Demon Master

by Daniel Pierce

  “Ring, I’m sending you a picture. Pay attention to detail this time, and I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. A storm is coming to your home, which means trouble for my family.” She delivered this news as fact.

  “Does this picture have anything to do with Suma’s freedom? Because if it doesn’t . . .” I let the threat hang, no matter how empty.

  Elizabeth laughed, patronizing and cold. “You fear someone who you have already dispatched. A slip on your part, to be sure, but understandable given your excitability. I may choose to travel soon since it will shortly become very unpleasant here. Or don’t you pay attention to the weather? I would think a mariner such as you would at least be aware of an oncoming hurricane, which causes such problems with my family’s dinner plans. So many tourists taking wing, it makes other venues seem more attractive. Batten your hatches, Ring. Perhaps we’ll talk before I leave.”

  With a click, she was gone. I looked at the image she sent to my phone, closely. It was the same scene as she had shown me in the Corral. Suma, a victim. Karolina, the torturer. There were two small differences. My stomach fell a thousand yards, crushed by the deception of the picture.

  “What is it?” Risa asked, as Wally leaned in from the back seat.

  “Suma. Her hand. I’m such a fucking idiot, look at her hand. Elizabeth won, and I didn’t even fight her.” I handed my phone to Risa, burying my head in my hands with relief and anger. Suma was fine. Safe. And had been all along. The picture showed a woman with a hand that was slightly deformed, cast in shadow, a single extra knuckle pushing outward due to a momentary loss of control. It was not Suma in the image. Finn, who was now ashes in the water, dead by my hand. The scene was staged by Elizabeth, no doubt days before I discovered Finn’s true nature. She used the picture as a trump card, knowing that we would tighten our noose around her neck, but fear for Suma’s life would cut the rope clean.

  And I let Elizabeth walk past me to safety, freed by a lie.

  59

  Florida: Ring

  A storm was, in fact, coming. Beaches emptied of tourists, just as Elizabeth predicted in her damnably reasonable voice. Our previous concerns let a monstrous weather event sneak upon us, so in a harried afternoon, Wally and I attached plywood to every window on our house while Risa lowered the metal shutters at the Hardigan center. This routine was old hat to us, and we performed like a somewhat oiled machine, with only minor scrapes to show for our efforts at circumventing the fury of nature. I sensed that Elizabeth would not have mentioned the storm had she thought it would turn elsewhere.

  I was unfortunately correct in my assessment of her value as a weathervane. Boon, Pan, Suma, and the kids came to stay with us; the remainder of our center friends went inland with relatives, or in the case of Angel, to an Armory where his church group volunteered. We were collectively as safe as could be, watching the angry bulk of the cheerily named hurricane Jenny bearing down on the coast. Landfall, if it hit Hollywood, would be at dusk, nearing full tide, and when the city was most vulnerable. The situation did not look good, but with our family safe, riding it out together seemed to be the best possible plan. Vengeance was far from my mind, but that is an emotion with brawn, and before I would give control of my rage to the cause of Elizabeth’s demise, I had a call to make. To the forest, for one last warning, a mea culpa of sorts. For even if Cazimir was an immortal, he deserved to know that Elizabeth had well and truly slipped the leash, and even he could not consider himself safe behind his barricade of trees.

  “Risa, time for one call to the Baron before the storm takes down the ‘net.”

  She opened her laptop, only to find the icon for the Baron’s call already pulsing in the corner. He had an open connection to us. She clicked, and the lodge flooded the screen. Along with a scene of death.

  Sandor and Ilsa’s feet twitched in unison, their bodies hanging from the beam that held the aurochs horns up for admiration. A wet stain colored Sandor’s pants, one last insult to his body as his bowels loosed in a heave. His tongue began to protrude from a mouth quickly mottling with death. Next to him, Ilsa’s beautiful features were contorted in an ocean of agony. Her eyes locked on the camera for a fleeting second of recognition, then went dull as the weight of her muscular frame pulled vertebra apart with a dull snap. She died in seconds, tears and saliva streaking her face in a last baptism of pain.

  A hand slapped on the work table, the fingers turning white with effort. Cazimir. Rising, he dragged himself into camera height. His shirt was crimson, and he held one arm across the breadth of his stomach, a soft pink coil of intestine peeking from the side of his bloodied hand.

  “She can be anywhere, Ring. Out of her mouth, only lies. Oh, that I ever fathered her, to visit such sin on the world.” His voice was reedy, failing. Looking past us at something unknowable, he slid from the table, and our view, and the connection went dark, just as the last breath of life left the haunted lodge in the forest of giants.

  60

  Florida: Ring

  Rain began to hammer the plywood over the picture window in savage, slashing blows, while the wind rose and fell in a bass moan that crept upward in volume with each blast. After a meandering path pulling massive heat energy from the fertile Gulf Stream, Jenny had arrived. The canal was a crashing tub of violence, with whitecap foam blowing off waves that were already topping the seawall and punching at the dock erratically. Aluminum caps of from each mooring post were ripped off and flung into the dark, speeding discs of wobbling metal. The entire dock swayed slightly and trees were bent, released, and bent again by the muscular gusts that ebbed but never relented. The water was gunmetal grey and it was hard to discern where the saltwater ended and the rain began.

  A palm frond banged against the kitchen window and was swept past instantly into the twilight. Awnings and street signs sang in metallic vibrato as the wind lashed them side to side. Risa and Wally sat silently, Gyro panting between them on the couch. They both looked at their phones, watching the weather radar.

  “It’s a direct hit.” Risa was calm but there was an undertone of worry.

  I understood. I checked on the kids again, only to find Boon smoothing their hair and whispering to them as they lay curled under blankets alongside the bed, their fear keeping them from the window. Pan was leaning against the wall on his haunches, his hands clenched with frustration and worry. I stood looking out into the false twilight where shadows blew by in a torrent.

  My phone rang, startling me from watching the storm. I looked at the screen, surprised that a call could connect in the savagery outside. Elizabeth. I looked pointedly at the girls and answered.

  “Ring, I have a problem,” she began. The clarity of her voice was shocking. I heard the snap of her lighter and the clink of glass. She sounded like she was in the next room. It was disconcerting, but so was her tone. She spoke in a friendly, conversational way.

  “Inclement weather aside, this is the time to meet. I need to speak to you, and the only place that was open on a day like this hasn’t been open for thirty years, but it’s quiet and we can chat. This pursuit grows tiresome. You and your . . . friends . . . chased me like a fox these past few months and for what? Because you think my children have been misbehaving? I assure you, Ring, I have never given birth, but I expect you’ll wish to meet regardless. It’s getting dark now, nearly time for dinner. Dress appropriately. And do be a dear and bring wine. I’m afraid I’ve finished mine and we have a great deal to discuss. The eye of the storm will come ashore soon. Stop by then.”

  The connection cut and I said, “She’s at my uncle’s, in the center. Alone, I think. She asked me to bring wine, like a date. Let’s make it a foursome, shall we?” I asked, handing the package from Jim Broward to Wally. “We leave when the eye wall is here. That means time for sleep. And then, time for Elizabeth to sleep. Permanently.”

  61

  Florida: Ring

  In the Wagoneer, I turned the heavy envelope up. A musical clank came from within and I tore the top
away in one motion. Inside were two beautifully made British trench knives, fine examples a century old, built for close fighting in World War I. I handed one each to the girls, who slipped their hands around them at once. They fit perfectly, filling their hands with deadly metal. A long blade finished in a wicked point, designed to be thrust forward or down. There was no time to sharpen them, but they would wreak havoc with contact and aggression. We would supply both of those needs.

  “They’re inscribed,” Risa announced, after holding the blade up to the overhead light. “Trevor and William Bruton of Warwick, England. Brothers. These knives have seen a lot of fighting, I bet. Especially since they were British. They never played defense.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, and backed up into the hammerfall of rain. The noise was deafening, and the wind moved the heavy vehicle playfully as I edged down our street. I would have to go very slowly, picking my way through limbs and errant lawn furniture that dotted the road. Risa leaned forward to get closer. Wally turned halfway as the bullets of water drummed the metal roof and then in seconds, the rain began to slow. The clouds were parting, and quickly. It was unsettling after the howling of the past hours.

  “The British had a simple doctrine in war. At Gallipoli, they attacked. At the Somme. Ypres, twice. In Palestine. They always went on the offensive. It was simple but it took incredible discipline.” When Risa spoke of history, it was as if she lived it.

  Wally was testing the heft of her knife, listening and peering upward as the eye of the storm began to pass over, revealing an astounding column of clear, velvety night sky. She pointed to a single, bright star shining in defiance of the storm that curled around it, amazed. “So what does that mean to us when we meet Elizabeth?”

  Risa didn’t hesitate. “Simple. As soon as possible, we attack.”

  After a rocky ride over, my lights hit the Center and we parked close. I knew the storm would return soon and I respected the coming violence, both in and out of the building. Getting out, we were surrounded by unnatural calm. Where wind had been screaming minutes before, I could now hear the drip of water. It was unsettling. I pulled on the door without any attempt at stealth and the glass swung wide, groaning slightly from years of disuse.

  “She’s here.” My voice sounded thunderous in the uneasy quiet. The back of the shop was hidden by a shabby paneled wall. Behind was a long, open space with threadbare carpet and plain walls. I knew that only a card table and chairs lay beyond the flimsy barrier. A single fluorescent fixture popped and hummed, casting a flickering light from beyond the door. Both bulbs pulsed with shadows and glare in alternating moments. The rhythm was disquieting.

  “Come in, Ring.” Elizabeth’s voice floated through the sanctuary of the shop. “Tell the blonde to leave her crucifix on the counter. I can only tolerate so much heresy at once.” She laughed to herself, amused by our silent discomfort. It was palpable. We stood, dripping slightly. Waiting.

  “Before you come through that door, why are you here? I haven’t had the chance to ask you. Is it pride? Vengeance? I won’t patronize you with talk of peace. So please, come in. But done is done, and you cannot bring back the dead, no matter how intense your anger, and you will find me unwilling to go quietly to your particular kind of justice.” With that, she fell silent.

  We moved through the door, instantly fanning out. Wally was to my right, Risa on my left, slightly back, tense. We were all silent now, but the wind began to rise outside, wheezing and then slamming the outer door shut with a violence that shook the building.

  “The storm will return soon. So loud.” Elizabeth sounded wistful. “Could you see any stars? I’ve always found that to be unnerving, with such violence close at hand.” I wasn’t sure if she was speaking of the storm or us.

  Wally spoke, cautiously. “There was a bright one, by itself.”

  Elizabeth seemed pleased by that, for some arcane reason. “Well now you’ve seen two.” She curtsied, smirking. An unusual occurrence, given the situation at hand.

  With a moan and a bang, instantly, Jenny had returned.

  There is a moment of balance before a fight begins, where I stand on the edge of motion, my body screaming for purpose. Blood roars in my head and the delicious chill of anticipation runs the length of my spine, like an angry whisper. We were standing, knives out. There, framed in the weak light, sat Elizabeth, leaning carelessly in a creaking plastic chair. An empty wine bottle, her high heeled shoes, and a single cup crowned the tabletop. She wore a simple dress of navy silk, her hair unbound over her shoulders. She was erotic and frightening in the same glance. She had been smoking, and the plumes curled lazily in the harsh interior light.

  “A Jew and a Catholic who kneel together in church. And, in obedience to you, Ring, leaving you squarely in the fleshy, sinful middle”—Elizabeth laughed, richly—“just as you want, although your cowardice will hold you from admitting the truth. Risa’s hungry mouth. Wally, looking back in lust, urging you to ride harder. Such dutiful sinners, beholden to each other as much as your own pleasure. I’m glad you brought your whores. Admitting you want them with you is the first honest thing you’ve ever done in your worthless life.” She rolled her head on her shoulders slowly, like an athlete limbering for an event.

  “No wine? I had hoped that manners would win out, Ring, but you’ve regressed to a rather brutish state. Killing women. Chasing me about the coast. How distasteful.”

  And she was standing, cat quick, bottle in hand, broken on the exposed concrete wall behind in one seamless motion. She moved like angry water. I nodded imperceptibly to Risa. In moments, there would be no chance to talk, as the winds and rain began to rake the building again with mounting ferocity.

  “Wally. Risa. Stay in your lanes, and just like the British, right?” They both hissed in agreement.

  We attacked.

  I feinted low and straightened, blade whistling at Elizabeth, who turned to the right and pulled the table in front of her with a crash. Her heel leapt out and crunched into Wally’s midsection as the wine bottle caromed off her ear, slicing deeply behind her jawline. Risa stepped over the table and calmly lunged forward with her knife hand, only to have it turned by Elizabeth’s hand. There could be only one ending, and Wally tried to make it happen with one vicious, loping sweep of her weapon. Elizabeth dodged back, her shoulders thudding into the wall, and then flicked the bottle out to cut my lead arm.

  It was a wound I was willing to take to get closer. It burned, blood roping off into the air as I rolled my body sideways and closed the gap. The storm was in full fury now, adding to our curses and grunts as we closed on Elizabeth. Wally hesitated and was struck again, a long, shallow cut that glistened sickly down her side, her shirt parting to reveal her ribs. In a decisive flash, Elizabeth spun and pounded the bottle neck into Wally’s temple, who dropped instantly, groaning, as Risa rolled under me and came up swinging, naked rage on her face. Risa’s trench knife slammed forward but was brought up short as Elizabeth’s elbow rushed down like an anvil. With a muffled thump, the bone connected with Risa’s forehead, her skull cracking against the floor. Risa was dizzied by the blow, but still conscious. It was the opening I needed.

  I was in arm’s reach of Elizabeth, who began to wheel the bottle up in a slash that would have cut me from navel to neck, but I drifted right, and then spun under her angled attack to rise nearly chest to chest with her. I head butted her between the eyes and buried my knife in her ribs, the blade slipping between bone and sinew until it struck her shoulder blade and stopped. She bellowed, an unearthly, chorded shriek of tenor and bass voices all crying from the penetration of my blade.

  I held her, blood streaming from the lurid cut on her beautiful face, now frozen in a rictus of pain. She splashed wetly against me, her breath trickling out in a long, mournful whisper. Dropping her body to the floor with a thud, I turned to the girls. Risa waived me off as I kneeled before Wally, her hair a caked mass of blood. Her ear was nearly severed and her ribs showed through t
he longer wound. I found a pulse, weak but present. She would live.

  “I’ll get the car. We need help now. We can say she was hurt in the storm.” Tearing open the front door, I stepped into the frigid rain and howling winds to back the Wagoneer closer. My hands were shaking from the adrenaline and it took me three tries to get the damned key in the ignition. I needed the hospital and a dry bed, far from the killing ground. After laying Wally in the back seat, Risa held her head, talking quietly to her as the rain pounding the metal roof drowned her words into mere sounds of comfort. It was enough. One look into the rearview mirror revealed Risa’s face, blanched in fear and sudden recognition.

  “What? Is she okay?” I panicked, my hands fighting to hold the wheel steady. The wind pushed us like a toy from one lane to the other. We had six dangerous blocks to go.

  “Elizabeth. Her body. It was still there!” Risa looked sick, and not just from the fight. It was true. Her corpse had lain there, rent. Bloody. Broken.

  And very, very human.

  62

  Florida: Ring

  It took too many minutes to get to the ambulance entrance to Hollywood Memorial, and the staff rushed out even as I rolled to a stop. A whirlwind ensued as Risa and Wally were bustled in through the doors with hectic efficiency. Nurses and doctors fired questions at me and the girls as the triage progressed. No one assumed any dark cause for the wounds; the hurricane raging around us assured that line of questioning would be overlooked. In a matter of seconds, I became superfluous, to be left standing soaking wet, exhausted, and angry. The white floor was spattered with blood and rainwater, leaving the room in four lines where the gurneys rolled. I was alone in the waiting room. Three televisions overhead showed beautiful newscasters grimly urging residents to stay cowering inside, their practiced tones of concern repeating the same mantra, get down, get down, get down. A backdrop of weather radar outlined an enormous pinwheel of colorful violence spinning west over the city. It wobbled like a dizzy child and slowly surged to the edge of the screen.