Hounacier (Valducan Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  The car window beside him exploded, spraying glass cubes. Malcolm ducked as the second shot hit the wall behind him. Groaning, Matt rolled.

  Seeing Dämoren swing his direction, Malcolm scrambled around the car and sprinted away. People were on the ground, hunkered behind cars or diving into buildings as Malcolm raced past with superhuman speed. Another shot echoed behind him, followed by more screams. He prayed to feel one hit his back, but it never came.

  Head low, he turned at the first street. Panicked pedestrians looked around in confusion, mouths open. He leaped, running right across a rolling BMW's hood then wove between a pair of cars, horns blaring around him. Four blocks later, he slowed to a brisk walk. Blending into a herd of people, he crossed Canal. Three more blocks, then he ducked into a narrow alley and grinned.

  Freedom.

  Deep beneath the demon's exhilaration, Malcolm only hoped Matt wasn't hurt.

  "He's fine," the demon answered. "Now, we hunt." Excitement shivered though his veins. He'd waited so long for this. Rajik's killer was here. But first… Malcolm gripped the cursed collar. It warmed beneath his fingers. He pulled and twisted, muscles swelling. His arms trembled under the strain, but the silver loop wouldn't give. Clenching his teeth, the demon yanked and yanked. Skin stretched as his arms and shoulders expanded to lend strength. The silver grew hot, burning where it touched his flesh, but it still held fast.

  Defeated, the demon released it, and his swollen muscles deflated. He looked at his palms, examining the red, blistered line across his fingers. Frustrated, he balled his fists then winced.

  Malcolm smiled inwardly. As long as Jim's solders held, he had a foothold.

  Sirens blared in the distance. He needed to go. There was hunting and revenge to plan. The demon moved deeper into the narrow alley, knowing where it emptied. He knew this city, watched it grow, fall, and rise again. Its allure had drawn him back many times, and he loved it more than he fully understood. He was known here, a legend himself. He was the rougarou, and this city was his.

  "Milky?" asked a high, crackly voice.

  The demon spun to see a filthy, unkempt man crouched beside a gap in the wall. Yellowed eyes, their irises only dark slivers fluttering below sleep-dusted lashes.

  "Milky, what's wrong with you?" His eyes rolled back forward and widened in dawning terror. "Oh no, Milky."

  To Malcolm's horror, he lunged, grabbing the mounted man by the throat. The pitying eyes rolled as the loa fled, replaced by horror and pain. The man's arms flailed and latched onto Malcolm's wrist. His larynx crunched beneath the demon's grip, squelching off the sudden scream. He slammed the man's head into the wall, reared back, and slammed it again with a meaty thwak. The begger's grip loosened on Malcolm arms, but the demon held tight, squeezing until his fingers broke through the skin. Breath quickening, he watched the life fade from the man's eyes then released him.

  The demon licked the blood from his fingers, savoring the sweet terror within it. The blisters faded from his burned fingers. Kneeling, he moved in, taking a bite of the still-warm flesh, but a sudden tingle prickled his neck, like someone was watching him.

  Turning, he looked back down the alley. Empty.

  The feeling heightened. He sniffed. Above the stink of salt, exhaust, urine, and blood, he caught the scent of female.

  A shadow swept down the alley walls. Looking up, he glanced black hair and rustling wings before claws tore his shoulders and threw him across the damp asphalt.

  "You," a fierce voice hissed. "How dare you!"

  The demon looked up to see a dark-skinned succubus standing above him, her outstretched wings blocking off the alley. The dim light reflected off her naked, perfect skin, making it almost glow.

  Her violet, gold eyes narrowed. "This human is mine, dog. How dare you mark him as your own. Leave it now."

  Clutching his teeth from the pain of torn shoulders, the demon rolled to his knees and bowed. "My apologies, Mistress, but I did not mark this body of my own volition."

  Her brow rose. "Explain."

  "A sorceress, Atabei Cross, wrenched me from my anchors and thrust me into this, the body of her enemy."

  The succubus lifted her chin, mistrust tightening at the corners of her plump lips.

  "I speak the truth. The sorceress can tear us from our bodies and imprison us in whatever vessel she desires."

  "Then we will deal with her," she said. "First, I want to punish the mortal you inhabit. He murdered my mate, Suseel. Do you have other vessels?"

  "Yes, Mistress. I have marked one other."

  Black dread sank in Malcolm's heart. The werewolf had marked another. When? That first night? Before murdering the family? He wasn't its only body. His death would have meant nothing, and now, a vengeful succubus wanted her pound of flesh, and he had no warding tattoo or Hounacier to protect him.

  "Then go to it," she snapped. "This one is mine."

  "To beg your forgiveness, Mistress, there is more. Atabei possesses Kuquo, the oppressor who murdered your mate. But I do not believe they have formed the bond."

  Kuquo! Malcolm finally knew Hounacier's true name. Somehow, finally knowing it shone like a single fleeting ray, a final joy before the end.

  Her lips drew into a mischievous smile. "We could destroy them both."

  The demon nodded. "Yes. But there is also another oppressor. Urakael, the killer of my own mate, is in the city. Its child, Matt Hollis, hunts me now. He and this," his bleeding shoulder panged as he gestured to himself, "Malcolm Romero were close. They murdered the Great Mother together. I was toying with them."

  She drew a sharp breath. "I see."

  "It would be a pity to kill this body now when there are such torments to give it."

  The succubus remained silent for several heartbeats. "What is your name, dog?"

  "Gulmet," he answered.

  "Gulmet, you have taken a body that belongs to me. But for what you have told me, I allow you to keep it until The Great Mother is avenged. I conscribe you to my service until I deem otherwise. Stand."

  Gulmet rose, suppressing his anger. He did not owe this creature a debt, but it was her right of rank.

  She stepped closer. Her intoxicating scent of lust enveloped him. She stood no higher than his eyes.

  "I am Vimiya." She placed one hand against his chest, caressing the muscles. Her other hand slid down her body and between her legs. She brought it up and smeared warm, wetted fingers beneath his nose. The sudden smell of pure carnality took his breath.

  He hadn't felt anything like it since…since Rajik. The guilt from betraying her memory with this desire made him hate this Vimiya even more.

  Deep inside him, Malcolm twisted, repulsed and aroused by the unimagined sensuality, and Gulmet grinned at his torment. The succubus nodded approvingly, mistaking his pleasure in her.

  "That is my scent. Know it. Know your place, Gulmet."

  "Yes, Mistress." The act was unnecessary. It was an expression of dominance. She owned him, and he was helpless.

  Vimiya tugged the silver collar. "What is this?"

  "It was put on me to prevent my true flesh-form." Each breath brought more of the intoxicating scent, strengthening her hold.

  She smiled. "Then come. Let us remove that. We have vengeance to take."

  IV

  Gulmet walks between olive trees, a pair of dead rabbits swinging from his hand. He's grown bored with this place, the cottage, the fear of taking his true flesh-form. He hadn't told Rajik of the human that had seen him. She would worry. Rajik worries much at late. Three weeks until the eclipse. Then, they will worry no more. They will teach their pups to hunt, to move bodies, and to blend in among mortals. They will be gods to their children, and they will teach them to be strong.

  A sharp smell wafts on the breeze. Gulmet sniffs. Smoke?

  Quickening his pace, he emerges from between the trees. A dark column of smoke billows beyond the next hill. The cottage!

  Fear crackles through his veins. Gulmet drops the rabb
its and runs. He crests the first rise. The smoke is definitely coming from the where the cottage is. Bones pop and shift as he leaps down the slope, landing on all fours. He races down then up the next rise, his paws slipping on fallen leaves.

  He reaches the top and freezes. No!

  Orange flames pour out the door and windows, melding with the black smoke. A pair of mounted men sit nearby, their horses shying nervously from the blaze. A third man stands before the flaming doorway.

  Where is Rajik? Gulmet races down the hill.

  "Tomas!" one of the horsemen yells, pointing at Gulmet.

  The man at the door wheels about. The long sword in his hand gleams in the sunlight. Tiny red gems sparkle along its blade. A pair of bronze wolf heads cap its pommel. The man takes three steps away from the fire and draws a pistol in his off hand.

  Snarling, Gulmet charges. How dare these mortals come here. The men draw their own guns and fire. The bullets whiz past as Gulmet closes in.

  The swordsman stands ready. He fires his own pistol, unleashing a cloud of smoke.

  The silver ball slams into Gulmet's breast with a hard thock. His foreleg crumples, and Gulmet tumbles. The cursed metal burns in his lung. He tastes his own blood. Fear tinges it.

  "Prepare thyself for hell, demon!" the man cries. He drops the smoking pistol and grips the sword before him.

  Gulmet hobbles to his feet. The two riders are dismounting, drawing their own weapons. He sees their faint glow. Oppressors!

  The swordsman takes a step, murder sparkling in his eyes. Beyond him, through the smoke and blaze, Gulmet spies a brilliant crimson fire inside the cottage.

  No! Ignoring the Oppressors, Gulmet runs toward it, his weakened leg threatening to give with every movement. The murdering swordsman readies for the attack, but Gulmet races past him and leaps through the door.

  His fur crackles and melts in the hot flames. Smoke stings his eyes. Rajik lays on the floor, cleaved open, flaming organs spilling from the wound. She is gone, her crimson essence burning from this world. The cubs, his children, dead before they ever were.

  Gulmet's skin burns, his fur now completely melted away. He crawls to her, taking Rajik in his arms. The one thing he's ever loved, his one single dream, is gone. Gulmet screams.

  Fire burns his eyes, stealing his sight. He pulls Rajik close, feeling her against him before his burning nerves surrender to the flames. Through the sizzling of his flesh and crackling of wood, he hears the killers shouting outside, congratulating themselves on his pain.

  Finally, his charred arms, no longer able to hold her, drop, and Gulmet slumps atop her corpse. His left eye hisses and pops. His essence breaks free of the now useless vessel and rises into blackness. Crimson strands hold him to this world like a spider's web. One by one, he searches his anchors, hoping one will take him far away; somewhere that holds no memories of him and Rajik.

  One, the most distant, a female whose soul he had marked when she was but a child, now grown. She sits at a window, watching a nighttime storm. Her husband dead in the recent war. The lingering suffering of fighting men still stains the lands. Gulmet has never visited this new land across the ocean. It is a wild place, and no one notices a new or missing face.

  Gulmet pours himself down the strand and into his new vessel.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sweat trickled down Gulmet's spine. Even hours after the sun's setting, summer's heat lingered in the balmy air. A silent prisoner in his own body, Malcolm watched himself move through Tasha's poorly-lit complex.

  Air conditioners and box fans hummed from many of the windows. Several residents sat on their narrow balconies or in breezeways, chatting or staring at their phones. Gulmet passed behind her unit and glanced up without turning his head. The windows were dark. Her air conditioner was silent.

  Malcolm inwardly smiled, praying she wasn't home. Looks like you missed her.

  The image of her blood-soaked face flashed though his mind, her eyes pleading and pained.

  "We'll taste her soon enough," Gulmet purred.

  Malcolm cursed himself for thinking with words. The demon could hear his thought and see his mental pictures. He had to think without words or images. Even then, he wasn't completely sure the demon wouldn't know his thoughts.

  Gulmet continued to the next building and circled around. Raised voices, a man and woman, came from a window above. He stopped beneath a dark awning and looked around.

  Vimiya strolled through the courtyard, her wings and nudity masked beneath a shimmering glamour, like summer heat escaping a hot car. Shoulders back, she followed the steps leading up to the second floor and knocked on Tasha's door.

  Tasha wouldn't expect the succubus. She might even open the door for her. But if Matt were inside, sitting in the darkness, blood compass beside him, he'd have seen a crimson bead pass behind, dissolve, then reform and approach the door. Vimiya's glamour wouldn't hide her from him.

  Malcolm imagined bullets exploding out the door, the succubus' shocked face as the demon fire consumed her. Gulmet smiled at the thought as well. "One could only wish."

  Malcolm winced internally; he'd forgotten not to think visually.

  Vimiya knocked again.

  Movement caught Gulmet's eyes. Quentin, his cornrows hidden beneath a green cap, strolled past one of the other buildings. Scratching his neck, he gave Vimiya a casual glance then turned the corner.

  Gulmet followed, the excitement of a hunt tingling his veins. He slipped across a well-lit breezeway then ducked up a shadowed path leading toward the building Quentin had gone behind. Staying off the cracked concrete walk, he hurried along the grass, his footsteps silent. He peeked around the corner to find his prey turning back toward the courtyard. Gulmet followed.

  Keeping a safe distance behind, he watched the big man casually stroll past again. Unlike Issach, who foolishly stood in one place, making himself obvious, Quentin was circling. A predator. Gulmet's lips pulled into a toothy grin. He had no doubt Quentin carried his silver-loaded revolver. He was hunting too. Gulmet's muscles tensed with the thrill of it. A dangerous quarry was always the sweetest kill.

  Vimiya turned from the door. She glanced to where Gulmet should have been then turned to leave, her eyes immediately finding Gulmet mid-movement without the least trace of effort.

  Always knows where her dog is.

  "Shut up."

  Quentin stopped at a bench, facing away from Tasha's door, and casually reached into his pocket.

  A spike of adrenaline shot through Gulmet's senses, priming his muscles.

  Lazily, Quentin drew a pack of cigarettes out. The tension receded. Gulmet side-stepped beneath a paint-flaking stairway and waited. Tingles writhed up his back like a hundred worms, signaling Vimiya's approach.

  "Who are you watching, Gulmet?" she whispered in his ear.

  Gulmet started in surprise. "So silent." He motioned to Quentin smoking against the bench. "One of the sorceress' disciples. Quentin. He helped trap me in this body."

  "Hmm," she cooed like a child discovering a new favorite sweet. "Then we do have a kill for tonight. Follow us when we leave." Vimiya slipped out from beneath the stairs and strode toward Quentin.

  "Excuse me," she said once she was a few feet from him. The glamoured air distorted around her, enveloping Quentin as he turned. "Can I bum a smoke?"

  He smiled warmly then drew a fresh cigarette for her. Accepting it, she let him light it, and then they began talking. They laughed, and she touched his bicep. Seeming impressed, she told him to flex, and she touched his chest with a gentle caress.

  Gulmet ran his tongue along his teeth as he watched the ease with which she ensnared her prey. She dropped her finished cigarette on the concrete slab and ground it out with a glamoured heel Malcolm knew was but a bare foot. Once the illusion faded, succubi could always be identified by their footprints.

  That done, she took Quentin's arm and he led her away.

  A few seconds later, Gulmet stepped from his hiding place and f
ollowed. They strolled leisurely ahead, their pace slow but purposeful, reminiscent of the night Malcolm had killed Vimiya's mate. They crossed several streets, talking and laughing, both encased in a bubble of glimmering air. Malcolm wondered what it was that Quentin saw and where he might think he was.

  He had to stop several times to keep himself from catching up, not that it mattered. Quentin was hers. It would take something more dramatic than seeing Malcolm at a glance to break the hallucination. They walked for blocks, so far that Malcolm began wondering how Quentin had even gotten to Tasha's apartment. Had he forgotten his car there? Probably.

  They passed under the I10 overpass, congested with trash and vagrants. It stank of piss and acrid smoke. On the ground, behind one of the concrete pillars, a pair of men smoked from a broken light bulb. Voices stilled, and hungry eyes watched the succubus' passing.

  The pungent stink of lamia greeted them one block later. Niriffo ruled the Mid-City area. She'd told Gulmet she'd kill him if he ever entered her territory again. Vimiya could offer no protection. He only hoped he might pass through before she or her ghouls noticed.

  Eventually, they turned at a small, avocado-colored house and started up the porch. Quentin fumbled with his keys, unlocked the door, and they both stepped inside.

  That too-familiar excitement returned. The chase was done. "Time for the kill."

  Gulmet slowed as he closed, allowing a pair of teens to pass. The narrow house looked no more than fifteen feet wide but deep. The barred windows were still dark. He stepped onto the tiny, concrete porch and checked the door.

  Unlocked.

  He smiled then glanced back one last time. No one was watching. Gulmet drew a breath, puffing his chest, then opened the door. The tiny house was clean and organized. A modest but well-made couch rested against one wall facing an expensive-looking coffee table and a television. Through an open doorway, he could see a kitchen everything arranged with meticulous precision. The house smelled of new carpet, a synthetic fruity odor—compliments of the unburnt candles in a wall sconce—and the faint but distinct smell of pot.