Roaring Blood (Demon-Hearted Book 2)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  So, why was I losing my shit over this guy's scythe?

  The man's gaze narrowed. In the moonlight his eyes looked almost yellow. Holding out the scythe with two hands, he cocked his head to the side, like he was judging the best angle from which to cut me down. “I see,” he said in a voice that was nothing but calm, insidious bass. “They've sent a demon.” He chuckled to himself, his stance temporarily relaxing. “It's far too late. The Veiled Order can't stop what I've set in motion. Tell your masters they're too late, demon. Let them know that this world has a new master. Death will reign.”

  Joe was stumbling around behind me, crisping up the last of the zombies. He caught a glimpse of the man with the scythe and blanched. “S-should I bake him, too?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. This guy was mine. The zombies were tricky in large numbers but hadn't provided a substantial challenge. This guy, however, had danger written all over him, and if there's anything in this world I can't resist it's getting in over my head.

  “You the one digging up these bodies and raising the dead?” I asked. “Looks to me like that didn't work out so well. Have a look around,” I continued, motioning to the masses of charred, twitching corpses on the ground. “The Veiled Order isn't scared of you. Your little army here can't stand against us. You think too highly of yourself, bud.”

  The man nodded, the smirk he wore transformed into something more savage. Squatting down, he jumped into the air, landing neatly on the roof of the mausoleum. His voice reached my ears from above, through all of the chaos. “This is but a minor setback.”

  “Where do you think you're going?” I took a running jump and scaled the side of the monument, grabbing onto a gutter and swinging onto the roof. “I don't remember giving you permission to leave.”

  “Well, then, I suppose you should stop me. I'd hate for a dog like you to return empty-handed to his masters.” The necromancer pointed the end of the scythe at me as though I were a billiard ball destined for the corner pocket.

  All systems were go. Gadreel gave me the green light; we both agreed that shutting this guy up was a necessity. I lunged towards him, fists balled, and delivered a demon-sized sucker punch.

  Which he blocked.

  The handle of the scythe, which must've been made of granite, was what met my fist. The movement on the necromancer's part had been so swift, so fluid, that I hadn't realized he was mounting a defense till my blow was fully struck. My knuckles met the scythe handle, and from the moment I touched the thing I felt a sudden weakness stealing over me. The momentum I'd built up was sapped away, and my fist softened. For a second there I could hardly squeeze the muscles of my hand. My eyes stung with fatigue and my senses were dulled.

  This guy was good, whoever he was, and didn't waste a beat. Shoving me aside with the butt of his weapon, he reared back and delivered a lightning-fast slash. The blade of the scythe ripped through my side, just under my ribs, and the shingles were dressed in my gore. He wasn't done, however. Spinning the massive weapon in his hands, he did a half-turn and struck me in the temple with the blunt side, sending me into the air.

  The blows had been so clean, so effortless, that I was hopeless to stop them. I imagine this is what it's like for a bare-knuckle boxer to meet the world heavyweight champ in the ring. Though he stood a good head or two taller than I, his size didn't slow him down. Every movement was rapid, choreographed, and beyond all of that, delicate. Killing was a hobby of his, one he evidently took great pride in, and he seemed all about making it as artful as possible. To steal a famous line, he'd really internalized the “float like a butterfly” thing.

  And the stinger was a real bitch.

  I was falling, and the next thing I knew I'd landed on a tombstone. The thing cracked under my weight, spiderwebbing like a pane of glass. The impact knocked the wind out of me; had I been a mere human I'd have spent the rest of my life in a wheelchair for that landing.

  The landing, though, was the least of my worries. The wound on my side was gaping. Casting a groggy gaze to my belly, I saw my liver playing peek-a-boo with every labored breath I drew. The wound began to close, but it stung something fierce. I clutched the gash and rolled off of the tombstone, meeting the ground face-first. Joe rushed over to me and tried to help me to my feet, but my legs didn't have the strength. I laid there in the soil for a while, my sweaty face gathering up dirt and grime.

  You need to get up, I thought. I begged the demon inside of me for more strength. Gadreel, though, didn't reply. All of his energies were focused on sealing up the grievous wound on my side. Get up, damn you! He's going to come down here and take out everyone else! You need to stand up and get ready to fight!

  When I finally managed to roll over, I looked up into the moonlit sky and found the mausoleum. The figure on its roof had long disappeared and a nervous scan of my surroundings yielded nothing but a bunch of panting, panicked commandos. Joe was still at my side, trying to help me up.

  The bastard was gone.

  Grasping the severed flesh, I found my wound hadn't fully closed yet. That was weird; I was ordinarily a lightning-fast healer. The edges of the gash were black, oozing with more than just blood.

  “Did we get all of the zombies?” I asked through clenched teeth, struggling to sit up.

  Joe nodded. “Yeah, looks like it.”

  “Good.” Slowly, I dug my heels into the ground and pushed my body into a standing position. “We need to get back to HQ.” I turned to one of the spooked grunts. “Let's get the fuck out of here. Fire up our ride.”

  EIGHT

  We were flying down the road on the way to HQ. We barely missed the fleet of cop cars that descended upon the graveyard after our little tussle with the zombies. Turns out that continuous gunfire and burning human bodies attract a lot of attention at night. I couldn't even imagine what the boys in blue would make of the mess we left behind.

  I had more important things to think about.

  Sitting next to Joe, my palm pressed to my side, I marveled over the wound I'd been dealt. The damn thing refused to seal completely, even now. Every time it looked on the verge of closing, it would slowly begin to re-open. Something was struggling against my body's natural talent for healing, and if I had to place a bet I'd say that the necromancer's scythe had something to do with it.

  The necromancer. He was tough, incredibly tough. Where had he picked up that weapon and what was he all about? He'd had great moves and hadn't been scared of me in the least. That, more than his prowess on the battlefield, had unsettled me. So far, I hadn't met a supernatural threat that wasn't at least a little nervous to come up against a demon. This guy, though, had invited the challenge.

  To top it all off, he'd whooped my ass nice and proper.

  I felt pretty embarrassed about it. No one in the SUV was talking, all of the surviving commandos shellshocked into silence. It was just as well. I was in no talking mood. I felt ashamed of myself for being so badly beaten, for not killing the necromancer and closing this case immediately. Hell, I hadn't even stayed in the ring with him for a full round. The Veiled Order had hyped me up as some sort of super-weapon, but if the necromancer could knock my ass out of the game without breaking a sweat, then what did that mean?

  It was too early to say, but it didn't bode well. I could already picture the grimace on Kubo's face upon hearing my report.

  Joe eyed the cut on my side, which still oozed now and then with a fresh stream of blood. “Hell of a cut, Lucy. What kind of heat was that guy packing? Must've been a damned good weapon if it did that to you.” Joe didn't look so good himself. His ordinarily sculpted hair had been reduced to a mop of chaotic dark brown, matted with pomade and fresh dirt. He had a few bumps and scrapes of his own, but had been spared the worst of it. He toyed with his Zippo while he sat there, his thumb fidgeting against the striker.

  “Hard to say,” I replied after a time. A fresh wave of pain coursed through me, momentarily taking my breath away. This cut ached
like a motherfucker. “When I touched the thing it made me feel weak. Gadreel couldn't pump me up; it was like I was just a human again. No, worse than that. I felt tired, sleepy. Couldn't hardly keep my arms up.” That the scythe was a magical weapon was not in doubt, but what were its properties? Except for the gash in my abdomen I felt all right. I had my strength back but could still feel a lingering fatigue from my brush with the scythe.

  The SUV narrowly missed the edges of the front gate as the driver sped into HQ. We'd radioed ahead to let them know we were coming, and I was surprised to find both Kubo and Amundsen waiting for us in the parking lot. The vehicle screeched to a halt and we staggered out, looking like death warmed over.

  Kubo watched me shuffle out of the SUV, a hand on my side and a trail of gore dripping in my wake. “What the hell happened, Lucy?” he asked, pulling my hand away and getting a proper look at the wound.

  “I met the necromancer,” I said through a wince. “Real nice guy.”

  “Let's walk,” offered Amundsen. They led us into the building, up to the medical wing. A pair of nurses were called over to appraise the wound on my side and Dr. Sargasso, the Veiled Order's resident physician, was paged overhead. When I'd had a few minutes to get my breath back, I plopped down on the edge of a hospital bed. “Tell us everything,” said Amundsen.

  “There isn't too much to tell, despite appearances,” I began. “We got to the cemetery. Found a grave or two that might've been tampered with, but before we knew it we were getting swarmed by the walking dead. Must've been thirty or more, real nasty things. Strong and fast. Handling the zombies wasn't so tough, but then this big guy showed up wielding a scythe as long as I am tall. Things went downhill from here.”

  Amundsen gulped, his features dressed in perspiration. “The necromancer, yes?”

  I nodded.

  “Who was it? Did you get his name?” asked Kubo.

  “Oh, yeah. We got to know each other real well. Exchanged phone numbers, took in a movie. I think we're going steady now, as a matter of fact.” The cut ached afresh, and I had to grit my teeth to keep from biting off my own tongue. Blood dripped down the side of the bed. “I didn't get his damn name, Chief. I tried to take him on, but he made quick work of me, as you can see. I don't know what was up with that weapon of his, but my body can't seem to handle the wound. And when I touched the thing I felt... I dunno. Weak? Tired? Something tells me it's a magical weapon, but I don't know how it works.”

  Kubo's bedside manner was severely lacking. He shoved me in the shoulder. “What did he look like, then? We need something to work with, Lucy.”

  Joe chimed in here. “I saw him. He was pretty tall. Bigger than you, Chief. Real muscular, too. He was wearing a black cloak and carried that scythe Lucy described.”

  “And his face was covered in black tattoos,” I added. “He was a real ugly guy with a rigid, stony expression. Had symbols tattooed on his face, but I can't say what they were. Didn't recognize them.” I cleared my throat, wiping sweat from my brow. “One last thing. He said the Veiled Order was too late. Said that there was nothing we could do to stop him. Guy wasn't even scared of me! He knew I was a demon but he didn't flinch. I'm a little offended, honestly.”

  Kubo and Amundsen weren't laughing, though. For the first time in a while I saw Kubo go pale. He stepped away from the bed and nearly bumped into Dr. Sargasso as he wandered in with a cart full of supplies.

  “Hello, Lucian,” said the doctor. He smiled warmly, his voice as soothing and calm as ever. This was the guy who'd put the demon's heart in me to begin with, and he approached the bed slowly, perhaps fearing that I'd lash out at him. I hadn't seen him for a while; not since losing control and accidentally smacking him in the face with a length of chain. His cheek bore a small scar for that blow, and I guess he wasn't interested in another assault. “May I see the wound?” He licked his lips, squatting down to take a peek at my side.

  I pulled up my shirt to let him have a look.

  “Oh, dear,” he said, shoving the cart away. “That's no good.”

  “What's the matter?” asked Amundsen. “Can't you stitch it up?”

  Kubo was still pacing around the other side of the room, lost in his thoughts. Joe straddled one of the chairs and watched him, growing twitchier.

  “This wound,” began the doctor, “isn't a normal, everyday kind of wound. Stitches won't fix it. We'll need a specialist. You see, the demon is capable of healing wounds caused by common weapons. But whatever caused this damage is very clearly a cursed weapon of some sort, and the energies of that weapon are clashing with Lucian's ability to heal. The two forces are struggling against one another. The wound wants to seal like usual, but the scourge of the weapon won't allow it.”

  “He's been cursed, then?” asked Amundsen.

  Dr. Sargasso nodded. “The curse must be lifted. When that's done the wound will close on its own. I suggest you take him to a specialist at once.”

  I smirked. “A specialist? What, do you guys have a healthcare system or something? Do they take insurance, or--”

  “You'll need to go and see Mona,” replied the doctor. “She should be able to lift the curse. Then your body will handle the rest.”

  Mona. My favorite snake lady. The old witch lived in some sort of parallel dimension, some pocket of the Beyond, located in an alley running behind Yao's, a Chinese restaurant. Mona was the Veiled Order's ace, their Swiss Army knife. When things went to shit, we paid Mona a visit and hoped she could fix it. She was damned good at what she did, a talented witch. Apparently she could lift curses, too.

  The thing about Mona, though, is that she's kind of terrible to look at. Human only from the waist up-- and only barely, at that-- she moved around by means of a large, green serpent's tail. Just thinking about her forked tongue, about her stubby, atrophied hands touching my body, made me recoil with disgust. If Mona could patch me up, though, I was game. The wound hurt awfully and the sooner we fixed it, the sooner I could get back on the trail.

  Because, believe me, I was going to settle the score.

  The necromancer had gotten one over on me. He was good. I'm not too proud to give credit where it's due. But what I'd lacked in skill back there, I intended to make up for in persistence. I wouldn't sleep, wouldn't eat, till I had the necromancer's head on my mantle.

  That was a lie. The minute this wound was healed I'd likely hit up Yao's for a platter of pork dumplings and a cold beer.

  But after that, for sure. I'd be relentless.

  There was a commotion in the hallway as the dead commando was hauled up into the medical wing. Medics carried the poor guy in on a gurney, his guts swinging around the sides and painting the floor with blood. It was a lost cause; he'd been dead since the second he'd been struck by the necromancer's blade, slit crotch to mouth. Most of his vitals were probably still scattered throughout the graveyard. If I hadn't interfered with the necromancer's assault, then that commando might've been brought back as one of the undead.

  “Tattoos?” asked Kubo, finally pausing. “You're sure? He was very tall and had tattoos on his face? Small ones... magical symbols?” He crossed his arms and waited expectantly for my reply.

  “Yup.”

  Kubo grunted, turning to Amundsen. “I'll get him off to Mona's, but first we need to verify this. Let's take him to the file room.”

  Amundsen nodded.

  The Chief and Amundsen led Joe and I out of the medical wing. I was given a handful of thick gauze and a long, flexible bandage to stymy the bleeding, but I wasn't a few steps out of my room before they were soaked through. Joe and I followed the two of them into the elevator, and Kubo punched the button for the sub-basement.

  The sub-basement was a place I'd never been before. I figured it was full of maintenance equipment, possibly home to a boiler room or something, but in reality it looked much like the rest of the joint. There was a long hallway lined in black doors, and Kubo led the charge towards one on the far left side.
Stepping inside, I found it cluttered from floor to ceiling with file cabinets and shelves of books.

  “What is this place?” I asked. “A library or something?”

  Kubo replied distantly, hopping onto a step ladder and pulling open a couple of drawers. “Something like that. This is where we keep records of different cases and targets. Don't touch anything. I don't want you bleeding all over sensitive documents.”

  I frowned. “I'm touched, chief. Thanks for your concern. Tell me, have you guys ever heard of computers? All of this info could be stored on a single machine, you know that? I love the low-tech thing you've got going on here, but it's inefficient.”

  Amundsen stood by in silence.

  “Shut up, Lucy,” mumbled Joe. “This is serious. No time to be giving the Chief shit.”

  Kubo hopped down from the ladder with a file folder in hand. He pulled it open, scanned it with his narrowed eyes for a moment, and then threw it down on a table. “Have a look, Lucy. Is this the guy who attacked you?”

  I ambled towards the table and had a seat. Leaning over the file, I glanced at the picture, only to find the necromancer staring back at me. It was a clear, black and white photo of the guy. His features were every bit as rough and slate-like as they'd been back at the cemetery, and the tattoos stood in prominent contrast to his pale flesh. I eyed his visage, studied the symbols written across his countenance and felt my stomach churn. “That's the guy. I'm positive.”

  Kubo rubbed at his chin, his broad shoulders drooping. “I was afraid you'd say that.”

  NINE