Damoren

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Damoren Page 11

by Seth Skorkowsky


  Luc pursed his lips and growled.

  “What are they saying?” Susumu asked.

  “That they summoned a specific monster by its name,” Matt answered.

  The samurai gave a solemn nod. “This is not good.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Because,” Kazuo said, sifting through a pile of torn and bloody clothes. “When the laws of the universe are called and powers are invoked or bound by their true names, waves are felt everywhere. That’s when prophecies come true. Things change.”

  “Like what?”

  “Everything. All worlds feel the ripples.” He pulled a metal chain out from the bundle. A red-smeared white box dangled from the end. “I found the trackers,” he announced.

  “Gather them up,” Malcolm said. He knelt beside the symbols, the back of his hand across his mouth. “Look at this.”

  Luc stepped up beside him and gazed down at the smudged writing. “What is that from?”

  Matt stepped up between them. “Is that a...” he turned his head, trying to get a better angle without having to step inside the circle, “footprint?”

  Malcolm measured it with his hands. It was long, slender at the back, but wide at the toes. It had to be eighteen inches, at least. “I’ve never seen anything this huge. Make sure we get some good shots of it and any more it might have tracked.”

  “I do not see the student,” Susumu said.

  Kazuo scanned the room. “He’s right. Selene isn’t here.”

  “Spread out,” Malcolm said. “And keep your radios handy. This…feels off.”

  They searched the house. Dark patches of dried blood stained many of the tattered beds where the sleeping owners had met their end. The digital clocks beside the beds all blinked, 12:00. In the kitchen, the green oven light read 17:23. The two dots inside the time blinked.

  Matt checked his watch. 7:40.

  “You notice the time it says?” Luc asked.

  “Yeah, it’s off by two hours seventeen minutes. Same time the trackers flipped off.”

  “Have you seen that before?”

  “No. You?”

  Luc frowned. “I have not.”

  Matt opened a washroom door when the pink fluid in the bottle suddenly cleared up, forming a crimson bead toward the outer wall.

  He thumbed the radio. “There’s one outside!” There was a door beside him with a window. Matt pulled the curtain back. The rear yard was empty. Dämoren in hand, he stepped out.

  Matt looked in the direction the blood compass pointed. Fiery hues tinged the sky around the lowering sun. A tin shed rested twenty feet away. Beyond it, there was a dense cluster of trees across a field. The compass pointed toward them.

  “Look!” Luc yelled.

  Three men moved through the grassy field toward the house. One carried a wood club, like a sledge handle or some other tool. Another clutched a metal pipe. The third, a bald guy, held an old varmint rifle.

  A sharp cry came from somewhere inside the house.

  The shed door groaned open and two gray corpses shambled out, their skin drawn and wrinkled. Their dead eyes turned toward Matt and Luc. A gurgling groan resonated from their torn throats.

  The four desiccated bodies emerged from the barn and shuffled toward the house.

  The compass didn’t indicate they were demons, and Dämoren’s ammo was too limited. Matt holstered the revolver and raised the slung Ingram. Holding the thick suppressor in one hand, he aimed at a black-haired teen and fired. A short burst of rapid, metallic tinks and the boy’s face erupted into jagged chunks. The creature didn’t seem to notice. It opened what was left of its mouth. Broken bits of teeth and tongue tumbled out.

  Matt fired again. Silver hollow points tore its head nearly off.

  It kept coming.

  He stepped back. “Luc?”

  The hulking hunter charged forward, mace in hand. He hit the first one, a young girl, in the head. It burst like a melon hit with a shotgun. Luc whirled Velnepo around and struck the side of the teen Matt had shot. Its body flew back twenty feet as if hit by a bus. Bits of brown gore stained the flanged mace.

  Holy shit, Matt thought, awed by the mace’s power.

  The bodies rose back up.

  Matt glanced at the bottle. Two red beads. The men were half-way across the field now.

  One of the other dead creatures neared the front of the house. Susumu’s naginata shot out from the open doorway. The blade drove through the corpse’s chest and out the back. The blade jerked free and the limp corpse dropped. The samurai stepped out.

  Malcolm came out behind him. Chunky blood coated his machete. “The heart! Stab the heart!” He thrust his left hand out toward the nearest monster, the crimson eye tattooed inside his palm opened wide. The creature stopped, as if frozen. “They’re stronger than they look.”

  Susumu lunged, skewering it. He pulled the naginata out and whirled the long blade around, clipping the legs off another walking corpse. He twirled the weapon up, over, then stabbed down into the creature’s chest.

  Following their lead, Matt aimed at the headless girl and fired. Her chest burst with gelatinous holes and she fell. He turned toward the one Luc had knocked back. Splintered bone jutted from its smashed ribs. Its head little more than a malformed bag of hair and bloody skin. It limped toward Kazuo. The short hunter sidestepped and stabbed his katana down into the creature’s long shadow. A triangular hole opened up in the corpse’s chest and it went slack like a marionette held by only one string. Kazuo pulled the blade out from the shadow and the monster crumpled.

  Matt looked back at the bottle. Four beads. Two toward the trees, one toward the barn, another behind them. “We’re surrounded!”

  “Where?” Anya asked.

  “Two demons there. One up there,” he said, pointing the machinegun. “Another down the drive.” Matt checked the bottle again. One of the beads elongated, like the goop in a lava lamp, then split into two smaller beads. “There’s another up there.” He pointed across the yard.

  Anya motioned to the approaching men. “And them?”

  “Familiars, I think.”

  “Everyone stay together,” Malcolm said.

  Kazuo lifted his blade before him with both hands. “This was a trap.”

  “We’re ready for it.” Malcolm turned toward the last direction Matt had pointed. “Send those fuckers to hell for what they did.”

  Matt stepped up beside the dilapidated shed. A shot fired, punching a hole in the corrugated tin by his arm. “Stay down!” Crouching, he spotted the bald man with the rifle about twenty yards away aiming his direction. Matt popped the Ingram up and fired.

  Blood burst from Baldy’s gut. He staggered back, the gun going off in the air. He dropped to a knee and brought the rifle up.

  Matt shot another burst. Red plumes erupted, stitching a jagged line up the shooter’s body and he fell. Matt ejected the spent magazine and slapped another one in.

  Four quick pistol shots fired behind him. He glanced back to see Kazuo, katana in one hand, Colt in the other, firing up the other hill.

  Matt couldn’t see the two other men in the field. Squinting, he scanned the area, trying to find them. Near the tree line, maybe sixty yards away, a dark shape moved.

  He drew Dämoren.

  Green eyes ignited. It stepped out. Orange embers crackled over a red, muscled body. An ifrit. The machinegun wouldn’t work on it and Dämoren’s ammo was too precious to try at that range.

  Another beast moved behind it, towering and broad with black-brown fur. Werewolf. A big one.

  “I see one,” Susumu called from beside the barn. “A pale woman with wings.”

  Kazuo relayed the samurai’s words, then added, “Succubus.”

  “Get ready,” Malcolm called.

  The ifrit moved forward, then stopped. It looked at Matt, its eyes pupil-less emerald fire. Orange flames flickered across its shoulders.

  “What’s it doing?” Anya hissed, behind him. “Why are they waitin
g?”

  Matt kept watching them. “I don’t know.”

  The ifrit stepped back, the flames dimming. Green eyes narrowed. It turned and vanished into the shadows. The werewolf threw its head back toward the sky. A wailing howl pierced the air. Then it, too, ran into the cover of trees.

  “Where’d it go?” she asked, stepping beside him.

  Instinctively Matt put his hand out, keeping her from going further. The man with the wooden club jumped up from the grass thirty feet away and sprinted away. The other man fled out from behind a rusted pile of metal pipes.

  Matt checked the bottle. Six blobs, then five. Three. “They’re leaving.”

  “What’s going on? Malcolm called.

  “They’re leaving,” Anya yelled back.

  “What?” Malcolm marched closer, keeping his gaze out on the surrounding property. “Why?”

  Matt shook his head. “I don’t know.” The last sphere of blood burst and swirled apart.

  “Do you feel them?” Luc asked Malcolm.

  “I can only tell if one is close, a feeling I’ve had ever since he showed up,” Malcolm said, shooting a hateful glare Matt’s direction.

  “They’re gone,” Matt said, lifting the bottle.

  “Did you see the way it looked at you?” Anya asked him.

  Malcolm turned to her. “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “There was an ifrit and werewolf. The ifrit looked at him, stopped, then left. Then the wolf howled.”

  “And then they all fled.” He looked at Matt. “Why would they do that?”

  Matt shrugged.

  The hunter seemed to chew on that for a second, then turned to the others. “We have an hour until dark. They could come back, and I don’t want to be here when the sun goes down. Anya, you and Kazuo photograph everything. Start with the bodies, then the walls. I want every detail recorded. Luc,” he turned to the huge man, “there were some fuel cans in the shed. You and Susumu take those. We’ll pile the bodies out here into the barn and light it. Once the others are done, we’ll give rites to our brothers and sister and burn the house. No evidence.”

  “What about Selene?” Anya asked. “We never found her.”

  Malcolm slid Hounacier back into its wood sheath. “If her body isn’t here we can only assume the worst. If this was a summoning, the demon they called needed a body.”

  “No.” Anya covered her mouth.

  “There were six of them. Five made the ring, the sixth became the vessel. Once we’re done we’ll head out the other way, see if we can find any cameras Ramón and Anthony might have left on their approach. Let’s move.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Matt asked.

  “You? I want you by my side.”

  “What?”

  “They laid a trap for us,” Malcolm said, his jaw tight. “They waited. Then the moment they see you they just leave. And until you can explain why they’d do that, I don’t want you out of my sight.”

  Ghoul - Daemo Cadaverdegulo

  The ghoul is a cowardly fiend frequently nesting in burial sites and sewers. Its diet consists primarily of corpses and refuse, but given safe opportunity it will kill humans and animals, especially children or the ill. Ghouls are often mistaken for undead demons, such as vampires. However, a ghoul’s spirit will not survive in a host that dies. The demon’s association with corpses and their unique ability to enslave dead bodies as servants perpetuates this confusion, even with Valducan knights.

  Physical Characteristics:

  Ghouls have two forms, depending on what type of host they possess. In a human body, the creature appears as a thin man with long arms and wild hair. Their skin is dry and varies in color between gray and green. Human ghouls walk on hands and feet in a manner akin to chimpanzees. Ghouls can also possess the bodies of hyenas. In these bodies they appear as a man with a dog’s head. Their color ranges from brown to black.

  Ghouls cannot change their form to appear as a normal human or hyena. They maintain the sex of their host’s body.

  When killed, a ghoul’s soul burns with a brilliant yellow flame.

  Weaknesses:

  Ghouls are among the weakest of demonkind, and their bodies can withstand only a little more grievous harm than what would kill a normal man.

  Obsidian blades kill them quite easily.

  Sakaran and Quaysoum herbs repulse ghouls.

  Behavior:

  Ghouls prefer digging up graves for food rather than risk direct confrontation. They will attack when cornered or if they judge the victim as helpless, often the very old or very young. They are opportunistic in combats, seeking ambush over frontal assault.

  Ghouls are pack-minded and will gather in groups of four or five. They also will serve stronger demonkind as slaves. Ghoul packs are extremely brutal, led by the most powerful member, who is frequently overthrown and killed by the rest of the pack every few years. Because demons can permanently kill other demons, this means few ghouls reach the astounding ages that other, more powerful demons can achieve.

  They are most frequently found in dry, arid regions.

  Corpses:

  While unable to create familiars, older ghouls possess the unique ability to infuse a piece of their essence into a corpse, animating it as a mindless servant. These walking cadavers, while slow, are extremely strong. Destroying these abominations requires piercing the heart.

  In a pack, only the pack leader will be allowed to control corpses, even if other ghouls possess the ability. Those ghouls may, however, kill their leader, taking the pack for themselves, or leave the pack entirely.

  The number of corpses a ghoul can control is a strong indicator of how many centuries it has existed.

  History:

  The oldest accounts of ghouls originate in Arabic and Mesopotamian texts. It is believed that ghouls may also have inspired Egyptian lore of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the dead.

  Sir Gudmund Linblad, 1823

  Translated and amended by Lady Helen Meadows, 1958

  Chapter Seven

  “Oh Lord God, no,” Tom blurted. He turned away from gruesome image on the screen. Eslarin, his once-bonded sword smashed and driven through his former student.

  Ben put a hand on the big man’s shoulder, but Tom brushed it aside.

  Matt wished he could say something, anything.

  More pictures flashed, graphic close-ups of the symbols and carnage. The hunters all watched in grim silence as Anya scrolled past images of their dead.

  Matt drank the last of his coffee. He’d been awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen trapped inside a van. He wanted one of those big twenty-four ounce coffees from back home, maybe two. These tiny porcelain cups they served here just didn’t cut it.

  “There it is,” Malcolm said. An image of the giant bloody footprint filled the wall screen.

  Seats creaked in unison, creating an almost musical groan as everyone leaned forward followed by a chorus of mumbles and whispers.

  “What in the hell is that?” Luiza asked, seemingly to herself. She sat in the seat beside Matt.

  “Something big,” Jean said.

  “Have you ever seen anything like that?” Malcolm asked Turgen.

  The old man leaned closer, studying it for several seconds. Finally, “No.” He looked to Schmidt who only shook his head.

  Anya took a drag off her cigarette and flipped to the next photo. It was a wide shot, showing the large scrawled glyphs. On the left, Natuche, her head nothing more than a crushed and bloody lump. On the right, Yev, his face contorted in some hideous expression left by a broken jaw. The thick rivulets of congealed blood down the sides told he’d still been alive when his eyes had been torn out.

  Tom stood abruptly and limped out.

  Luiza started for the door after him, but Turgen raised a hand to stop her.

  “Let him go. I’ll go speak with him in a bit.”

  She hesitated, then reluctantly returned to her seat beside Matt.

  “I feel so terrible f
or him,” she muttered.

  Matt nodded. “Me too.”

  They sat silent as more bloody images flashed past. Several times Matt caught sideling glances from the others in the room. Malcolm was the only one who didn’t shy away.

  Once the photos had finished, Schmidt asked, “Allan are you ready with the videos, yet?”

  Allan clicked through keys on the desktop near the screen. A yellow cable ran from the computer to the last of the four recovered cameras. “Almost. Five minutes.”

  Turgen slid his fingers beneath his wire frame glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Fine. While Mister Havlock is finishing, I suggest we take a break. We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes.” He pushed himself up from the seat with his cane and left.

  Matt looked in the bottom of his empty cup. With a sigh, he rose from his uncomfortable chair and headed toward the door.

  “And where are you going?” Malcolm asked.

  Matt lifted the little cup, shaking it. “Coffee.” He turned to Allan, peering intently at his screen. “You need a refill?”

  “No thank you. Haven’t touched the last cup.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to let you go alone.”

  Everyone went quiet.

  “I appreciate your concern,” he said, fighting down his anger, “but I think I can find the kitchen by myself.”

  “I’m not worried about you getting lost. I’m worried about a demon creeping around our house.”

  “Demon?” Matt snapped. “Look, I didn’t ask to join this little party. You found me. I’m very sorry you lost your friends. I really am. But I didn’t fly half-way around the world for you to treat me like some God-damned monster.”

 

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