The Descent Series Complete Collection

by S. M. Reine

  She folded her arms. “It goes against every good practice I know.”

  “Great,” Elise said. “Now listen close. I’m going to lock all the doors and windows before I leave. Don’t open any of them until I come back. James has set up wards around the apartment, so he’ll be safe as long as they’re shut. Don’t let anyone in, don’t call an ambulance, don’t call the police. If you want James to make it to the hospital at all, you have to keep quiet.”

  Stephanie nodded reluctantly. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “Thanks,” Elise said. “Don’t let him die.”

  She disappeared into the night.

  The casino was full at three in the morning. Tricks of light and shadow made the room an endless plane of slot machines, where the drunk and down-on-their-luck hunched before digital screens. Listless, addicted gamblers fidgeted nearby as they watched for the next game to make them lucky.

  Day, night. Neither mattered. Neither existed.

  Money passed from player to casino attendant and became chips, and the chips went from hand to table, then to the dealer, and back to the attendants. The artificial clattering, jingling, singing sounds of slots and video poker paying out or begging to be played filled the air with discordant chorus.

  The air was thick, and not with cigarette smoke. What it masked was impossible to ignore—an eternal depression, a feeling of being trapped. The feel of people imprisoning themselves in a place where the odds were low and wishing for a row of lucky sevens to change their ruined lives.

  Elise moved quickly across the floor, watching each table as she passed. Cards whispered across the velvet—ten of spades, three of hearts, suicide king—and were taken into hands with nails yellow from tobacco.

  She didn’t enjoy the casinos here. She had been to Vegas and little back-alley stands in Eastern Europe where the dice were all hand-carved, and either was better. At least there was fun and good company to be had elsewhere.

  It didn’t take long for Elise to spot who she was looking for. David Nicholas never slept, and seldom worked, so he made up for decades of spare time with a platinum gambling card at every casino and a reserved spot at the Texas Hold-’Em table. He was a ghost beside two swarthy tourists with purple rings under their eyes. He cupped a stack of dwindling chips in one hand.

  “Check,” he said, tapping his cards on the table. He glanced up as Elise approached, his hand half-raised as though he expected a cocktail waitress. Then he realized who it actually was, and his face fell. “Shit.”

  Elise hauled him out of his chair and dragged him to the back door, flinging him into the alley behind the casino. The nightmare splashed into a puddle of rainwater and trash. He stared up at her with an expression like that of a rabbit spotting a hawk.

  Jerking him up by the collar, she slammed him into the wall. “Tell me what you know,” she snarled, pushing her dagger against the nightmare’s stomach.

  “Hang on, wait, whoa,” David Nicholas said, holding his hands up. “All I know is I was winning a hand of hold-’em and you interrupted my streak. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’ve been inspired to take a break from accounting. If you cooperate, I can cut my vacation short. Understand?”

  “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re the one who told me something was coming when I visited Craven’s,” she said. “I’m starting to suspect you might have been onto something. I’m here to chat about it.” Elise jerked on his collar again. He gurgled. “Chat, David Nicholas.”

  She dropped him back into the trash. Rats scurried away. “Don’t think I got to chat about anything with you,” he said. “It isn’t profitable to play with humans...unless you want to try to make it that way, if you’re catching my meaning.”

  She studied the blade of her knife, testing the edge against her thumb. “Tell you what. You tell me what you were talking about at the club, and I’ll make it profitable by not stabbing you...again. I’m looking for a demon that can resurrect people.”

  He slipped a pack of cigarettes out of his sleeve and tapped one into his hand. He lit it, but didn’t take a puff, contemplating the glowing end as he rolled it between his first finger and thumb.

  “Demons can’t resurrect people on their own.”

  “Yeah, but something is doing it anyway. Does the name le Main de la Morte ring a bell?”

  “The what de what?”

  “The Hand of Death. That’s what I said, the Hand of Death.”

  He sneered. “Death’s Hand,” David Nicholas murmured. “Old bastard.”

  “You know it, then.”

  “Know of it, yeah. It’s hellborn. There was lots of talk about Death’s Hand a few years ago. It was some big fad to talk about it, like, ooh, it’s going to kill us dead, it’s going to destroy Earth.” David Nicholas took a drag. “Didn’t happen, as you see. I wasn’t worried about it. I never worry about that kind of thing.”

  “So it can resurrect people,” Elise pressed.

  “It can reanimate . Huge difference,” he said, leaning one elbow on an orange crate. “Move corpses. You know, like a puppet.”

  “A little girl died,” she said. “This Death’s Hand thing possessed her. I performed an exorcism, and when he was gone, she was alive again.”

  “Treaty of Dis says demons can’t perform resurrections. Only humans can do it, and not many of them at that. Just those special witches—you know, necromancers.” He dropped his cigarette on the top of a nearby crate and ground it in with his fingers. His other hand was already moving to bring a second to his lips. “So can I go back to my game now?”

  “No. What were you trying to warn me about?”

  David Nicholas spread his hands wide. “What am I supposed to say? I got four hundred and sixty-three years of knowledge rattling around inside my skull. I could warn you about things that would give the Night Hag nightmares.” His black eyes grew shadowed. “You got a necromancer on your hands, and you’re in bigger trouble than anyone would be able to help you with.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “Death’s Hand reanimates, right? Useful trick. You work your slaves to death, then bring ‘em back and do it all over again.” He shrugged, and it looked like his bony shoulders could almost pierce his jacket. “If it got a necromancer, though, it could resurrect, too. All Death’s Hand’s got to do is reanimate a freshly dead necromancer to create a bond with it, and—”

  “I thought you said it couldn’t come to Earth,” Elise interrupted. “There are no necromancers in Hell. There aren’t even any necromancers on Earth, come to think of it. Not in years.”

  “It can’t actually come up. With a dark object, yeah, it can appear up here. But with the help of a necromancer, Death’s Hand would have a heck of a lot easier time finding a witch to become a vessel.”

  Elise slipped her hand into her pocket, wrapping her hand around the stone she had taken from the witch. It vibrated ever so slightly as though it knew they were talking about it. “What do you mean, a vessel?”

  “Someone to possess. A strong enough witch with the right power could become the body of Death’s Hand. Like an ascension, you know, but without the centuries of building up its power first. ‘Course, once Death’s Hand has a body, it won’t need a pet necromancer any more. It’ll destroy him and keep the bits it wants, like everything else it reanimates.”

  “Destroy him,” she echoed. “Do you mean...”

  “Death’s Hand destroys its legions once they’re used up. Clean-up, you know. Real easy and nice. It won’t need the necromancer to keep the power after awhile. Hypothetically, of course. That would violate the Treaty of Dis and bring down all kinds of hellfire, and nobody’s stupid enough to do that.”

  “Good. Thanks.” Elise turned to leave.

  “Vedae som matis ,” he said. He said the words with a strange accent, almost choking on them, as though they were spoken in the throat rather than the mouth.

  “What?”

 
; “Vedae som matis . It’s the demon language, and that’s what they call it down there. Thought you might be interested.”

  “What does vedae som matis mean?”

  “Hand of Death.”

  Shocking. Elise stuck her knife back in her belt. “Thanks for the information.”

  “This is twice now you’ve made me had a bad day, cabbage,” David Nicholas called after her as she headed down the alley. “First one was free. Second one’s going to cost you.”

  “Send a bill to my office,” she snapped. “The check bounced, by the way. I’m going to get that money from you in blood if I have to.”

  “Go ahead and try,” he said. His eyes glowed.

  Elise mulled over the information he had given her as she navigated the alleys behind the casino. Vedae som matis . Death’s Hand. Reanimation, not resurrection. That would explain why it had possessed Lucinde. She must not have been strong enough to become the vessel of Death’s Hand. James had enough power, but Death’s Hand needed a dead witch.

  She wrapped her hand around the stone in her pocket, as though it might give her answers. The sense of demonic energy had grown in intensity, ringing throughout Elise’s senses.

  Had the staff begun radiating more energy, or was it something...else?

  Elise picked up the pace again and stretched out her senses. Yes, there were definitely demons around, and it wasn’t hard to guess what would be tracking her.

  Fiends. And they were close.

  She gripped her knife. Elise hurried down the sidewalk toward the parking garage. Dancing casino lights lit her path, casting flickering shadows on the street before her, turning the night into a tired carnival of once-great businesses harping their unwanted wares.

  A chill crept up her spine, and the demonic sensations intensified.

  Motion blurred at the corner of Elise’s vision.

  She spun, cutting the dagger through the night air. A huge fist grabbed her before she could even see the attached face—the corpse from the hospital again—and slammed her hand into the wall. Concrete scraped her exposed fingers. Pain shocked up her arm. Her fingers lost their grip on the dagger, and it clattered to the concrete.

  The possessed one twisted her around, jerking her into his body and wrapping a steel-clad arm around her. He threw himself backward into the shadow of a building, taking Elise with him.

  She lost her footing, and the servant forced her against a wall. His hot hand clamped over her nose and mouth, cutting off her breath. The rag in his hand smelled faintly sweet, and slightly alcoholic. Elise had never smelled anything like it before, but she’d seen enough movies to recognize chloroform.

  She held her breath, but her throat burned with the taste of chemicals, and it was too late.

  12

  Betty took the coffee pot out of the machine, grabbed a cozy, and set both on the table in front of Anthony. “Drink,” she said.

  Anthony slumped forward on her table and dropped his chin on his folded arms. He wore a button-down shirt and clean jeans, and there wasn’t a spot of oil anywhere on his body. He was well-dressed for the crack of dawn. “I don’t want it.”

  “Cheer up,” she said. “Caffeine’s a mood booster.”

  “I hate coffee.”

  She dropped into the chair beside him, moved the vase so it wasn’t between them, and poured herself a cup. “Of course you like coffee. Everyone likes coffee. It’s just a matter of how much sugar and creamer you need.” She punctuated her statement by emptying the cream bottle into her half-full mug and sprinkling sugar atop it, stirring with a swizzle stick topped by a hula dancer. “Did you even change out of your clothes after last night?”

  “No. I slept like this,” he said. “I just don’t get it. If she didn’t want to go on another date with me, why would she agree to go out in the first place?”

  “Isn’t that just another delightful part of the enigma that is Elise?”

  “It’s fucked up, that’s what it is.” He glanced at the coffee pot. “What kind is that?”

  “Komodo blend,” she said, wafting the cup in the air. “Also known as percolated heaven. Sound good yet?”

  “No.”

  Betty took a large slurp of the coffee and set it down again. “I’m going to give it to you straight, baby cousin of mine: Elise would not be afraid of refusing dates. If she thought your first date sucked, she would get that look that says in her not-so-sneaky way that if you speak to her again she’ll break your nose. That’s about as subtle as she gets. Agreeing to a date and then ditching you—that isn’t her modus operandi .”

  He grunted. “I guess.”

  “Do you know how many boyfriends she’s had in the time I’ve known her?”

  “I don’t think I want to know.”

  “None,” Betty said. “Not one. And do you know how many guys have asked her out?” Anthony shook his head. “None. She scares everyone off. I think she was impressed that you asked her at all.”

  “Well, I’m not scared of some girl,” Anthony said.

  She smacked him. “Don’t be an ass. Elise is terrifying.”

  “Fine, whatever, she’s terrifying. I still really like her.” He scoffed. “I did like her.”

  “Cut her some slack.”

  “She ditched me without a phone call. Her only text said that she got caught up doing something with James,” Anthony said.

  “Then that’s probably true.”

  He leaned against the back of the chair, cupping his hands behind his neck. He rolled his thoughts around for a moment before speaking. “Do you think Elise and James...?”

  She took a long, slow drink of her coffee, setting it down with a satisfied sigh. “No.”

  “But—”

  “No . That dance studio is a monastery. I promise.”

  “Then she just doesn’t like me,” he concluded stubbornly. Betty ignored him. “I’m not going to wait around for her to notice me and I’m not going to give her another chance.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Did I remember to mention that she joined that pole dance class at that rival studio? They’re doing an exhibition next week and she’s going to be dancing in a bikini. Gyrating. Sweaty.”

  His eyes lit up. “Really? When?”

  “I’m lying, Elise didn’t join the class. She doesn’t even know where her hips are.” Betty laughed. “‘Giving up on her.’ You’re so full of shit.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh too. “You’re nuts, Betty. You know—” Anthony suddenly went rigid. His eyes widened. “Wait. Did you hear that?”

  The window exploded.

  Glass showered into the kitchen. Betty shrieked, throwing herself under the table, and Anthony followed, sliding to the floor for cover.

  Something heavy—not large, but insanely dense— crashed through the broken window. It rolled on the glass shards, knocking the appliances from the counters to the floor, and hit the linoleum with the thud of a cannonball hitting concrete.

  It stopped moving for an instant. Only an instant. It was gray, hulking, covered in twisted red scars. Eyes like soft balls stuck out on either side of its head.

  And it was screaming.

  Its eyelids flashed open and then shut again. It clawed at its own face, its screech the mix of a sob and a wail, and Betty slapped her hands over her ears to block out the noise. Blood trailed from the corners of its eyes and the gash of its mouth.

  Icy terror smashed into Anthony’s chest, and for an instant, he couldn’t breathe.

  His focus narrowed on the monster. Fight .

  He knocked the table over, putting it between himself and the monster. It smashed into the tabletop. Wood squealed against the floor, and Betty cried out.

  “Move,” Anthony said, “move! Hide!”

  It barreled into the table again and then fell back, still tearing at its eyes and screaming. Betty hurried to her feet, and he pushed her toward the hallway. She knocked over one of the chairs in her haste.

  The monster rushed her, a blur of s
hrieking rage and agony.

  Anthony threw himself into its side, knocking them both down. Its three-fingered hands clamped onto his arms like a steel vice.

  He was airborne. The wall became huge in his vision.

  Pain rang through his body, and his face hit the floor.

  It went for Betty again. Anthony pushed himself to all fours and shook his head to clear his vision. His cousin threw herself into the closet and tried to pull it shut, but it had gotten a hand in the way and she was screaming and Anthony couldn’t revel in his pain. He had to focus.

  “Where’s your dad’s shotgun?” he yelled.

  Betty’s panicked eyes met his. “My bedroom closet—it’s not loaded—”

  He slid into the kitchen, scooping up the first sharp thing he saw. The monster tore open the closet door and reached for Betty.

  “Hey,” Anthony said, “hey! Over here!”

  He flung the knife at the monster, missing by at least two feet. It turned its bulging eyes on him. Eyelids cracked, he could just make out a sliver of massive pupil staring at him. Betty jerked her foot into the closet and shut the door.

  Its jaw dropped wide and it roared, shrill and berserk. Sputum slapped against its chin.

  Anthony made a break for the bedroom. The monster dodged into his path. He leapt over its head, dashing for the bedroom, and slammed the door. The lock clicked.

  It crashed into the door with a wail.

  Anthony paused for an instant, sucking in a hard breath of air, watching Betty’s door. The monster hit again, but it held.

  He went to the closet and began to search.

  Tío Jacob didn’t like the idea of his little girl living alone without protection, even with her cousin next door, so he had gifted her with a combat assault shotgun as a housewarming gift. At the time, Betty had teased her dad for being so paranoid, but it didn’t seem nearly so paranoid now.

  Anthony found the gun, unzipping the sleeve to withdraw it. The monster smashed into the other side of the door. It began to buckle.

  He tore through Betty’s shelves, knocking her collection of records to the floor and shuffling through a pile of stuffed animals to find where she kept the ammo. A stack of boxes were clustered in the back corner of her closet, dusty and unopened since the day Anthony had given them to her. He had bought her two kinds of rounds: one for target shooting, and double ought for making sure a live target would never get up again.