The Haunting Lessons: 1, 2, 3, 4, I Declare a Demon War (The Ghosts & Demons Series)

by Robert Chazz Chute

  “A few minutes more,” Vlad said, “depending on traffic and depending where Miss Tamara would like us to drop her off. Statistically, this is not a good neighborhood in the pre-dawn hours.”

  Victor turned in his seat to face me. His tone was desperate. “George Sand said, ‘the artist’s vocation is to send light into the human heart.’ The Choir Invisible protects that light.”

  “George who?”

  “She was a French novelist,” Victor said.

  “What is it with you and women named George?”

  “My point is, if we do our duty and stay true to the warrior’s vocation, that light will remain unsullied.”

  I gave him a blank stare. I was already part of a conspiracy to murder. It was worse every minute I stayed on the bus. “Please, just call the police. Let them handle Carl Brooks. I believe in killing in self-defense. Believe me, I do! But going to his house where the bodies are buried…that’s different.”

  Victor took my hand. “Tamara. A while ago I heard an old man, a veteran of World War II, talking about how young people today don’t know what he went through. ‘They don’t know and they don’t care.’ The old fellow was pretty worked up about it. I told him that the innocence of children, ignorant of war, is what he fought for. We do our work in secret so that, when it’s all over, we will still recognize the Earth we fought for. The human race’s innocence must be preserved. If we involve the police, our little house of cards will fall.”

  I didn’t know what to say. But I didn’t insist Vlad pull over and let me out, either.

  Lesson 53: Refusing to make a choice is still making a choice.

  I felt a cool hand on my shoulder. It was the sexy librarian. “You say you believe in killing in self-defense.”

  “Yes. When necessary — ”

  “This is necessary. It’s not just you that you are defending. You’re defending everyone, everywhere.”

  I gave the slightest nod of assent, but it was enough to commit and convict me.

  Lesson 54: With a lot of choices, once you make them, there’s no way back.

  Lesson 55: If you’re a girl, don’t call yourself George and don’t name your daughter George. That’s just mean.

  27

  The house in Queens was not what I expected. I expected the serial killer cliche: a small, shabby ruin. Instead, it was a large house set back from the road. The lawn was freshly trimmed and a colorful flower box hung beneath each window. I guess that’s how bad guys blend in.

  Lesson 56: If that makes you a little paranoid about your neighbors (who all seem to lead such quiet and nice lives), you’re on the right track.

  Vlad parked the minibus across the street and a few doors down. We watched the house for movement. The garage door was closed and the lights were out. It looked like no one was home.

  Victor called St. Charles on his cell. “Is he still in the house?”

  St. Charles’s voice came through the speaker. “Rory says he’s in the basement. He’s not alone, but Rory can’t say who’s with him.”

  The others glanced at each other and the tension in their jaws ratcheted up. They were not pleased that Brooks was with someone Rory couldn’t identify.

  “Closest PTB?” Victor asked.

  We heard Charles tap on his keyboard. “Closest duty cops are seven away. Huge build up of police activity far from you. Some crazy idiot Swatted somebody.”

  “Good job, St. Charles.” Victor hung up.

  “What’s ‘Swatted’ mean?” I asked.

  The beautiful girl with perfect skin answered. “We got the idea from hoax calls on celebrity homes. Somebody called police to say there was a man with a gun firing shots in Clint Eastwood’s mansion. Something like that. Anyways, naturally, the police sent SWAT and everybody else on duty wanted in on that action, too. They all wanted to claim to save Dirty Harry’s life, maybe get a picture with Clint himself.”

  “It’s effective in drawing away the PTB,” Victor said.

  “Sounds dangerous,” I said.

  “It is,” the girl agreed. “It’s an incredibly dumb thing to do that can get people killed, unless you’re us. We use Rory to zero in on known felons and their evil emanations. St. Charles supplies the mugshots so Rory can find them more easily. The cops have already taken down three guys of the FBI’s top ten list of fugitives thanks to us. But does the FBI send flowers? No.”

  I laughed. “Cool.”

  “I’m Manhattan,” the sexy librarian said. “The guy with the stick is Bronx, not Gandalf. We heard you talking about us.”

  My cheeks got hot, but I was too curious not to ask about their names.

  “The name I was born with was Poala,” she said, “but when you join the Choir, the tradition is that you take the name of the home you fight for.”

  “What if two of you are from one place?”

  She shrugged. “We can work it out peacefully or you can fight for your name. Some people just get more specific. We’ve got a Jackson from Jackson Heights, a Gramercy, a Greenwich and the girl named Chelsea is actually from Chelsea.”

  “Good news. Chelsea sure lucked out, huh?” I said.

  Her eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. “We’re proud to serve and we’ve seen things you can only imagine. Where you from, White Bread?”

  “Iowa.”

  “Good news,” she said. “If you join up, you won’t have to fight for that name.”

  “Well, you know, Manhattan,” I began, “the thing about Iowa is — ”

  “No one cares!”

  “That’s what I was going to say,” I deadpanned.

  Vlad turned in his seat and was about to call me on my lie, I’m sure. I put up a palm like a stop sign. “Don’t even!”

  Bronx came forward and I thought he was about to shake my hand. Instead, he asked gruffly, “You’re not a soprano yet, but we can’t let you go in without something. Umbrella or cane?”

  “What?”

  “Umbrella, it is.” He shoved a dainty little parasol into my hands. “For your protection, White Bread.”

  I looked down at the parasol. It looked like a child’s umbrella from another century (one of the way back ones.)

  Vlad reached from the driver’s seat and twisted the parasol’s handle counterclockwise. A shiny blade popped into view. I drew it out and looked at the blade. It was a long triangular knife and surprisingly heavy. Each edge was sharp and, close to the hilt where the blade was thickest, it became a cruel saw with steel teeth.

  “I’ve never seen a knife like this at Walmart.”

  “It’s not just a knife,” Manhattan said. “It’s a dirk. The edges can cut viciously. The triangular blade opens a wound that does not close to hasten bleeding. You can cut and slice with it or thrust, too, for maximum damage. Serrated is good.”

  I stared at her a moment. I felt like a poster of a bloodthirsty eyeglasses model had come to life to lecture me on knife technology. “Thanks?” I said.

  “Don’t worry,” Vlad added. “I blessed the blade myself during its making. It’s best that way.”

  “You blessed it?”

  He shrugged. “I am a priest.”

  “Oh.” I wondered what order of priests also trained in MMA and lifted weights all day. Stuffed tightly into his suit, Vlad looked like he was ordained in the Holy Order of Kick Ass.

  Manhattan put her hand on the side door. “You ready to rock, farm girl? Stay behind us. You’re here as an observer. If you see Brooks, be sure to let us know. We’ll handle it and you won’t have to get your hands dirty.”

  “Yeah,” Bronx added. “Eyes open, mouth shut.”

  “Manhattan. Bronx,” Victor said, “play nice. She’s a legacy candidate.”

  “I am?”

  Vlad looked to Victor. “Boss? You should drive the getaway bus. I’ll guard the girl this time.”

  Victor nodded and slid into the driver’s seat as Vlad got out. The big Russian took his umbrella with him, winked at me and looked up at the sky. He held
his palm up as if feeling for raindrops. “Just in case, Miss Tamara.”

  “I tink you are a leetle funny,” I said. I noticed his umbrella was much bigger than mine and I wondered what the hidden blade looked like. “I guess that’s a better solution than running around New York City with a long sword crammed under your armpit and trying to hide it with a trench coat all the time.”

  “Let’s go!” Manhattan said.

  I was about to ask what the plan was, but she and Bronx were already making their way across the street. They headed straight for the house of the man who had threatened to decapitate me. (I had mixed feelings about it, but mostly, I felt terror.)

  Once the singers were close to the house, they both broke into a run. Bronx went around to the back while Manhattan peered in the windows. I followed Vlad. Given the width of his shoulders, from behind, Vlad looked like a triangle. I made a mental note to tell him to work on his calves more. Still, it felt like I was walking behind a shield of meat and muscle.

  That wouldn’t help much if Brooks had a gun and started shooting. I was about to point that out when Vlad pulled a pistol from a shoulder holster. Then I noticed Manhattan had a small silver automatic. I was relieved the entire strategy for their raid wasn’t based on medieval weapon technology.

  Bronx must have found a way in through the back because he quietly opened the front door for us. He put a finger to his lips and pointed down. Bronx was not wearing his boots. His socks had holes in them.

  I was about to step inside when Vlad stopped me and pointed to my shoes. Vlad slipped off his dress shoes. Manhattan put a hand on my shoulder for balance as she removed her boots.

  When I looked up from slipping off my shoes, Vlad’s umbrella had transformed into a sword. At first, I thought that was some kind of magic, like a magician’s wand that turned into a bouquet of flowers. The truth was boring. The umbrella sheath to his sword lay in the grass by the step.

  Vlad’s blade caught the light and its edge glowed with a blue sheen. The steel by the hilt was etched with black butterflies spiraling up the blade. Along the last third of its length was a red dragon spouting fire. As soon as I saw it, I wanted one. No, I coveted Vlad’s sword. I didn’t know why, though his weapon would be a big improvement on the dinky blade they’d given me.

  Once we all had our footwear off, Bronx pointed down again. Apparently, Brooks was still in the basement. As we entered the foyer, we stopped to listen. Staccato curses rose up through the floorboards.

  Bronx beckoned us to follow him and we did. I brought up the rear, holding the blade with the sharp end pointed at the floor because Mama taught me not to run with scissors.

  The entrance to the basement was in the kitchen. As soon as I got to the head of the stairs I began to sweat and my breathing became shallow. I forced myself to breathe into my belly to slow my hammering heart.

  Rory waited for us on the landing. He looked less misty and more substantial than he had in the library. His eyes were open here. When the dead man looked at me, his eyes burned with bright orange flames. He pointed down the stairs in the direction of the constant flow of ragged curses.

  My heart beat faster again and I really wanted to pee. Worse, my palms were sweaty and my short sword hilt was slippery in my fist. If not for the little gold pommel, I might have dropped my weapon.

  Lesson 57: Dying makes you drop things. Get yourself a sword with rubber or rope grips so you won’t drop it. Rubber grips on pistols make sense, too. You’ll want to think you’re so brave in the face of death that your palms won’t sweat. But it’s not death that will scare you in the end.

  When the battle is lost, you’ll embrace death and be grateful. It’s all the stuff that happens just before death rescues you — the exquisite pain of shattered bones and torn muscles and nerves — that will make your palms sweaty.

  28

  When I passed Rory, my sweat froze on my face and I twitched as a shiver went up my spine. The dead man smiled at me and, for a moment, I was lost in his blazing eyes. I was careful not to touch the ghost, but in the small turn of the landing, I was close enough to feel his power.

  Rory was unlike other ghosts I’d seen. A certainty came to me that I could not explain. Rory wanted to be here. The other souls caught between this world and the next were sad ghosts who were trapped by circumstances they did not understand. Rory had a sense of purpose working with the Choir Invisible.

  On impulse, I waved my hand through the fog that was his right wrist. Dozens of images hit me in a flash: a stone hut with a thatch roof, a herd of sheep, a tall ship with three masts. The sun slowly sank into the ocean as I watched from atop the highest mast as the ship rolled and lunged beneath me in a high wind. I heard women and children laughing. That was the good part.

  Then I looked up into Rory’s blazing eyes and, through the fire, I sensed the evil in the world. I could feel the evil emanation of Brooks in the next room. I felt the presence of dozens of others nearby, too. They were all dangerous and I felt a new urge I had not felt since Shibboleth Mental Hospital. I wanted to stop them and the only way to do that was to kill them.

  Lesson 58: Evil is a bleak, black thing you sense more than see. When you encounter the real thing, it feels like a knife at your throat. It smells of olives and feels like old oily rags sliding over your skin. It makes your skin hot and every hair on your body stands up, tingling and burning at the same time. Evil feels like it might spread easily, like a terrifying infection.

  What I sensed through Rory ignited a rage I didn’t know I was capable of. Evil invited me to become evil, to be just as savage in the cause of eliminating evil. I didn’t know if I’d end up adding to the bad in the world or eradicating it. Yes, it was all very Luke Skywalker versus Darth Vader.

  What alarmed me most was how much evil there was. I felt like I was nothing more than weak starlight trying to reach into the dark void between the stars. The hopelessness was overwhelming.

  Then Rory spoke to me, though I was sure no one else could hear him. “Hopelessness and evil are wound tight together and make a lethal force that cares nothing for anyone. Don’t give in to hopelessness, lass.”

  I squeezed my eyes tight and pulled away and I began to fall. Vlad caught me before I hit the floor.

  I heard Rory whisper, “Not pretty is it? The battle must be joined. But now’s not the time to get philosophical, love. For all the good talking does, it’s hardly ever time to talk philosophy.”

  The dead man said something that sounded like Mr. Chang, “No matter what, put up a good fight. The enemy may win, but leave them bloody so they know they were in a fracas.”

  The visions slipped away, the dizziness passed and I got my feet under me. When I looked up, I realized Manhattan was staring at me. She held Bronx back from advancing deeper into the basement. Embarrassment made my cheeks and scalp hot and I gave her a nod to let her know we should continue.

  Manhattan rolled her eyes. If we weren’t trying to sneak up on Brooks, I would have taken the time to call her a bitch. She wasn’t wrong, though, and Rory was right. Now was not the time for visions and debates. I’d committed to action once I crossed the threshold to this death house.

  The first basement room was a small rec room with a couch pointed at an old television. The carpet was a dirty, dull orange, but it still had enough padding left to cover the sound of our approach.

  I heard the sound of a shovel chunking into packed dirt. Bronx pressed a button in his staff. A spearhead emerged from each end of the weapon.

  Bronx used his spear to carefully pull back the edge of a heavy brown curtain. At first, he only pulled it back an inch to peer into the gloom beyond the door frame. Satisfied it was safe, Bronx pulled the curtain back another inch…then another and another.

  When I craned my neck, I could glimpse Brooks. I was relieved to see his back was to us as he went about his grim task, digging deeper under the dirt floor.

  A large bag lay on the floor behind him. At first, I didn’t know wha
t I was looking at. Looking closer, I realized it was a thin, twisted hand covered in filth. No. Some of the bones of the hand were bare. Flesh doesn’t last. Hair does. I saw a fall of long, matted hair at the edge of the bag.

  Bronx held up three fingers. Then two. Then he rushed into the room where Brooks dug. He ran into the blade of a battle ax swung by a demon.

  I only got a glimpse of the thing behind the curtain before it rushed at us. It was tall and it stood on two legs. There, the similarities between humans and demons pretty much ended. I couldn’t tell if the black thing that had struck from the dark was covered in scales or if that was armor.

  One moment, Bronx could have been an underwear model starring in a movie. The next, he was dead. His head rolled to my feet. His eyes stared up at me.

  Manhattan, screaming in grief and fury, attacked. She raised her gun and shot through the curtain first, emptying her weapon quickly.

  We heard a scream and, just as Manhattan came to the curtain, Brooks barreled out, knocking the girl to one side. The doctor’s white shirt blossomed with two red wounds at his belly but he held his throat with both hands. One of Manhattan’s wild shots had caught his neck. His tongue stuck out to one side. His eyes were wild. Brooks looked like he was trying to strangle himself as he attempted to stanch the rush of pumping blood.

  I heard the sweep of Vlad’s blade cut the air. The steel decorated with butterflies and dragons sliced through the top of Carl Brooks’s head just above the eyes. He fell at my feet next to the spot where Bronx’s head had rolled to a rest.

  The demon came next. Manhattan must have slowed him with her pistol, but he came roaring through the door now with speed I wouldn’t have expected from such a large creature. All it wore was a loin cloth, but its features were so alien, I didn’t assume it was male.

  I also didn’t expect the horns. There were two, both on one side of the thing’s head. They grew out raggedly at right angles.

  I heard Rory scream, “Run, child!” At that moment, my knees were shaking under me. I doubt I could have run in that moment.