Hounacier (Valducan Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  No, not clearly. The colors were…wrong. Muted.

  Swallowing, he closed the door behind him with his foot and scanned the room. Colors pinched off as the door shut, leaving everything cast in shades of red, like a crimson spotlight shone from the bed. Malcolm stepped forward, seeing the clock. How was it illuminating the entire room?

  He now noticed how much light spilled through and below the curtains, adding its own orange and white hues, far more than he'd ever noticed. Cautiously, he flipped the wall switch. The light drowned out the colored haze, returning the room to normal.

  Son of a bitch. He turned the light off, plunging himself in a moment of blackness before the glow from the curtains and red-lit clock filled the room. A crazy laugh erupted from his lips, and he flipped the lights on and off again. Hounacier, you beautiful angel, you didn't?

  His phone blooped in his pocket as the picture camera messaged him. Ignoring it, excitement tingling along his skin, Malcolm stepped into the dark bathroom beside him and shut the door. The impossibly faint light from beneath the door seemed to swell, illuminating the narrow room enough for him to see most of it. The visibility rivaled most night scopes. Hounacier's new gift was a great power indeed. Malcolm laughed again and kissed the machete's blade. "I love you, baby. Thank you."

  #

  Rochelle Duplessis' gris-gris was nearly finished, well ahead of schedule. After several hours stitching and powering it, the growing need to try out his supernatural sight had become unbearable. Malcolm hadn't slept in nearly thirty-eight hours. His blessed stamina could keep him up long enough to enjoy his newest gift.

  Malcolm sat at a tiny table against a wall, enjoying a beer and watching the dim bar with more clarity than he could have imagined. The five-piece jazz band had stopped for a quick break, abandoning the Brass Sax into murmurs and inebriated conversations.

  He sipped his drink and scanned the crowd. The illuminated faces of customers peering into their phones lit the room like torches. Liz, the redhead from the other night, leaned against the bar, her tits bulging from the top of her shirt as she chatted up a bearded man, working him for drinks. Neither Shorty nor Cornrows had shown themselves yet. I wonder if anyone here is messaging them. If the two men were working for someone else, there might be other eyes following him. Pushing the paranoia out of his mind, he finished his drink. No need to make up more problems than I already have. Still, Malcolm searched the room for anyone watching him.

  Malcolm ordered another beer and headed to the restroom. With no one to watch his table, he carried Hounacier and his backpack with him. Standing in line, he found himself wondering about Tasha. He'd called her earlier that day. Left a voicemail. She'd texted that she enjoyed their date and would see him tomorrow. Why hadn't she called? More so, why did it bother him so much?

  It might be a good idea to swing past her place on the way home, just to be sure she was fine. Those men might not have only been following him.

  No. He stepped into the scummy bathroom, its floor glistening with piss. She'll kick you in the teeth if you just drop in this time of night.

  Malcolm came back out, alcohol-fueled thoughts pushed aside, and maneuvered through the impatient crowd toward his table. He saw his beer sitting there already and gave it thirty seconds before someone took it. As he made his way closer, the scarab at his arm scuttled around beneath his skin.

  He spun, searching the direction opposite the tattoo. A tall, broad-shouldered man walked toward the exit, arm in arm with a longhaired woman with caramel skin. They stepped through the open door and turned. The tattoo itched, moving away until they walked out of range.

  Heart thumping, Malcolm pushed his way toward the outer wall. The scarab moved again, sensing the demon on the sidewalk outside.

  "Excuse me," he said, nearly walking into a crowded table as he tried to follow the demon's path.

  One of the patrons mumbled some insult behind him as Malcolm neared a window. The tattoo inched along, tracking the creature. As expected, the couple strolled into view.

  Malcolm ducked back before it could see him. What now? One of them was possessed, but which? What of the other one? Familiar? Potential victim?

  The scarab moved back to its normal position once the creature was too far away for it to feel. Malcolm checked the window again, seeing the couple continuing on. Did the demon know who he was? Maybe the werebeast had switched bodies and was trying to lure him out. If so, its victim was bait. Someone would die if he didn't act.

  Anger flared in his chest. Ulises dead, Orlovski down, people following him, and now a fucking demon strolling by, flaunting its next meal. Malcolm clenched his jaw, watching them cross the street. "Not tonight you don't." Clutching Hounacier's strap along his shoulder, he hurried out into the sticky night.

  He dashed between a pair of slow-rolling cars. Once across the street, he peered down the corner where they had turned and spied the couple a block ahead, her arm still looped through his. Before, the shadows might have obscured them, making them difficult to see, but not anymore. A little grin pulled at Malcolm's lip as he followed.

  Keeping his distance, Malcolm studied the pair, searching for any telltale sign of which was corrupted. The man was built like a linebacker, muscled arms bulging from his sleeves. But the strength of the host rarely correlated with the demon's. The petite woman on his arm could be it just as easily. Instead of size, Malcolm watched their motions. She moved with a dancer's grace, fluid and quick. The man walked tall, confident, his shoulders back. It told him nothing.

  They turned right at Elysian Fields. The woman's arm slid down and took the man's hand. Malcolm held back, watching from the shadows. Once they were two blocks ahead, he braved following down the well-lit street. The few pedestrians offered little cover. One paused as the couple passed, turning back for a final look. Then the next did the same.

  Charmed, Malcolm thought. The demon's power had caught their interest even with only a passing glance. Vampire? Succubi? Malcolm hadn't seen their faces. Maybe the demon's eyes would betray it.

  They crossed at Chartress and continued down the narrow street, walled with tiny houses. Unzipping the top of Hounacier's bag, Malcolm positioned it under his arm, hoping it didn't look too obvious. He remained at a distance, allowing his new sight to pierce the shadows. The demon and its companion kept their lazy pace, never slowing or looking back. The homes gave way to shitty buildings. Shops and offices, most of them abandoned. No one else was on the streets. Beyond a railroad track, brick and steel warehouses, crusted with graffiti, loomed silent and dark. Malcolm picked up his pace lest he lose them in the industrial maze.

  Headlights turned onto the road ahead, killing Malcolm's night vision. The sedan's engine roared. Malcolm averted his eyes as it neared, rap blasting from the open windows. The bass' boom hit his chest as it rolled past.

  Malcolm looked up again and froze. The couple was gone.

  Pulse thumping, he scanned the streets. Tailing a demon was dangerous. Losing one even more so. Had it seen him? Was it now stalking him, alone, on a dark, empty street?

  Where's the human? he wondered, fighting back paranoia. If it saw me and fled, where did its companion go? No demon could transform itself in the time he'd looked away. Morphing bone and musculature took a few seconds to complete, as did sprouting fur and horns. The companion would have reacted, run, or screamed. Unless they were a familiar.

  He looked back. The street was empty. Malcolm unzipped his backpack and removed the sawed-off. Holding it against his side, he cautiously approached where he'd last seen them.

  A damp breeze rustled his hair. He passed a parking lot, walled behind chain link. A scrawny calico watched him from the shadow beneath a van. Malcolm came to the brick warehouse where the demon had last been. White, rust-stained bars covered the windows. Keeping an eye on the roof, he passed the building to see a litter-strewn field to the side. The demon and its companion where nowhere to be seen.

  Two more warehouses stood beside his, on
e brick, the other blue sheet metal. Beyond them, he heard the chugging of a ship making its way up the Mississippi, invisible behind an earthen berm. Malcolm swallowed, squeezed the shotgun's grip, and slowly made his way around the building, careful to stay quiet on the broken seashell gravel. He peeked down the alley between the first two buildings and froze.

  The bald man stood thirty feet away, his back against the metal wall. The woman knelt before him, naked, her head slowly bobbing before his crotch. Enormous, caramel-colored wings spread open from her back. Succubus!

  Unsheathing Hounacier, Malcolm let the oxygen bag fall from his shoulder. He stepped out, clutching the machete and the sawed-off. The gun could hurt her enough to prevent her flying away, but he couldn't risk injuring her victim.

  Gravel crunched beneath his feet.

  The man looked up, seeing Malcolm across the alley. His lips curled into a wicked smile.

  The succubus pulled back, and Malcolm's eyes widened. A grotesquely huge cock slid from the demon's throat. He saw now that the man, too, was naked. No discarded clothes littered the alley. The chiseled, ebon man wasn't a victim. He was an incubus. His clothes, like his lover's, were nothing more than glamoured illusion.

  The succubus moved to stand. Malcolm raised the sawed-off and fired. Blood exploded from her arm, and amethyst shot peppered her wings. The incubus whipped his arm around her, pushing her aside as he charged. Malcolm fired the second barrel, taking it in the chest.

  The demon roared. Unfazed, it hurtled toward him like a rampaging rhino. Malcolm dropped the smoking Remington and brought his palm up. The tattooed lid barely parted before the demon was on him. Malcolm lurched to the side, swinging Hounacier as he spun. The blade scratched the Incubus' back.

  The beast turned, blood pouring from its open pectorals and onto the white gravel. Backing away, Malcolm brought his palm up. The incubus' eyes narrowed, but it stood firm.

  Leather wings rustled. The scarab moved. Malcolm wheeled as the succubus sailed toward him, claws splayed. He aimed his warding palm at her, blasting her in its power. She shrieked and fell back as if hitting a wall. Seizing the opening, the incubus charged.

  Malcolm ducked the beefy fist and it smashed through the metal wall behind him. He tried to dive, but the demon's knee slammed into his face with a sickly crack. Blood exploded from Malcolm's nose. Blinded with pain, Malcolm thrust Hounacier upward. He felt her hit. The incubus bellowed and leaped back, wrenching the machete from Malcolm's sweat-slicked grip.

  Fighting to stay conscious, Malcolm scrambled to his feet. The incubus pulled at the blade jutting up though its belly. Weaponless, Malcolm stepped back. Outrunning them was impossible. He eyed the discarded shotgun. Even if he could reach it, the shells were in his bag.

  Snarling, the incubus kicked the Remington, spraying gravel. Malcolm jerked to the side, the gun barely missing him before it sailed out into the darkness. The incubus charged again. Malcolm dove toward it. As he hit the ground, he grabbed Hounacier's handle and yanked. The demon's foot slammed into his ribs like a sledge. It stumbled over him, falling to its knees.

  The succubus shrieked toward him. Malcolm rolled to his feet, grunting as he stood. He swiped the blade, but she flapped backward, buffeting Malcolm with a hard gust. The incubus staggered to its feet and turned. Malcolm lunged, spun, and hacked. Blood sprayed across the alley, igniting mid-air in purple-red fire. The incubus crumpled, its nearly severed head lolling to the side.

  The succubus wailed, high and shrill. Clutching his side, Malcolm took a step toward her, fiery blood dripping from his blade. She hissed and then flew up into the night.

  Watching her, Malcolm let out a breath and allowed his body to slump. Demon fire flickered off the alley walls, bathing them in crimson violet. He spat blood and touched his nose, wincing. Broken. He swabbed his blood and sweat-streaked face and wiped it on his already ruined shirt. Blood continued streaming down across his lips.

  "Christ," he panted, his ribs aching with each breath. Someone had to have heard the gunshots. Police were notoriously slow, but he couldn't risk it. Malcolm eyed the dead demon, encased in ghostly fire. A moth fluttered around it. Fucking reckless, he scolded to himself. His own DNA was splattered on the ground and the corpse's knee. He looked around, hoping for a faucet, something to wash away the blood.

  Movement caught his eye. Far across the empty field, hidden in the shadows but still visible to Malcolm's enhanced sight, two figures stood watching him. Shorty and Cornrows.

  Cornrows smiled then slapped his companion on the side. The men raced away.

  Fuck! Malcolm looked back at the corpse. No time. He limped from the alley, grabbed Hounacier's bag, and fled.

  Chapter Eight

  A piercing screech jerked Malcolm from a restless sleep. Hand still resting on Hounacier, he glared at the alarm clock. 6:30. Grimacing in pain, he stretched his arm and turned it off.

  Malcolm was pretty certain the incubus had fractured at least one of his ribs. The whole side stung with every movement. Broken or not, doctors wouldn't be able to do anything about that, and walking into a hospital just after an alley decapitation wouldn't have been a good idea. Still, Malcolm sure wished he had something for the pain. What few meds he'd had were given to Orlovski for the drive.

  Gingerly, he crawled from the bed and checked his phone. Allan hadn't messaged. Hopefully a good sign. Not bothering to turn on the light, Malcolm shuffled to the bathroom.

  A pathetic sight greeted him in the mirror. White gauze encased his nose, a rust-brown spot along the bridge, framed by a purplish pair of black eyes. The bleeding had finally stopped around 2:00. The dark bruise along his side had spread to maybe six inches across. Tiny nicks and gravel scratches marred his back and knees.

  You deserve this, he thought. Dumb fucking move. Malcolm had lectured novice hunters countless times never to do the exact thing he'd done. New Orleans was a demon well. No Valducan was to ever hunt here alone. He was lucky to be alive. Hounacier was too important. If he'd died… Malcolm shook his head. No excuse.

  Drawing a breath, he carefully peeled the tape back to inspect the damage. The swelling had gone down some, and the cut across his bridge wasn't as bad as he'd thought. Still, it would be a while before he didn't look like he'd gotten his ass beaten. Should have seen the other guy.

  The shower was a welcome refresher despite its lack of pressure. He stood trancelike, letting the water hit his shoulders and run down his back while he replayed the previous night.

  "All right," Allan had said over the phone. "We have one headless corpse, two witnesses, possible DNA, a pissed succubus, and a werebeast somewhere about?"

  Malcolm dabbed the bleeding cut. "Definite DNA." The two wads of toilet paper screwed up his nostrils made his voice nasally. "There was no time to sanitize the site. Also fingerprints on the gun. Didn't have time to search for it either." Losing Ulises' sawed-off pissed him off as much as everything else. If only those two assholes hadn't seen him.

  The Englishman's groan echoed through the cell's speakerphone. "You sure leaving town isn't an option?"

  "Not yet," Malcolm said, still fighting the seeping wound. "There's too much at stake. The werebeast knows about the mask."

  "Mal, you might need to collect that mask. You know how dangerous it is. And how valuable."

  "I'm not stealing it from them," he growled. "And if I did, nothing could stop that beast from coming in there and killing everyone. Besides," Malcolm added. "I need to find out where in the hell Ulises got that thing. What if there are more?"

  "Mal…you were ambushed by two succubi. You're in danger."

  "One of them is gone. They won't try that again." Malcolm hated lying about how he'd encountered the two demons, but it was better than the truth. Not that Allan wouldn't have understood. It was just too hard to admit his own stupidity out loud.

  "But that succubus could move to a male body and come back," Allan said.

  "I'm not leaving, Allan," he said flatly.


  Silence. Eventually, Allan spoke again, his tone all business. Cold. "All right, then, damage control. No cameras at the yard?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure? It was dark."

  "There were no cameras," Malcolm said. "I'd have seen them."

  "Clothes? Shoes?"

  Malcolm glanced toward the lumpy bag beside the toilet. Pink smears shone through the white plastic. He'd liked those shoes. "Bagged. I'll dump them once we're off the phone."

  "Change hotels?"

  "Same thing."

  "I'll start now," Allan said. "Uwe's on assignment for the next several days, and my hacking is dreadful. But I'll see what I can dig up, find out what police have."

  "Thanks."

  "Mal," Allan said, voice tinged with apprehension, "are you sure you don't want to report this to the Masters? It's not like you."

  "I will. Just not yet. You know how Schmidt and Sonu are."

  Allan snorted.

  "Just buy me a couple days."

  "I'll do what I can. Just…don't make me regret it."

  "Thanks, brother. I owe you." Malcolmhad tapped the phone, ending the call. "I owe you a lot."

  The pipes in the wall groaned, and water belched suddenly from the showerhead. Missing his old, shitty hotel, Malcolm finished his shower.

  It was 7:00 when he stepped out of the bathroom, a fresh bandage on his nose and a film of AJ's tattoo antibiotic cream on his more serious cuts. He wrestled a strangely narrow ironing board from the closet and flipped on the iron. As it warmed, he fished the dress clothes from his hastily-packed bag and tossed them onto the bed.

  Shorty and Cornrows might not have seen the whole fight, might have missed the succubus, but they definitely saw Malcolm above a corpse sheathed in demon-fire. None of the suspects in Duplessis' file matched their appearances. If they weren't linked to Ulises' murder, then they were following him for another reason. It was time to lay the cards on the table and visit their suspected employer.