Then Hell Followed (Journeyman Book 5)

by Golden Czermak

  Even with all the antics, Marcus and Ty were finishing up their meals, though Gage had barely eaten, at least for someone who normally eats like a garbage disposal.

  “Well, that's not normal,” Marcus observed, seeing just under half of Gage’s food left on the plate. “I don't think you're going to be able to get very far today, man.”

  Gage resisted at first, but then slumped back in his chair in agreement.

  “Yeah, I suppose you're right.”

  “You think it's from the time we were in Jötunheim?”

  “Probably so,” Gage replied back to Marcus, who had a smug look on his face. “What?”

  “Did you even complete the round of tinctures prescribed by Ross?”

  Ty rested his elbows on the table, eager to join in.

  “Or any of the things I gave you?”

  Gage pouted, crossing his arms in protest.

  “Yes. Half of them.”

  “Well, there you are then,” Ty replied. “I knew my stuff wasn't ineffective. Gage, we all feel invincible at times…”

  “But you should really take some time to rest,” Marcus continued, “either here or back on the ship, but at least finish out the meds you have. I bet you'll be cleared up by tomorrow if so.”

  “Look at me, getting ganged up on by two Sheridans,” Gage said jokingly. “I dunno whether to be offended or horny.”

  Ty shuddered at the thought while Marcus laughed.

  “In the meantime,” Ty continued, “Marcus and I will head back up the street and investigate the church for clues.”

  The two brothers fell silent, eagerly waiting to see what kind of excuse Gage might try to spring on them while mentally preparing to counter them.

  To their surprise, he didn't.

  “Okay fine,” Gage agreed at last. “But I need to know two things before ya go. One, the both of ya ain't gonna get into a fighting match, right?”

  They both looked at each other, shaking their heads.

  “Okie dokie. Two: where the hell can I get alcohol in this place?”

  THE SUN OUTSIDE the mansion was shining brightly as it made its way past noon, ravens dancing in the sky without a care in the world as light streamed down over serene gardens set around the lavish architecture.

  There was a sudden bang, two suited figures appearing out of thin air on the property. Wisps of smoke snaked from their clothes and the smell of rotten eggs indelibly marred the beauty of the landscape. However, they did not care, their attention drawn to each other.

  A dapper man was on the left, something about his steely eyes displaying a nobility beyond his young years. He used them to observe a studious woman next to him, her hair drawn up into a loose bun while mottled glasses rested perfectly on the gentle slope of her nose. Bowing, they raced down the long path toward the home.

  “He’s called another one,” the man said candidly, fiddling with his tie as he marched.

  The woman bobbed her head while her dress sashayed from side to side.

  “So soon after the last. Plus, if you haven’t noticed, we’re late,” she replied, trying her best to hide her shudder.

  “Surely he wouldn't smite us just for that…” the man said, seeming to forget who he was talking about.

  She remained quiet, gulping as the breeze took a chill turn.

  The front door of the striking manor loomed ahead and as the man drew near, it opened by itself. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet slowed and then was gone, replaced by the patter of leather soles on paved stone. He stopped just ahead of the entrance, more intimidated than he had ever been before.

  “Uh, after you Flauros,” he said fretfully, pointing ahead.

  Flauros didn’t argue and hastened inside, her eyes shifting from green to red in the span of a blink. Proceeding down the dingy hall, she made way for the command center but just before entering, turned right. There, she paused in front of another ornate door, composing herself before grabbing the polished handle.

  It was gloomy in the next room, just like the palpable mood which permeated the space. In the center was a large black table, oval, with six chairs set closely around it. Staunch figures dressed in high-end suits had taken seats in four of them, looking toward one end that had been squared off. There, in a luxuriant armchair that could very well substitute for a throne, was Dajjal, perched on the edge of the soft leather. His crown was aflame, providing the sole illumination in the room, its warm light deceptively comforting.

  “Ah, there you are Flauros,” Dajjal said with authority, his red eyes glowing, “and Sallos as well. My, late is the hour of your arrival. Did I not make myself clear on the start time of this gathering?”

  The two demons swept towards the open seats, nary a look in Dajjal’s direction as they took their places on either side of him.

  “Apologies, Your Grace,” said Sallos, trembling. He tried for a moment to look at Dajjal, but found his courage lacking. “It was difficult to get away in time.”

  “Even for your Lord?”

  With that question Sallos felt all eyes on him and it was visibly upsetting. Flauros had dropped hers to the glossy tabletop, staring at her own distressed reflection.

  “I… it’s… not my intent to insult, Your Grace.”

  A sound like a hiss escaped Dajjal. Annoyed, he reached for a cup to his right but found it empty, worsening the situation. Sallos in turn snapped his eyes shut, expecting the worst.

  It did not come.

  “Then let’s not delay any longer,” said Dajjal, a subtle rattle seeming to come from above. “What news from Order headquarters? I need updates on this mounting ‘threat’ the Journeymen are posing.”

  Relieved, Sallos had leaned forward and looked up, searching for the source of the noise. It sounded to him like chains, yet he didn't see anything but black overhead. Clearing his throat – highly thankful to be able to do so – Sallos began his account.

  “My Lord, the Order has been sending more of their elite forces all across the globe, utilizing less of their traditional field operatives, even in smaller population centers. The data breach in Huntsville, Alabama for example, or more recently the incidents in Cutler and Silver Lake. It shouldn’t be surprising though, as we are on the brink of war. Their focus has shifted to stopping us versus hunting down stray monsters and the Journeymen have come to be everywhere, just like roaches.”

  “Roaches that shall be crushed beneath us,” Dajjal replied nonchalantly. “Just like we do to the incompetence in our own ranks. You mentioned monsters and I shall address that issue shortly. Do you have more?”

  Sallos leveled his shoulders and looked around the table. His eyes narrowed, settling his gaze on a demon who was sitting directly across from him.

  “Yes, my Lord. Some of the Order have managed to come close to where your most secretive works are being undertaken. Far too close.”

  Morax smirked back; a shriveled shell of a man, yet ample strength was etched in his sharp features.

  “No need to worry, Sallos, for secret those activities remain. Are you doubting my abilities or questioning my loyalties?” There was gravity in his voice that called for attention as he spoke.

  “That’s a stretch,” Sallos snarled with obvious animosity. “I was merely relaying this information to Lord Dajjal. If you are finished, might I continue?”

  “Quite,” Morax dismissed, waving a pale hand.

  “A majority of these encounters, all but one in fact, have been led by two specific Journeymen, their names cropping up more than any other – Nathaniel Cole and Gabriel Shepard. The veracity of their attacks has been impressive…”

  Dajjal fastened his eyes on Sallos and his crown burned brighter.

  Sallos leaned back and whimpered, “… for humans.”

  Dajjal found neither of those names detestable like he did Gage Crosse. Still, they were posing problems for the Noctis and should be dealt with quickly. “Do either of those two have family that we can send visitors to?” he asked.

 
“The Order self-inflicted a majority of those wounds during their own Incursion, my Lord. Nathaniel is without family, stemming from that event and its aftermath. Looking into Gabriel, most of his family is deceased, though his mother survives in New Orleans.”

  “Send a few lessers to give her our regards,” Dajjal ordered, satisfied. “This is only the beginning. Soon, Journeymen and their allies will again suffer losses, this time by my hand.”

  With those words Dajjal was on a high, taking a moment to regard his new ‘generals,’ reluctantly handpicked to oversee operations around the world.

  Did he trust them? No.

  Did he even like them? Not at all – they were lessers.

  Despite that, Dajjal recognized that for such a large machine to stay in motion and be effective, he needed support. No matter how he tried to slice Lucifer’s rule – something he had done so tirelessly – their former leader had a legitimate need for his Hell Knights. Dajjal turned his attention to Flauros, snubbing the fact he had smited them all. She was fretfully rocking back and forth in her seat.

  “Why are you so frightened in my presence? Does my rise to power worry you?”

  Flauros grew more troubled; no matter which way she answered Dajjal, she would be at a loss.

  “Worry?” she said at last, wiping stray hairs that clung to her sweaty forehead. “No, for our Lord is a gracious one and a pleasure to serve, striking fear into the hearts of all those beneath him.”

  The answer was a compulsory one, but Dajjal didn’t press it; he had other issues with her to address.

  “Ah, much too kind Flauros,” said Dajjal. “So complementary. A pleasure to serve, you say? If that is actually the case, why are these new airships being built in Skagway not already a thing of the past?”

  “My Lord, the shipyard has been given all manner of protections by the Order, not only magical but also technological. We have tried to past, but cannot break through the defenses.”

  Dajjal wasn’t impressed by these words.

  “Then you haven't tried hard enough. Nothing is impossible, given the force of will. After all, am I not a testament to that unassailable fact?”

  “Yes… I mean no…” Flauros stammered, searching for a fitting answer. “Again, no disrespect was intended. We will continue as our Lord demands, until such time as we can destroy the facility.”

  Had she stopped speaking there, she might have prevented what came next.

  “However, it should be noted that these two new ships are very small; definitely not a formidable threat against your armies.”

  Dajjal’s fist came to slam against the table, nearly knocking over the glass as violent tremors shook the entire thing.

  Flauros had tumbled a hair’s breadth away from her end.

  “Absolute foolishness!” Dajjal shouted. There was no mistaking the fury in his voice. “You are fortunate that I do not decide to discard the broken pieces of our war machine, though I still may! My dear, the ship Gage uses as his personal yacht to gallivant around the world seems to have posed a pretty ‘formidable threat’ against us. Or have we all forgotten the losses at the Peak? If not there, then what about Peru? By this grand logic a newer vessel would be less of a threat than that four-hundred-year-old barge.”

  “My Lord… I …” Flauros stuttered as Dajjal rubbed his fingers together threateningly.

  Dajjal twisted his head away, looking across to another demon in the group. “Speaking of Gage and his travels, am I to understand that he is in France as we speak?”

  Valefar bobbed his bird-like neck, bent nose flaring while a loose flap of neck skin waved like a fleshy flag. “Yes, My Lord.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “We do not know,” Valefar answered. “There had been indications that the last of the treasures was in Paris, but that was many weeks ago. It has since disappeared.”

  Dajjal remembered the rumblings of a relic in Paris, now certain that it was the Scythe, given the rest had been claimed. He rested his elbow on an armrest, petting his beard.

  “Gage must at last be behind, seeking clues about the weapon and its location.”

  “That might be the case, my Lord, but he is not in Paris.”

  Dajjal looked to him, perplexed. “Where is he then?”

  Valefar pressed himself into the folds of his seat.

  “A small village far to the south: Rennes-le-Château.”

  If the name was supposed to mean something to Dajjal, it didn’t ring any bells, yet he assumed if Gage was there, something of interest must be as well.

  “Well, it would seem an opportunity has presented itself,” said Dajjal, his words bristling with delight. “Of course, I want you to find out why Gage is there but I also want to show our strength to the Journeymen. Pick a village, the one Gage is in now for all I care, and raze it to the ground. I want the humans to know we are here and that no matter where they live, no matter where they try to hide, demons will always be there lurking in the shadows to terrorize them.”

  Valefar nodded, casting concerned eyes to Sallos and Flauros. The two of them stayed silent and motionless. It was no matter, Dajjal looking up at the dark ceiling, thirsty as evidenced by the smacking of his lips.

  “Speaking of lurking in the shadows,” he said, “I have been remiss in announcing our special guest.”

  Confusion spread quickly, murmurs scattering around the table. Half of the gathering stiffened against their seats while the others averted their eyes, expecting something to emerge from the black.

  The sounds of chains rattling came again and from the darkness above, a man’s head descended. His blonde hair blazed brightly as it caught Dajjal’s orange light. The rest of his body followed, thick and shining shackles wrapped firmly around it. Hooks had been drawn out of the links, puncturing his skin. The wounds weren’t bleeding, instead scorched and black; cauterized to prevent any ill-timed messes.

  “Do you all know Mr. Caldwell here?” Dajjal asked the gathering, hushed with morbid anticipation. “No? Well, although our guest today looks human enough, we have a vampire before us. So courteous isn't he – the head of a coven joining us after deciding to bare their sharp fangs against demon kind. I admit myself surprised he was not arm in arm with a Journeyman lover when we captured him.”

  Morax let out an elated titter, repeated by a few others at the table – though more for security on their part than true glee.

  Caldwell writhed in his restraints, trying to speak but the chain around his neck tightened, constricting his words into an unintelligible moan.

  “Yes, he was quite vocal last night when we brought him in, spouting nonsense about demons not being of this world. Therefore, we apparently have no claim over it. I suppose this was because he had just fed, you see, and that is the apparent source of all their strength and boldness.” Dajjal stared callously into his captive’s icy blue eyes. “Blood. Pure, untainted blood. I wonder then, what would happen should the blood of a possessed man make its way into their system. Does anyone here know?”

  There was dead air as the body lowered, stopping when Caldwell's mouth fell in line with Dajjal’s own. A few around the table diverted their gaze, but curiosity snapped them right back.

  “There's only one way to find out,” Dajjal continued, biting down on his own lip. A trickle of cursed red was freed and with no warning he shot forward to kiss Caldwell, using his broad tongue to spread the blood around.

  Caldwell grimaced as he was pushed away. He began to convulse and even smoke, coughing so deeply those gathered could feel each hack in their chest. Suddenly the body was yanked back up to the edge of darkness and the chains clanged loudly as he continued to tremble.

  “Interesting,” Dajjal observed. “I hope you are taking notes, Morax.”

  “Indeed, my Lord.”

  “Good. Now let us reverse the process. I've always been curious...” Dajjal whispered as he licked his lips clean. A moment later the wound had healed.

  With a wave, the chain around
Caldwell’s neck loosened, revealing the pointed end of a large hook, eagerly gleaming before dragging itself through his skin. He shrieked, then fell silent as a waterfall of maroon gurgled out of the gash, splashing messily across the tabletop.

  Not wanting to waste a thing, Dajjal casually slid his cup over to the stream and filled it as if it were a soda fountain.

  Sallos, never a very physically violent demon, lurched and his face flushed with pallor. Flauros and Valefar exchanged glances, keeping their expressions of abhorrence imperceptible.

  Or so they thought.

  “Where are my manners?” Dajjal asked apologetically, having noted their disapproval. “Here, let me share.”

  With a snap of his fingers the chains wound insufferably taut, then pulled away in all directions, tearing Caldwell to shreds.

  As the gore rained down, Morax became more vulture-like, tapping a fleshy chunk that had landed in front of him with his finger as if it were a beak. The rest of the gathering simply sat with deadpan faces.

  “Now, let's see why vampires think this is all the rage,” Dajjal expressed, taking a sizable gulp from his cup. The smell was repugnant but the taste startlingly sweet, with a heavily acidic finish. “Disappointing. It must taste better from pure humans.”

  Morax was the only one reveling in the sight. Dajjal addressed him.

  “Regarding this show of strength I am seeking, I need you find something that will not only to turn the tide, but keep it flowing where I want, when I want. There may be no frost giants here on the Earth, but perhaps there is something out there, more obedient than an elemental, that can be bent to my will.”

  Morax cackled, a twisted grin creeping from ear to ear.

  “Oh magnificent Lord, I have just the thing you desire.”

  MARCUS AND TY made their way back up the cracked and mottled pavement of Grand Rue, having left Gage beneath a patio umbrella on a terrace overlooking the east toward Perpignan. The place happened to served cocktails too, which seemed to satisfy Gage’s most urgent needs.

  “He really should have gone back up to the ship,” Ty chastened as he walked up the slight incline, brushing his hand along the wall of one of the houses. It was more fragile than it looked, a light dust remaining on his fingertips when he pulled away.