“But how?” Matt asked. “If a demon can only enter a body that it marked, how are new ones appearing?”
“We don’t know. We have theories, but nothing—” Allan’s gaze moved to the table beside Matt.
The pink water in the plastic bottle cleared as a crimson bead of blood formed against the side facing the window.
Matt turned to Allan. “You said you killed the aswang.”
“I did.”
Flipping the snap open on Dämoren’s holster, Matt peered out the roadhouse window. About fifteen cars littered the parking lot. He knew more were around the corner at the gas station. He leaned further, trying to follow the blood compass’s direction, but didn’t see anything. The red sphere elongated and split like a dividing cell. Two demons.
He barely heard the door behind him creak open.
“Get down!” Allan yelled. He pulled the old man to the ground and threw the table over, slinging beer and shattering plates across the floor. A woman screamed.
Matt whirled around to see a pair of men in the doorway with shotguns, raised in his direction. He dropped behind the table just as the gun blasted. The wall behind him, where Schmidt’s head had been a moment before, exploded. Splinters of paneling and shards of glass from a framed photograph rained down around him. Matt drew Dämoren as another blast blew apart the table edge beside him.
The distinct cha-chunk of the shotgun’s pump came from the other side, followed by another blast. The heavy table jarred back. Four holes, big enough for Matt’s little finger, suddenly appeared before him. Hunkering back, he cocked Dämoren’s hammer.
Allan lunged with his arm out, grabbing Ibenus’s black case and pulled it beside him before another loud shot blew the floor to shreds.
A gun clicked behind Matt. He looked back to see Schmidt huddled behind him, clutching a .357. Blood tricked down from a cut atop his balding head. Shards of glass and wood clung to his thin white hair like tinsel.
Another blast took off the table’s top corner. He stole a quick glance through the buckshot holes. The two men closed in. Their eyes held a yellow sheen.
“Take the one on the left,” Allan said, pulling the black and gold khopesh from its case. “I’ll get the other.”
“Wait, you ca—” Matt started.
Clutching the sword, the Englishman swung upward and vanished. Another shotgun blast vaporized the right half of the table where Allan had hidden.
Matt peered through the holes to see Allan standing eight feet from the table. One of the gunmen swung his weapon toward him, but the hunter stepped forward, swiping his sword and suddenly appeared three feet away from where he’d been. Allan swung again, and again seemed to blink another step with impossible speed.
“Shoot!” Schmidt yelled behind him.
Raising his head above the table, Matt leveled Dämoren and fired. Blue smoke plumed out from the holy revolver and the yellow-eyed shooter’s chest exploded in a burst of crimson. Cocking the hammer, Matt brought Dämoren around toward the second attacker, but stopped as Allan suddenly appeared between them. The Englishman opened the gunman from his shoulder to his opposite hip in one horrific swipe, spraying a fan of blood across the room and onto the screaming waitress hunkered behind a barstool.
Dämoren out, Matt stepped around the table and approached the bodies. They didn’t burn.
Allan moved toward the door, clutching Ibenus. Matt followed, hurrying through a haze of gun smoke.
Crouching to one side of the wood door, Matt held the revolver in both hands and nodded to Allan. Allan threw the door open and Matt leaned out. A shot fired. The bullet whizzed past Matt’s head, hitting somewhere behind him. The shooter, a redhead in a dark blue van, adjusted her aim as Matt jerked himself back to the safety of the wall. Two more shots. The doorframe splintered with a hard crack.
An engine revved and tires screeched on pavement. Braving a peek, Matt leaned out to see the van tear out the lot, turning left onto the road.
He jumped up and raced out of the door. Scrambling for the keys in his pocket, he yanked them out and pressed the unlock button several times. His car’s lights flashed with every click. Once he reached it, he opened the door and dove inside. He had the keys in the ignition when the passenger door flew open.
Matt blinked as Allan scrambled into the seat.
Allan slammed the door shut. “They’re heading south!”
Matt opened his mouth to tell the knight to get the hell out of his car when Allan slapped the dashboard. “Go! They’re getting away.”
Fuck it. Matt cranked the key, popped the car in reverse, and squealed out of the parking space. “Hold on!” He shifted to drive, hit the gas, and shot out onto on the street after the van.
Trees blurred past as they sped down the narrow county road, engine roaring. Matt yanked the car around a sharp bend. Momentum slammed his shoulder against the door.
“I don’t see them,” Allan yelled, struggling with his seatbelt.
“Nowhere else to go,” Matt said. “Just hope we can get there before a crossroad.”
“The compass?”
“Back at the bar.” Matt veered around another corner. A rust-red truck ahead swerved out of the way, its horn blaring. “Sorry,” he said to the rearview.
“Why didn’t it detect the gunmen?”
“Familiars. It only points to the demon itself.”
An electronic beat began playing, followed by a guitar. Diving a hand into his pocket, Allan withdrew a phone as a second rift blasted.
“Yes?” Allan said, pressing the phone to one ear and his hand over the other. “We’re following them now.” He nodded. “Okay.” Nodded again. “All right. I will.”
“Schmidt?” Matt asked as Allan jammed the phone back into his jeans.
“Yeah. Said he’s left the bar. Wants to meet back at a fueling station outside of Milton Hill when we’re done.”
“He’s not going back to the motel, is he?”
“No. Packed this morning.” The car jolted on a pothole, knocking the Englishman’s head against the ceiling. He grunted. “You need anything out of your room?”
Matt jammed a thumb behind him. “In the back. Never leave stuff in case I have to make a quick exit.”
Allan nodded.
“So, I take it the German doesn’t like me,” Matt joked.
“Who?”
“Schmidt.”
“No. But don’t call him German. He’ll kick your ass.”
“Why?”
“He’s Austrian.”
The road forked ahead. With no time to think, Matt kept to the right on the main highway.
Allan clutched the handle by his head in one hand and steadied Ibenus between his legs with the other. “This the right way?”
“Sure hope so.”
Cresting a hill, they turned, running parallel to a river. A blue van sped along the road below. Matt hit the accelerator, seizing advantage of the straightaway and hurdled down after it.
“What’s the plan?” Allan asked.
Matt tightened his grip on the wheel. His Ingram and Dämoren’s extra ammo were in the trunk, which might as well be on the moon. He still had six shots in the revolver. “Don’t know.”
They drew closer. The road turned and the van vanished again behind the forest. Matt touched the heavy pistol in his lap. Almost there.
They were close enough now to see it through the blurring trees. A glimpse of blue as they rounded a corner, only to lose it again around the next curve. Setting his jaw, Matt hugged the bends. Tires squealed. Red lights framed the van’s back door ahead as it took a steep turn. Gunning the engine, Matt shot around the tight corner, coming out less than twenty feet behind the bouncing van.
Matt hit the window button. Wind roared, whipping his shaggy hair. He took Dämoren’s ivory handle in his left hand. “I’m gonna hit the tire”
Allan looked at the gun and back to the van, his eyes wide. “You’re fucking kidding!”
“Get ready.” Ho
lding Dämoren out of the window, Matt leaned his head out. Wind hit Dämoren’s blade like a rudder, and shot up his jacket sleeve. Fighting the resistance, he aimed at the van’s back tire and fired.
Missed.
He cocked the hammer and aimed again. The van turned into a slight bend, offering Matt a glimpse of the tire’s profile. He took the shot, striking the chromed bumper.
Damn it. He cocked the hammer again.
“Turn!” Allan yelled.
Looking up, Matt saw a tight curve ahead, just as the van hurled around it, its bulk leaning out with momentum. Pulling back into the car, Matt fought the wheel around the hard bend, the car’s outer wheels grinding against the asphalt’s edge. The road straightened, and he let out a breath. “Thanks.”
‘Pay attention to your surroundings,’ Clay had lectured. ‘Tunnel-vision’ll kill ya dead as anything.’
Matt started out the window, but Allan stopped him.
“Hold on.”
“What?”
“Wait for the next turn. Just stay on its arse.”
Matt nodded. Holding the pistol out the window, he hit the gas and closed in. The van sped faster. Matt leaned out, aiming at the tires. The van swerved serpentine, back and forth, each time leaning out with its weight. They crested a low hill.
“There’s a left ahead,” Allan yelled. “Bottom of the hill.”
Matt kept on the gas, pressing the van faster. He wished he had the Ingram. Hell, he wished he had any gun. Dämoren’s bullets were too precious for this. Steadying his arm on the side mirror, he aimed at the back left tire.
“Almost there,” Allan said. “Slow down.”
Matt let off the gas. The van hurtled away toward the bend, still weaving back and forth. Brake lights flared as it started the turn. Just a little late. The van turned, giving Matt a second’s window. He led the tire a few inches and fired.
The rear of the van jolted, like a kicked toy. Smoking tires shrieked and the blue van spun off the road and into the woods.
Matt hit the brakes, stopping the car twenty feet past where the van had stopped. It sat motionless behind a cloud of black rubber smoke, facing the other way a few feet off the pavement. Chunks of broken tire lay scattered around it.
Allan hit the seatbelt release and opened the door, swinging the sword out in front of him. Matt jumped out, holding the pistol up, and circled around the car. Allan neared the van when the back door burst open. Something big and red moved inside.
Allan sprang back, directly into Matt’s line of fire, as a pair of tall creatures emerged. Short horns ran the length of their bony jaw lines, up to a pair of curved white ones, no thicker than a pencil. Turning its golden eyes to Allan, one opened its mouth. An impossibly long tongue slithered out, then split open, revealing a writhing mass of pink tendrils. They shot out toward him, but the Englishman swung his khopesh and appeared four feet to the side.
Seizing the opening, Matt fired, hitting the beast between its knotty pectorals. Black blood exploded from the wound, followed by a geyser of purple flame. Matt swung Dämoren to the second beast when something moved inside the van.
The red-haired driver stumbled out clutching her pistol. Pop. Pop. Pop.
The bullets slammed into Matt’s chest. Pain exploded through his senses, blinding him. He fell back and hit the leaf-covered ground.
#
Someone screamed. A man.
Allan!
Matt gasped, regaining consciousness. Dämoren lay beside him. Allan screamed again.
Matt reached for the gun, and pain shot through his arm. Blood poured from a hole in his left arm, filling his jacket sleeve. Gritting his teeth, he picked up the revolver. His chest felt like he’d been beaten with a hammer. The Kevlar had saved his life, but his ribs were broken.
Pushing himself up onto his knees, he saw the redheaded shooter. She stood still, her Beretta at her side, watching her master. The crimson demon hissed, its long tongue was peeled open like a banana from a hundred tendrils. Allan stood writhing, tangled in the pink ribbons, his face contorted in agony. Red welts covered his neck and hands where the strands touched.
The monster turned its long head, locking its gold and black-slitted eyes onto Matt. The woman turned and aimed her pistol.
Bypassing the familiar, Matt raised the heavy revolver and fired. The monster’s head knocked back, blood and brains exploding out into the woods. It fell, its tentacles sliding from Allan as it went. The gun fell from the familiar’s hand, her arms limp at her sides.
“Oh God!” Allan shrieked, his hands grabbing his face as he collapsed.
“Hang in there, “ Matt shouted. Clutching his wounded arm, he staggered to his feet. Blood poured from his sleeve. He scrunched his eyes, fighting a wave of dizziness. Purple and orange flames danced over the first demon, its black blood running down its sides. Matt dropped to his knees and thrust his hands into the warm, sticky blood. Tingles spread up his arm, soothing the gushing wound. He smeared his fingers deeper into the ooze. Ribs crunched into place beneath his vest. He gasped at the moment’s pain, and then rose to his feet.
The woman still stood there, her face slack. The golden sheen faded from her eyes.
Allan lay on the ground. Tears streaked his pained face.
“You’re going to be okay.” Matt crouched beside him. Bright welts crisscrossed the man’s hands and neck, like he’d been lashed with a cat o’ nines. A few of the lines marked his face, but those didn’t appear as severe. Many of the red welts on his neck and hands had blistered.
“It burns,” Allan hissed.
“I don’t know what that thing was. What do I do?”
“Don’t know.”
“It’s like a jellyfish sting. Do you want me to piss on it or something?”
“No!” Allan’s eyes flashed open. He gulped several deep breaths. “Vinegar. Water. Wash off the venom!”
“I don’t have any!” He mentally ran through the contents of his car. “Vodka?”
“Yes,” Allan winced. “The alcohol.”
Matt raced back to the car and popped open the trunk. He pulled out the footlocker and dug through the bags behind it, pulling out a mostly-full bottle of Polish vodka. 120 proof. He grabbed a wadded shirt from the bag then ran back to where Allan lay.
“Here you go, man.” He unscrewed the top and splashed some of the clear liquor onto Allan’s hand.
Hissing, the Englishman balled his fist. “Fuck, that hurts!”
Matt stopped. “I’m sorry. I thought—”
“No.” He motioned toward himself frantically. “More.”
He splashed more onto Allan’s hand and poured some over his blistered neck. The slime on the Englishman’s wounds congealed into strips of clear jelly as the alcohol ran over the wounds. “This helping?” Matt asked, dabbing them with the wadded shirt.
Allan nodded. “Thanks.” He pushed himself up into a sitting position, took the vodka-soaked cloth, and wiped the back of his neck.
A piercing scream erupted behind them. Grabbing Dämoren in her holster, Matt whirled around to see the red-haired woman screaming, her hands up by her face, and eyes frozen onto the burning monsters before her.
“Ma’am,” Matt said, holding out a hand.
The woman looked down at herself, then to the gun at her feet, the van, and back to the demons.
“Miss, it’s okay. No one’s going to harm you.” He stood.
The shrieking woman looked up at them, her eyes crazed and wide. Her gaze locked onto Matt’s blood-smeared hands. She stepped back.
“Miss, you’re okay.” Matt kept his voice calm and low. “You’re safe.”
Without a word, the woman turned and ran away screaming.
“Hmm,” Allan said. “She took that well.”
Despite himself, Matt chuckled, then burst into laughter. He turned back to the hunter, sitting upright and wincing with every laugh.
“Poor thing. I wonder what all she’ll even remember.”
“If she
’s lucky, nothing.”
Allan swigged the half-empty bottle and coughed. “Thanks. Thought you were a goner when she plugged you.”
Matt rapped the vest under his shirt. “Worth the investment.”
Allan swigged the bottle again and offered it up. “Good shot.”
Matt took the bottle and knocked it back. The vodka burned his throat, taking his breath. The first demon had shrunk, its horns slowly retracting. He guessed it might take another half-hour before it had fully returned to human form. “Gotta dig that slug out before the Mounties get here. Ballistics.”
“What about that guy you shot in the bar?” Allan asked, crawling to his feet.
Matt shrugged. “Can only hope it shattered. Can’t have too many deaths linked to me. Caliber is pretty unique. No telling how many unsolved murders I’d be charged with if they ever caught me. Besides, by the time anyone might get it out, I hope we’re halfway across the ocean.”
“What?”
“They hit us, Allan. Must have watched you and Schmidt visit that place, then waited for me to arrive.” He shook his head. “Never heard of a demon like those, either. I’m convinced. I’ll join you.”
Chapter Four
Matt sat in one of the worn blue and red pleather seats, reading his laptop screen while trying to ignore the endless drone of the plane’s propellers. He scrolled through police photos of the grisly crime scene in Bulgaria. The bodies weren’t just mutilated, they’d been torn to pieces. While stray dogs were responsible for some, the dismembered limb and crushed skulls were caused by something more. He examined a picture of the blood-inscribed walls. Curved symbols, like alien hieroglyphs, decorated the dingy sheetrock.
The plane shuddered and Matt tensed, letting out a sigh once the turbulence ended. It wasn’t that he didn’t like flying. He just hadn’t been on an airplane since his dad took him to Colorado when he was ten. A lifetime ago. Airlines frowned on bringing handguns aboard. True, he could always check Dämoren. But trusting a baggage handler with her, even locked in a case, was out of the question.
When Schmidt said the Valducans owned a plane, and sneaking the weapons through customs wouldn’t be a problem, Matt had envisioned a private jet. Fast and smooth, just like in the movies. Instead, he found himself on an old prop plane they’d picked up from some defunct airline. Fokker, they called it. It was loud, rickety, and felt like it might come apart around them with each jolt of turbulence.
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