Hounacier (Valducan Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

"There he is," Malcolm said before closing the door behind him.

  Orlovski lay stretched out in his bed, his leg encased in a blue cast. A purple bruise circled his right eye and down along his bandaged nose. "About time you got here."

  Sam bent to give the Russian a hug. "We brought you a friend."

  "A friend?"

  Sam peeled open her laptop satchel's Velcro flap. "She misses you?"

  Orlovski's mood seemed to brighten instantly. Eyes wide in anticipation, he watched her open the bag like a kid opening a birthday present, its contents known and long coveted. His fingers reached forward as she removed Amballwa. Sam gave him the kukri, and he held it against his chest, eyes closed, his breaths long and relieved. "Thank you. Thank you."

  "How are you doing, brother?" Malcolm asked, watching the door in case some nurse might stroll in to find her patient cradling a giant knife.

  "Six hour surgery removing buckshot and putting a plate in. Three cracked ribs but no serious internal injuries." He snorted. "You broke my nose."

  "Police interview you?"

  Orlovski nodded. "Over an hour this morning before the doctors kicked them out. They'll be back."

  "You hear anything about Tiffany?" Malcolm asked.

  "Yeah, sounds like she recanted on your little story that I was a prisoner."

  Sam's lips pursed. She shot Malcolm a little glare. "I told you she'd crack."

  Malcolm shrugged. "That's unfortunate."

  "Unfortunate?" Sam asked.

  "For her," Malcolm said. "If she told them that there was a monster, then two mysterious men showed up and saved her, leaving one behind. Then say that there was no monster, and Taras was a prisoner who got free, and then back again to the original story, she sounds insane. The story was as much for her as it was for us. Right now, we have enough information out there that Taras' alibi should check out for at least the next forty eight hours."

  "All the more reason to get him out of here," Sam said.

  "It's not going to be easy," Orlovski said. "They're not just going to let me go. I killed those men."

  Malcolm smiled. "Sure they will. You're a hero. They've got enough in that house to keep them busy for now." He surveyed the cast running from Orlovski's hip all the way down to his ankle. "They give you an idea how long you'll be wearing that thing?"

  "A few months." Orlovski's smile drew to a thin line. He glared at the cast like it was some living thing, a parasite that might have latched on to him. "With PT, they estimate a year before full recovery."

  #

  "A year," Master Schmidt growled. It wasn't a question; it was a scolding. Malcolm's man was out of circulation during one of the hardest times in the Valducans' eight-century existence. With only thirteen active knights and another four known independents, only seventeen hunters protected a world of billions. Two years ago, it was sixty. Now, they were one less.

  "Femoral fractures are tricky," Malcolm said. He'd found an empty waiting alcove nestled on the second floor. Tablet in hand, he scanned his latest field report as Schmidt buzzed in his earpiece. "I suggest we allot eighteen months before active field work."

  Schmidt sighed. "Any issues with the story?"

  "None. Police found charred bone fragments they suspect to be from other victims. Everyone's attention is on that."

  "When can you extract him?"

  "Hospital won't release him for another few hours," Malcolm answered.

  "Then what?"

  He shrugged, still scrolling though the report. "Head down to Chile. Should take us ten days. We can hold the fort there. Sam can continue training, and Master Sonu can start her as a Librarian. Give Luiza and Matt some field time for a change."

  Schmidt harrumphed. "Luiza's pregnant."

  Malcolm paused. "Really?"

  "Announced it Sunday. Needless to say, we'll need to keep her off the front line for a while. You and Matt will run point while Taras heals."

  "I see." Malcolm frowned.

  "That's not going to be a problem, I assume."

  "No," Malcolm said. A year before, Matt Hollis had been the black sheep of demon hunters. Possessed with an entity no one understood, he'd been invited, against Malcolm's protests, into the Valducans' fold. Words were exchanged. Even after Matt had more than proven himself, revealing that the spirit inside him was that of his holy weapon Dämoren, the two never quite mended. Malcolm didn't hold a grudge. But given the information he knew at the time, he still stood by his suspicion of the outsider. Matt never really seemed to accept that. They were brothers now. But they'd never be friends. "Not at all."

  "Good," Schmidt said. Silence. Car noise rumbled in the background. "We think we have another mist cat in Croatia."

  Hounacier's cut tingled beneath Malcolm's sleeve. "Already? It's moving fast." Tiamat's broods had taken the form of flying, human-faced eels. Each one unleashed its own unique demonic breed on anyone it attacked. How many demons one could conjure was anyone's guess. Maybe it would just keep doing it until killed or every demon of that type was accounted for. Malcolm pictured it like some sort of interdimensional queue, or maybe bullets in a magazine, each spirit waiting its turn. If they didn't kill that eel soon, mist cats might become one of the new dominant species.

  "We'll need your report as soon as possible."

  Malcolm tapped the screen. "Sending it now. The short of it is, brass and amethyst are ineffective. One of the loads in my shotgun worked, but I don't know which. List is included. Judging by the two men, I'd say Allan's theory that they can make familiars is valid."

  "Do you think them werebeasts?" Schmidt asked.

  "Nothing suggests transformation." Malcolm scanned his other inbox. He'd neglected it the past month since Daniel had first contacted him. He noticed two emails from Ulises. One titled "Great News" from three weeks ago. Six days later, "Call me." They hadn't spoken in months. Once this business with Orlovski was settled, he'd give him a call. Malcolm saw another message from an unfamiliar address but recognized the name. Natasha Luison.

  The title read, "Important: It's Tasha."

  "Uwe suspects the recent attacks along the coast are from a new lycanthrope," Schmidt said. "Something aquatic."

  "Really?" Malcolm said, not really listening. Four years. How had she found him?

  "If so, it's going to make them very difficult to track."

  He opened the message.

  Malcolm,

  It's been a long time. No one knew how to contact you, but I managed to find this address in some of Ulises' things. There's no real easy way to say this, but I have some terrible news that you need to know.

  "Ah," Schmidt was saying, "Your field report came through. I'll make sure Allan reviews it. Expect a call from him once he does."

  "Always do," Malcolm said, still reading. A horrible dread welled in his stomach. Oh shit.

  "Fine, then. Call when you leave the hospital or if anything changes."

  Malcolm pursed his lips. "Master Schmidt, I won't be able to go to Chile."

  "What?"

  "I just received a message." Malcolm drew a breath. Held it. "Ulises…my mentor…is dead. I need to go home."

  Chapter Four

  Lush tree canopy blurred past the windows as Malcolm's bus barreled down the I10 toward New Orleans. Home. The rhythmic thumping of spacers in the seemingly endless bridge through the swamplands sounded like a metronome keeping time. Counting down the miles. Brackish water glistened in the trench between the East and West spans. The occasional fisherman floated through the treeless lane. Malcolm peered down as they neared the next mile marker. Someone had written a name on the window glass with black marker, its stylized letters impossible to read. Through the scrubbed and faded scrawl, he could almost spot the place where Ulises and he had sunk two dead familiars nine years earlier. Now, a limbless log floated there, its barkless surface encrusted with sunning turtles.

  After the hospital had released Orlovski, they'd loaded him into the back of the SUV for Sam to make the five
-thousand-mile drive to the Valducans' wind farm in Chile. Malcolm didn't envy the infinitely shitty roads the Russian and his broken leg would have to endure. Once they were off, Malcolm drove to Jackson, Mississippi. Any FBI in search of what might have happened to their now missing witness would find the Toyota rented by his only known associate, Alex Jones, returned to the rental car company, sending them off in the wrong direction. The next morning, Malcolm purchased a bus ticket and, with only a suitcase, a locking guitar case, and a backpack, had started the last leg of his journey home.

  His response to Tasha's email had been short.

  Thank you for letting me know. I'm on my way.

  I'll call you when I arrive.

  -Mal

  The long drive had afforded a good deal of time to think, only fueling his need to get there. During his night in Jackson, he'd searched for news articles about the murder. The most he'd found was a short blurb, detailing the briefest of facts. Ulises Belair, 81, found murdered in his home. His house was ransacked, and his head was missing. Police had no suspects.

  Malcolm, however, did have a suspect. Tiamat's cultists, the ones who had killed dozens of his fellow hunters and their holy weapons, had taken the heads of any knights they hadn't offered as sacrifice. Hounacier had helped kill their god. This reeked of retribution.

  Ulises' two last emails had been brief. They always were.

  Malcolm, you need to come home. There's something you must see.

  Ulises

  The other simply said, "Call me," and his phone number.

  Malcolm had messaged the Valducans what he knew. Ulises was never a Valducan, but he was a hunter. An attack on one was still an attack on all. The full strength of the Order would come down on who or what had murdered him.

  #

  The balmy stink of humidity rot, diesel fumes, and urine greeted Malcolm as he stepped off the bus. He breathed deep, savoring the all-too-familiar smell. It carried memories. Some bad, most good.

  An unwashed woman, her face speckled with tiny scabs, sauntered past, pushing a yellowed stroller piled with bags. New Orleans held its own special breed of homeless residents. The city was a magnet for demonic energy, and many former familiars, their masters long dead, were drawn here as well. Most never knew why they felt the calling. A few managed seemingly normal lives. The rest were simply insane. Junkies looking for a fix they didn't know or understand. San Francisco was the same way.

  He booked a room at a hotel on Canal Street. Not knowing how long his stay would be, he paid cash for the first week. The clerk, a pretty girl with a tattoo of an eagle on her neck and about ten pounds of braids piled atop her head, didn't seem the least put out when Malcolm didn't give her any ID.

  "That'll require a two-hundred-dollar security deposit," she said, her perfectly sculpted brow sharply arched.

  Malcolm handed her the money, took his plastic pass-card, and headed up to the third floor. Room 318 smelled of cheap potpourri spray and old cigarettes. He removed a photograph of himself, Nick, and Colin grinning outside Notre Dame Cathedral. Out of the three knights, Malcolm was the only one still alive. He propped it up on the bedside table, making sure it faced both the door to the hall and to the adjoining room. A tiny motion sensor hidden in the grooved frame would activate a micro-camera and notify his phone. The unit itself was worth more than anything else Malcolm planned to leave unattended, but theft wasn't what concerned him.

  After a quick shower to wash off the bus film, Malcolm changed the bandage on his left forearm. What little scarring the razor-sharp blade left would soon be concealed beneath a new tattoo. Three golden lines, their ends tapered to points. It bothered him that Hounacier kept trying to place her blessing on his face. The eyes on his palms were difficult enough to conceal. Either she didn't understand the social issues a facial tattoo would cause, or she simply didn't care. The marks were his gifts, like medals or merit badges, tokens celebrating special kills, each one bestowing a power. His first demon kill marked his left palm: the warding eye. A triple-kill earned him his blue scarab. A jorogumo's fire gave him stamina. Whatever the mist cat's death would bestow, Malcolm didn't know. First, he needed to find an artist, one who worked in the old way. Maybe AJ was still in New Orleans. She'd inked two of his marks before.

  Once dressed, Malcolm picked up the brown guitar case with his Remington and Hounacier strapped inside and headed out.

  He made his way to the Quarter. The drone of traffic calmed, gradually replaced by music. An enormous accordion player sat shoehorned into a wheelchair, his plump fingers gliding across the keyboard. Eyes hidden behind neon green sunglasses, the musician smiled as Malcolm passed.

  Parked cars cluttered one side of the street, leaving little room for drivers. The wall of vehicles, combined with the overhanging balconies, formed a tunnel along the shop fronts. Glitter dust sparkled between the concrete bricks, too deep for brooms or wind to dislodge. Tourists shuffled past, nursing kitschy plastic drinking glasses. Locals, dressed in an eclectic carnival of styles, glided along like sharks amongst tuna. Suited men stood before strip clubs, wearing black earpieces like they were Secret Servicemen, pimping the pleasures inside. The streets stank of body odor, exhaust, and beer. Occasional whiffs of oily ganja smoke wafted through, their origins impossible to pinpoint. Malcolm found himself grinning. He was home.

  "Excuse me, sir."

  He turned to see a short, bald man in a hole-speckled polo smiling at him. Another man stood behind him, grinning around a stubby cigarette.

  "I really like those shoes," the bald man said.

  Malcolm glanced down at his slightly worn hiking boots. "Thank you."

  "What would ya say if I could tell ya where and what street ya got those shoes?"

  Smirking, Malcolm rubbed his chin. I guess I don't appear as local as I'd thought.

  The man with the cigarette seemed to notice Malcolm's tattooed arms. Eyes widening, the grin fell from his lips.

  "I'd say," Malcolm started, "that I got my shoes on my feet on Royal Street."

  The bald man laughed and snapped his fingers. "Aw, that's right! On yo feet on Royal Street!" He turned to his friend, still standing like a wax statue. "Man here knows his lines."

  The friend shook his head tensely, almost unnoticeably. His lips tightened, as if trying to pass some important, unspoken danger.

  "Say, man," the bald man said, turning back to Malcolm. "Since ya already got my line, ya think you can spare a dollar?"

  "Don't know. Got any other lines?"

  Baldy's smile widened. Two of his bottom teeth were missing. "'Course I got more. Tell ya what—"

  His friend thumped him hard in the back. Baldy snapped his head around. The guy with the cigarette gave a quick gesture with his head, stabbing his nose toward Malcolm's hands. Baldy turned back to Malcolm, quizzical. Then his gaze lowered.

  Malcolm slowly rolled over his open palm, like a stage magician revealing a materialized ball.

  All joviality vanished from baldy's face. "Uh…um…shit."

  "You know these marks?" Malcolm asked.

  Baldy gulped. "Yeah."

  "You knew Ulises, then?"

  Both men nodded.

  "We was real sorry to hear what happened to him," Smoker said. "Papa Ulises was a good man."

  "Do you know who I am?" Malcolm asked.

  "Yeah," Baldy said. "You're his boy, the Doctor. He talked about ya. Said ya was off…" he glanced at the worn case in Malcolm's other hand, "…killin' evil."

  So much for anonymity. "You men have any ideas who might have killed him?"

  They shook their heads.

  "Don't know," Smoker said. "I hadn't spoke with him in a while. Always real nice. Helped me out with some stuff when things got bad. He did that. Helped folks."

  Malcolm nodded understandingly. "Well, I'm going to be around for a while. If either of you gentlemen hear anything…" He extended a folded twenty from his previously empty fingers.

  Baldy held his hands up, like the
money was trying to arrest him. "No, no, man. That's all right. Ya ain't got to pay us. Papa Ulises was a friend."

  "You sure?" Malcolm eyed Smoker.

  He didn't seem to want it either.

  "Well, thank you." Malcolm withdrew the bill into his palm again. Ulises had spent long hours, and quite a few drinks, teaching him some basic sleight of hand tricks. Real magic was less obvious, at least until it became dangerous. "I'll owe you one. My name's Malcolm."

  "We know that, Doctor," Baldy said. "I'm Julian." He motioned to Smoker. "This here's Dwayne."

  "Pleasure to meet you. You know Alpuente's?" Malcolm nodded to the shop just half a block away.

  "Jim Luison's place," Julian said.

  "That's right. You two hear anything, just let him know." He offered his hand.

  Julian looked at it as if maybe the tattoo had teeth. Reluctantly, he shook it. "We will."

  Smiling, Malcolm turned and continued on. By tomorrow, everyone would know Ulises' pupil had arrived. A vengeful bokor was nothing to take lightly. He passed several antique shops until coming to one, its walls the color of wet terracotta. A suit of archaic armor stood in one of the windows beside a Victorian divan, upholstered in shades of scarlet and cream. "Alpuente's Antiques" it said above the door in golden letters.

  He stepped inside, the stink of the city immediately giving way to the aroma of fresh lilies bulging from a blown glass vase atop the counter. Furniture from different eras filled most of the shop's floor space, nestled around dark wood and glass cases, their contents brimming with treasures. Not seeing anyone right off, Malcolm took a step toward the counter. His right wrist began to itch.

  His cobalt scarab tattoo shuddered. Three of its legs twitched nervously, as if unsure what to do. The beetle warned him of demons, even in human form. When near the possessed, about ten feet or so, it scuttled around to the side opposite. The only time it had ever moved like this was in France, in the Valducans' chateau.

  Malcolm looked around. There. A black stone mask, like a skull or withered face, leered from a support column ahead. Brow furrowed, he stepped closer. A semicircular table rested against the column, making it hard to get too close. He leaned in, gazing at the shriveled eyes nestled deep within their sockets. The scarab shuffled like a child needing to pee, causing the hair on his arms to stand on end.