Dustan turned to Shax. “No more hound just sniffing about. I’m ready.”
Shax offered a cheerless smile. “I thought you might be. Ship’s waiting.”
5
Valkyries
St. Augustine, Florida - 1866
The journey to St. Augustine spanned more than two months due to rough seas. The ocean below the railings disappeared behind sheets of rain. A squall blotted out the sky and slapped down on the hull, tipping the clipper near to capsizing. Dustan found himself clutching a rope tied to the mast, wishing he still prayed. Shax laughed at his anxiety and stood on deck bellowing into the gale. One of the new steam-powered ocean liners would have been quicker, but Shax wanted to avoid crowds of travelers, electing to buy passage on a merchant ship. Dustan’s previous experience on the water consisted of rowboats, and never anything larger than a skiff traversing the Thames. He spent much of the journey balancing vomiting with coughing spells.
St. Augustine, with its Spanish-influenced architecture, seemed a strange new world. They arrived in the dry season where the humid subtropical climate contrasted with the rain-soaked chill of London. Fort Matanzas, St. Francis Barracks, the Cathedral, constructed from a light tan coquina and red tiled roofs, towered over neighboring buildings and looked like huge sand castles. Florida had gained statehood in 1842 and seceded with the Confederacy in 1861, and with the war’s end, groups of emaciated Union soldiers wandered the streets since their release from Fort Marion, formerly the Castillo de San Marcos. With dead eyes and broken bodies, they ambled lost through the city.
One of the soldiers, still in a ragged blue Union outfit, lurched along the hardened clay of St. George’s Street. Slight and tall, with strings of matted blond hair falling from beneath his cap, he dragged one leg behind him and hunched at the waist. Dustan noticed the shimmery gray-white aura radiate in an outline around the man’s body. Thoughts of his mother and hours of agonizing unanswered prayers leapt to mind. He gritted his teeth, fists in tight balls, and followed. The soldier paused for a time at Huguenot Cemetery where he removed his hat and muttered something to a headstone. Squatting, he plucked a daisy from the meadow. His fingers twirled the delicate blossom and watched the bright, yellow petals spin. After touching a cuff to his forehead, he placed the flower on the grave.
Dustan shadowed him, staying well back until the soldier entered Genovar’s Grove farther up Shell Road. The man picked an orange and sat with his back to the tree, peeling the fruit and popping slices into his mouth. A raised pink scar ran along his neck, circled behind his right ear, and disappeared underneath his cap. His left leg stretched straight along the ground, the right remained bent at the knee, unable to extend it fully. Months, possibly years, imprisoned in the Fort, a bad leg and who knew what other wounds—yes, Dustan could do this.
He crept from tree to tree, pausing each time to peek out at the soldier, making certain he remained seated and unaware. Dustan pulled a small knife from his boot that boasted a meager three-inch blade affixed to a bone handle—one of the clipper’s sailors had left it lying on a crate and pitched a fit when he discovered it missing. Only a few yards now separated Dustan from his target. The soldier’s cap lay on the ground, one boot visible beyond the cluster of trees. With a deep breath, he darted through the low limbs and drove the knife down. The blade stuck fast into the bark with a thunk.
The soldier was nowhere in sight, his hat and boot lying unattended on the ground. Dustan’s eyes darted to the trees. A hand clenched him from behind, spun him, and shoved him to the dirt. The man snatched the knife from the tree and straddled him, a knee pressing against each side of his head. With yellowed teeth bared in a snarl, he slid the blade to Dustan’s throat. Blood welled and trickled down Dustan’s neck as the soldier’s legs threatened to cave in his skull.
“Think you can sneak up on me, boy? Whole rebel army tried to kill me, think a wee snot like you can do it?” The angel hawked and spat in the dirt.
He placed his palm flat on Dustan’s chest and pushed himself to his feet. Standing above him, the soldier glared a moment before leaning over to retrieve his boot. He pulled it onto his bare foot, straightened, and wagged the knife at Dustan who stared up in terror.
“What the hell you trying to do? I haven’t done a thing to you.” He slapped his cap against his leg, a plume of dust puffing into the air, and planted it on his head. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”
No words would come to Dustan’s parched mouth. With his heart thumping in his temples, he dug his fingers into the grass, and tried to pull himself away from the angry man. Rows of skinny orange trees seemed to close in. The air grew heavy in his lungs, and rapid breaths wheezed from his mouth.
The angel huffed. “Best keep your distance from now on. I see you again, I’m liable to skin your scrawny ass.” He glanced down at the knife in his hand. “I’m holding on to this…for safe keeping. Keeping me safe, that is.” He turned and marched out of the grove, leaving Dustan panting with tears pooling in his eyes.
“Ain’t as easy as that, lad.” Shax stood behind him. Dustan jumped to his feet, fearing the soldier had returned. “Only me, calm down.” In his first form, the small man circled Dustan, eyeing him with a smirk.
“I…I was…” Dustan stammered, but knew any explanation would ring hollow.
“About to get yourself killed is what you were doing. Don’t go judging spirits by their human appearance. Lesson one. We can seem at death’s door, all crippled and infirm, don’t tell you much about our strength.” Shax waved a hand down his body. “Skin and bone, just a disguise. Can’t kill us with any human weapon either. If you’d stabbed that angel, he’d have laughed, pulled the knife free, and stuck it in your eye.”
“But the scars, the limp,” said Dustan.
“Part of the disguise. You want to hide yourself, you might wear a big hat, or paste on a beard like actors do.” Shax waddled over to a tree and pushed up on tiptoes to snatch a fruit.
“He was a soldier. If he got shot and didn’t die everyone would know.” Dustan staggered to his feet and brushed the dirt from his clothes.
“True enough. Reason we don’t get involved in the fighting. We come along after, slip in like we were there all along.” The dwarf bit into an orange slice, juice dribbled down his chin.
“Why?”
“Dying soldiers are easy pickings, more than ready to strike a bargain. And they’re army men. Grown used to fighting, like it even. Another selling point.” Shax patted Dustan on the shoulder. “I understand what you were up to and can’t say I blame you. But you can’t go shooting without a round in the rifle. Patience. Time will come you’ll be swimming in angel blood. If they had any blood. Figure o’ speech.”
New Orleans - 1866
After a few weeks, Shax procured passage on a steamer destined to Biscayne Bay and onward to New Orleans. Dustan didn’t lament putting St. Augustine behind him any more than he missed London. His altercation with the soldier had left him feeling vulnerable. Life in London made plain his inability to stave off misery and loss. He trusted Shax had a plan, and he would find his place in the war eventually, but the waiting tested his patience. For so long he had felt helpless—frail, coughing, sniffling—constant reminders of his weakness. Now, to know he lacked the strength to fight those he hated, Dustan wanted to smash something, anything.
He pouted most of the journey from St. Augustine into New Orleans Harbor and barely glanced at the city. They did not dally, lingering only long enough to purchase supplies and three horses. Shax once again donned the guise of the burly policeman, yet without the uniform. He now wore a hide vest over a cloth shirt and wool pants. With a wide-brimmed cowboy hat on his head, astride a sleek red stallion, Shax boasted he looked like Buffalo Bill. A packhorse weighted down with provisions trotted behind him. Dustan rode a spirited mare and detested every second of it. The third time the horse steered him beneath a low hanging limb that slapped him in the face, he almost wished to be abo
ard a ship again.
They traveled east from New Orleans, camping at night. Unaccustomed to nature and wild environments, Dustan jumped at every owl’s hoot and wolf’s howl. Shax snickered at his trepidation. The necessity of returning to the spirit realm in order to recover his strength took Shax away every couple of days, leaving Dustan on his own. Dustan hated those times most of all. Predators roamed the woods—wolves, bears, cougars—the snap of a branch warned of a sure mauling. Dustan drank bitter black coffee and tried to stay awake. When sleep came, he dreamed of claws and fangs.
After a long week, they came upon a white, stately mansion. Great wide columns stood sentry across the front, two rows of a dozen windows lined the exterior. Ivy slithered up the walls like leafy serpents. Dustan thought it a palace until they entered. Smoke damage marred the house inside and out. Beams lay scattered on the floor, crashed down from the ceiling rafters. A splayed chandelier centered the foyer in broken crystal. High weeds, twisted trees, and charred rubble littered the surrounding grounds.
“We’re staying here?” asked Dustan, dismayed.
“Yep. A plantation house—still kept slaves in this country up until the war’s end. This place got burnt out by the Union army a year ago. Freed the negroes, but understand the former residents didn’t have it so lucky.” Shax drew a finger across his throat. “No one will be using it for quite a spell, so…” He extended a hand. “Home sweet home.”
“Where are we?” Dustan tiptoed into the house, kicking debris out of his path.
“South of Hattiesburg, Mississippi. A shithole, but right now, perfect for what we need.”
“How are we supposed to live here? The place is filthy.” He raked a finger along the bannister. It came away black with soot.
“I reckon you’ll have to do something about that,” said Shax with a smirk. “Fetch that box over there.”
Dustan did as instructed and retrieved a box much heavier than it appeared. He set it down before Shax. The diminutive man leaned over and opened the carton. Books. Dozens and dozens of them.
“Can you read?”
“Sure I can. Well…some.” Dustan shied, hanging his head.
“You’ll be a master by the time you finish this lot. We got Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, all the English biggies. Here’s Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans and The Deer Slayer, we got Hawthorne, Melville, Irving, should keep you busy.”
“I have to read all these?” Dustan had not attended formal school. His mother taught him all he knew. A few reading classes at the church constituted the extent of his education.
“Need a sharp mind and a strong body. Put those together and you get a stout spirit. The books will hone your mind. As for your sorry excuse for a body. Follow me.” Shax pivoted and exited the house through the servants’ door.
Dustan followed, apprehensive to learn what the dwarf had planned for him now. They made their way roughly a hundred yards behind the plantation house to where a series of dilapidated shacks sat near a placid pond spotted with lily pads. A fat long-legged frog leapt from one, splashing into the dark green water. Behind those, a line of ominous trees draped in Spanish moss seemed ready to slink forward.
Shax leaned over and grasped an axe balanced against a massive oak. “Here. Take down those shacks and pile the planks behind the big house. We’ll use it for firewood.”
Dustan paled. “It’ll take me forever.”
“Not quite so long as that. Once you’re done, start on that line of firs across the pond.” Shax handed the axe to Dustan and failed to stifle a chuckle as he waddled away.
Ten shacks, each larger than his flat in Collier’s Rents. Dustan sighed, rolled up the sleeves of his striped button-down, and took a whack at one wall. The strike reverberated down his arms, quaking all the way into his feet. By noon, his entire body felt on fire. Throbbing legs dared him to stand as he rested beneath the thick limbs of the oak.
So began a stream of never-ending tasks, day after day, month after month. Following the shacks and firs, he scrubbed the big house interior walls free of soot and blemish. Shax taught him to repair the woodwork—beams, stairs, walls. He patched holes in the roof and cut back weeds pronged in murderous thorns from the yard. Away from the industrial boom of London, the haze and filth, and surrounded by fresh open air, Dustan’s frailties faded. Worked daily to exhaustion, his body became well defined and strong. His coughing and sniffling gradually grew less and less, finally stopping all together, the last spell well over a year ago.
Life became routine. He read by a lamp at night and worked during the day, rain or shine. Often, he and Shax hunted in the forest or fished in the pond or river. Dustan almost forgot London, his parents’ deaths, even the angels and demons. The pleasant ache in his muscles, the smell of pine and wild flowers, became a salve for the wounds of his past. He missed Jory and Thomas sometimes when Shax took his sustenance in the spirit realm. Their voices in his memory recalled the childhood denied him. But time created a distance, and soon nothing lived in his thoughts except the plantation and the Delta. Normality lulled him into a sheltered existence free of the realms’ woes and dangers.
All that changed the day the visitors arrived.
6
The Ceremony
Hattiesburg, Mississippi - 1874
The four figures who entered the plantation house’s great room could have passed for a pantheon of gods. Resplendent and regal, their presence froze Dustan’s feet to the floor and his mouth in a silent ‘oh.’ An inhalation of breath caught in his lungs as he felt their power flow around him in tangible waves. He harbored no doubt they numbered amongst the Horde’s royalty. The first to approach him was familiar. In a lavish gray suit, black brocade on the lapels and trim, he carried a cane adorned with a silver eagle-headed pommel. Dustan faintly recalled the ice-colored eyes and thin mustache, but the man’s long elegant fingers gave him away.
“Aamon,” said Dustan with coy reverence.
“Now, now, I do not shit gold. We are friends, you and I.” Aamon clasped Dustan’s shoulder. “My, you have grown into quite a handsome young man. Hard as stone these muscles.” Aamon squeezed a bicep and tapped Dustan’s chest. “It is good to see you again.” The others stood statuesque behind him. “Forgive me. Introductions are in order.”
Aamon turned and a man stepped forward. His skin was colored deep ebony. He wore a hide jacket draped to mid-thigh over oxblood leather pants and boots with a silver medallion around his neck and gold rings hanging from each earlobe. Long hair tightly woven into thin cords fell past his shoulders, accentuating a smooth handsome face. He moved with the grace and ease of a cat. Dustan could tell at a glance, this was a dangerous creature.
“Valefar, one of our generals and commander of the Slayers,” said Aamon.
Dustan had no idea what he meant, but nodded to the man with a slight bow. Valefar returned the gesture and smiled, revealing perhaps his most frightening feature—brilliant canines filed sharp into fangs.
Aamon extended a hand and a woman glided to his arm. Dustan’s knees went weak, and he feared the others would hear them knocking together. She wore a sheer purple and black gown made of fine cotton, ruffled at the bottom and trimmed in lace, which touched the floor. Black silky hair fell to her waist, olive skin and hazel eyes enhanced an air of exotic mystery. Though Dustan was far from an expert, her figure seemed perfection. The low cut of her bodice produced a tightness in his groin. Full ruby lips smirked as though she were aware of his discomfort. He shifted to the side, attempting to conceal the bulge from view. She exuded sensuality like a fire casting off heat. Dustan found himself completely enthralled.
“Don’t worry, lad. Saerna has the same effect on all men,” said Shax with a chuckle.
“Out of my way, let me see the boy.” An ancient creature shoved his way forward. Bent, his head drooped lower than his shoulders and hid under the hood of a long black robe. He straightened, as much as his feeble body allowed, and drew back the cowl. Gray skin, sure to cra
ckle when he spoke, sagged loose in thin layers down his face and hands.
“Father Samuel?” Shocked, Dustan could only stare at the old man.
“Glad you remember me, boy. I doubted you paid any attention to my sermons.” He smiled, flashing yellowed teeth.
“You’re a demon?” Dustan plopped down on the sofa. He questioned how he never thought to sense the pastor.
“You didn’t think we would entrust your welfare to a single sawed-off oaf, did you?”
“Hey, ol’ man, this sawed-off oaf will snap your crusty spine.” Shax glowered at Father Samuel.
“Humph. To my kin, I am Geras.” He might have bowed, but with his stoop, it was hard to tell.
“Now that we are all acquainted…Shax, the fine brandy, if you please.” Aamon took a seat in a velvet cushioned high-backed chair.
The house, now furnished thanks to Shax’s enterprise and decorative skills, stood somewhere between a gaudy Victorian home and a brothel. Portraits of buxom women adorned the walls. Shax had no idea who they were, but felt it beside the point. Oriental rugs in dizzying patterns covered the floors. Marble busts of Cicero and Plato perched on pedestals at each side of the fireplace. Above the mantle, crossed silver short axes gleamed, framed on an oval bronze plate.
The dwarf returned with a decanter and handed it to Aamon. The Demon Lord poured out six cups and distributed them to the group.
“A toast my friends. To Dustan.”
“Hear, hear,” said Geras.
The others clapped and sipped their brandy. Dustan, uncomfortable with the attention, sat stiff and tried to muster a smile.
“Drink and rest, tomorrow we will have the ceremony,” said Aamon.
“Ceremony?” asked Dustan.
“But of course. Initiation is over, my boy, time for you to join us.”
Blood for the Dancer Page 5