Allan turned his head from the front seat in which he sat, fidgeting with a laptop. Concern shadowed his face, but he said nothing.
Matt squeezed her hand. “Yes you are.”
“No.” She drew back and wiped her teary eyes. “I’m not. I’m just a... I don’t know. I’ll be working in the kitchen like Tom, or maintaining the vineyard. And everyone will quietly pity me like they do him and Mikhail.”
“You never know,” Allan said. “One of the orphan weapons might call you.”
“I don’t want another weapon!” She clenched her jaw, obviously fighting the tears.
Matt cursed the transfusion hose. He wanted to hold her. Tell her it would be all right. But even if he could hold her, press her against his chest, he couldn’t lie to her like that. If things were reversed, and Dämoren lay dead in pieces, he wondered if he could even survive the pain. No. Nothing he or anyone could say could comfort her. Still. “We’ll make them pay for this. I promise.”
Luiza wiped her eyes. “Well,” she said, the stone hardness returning to her voice. She nodded to the near-full bottle on the floor. “That should be enough for now. Allan, we’re ready.”
Allan set the black laptop down in the seat beside him, and crawled back down the van, stepping over Jean’s blanket-covered body. He squeezed around Susumu’s seven-foot long naginata, lying across the aisle, positioned so that it touched the unconscious samurai. “You doing all right there, mate? You look a bit pale,” he said, sliding up beside Susumu in the bench before them.
“I’m fine.” Matt winced as Luiza untaped and slid the needle from his arm. She held a folded square of gauze over the wound and Matt crooked his arm, holding it in place.
Luiza coiled the hose still attached to the blood-filled bottle and handed it to Allan.
“Well you’re down almost a half-liter, so take it easy for a bit, all right?”
Matt sat while Allan worked on Susumu. Outside, Luc circled the van, carrying a roll of silver duct tape. Shaking his head, he stopped at the broken window behind them.
“How is he?” Luc asked.
“Not good,” Allan said, fidgeting with the red, coiled tube. “He needs a real doctor. I’m just EMT trained. We need Colin.”
“You’re doing fine.” Luc ripped off a strip of tape and began covering holes shot through the rear door.
Matt noticed Malcolm pacing out in front of the van, phone pressed to his ear.
“We need to get back as soon as possible,” Allan grumbled. He took the upturned bottle from Luiza’s hand and slid it into a crude harness made from a bent wire hanger and tape. He then hooked it through a beige, plastic loop mounted above the side window.
Luc tore another patch of tape and pressed it to the van. “We’ll be there shortly.”
Allan smiled sourly as he checked Susumu’s pulse.
“You done with me, Allan?” Matt asked, as Luiza taped the gauze bandage down to his arm.
“For now.”
Matt crawled out from the back bench, squeezing past the seats and debris, and out the side door. The rain had gone, but dark clouds still sped across the sky. He stretched, then turned back to the van. Long, horizontal strips of silver tape covered the door. Taut round circles, like miniature drum heads, marked the patched holes hidden beneath. Beats nothing at all, I suppose. He opened the passenger door, broken glass rattling inside it, and grabbed his discarded shell bag.
Malcolm emerged from the shadows, holding a closed flip-phone. Dried traces of Jean’s blood still stained his tattooed forearms. A hint of blue vanished as the inked scarab scuttled around to the other side, away from Matt. “I can’t reach the chateau.”
“My phone acting up too?” Matt asked, removing a handful of pebbles and Dämoren’s muddy casings from the bag.
“No. Only one still working, but I still can’t reach them. Tried Turgen and Schmidt’s phones, as well, but no one is answering.”
“What about Anya?” Luc asked. “She should be there by now.”
Malcolm shook his head. “Don’t remember her number. Colin’s either.” A tinge of guilt accented his voice. “And Matt doesn’t have them in his phone.”
“Didn’t think I’d need ‘em,” Matt said as he sifted the grimy, bronze casings. Aside from texts to Allan and Luiza, Matt had never used Jean’s pre-paid. No need. He never went anywhere alone and if they needed to call anyone, someone else did. The cheap thing barely had Internet. The fact it survived the succubi’s dunking at all was a miracle.
“Anyone remember their numbers?” Malcolm asked. “Tom’s? Mikhail’s?”
“I had them on my phone, and computer,” Allan said. “But they’re both out.”
“So you think it was a pulse, like in Spain?” Malcolm asked. “EMP or something like that?”
“No.”
“No?”
“What happened in Spain drained the batteries and wiped the memories of everything nearby when the oni was summoned. The GPS, the cameras, even the clocks in the house reset. This is different. Our radios still work, Matt’s phone, even his computer, they’re all fine. Our phones and computers still have battery power, but their memories are completely gone. Even the factory settings.”
“So why do Matt’s work?” Malcolm asked, turning toward him. The familiar mistrust returned to his eyes.
“Don’t ask me,” Matt said.
“There’s no reason why yours should be working. You were with me when I killed the oni, but your computer was in the van with the rest of ours. Two places. So why would they still work?
“A virus,” Luc growled.
Allan shook his head. “Can’t be. The phones, the computers, that’s three operating systems. They don’t work that way.”
“What if it did?” Luc said. “Matt was the only one of us who wasn’t on the shared drives. Schmidt forbid it.”
Malcolm’s eyes widened. “That would require we got it before we left for Limoges. When we were still all connected.”
Allan’s face visibly paled. “Impossible. That was almost a week ago.”
“I think we need to get back to the manor now,” Luc said.
“I can’t.” Matt closed his shell bag. “I need to go back to the mine.”
“What?” Allan asked. “Why?”
“I lost four of Dämoren’s shells. I spilled them when the succubus attacked me.”
“We can’t go back there, Matt,” Allan said. “Jean and Kazuo are dead. Susumu’s hurt and...” Allan’s grimaced, seeming to regret his word.
“And Feinluna is gone,” Luiza finished, her gaze cast down to her lap.
Matt nodded. “I know. I understand if you can’t go with me, but those shells are part of Dämoren. She can’t fire without them. I won’t leave them.”
Allan looked to Malcolm, his face urging him to say no.
Malcolm pursed his lips. “Then we go back.”
Allan’s jaw dropped “Mal, Susumu is dying. Can we at least take him to a doctor?”
“I agree with Allan,” Luc said.
“They’re right.” Matt nodded. “This is my fault. You take care of Susumu first. I’ll meet you back at the chateau, or you can send someone for me.”
Malcolm shook his head. “We’ll go back to the chateau, but our oath is binding. Dämoren needs those shells. Kazuo’s body is still there. We have to get them.”
Allan looked as if he was about to protest, but just shook his head.
“No,” Matt said. “You can’t go back there. Not for me.”
Malcolm met his eyes. “You said yourself Dämoren’s a Valducan.”
“Dämoren’s my responsibility.”
“Luiza?” Malcolm asked.
She looked up. Cold determination shone in her eyes. “We go back to the mine.”
Chapter Thirteen
Cool morning air whisked through the van’s blown-out windows as they followed the winding road back to the mine. Matt held Dämoren in his lap, wiping off the last of the chalky mud. The tiny red stones glinted along h
er barrel. Her blade felt keener, refreshed after tasting the succubi’s blood. Still, a small notch marred the edge from when he’d hit that oni’s armor. No matter. Once she bled her next demon, the wound would mend. He still couldn’t believe he’d lost the shells. Carelessness. There was no excuse.
In Dämoren’s century and a half since becoming a revolver, twelve of her original thirty shells were lost. Matt never understood how any of her previous guardians could have let that happen. He’d even recovered one of the lost flock, bringing her up to nineteen. Now he’d lost four of them. If any of their enemies found them, they’d be destroyed. No. He pushed it from his mind. That’s not going to happen.
He opened Dämoren’s loading gate and rotated her cylinder, seeing the intricate designs etched along its face, only visible when the latch was open. Most of the holes were empty, save two. Two shots.
Luiza sat on the bench seat beside him. She held Kazuo’s sheathed katana in her lap, cleaning the white mud from its copper handle. They’re both orphans now.
She seemed to notice his gaze and looked up to meet it. Sadness tinged her smile.
Hesitantly, he touched her leg.
She looked away.
Matt started to withdraw it, but then she took his hand in hers, squeezing it, then let go.
Malcolm pulled the van around a tight turn and started up a hill. “Almost there.”
Matt’s fingers kneaded Dämoren’s ivory handle, fighting back a creeping dread. In just a couple more minutes they would know if the demons were still there. He’d know if they had found the shells. If they had to fight, and anyone died, it would be his fault. What if the police were there and arrested them? What if Susumu died? No excuse. He cursed Malcolm for risking everyone for Matt’s stupidity.
“Anyone smell smoke?” Allan asked.
Luc sniffed the air. “I do.”
Matt drew a long breath. A faint hint of smoke tickled the back of his throat. It wasn’t like leaves or even wood, more like the sharp tang of burning trash. Wisps of it swirled in the van’s headlights.
They could see the mining company’s sign ahead. Malcolm slowed to a stop and killed the lights. “Matt, anything on that compass?”
Matt removed a half-empty bottle from the cup holder beside him and held it up. He and Allan had split the last of the water between two bottles to make compasses. Allan checked his as well.
“Nothing,” Matt said, swirling the pinkish water.
“Keep an eye on it.” Malcolm turned to Luc, in the front seat beside him. “Luc.”
The big knight raised Jean’s bullpup to the open window and cocked the charging handle.
Malcolm turned up the narrow entrance drive and slowly headed inside. Gravel crunched under the tires. They crested the basin’s rise and the pit mine seemed to open before them. The large metal building still loomed over the rocky landscape, like some medieval castle above a barren land. Its windows were dark.
Several small fires, maybe half a dozen, burned in seemingly random spots. Not demon fires, but real ones, spewing black smoke and casting an orange glow through the quarry. Some around the main building, a few down in the basin near the shot-up box truck, even one up on the far slope.
Allan nodded toward the darkened building. “The cars are gone.”
“Doesn’t mean they all left,” Malcolm said, guiding the van down the long grade.
Matt peered out the window, searching for movement through the haze. From their height, he saw the round pit where he’d lost the shells. The glow from a nearby fire illuminated the area around it, leaving a black hole of shadow. Strange how small it appeared from a distance. Crumpled bodies still littered the ramp down to the truck. Off to the side, the parked shovel and bulldozer where Kazuo had died sat like a pair of ruined tanks left to rust on a battlefield.
They reached the bottom then circled around the wide pond at the basin’s center. Pink and orange streaked the horizon. Dawn.
Matt checked the half-full compass. Nothing.
Malcolm pulled up between the pit and the dozer and parked. “Luiza, you stay here with Susumu. Radio us if you see anything. Let’s do this fast.” He opened the door and hopped out, leaving the engine running. Allan and Luc hurried out after him.
“Here,” Matt said, handing her the compass bottle. “If it beads, call us.”
Luiza nodded, still idly cleaning Kazuo’s sword. “Be careful,” she said as he stepped out of the open door.
Clouds of oily smoke wafted through air. Flames enveloped a black and charred body lying on its back, gnarled hands across its chest.
Matt approached, covering his mouth to block the stench. Empty brass rifle casings glinted in the firelight a few feet away.
“Why did they burn this one?” Luc asked.
“Don’t know,” Matt said. “He came after me with a rifle. Luiza shot him.”
“So he wasn’t a demon?”
Matt shook his head. Smoke stung his eyes.
“They didn’t burn the demons,” Malcolm said. “Just left them there. Familiars, too.”
“Cult member,” Luc said, making a sour face. “They honor them. The others are just corpses. Demons have no bodies.”
“Burn in Hell, asshole,” Matt muttered and started toward the pit.
A figure stumbled from the shadows beside the box truck. Everyone spun, weapons raised.
A wild-eyed man with blonde afro hair stepped out. He was naked. “Help me.”
Allan moved as if about to approach the man, but then stopped. He checked the bottle in his hand. “He’s human.”
“Please,” the man begged in some weird guttural language. His hands covered his privates. “I don’t know where I am.”
“What’s he saying?” Allan asked.
“He doesn’t know where he is,” Matt answered. “Could be a familiar whose master died.”
“Maybe,” Malcolm approached slowly.
The man started toward him, then froze as he saw the weapon. “Wait! Please! Don’t hurt me.”
Malcolm thrust his left hand before him, palm flat, eye tattoo facing the terrified stranger.
“I don’t know where I am. I just woke up here. My name is Pytor. Please, please don’t hurt me.”
Malcolm stepped forward, palm still raised.
“Please, I just want—” A pained hiss came from the man’s lips. He recoiled, as if suddenly struck with a blinding light. “Please!”
Before Matt knew it, Malcolm sprang forward and hacked Hounacier’s blade into Pytor’s neck. He fell, and Malcolm hacked the machete again, severing the man’s head.
“What the fuck!” Matt cried.
Malcolm wheeled back to face him. “He was possessed.”
“But the demon wasn’t in him,” Matt said. “The compass said—”
“Just because it wasn’t in him then, didn’t mean it won’t come back any minute. He was a danger. I freed his soul.”
“But the demon who owned him knows we’re here now,” Allan said.
Malcolm nodded. “If it wasn’t watching through his eyes already. It must have leapt bodies after we left. Abandoned this one here.”
“He wasn’t the only one.” Luc motioned toward the building. A pair of disheveled figures, a man in a torn shirt and a woman wrapped in some shiny brown fabric, like a tarp, hurried down the ramp toward them. They waved frantically as they came, evidently not seeing the beheaded corpse at Malcolm’s feet.
“Thank God!” the man yelled in what sounded like German. “Please help us!”
“We’ll check them,” Malcolm muttered. “If they’re familiars, freed when their owners died, we’ll spare them.”
Matt felt ill. He understood the reason, but hated it nonetheless. Clay would have agreed with them. Said their souls needed to be free. But Matt, well, he understood the other side of it. He’d felt a demon’s icy grip on his soul. He remembered the fear, so many years ago, laying on a floor, his mother dead beside him, Dämoren in Clay’s hand, aimed at him, deb
ating if he should die.
“Please,” the man said, drawing near. “Where am I? Where is my wife?”
Matt turned and walked toward the shallow pit, trying not to hear what he knew would come next. The body of a nude girl lay inside, her throat sliced open. She wasn’t the succubus, not any more. The dark lines of tattooed knot work on her shoulder stood out against her pale skin. Red blood colored the once milky water.
Matt sloshed down into the hole and knelt in the crimson pool.
The woman screamed behind him, then was cut off.
Slimy mud and jagged rocks covered the bottom. Matt felt in a circular pattern from where he best guessed he dropped the shells, working outward. He touched something smooth and round. A surge of relief bloomed in his chest. Scooping it up, Matt sighed as he saw the etched bronze casing, filled with mud. He dropped it in his bag and searched the area around where he’d found it, quickly finding another.
I know you’re here. Come on. Come on. Matt scooped through mud, tossing sticky handfuls aside as he searched. He almost threw one out, but stopped, catching the glint of golden brown metal at the last moment. He slipped it in his bag. One more to go.
The other hunters moved toward the dozer, recovering Kazuo’s body, and Matt suddenly felt very alone. Little prickles danced off the back of his neck, like someone was watching him. He wanted to check his compass, but remembered he’d given it to Luiza. His own blood, still in the water, should still be potent, but with all the red of the dead woman’s mixed in, he wondered if he’d even be able to see it gather at the edge.
Just paranoia, he thought, still feeling through the clay sludge. His finger brushed the sharp, circular edge of a shell, and he grabbed it, drawing it from the water. Triumph. The weight of worry lifted away. Matt dropped it into his bag and sloshed out from the bloody pit.
Matt approached the railroad track club still jutting up from the ground. Nearby the body of a bearded man, mid-thirties by the look of him, lay inside a suit of piecemeal armor twice his size. Looking down, Matt noticed a small shard of polished metal. He picked it up. Two sides of the diamond-shaped wedge were sharpened. A piece of Feinluna’s blade. Matt ran a finger along the keen edge, wondering how many demons had died along it. The joy of finding Dämoren’s shells faded. Five hundred years, now dead.
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