Allan nodded approvingly. “So a sort of catch-all ward?”
“Pretty much. Clay made the first batch back in the 80s. Been adding to it ever since. Once I find something new that works, it gets added to the mix.”
“I like it,” Allan said with a grin.
Schmidt didn’t seem as amused. “That does bring up a point.” He poured what looked like a cup of sugar into his coffee. “Whatever happened between us, Clay Mercer was a brother. How did he die?”
“Cancer,” Matt answered, the smile melting from his face. “Stomach cancer.”
The German frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. We found the insurance claims for medications, but—”
“Wait, you read his insurance claims?”
“Never found any word of his death,” Schmidt continued as if Matt hadn’t spoken. “Just one day, he was gone. Where is he buried? The Valducans have...traditions to honor our fallen.”
Matt chewed his lip. “Vacaville, near San Francisco. Unmarked grave.”
“Why hide him if it was cancer?” the old man asked, his voice bordering on accusation.
“He was bitten.” Matt snorted, shaking his head. “Vampire. One of those bald kind with the extra-long fingers. Clay dropped Dämoren in the fight. I nailed it with a forty-five. I had these silver hollow points. Killed the body.” He met Schmidt’s blue eyes. “By the time I got to him he was too far gone. He told me to take Dämoren, put a slug in him, burn him, and bury him at a crossroads. So I did.”
The German’s gaze softened. “But you said cancer?”
“If he hadn’t been sick,” Matt spat, his anger rising. “All doped up on that shit they gave him, that vamp wouldn’t have stood a chance. I’d seen him fight his way past four times what that thing could do. It was the cancer.”
Swallowing, Schmidt ran a finger along his thin moustache. “I understand.” Sadness crept into his face. He drew a breath. “He was a good man.”
No one spoke for several long seconds. Matt replayed that terrible night again and again through his mind.
“Did you ever kill it?” Allan asked. “The vampire?”
Matt shook his head. “Never saw it again. Coulda jumped to a body it marked, now living in Australia, or something. Maybe it went to England and you got it with Ibenus, there.” He motioned to the black flat case, like for a keyboard or other instrument, sitting beside Allan’s chair. Matt understood. Even after stripping off all his weapons to come into the roadhouse, he still kept Dämoren holstered under his jacket. A real hunter never leaves his weapon.
The waitress returned; a welcome distraction for Matt. He ordered a sausage and egg platter. Even though it was after three o’clock, the Moose House was one of those places that served breakfast up until dinnertime. The German ordered a salad and a beer. He hadn’t even touched his sugar-drowned coffee.
“Well, love,” Allan said, looking up from the paper menu. “I’ll have the roast beef sandwich, chips, and if it wouldn’t be a bother, horseradish sauce.” He smiled up at her.
“No,” the waitress answered with a warm grin, jotting his order with a bit more care than the others. “No bother at all. That it for you?”
While attractive, with his dark hair and athletic build, Matt couldn’t help but wonder how much of the Englishman’s appeal was in the accent.
Allan shook his head and gave her a little smile. “I think I’ll have a beer. Same as my friend here.” He gestured to Schmidt beside him.
The dye-job blonde nodded, her gaze lingering on Allan for a brief moment before scooping up the menus. “I’ll bring them right out.”
Schmidt waited for the girl to leave before speaking. “Tell me, what did Clay say about the Valducans?”
“Not much. You’re a group of demon-hunting knights. You find and keep track of all holy weapons. Your library on demon species and lore is massive.” Matt ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, his eyes meeting the two men’s. “And that you wanted me dead.”
Allan’s eyes shied away at the last part. Schmidt gave no reaction at all.
The old man rubbed his narrow chin and sighed. Clay had often done the same when teaching Matt math or introducing a new lesson.
“Holy weapons,” Schmidt began, “have always existed. Whether it’s Perseus’s sword which killed the gorgon, Medusa, or Saint George’s lance, Ascalon, these weapons are legendary. During the Middle Ages, there were several of these artifacts known across Christendom.
“When the Pope summoned thousands of men to the First Crusade, there were, of course, many whose souls had been marked by demons. So, as the crusaders invaded the Holy Lands, they brought with them vampires, werewolves, and other creatures that were virtually unknown to that region. Then, as soldiers returned home, they not only carried back the spoils of war, but ifrit and ghouls; monsters that, until that time, were alien to Europe. In response, the Order of Valducan was formed in 1142. It consisted of eight knights and their holy weapons. When the Pope announced the Second Crusade, the Valducans, whose ranks had grown to ten, answered his call.
“The knights were not invaders, but came to protect the crusaders and rid Christian lands of these Saracen demons. However, once they arrived, they found that the Muslims had their own holy weapons.” Schmidt smiled to the returning waitress and took his glass of beer.
As the German returned his undrunk coffee to the blonde, desperately hovering around Allan, Matt found himself staring at a deer’s head mounted to the wall. The taxidermist had somehow captured a quizzical expression on its face. Maybe it had looked that way the moment the animal had died. Maybe it, like Matt, was wondering where the German’s history lesson was headed, and why the Valducans had spent the past several weeks chasing him down so they could tell it to him. Had they wanted him dead, they could have done it at the motel, or hidden at the mine with a high-powered rifle, like the one that probably killed the puzzled deer there, and taken him down without Matt even knowing they had found him.
Schmidt took a long swallow and set the glass down on the worn tabletop with a soft clack. “Now,” he continued. “The Valducan Knights learned of Muslim weapons that worked against demons the same as theirs. They captured Khirzoor, a holy scimitar. Because of its Muslim markings, they were ordered to destroy the blasphemous sword. But the knights couldn’t bring themselves to destroy it. They said that the power of the weapons came from God, and if God chose for the Saracens and Turks to have them, destroying them was a sin. They swore instead, to protect them.”
Matt swallowed his coffee. “The Church must have loved that.”
Allan snorted.
If the old German was amused by the joke, he hid it behind another sip of beer. “Excommunication. They were vitandus; banished. They were proclaimed traitors to the Church and God, Muslim supporters, and thieves of the ten sacred weapons of Christ.”
“So what did they do?”
“Went into hiding,” the old man answered. “While not exactly pleased with the invaders, the Muslims did appreciate the Valducans for killing any and all demons. There were many ifrit in the Middle East back then, before they spread out across the world, and they called them Al Afareet Qatilla, the Ifrit Killers.”
Matt suppressed a grin at Schmidt’s needless translation for his benefit.
“As a measure of good faith, they returned Khirzoor to its people, and even helped in the training of its new owner, Faisal Ibn Sabbah, the first non-Christian inducted into the order. The Valducans stayed in the Holy Lands for the next twenty years before finally fleeing up the old Silk Road into India.”
“Is that where you’re based now?” Matt asked. “India?”
Schmidt shook his head. “No, as wars and political climates have changed during the centuries, we’ve had many locations. Our current base of operations is in France, although we do have properties in various parts of the world.”
The waitress came, carrying their food. Matt eased his caution enough to order a beer as well. She brought a pitcher, fi
lled his glass, then topped off Allan and Schmidt’s. As Matt reached for his drink, he felt an unexpected weight in his jacket. Moving his hand down, he felt the plastic bottle jutting out from his pocket. He’d tucked it there when fleeing the mine and forgotten about it. He noticed Schmidt watching him. Casually, Matt picked up his fork and began to eat.
“I’ve enjoyed this little history lesson,” he said between mouthfuls. “But why are you here? I mean, what’s prompted this little truce?”
The old man drew a long breath, seeming to roll around Matt’s question. He traced his moustache again. “The first duty of the Valducans has always been to protect the blessed weapons. Whether we are in control of them or not, we make sure that they are safe.”
Matt felt Schmidt’s pale gaze where Dämoren hid beneath his leather jacket.
“In the last four months, eighteen holy weapons have disappeared. Fifteen of which we know have been destroyed.”
Matt froze, a bite of sausage still in his mouth.
“At first, their losses seemed unrelated. A team of three hunters disappeared in Hungary. A Roman gladius was stolen from a museum in Naples. It wasn’t until the mauled corpse of a hunter was found in Florida, everything on him but his weapon, that we began to see the pattern.”
Matt gulped down his food. “What pattern?”
“The weapons were the target,” Allan answered. “The gladius, you see, was in a case beside a gilded helmet. The helm was untouched. The thieves knew what the sword was.”
“But you said fifteen were destroyed?”
Schmidt nodded. “Two months ago, the blessed weapons of the men lost in Hungary were found in an abandoned house in Plevin, Bulgaria, along with an Ottoman saber last seen forty years ago. The mutilated remains of five people were there as well. The weapons had been smashed. Some were used on their former owners. A similar scene was discovered a few weeks later in China and again in Mexico. At all of them.” He tapped the tabletop with a hard thunk. “The weapons were broken, then desecrated. Demonic glyphs and other symbols were found as well.”
“How bad is this? I mean, how many holy weapons are there?”
The old man looked to Allan.
“Forty-six.”
“That’s it?” Matt asked, his eyes wide. “That’s all that’s left?”
Allan sheepishly nodded. “We think the Vatican might control at least four more, but they don’t...speak to us about that.”
“They still can’t be mad about the Crusades?”
“No. They just don’t share anything with outsiders. Especially regarding the validity of holy relics. We’ve tried many times over the years to open communication, but they refuse.”
Matt wondered just how hard they might have asked. Blaming the Church was an easy excuse. No telling how many years of animosity might have existed. Maybe thefts. Maybe murders. A lot of bad blood can happen over eight centuries.
“However,” Allan continued, “many of the remaining holy weapons are in the possession of individuals, and that’s why we’ve come.”
“To warn me?”
“And to ask for your help.”
“Mine?”
“A third of all the known weapons are gone,” Schmidt said. “We can’t afford for any more to be lost. This threat must be stopped.”
Matt’s eyes narrowed. “So what do you want?”
“We want you to come back with us,” Schmidt said.
“What?” Matt asked with a shocked laugh.
“We want you to accompany us back to France. We are gathering as many hunters as we can for protection and to find whatever is destroying the relics.”
“Look, I understand the desire to circle the wagons,” he shook his head, “but I don’t feel the need to follow you half way around the world.”
The German opened his mouth to speak, but Matt cut him off.
Leaning forward, he spoke, his voice low and deliberate. “I’ve lived my entire life with monsters and people wanting to kill me. I’ve looked over my shoulder every day since Clay told me about the Valducans, the bogeymen who hunted me the way we hunted demons. So this is nothing new. This is what you’ve put me through ever since my family was killed and I was bitten.”
Schmidt straightened, his lips tight. “Yes, Mr. Hollis, you were bitten. Clay told us about the wendigo. He said he’d seen its essence burn, yet you still exhibited signs of corruption.”
Matt leaned back, withdrawing his arms from the table, suddenly very uncomfortable with where the conversation had turned. He felt the old man’s cold, blue gaze drilling into him.
“He told us that your wounds healed before his eyes, bringing you back from the edge of death. He said you could speak any tongue, just like a demon. Yet he didn’t kill you. He adopted you.” Schmidt drew a long breath, giving Matt another dose of his piercing stare. “At first, I thought maybe you had bitten him, rendering him your familiar.”
“I’m not a demon,” Matt growled, his jaw tight.
“Then what are you?”
“Wendigos can’t make slaves.”
“Humans can’t heal their wounds. So what are you?” Hatred tinged the old man’s voice.
Matt glanced to Allan. A tension vibrated through the hunter’s body, like every muscle was primed, ready to spring at any moment. He looked back to Schmidt. The old man gave no sign of fear that he sat unarmed, not three feet from a suspected demon. Balls like that could only come from one of two places. Either the old man was insanely confident Matt wouldn’t be able to reach across and harm him, meaning he or Allan had a weapon other than the one locked in the Englishman’s black case, or that there was a third Valducan. Maybe one of the dozen or so other customers in the near-empty roadhouse. Maybe a sharpshooter trained on him from outside the window. However, Matt somehow doubted that. Even with a hidden weapon or sniper, three feet was too close to be fearless. An incubus once knocked him across a room, even after taking two blessed slugs to the chest and a disemboweling gash from Dämoren’s blade.
The other source, Matt guessed, was that Schmidt wasn’t just some messenger or minion of the Valducans, like Alfred from Batman. Guts like his could only be had from a man who’d seen Hell. Seen it and lived. “You’re a hunter.”
Schmidt nodded tersely. “Retired.”
Matt let out a long sigh, releasing a bit of tension. He hoped the two hunters would follow his lead before things escalated. “I can’t just heal myself. Not exactly.” He peeled the stained Band Aid off the side of his left palm, showing them the fresh cut from the mine ladder. “But when I touch demon blood, I can heal myself.”
“Demons don’t have blood,” Schmidt said. “Their victims, the humans they possess, have blood.”
“No,” Matt replied, the tension returning. “It’s demon blood. The burning blood that comes from a demon after its soul has died, but before it returns to human form.”
The old man sat silent, his pale eyes studying Matt’s face. “What’s in that bottle you’re always carrying?” His gaze darting briefly down to Matt’s jacket pocket.
Matt’s jaw tightened. There was no telling what the old bastard already knew. What had Clay told them? What had they learned while spying on him? You’re testing me, you son of a bitch. “It’s water mixed with my blood.” He pulled the bottle out and set it on the scarred tabletop. “The blood will gather in the direction of a nearby demon. Clay called it my blood compass.”
Allan leaned in a little toward the bottle of pink fluid, his expression like some zoologist discovering a new type of toad. “Amazing.”
“It loses potency after a few hours,” Matt added, just in case the two hunters developed some plan to bleed him dry and pass out blood compasses as standard equipment.
“Demons can sense one another,” Schmidt said. “That’s evidently how they can.”
“Maybe, but you just said they don’t have blood.”
The German gave a tight smile, making him appear like he had no lips. “Perhaps I was wrong.”
“Mr. Hollis, please,” Allan pleaded. “There’s more.”
“Better make it fast,” Matt said, drawing a ten dollar note.
“The demons are teaming together.”
“So?”
“This isn’t like a vampire nest or a pack of skin walkers. Different species are joining ranks, species that normally avoid one another. They’re grouping.”
Matt paused. “Joining ranks how?”
“I mean rakshasas actually mingling with one another,” he whispered, “and also working with werebeasts and yokai.
Rakshasas forming packs? A knot of dread formed in Matt’s chest.
Allan gestured to Matt’s empty seat, which Matt took. “One of our teams found a pack outside Krakow. The beasts had raided the estate of a former hunter and taken his sword. At least eight demons. Among them: two rakshasas, two werewolves, a vampire, and a yokai.”
Matt let out a long breath, trying to imagine the speed, cunning, and raw power of a pack like that. “Did they save the sword?”
The Englishman nodded. “One of the hunters was maimed. The demon that bit him escaped.” His lips tightened. “They had to finish him.”
“Jesus.”
“That’s not the worst,” Schmidt said, his voice calm like a doctor delivering bad news. “We’ve begun encountering new species. Things we’ve either never seen before or breeds that haven’t been reported in centuries. Monsters we’d thought extinct are reappearing.”
“New species?” Matt said, mostly to himself. He leaned back into the chair.
“Yeah,” Allan answered. “Which means that aside from holy weapons, we don’t know what else affects them. Learning that a silver blade works on one species, while another needs glass or iron, took centuries and untold lives. We’re blind.”
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