Hounacier (Valducan Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  Chapter Thirteen

  Malcolm woke to the twitter of birds. He was fetally curled in the shade of a large tree. Disoriented, he swatted a mosquito on his arm. Twigs crunched and poked his naked skin as he pushed himself up to a sitting position. A heavy weight shifted in his stomach at the movement, reminiscent of the over-full feeling after a holiday meal.

  Squinting in the morning light, he looked around. Woods. No…bayou.

  Where am I? He licked his lips, tasting blood. Malcolm touched them, brushing away several dried flakes, now melting against his sweaty skin. He peered closer, seeing tiny holes and hollow tubes perforating the rust-colored chips.

  A sudden terror gripped him. Fur. There'd been fur there when the blood had dried. Now, only holes remained.

  Memories of the ceremony came flooding back. Atabei had betrayed him. Hounacier was gone.

  Panicked, he looked to the spot where he had plunged Hounacier's blade. A hairline scar traced along his abdomen too far off-center to be a quick mortal wound. He'd been too late. The demon had taken him.

  But if the beast had healed its wounds, that meant it had killed. It had fed. Malcolm thought of his over-stuffed stomach then vomited onto the leaves. Blood and stringy chunks of meat poured from his mouth. Seeing it, he retched again then again.

  Eyes watering, he spat out the bits clinging to his teeth and cheeks. He fished a broken fingernail from behind a molar and dropped it. There was still skin along the back. Curly black hairs ran though the bloody soup. He wondered whose they were. Leigh Ann's kinky hair came to mind and Malcolm vomited again until it was only dry heaves. Panting, he rolled on his back, away from the horrible slop. He desperately wanted to wash the taste from his mouth, but there was nothing but stagnant pools of swamp water.

  The scarab and warding tattoos were gone, only faint, scarred shapes from where the artist's needle had pierced his skin, but the ink was no more. Not that it mattered. They required Hounacier to work, and the bond, the comforting warmth in the back of his mind that had been his one rock no matter what else had happened, was gone. He was corrupted, and she'd turned her back on him. Malcolm had failed his highest duty. He'd lost the angel's love. An anguished scream welled from inside. The birds flew away as he roared in pure, unfettered rage.

  Malcolm lay there for several minutes, eyes unfocused on the tree above him. He was a monster. He'd killed. He'd fed. He'd do it again. The only release was death. Maybe the demon hadn't marked any other bodies. What if he was the only one? Malcolm's death could cheat it of a body. Even if not, Malcolm couldn't allow it use him as its vessel again. Malcolm had to die.

  No, he thought, snapping out of his trance. No I have to tell the Order. They need to know about Atabei. About Hounacier. She murdered Ulises. She has to pay.

  Anger fueling him, Malcolm rose to his feet. Flies had already found the half-digested remains. He scanned around, searching for any kind of landmark. Not finding one, he closed his eyes and listened. Wind-rustled leaves. Insect and bird song. The swish of a turtle diving into water. No cars. No sound of civilization all. With nothing to go on, Malcolm opened his eyes and headed north.

  Mosquitoes swarmed around him, biting and feasting on his exposed flesh. Mud and grit squished up between his toes. Malcolm climbed fallen trees, hidden twigs poked his bare feet, and green briar tore at his legs. After a few hundred feet, he stopped and listened. Hearing nothing, he continued on.

  Five minutes later, he listened again. Nothing.

  A clump of scarlet caught his eyes, stark against the greens and browns. He headed for it, crawling through a tangle of briars until he came to a small clearing of high grass less than thirty feet across. Malcolm picked up a bundle of cloth hanging from the nook of a low branch. It was a shirt, half-rotted and caked in dark silt. It crinkled like an over-starched shirt as he opened it and shook out a family of tiny insects residing in the folds. "Belle Chasse High School Basketball" it read in white letters. He had clothes, sort of.

  Holding it, Malcolm noticed an empty green beer bottle lying a few feet away. The sudden image of him breaking the bottle and slashing his wrists with the glass flashed though his mind. It'd be easy to do. The pain of his failure would end. The demon would lose its anchor to this world.

  He shook it away. No.

  If school kids can find their way here, I'm close. Malcolm tore the shirt in two and wrapped the filthy rags around his feet. With his homemade shoes, he searched the clearing, finding a blackened fire pit and several bits of trash. A rough trail led away into the woods.

  Malcolm followed the narrow path. Sweat wetted his hair and ran in rivulets down his back. The old pain in his left knee, a leftover from when he'd slipped between the bars of a cattle grate one night when he was seventeen, was gone. He'd lived with it so long that it was just part of him. He only remembered it on days when it was acting particularly pissy. But now that it was gone, he noticed it. Not just his knee but other familiar aches were noticeably absent. His constantly knotted back, the big knuckle of his right middle finger, his cracked ribs and broken nose, all gone. His eyesight was better too. Colors were sharper and everything perfectly focused. His sense of smell, previously boosted by Hounacier's gift, hadn't diminished since…since the betrayal. Malcolm wondered if his long-missing appendix was regrown. Sick and terminal people, completely and hopelessly incurable, often sought possession. Malcolm now understood the appeal that drew so many to seek new masters once their old owners were dead.

  The trees ahead ended. Beyond them, an unpainted, wooden fence ran to either side, standing just over six feet high. He slowed as he neared the tree line. Black-shingled rooftops stood visible beyond the wall. Many of the cheap panels sagged while others, obviously newer and better made, extended the lengths of individual properties. Malcolm scanned the cleared fifteen-foot strip alongside the wall. Not seeing anyone, he crept across.

  Staying low, Malcolm peered through a gap between two of the graying boards. A white mutt laying on the back porch of the house lifted its head. It hopped to its feet, hackles raised, then erupted in furious barking.

  Shit!

  The dog charged, and Malcolm hurried down the fencerow, the barks raging behind him.

  Three houses down, he noticed the black metal lever of a gate door protruding from the fence. A foot-worn trail extended from the entrance. The dog's barking continued in the background. Malcolm only hoped the racket was a common occurrence every time it saw a squirrel or any other animal. Still, it posed a threat. Creeping naked behind houses with torn T-shirt booties would be hard to explain.

  He peered through the fence gaps, seeing a small yard about two weeks past the need to mow and strewn with mismatched lawn furniture. A rusted swing set with no swings stood near one side. The house itself had several rear-facing windows, most without blinds. It looked dark. No lights. No TV playing. The beige AC unit on one side was silent.

  "Buddy!" a man yelled, causing Malcolm to jump. "Shut up!" The dog went silent.

  Ready to run, Malcolm watched for any sign the owner might investigate. After a minute of silence, he returned his attention to the house. Sweat ran down his back, warmed in the morning sun, as he waited. After what he guessed was half an hour of being eaten by mosquitoes and not seeing anyone inside, he slowly opened the latch.

  The gate hinges squeaked louder than he'd expected. Careful not to open it more than necessary, Malcolm squeezed through the tight opening and hurried up to the house, weeds crunching beneath his wrapped feet. He crouched beside a window, counted to ten, then peeked inside. Empty living room. A haphazard mound of mail cluttered the coffee table before an inactive television. The fan was still. Staying aware of the neighboring houses that might have a view, Malcolm stepped to the next window. Kitchen. Dirty dishes filled the sink below. Still no sign of occupants. Malcolm moved to the back door and checked the handle. Unlocked. Holding his breath, he inched it open. No dog barked. No alarm dinged.

  Inside was cool. The sweet stink of flor
al plug-in air fresheners filled the kitchen. Beneath that, a faint, rotted odor emanated from the blue trashcan along one wall. He licked his dry lips, seeing the faucet, but didn't dare turn it on. Not until he knew he was alone.

  Room by room, Malcolm checked the house. The parent's bedroom was mostly clean, the queen-sized bed slept in but empty. Their son, Jamie, according to the shelf of baseball trophies, wasn't home either. His bedroom smelled like a locker room, dirty socks and teenage pheromones. Malcolm peeked out of a front window. A white Ford Taurus, at least twelve years old, sat in the drive.

  Satisfied he was alone, Malcolm washed the grime and sweat-melted blood from his hands and face then drank straight from a bathroom faucet. There was a dirt-taste to the water, but he didn't care. After, he checked the mirror. The black eyes and broken nose were fully healed. Even the old scar on his chin had faded, visible only because he knew what to look for. He scratched the black two-day beard, but using someone else's razor seemed wrong somehow, as if breaking into these people's house wasn't as bad as using their toothbrush and razor. The memory of the liquid remains came to mind, and Malcolm quickly got over the etiquette of not using their toothbrush.

  Raiding the closets, Malcolm found a pair of rust-colored shorts, a gray T-shirt, a pair of hunting boots, and socks. The boots were a little large, so he shoved some wadded paper towels into the toes. Inside the mom's jewelry box, he found $40 and a sterling ring. It was thick with a cross-shaped cutout as the face. Malcolm slipped it onto his right ring finger. If the demon tried to take him, it'd break if not cut off the expanding digit. Enjoy it, motherfucker.

  Inside a nightstand, Malcolm discovered a well-used 1911 and two magazines of hollow points. He took them.

  A narrow rack of keys hung in a hall closet. He found one labeled "Ford" then took an olive cloth and net fedora hunting hat and pulled it on. After checking though the window one last time, Malcolm stepped out, carrying a water bottle raided from the fridge. Keeping his head low, he unlocked the car. A blast of trapped summer heat hit him in the face. Without hesitating, Malcolm slid into the hot seat and stuck the key in the ignition. Please work.

  It clicked and tried to catch. Fear knotted in his chest. Malcolm tried again, and the car sputtered to a start. He backed out onto the residential street and drove away before anyone could notice. The small subdivision consisted of thirty old houses set on a U-shaped street that emptied onto a two-lane highway. With no sign and not knowing where to go, he chose left.

  Fortunately, the gas tank was half-full. Gas stations had cameras, and filling a stolen car wasn't something he wanted to do. Unfortunately, the car's air conditioner didn't work. The spongy clutch forced him to mash the pedal against the floor for every gear change. It reminded him of his first car. It was a piece of shit too. Though his didn't stink of French fries and cheap pine tree air freshener made worse by the heat. Malcolm opened the window, solving both those problems.

  Two miles later, Malcolm spied a familiar trailer park. His heart pounded with excitement as he turned down the little road alongside it. Anticipation quickly gave way to nervous dread. He'd killed the night before. How many? All of them? Atabei? And if he'd killed her, what became of Hounacier? How many were still there?

  He rolled past the entrance drive.

  The gate was closed.

  Malcolm continued two hundred more feet until he found a dry strip large enough to park the car. The familiar tingles of adrenaline dancing along his shoulders were different, coupled with an inert weight in his stomach. The last time he'd felt that was when he'd driven to the Valducans' chateau from Limoges, two hunters dead, another critical, two weapons lost, and the fear that what he'd find at the end would be so much worse.

  He drew a breath, checked that the pistol was loaded, and stepped out.

  Gun in hand, Malcolm cut through the woods. Soft earth squished beneath his large boots. Once he'd broken though the shrub line along the road, the bayou opened up. He climbed through a rusted, barbed wire fence strung between tree trunks and rotting posts. Ahead, through the trunks and tangled branches, he spied the colored shipping containers.

  Keeping low, Malcolm snuck closer, moving from tree to tree. Cicadas droned around him, their constant buzz rolling higher and lower like surf. He stopped behind a gray oak and peered across the grounds. No movement. No cars. Indigo dragonflies lazily hovered above the grassy field. Where the hell are they? Obviously, someone had survived.

  Malcolm skirted behind the tree line, scanning for signs of life. As he passed a clump of narrow trees, he jumped, coming face to face with a lean figure. Enormous, red, white-pupiled eyes glared out from a smooth face. Its lips were curled into an exaggerated frown. Bleached white bones ran down the straw-bundled arms and legs, bound with brightly colored string. Animal rib bones encased its grass torso.

  Shaking his head, Malcolm let out a breath and bypassed the warding totem. Whatever power the figure had, it was useless on him. Had he not already known where the ceremony ring was, it might have worked in misdirecting him.

  He continued on. Keisha's garden was as he'd last seen it. Chickens still sauntered around their caged coop. But there was no sign of Atabei or her followers. Once he'd circled past another of the creepy totems and almost to the next, Malcolm emerged from the woods. He crossed the open span to the nearest container and listened. Hearing nothing, he peeked around to the inside of the ring.

  The circle was empty, the post and metal stakes exactly as he'd last seen. Unlit torches ringed the area. Errol's body was gone. Arcs of brown, dried blood splattered one wall of a powder blue container. Malcolm stepped out, searching the murder scene, the scene that he had perpetrated, but was unable to recall. Insects swarmed atop a red pool near the ring's edge, the blood so thick that it hadn't fully dried. He saw the stains where Errol and Shane had laid and the smeared trails from when they'd been moved, ending at tire tracks. Dread mounting, Malcolm crossed the smudged white ring and stopped above a small spackling of dried blood. The long drag marks from when he'd crawled to that vey spot and attempted to kill himself on Hounacier's blade were still there, partially hidden beneath newer footprints. One was an enormous paw, big as his hand.

  What did I do?

  The closest bloodstain that wasn't Errol's was just outside the ring. Malcolm approached it, noticing a glint on the ground. He picked up a nickel-sized chip of smooth, black glass, one side tapering to a keen edge. The ghoul mask. Peewee had dropped it. The drying splatters told what had come to poor Peewee. Injured, Hounacier inside it, the werewolf would have gone for the closest target. Atabei had been nearing the other mask at the time of the transformation. Peewee was unprotected. Others would have tried to save him. Maybe shot it. Issach would have moved forward, his own mask pushing the rampaging demon off the man. So the werewolf would have gone for the next target. Malcolm moved his gaze up to the blood-sprayed wall. Leigh Ann had been hiding there.

  Malcolm approached the gruesome site, remembering the hair he'd thrown up. More blood stained the area, pooled and splattered. Bullet holes peppered the box's side. They'd kept firing while it attacked her. Judging by some of the splatter-lined holes, a few of them had hit. But where did it go after?

  Malcolm looked left and right, seeing no other holes. He raised his eyes. More shots traced upward. Deep claw marks marred the roof lip where the beast had scrambled over. A wooden ladder on the far side of the container led to the top. Malcolm holstered the pistol and followed it up. He spotted the trail of sun-cooked drops along the roof running fifteen feet before going over the far side. From his vantage, Malcolm could see out over most of the clearing. With Atabei and her followers still possessing one mask, Hounacier, and silver bullets, the werewolf would have run. Malcolm scanned the grounds, not seeing any other blood pools. It had either dragged someone with it or found a new victim somewhere else in order to heal. Its spree had ended beneath that tree where Malcolm had woken, but what happened between the ring and the tree was still a mystery.
How many more innocents had died from Malcolm's failure?

  He shook his head. It was time to tell the Order. Jim needed to know. With one ghoul mask gone, the one in the shop was even more precious. Atabei had killed for Hounacier; killing for the mask wasn't a difficult leap especially now that the demon and the man who it possessed would be coming after her. Jim was in danger. Tasha was in danger. Malcolm needed to warn them. He needed to be stopped before he killed again.

  Malcolm climbed back down and headed toward the car. The site was compromised. No telling what Atabei had done with the bodies, but she wouldn't be stupid enough to bury them here.

  He'd just passed the container ring when he heard rapid scratching on metal followed by an animal's whine.

  Remembering Atabei's Rottweilers, Malcolm drew the pistol and spun. The ring was empty.

  It came again, something scraping one of the boxes.

  Just keep walking, Malcolm thought. Still, he moved toward it, gun ready.

  He rounded a container, its once-yellow paint rust-stained to a dull, splotchy orange. Someone had removed the doors, replacing them with a welded rebar cage. A scrawny gray wolf paced back and forth before the metal gate. A cut length of water hose ran through the bars to a large and empty bowl. A blue plastic funnel capped the other end, held up with zip-ties. The box stank like a kennel, and Malcolm stifled a sneeze.

  The animal stopped its pacing and looked at him with amber eyes. Tongue lolling, it rolled onto its back, exposing its belly.

  Unsure what to do, Malcolm just stood there, nose itching, watching the animal roll side to side in total submission. Atabei had said she’d gotten a wolf before Malcolm had requested a mask instead. They'd left it here, cooking in a metal box. "You thirsty?"