It was then that Marcus rapped his knuckles on the wood paneling, drawing their attention. “I swear, Hammer,” he began, “your arms have grown a couple more inches since I saw you in Ireland.”
Hammer’s muscles tensed automatically and his many striations were freaky in the light. “Why thank you Marcus,” he said softly, bashfully smiling beneath his goatee.
“Trust you to notice that wanker first,” Brandon scolded while adjusting his lip ring with his tongue. “I mean I've got this new baby put in and you haven't said a word.”
The three of them chuckled and exchanged hugs as Adrienne came into the room, followed by Gage. Hammer paused, taking note of his beastly frame; Gage had already done the same.
“Well I'll be,” Brandon said, not knowing how much Gage despised what he was going to say next. “If it isn't the mighty Gage Crosse, just a couple scant meters from me.”
“Always the rude one,” Hammer said to Brandon while stepping up to Ady. He shook her hand before giving her a big embrace. “You must be Adrienne,” he said when pulling away. “Despite the alliances the Order’s formed, it's nice to meet someone that can dish as much hurt against vampires as I've done to werewolves.”
“With a sledgehammer too, no less,” she said. “Nice!”
Gage's eyes had scanned Hammer’s massive body as he hugged her. He might have had the guy on height by six or so inches, but Gage wasn't sure how he felt about Hammer’s physical conditioning being better. Seth and Kyle might have been bigger than the both of them, but they weren't in as good a shape.
But all this ego stroking could wait for later.
“Hammer is it?” Gage asked, introducing himself. “Pleasure to meet ya and by the way, love the nickname.”
The five of them carried on their conversations for a few minutes, moving back into the bar area where four of them took up in a larger booth. Brandon disappeared behind the bar and snatched up a fancy bottle of single malt whiskey.
“Anyone else care for some?”
“What're you doing?” Hammer asked with wide eyes and a whisper. “Chloe’s going to kill you when she gets back next week!”
“Why?” Brandon asked innocently, cracking the bottle open. “Nothing wrong with going on the lash.”
“Because you can't sell alcohol until eleven,” Hammer said matter-of-factly. “Plus, you're kind of raiding her top shelf.”
“Um, don’t be a muppet; we're Journeymen,” Brandon retorted, filling his glass nearly all the way. “Since when have we ever played by the rules? Anyway, Chloe owes me for discovering those pixies living in her rafters. Had I not, they might have moved into her knickers.”
Hammer rolled his eyes, Adrienne giggling at the sight – for some reason knowing that particular maneuver all too well. It was pointless to continue arguing, Brandon likely spooling up technicalities in his defense; something like the alcohol wasn't actually being sold.
The Irishman worked his way back over to the group and their discussions continued, Gage and Adrienne learning more about the two men and their bed and breakfast – The Trickster’s Tank – along with Marcus’ trip to the Otherworld with Joey. That's when the discussion turned somber.
“Loves the orange juice, that one does,” Brandon recalled, losing count of the number of glasses Joey had consumed the night before he and Marcus left for the Cliffs of Moher.
“That he did,” Marcus said, dropping into a whisper. “He used to call that Joey juice.”
Gage was going to say something snarky at that revelation, but didn't, instead patting Marcus on the back. “It won't be long now,” he said before looking over to Hammer. “So, any adjustments to our strategy?”
“Nothing new,” he replied, leaning back into the bench seat. “We’re still arriving tonight after dark, taking two cars over to Preston by way of the A59. I've scoped out a place we can leave the vehicles before jumping in. It’s what, about half a mile from Eaves Green?”
“Thereabouts,” Brandon confirmed, already halfway into his glass living up to certain Irish stereotypes. “We planned to park at St. Francis chapel.”
“So we’re going to be transporting directly onto the property?” asked Marcus. “I’d have thought the place was protected by all manner of things, shielding being the minimum.”
“We thought so too,” Brandon answered. “But it seems the place only has some minor protections – easily overcome – and an illusion barrier to hide whatever’s on the property from prying eyes. They’re using physical guards more than anything, thankfully fewer since the actual relocation took place.”
“Ah, the pride of demons,” said Hammer. “There are a lot of fields surrounding the house, trees running along the property lines. They're thick enough to provide cover for us, especially in the dark. The only issue I see is that there’s a full moon tonight and that’s probably going to make us fairly visible when we try to get inside.”
“We could overcome that with some kind of potion, right?” Adrienne probed. “Or spell?”
Brandon mulled over her suggestion. “Good call, but a potion like that is going to take some weeks to brew and despite my proclivity for spells, I’m not that powerful a mage.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Hammer added.
“Nobody asked you, shaper,” Brandon replied.
Adrienne dropped her head, letting out a sigh. “Well fuck then, let’s just storm the place.”
“We could do that…” Brandon continued, pausing briefly as his eyes flickered with optimism. “But before we bring about any bad cess, lemme head over to York. There’s an occult shop off Gillygate that might have something we can use to tip the scales in our favor. I didn’t think about it until you mentioned potions just now.”
“Glad I did then,” she said with a smile.
“Indeed. Marcus, would you care to join me? It’s about half an hour from here.”
Marcus looked up from his stupor and nodded. “Sure thing, Brandon.”
“Well that’s it then,” Brandon said. “Hammer, can you help me bring in the shit from the cars before Marcus and I head out?”
Hammer got up and walked out the back door with Brandon, Gage leaning in to Marcus.
“So you’ve met those two before, right?” he muttered. “I’m curious.”
Oh God Marcus immediately thought, unsure where this was going.
“Are they like a couple – hiding the purple pickle?”
“Gage!” Adrienne exclaimed, mainly to stop herself laughing.
Marcus did let out a laugh, knowing full well that the both of them weren’t an item, but seeing the puzzled look on Gage’s face left him silent on revealing that little fact.
THERE WAS A soft whoosh of air followed by a delicate pop, five figures appearing out of thin air beside a dense row of trees and shrubbery; an overgrown and tangled mess.
Beneath the security of a tattered invisibility cloak – albeit too short to fully cover his legs, so it looked like a pair of phantom boots had taken to walking across the field – Gage peered through his spectral glasses toward the two story detached house. The beige walls of stone were warded from the glass’ effects, but the property itself showed a lot of activity, manifesting as colors shifting in the lenses. From that distance, it was difficult to ascertain what he was seeing beyond the colored blobs; it could have been prisoners or just as easily guards. Judging by the numbers, Gage assumed that they were prisoners, since reports had stated the number of guards was low.
Marcus had approached, stopping right beside him underneath a similar shroud, himself looking through a shard of glass.
“Do either of you see anything?” Adrienne asked, wearing a cap that was bewitched with transfiguration powder to made her look like a possessed demonic villager. Likewise, Hammer and Brandon were also reformed, taking on the outward appearance of another demon holding a sledgehammer and dumpy goblin with a short spear, respectively.
“Yeah, I see something,” said Brandon, incensed. “Me kicking Hamme
r’s arse for giving me this shite little shape. He’s shorter than me normally!”
“I’m sure you’ll both be doin’ something with that ass later,” Gage chimed in with a wink.
Brandon’s chubby goblin face scowled. “Whatcha mean by that?”
“Quiet!” Marcus hissed in a whisper, followed by a mean little giggle he hoped Gage had missed; he noted some activity in an adjacent field. “We have company right next door and definitely don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, at least until we get down to business.” Turning toward the house, he raised his fingers to the glass and tapped the colors upon it. The view within the fragment expanded right away and the colors faded, revealing to him what had been concealed behind the illusion spell.
A few demonic guards traipsed conceitedly between crude cages swollen with werewolves and corralled villagers, together in their torment and filth as they all struggled to survive. Some had succumbed to their torturous wounds, consumed by the rest, man and beast alike, so as not to starve. Others still were strapped into devices designed with the sole purpose of agony. They were wallowing in their own putrid captivity, surrounded by a canopy of body parts of new and old, dangling from hooks or impaled upon spikes; all leeching the unmistakable stench of demise.
Seeing it was far more horrifying than Marcus could have imagined, valuing his life more now than ever. His feelings swelled with anger and woe at the mere thought of Joey being in there amongst that horror, all alone in the night. Feeling a rawness on his face, Marcus realized that he had begun to weep. “Oh my God,” he muttered, relaying the entirety of what he saw to the rest of the team. “We have got to get him out of there.”
Gage concurred.
“That’s why we’ve come. Let’s do this,” he ordered and with that, set off without another word. The rest fell in close behind.
“Just like old times back in Texas,” Adrienne said, her warded dagger dangling eagerly in its holster as they approached the house and the terrors that awaited inside.
DAJJAL HAD BEEN summoned to Warminster, the message he'd received from a lesser, Richard Clarke, stating that an urgent meeting was imminent and required his attendance. The man – well, the smoker wearing the mortal – had made serious moves up the pseudo-corporate ladder, even managing to earn the great demon's favor several times beforehand. So it was that Dajjal returned to the UK with little questioning or concern.
However, upon arriving in the large and dimly lit foyer of the manor, the other party was nowhere to be found and Dajjal was relegated to waiting for their arrival. Considering his mood was bottomed out and his emotions frayed from his less than stellar encounter with Fenrir, that was unacceptable and unfortunate for Richard.
Dajjal making sure to thank him properly and as the shower of gore settled, there came a loud knock upon the plastered entranceway.
“Come,” Dajjal called as he flicked a hand and with a subtle click the door creaked open. He took a seat in a nearby chair, sumptuous and speckled with fresh blood, crossing his legs confidently. Then he waited for the door to finish opening. What stood at the entrance to those grand mansion was a surprise to his fiery eyes. Expecting to see some kind of monster, like a bothersome werewolf or perhaps another demon rife with complaints, what he saw happened to be neither of those things and also greater.
Ahead of the Dajjal was a beautiful woman with dark skin, the distinctive silhouette of a mermaid dress adorning her voluptuous figure. Its red fabric was tight across her ample breasts, narrow waist, and hips – flaring out into a wider skirt at the base which glittered around her ruby shoes as she walked. An ornate amulet hanging around her neck caught what little light there was, dangling by means of a spiky black chain. Its resemblance to the Ire and Shackles was noteworthy and Dajjal would have assailed her had they been his, but he didn’t sense their characteristic energies. However, what he did feel was surprisingly powerful and foreign in its own right.
“That’s far enough,” he decreed, raising a hand before she had come too far inside. “Who are you and why have you requested this meeting?”
“Oh, come now. Is that any way to address a guest, demon, especially on Christmas Eve?” Her voice was amazingly serene, flowing from word to word as if they were rocks in a mountain stream.
Dajjal’s expression sank into a scowl. “Annoying human traditions, especially when they relate in any form to the accursed place we were cast out from, have no bearing on my attitude,” he snapped. “Who cares what day it is to them, especially those of us that are greater?”
“Such a pity,” she answered, her tone disappointed. “I often find you get much further with respect and that how great one thinks they are is all a matter of perspective.”
“Everything is perspective, woman. For instance, where you rely on respect I find fear more appealing and effective,” Dajjal retorted, part of himself urging to show her what he meant. “But enough of that; you have yet to answer my questions.”
“Forgive my rudeness here in your house,” she said, bowing. “I go by many names, but the most common I am known by is Nabila.”
Dajjal looked unimpressed. “I haven’t heard of you before.”
“That is good then,” she stated frankly. “Now that introductions are done, Dajjal might I sit?”
“How do you know…”
“Your name? Demon, your reputation and hence your name far precede you.” She cast a finger to her left, pointing to a small drawing room down the hall. “Now, I have come a long way from New Orleans just to speak with you. Shall we?”
Dajjal wondered how she knew the layout of the mansion, but recalled the place had been public up until his recent occupancy. He rose from his seat and led her down the hall a short way, into another gloomy room. It was lit by a couple of light fixtures on the far wall, a painting of the Scottish Highlands hanging between them.
The two of them drew opulent chairs set around a rectangular table made of mahogany and behind them, a fire lit by itself in an ornate hearth decorated with floral sweeps of polished white stone.
Nabila was the first to sit, speaking as Dajjal joined her across the table. In the warm light his features were quite striking and what ink he had visible, radiant. “It seems then that the coven have done our due diligence. Our intent has always been to remain in the shadows, especially from beings such as yourself.”
Dajjal didn't know whether or not to be offended by that statement.
“However,” she continued before he could mull over it for too long, “things have become quite unbalanced across the worlds. Cartomancy indicates that a powerful storm is coming – an apocalypse it seems – and you Dajjal are at the very center of it.”
He squared himself up in his seat, dignified and self-assured. That is, before she uttered her next sentence.
“Along with a human that goes by the name of…”
“Let me guess,” he moaned. “Gage?”
Nabila looked impressed, taking a moment more to admire him; she found those deep crimson pupils very alluring. “Gage Crosse,” she said lustfully. “You are correct.”
“I should be,” Dajjal replied, ignoring her advances. “That fucker’s name has been appearing everywhere these days – so much so that he should be able to replace God himself before long.”
“Don't be silly,” she said firmly. “This said, after all this deliberation the coven reached a stalemate, unsure if it is our place to help or hinder either one of you. Many think that we should do nothing, watching from the darkness as we always have. However, I have taken full responsibility to play a hand in this game. I shall aid you with your current dilemma.”
“What might that dilemma be, exactly?” Dajjal asked arrogantly, standing from his seat. The orange light rimmed his bald head and was reminiscent of a crown.
“Your deadlock of course,” she answered. “Or are you not in a bind since your rogue Hell Knight decided to seal the Door in the Mountain with his magic?”
The demon’s eyes sparked in th
e firelight. How did she…
“… know about that?” Nabila finished for him, reading his mind. “Dajjal, there are a great many things we are aware of. With you I sense great strife… a desire for purpose and for revenge: against Lucifer and all living things. That is quite the tall order, which – when coupled with your vessel’s torment – means that you and not the worlds are made to suffer.”
Dajjal gazed steeply down the bridge of his nose and stepped toward her, a hand reaching into the pocket of his trousers.
She did not recoil, even as his figure cast a shadow upon her. “You really should keep that piece of metal in your pocket,” she warned.
“Why should I even take stock in the words of witches?” he asked, something in the back of his mind telling him to heed her words. “From my understanding of human history, you were all burnt at the stake centuries ago. That makes your words out of place and time, more worthless than the dust which settles on everything each day.”
Nabila laughed. “And yet that dust is ever present; unyielding. Worthless you call me? Let me show you how much.”
As she finished the amulet she was wearing was engulfed in a burst of light, the force knocking Dajjal on his ass. A short time later, the demon was flung clear across the room where he collided against the wall, hitting it with a tremendous crash.
“I suppose if I were a witch,” Nabila said casually as the brightness yielded to the firelight, “I would find that statement highly insulting. Thank goodness for you, I am not. Now, stop wasting my time demon and tell me: do you want to open that doorway or not?”.
THE RESCUE TEAM had crossed over Eaves Green from the neighboring field, the moon concealed by a well-timed bank of clouds which reduced its light considerably. Snow was still falling through the chilly air, though lighter than it had been earlier, collecting in the corners of grimy windows set in the stone walls. Dark curtains had been drawn closed, but even if they’d been wide open for all inside to see, the five shapes would have continued onto the property at Number Two anyway.
The Devil's Highway (Journeyman Book 4) Page 8