Sons of Darkness

by Gail Z. Martin

  The creature lurched up, its eyes wide and maw open, pallid face streaked with black blood. One inhumanly strong hand locked around Brent’s ankle so tight he expected to hear bones crunch. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he put all his strength into the downward swing of his blade. It bit into flesh and bone, parting the vertebrae, hesitating on the sinew and corded muscles before sliding through soft tissue and cartilage. The blade came free suddenly enough that Brent took a step forward to keep his balance, and the severed head dropped to one side. The rest of the monster’s body went slack, and the hand released his ankle, though Brent felt certain he would have deep bruises in the morning.

  While the fury of the fight still animated him, before he had time to think or feel, Brent grabbed a can of lighter fluid and a pack of matches from his gear bag in the bed of the truck, as well as more of the salt-iron mixture. He gingerly toed the head over to be face-up and snapped a photo with his phone to research later. Then he doused the body, covered it in a thick dusting of iron and salt, and lit it up.

  Only then did the horror of the night fully hit him. Brent’s hands shook as he replaced the equipment and supplies in his bag, and he leaned heavily against the tailgate, as his guts debated bringing back supper. He tasted bile but choked back the urge to puke.

  A backward glance revealed bright flames and a plume of smoke.

  Doug was on his side, but Brent didn’t want to try to explain what was going on should other cops come to investigate the fire. Bitter experience had taught him that too many cops arrested first and asked questions later.

  Brent coiled the perimeter rope and tossed it into the bed of the truck. He eyed the cuffed man in the back, who had just started to groan. With a muttered apology, Brent dragged the stranger out of the truck bed, chucked him into the back seat of the cab, and pushed the pickup to its off-road limits to reach the main road before first responders boxed him in.

  If Doug hadn’t brought him in on the situation, and he didn’t have an unwilling passenger in the back, Brent would have hightailed it back to Pittsburgh. He might not be covered in blood spatter, but he was sure to have residue on his hands from firing his gun, and he didn’t want to explain the reasons to the local cops. Still, he needed to offload his new “friend” and fill Doug in on what had happened. Instead of driving back to the house, Brent headed for the tumbledown barn of an abandoned farm he had passed on the way into town.

  Doug answered on the first ring and promised to come meet him alone and unofficially. “Jesus, Brent. You don’t do things by halves,” he said.

  “Yeah, well. Half measures get you fuckin’ killed,” Brent replied. “See you in ten.”

  Brent drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as his right leg jiggled nervously, waiting for Doug to arrive. By the time the police chief pulled in, Brent’s prisoner was stirring. Brent ignored the cuffed man for the moment and stepped out of the truck.

  “I think I’ve solved the Peale problem, at least until word gets around and another asshole drifts in to take over,” he said, holding out the picture on his phone as Doug walked forward.

  “What the hell is that?” Doug asked, recoiling.

  “I’m not sure what it’s called. Gonna send this to a buddy of mine to find out,” Brent replied. “But I know what it does. It’s a psi-vamp. Feeds off emotions and intensifies them—right up until the poor son of a bitch dies.”

  A thud from inside of the truck drew both men’s attention. “Speaking of sons of bitches—I picked up a passenger,” Brent added. “Kept him from offing himself. He’s probably not going to be happy with me, and I’d rather not get arrested for saving his ass.”

  “Works for me,” Doug said. “How about I stay quiet, and you dump him here in the barn, then head out of here. I’ll wait a bit, then come ‘save’ him. Can he identify you?”

  Brent gave Doug a look. “Do I look stupid? No. But I don’t think the psi-vamp put the idea of suicide in the guy’s head, so he needs help, or he’ll probably try again on his own.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Doug promised. “Thanks for helping.”

  Brent clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Any time. Let me know if other weirdness pops up—or you hear anything about that black truck. And thank you for dinner. I’ll catch a shower elsewhere. I want to get going.” He jerked his head to tell Doug to get out of sight, then went to open the back of the cab, expecting his prisoner to lash out.

  His unwilling passenger’s hangover made him clumsy, and while the kick he attempted might have worked under other circumstances, all it did was send him careening out of the truck and onto the barn’s dirt floor.

  Brent dropped his voice to a gravelly rasp. “Listen up, asshole. I saved your life. So you’re gonna sit right here, nice and quiet, and wait for rescue. And if you try to kill yourself again, I’ll know, and I’ll come back and thrash you. Got that?”

  “Who are you?” The blindfolded man’s voice was thin, frightened.

  “I’m Batman.”

  Brent walked away with a shit-eating grin, climbed into his truck, and drove away. He pulled into a truck stop once he was back on I-80, and sent the photo via an encrypted network to his friend and researcher, Simon Kincaide.

  “Nice beauty shot. You clean up well ,” Simon responded.

  “Very funny. Any idea what this is or where it came from?”

  “Got a few ideas, but I’m not positive. Let me look into it and get back to you.”

  “Thanks. And I really want to know if they hunt solitary or in packs .”

  “I’m on it .”

  Brent grabbed a clean change of clothes from his go-bag, got a shower, and then ambled into the restaurant, finding a seat where he could eavesdrop on nearby conversations. He ordered a bacon and cheese omelet, then sat back in his chair, nursing his coffee and trying not to think about the fact that he’d been awake for more than twenty-four hours.

  “…damn black truck again.” The comment caught Brent’s attention, but he made sure he did not look in the direction of the speaker.

  “…heard she had car trouble. Called for a tow truck. But by the time they got there, she was gone.”

  “…ought to look at that guy who’s been sniffing around, asking questions. You want my opinion? He’s probably the one behind all this.”

  Sounds like Travis has been here. That’s the last damn thing I need.

  Brent’s server delivered his breakfast just then, and the people at the other table rose to leave. As the waitress refilled his coffee, Brent glanced up. “I heard those guys talking. Did something happen?”

  The dark-haired woman might have been old enough to be his mother. She looked as tired as he felt. “Another girl’s gone missing, out by Dubois. Ya’d think the cops could do something about it, but…” her voice trailed off, and she shook her head.

  “Real sorry to hear that,” Brent replied. “I hope they find her.”

  The server fixed him with a look. “They ain’t found none of them yet. Don’t imagine they’ll find her, neither.” Beneath her anger, fear glinted in her eyes, and Brent could imagine how often the waitress had to drive home by herself on desolate stretches of road, wondering whether her own luck was about to run out.

  He left cash to cover breakfast and a generous tip, grateful she had poured him a coffee to go. On the way out, he stopped by the bulletin board and looked at the hastily photocopied missing person fliers. Photos and descriptions were linked by a thread and a red push pin to the location on a map showing where they had disappeared. Brent snapped a photo, in case the display revealed something new on later examination.

  The faces of the missing girls and women would haunt his nightmares. Sherri was the youngest, staring out from what looked to be an elementary school photo. The others were cropped from snapshots showing them laughing and happy, a moment frozen in time. Brent forced himself to look away and headed back to his truck.

  He had barely gotten back on the highway when his phone rang. He saw the
number and debated not answering, but he knew they would just keep calling. “Go away,” he said before the caller had a chance to say anything.

  “You know we can’t do that.” The ID said “unlisted,” but Brent recognized the voice. “Shane” from CHARON, making sure Brent knew the secret organization did its best to keep an eye on him.

  “Go fuck yourself. You’ll feel better, and you’ll forget about trying to fuck me over.”

  “It’s a fool’s game chasing the darkness all by yourself.”

  “And I’m a damn fool. That’s not news.”

  Shane paused, and when he spoke again, his tone grew more serious. “You’re not making much of a living, hunting down insurance fraud and cheating husbands. Bet it doesn’t go far paying for your pain meds, or for the PT to ease up on those old injuries. It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  Brent’s jaw tightened. “We’ve had this discussion before. Nothing’s changed. Go away.”

  “You’re doing the work. Hunting monsters. How’s the pay?” Shane goaded. “Come back inside, and we’ll make sure you’ve got all the best tech, classified research, and intel, backup teams…regular paychecks and the best healthcare Uncle Sam has to offer.”

  Brent had tried changing his number. Shane always found him. “Or maybe throw some money to the VA so I can actually get an appointment, with the benefits I’ve already earned,” Brent countered. “Nope. Not buying your shit.”

  “We’d prefer you come back on your own, but we don’t have to ask nicely.” Shane’s voice grew cold.

  “You try to conscript me, and I commit suicide-by-monster on the next hunt,” Brent returned in an icy tone. “I’m no use to you dead or in Gitmo. So…go bother someone else. I don’t have a soul to sell anymore.”

  “The demons aren’t going to go away.”

  “I’ll take them over you any day. Get lost.” Stabbing the end call button wasn’t nearly as satisfying as slamming down an old-style receiver. Despite his bravado, Brent’s heart raced, and his palms sweated.

  He pulled into a rest stop, grabbed a scanner from his gear bag, and ran it over the pickup, checking for tracking devices. He’d already turned off the GPS on his phone and only carried a burner cell with him out on jobs. A mechanic buddy up in Atlantic had disabled the truck’s automatic reporting functions and handled his inspections and repairs to keep it that way.

  When he found nothing, Brent swore under his breath and kicked a rock across the parking lot. Shane probably wiretapped all of Brent’s known contacts and watched to see when an unknown caller popped up on the grid.

  CHARON—he didn’t remember what the acronym stood for, but the image of the ferryman of the damned from Greek myth was hard to forget—was a small, elite black ops team that reported directly to the vice president, and moved against supernatural threats deemed to be a danger to US interests anywhere in the world. CHARON operated without rules, off-the-books, accountable only for results, and without regard to collateral damage.

  They hadn’t bothered with the demons that killed Brent’s parents and Danny, or Mavet, the creature that obliterated his unit in Iraq. And Brent would buy his own ticket straight to hell before he’d take orders from an amoral asshole like Shane. Never forgive. Never forget.

  Chapter Five

  “I thought you needed to hear what they had to say.” Dr. Derek Peters, Jefferson County Coroner, ushered Travis into the autopsy room.

  Travis steeled himself for what he was about to see. Four bodies lay on the steel tables, just released to the coroner’s office by the cops. The victims had nothing physically apparent in common. One was a middle-aged woman, another a man in his twenties. The third was a teenage girl, and the fourth, an old man. Two were white, one African-American, and one Latina.

  “What happened?” Travis asked. He’d long ago gotten over losing his lunch at the morgue except in the most extreme cases, but what twisted his gut now was sadness rather than revulsion.

  “Guess which one was the shooter,” Derek said. Travis frowned, not in the mood for games.

  “The stereotype says it’s the young guy.”

  Derek shook his head. “Nope. The old man. Pulled a gun out from under his newspaper in the food court and started shooting up the place. Thank heavens his aim was lousy, or we’d have bodies everywhere. One of the cops patrolling the mall shot him. The victims are all local. The families know each other. It’s a goddamn mess.”

  Travis hung back, still in the doorway. “So what’s the deal? You’re a necromancer. What do you need a medium for?”

  “Shh!” Derek looked around out of habit, but Travis had already assured they were alone.

  “Validation,” Derek replied with a glare. “I want to know what they say to you when you can’t compel them to show up and talk.”

  “Did you summon them?”

  Derek shook his head. “No. But spirits can tell I could if I wanted to. So having them talk to you is like confiding in a friend instead of getting called in to see the principal.”

  “It’s easier with names,” Travis said.

  “Edward Hillard,” Derek replied, pointing to the old man. “Sharon Dillinger,” he added, gesturing toward the older woman. “Dequan Smith and Brandi Ramirez,” he finished. Travis nodded in acknowledgment; knowing the names made their deaths more personal.

  Talking to newly dead trauma victims was one of the scenarios Travis hated most. Since leaving the priesthood and the Sinistram, he had helped a few friends among the Pittsburgh cops on cold cases and when leads dried up. If the situation permitted, Travis called in a sympathetic priest like Father Pavel or Father Ryan to administer Last Rites, but if that wasn’t possible, he had bent the rules more than once to offer rest and absolution to troubled spirits.

  Unfortunately, no one offered true rest and absolution to Travis.

  Travis centered his energy, closed his eyes, and reached out, opening himself to the dead. To his inner sight, the old morgue felt like a crowded ballroom, full of restless ghosts. Some had the faded resignation of long-dead revenants who either could not or did not want to move on. Others felt confused and jangled as if they had not yet accepted their deaths. That was to be expected here in a place few came to peaceably.

  He gently sorted through the ghosts, looking for the four he sought. Some of the spirits clung to him, begging for his help. Those he blessed and sent onward. Others avoided him, and a few regarded him balefully as if he might force them to go elsewhere. He ignored them and pressed forward until he found the three victims huddled to one side, and the shooter’s ghost pacing on the other.

  Why? Travis confronted Edmund. He looked to be almost eighty and had a frame to suggest that in his day he had been large and powerful. Now he was a shrunken remnant, with too-big clothing hanging from his frame. His mouth twisted down and his eyes were alight with fury.

  Thieves, all of them! Out to take what I’ve worked for. They follow me…taunt me…hide in the bushes around my house…trying to drive me out. And I said, “I’ll show them!” He waved one hand as if he still held the gun he had used in the rampage.

  Travis fell back a step. Edmund’s ghost undulated with thin, black wisps of smoke that clung to him like leeches and burrowed beneath his skin. His spirit wasn’t quite as covered with the hell-maggots as Henry Laszlo’s had been, but it was only a matter of degree.

  Taking a deep breath, Travis composed himself and turned to the huddled victims. Sharon wrapped her arms around Brandi, and Dequan planted his skinny frame in front of both women, presenting a barrier should Edmund attack again.

  I’m sorry, Travis said in his mind. The three spirits startled, apparently surprised that he could see them. Do you have any idea why, out of the crowd, he shot at you?

  One by one, they shook their heads. Up close, Travis could see worry and exhaustion in Dequan’s features. Brandi fidgeted in Sharon’s arms as if even in death she could not stand still. Sharon wore a defiant expression, but Travis saw pain and loss in her eyes
.

  I’ll help you pass over, Travis promised. But I have to take care of something first. You’re safe here.

  “Travis!” Derek’s voice echoed in the tiled room, and Travis spun in time to see Edmund’s spirit launch himself in an attack, only to come up short as an iridescent green curtain of power cut him off, then encircled the belligerent ghost.

  They want to take my things! They’ll steal me blind. You don’t understand! Edmund’s eyes held the madness of a wounded animal.

  “Hold him,” Travis told Derek, who nodded. This time, with Derek’s necromancy to restrain the wild-eyed ghost, Travis did not need to bother with holy water and a circle of salt. He began to chant the ritual of exorcism, and the words sent Edmund into a frenzy, careening against the foxfire glow that trapped him inside. Edmund’s spirit howled and cursed, screaming threats and promising bloody vengeance, but as Travis persisted, the hell-maggots fell from Edmund’s body and wriggled loose from beneath his spectral flesh, burning and turning to ash on the floor.

  I have nothing left. Edmund cried, dropping to his knees. Travis didn’t know whether the dead man meant that without his anger, he had no purpose, or whether a reversal of fortunes prompted his shooting spree. But quivering on the floor, he looked spent and empty.

  “It’s time to move on,” Travis said out loud, mustering as much compassion as he could for the old man. He turned back to Sharon and the other two ghosts and gestured for them to come closer, while Derek maintained the green, glowing prison around their killer.

  “I can help you pass over to the other side,” Travis offered, his quiet, confident tone hiding how much confronting the hell-maggots had rattled him. “Listen to my words, and when you’re ready, just let go.”

  The familiar litany of the Last Rites came from long experience, and Travis lost himself in their comforting cadence. His voice rose and fell with the old words, believing in the creative energy of the universe, even if he could no longer, after all he had seen, believe in a god.