Dusk of Death: an Armen Leza, Demon Hunter novel (Armageddon Trilogy Book 1)

by N. L. Gervasio

Terry froze. “Holy shit,” he mouthed to Armen.

  Armen pointed to herself and then pointed across the field. She then motioned to Terry and pointed down for him to stay put. He raised his gun, aiming into the dust, and nodded. Armen walked carefully across the field, going as wide as possible, veering from the beast’s location.

  A snarl sounded, a low growl, and Armen stopped walking. She focused intently on the space between her and the evaporating dust cloud. It was still thick enough to hide Cerberus well, though the dust should have mostly settled by now. The low grumble sounded once more, and Armen’s thumb found the trigger on the scepter, ready to release.

  Armen thought for a fleeting moment that it might be a trap. After all, Cerberus wasn’t your run-of-the-mill canine. She peered into the dust. Her ears twitched, listening intently to pinpoint his location, and she took a careful step forward. She could see Terry’s apprehension at her moving closer, but she ignored him and continued. The damn dog wasn’t going to kill itself.

  Armen stood near the edge of the cloud, barely breathing and holding the scepter ready in her right hand. She tilted her head and turned to the right, allowing her left ear to close in on Cerberus. Oh, you are not going to catch me in your little trap, beastie. I hear you. With a quick jerk of her hand, she popped the scepter up in the air for a different grasp on it. When the weapon landed in her hand again, she held it like a spear. She knew she’d need to spear the center head in order for this to work. All creatures of the Darkness were like that, if they had three or more heads. If there were only two, one had to aim for the left head, as it was the dominant one. And one head . . . well, that was fairly obvious. Four or seven heads was a bit more difficult.

  A low grumble came from the center, and Armen yelled. Cerberus lurched forward, leaving the confines of the dust and exposing himself, but still far enough away from her. Terry fired several rounds into him, which didn’t faze the beast, nor did it draw his attention to Terry. Armen didn’t hesitate, and before his front paws hit the dirt, she thrust the scepter’s blade at the center head, piercing his skull between the eyes. Cerberus’ center head yelped, and the other two followed. His right head snapped viciously at her, and she ducked and rolled to her right. Then his left head snapped in her direction when his front legs gave as he fell to the ground. She narrowly got away from his large teeth before the head flopped to the ground.

  Terry ran to her side and stared at Cerberus. “Damn, that’s one big dog.”

  Armen let out a short burst of laughter and leaned forward to pull the scepter’s blade from Cerberus’ head. The right head rose and snapped at her, catching her arm in its teeth. Armen screamed, but dared not pull away from him. Terry pulled at Cerberus’ mouth in attempt to release her arm from the beast’s jowls. Steam billowed into the air as Cerberus tried to tear through her flesh with his teeth, but the barrier of the water on her skin prevented it. With her other hand, Armen yanked the scepter out of the great beast’s center head and quickly plunged its blade into the right head, puncturing his red eye. His grip loosened and he yelped once more before the head dropped to the dirt.

  Terry pulled her away. “You did bless that water, didn’t you?”

  Armen wiped the beast’s drool from her arm with disgust. “Sort of.”

  “What’s sort of?”

  She placed a hand on her hip and stared at him. “You really don’t get the whole enchantments thing, do you?”

  He stared back. “So, what, you’re a witch?”

  “Basically.”

  Peterson ran up behind them. “Can that thing slice through his necks? You should take all three heads.”

  Terry slowly turned to him, and Armen eyed him curiously. She wondered how a human would know such things. She inspected the scepter. The blades weren’t long enough to cut through the neck of something so large. The minute trigger only seemed to work one way. She thumbed it and the blades retracted within the two-foot long cylinder, its track completely disappearing so only someone who knew how to use the weapon would know which direction to push or pull the trigger. It was Divine, after all. She thumbed it again and the blades shot out each end.

  “Try reading the inscription,” Peterson suggested.

  Armen shifted her gaze to meet his. He quirked his eyebrow, and his lips turned up just slightly on one side of his mouth. She thumbed the trigger once more, sending the blades inside, and she looked at the scepter more closely. There it was in the tiniest of lettering—an angelic language; her Father’s language. Her eyes brightened, widening with each word. She quickly turned the scepter in her hand as Cerberus continued to struggle against Death, his breathing becoming shallower by the second. She rested her thumb against the trigger and smiled when she looked into the beast’s eyes. The interesting thing about the scepter’s trigger was that it wasn’t very large and it was generally unnoticeable as it sat amongst other similar shapes. First noticing that the track disappeared as the trigger moved was a clue that the weapon held more than one function. Armen had held many weapons like the scepter before she fell from His grace. Each one had its own idiosyncrasies. Her smile slowly diminished and she held the scepter before her.

  “Poor pup.” She looked down at Cerberus. “I enjoyed your company a long time ago, but now . . . .” She pushed the trigger to the side instead of up, and a damn near three-foot blade formed at one end. “Goodbye, dearest Cerberus.” Armen raised the blade over her head, and sliced through the center head’s neck, then the right head, and finally, the left one. Cerberus lay in a headless heap and gradually started smoldering.

  “Dearest Cerberus?” Terry questioned with a cocked brow.

  “Poor pup?” said Peterson.

  Armen turned to them. “What of it?” She turned to Peterson, who had a curious expression on his face, too. Damn, he didn’t know what she once was. “Mythology, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. That was a bit more sentimental than the love of ancient stories, though.”

  Armen shrugged and stepped away from the large dog, in case he went up in a heap of flames, which wouldn’t surprise her. She turned to Terry again. “Can we get back to my lab so I can study that sample?”

  “Are you going to get car sick again?”

  “Funny. It was the ride through this shit.” She pointed out the rough terrain around them.

  “No four-wheeling for you.” Terry turned to head back to the car.

  “I think it was that sandwich you brought me.”

  Peterson caught up to her and walked with her to Terry’s squad car. “So, what does it say?”

  “What?” Armen replied.

  “The inscription?” He gave her a full right brow raise. His eyebrows were thick and black, much like the hair on the top of his head.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Of course not. It’s certainly not in any human language.”

  “How many languages do you know, Peterson?”

  He smiled. “More than you’d believe, but I’ve never seen that one.”

  “Oh, well, then I can’t tell you.” She stepped around the back of Terry’s car.

  Peterson turned to Terry, who stood in the open door of his car. “Your woman’s a tease, Armstrong.”

  Terry let out a short burst of laughter. “You have no idea.”

  “Shut up and get in the car,” Armen said and climbed into the vehicle.

  “Demanding, too,” Terry said. “You heading back to the station?”

  “Damn straight. I want to see what she’s got. I’ll follow you.”

  Terry got in and started the engine, but his phone rang loudly from his pocket before he could go anywhere. He quickly picked it up after seeing the caller ID. “What’s up, Dad?”

  Armen watched the blood drain from his face. “What is it?”

  Terry shook his head. “On my way,” he said finally and put down the phone. He placed both hands on the steering wheel and stared ahead.

  “Terry, what’s happened?”

  “The B
ishop has been crucified . . . in the church.”

  Armen quickly covered her gaping mouth with her hand. “The Basilica?”

  Terry nodded and focused to put the car in gear. “Tell Peterson we’re heading there first.”

  Armen reached for the radio, but her hand went to his arm first. “I’m sorry, Terry.”

  Terry gave a quick nod and turned the car toward the exit gate.

  Armen picked up the radio and informed Peterson of their new destination. Once she finished, she stared out the window. She didn’t know what to say to him regarding the Bishop. Armen was certain his father knew the man well, considering Sean’s profession and that it stemmed from the Catholic Church. Oh dear Father, why? No answer came to her, though she wasn’t really expecting one. She hadn’t spoken to her Father in quite some time, aside from that little word game with His book. She turned the scepter in her hands and found herself reading the angelic inscription in its base. If Sean couldn’t speak to her Father, she’d have been surprised at his knowledge of how to use it. She wondered if Sean ever questioned her Father and why He let things happen the way they did. But then she remembered her conversation with Sean and tossed the thought aside. Faith in why He does things.

  Crucified. In the Basilica. There was no damn good reason for a priest to die in such a horrible way. She wondered if her Father did anything at all worthy for her to have faith in.

  Why?

  Such a simple question, but one with too many answers to ever be simple.

  They pulled up to the Spanish-style church on 3rd Street—St. Mary’s Basilica. According to Terry, Sean had always liked this particular church for several reasons. The people were always very nice, the neighborhood was in the heart of Phoenix and quite old, and he could often find the Bishop there. Terry had mentioned before that he had come here a lot in his youth.

  It was close to three in the morning. Terry parked his unmarked squad car and turned it off. He sat silently for a moment, concentrating on the top of the steering wheel as he took in slow breaths to steady himself for what he was about to witness. Armen could only guess that losing his mother had been the single worst thing that ever happened to him; and that losing his fiancée or girlfriend may have been the second worst thing he’d experienced. He looked worn out. Lack of sleep and constantly moving were beginning to show in lines on his face and dark circles under his eyes. Losing the Bishop would be another huge blow. During the drive over, Terry divulged that he’d known the man since birth. Armen was surprised he even said a word.

  “Terry.” Armen reached for his arm. He closed his eyes briefly before turning to her. She tilted her head, blonde locks spilling over her shoulder from her ponytail. “You don’t have to do this.”

  He attempted a smile, studying her face intently. “I’ll be fine.” He took her hand and pulled it to his lips. “Let’s kill this bitch so this’ll be over.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.” She unlatched her seatbelt and opened the car door, scepter in hand, and climbed out. She wasn’t about to tell Terry that it wouldn’t be completely over, but it would end the current situation of sacrifices. The only way to know for certain if or when this insanity would be over was to ask her Father, and she doubted He would give much detail concerning it, though she was beginning to add up everything. Literally. For instance, the number of demons—the high-ranking ones—encountered thus far. By her count, there had been three. If one counted Dumah, it would make four.

  A police cruiser pulled into the parking lot and stopped next to them. Peterson climbed out.

  “What’s up?” he asked on his approach.

  Armen hadn’t given him any information other than where they were heading. “The Bishop’s been crucified,” Armen replied so Terry didn’t have to.

  Peterson stilled and blinked from her to Terry and back to her again. “Bishop Thomas?” His voice trembled. Terry gave a quick nod. “Shit.” He took a deep breath. “What are we dealing with, Ash still?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “She’s a particularly nasty little bitch.”

  Peterson agreed. “I hope to hell she doesn’t have any more of those pets.”

  Armen looked at him. “Oh, she does, but Cerberus was the worst of the bunch, depending on your definition of worst.”

  “Wonderful,” he responded with a good amount of sarcasm. Armen found herself admiring the man for more than just his wealth of knowledge.

  “Check your gun, Terry, and give some of those bullets to Peterson.”

  “Dante,” Peterson replied.

  “What?” Armen asked.

  “My first name, it’s Dante.”

  Armen snorted. “Oh, that is priceless.”

  “Yeah, rather fitting, don’t you think?”

  Terry shook his head, but a small chuckle left his lips. “You two are seriously demented.” He handed Peterson a handful of the silver bullets. “Hope these will work on her. They only seem to work on the lesser demons, though. Make sure they’re solid before shooting them.”

  Armen cleared her throat. “Yes, well, shall we?” She waved her hand toward the entrance, and then clicked the scepter’s trigger to the side. A single ferocious blade shot out from the hilt.

  Dante admired the piece. “That’s just freakin’ cool.” He loaded his magazine with the silver bullets.

  Armen smiled. “I know.”

  Terry turned around and headed toward the entrance. “You two coming?” He’d already withdrawn his gun.

  Armen started moving, with Dante Peterson following closely. “Where’s Virgil when you need him?” she muttered, so quietly only Dante could hear her.

  “No shit,” he replied in a near whisper. “Especially since we’re about to enter the mouth of Hell.”

  “Trust me when I say this isn’t even close.” Armen knew what the mouth of Hell was like. The Darkness teetered on the edge of it, tormenting all who had fallen within its fires.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do. Maybe someday you’ll find out why.”

  “Doesn’t look like you’re too happy to be going inside, regardless of what lies within.”

  “There’s another reason for that.”

  Terry stopped at the main door and peered through the crack. His knuckles turned white from his tight grasp on the door handle. Behind them, another car pulled into the parking lot. Armen turned to see who it was, and as she did, she noticed Dante’s eyes widening as she listened to Terry open the door.

  “Christ,” Dante whispered under his breath.

  Armen cringed and shook her head at him. “Don’t say names like that.” She rushed past him to greet whoever pulled up. Once she reached the parking lot’s edge, Sean was climbing out of his car. “Sean, what are you doing here?” Her mind and body wanted to go into hysterics, knowing Terry would flip over this one, but she managed to control her reaction. “You can’t be here.”

  “Och!” Sean walked up to her, his expression grim. “I’m a demon wrangler. ‘Tis my job.”

  “But Terry—”

  “Terry’ll just have to deal with it, won’t he?” His voice was no-nonsense fatherly firm and she knew he wasn’t about to budge on the matter. “I’m his father an’ I taught the boy all he knows.” He looked at the scepter in her hand. “Are you using that?”

  Armen nodded.

  “How’d you get it to do that?”

  Armen flicked the trigger to the opposite side and the blade sheathed. Sean’s eyes lit with delight. Then Armen pushed the trigger back, bringing the single long blade out once more. “It’s written in the script.”

  “Script?”

  “This.” She pointed to the cylinder, showing him the angelic script engraved in it.

  “O’ course,” he said softly, shaking his head. “You’d have the ability to read such text. What else does it say?”

  Armen looked over her shoulder briefly. “Later. I need to get back over there before Terry gets himself killed.” She turned and headed bac
k.

  When she neared Dante, Terry stood just inside the entrance to the Basilica. Dante was frozen in his stance, but he quickly moved when Terry ducked.

  “Look out,” Armen shouted and jumped backwards with Dante when Terry rolled out of the entrance and jumped to the side.

  “Shit,” Terry spat.

  A scream sounded from within the Basilica.

  Armen turned to Sean. “How’d you know the Bishop had been crucified?”

  “Dad, what the hell are you doing here?”

  Sean pulled an ancient relic from his leather bag, ignoring Terry’s question. He sure collected quite a few ancient pieces. This one in particular had ancient Celtic runes carved within the wood. “Father O’Malley called me.” He pulled at both ends of the wooden piece, and it stretched and elongated, slowly forming into a staff. “He must be in there somewhere.”

  “And probably in pieces now,” Armen mumbled. Only Dante heard her and he nodded subtly in agreement. Armen took in a deep breath and stepped forward cautiously. “Okay, let me see what we’re dealing with.”

  “Armen,” Terry said in that tone of his that was hard and father-like.

  “I’m not going to sacrifice myself to this bitch, so quit it.”

  Sean spoke up before Armen could reach the entrance. “When the two of ye fight, it gives them more power.”

  Armen spun on her heel. “When Terry and I argue, it’s not a real argument, Sean.”

  Sean looked at his son, who nodded. “It sounds like it, and thas all they need.”

  Armen turned again, ignoring him because she knew better than he did that it wasn’t true, and peered around the edge of the door. She drew in a deep breath, barely picking up the scent that usually traveled with demons. Ash was good at masking hers. Then she focused her eyes, shifting them to that otherworldly vision of light and dark. The light image at center stage was fading. The Bishop. She caught movement of the dark variety in the shadows along the edges of the pews. Shadows didn’t look the same as the minions. The shadows where no light fell were darker and impenetrable, whereas the shades of minions were lighter and translucent, and they moved. Shadows only moved when the light source moved. There were no light sources inside tonight, aside from the moon shining through the stained glass windows, which threw all sorts of other weird effects into the mix if she wasn’t looking through gifted eyes. She pulled her head back briefly from the doorway and looked from Terry to Dante, who both looked like white visions to her, hardly distinguishable from one another if it weren’t for their specific signatures of color swirling around them and the white. Terry’s was a brilliant blue, and Dante’s, sea-foam green: both quite good in nature.