Band of Demons (The Sanheim Chronicles Book 2)

by Rob Blackwell

  Kieran shuddered. It had been a simple enough errand. But when he found the shield in the warehouse near Dulles airport, he couldn’t help but notice the smell in the building. It smelled like decay. Whoever Sanheim had manipulated into bringing the shield here, he hadn’t left him alive.

  “Now I have one for you,” Sanheim said.

  He handed him a small package wrapped in red velvet cloth and tied with a string.

  Kieran immediately felt its weight. He unwrapped it slowly, dreading what was inside. When he finally removed the cloth, he saw it was a knife, the most beautiful he’d ever seen. The blade was incredibly sharp, with a gleaming sheen as if it had been freshly polished. Even in the dark it seemed to glow. The handle was made of some kind of red glass, giving the entire knife a dark red complexion—the color of fresh blood.

  Kieran looked at the man who had tormented his dreams for years.

  “You expect me to kill Sawyer or Elyssa with this?” he asked. “Even if I got close enough, I doubt it would work.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll find this knife is quite special,” Sanheim replied, and the smile on his face was enough to turn Kieran’s blood cold. “Even against a Prince of Sanheim. But it’s not for Sawyer or Elyssa.”

  “Who’s it for?” he asked.

  “You want her back?” Sanheim asked. “You want her freed?”

  “You know I do,” Kieran replied.

  “Then this is the price,” Sanheim said.

  “How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”

  Sanheim laughed at that and Kieran felt a chill run up his spine.

  “You ask me that now?” he said. “After we’ve come so far? You have no other options.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Kieran said, with more confidence then he really felt. “If they can take down Sawyer and Elyssa, you could be next.”

  The smile vanished from Sanheim’s face.

  “Do you know what I’ll do to her if you betray me?” Sanheim said. “I’ve kept her safe for you—but only because you’ve done my bidding. If you cross me now, the pain she will endure would be unimaginable.”

  Kieran couldn’t keep the stricken look from his face. Just imagining her in agony was too much. He held up his hands in surrender.

  “Okay,” Kieran said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “When the time comes—when I give you the signal—I want you to kill Kate Tassel.”

  I feel my life ebbing from me.

  It has taken all my strength to come here, to deliver the message he wanted me to. And I must do what he wants now, because soon I will be in his domain, until the seas burn away.

  I am Lilith Crowley, wife and consort of Robert Crowley, and the sole surviving witness of his destruction. It breaks my heart to write those words. Robert was so sure, so calm. Since I met him more than a decade ago, he’s never doubted his destiny, his place in the world.

  I know that he was scared at times. When he lay next to me at night, sometimes he would awaken suddenly. It was always the same dream, the same monster that haunted him: Sanheim. But he always knew what he would do.

  The gathering he planned was momentous. I wish I could describe it for you—the food, the music, the dancing. It was a celebration of Robert’s ascendance. For the first time, I stood by his side in public. Many of his closest moidin already knew me of course. I have been with Robert for a long, long time.

  But for the new ones, I was a sight to behold. I chose my white silk dress with care. I looked and felt like a Queen. “And you will be one, my love,” he whispered as we walked down the stairway together.

  How quickly our dreams turn to ashes.

  The ritual was completed flawlessly. The doorway opened and our campaign began. I could not believe what magic I wielded, what I was able to do with Robert’s assistance. In those moments, I truly believed that we were invincible. Sanheim, and Hell itself, would tremble before us.

  But we never had a chance.

  I will not describe to you what happened, how our glorious assault was so quickly thwarted. Many of our most powerful brethren were torn apart within minutes.

  Sanheim was waiting for us. His eyes are everywhere. He knew what plans Fara had planted in Robert’s head. He knew what my husband was going to do. I now wonder if he had it planned from the very beginning. What plots and schemes lurk in the Devil’s heart? How must he spend his days, but in building elaborate traps for us to die?

  I have been sent back as a warning, but I cannot linger long. My Robert lies on a table of stone, stretched limb to limb. The Lord Sanheim has promised him a quick death if only I will deliver this message.

  Read closely, those who would follow in Robert’s footsteps. Lord Sanheim knows you envy him, sees your greed for his realm. But he will brook no pretenders to his throne.

  All who attempt to destroy him are doomed to fail. All who stand against him will be driven to despair. The Lord Sanheim is as eternal as the sun, as furious as the maelstrom.

  Lord Sanheim rules forever.

  —Lilith Crowley, 1873

  Chapter 34

  Halloween

  The day dawned bright and sunny. Across the country, there were Halloween parades, costume parties, and by evening, excited trick-or-treaters collecting candy at every doorstep. But in Loudoun County, where Halloween remained taboo, only a few brave souls went outside. There was a chill in the air, as if something dark and terrible was coming. Most returned to their homes quickly.

  Near Balls Bluff Road, a figure rode across a wide open field. The moon hung above him, guiding his way. He moved at unbelievable speed, kicking up dust in his wake. He galloped across Route 15, the road empty because of a blockade set up earlier in the night. He swept past schools, a church, and through a baseball field.

  The Headless Horseman crossed through a line of trees and emerged on the other side into Morven Park. He galloped toward a small pond that reflected the bright moonlight and abruptly slowed down, churning up soft dirt, and came to a stop.

  For a moment, nothing in the night moved. The Horseman stood still and silent, his sword sheathed in its scabbard and his new shield hung across his back.

  But then he sensed movement from the forest across the small field in front of him. They came as one, emerging in a row from the trees. The animals moved in strange, military-like formation. The Horseman counted 20, then revised the number to more than 40 when others appeared in another column behind them.

  They moved slowly across the field, snarling as they came. Behind them, Aileen rode a horse slowly out of the forest. He raised his flute to his lips and a sad song issued across the landscape. The Horseman didn’t hear it and remained unaffected by its power.

  The song rose in cadence and a sharp blast brought the party to a halt. The animals, as one, sat on their haunches and waited.

  There was something wrong with the animals, the Horseman realized. He sensed, rather than saw, blood on them.

  The animals acted like they were listening to Aillen’s song, but the Horseman now knew that was impossible. Sawyer had tried to find a way around the banshee’s scream after all.

  The animals were all missing their ears. And from the faint aroma of charred fur and skin, the Horseman guessed that Sawyer had cauterized the wound in an attempt to ensure they couldn’t hear anything. The Horseman sensed a few of them still whimpering; but the rest felt girded for battle.

  It wasn’t a perfect solution, but the Horseman wondered if it would be enough.

  The scream won’t work, my love, he thought.

  From far away, he heard her acknowledge him. It was unfortunate, but not unexpected. He noted that neither Aillen nor his horse had anything wrong with them. Whatever damage they had inflicted, they had done only to their moidin.

  The Horseman’s contempt for his opponent only increased.

  The other horse and its rider rode through a break in the ranks and met the Horseman.

  “Just you again?” Aillen asked as he
rode within a few feet of the Horseman. His strangely colored hair blew in the wind. “I thought you had learned your lesson about divide and conquer.”

  The conversation the day before had been brief and to the point. Kieran had provided Quinn with—of all things—Sawyer’s cell phone number. The rest had been simple.

  “I challenge you to a duel,” was all Quinn said.

  “A duel, is it?” Sawyer replied. “And if I refuse?”

  “You’re afraid to face me in single combat?” Quinn asked.

  “Just wondering why I should bother,” Sawyer replied. “You weren’t much of a challenge last time.”

  “You’re afraid,” Quinn said.

  “Oh please,” Sawyer replied. “You can’t goad me into this. I accept your proposition, but only because it offers me more sport before you die. You do know that when I’m done with you and your girlfriend, my pets and I will sweep through Leesburg like a Biblical plague. I’m sorry you won’t live to see it. This town will be ashes by tomorrow.”

  “You’ll die before then,” Quinn said.

  “Let’s be done with this,” Sawyer said. “Tell me where and when.”

  So here they stood. Sawyer had checked for traps, satisfied himself there was nothing in the immediate vicinity to worry about. He didn’t know exactly what game Quinn was playing, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to know. He was going to win regardless.

  “I do miss the banter,” Aillen sighed. “Let’s get on with this.”

  The Horseman rode to the end of the field, his black and tattered cloak flowing out behind him. Aillen whistled and his pack of animals moved off to the side to watch.

  The two opponents stood at opposite ends of the small field. Aillen’s horse anxiously pawed the ground, but the Horseman stood like a statute. He waited for them to make the first move.

  Aillen drew his sword, pointed it and his horse surged forward. Within a second, the Horseman’s steed reared up, his black legs pawing at the sky. When he returned to ground, the Horseman drew his sword and the horse burst forward with ferocious speed. The two riders raced across the field toward each other in a flurry of motion, their swords shining underneath the bright moon.

  They collided in the middle, the swords clashing with a loud ringing sound. The two riders furiously parried blows, the night carrying the sounds of their hits in every direction. The horses became intertwined, trying to bite each other. From a distance, the two sides became almost indistinguishable, with the riders locked in battle.

  But Aillen was losing and knew it. Wherever he tried to strike, the Horseman met and blocked him. The Horseman’s blows came back at him in a fury. He deflected them, but barely. Meanwhile, the horses’ bridles became caught up with each other, making it impossible to pull apart. Aillen tried to gain the upper hand, aiming a sword blow at the Horseman’s chest. But the Horseman blocked it easily, then sent his own counterstrike back. The slash caught Aillen in the shoulder, the blow more powerful than he expected. He tilted to the side, nearly falling off, but grabbed the saddle to hang on. Just as he righted himself, however, the Horseman punched him again, a blow that caught Aillen right in the chest. He fell off his horse and landed in the mud. Aillen put up his arms to protect himself from the horses’ hooves, then had to roll away to get out from underneath them.

  By the time he stood up, the Horseman was off his own horse and crossing the distance between them. That’s when he noticed the shield that hung at the Horseman’s side. The Horseman approached and swung his sword. Aillen barely had time to parry the blow, and the swords clanged. His counter was caught by the Horseman’s shield, the blow actually hurting Aillen as his sword stopped so abruptly. As he registered the pain, he failed to anticipate the next blow, this one catching Aillen across the body and knocking him to the ground. For the first time in a long while, Aillen felt fear—what if he lost? How could he come so far, only to die here?

  The Headless Horseman loomed over him. Aillen jumped up and slashed at his opponent, who once again caught the blow with his shield. The counter knocked Aillen to the ground again.

  In a fury, he leapt to his feet.

  “Enough of this,” he said. “Time to burn.”

  He opened his mouth and let loose with a jet of flame aimed at the Horseman’s chest. But the Horseman held up his shield and the flames bounced off it, which neither melted nor bent from the heat.

  Aillen stopped and yelled in fury, “That’s not possible!”

  He was so angry, he never saw the next blow coming. When he looked down, he saw a long cut across his chest and a thin line of blood welling up beneath it. He saw a blur of motion and brought up his sword just in time to stop the Horseman from cutting off his head.

  Aillen staggered back and looked around him. He watched as the Horseman kept coming and realized that the duel had already been decided—and he had lost. But he had come too far to play honorably now.

  Aillen grabbed his flute from his side where it hung and began to play. The song didn’t stop the Horseman, didn’t even interrupt his stride, but the music was a signal to Elyssa, who commanded her troops from her mind. His animals were on their feet in a moment and heading to help him.

  The Horseman stopped. Even without a head, Aillen could feel him watching him. He just smiled.

  “Did you really think I was going to let it be settled by single combat?” he asked. “I’ve come too far for that. Sorry, Quinn—you lose. Those things are going to tear you to pieces, and I’ll burn what’s left.”

  But the Horseman’s steed broke free of its own battle with Aillen’s horse and ran over. Even while the animals closed the distance, the Horseman swung his shield onto his back, sheathed his sword and leapt into the saddle. He began to ride away.

  Aillen screamed in fury, directing his pack to give chase. When his own mount galloped over, he climbed on and rapidly followed.

  *****

  The Headless Horseman raced back the way he had come only a short while earlier, flying across fields, roads, and through woods.

  The animals were right on his heels—snarling, yapping and trying to bring him down.

  I’m coming to you, my dear, he thought.

  We’re ready, she thought back.

  Kate stood as the banshee in a line of trees. Kieran stood behind her, nervously switching his stance from side to side. In his belt hung the knife Sanheim had given him the night before.

  “Shouldn’t you be calling them?” Kieran asked. “Let’s not wait until the last minute.”

  “They’ll come,” Kate said. “If I do this too early, they may disappear before we need them.”

  “You seem awfully confident for a woman who couldn’t do this a week ago,” he said.

  The banshee smiled and turned toward Kieran. He unconsciously took a step backward.

  “Sawyer has given me the one advantage he never could have expected,” she said.

  “I don’t understand,” Kieran replied.

  “You will,” she said.

  Kate could see the Horseman coming in her mind, barely ahead of the pack of vicious animals behind him. Further behind, she could see another figure on horseback, struggling to catch up to his pack.

  “It’s time,” Kate said. She knelt on the ground and closed her eyes.

  “I need help,” she called. “I need help.”

  A faint whispering, but nothing more.

  “It’s not working,” Kieran said, but she ignored him.

  “I need help,” she called louder. “They are coming. They are coming to kill, to maim, to burn.”

  Kate let images flood her mind, images of the houses in Ashburn that were on fire. She showed them Purcellville as she had seen it, the flames still consuming what was left of the town hall, the shells of burnt-down houses. She showed them charred corpses, men and woman weeping in the street. In her mind, she replayed the massive fire spreading through the town—and then imagined it spreading further, faster. It consumed not just Purcellville, but everywhe
re: Hillsboro, Aldie, Waterford, Middleburg and finally Leesburg.

  The response was immediate, loud, even jarring.

  “Who?”

  “Who is coming?”

  “Who has done this?”

  “How can we help you?”

  Kate didn’t stop, let the images keep pouring out of her, asking each one that heard her to carry the song in his heart. They each saw a vision unique to them, one that bound the spirits in one common purpose. Instead of Purcellville, they each saw their own towns, everything and everyone they once loved—burning.

  “Come to me,” Kate said. “Come and defend this land, these people.”

  She let one word ring in her mind, a word that reverberated in the spirit world louder than any clarion call, a word that was broader and stronger than love, a word that lay at the root of causes throughout history: “HOME. HOME. HOME. HOME. COME AND DEFEND YOUR HOME.”

  They came in dozens, then in droves. The spirits of hundreds of fallen soldiers who had died in battle—died defending their homeland, whichever side they were on—responded. She saw them lining up, taking shape, rows of warriors standing beside her.

  They were dressed in blue and gray, but the colors no longer had any meaning. They had been trapped here. Trapped by the pain, the hurt, the immense sorrow of lives wasted. But now they were needed. They felt the threat keenly in their minds, saw their homes aflame, knew that whatever was coming, it must be stopped.

  They brought with them the tools they had in life. Many held rifles, some with bayonets.

  Kate looked across them all and tears ran from her hollow eyes. They stood in their old formations, arms at their sides.

  She heard the Horseman coming, heard the animals still racing at his heels. They had entered the battlefield now.

  A single officer came to her, dressed in gray. He was unusually tall, with bright red hair and a beard. He carried a flag.

  “Clinton Hatcher,” he said. “8th Virginia Infantry.”

  He appeared in great distress, seemed to be holding back.

  “Is it true what you showed us?”