Hunter of the Damned

by Jennifer Martucci

  “What?” I shout, my voice filled with incredulity. “Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds?”

  “I can only imagine how it sounds. But it’s true.” Luke looks me dead in the eyes, and I see it. I see that he’s telling the truth.

  “I don’t—” I start but a sensation overwhelms me, a feeling so potent it knocks the wind from my lungs. The sensation, like that of the brush of fingertips along the back of my neck, makes my skin tingle and shiver as if shards of ice have been rubbed against it. I shudder, heart thumping wildly in my chest. I feel them. They’re closing in on us, stealing the oxygen from the air. I look up at Luke. “Do you feel that?” I ask, my voice a hoarse whisper.

  “Of course I do,” Luke replies. “They’re here.”

  His words drain all warmth from my body. “How?” A single word is all I can form. I swallow hard then force the rest of the sentence. “How’ve they found us out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “I told you, Daniel, they feel us now, just as we feel them. They’re following us, tracking and hunting us like prey.” Luke silently slides his blades from a sheath at his belt. Gripping them tightly, moonlight reflects off of the shiny steel. I’m so entranced by it, I barely have time to react to the awareness I feel of a presence at my back. I spin around just in time to see a flurry of dark colors slam into me. What feels like a shoulder drives into my midsection, knocking me off my feet and landing me flat on my back

  “Die,” the being hisses from the left side my face. The voice in my ear is as wispy as a thread yet it echoes sonorously, making my veins throb and my eardrums spasm with sharp bursts of fiery pain. That pain is matched by fists pummeling my face. Pain explodes around my eye sockets, my temples and jaw. Twisting left then right as hard as I can, I manage to bring my knee up and launch my foot forward, kicking my attacker off me. I spring to my feet in time to see Luke’s blades careen through the night and sink into three more who advance. Dark eyes, deeper than the night sky and as beady as black pearls, shimmer with savagery. They train on me in the seconds before I’m tackled to the ground once again. Immediately, powerful hands hold my wrists and ankles, two that I can see, pinning me down as a third stands over me with a large blade. Poised just above my heart, the finely honed steel shines with deadly intent. “Say goodbye,” the being rasps, his voice a horrid sound that claws at my brain.

  I writhe and try to buck, to free myself from my captors, but it’s no use. The two Servants of the Underworld holding me down are too strong, their sole purpose to facilitate the one standing over me poised to plunge his blade into my heart. My life is pure pain, emptiness and misery. Still, my brain resists dying. Every cell in my body resists. I’ve died before, only to be returned as what I am now. But this death holds no return. This one will be final.

  Trembling and panting, I inhale sharply as the creature above me hoists his weapon high. I’m about to squeeze my eyes closed and brace for impact, for death, when his head suddenly tumbles from his shoulders. A guttural sound somewhere between a moan and a shout passes from my lips, foreign to my ears though it came from me, and I stare unblinkingly at the sight before my eyes. Blood spurts from the bloody stump of a neck before the Servant of the Underworld’s body falls to the side, his blade still clutched between his hands. Time seems to slow. The sounds of the night are muffled and all I hear is the sound of my heart beating. My mouth goes dry and my throat feels as if it’s lined with sand. I want to scream to, to cry out or get Luke’s attention in some way, but all I can do is stare mutely at the carnage to my side. But soon my gaze flickers to something else, or someone else: the wielder of the sword that decapitated the man. At my feet and primed to strike again, is a wisp of a girl. With ringlets of flame-red hair framing her face and eyes of pure gold that pierce the darkness, she stands with her feet shoulder width apart, her sword gripped in two hands before her dripping with the gore of the Servant of the Underworld she just claimed, she is regal. She could very well be the goddess of war or peace as serenity radiates from her in waves, yet her stillness is deadly. She is a viper, motionless and waiting to strike. Her eyes meet mine for a split second before they toggle between the two holding me. And in an instant, sound comes rushing back on a sonic boom. My world erupts into chaos. The pressure at my ankles and wrists subsides immediately and after a brief moment of stunned silence. The Servants of the Underworld that held me spring to their feet and lunge at her. I clumsily try to scramble to my feet to help her, unsure of what I could possibly do, and am in awe when I watch as she swings her sword with lethal speed and grace. She opens one from his neck to his navel and the other across his throat. It happens in the space of a breath, all of it occurring by the time I’m finally standing. Past her, Luke is finishing off two more and I realize I’ve done nothing to help. I part my lips to speak, but my voice is drowned by a bone-chilling screech that rings out, piercing the atmosphere and bleeding it of its safety. My gaze travels to the slain Servant of the Underworld closest to me. I look on in horror, though I’ve witnessed it before, as a sooty shape hovers above him. As ephemeral as a cloud and as grotesque in sight and scent as death itself his body shudders. In my periphery, all of the bodies rumble and convulse before flames of fire flare and wind, slithering like fiery serpents. The fetid stench of brimstone, decay and blood hangs in the air. Heat is discharged, raising the temperature of the air around me to an uncomfortable level before the atmosphere above the bodies quickens then explodes in a shockwave. A supernova of dark colors swirls in a cyclonic pattern and ill intent snakes in every direction. Yet matter does not. The ground beneath me shakes. Crops in the field shimmy. And the universe holds its breath. A ghostly moan replaces the earsplitting screech, a doleful bay that claws at my eardrums with equal force. Flesh and bone are reduced to ash. It levitates, converging with the tornadoes. I want to look away, to fall to my knees and curl into a ball and protect myself from both the sight and sound. But I can’t. My feet are rooted to the earth under my feet. And my gaze is riveted. Tears burn my eyes and I blink several times. And just when I think I cannot withstand all that I’ve beheld, the wind picks up, the sound a deafening roar, before the whirlpool of malevolent energy is absorbed by the atmosphere.

  The world falls silent.

  My ears ring.

  I scan the field and despite experiencing what I’ve just experienced before, I am still in awe to see that all the Servants of the Underworld have vanished without a trace. All that remains are small, scorched patches of grass. I feel eyes upon me and look up, expecting to see Luke. I’m momentarily taken aback when gilded irises as rich and shiny as precious metal stare at me with equal parts interest and disdain. “You think he is Gideon?” she clips her chin toward me and I do not miss the derision in her voice as she refers to me. “You’re kidding me right?” She looks over her shoulder at Luke and locks of fiery hair tumble over her shoulder. Moonlight spills from overhead, causing her crown to be awash with silvery light that tempers the blaze of her curls. Though her words are as sharp as her blade, her appearance is softened by the glow.

  “Yes, Scarlett, I do,” Luke replies, his voice as confident and steady.

  His comment is met with a curt, “Hmm.” Nothing more. The girl who I now know is Scarlett disagrees.

  Shame burns my cheeks, though I’m not sure why. I feel as though I’ve let her down personally, and a need to redeem myself and impress her burgeons. Though I don’t understand it at the moment and try to resist the notion, every part of me suspects that Scarlett’s low opinion of me will need to be reversed sooner rather than later.

  Chapter 4

  ̴ Agares ̴

  Five hundred years have passed since Agares last entered earth’s realm. Five hundred years ago, he attempted to overtake its inhabitants and failed miserably. Shuddering at the recollection, Agares attempts to force it to the back of his mind. But being cast back to the dark domain he calls home by Gideon is not easily forgotten, even after five centuries.

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  Just thinking his name makes bile burn the back of Agares’ throat, and an image fills his thoughts. Long black hair, shiny like glass and falling around wide shoulders and with eyes as clear and blue as ice over water, his brawny body and angelic face combine to form a being he’d like to beat like a piñata. Gideon the Hunter was touted as the champion of humanity, the defender of mankind. Such titles make Agares gag! Gideon is little more than perpetuator of weakness, a guardian of idiocy. He protects sheep, and exists as a perpetual thorn in Agares’ side.

  Though Gideon didn’t kill him, he did manage to thwart his mission. He bested him. Shamed him. Agares was unaccustomed to shame, and he did not accept defeat. Feeling his anger mount still, after so much time had passed, meant only one thing: Gideon had returned as well. He could sense it, feel it as readily as he felt the ground beneath his feet. Gideon the Hunter was back to try to stop him again, to stop him forever. But little did Gideon know, Agares could not only feel him this time around, but with that feeling came awareness of a fledgling energy, not one he’d associate with a hunter as seasoned as Gideon. It means his nemesis is in new form. It means in his new form he is weak and that whoever his corporeal host is, whoever has been infused with his gifts, will be easily crushed. And when he is crushed, the world as it is now will fall. The weak will perish. The timid will burn. Rules will cease to exist and chaos will reign.

  Agares remembers what it is to have chaos govern the land. He succeeded at accomplishing that four thousand years earlier. The planet was dark and a sinister pulse thrummed through the atmosphere like a heartbeat. Night claimed day permanently and the eager anticipation for the death of any soft souls that hid clung in the air like oily tendrils. A perpetual breeze blew and carried on it the coppery scent of blood. Agares closes his eyes and tilts his chin upward, his memory of the smell so vivid he can practically taste it on his tongue. The sensation delights him. But when he opens his eyes and casts them skyward, his delight comes to an abrupt end. Unfurling before him is an endless stretch of midnight blue, interrupted only by wisps of clouds. Silvery beams of moonlight spill between them, the shafts undoubtedly inspiring the weak of the world to believe their false deity is shining down on them. Agares makes a clucking sound with his tongue before snarling his lip and shaking his head at the notion. If human beings only knew what they worshipped, they’d never fall to their knees in worship again. Vengeful and prone to tantrums, the divine idol of the masses couldn’t accept His failure, couldn’t accept that Agares, after leading legions of his minions and spreading perpetual doom that dimmed the sun itself, had won. No, He would not allow for the true immortal prophet, Agares, to reap his rewards. Instead, He decided to flood the earth and destroy everything, every living thing that inhabited it, rather than accept defeat. Such an act of cowardice! Pathetic and gutless, He sat back and turned land to sea, acting from a distance and never soiling his hands to “cleanse” the planet of what Agares had done. Little did He know, His act was a temporary solution, as was Gideon. The weak would always fall. The sheep would be slaughtered. Agares’s time had come. It may take a century to accomplish, to fully eradicate the world of the feeble minded and frail. He felt confident his kind would move into positions of power. Wars would be waged. Cities would burn, starting with Rome and the walled enclave within it that houses the Vatican. Agares could see flames lapping at the pretentious white structure that serves as the pinnacle of religious functionaries. This time, humanity’s deity will not have the option of flooding the earth. He will have to send His champion, Gideon. That will be His only line of defense, that and his flock of Hunters who roam the land in a sanctimonious tizzy. All will be handled with ease. Especially now since the playing field has been leveled. Previously, his kind could never feel Hunters. Hunters always had the advantage of sniffing out dwellers of the underworld like bloodhounds. That is not the case any longer. For whatever reason, the balance shifted. He, and others like him, can now sense Hunters, making it simpler than ever to find and kill them. Something in the heavenly deity’s plan failed.

  A smirk steals across Agares’s lips as he thinks of the false god’s kingdom crumbling, his protective shield that covers humanity cracking. Laughter nearly slips from his throat as he moves to the front door of a residence. A large farmhouse sided in an aggravatingly cheerful shade of pale yellow with blue shutters sits at the end of a long dirt driveway upon a sprawling lot of land. All alone and surrounded by green pastures, Agares selected the house because a neighbor doesn’t exist for miles. The level of isolation makes for a perfect location for his first meeting with his kind to make them aware of his mission. Roaming the earth without a clear task other than to cause misery and take the occasional life, they existed without purpose, until now. Now they would be his army. Now their charge would be crystal clear.

  Stepping up onto a large porch painted the same hideously bright hue as the shutters, Agares moves to the front door and raps his knuckles against it lightly. Within moments, the porch light is on and there is movement inside. Certain that visitors of any kind at this late an hour are rare not only because of the time, but also the fact that the farmhouse sits in the middle of nowhere, he knows he’s undoubtedly caused alarm. Alarm is exactly what they should feel. Alarm and imminent threat. But humans, being foolish animals reliant upon false senses of security, believe guns and local agencies can protect them. Soon they will learn otherwise, that any semblance of safety they enjoyed will be stripped from them.

  The front door swings inward and a plump young woman who looks no older than twenty stands before Agares. Her hair is squashed on one side and lines crease the same side of her face. Her gaze is bleary at first. It’s obvious his knocking woke her. Her eyes clear before they clash with his and he smiles. His expression causes every muscle in her body to tense. Her body is completely still, just like a deer in a meadow that just caught sight of a mountain lion. She senses it, senses a predator. Her body tells her she’s in the presence of pure evil. The recognition in her face causes Agares’s smile to widen. No matter how often it happens, he never tires of seeing that initial reaction. It’s almost as satisfying as the weak cowering before him. Both excite him.

  Agares lifts his foot and is about to advance a step when the sound of a shotgun cocking from behind him halts him.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” a male voice, low and controlled, demands of him. He comes out from behind the woman.

  Agares cocks his head to one side, his smile widening further, just before he launches his hand forward and grips the girl by her throat. Squeezing tightly, her windpipe yields before her spine does. His head lolls to one side and her body goes limp. Agares pulls her forward and tosses her lifeless body out onto the porch then steps inside the house.

  “Noooooo!” a woman’s shrill voice screeches. The sound is music to his ears. He sniffs the air and finds its ripe with the sweet smell of fear soaked adrenaline, notching his chin upward and glancing right long enough to get a clear view of the shotgun-wielding man. The man tries desperately to pull the trigger but is held in place, frozen by Agares’s will.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?” Agares asks as he grips the barrel of the weapon and yanks it free from the man’s hands. Feeling its cold weight in his hands, he turns it over and inspects it. All the while the man he stripped it from watches in horror, his eye wide and his body paralyzed.

  The sound of footsteps thumping upstairs reminds Agares that the screaming female still flutters about. She’ll be dealt with soon enough. But not right away. The weapon in his hand, oddly shaped and clumsy to handle, is a source of curiosity. He’d never used one before.

  Holding it as the man did earlier, he hooks his finger around the trigger while aiming the barrel away from his body and directly at the man’s face. Eyes as round as saucers, they plead with Agares for mercy. Funny, Agares doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He is incapable of feeling such an emotion.

  Tears begin streaming down the man’s f
ace and the pungent stench of urine permeates the air. Agares’s gaze lower to the man’s flannel pajama bottoms. He sees a large wet spot that ends at a puddle on the floor. The sight makes his stomach roil. Shaking his head in disgust, he takes a final look at the man before he pulls the trigger.

  A deafening blast rips through the confines of the farmhouse as shotgun shells explode from the barrel and collide with the man’s face, fragmenting his skull into numerous gory chunks. The man’s body falls to the ground in an unceremonious heap.

  Agares, new to the use of weapons, feels a sense of disappointment. The immediacy of the death was unenjoyable. It was impersonal. The physical disconnect was unsatisfying. He realized in the seconds after he used it why humans clung to guns like security blankets. Fear. Pure fear.

  Tossing the shotgun to the floor in disgust, Agares turns and surveys the house. The foyer leads to a living room area on one side and a dining room on the other. Straight ahead is a hallway that likely leads to a kitchen. Off that hallway is a staircase, the same one the woman scampered up. He starts to make his way to the steps when a bolt of energy snaps up his spine and the smell of sulfur fills the air. He doesn’t need to reach out with his senses to know that a Servant of the Underworld has entered. Turning slowly, Agares finds Crocell, one of his most loyal and trusted servants and a general in the last crusade they led.

  Standing at nearly seven feet tall, every inch of Crocell is muscled and massive. Six round, hulking shoulders protrude just beyond his this short neck and extend to six equally hulking arms, three on either side. Pectoral muscles rise like mountains on a thick chest that tapers to a tight waist to a set of twelve laser-cut abdominal muscles. His hips flare to two brawny legs sturdy enough to hold his formidable upper body. “My lord,” he says, his voice deep and husky, more animal than human. Dipping his chin deferentially, he closes his eyes briefly. When he raises his gaze, he’s careful to keep his closely spaced eyes, as hard and blood-red as twin garnets, lowered until Agares instructs him otherwise.