Matt nodded.
Keeping his hand open to show no threat, Malcolm took the room-temperature bottle and finished it off. He drew a breath then began his final debriefing.
#
"So I broke my finger to keep the ring from coming off then stabbed the nail cross into my other hand and ran to the shop. The rest…" He lifted his cuffed hands until the belt-chain rattled taught and displayed the now unbroken finger.
Matt nodded. He hadn't spoken once during the entire story. Malcolm had shared it all: the mask, the gris-gris for Duplessis' wife, the succubus blowing an incubus, the return of his sawed-off, everything. The gunman swallowed and nodded his head. Dämoren's aim hadn't moved from Malcolm's heart once, even when Matt had rolled Malcolm a fresh water bottle. He held it with a casual elegance, the same way a master carpenter might hold a hammer, as if it were not a thing he held but some hyper-evolved extension to his hand. All hunters held their weapons in that manner, but the fact that his was a gun and not a sword or axe gave it a more intimidating edge.
"How many followers would you estimate she has?" Matt asked.
"Based off the ceremony, I'd say at least a dozen devout. Duplessis said she has leverage on many more. Cost of her lifestyle, I'd guess easily a hundred." Malcolm clenched his jaw. "No matter how many there are, promise me…promise me you'll kill her."
"You don't have to ask that, Mal," Matt said. "She'll pay."
"And if…for some reason Hounacier has bonded…"
"Don't worry." Matt glanced down at the little recorder. "No weapon has ever bonded with their protector's killer. We know Hounacier won't do that. Atabei will pay."
Malcolm closed his eyes. "Thank you."
"And you're certain she has only one mask left?"
"If she'd had more, they would have been at the ceremony." Malcolm picked up his water and awkwardly took a swig.
Matt nodded. "And you're sure you can't recall any of the words she used to draw it out?"
"If I did, I'd tell you. Sounded like the same thing those cultists in Italy spoke. First Tongue."
"Any thoughts on how she learned it?"
Malcolm shook his head. "She said she trained with priests, an exorcist, the loa, but I don't know."
"Loa?" Matt asked, brow raised.
"Voodoo spirits, like angels or local deities. But I doubt they shared the secret with her."
"Why's that?"
"She didn't want to call them to the ceremony. If the power came from them, she would have. Also," Malcolm added, "If they knew how to do that or were inclined to share it, they would have told me or Ulises long before then."
"So you've met them?"
"Many times."
Matt's lips tightened, seeming to chew on that.
"You don't believe me?" Malcolm asked.
"With everything I've seen?" Matt's brow rose. "You say it's true, it's true. I was just…thinking."
Malcolm finished his water. The interview was nearing its close. Not much time now. He wondered how they were going to move his body out and hoped Tasha wasn't around to hear the shot, to see his blood. Would she ever enter this room again? Maybe she'd choose to block it out, think of their date as their last meeting. He hoped she would. He hoped she'd find someone and forget about him.
Matt continued gnawing his lip, stalling the inevitable.
Malcolm eyed the revolver. Dämoren 3.0, Allan called it. It was sleeker than its predecessor, streamlined, the barrel bored straight through the thick upper blade. Had Matt killed a demon with it yet? Would Malcolm be its first? His gaze followed the smooth form down to the bronze wolf heads. Anger writhed and bristled in his chest, blossoming like a poisoned thistle. Of course he'd be its first. The wolf. He could almost see the silver slug watching him through the barrel, the spirit inside it shivering with anticipation of tasting his blood. He remembered the first time he'd ever seen those bronze heads. He should have killed him then. In that moment, Malcolm hated that gun more than Atabei, more than anything.
"Why did you have to break your finger?" Matt asked, the sudden question surprising Malcolm.
"What?" He tried to shake off the dark thoughts, but they clung like sticky grease.
"You broke your finger to keep the ring on," Matt said. "I get piercing yourself with silver, but why break your finger?"
Malcolm's brow furrowed in confusion. What a stupid question. He'd just told about how the demon had removed the ring. So why…wait… Malcolm mentally ran through his story. He hadn't told Matt about that. How could he have forgotten that? He opened his mouth to tell him, but instead of what he intended, he said, "I was worried it might fall off. If somehow the cross came out of my hand or maybe wasn't in deep enough. Contingency."
No! Malcolm screamed inside his mind. No!
Matt nodded, seeming to accept the lie.
The little itch that had been quiet for so long tickled Malcolm's brain. "You thought you were in control?"
"Also," he added, his face not revealing the least trace of Malcolm's horror. "I think I just wanted to punish myself, you know? For what I'd done."
"Yeah," Matt said with a sympathetic frown. "I understand."
Malcolm's gaze flicked down to the blood compass. The single bead had elongated but hadn't split. Matt hadn't checked it in half an hour anyway. He wanted to scream, tell him to look at it, but he couldn't. He could only watch and listen.
Matt sighed, the lax muscles in his arm tightening, preparing. "Mal…I know we haven't always gotten along." He licked his lips, resolve cementing. "I wish this wasn't how it ended."
"You don't have to do this," Malcolm said plainly as the he screamed inside, Do it! How had he let this happen?
Hardness formed in Matt's eyes. "We both know I do."
"No." Malcolm shook his head. "There's another way, Matt. You can save me."
The hardness seemed to crack. "How?"
"Atabei. She can take it out. She can free me."
"Do you really think she would?"
The red bead stretched more, growing heavy at either end. "I think you could make her. She'd do it to save herself." Malcolm's invisible reins loosened just a bit, and the blood sphere compressed back to normal.
Matt's lips pursed. The corners of his eyes tightened, the dilemma playing across his face.
Seizing the opening, Malcolm blurted, "Ki—" The reigns snapped taut, and Malcolm coughed, cutting off the words. "Killing the demon and recovering Hounacier is all that matters. Atabei is the key to both." He coughed again as if clearing his throat. He took a breath then met Matt's cautious stare, his eyes pleading and sincere. "I remember how you hated me when I'd killed those demon-bound in Limoges. You'd told me once how I'd never understand. I do, Matt. You were right." He shook his head. "I couldn't have understood. But I do now. There is another way."
Do it, Matt! Do it! Please, God, see through this.
Unmoving, his face unreadable, Matt looked at him for nearly a full minute. Finally, he nodded. "All right."
A defeated weight sank in Malcolm's heart.
Matt licked his lips. He drew a breath, the gun barrel lifting with the movement. "I'm going to clean up. Bring you some water. I need to think about this."
"Do that," Malcolm said. "No knight would decide right now. Just…if you decide to put me down, don't let Tasha see it. We, um…" He looked away. "I love her."
"I understand," Matt said. "I promise."
Fantasies of Matt's screams and terror flashed though Malcolm's mind, interspersed with Alpuente and Jim's dead and bloodied faces, the pain of betrayal in their eyes. Excitement sizzled though his veins. But he didn't move, didn't say a word as Matt rose and left. He saw himself rooting his muzzle up beneath Tasha's wet and sticky ribcage, seeing up between her breasts to the dead and frozen scream, then biting down on her stilled heart, hot blood bursting in his mouth.
The door shut and locked.
"And to think I resisted coming here. No, Malcolm, we're going to be together for a long time
."
#
Malcolm lay on the floor, a prisoner in his own body. The demon had released its hold only enough for him to adjust his position, but he could feel the tethers' presence, ready for any disobedience. No longer hiding its presence, Malcolm experienced the full extent of his heightened senses. The stink of his own body filled the room like syrupy fog. Still, he could smell the wood and leather of the furniture no longer in the room, the food in the distant kitchen, even the wafting scents of whoever passed near his cell's door. He could hear them too, murmurs and footsteps outside and across the house.
"You know I've been here a few times before," Matt said maybe two rooms away. "Used to sell antiques."
"That so?" Jim asked.
"Yeah. My, uh, stepdad and I used to swing through at least once a year. There was an older gentleman here. They used to spend hours talking shop about coins."
"My father-in-law," Jim said.
"Really?" Matt asked around a mouthful of something.
"He's staying at a friend's right now. Doesn't want to be here with…"
"You want to see him?" Tasha asked. "Pawpaw might like the company."
"I'd love to," Matt said. "Maybe after…"
The waist chain dug into Malcolm's side beneath him and he rolled to stare up at the ceiling, his eyes following the two chains suspended on either side. How much had he been in control in the last few days if the demon could manipulate him without his knowledge?
"You never had control," it purred through his mind.
Malcolm tried to ignore it. He had to have had some control. It fought him when he came here.
"You only thought that because I let you. You're nothing. Just a body."
But that couldn't be true. It had said it resisted coming to Alpuente's. If it had resisted, then Malcolm had beaten it. It wasn't—
Without warning, Malcolm's hand slid down and grabbed his balls. Blinding pain shot up into his stomach, but he didn't react. He remained stone-faced, wishing he could scream but instead only grinned. The grip tightened, his testicles feeling like they might crush under the pressure. "You have no control. If I wanted, you would pluck out your own eyes and eat them without protest. Then smile at your future killer when he walks in, blood pouring from your empty sockets." His hand released.
The demon's reins loosened, allowing Malcolm to groan in pain. Tears welled in his eyes, but he still couldn't scream.
"You're nothing but meat."
Malcolm clenched his teeth, biting until they hurt. The demon could hear his thoughts. There was no place safe.
Eventually, footsteps clomped down the wood-floored hall and stopped at the door.
"Are you sure about this?" Jim whispered.
"I don't really see a choice," Matt answered.
Malcolm turned his head as the door groaned open. Dämoren in hand, Matt walked inside. He'd shaved and changed clothes. The waft of his musky cologne wrinkled Malcolm's nose.
A sickened knot roiled in Malcolm's gut, seeing Tasha follow him in, mask clutched to her chest. Bastard promised she wouldn't see this.
Jim came in last, dwarfing the other two. He clutched a key ring in his fist.
"Time to get up," Matt said. "We have work to do."
The knot tightened. This was worse than Tasha witnessing his execution. He crawled to his knees. "And the Order is okay with this?"
"Haven't told them."
"Why not?" Malcolm asked.
Matt's brow arched. "You think they'd agree to it?"
Malcolm didn't answer.
"Consider this limited freedom," Matt said. "You do what I say, when I say. You'll sleep in chains, and that collar stays on at all times. If you do anything that risks anyone, I'll do it. Understood?"
Idiot! "Understood."
"Good. Let's get you out of here." Matt stepped to the side, securing a clear line of fire as Jim slowly approached, keys in hand.
The stink of Jim's aftershave and coffee breath made Malcolm look away. He lifted his hands, allowing the priest to unlock the cuffs then the chains.
"So what's the plan?" Malcolm asked.
"First, we'll get you showered and cleaned up," Matt said. "Then a drive past Atabei's. Then, we'll see."
"You going to watch me shower?"
"That a problem?"
Malcolm grinned. "Hope you like the show." He turned his head, allowing Jim access to the chains at his collar. Metal rattled as their weight fell away. "Thank you, Jim."
Jim grunted then backed away as Malcolm pushed himself up to his feet, his joints aching at the long-missed movement.
Stretching his arms, Malcolm rolled his wrists. He pulled at his oily and sweat-ripened shirt, the dead man's shirt from the house. "So about that shower?"
#
Malcolm stayed in the water until the hot began to fade out. He turned it off and just stood there dripping, his dark skin reddened from heat and scrubbing. Reaching past the half-drawn curtain, he grabbed a towel, momentarily meeting Matt's bored eyes though the mist of steam. The hunter leaned against the counter by the door, his hands crossed in front. Malcolm glanced to the twin wolf heads protruding from the shoulder holster. Seething hatred boiled behind his smile. "Can't tell you how good that felt."
"I'm sure."
After a quick dry, Malcolm wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the antique tub. Matt moved aside to allow access to the sink.
"So what exactly is the game plan? Just drive around Atabei's all night?" Malcolm wiped a hand cloth over the foggy mirror. He scratched the thick, black whiskers along his neck, his eyes studying the silver collar. Twin globs of solder fused both sides of the scalloped, twisting hoop, one for the hinge and the other the latch. Malcolm picked up a can of shaving gel and squirted a thick glob into his palm.
"I'd like to get an initial look," Matt said. "I have two of the wireless cameras. Maybe we could hide them somewhere for surveillance. You said you went inside the house?"
"Twice," Malcolm said, lathering his face in over-scented menthol. "Didn't see much of it. Only a few rooms on the first floor, back yard."
Matt shrugged, his features lost in the wet mirror. "It's a start. We'll draw a map, figure out any weak spots so we can slip inside. Then recover Hounacier, grab the mask, and get her out of there without her followers coming down on us."
"We'll need to prepare a place for the ceremony." Malcolm removed the razor from his bag and ran it under the sink.
"You're in charge on that detail," Matt said. "How long does it take?"
"She took just a couple minutes last time." Lifting his chin to shave, Malcolm continued his inspection of the collar. The two solder points appeared smooth, solidly fused. Jim's decades of jewelry repair had taught him well. "Hard part will be getting her to do it. That might take some time. She spent years plotting her revenge."
"I'm sure we can motivate her."
"Whatever you promise her, Matt, I'm still killing her once this is done."
"I wasn't planning on stopping you."
Once Malcolm was cleaned and dressed, Matt slid Dämoren into a soft-sided laptop bag. From the other side of the padded divider, he drew a Mac-10 Ingram and racked in a magazine of silver hollow points.
"No gun for me?" Malcolm asked with a little smile.
"No." Matt slipped the machine pistol back into the bag, positioned so he could reach through the slit in the side and grab and fire either gun, then clicked the top flap shut. He pulled it over his shoulder, right hand near the slit, and picked the blood compass up off the counter. "Let's go. You lead."
Downstairs, Tasha and Jim were in the hall, moving furniture and boxes back into the storeroom. Seeing them, Jim nodded and led them to the door.
Malcolm smiled to Tasha as he passed, the fantasy of eating her heart flashing though his mind.
She glanced away, fear or shame darkening her eyes. "Be careful."
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll be back."
They entered the showroom as Jim wa
s draping a cloth over the remounted ghoul mask facing the entrance. "Let me know if something happens or you need anything."
"We will," Matt said.
Jim's lips tightened. "You call before coming back here. Just a little warning."
"Understood."
Jim unlocked the front door and stepped aside.
"Thank you, Jim," Malcolm said.
The big priest only nodded.
Sticky, warm air greeted them as they stepped out into the early evening. Malcolm had never expected to smell the city's stink again, and he breathed deep, part of him savoring it, the other part, his part, horrified that he was free. Tourists and the bar crowd shuffled down the French Quarter's streets, the voices melding into a single noise, accented by music from a dozen different places.
The lock clicked behind him.
Malcolm scanned the crowd and parked cars, searching. "So where's your rental?"
Matt motioned to the left. "This way."
Malcolm's eyes continued their search. There! Issach stood on the opposite corner, partially concealed behind a T-shirt display. Green light from a nearby sign glinted off his round glasses, hiding his eyes. Without reacting, Malcolm turned left as Matt had told him and began to walk.
They made their way through the sea of bodies, many already drunk or racing to it. Malcolm stole a quick glance back. Issach was on a phone, keeping pace.
"Down here," Matt said when they reached a side street. "Silver sedan."
The car's lights flashed as they neared it. Malcolm cursed Matt's trust—his trust in him, his trust in that damned compass. It was coming. He didn't know what, but he felt the demon's mounting excitement, the quickening heart, the dilating pupils. He stopped beside the passenger door and looked back. Issach was behind a yellow Ford, phone to his ear.
The man froze, realizing he'd been spotted.
Malcolm smiled and winked. "Matt!" he hissed and pointed. "Atabei's boy. Gun!"
Matt wheeled, keys falling from his hand as he shoved it into the bag. Issach dropped behind the car. Seizing the moment, Malcolm kicked Matt hard in the back. He pitched forward, and the compass flew away. His gun went off as he fell, blasting smoke and black nylon. Someone screamed. Malcolm closed in, ready to stomp the fallen hunter, when Issach popped around the Ford, revolver outstretched. He fired.
Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) Page 21