“And what’s to keep me from just breaking your little circle and eating your soul right now?” Az asked.
“This,” I said. I opened my shirt and showed him the medallion hanging around my neck. He saw it, and a flash of blue shot through the red smoke.
“Where the fuck did you get one of those?” the demon asked.
“Not on the list of shit I feel like sharing with you, Az. Now do we have a deal?”
“I will enter the house and kill Jacob Marlack. I will also kill anyone still inside the house after I enter.”
“Then?” I prodded.
“Then I will return to Hell.” He would be pulled back to Hell at sunrise anyway, because the transition between day and night broke all summonings, but I wanted to make sure he didn’t linger a second longer than it took him to finish his mayhem inside the house.
“And you will harm no one that is not within the walls of the main house.”
“And I will harm no one not inside the main house.”
“Then you are free to hunt, demon.” I reached out with a toe and scrubbed a break in the circle, setting the Prince of Hell loose on the earth. Asmodeus took on what I’ve always thought of as his fighting form when he stepped out of the circle. He had long legs that ended in hooves, red skin, arms that hung almost to his knees and ended in wicked claws, and a narrow mouth full of long pointed teeth. He turned his black, pupilless eyes on me and smiled.
“One day we’re going to dance like this and I’m going to decide that it will be worth the punishment of Lucifer to break our covenant, Harker. That will be the day I wear your intestines for a necklace as I face my judgment.”
“That will be the day I give you an enema with holy water and fuck you in the ass with a dildo made from the true cross, you nasty bastard. Now go kill that motherfucker.”
Asmodeus gave me a grin that made my blood freeze and said, “We’ll see, Harker. One day we’ll see.” Then he turned and strode into the house, kicking the double doors in with one huge hoof.
As soon as he was out of sight, I slumped against the car and reached in my pocket for a bottle of Wild Turkey from one of my other stops. I knocked off about a third of it in one slug, then held it out to Smith, who took a long pull and passed it over to Flynn. She shook her head and handed it back to me. I screwed the cap back on and put it away, still leaning against the car.
“Was that a real demon?” Flynn asked. She was staring at me, but hadn’t come any closer.
“As real as your…” I let it go. I know I’m tired and terrified when I can’t even make a smartass remark about a cop’s boobs.
“Yeah, it was real,” I said.
“That’s fucked up,” she said, staring into the house. We kept hearing random crashing from the house, but I could tell that Az hadn’t found Marlack yet. Then the light show started, and I knew it was just a matter of time.
“Fucked up is my life, sweetheart.” I took another pull off my bottle and offered it to her again. This time she took a slash.
“Like I told him, I’m nobody’s goddamn sweetheart.” She held the bottle out to me, then the first scream rang out from inside the house. It was a high-pitched thing, like an animal being tortured, and it went on far too long. Flynn took another drink of whiskey and handed the bottle back to me. I finished it off, then tossed the empty into the bushes by the porch.
“Aren’t you worried about fingerprints?” Flynn asked.
“Mine aren’t on record anywhere,” I said.
“Bullshit. As many times as I’ve booked you, your prints are—”
“Mysteriously missing from your system, Detective,” Smith said.
“I think I hate you both,” Flynn replied.
“That’s the safer sentiment,” I said. Smith nodded. The screams from inside the house stopped, and a couple of minutes later Asmodeus walked out, picking his teeth with a claw.
“My work here is done, Harker. Are you sure you don’t have anyone else you want me to kill?” the demon asked.
“That’s a long list, Az. And I don’t think all the Unholy Host could get to my whole list by sunrise. Good night, and good luck with Gressil.”
“That fuckwit needs the luck. He’s going to be spinning coals in the lowest level of the pit for the next five thousand years.” Az stepped into the circle, shifted back to smoke, then billowed out of existence. I blew out the candle and scuffed another few bits of the circle out of existence, just for good measure.
“You got this?” I asked Smith. “I’m fucking beat.”
“What, you’re just going to leave? I thought you wanted justice for that little girl,” Flynn asked.
“I got it. Marlack’s dead. And just like I expected, it didn’t bring Kayleigh back. At best it erased a little of the dark from my soul, but I probably put as much black on it by consorting with Asmodeus as I took off by bringing that cocksucker to justice.”
“And what about his kid? I thought that was important to you?” Flynn kept poking.
“Tomorrow morning your cyber division is going to get an anonymous link in their email pointing them to a backdoor onto the Omega Sig server. That server will have video files on it of several high-ranking fraternity members, including young Master Marlack, forcing themselves on young women. Some will be students at the university, some will still be in high school. That should take care of his ass.”
“When did you set that up?” Flynn asked.
“When I talked to Renny on the phone tonight.”
“Your uncle’s butler is a hacker?” Smith asked. It had taken me all night, but I’d finally managed to surprise the fed.
“A Renfield is a lot more than a butler. He’s my uncle’s daytime eyes and ears and business partner. And yeah, this one’s a CIA-level hacker. Now can I do like the book says and go the fuck to sleep?”
“Get in, I’ll drive you home,” Smith said.
I was snoring in the back seat before we pulled out of the driveway, dreams of little girls walking through the gates of Heaven dancing in my head.
THE END
For information on appearances, signings, autographed copies, etc. please visit
http://www.johnhartness.com
@johnhartness on Twitter
Copyright 2014 by John G. Hartness
Raising Hell by John G. Hartness is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
About the Author
John G. Hartness is a recovering theatre geek who likes loud music, fried pickles and cold beer. John is an award-winning poet, lighting designer and theatre producer, whose work has been translated into over 25 languages and read worldwide. He's been published in several online literary journals including The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, cc&d, Deuce Coupe and Truckin'. His poem "Dancing with Fireflies" was nominated for a 2010 Pushcart Prize.
His first novel, The Chosen, is an urban fantasy about saving the world, snotty archangels, gambling, tattooed street preachers, immortals with family issues, bar brawls and the consequences of our decisions.
He followed up The Chosen with Hard Day's Knight, a new twist on the vampire detective novel and the first book in the highly successful series The Black Knight Chronicles. The Black Knight Chronicles currently consists of four books and is available from Bell Bridge Books wherever print and electronic works of fancy are sold.
An avid reader, drinker and talker, John is the host of the podcast Literate Liquors, where he reviews fantasy novels and tells you what you should be drinking while you read them. He’s kind of like a sommelier for books and hard liquor.
John has been called "the Kevin Smith of Charlotte," and fans of Joss Whedon and Jim Butcher should enjoy his snarky slant on the fantasy genre. He can be found online at www.johnhartness.com and spends too much time on Twitter, especially after a few drinks.
For more information about appearances, signings, and other silliness, feel free to follow John on Twitter (@johnhartness), or on his websit
e www.johnhartness.com.
Also by John G. Hartness
Bubba the Monster Hunter Short Stories
Voodoo Children
Ballet of Blood
Ho-Ho-Homicide
Tassels of Terror
Monsters Beware - Bubba the Monster Hunter Vol. 1
Cat Scratch Fever
Love Stinks
Hall & Goats
Footloose
Monsters Mashed - Bubba the Monster Hunter Vol. 2
Sixteen Tons
Family Tradition - A Bubba the Monster Hunter Prequel
Final Countdown
Monsters Everywhere - Bubba the Monster Hunter Vol. 3
Scattered, Smothered and Chunked - The Complete Bubba the Monster Hunter Season 1
UnHoly Night - A Skeeter the Monster Hunter Short Story
Love Hurts
Dead Man’s Hand
She’s Got Legs
Dead Man’s Party - Bubba the Monster Hunter Vol. 4
Fire on the Mountain - A Beauregard the Monster Hunter Story
Howl
Double Trouble
The Black Knight Chronicles
Volume 1 - Hard Day’s Knight
Volume 2 - Back in Black
Volume 3 - Knight Moves
The Black Knight Chronicles Omnibus Edition
Volume 4 - Paint it Black
Movie Knight - A Black Knight Short Story
Black Magic Woman - A Black Knight Short Story
Gone Daddy Gone - A Black Knight Short Story
Knight UnLife - Collected Black Knight Shorts
Co-Edited with Emily Lavin Leverett
The Big Bad: An Anthology of Evil
Other Work
Headshot
Balance - Tales of Alternate Reality
Genesis - Return to Eden Book 1
The Chosen
Returning the Favor and other slices of life
Red Dirt Boy
The Christmas Lights
DAUGHTERS OF SHADOW AND BLOOD – BOOK I: YASAMIN
BY J. MATTHEW SAUNDERS
ONE
Berlin, Germany
12 August 1999
THERE WAS NO ticking clock, no traffic din, no wind in the trees, not even the sound of his own breathing. Nothing broke the silence that followed until her lips parted, and she asked a single, simple question.
“Why are you here?”
Drawn like an adder ready to strike, the woman sat across the room on a divan. He stood near the door by one of the room’s tall, narrow windows, a shaft of sunlight cutting across his face. Though the shadows obscured her features, he could feel her dark eyes studying him. He knew the question was coming. He just didn’t want to answer it.
Not yet.
“So it’s true?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I didn’t say that.”
He let the beads of the rosary in his pocket slide one by one through his fingers and allowed himself a cautious smile. “Are you familiar with a man named Mihai Iliescu?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“It’s remarkable how many have.”
“It’s not so remarkable if you have an appreciation for antiques.” She glanced around the room. He followed her eyes.
Indeed, the room spoke to her appreciation. It boasted several fine examples of Rococo Chinoiserie, including the divan on which she sat. The value of the two Empire-style tables on either side would have allowed him to retire in luxury then and there. A portrait set in a gilt frame hung on the wall to his right, notable both for its subject and its creator—Rembrandt van Rijn.
The most extraordinary object in the room, however, hung on the wall behind her. Unmistakably Turkish, the giant tapestry could not be any less than three hundred years old. Filaments of dark crimson, blue, cream, and black flowed through the green fabric, invoking lush hills and pomegranate trees heavy with blossoms. In the center the thread formed a tiny mosque with a splendid domed roof and four gleaming minarets. The tapestry’s graceful arcs and arabesques danced around the woman’s poised figure, the green color in the fabric setting off her olive skin.
“No, perhaps not so remarkable,” he said, “but I’m sure it came as a shock to many that a quiet mid-level Romanian bureaucrat had such a passion. He managed to amass quite the collection before he died—furniture, books, artwork, jewelry … relics.”
He drew out the last word so that it lingered, haunting the space between them for a moment before fading away.
If she reacted, he couldn’t tell. “Remind me again, Mr. Mire. What do you do?”
“It’s Dr. Mire, actually. I teach history at a university back in the States. I’ve also written a few books about medieval and Renaissance Eastern Europe.”
“And what interest does an American university professor have in the antique collection of a Romanian civil servant?”
He held his hand out to the sunlight beaming in through the open window. Adam Mire had learned to appreciate simple things like the warm late summer sun on his skin and the light playing on the leaves of the linden trees outside the woman’s townhouse. A part of him felt sorry for her, and he more than understood her reticence to answer what most would see as outlandish accusations.
He returned his attention to the woman still sitting across from him, her face still hidden in the shadows. “I’m not interested in the collection per se—but then neither are you. You’ve been making inquiries into the whereabouts of a certain item rumored to be part of the Iliescu estate.”
“And what is this item?”
“A medallion in the likeness of a dragon, formed into a circle with its tail wrapped around its neck. On the dragon’s back is a cross, and around the outside an inscription, ‘O Quam Misericors est Deus, Pius et Justus.’”
“‘O How Merciful is God,’” she spat, “‘Faithful and Just.’”
A cloud passed in front of the sun. The room grew darker and colder and. if possible, even stiller. Shadows reached across the floor toward him like grasping hands threatening to ensnare his feet. Instinctively, he backed away until the sun reemerged. The shadows retreated, though not exactly to where they had been. Around the woman they remained darker.
“And if I did seek such an item, what about this medallion leads you to make the allegations you do, Dr. Mire?”
He swallowed, struggling to suppress the sense of unease that had appeared unbidden in the pit of his stomach, and tried to keep his voice steady. “This medallion is not the type of thing an antique collector would bother with generally, and its value as a museum piece is only marginal. But its worth can’t be counted in currency, or what a museum curator might be able to see under a microscope. The stories and legends surrounding it and its owner go back centuries. Some are written. Some are not. Some have even inspired poets and novelists. But what most people don’t realize is that there is a tiny scrap of truth in each of these stories. I want to know the entire truth.”
“Stories and legends of some ancient, legendary artifact. You have nothing more?”
Adam took a deep breath. “Only that according to his doctors, Mr. Iliescu died of an ‘unidentified blood disorder,’ just as your husband did.”
Her eyes flashed with an emotion hard for him to classify. Pain? Anger? Loss? “You know nothing about my husband or how he died.”
The outburst surprised him. He noticed that even though more than a year had passed since her husband’s death, the woman still wore her wedding ring on her right hand. He found it curious she would do something so sentimental. “My apologies,” he said. “You’re right. I don’t know. In fact, I don’t have proof of anything I’ve claimed today.”
She raised an eyebrow. “But you make claims nonetheless.”
“There’s no need to worry, Mrs. Ashrafi. I’m not interested in telling anyone anything I know.”
Her expression changed again, this time to one he could read a little easier. He had seen it before in others—something feral, something predatory. “The
re is only one way to ensure you will not tell anyone.”
He clutched the rosary still concealed in his pocket. “With all due respect, Mrs. Ashrafi, whom would I tell? My professional reputation demands I verify every claim I make. I could never produce enough evidence to make anyone believe those such as you exist. My career would be over in an instant.”
“Then I’ll ask you again, Dr. Mire. Why are you here? What is it you want?”
“I want to know why you’re seeking this medallion.” Adam took a breath. “The very thing that gave Dracula his name.”
The minutes passed, measured only by the beating of his heart. Her dark eyes bore into him. Adam wondered if he had miscalculated, if he would be able to reach the door before she pulled him screaming into the shadows. She glanced at the photograph in her hand. He had used it as a calling card of sorts, to gain an invitation inside her home. The woman in the photograph bore an uncanny resemblance to her, though the picture would have been taken long before she was ever born—if the age she was in fact matched the age she appeared.
“You intrigue me, Dr. Mire,” she said, brushing her fingers across the picture. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, on the condition that you tell me how you found me.”
Adam slowly let out the breath he had been holding. “That’s a long story, I’m afraid.”
The corners of her mouth turned up in a twisted smile. “I don’t mind, Dr. Mire. Unlike you, I have all the time in the world.”
Raising Hell - a Quincy Harker, Demon Hunter Novella Page 9