Hounacier (Valducan Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  "A demon." Ulises glanced back. The loa had laid the crumpled monster on its back. Several were crying. "An asanbosam. Its soul is now burning away." He stared back at Malcolm. "Do you now believe?"

  Malcolm nodded.

  A smile curled at the side of the old man's lips. "Then I will teach you. I will make you a hunter."

  "What?"

  "I am old, Malcolm. I feel it. Someone must carry Hounacier. You are her groom, and I will teach you."

  A thousand questions whirled though Malcolm's head. He stared at the monster that everything he'd ever known told him shouldn't exist. The white-shirted officers unlocked the broken cuff from their prisoner's wrist. He embraced one of them, tears of joy running down his face. The fire along the demon's body had begun to fade, and with it, its grotesque features seemed to melt back into the body of the dead bald man.

  "Do you accept this offer, Malcolm?" Ulises asked.

  The teenage Papa Ghede looked up from the beastly corpse. His one eye met Malcolm's, and the boy smiled. In that moment, Malcolm realized the loa was real.

  "Do you accept?" the old man repeated.

  Malcolm felt himself nod. He lowered his gaze to the machete, seeing a beauty to it he hadn't seen before. There was an intelligence to it. "I do."

  Chapter Two

  Present Day.

  "This looks good." Malcolm killed the headlights and backed the SUV onto a primitive drive. Tall grass and weeds scratched against the underside, sprouting from the narrow strip between the two earthen tire trails. He stopped beside a twisted oak, its branches shading them from the moonlight above. Brake lights reflected red off a bullet-ridden "No Trespassing" sign on the gate behind them. Malcolm only hoped the resident hunters weren't there on a Tuesday night. He turned off the engine.

  Pale light glowed beside him as Orlovski activated his phone. The knight tapped the screen and peered closer, his eyes invisible behind the glare on his glasses. "Message sent."

  Halfway across the world, Master Alex Turgen, unofficial leader of the Valducans, would receive the simple text, "Mission go."

  Malcolm kissed the crescent-shaped bone on his seashell necklace and pulled it on.

  "Here." Samantha, Orlovski's student, leaned in from the back seat, offering a pair of small, plastic boxes strung on metal bead chains. A square of black electric tape masked the trackers' LEDs.

  Malcolm accepted one and put it on. "Thanks." He opened the door and stepped out into a wall of Missouri humidity and around to the rear of vehicle. There, hidden in one of the suitcases, he removed a dark, navy ballistic vest and strapped it on. The shrill hum of a mosquito buzzed past his ear. He cinched on a heavy belt, making sure Ulises' old sawed-off was positioned straight across his back. His fingers found Hounacier's carved handle at his hip, and he gave her a reassuring squeeze. Ready, baby?

  Malcolm unrolled a slender wire and hooked the rubber earpiece over his ear. He snapped the throat mic on. Turning his back to the SUV, he clicked the knob atop the Puxing. "Testing. Sam, you hear me?"

  "I'm right here," she said dryly from inside the vehicle.

  Malcolm grinned. The joke was dumb. It was dumb the first time she did it three jobs ago. Now, it was a ritual, a light moment before the storm. "Radio," he said, feigning annoyance.

  She chuckled behind him. "Testing. I read you," came through the earpiece. The girl's weird accent was a collected timeline of globe-hopping with her Australian oilman father. Twenty-three, quadrilingual, and versed in a dozen local customs. Master Sonu already had his sights set on making her a Librarian.

  Dry grass crunched as Orlovski stepped around beside him. The all-black getup made him look like a disembodied head floating in the night. His short, straw-blond hair only added to the Russian's paleness. He rested a latex-gloved hand on the kukri, Amballwa, at his waist. He nodded to Malcolm's bare and tattooed arms. "You need bug spray?"

  "I'm good," Malcolm said, pulling on a pair of thin leather gloves. The open palms made them fit awkwardly but left his tattoos accessible. "Ready?"

  Orlovski pushed his ear bud in and nodded. "Hope they don't have any damned dogs."

  "Hopefully." Most animals hated demons. Except, of course, demonkind linked to animals. Ghouls and jackals, lamia and snakes, werebeasts and their species’ breed. In those instances, animals loved their demonic masters. Malcolm didn't expect dogs with this one, whatever kind it was. "Got your papers?"

  The Russian patted his back pocket.

  "What's your name?" Like Sam's stupid joke, the drill was ritual.

  "Eduard Lukov," Orlovski said, his voice coming in through Malcolm's radio. "I sell picture frames and am on a working vacation. You are Adam Jones, my distributor."

  "Good." Shutting the tailgate, Malcolm looked in the side door. Sam hunched in the seat, peering at an open laptop, shotgun resting on the floor. "Sam, you ready?"

  She gave a thumbs up.

  "Keep the scanner open," Orlovski said. "Call if you see or hear anything."

  Her brow arched. "Understood."

  Orlovski shut the door. The dark tinting nearly masked her screen-lit silhouette.

  "All right," Malcolm said, excitement tingling across his shoulders, adrenaline priming his senses. "Let's do it."

  The two men followed the dirt path back to the road and headed up the rough asphalt. A large sign warning that trespassers would be shot hung from a sturdy pipe-fence gate. They climbed over it and continued on a gravel drive. Gnarled trees hid the moon, only allowing scattered pools of pale light. Their footsteps crunched quietly. The drive turned, following the hill's curve. Malcolm watched the shaded woods for movement as Orlovski led just a few feet ahead.

  Seven months ago, Emily Anders, a student at MSU, went missing. Her family, desperate and frustrated at the police's lack of progress, turned to Daniel Hendricks, a local psychic.

  Daniel, who was one of the few legitimate psychics Malcolm had ever known, sensed a great and evil power at work. He saw a house, a tiny cell, and an image of a black form with emerald eyes. No one ever found Emily Anders.

  Four weeks ago, Tiffany Mayhew walked out of a coffee shop with a grande lowfat latte and never made it home. Two weeks later, her family turned to Daniel Hendricks. After feeling several of Tiffany's personal effects and visiting the parking lot where her car had been found, Daniel told the Mayhews that he couldn't get a good reading and returned their money. Fifteen minutes later, he emailed Malcolm what he had seen.

  Orlovski raised a hand and dropped to a knee. Crouching low, Malcolm hurried up beside him. A two-story house sat at the top of the hill, silhouetted against the sky like a castle on some cheap book cover. Pale yellow glowed from three of the blind-covered windows. Bluish light flickered through a fourth, likely a TV.

  Malcolm pulled open a Velcro pouch at his belt, careful to keep it quiet, and drew out a black metal tube. He extended a plastic antenna from one end and removed the lens cap from the other. He thumbed the button on the back. "Camera One is on." Malcolm unfolded the rubberized, segmented legs from the bottom and wrapped them around a slender tree. "Sam, you reading this?"

  Her voice came through the ear bud. "I have it."

  Malcolm peered down the top of the camera, aiming it as best he could. "You have the full house?"

  "Yes. Don't see anyone outside," Sam said. "Looks like a motion light at the right corner. Stay clear of it."

  "Thanks. We'll head around the side and set the second camera before going in. Let us know if you see anything."

  "Okay."

  Staying low, they skirted the edge of the clearing. As they passed behind a decrepit woodshed, Malcolm's foot hit an empty paint can, sending it skittering into the brush. Shit!

  The two men froze in a crouch, watching the house.

  Malcolm took five slow breaths then whispered, "Sam, everything clear?"

  "No movement."

  Orlovski shot a cocked eyebrow at Malcolm. Thirty seconds later, they continued on.

  Passing
a blackened burn pile, they circled to the rear. Light shone through a back door window overlooking a narrow deck. A cinderblock building loomed twenty yards behind the house, its only opening a single metal door. A tin-roofed carport stood off to one side, sheltering the dark shape of a cargo van.

  Malcolm pointed to the van, and Orlovski pulled out a stubby night scope. He peered through the eyepiece, nodded, then offered it over. Taking the monocular, Malcolm studied the vehicle in shades of luminescent green.

  Daniel's vision in the parking lot had showed Tiffany Mayhew being dragged into the same windowless van, a long scrape along its left fender, license plate beginning with 'P3Y.' He'd seen the emerald-eyed shadow, a dark room, pain.

  The van was registered to an Arnold Hobb, whose last known address was a duplex in Ozark, just a few miles outside the city. It had taken the hunters just a week to track him down to the isolated house. Hobb was a hefty man, mid-thirties. Contractor. They'd seen him out with another man, long-legged and thin. Malcolm had gotten close to them at a little burger joint. The cobalt scarab tattooed on his right wrist didn't detect a demon. He could have checked them with the eye in his palm to see if they were familiars. But if they were, it would only guarantee their master would know they were coming for it.

  "Sam, do you see this?" Orlovski asked as he mounted his wireless camera to the top of a wide brick grill.

  "Little to the right," she said. "Good. I have it."

  Studying the house, Malcolm ran a gloved finger across his bristled chin. The back door looked the best. Two minutes, and they could have it swept. Sam could radio if the suspects fled. Still…they had no proof. He trusted Daniel, but if they were wrong…

  Malcolm chewed his lip. He glanced back to the windowless building. It looked more like a bunker than a shed. The hunters shared a look and nodded.

  The cinderblock walls stood twelve feet high, slightly tapered to one side along the building's twenty-foot length. The construction was new, maybe a year, and a hell of a lot better made than the house appeared. Malcolm frowned, noticing the bar across the steel door. It appeared even less of a shed. More like a cell. The Russian must have felt it too because his hand moved to Amballwa's handle.

  A padlock held the bar shut. Malcolm removed a curved shim from a pocket and worked it down the lock's shackle until it popped open. Careful to keep it from scraping loudly, he pulled the bar aside, nodded to his partner, then inched the door open.

  Blackness. The stink of sweat and filth pressed out like a physical force.

  Orlovski raised the night scope and let out a long sigh. "Shit." He pulled the door open, spilling a wedge of moonlight across the concrete floor. He stepped inside. “Clear.”

  Scrunching his nose, Malcolm followed. Dark shapes hung in the shadows, slowly gaining form as his eyes adjusted. Straps and manacles dangled from a gridwork of steel rings. He inspected a sturdy wooden table, angled like a medieval rack. Dark splotches stained the edges and the floor along the bottom. "I think this is the place."

  Orlovski grunted. He offered the monocular, its green-lit eyepiece casting a dim glow across the room. Serrated metal hung on the wall beside them. Reluctantly, Malcolm accepted it.

  The scene around them was worse than he'd imagined. Various hooks, blades, clamps, and other perverse torture implements covered two of the walls. An acetylene torch stood in the corner. "Jesus."

  "What is it?" Sam's voice asked through the radio.

  "Sex dungeon," Orlovski replied.

  Malcolm's jaw tightened. The description barely did the room justice.

  A creak came from the back corner. Malcolm drew Hounacier from her sheath. He set the night scope on a cluttered table and pulled a slender flashlight from his belt. Amballwa in hand, Orlovski flicked on his light, shining a brilliant white beam across the room.

  Pegboard slats covered the wall, their metal hooks filled with leather and chromed implements. Malcolm shined his own light, sweeping it along the corners.

  Another creak and a whimper. Both lights zeroed in on the right side. A twisted black harness hung to the boards. The two men shared a glance then slowly approached, lights steady and weapons raised.

  A metal latch glinted, partially hidden under the harness web. Malcolm followed the seam, seeing a narrow rectangle door beneath the pegboard. Orlovski stepped to the side, nodded. Malcolm twisted the little latch and pulled the door. It opened with a loud creak.

  The reek of sweat and urine poured from a shallow closet. A mound of grimy cloth covered the floor. It writhed.

  Instinct took hold. Malcolm raised his machete. He saw the tangle of auburn hair and desperate, terrified eyes behind the strands. Tiffany Mayhew was alive.

  "Hold," Malcolm said to Orlovski. Hounacier still raised, he pocketed the flashlight and extended his left palm toward the huddled girl.

  She pressed herself against the corner, averting her eyes.

  "Look at it," he ordered.

  Tiffany's blue eyes slowly lifted. She looked at Malcolm then at his palm. No reaction.

  Malcolm sheathed Hounacier and knelt. "You're going to be okay, Tiffany. We're here to help."

  The girl's dry lips quivered. "Are…they gone?"

  "No," Malcolm said. "We'll take care of them. We just need you to stay here for a minute—"

  "No!" she screamed. "No! It's a monst—"

  Malcolm dove in and clamped a hand over Tiffany's mouth. "Shh! Quiet."

  The girl froze save a terrified tremble.

  Malcolm wrapped his other arm around her and pulled her close. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

  "Sam," Orlovski hissed. "Any movement?"

  "Negative."

  Malcolm let out a sigh. "Tiffany, I need you to stay quiet, okay?"

  She nodded.

  Slowly, he released her mouth. "Monsters. How many are there?"

  Tiffany didn't say anything for several breaths. Finally, "One."

  "One," he repeated for Sam to hear. "What does it look like?"

  She swallowed and cinched her eyes. "It's…big. Claws. Teeth like…nails. Green eyes."

  Malcolm nodded. "What color is it?"

  "Gray, like…smoke."

  "Smokey? Its head," he said. "Is it feline, like a tiger?"

  She nodded.

  "That's a yes."

  "Looks like we found one of Allan's mist cats," Sam said.

  Orlovski frowned, his low growl resonating in Malcolm's earpiece. A year before, Tiamat, the Mother of Demons, had been summoned in Tuscany. Before they'd killed her, the beast had hatched at least half a dozen new demon breeds onto the Earth. Allan and Luc had encountered one in Naples only two months later. Allan, who loved naming the new species, had dubbed it mist cat. Arguably, it was one of his better names. All they knew about them was that they were fast, could leap incredible spans, and silver did fuck-all against them.

  The Russian drew his pistol and ejected a magazine. "Switching to brass jacket, amethyst tips." He slapped the new mag in place and racked the slide.

  "Tiffany," Malcolm said, his voice calm. How many men are there aside from the monster?"

  She swallowed then shook her head. "I don't know."

  "It's important, Tiffany. Try to remember."

  "Two," she said uneasily.

  "Two? Are you sure?"

  "Movement!" Sam snapped. "Back door."

  Malcolm and Orlovski shared a look. "Tiffany," he said. "We need you to stay here, all right?"

  She grabbed his arm. "No! No!"

  He stood. "You'll be safe."

  "Coming out the upper front window," Sam said. "Shit, it's big."

  Malcolm hurried out of the crawlspace. "We'll be back. Stay here." Squeezing Hounacier, he followed Orlovski to the open door way.

  Orlovski pressed himself against the wall, Amballwa gripped tight in his hand. "Sam, where are they?" he whispered.

  "Man headed your way. Has a gun. Can't see the demon."

  "Keep watching." Malco
lm replied, voice low.

  Leaves crunched outside, drawing closer. Malcolm held his breath.

  A long shadow, cast from the house above, grew in the doorway, sealing out even more of the light. The footsteps slowed then stopped.

  A bead of sweat trickled past the corner of Malcolm's eye. Slowly, he let out his breath. Through the cinderblocks, his enemy was only three feet away.

  The shadow swayed. Leaves crunched, and the tip of a black pistol cautiously poked through the open doorway. It inched further until a hand became visible.

  In a blur, Orlovski grabbed the shooter's wrist and yanked. A portly man yelped as he fell through the doorway, his cry cut off as the kukri slashed his throat to the bone. Blood sprayed out in a fan, hitting Malcolm's cheek. Gurgling, Arnold Hobb crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

  Without a word, Orlovski charged through the open doorway and out into the yard.

  Malcolm ran out behind him, cutting wide in case of a shooter. "Sam, where is it?" He scanned the darkened woods for movement.

  "Not sure. It looked like it jumped into the trees."

  He craned his neck, searching the tangled canopy. Beyond the house, above the drive, a flash of vivid green eyes. There! Leaves shuddered as the beast sprang to the neighboring trees and into shadow. "Front of the house!"

  Malcolm hurried to where he'd seen the beast, Orlovski a few feet behind. He just had to get close enough for his tattoo to pinpoint it.

  They came around the corner when Sam's voice yelled over the radio. "Behind you!"

  A gunshot blasted from the house. Malcolm wheeled in time to see Orlovski pitch forward. The long-legged man stood in the front doorway, shotgun aimed.

  Diving to the side, Malcolm scrambled behind a giant woodpile. He drew his sawed-off and clicked off the safety.

  Orlovski groaned and tried to stand. A second blast hit the Russian's leg, and he crumpled.

  "Taras!" Sam screamed.

  "Shooter," Malcolm hissed. "Where is he?"

  "Still on the porch."

  Remington in hand, Malcolm peeked around. The man swung the gun up and straight at him. Malcolm dropped, splinters exploding above him. Logs buckled and rolled off the pile. Keeping low, Malcolm scurried to the other side, hoping the gunman was still trained on where he'd just shot. He rounded the edge, spotted the man, and fired.