helmet.

  “Why?” Lennox demands.

  A single glance at her face tells Jack that she is in no mood to be shielded. He understands that she wants to prove herself after what happened at the restaurant. And this is personal to her as well. Twice now, they have fought the tar man and the spawn he has conjured. She has felt the sting of their touch and smelled the stench of their attack.

  But more than that, this mission is hers as well. Lennox is just as keen as Jack is to learn who murdered Samuel and stole the Daemonicon. Possibly even more so, for her relationship with Samuel was always more friendly than Jack’s. It is immediately obvious that she does not want to sit this new confrontation out.

  Jack nearly blurts out the true answer. Because I need you to be safe. Safe from the attack, and safe from the demon blood in her veins.

  Instead, he tries to find a reason that makes more sense.

  “Because it is a trap,” he says. “The tar man has been here for too long. He has had more than enough time to conjure as many demon spawn as he thinks he will need.”

  His words are inadequate to convince her.

  “So?” Lennox replies. “That’s all the more reason for us both to go. You have run out of holy water. You no longer have your gun. Are you going to fight the tar man and whatever foul spawn he has brought into existence with just your knives?”

  Jack has no time or desire to argue. He just needs her to do as he said. “If need be!” he says, his tone full of irritation. “If I have no weapons other than my knives, then neither do you! Your magic won’t work against the demon spawn. Of the two of us, I am the most likely to survive such a trap! You are too important to risk!”

  Jack bites down on his words and looks away. He hadn’t meant to say the last. He is a little embarrassed.

  “I need you to stay out here, outside the trap,” Jack mutters, almost to himself. “In case the tar man gets away from me again.”

  He looks back to Lennox, expecting more arguments. But Lennox’s expression is no longer set against him. Her head is tilted to an angle as if she is considering his words, and there is a quiet smile twisting the corners of her lips. She seems surprisingly calm. Accepting, almost.

  She nods. “You’re the boss,” Lennox says. “I’ll stay here, and do whatever I need to if the tar man gets past you. But look after yourself. After all this is done, you are required to come back to me.” She puts a peculiar emphasis on the word ‘required’. Somehow, she has given it a suggestion of ownership, and Jack thinks that he has crossed the line that was weakened when Lennox’s demon gained control.

  Strangely, the thought doesn’t upset him. He feels surprisingly buoyed by it instead.

  But he has no time to think about what it might mean. Resolutely, he turns away and stalks toward Madame Brigette’s Arcane Emporium.

  Chapter Seventeen: Emporium

  As Jack approaches the building, another scream rings out. It is a woman’s scream filled with agony and terror. Yet there is a harsh defiance in it as well, as if whoever is screaming wants the world to know that she is a long way from giving up.

  Once more, the demon blood in Jack’s veins starts to sing its song of fury and hate. This is the type of thing that calls to him. An innocent suffering distress at the hands of something vile and demonic. The demon in his blood could have led to Jack becoming just another minion of evil. Instead, it gives a dimension of power to his rage that few can match.

  With his jaw clenched in hate, Jack limps determinedly toward the Emporium’s front door even though he is sure it is a trap.

  The door is solid wood, but there are sidelight windows beside it. Jack pauses and peers through.

  It is a cluttered little shop that brings to Jack’s mind an image of witches and voodoo practitioners. Not the vile, hag-like creatures that infest the nightmares of children, but the kindly old crones who spend their time mixing love potions in oversized cauldrons. The shop is surprisingly colorful and welcoming despite the occult focus.

  There are candles everywhere, on the floor, on the shelves, and on stands of various sizes. Many of them are burning cheerfully. Close to the door, he can see displays showcasing a medley of new-age products. Crystals and aromatherapy oils and books share space with sculpted dragons and wands and little trees made of bent wire and colorful stones. The kind of things that normal humans interested in spirituality and metaphysical topics might be drawn to.

  From past visits, Jack knows that Madame Brigette also stocks true relics of power. Spell books. Talismans and amulets that resonate with demon magic. Bones and skulls from Hell creatures. Tomes of lore that can help those with demon blood in their veins realize their potential. And potions designed to cure every ill, whether imaginary or real.

  But now, Jack can see none of these legitimate items of the occult. If they are still there, they are hidden beneath a foul, undulating mass of demon spawn.

  Like those in the restaurant, these have fused together to form a single, cohesive whole. It is like the entire back part of the Emporium is coated in thick black tar that writhes and flows.

  Nor is that the worst of it. The worst is that Jack can see Madame Brigette herself. A short woman well into her fifties, Madame Brigette is of Caribbean descent and still wears dreadlocks and bright, floral dresses to prove it. On normal days, she displays a kind of feisty benevolence to all those who enter her store. She will treat all comers with the same bustling hospitality no matter their blood, but woe betide any who disrespect her or her wares.

  It is Madame Brigette who has been screaming. She is held aloft in the spawn-covered part of her Emporium with ropes of vile spawn flesh wrapped around her ankles and wrists and a thicker cable about her waist. It is like her red and yellow dress now comes with an inky-black belt and cuffs.

  She is
glued to the ceiling, face down, by tongues made from demon spawn.

  Even through the sidelight window, Jack can see that the demon spawn ropes are hurting her. Her face is twisted into a grimace of pain, and the skin on her hands is turning an unhealthy shade of gray.

  As Jack watches, the pain becomes too much for her, and Madame Brigette lets out a scream that is almost a wail of agony.

  Beneath her, slouching in a wooden chair that is free from the taint of the demon spawn, the tar man is casually reading one of her books. He looks like a man waiting for his appointment at a dentist’s office or, because of his unkempt appearance, a budgeting service. He is swinging a little on the chair, rocking back and forth onto its back legs.

  The tar man looks bored, as if he is reading not out of interest, but just to pass the time. And he is showing no concern whatsoever for Madame Brigette.

  Jack grits his teeth in anger. He understands that the tar man is waiting for him, and is more than happy to bring that wait to an end. He knows that his knives are no match for the unified mass of spawn coating Madame Brigette’s stock, but the tar man is different. He is just one man, and even with demon blood in their veins, men can be killed.

  Jack draws a deep breath. He feels his heart hammering in his chest. The rage is building up in his skull to the point where everything he sees is tainted with red. He grips the handles of his blades and draws them both from their sheaths.

  He is ready. He takes half a step back, then flings himself at the door, hitting it just below the doorknob with the heel of a purple sneaker.

  The strength of Jack’s rage is such that the door splinters open. He doesn’t want to give the tar man a chance to react, so he uses his momentum to charge across the front part of the store as fast as his damaged legs will take him. With a primal roar of pure hate tearing the skin from his throat, Jack launches himself at the tar man with both of his blades aiming for his heart.