Halfway into the darkness, the motion sensors kicked on, and the room flooded with light. They were electric, technology over magic. It wasn't as mysterious, but you didn't have to waste time recharging spells every few months.
I clicked off the Surefire and climbed down the rest of the way. The room was a mess. Papers were scattered, broken glass and pottery littered the floor, and the acrid scent of smoke clung to the air. The worktable in the center of the room was covered in ash. I could tell I was alone as soon as the lights kicked on, so I let the Ruger hang on the makeshift sling I'd tied around the butt of the gun.
Fifteen feet beneath the house, Glyph's workshop, was a small twelve by twelve room. Every wall was lined floor to ceiling with cabinets and counters. A four-foot worktable stood in the center, complete with a sink and built-in Bunsen Burner.
I walked around the room completely one time before I began to look through things. I started with the piles of ash and half burned pages covering the table. Most of it was burned beyond recognition, scraps here and there looked like blueprints covered in runes and sigils. I couldn't tell the specific buildings from the pages.
I pulled a particular one from the pile and studied it. Mostly burned, the corner section of the floor plan showed a series of square shaped rooms. Each of them notated as being ten by ten. The walls themselves looked to be half as thick and made of reinforced concrete according to the handwritten scrawl in the corner of the page. It was the sigils drawn along the walls that caught my eye, though. Each of them was designed to prevent magic from escaping or entering the rooms. Completely sealed from any flow, magical or otherwise from what I could see.
There were no notations for plumbing. A single door marked the only way in or out of each of the rooms, and the sigils drawn by the doors were heavy-duty defensive wards. It also looked like there were permanent circles built into the concrete. Any practitioner could seal something inside of the rooms with just a small push of magic into the circle.
I'd only seen something like the rooms design once before. It had been for a Venatori holding facility, a place where they kept Unforgiven or Hellions for questioning before execution. Glyph had definitely been up to something.
I tossed the paper aside and continued my search through the pile. Most of it was ashen nonsense, but toward the bottom of the crumbling pile, I found something of use. It was another blueprint. This one was for a room with a glass floor and a circular shape. There was only one place I knew of that had a room like that. Glyph had a blueprint of Balthazar's office. That made sense. He had done the enchanting and protection wards on the entire club.
I saw that several of the original sigils and wards drawn on the page scribbled out and replaced with others. I looked at them. They were subtle changes. It wasn't unheard of for Glyph to modify wards depending on what Balthazar wanted. The newer notations looked like legitimate protection spells. Whatever subtle changes he'd made, it was beyond my skill in reading wardings. It could have just been a coincidence that this ended up in the pile of burned papers.
The thing was, I didn't believe in coincidences. I pocketed the page and began to root through the rest of the pile. There wasn't much else left in the ashes. Everything I could find was so blackened and charred that nothing could be made out. Whatever the Soul Monger had been up to, he hadn't wanted to leave any tracks. After I showed up, he probably went to ground.
Everything about this stunk. I needed answers.
There was a creak in the floorboard above me. I had the Ruger in my hands before my conscious mind even had time to realize that I'd grabbed it. I got down low behind the table, hunkering down for cover. There was only one way in and out of the room, and that was through the trap door in the ceiling. The workstation provided a decent amount of cover. Not as much as I would have liked, but it would do.
I could hear the footsteps moving in the kitchen above me. There was more than one person up there. They were trying to walk softly, but there were heavy thuds mixed in with the rest. I kept the sights locked in on the trap door, ready to pump rounds into whatever came down. I was upset that I'd only brought the little .22 with me. I had the STI riding in the shoulder holster and a couple of spare magazines, but even a .45 wasn't a sure thing. I had no way of knowing what was up there.
I tried to control my breathing, keeping my hands from shaking by sheer force of will. My eyes started to water; I was staring so hard, unblinking. I thought I heard voices whispering somewhere above me. I couldn't know for sure. My adrenaline was pumping, and the brain can do strange things when there's a dump of chemicals in it. I held my breath; hyper-focused on the entrance, ready to give anything that came through a good murdering.
The light in the room went out. Darkness engulfed me. My eyes strained to see anything in the darkness, but in the underground room, there was nothing but empty black. I shivered, thoughts of the Void flooding in. I was outnumbered, and I was completely in the dark. I strained to hear anything in the silence. I didn't have to try to hard to hear the metallic thud as something bounced on the concrete. I ducked, my legs working faster than my conscious mind.
I curled up, head between my arms, eyes screwed shut and mouth open. There was only one thing I could think of that made that sound. Someone had tossed in a grenade. I felt the concussion as the grenade exploded. My electronic earplugs cut out the noise, but I could see the searing light behind my eyelids. Someone had thrown in a flash bang. That meant they were planning on coming down into the room.
I stayed crouched behind the table, maneuvering myself to be able to roll away quickly. Smoke filled the room, making it difficult to breathe. I kept a tight grip on the Ruger and waited for my moment. I had to time out everything perfectly. I heard someone moving down the rungs of the ladder. A beam of white light easily cut through the darkness. They didn't have night vision. The room was dark enough that their field of view would be limited. They were also expecting to find a disoriented fop, not an armed gunman with centuries of training.
I heard boots hit the concrete, and someone else was on the ladder. There were at least two. I heard the first move off to the right, somewhere behind me. The light was darting all around the room.
I twisted, pushing myself flat against the floor. I held the Ruger above me, my back squarely on the concrete. I took a deep breath and pushed with my legs. I slid easily on the slick floor. As soon as my shoulders cleared the edge of the table, I twisted, sighting in the Ruger. I aimed for the shadows behind the bouncing bulb of the flashlight.
I fired, five shots into the darkness. The suppressed weapon clacked so softly that my earplugs didn't even block it out. I was rewarded with a pained grunt and the light rising to the ceiling as the man fell to the floor.
“Jackson!” Someone shouted.
If they said anything else, I couldn't hear it. The earplugs kicked in as someone opened fire. I saw a few sparks as one of the rounds connected with the corner of a steel filing cabinet. I rolled to my stomach, popping my knees under me and rocking back onto my heels. I kept low, keeping the table between the shooter and myself. I waited of them to run dry.
I moved quickly. When the shots stopped, I came up over the top of the table. The second shooter had killed his flashlight, but it didn't matter. His partner's flashlight had fallen, casting light toward the ladder. It wasn't on the second shooter directly, but in the darkened room, he was clearly visible, throwing long shadows.
I fired five more rounds. The first two took him square in the chest. I raised the muzzle, put a two in his shoulder, and one landed higher. I couldn't see where I'd hit him in the darkness, but I didn't hear the round connect with the wall or steel cabinet, so I assumed it struck a body.
Not one to waste time or opportunities, I moved to the first man I'd shot. I clicked on the Surefire and blinded him. The wounded man had been grasping at his stomach but moved an arm to shield his eyes as soon as the light hit him.
I could see a puddle of wet blood leaking out of him. I'd hit h
im in the leg, groin, and stomach. There was a Glock 17 lying on the ground next to him. I moved quickly, kicking the weapon away. I swept my light toward the other shooter.
I could hear the damage before I saw it. When the light hit him, he didn't even bother to cover his face. His hands were grasping desperately at his throat. The last round had taken him in the neck, and I could see the blood spurting out through his fingers. He gurgled and spat blood as he drowned.
Satisfied I'd downed both of them, I turned back to the first man. I had a lot of questions for him. I didn't know if I was clear yet; there could still be more of them upstairs. One thing I did know was that I needed to get out of there quickly. Both of the men I'd shot were wearing body armor, blue uniforms, and badges.
I knelt down next to the first officer. I killed the Surefire and rotated the fallen flashlight so that he was in the spotlight. I could keep my hands on the Ruger but not have to worry about him being blinded on top of bleeding to death. I had questions that needed answering.
“Officer Jackson,” I said, looking at the nameplate on his chest. “Why are you trying to kill me?”
“I'm not telling you shit,” He said.
“I suppose that's understandable.”
I stood back and sat on the tall worktable. My feet dangled in the air, just too short to reach the floor. I kept the Ruger pointed at him.
“You need a hospital,” I said. “Your partner is already gone, but you might make it. Your losing blood fast, but not quick enough for me to have hit any arteries.”
“I won't tell you anything,” He said. “I'll never betray my Lord.”
That got my attention. I had a feeling he wasn't talking about the big man upstairs.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
“Go to Hell you Unforgiven trash.”
That was just plain rude in my opinion.
“Sit still for a minute.”
I raised the Ruger and put five rounds into his chest. The subsonic .22 rounds wouldn't go through the vest, but they would still hurt like hell.
Officer Jackson groaned and slumped even further.
I hopped off the table and went over to the dead officer. I quickly found his flashlight and kicked it on. Both of them were clearly dirty cops, but I doubted that they were the normal, taking money under the table cops.
I took off his black watch cap and ran my fingers through his hair, searching the scalp for marks. When I couldn't find any, I undid his jacket. The man had already bled out, but the dead weight was awkward to move one handed. I finally got the jacket off and checked both of his arms. I found what I was looking for inside of his right armpit.
There was a pale white scar on his upper arm, where the underside of the arm ties into the shoulder joint. It had been carved into a crudely shaped sigil. I looked at it and felt my stomach drop as I recognized the sigil. It was the mark of a particular Demon, one that I knew first hand. I stared at it in the bright light of the flashlight and cursed.
The dead officer was an acolyte. The dumb bastard had pledged his life and his soul to a Demon. It was different than selling your soul. This man had given his freely, accepting nothing in return. The Demon he'd given it to happened to be a Demon Lord. I wanted to vomit as I looked at that scar. It brought up too many memories I'd rather forget.
The sigil was the mark of Moloch, the Demon Lord of Hate. The Demon that I'd sold my soul to.
I turned back to Officer Jackson. I popped a fresh mag into the Charger and popped him in both kneecaps. He screamed in pain as the rounds shattered bone.
“What does Moloch want with me?” I shouted. “Why did he send you?”
“We're here to kill you.”
“Moloch's not allowed to kill me,” I said. “Sending you here is a direct violation of our contract. Moloch would never chance his claim on my soul.”
“Do not speak his name!” Jackson yelled. Which was a mistake because he heaved and doubled over in bloody pain with the effort.
He spoke again when he recovered.
“You have violated the terms of your agreement. The Dark Lord has sent word to all his servants. There is a price on your head so large that no one on Earth will pass up the opportunity. You'll be dead within a week.”
He started laughing then. It was mostly coughing. I felt cold panic flood my body.
When you sell your soul, there are a few stipulations on the deal. The first, and most important, is that the Demon cannot kill you or have you killed. They can sit back and watch it happen, but they can't be involved. That's all null and void if you do something to directly interfere with the Demon's business. After that, all bets are off. If Moloch thought I'd moved against him somehow, he'd waste no time in sending everyone he could after me. He'd been waiting for my soul for a long time now.
I stuck the muzzle of the Charger into Jackson's crotch.
“Is there anyone else up there?” I asked.
“Fuck you.”
Wrong answer.
I fired twice. The hollow point rounds would bounce off his pelvis and tear up his internal organs. I pulled his radio and tossed it on the table. I patted him down and took his cell. I did the same with the other officer. After that, I walked over to the worktable.
I pulled open a cabinet door and moved underneath it. I could see the gas lines leading to the Bunsen Burner. I yanked on the tube, and it ripped free. I could smell gas start leaking out. I got up and walked over to the ladder leading out of the room. I stopped long enough to grab a flash bang off of the corpse. I opened a filing cabinet next to the ladder and dumped half the paper on the floor. I climbed up to the pantry and stopped at the top. I listened intently for a moment. I couldn't hear anyone else moving. I couldn't help but think someone would have come to investigate the screams and gunshots.
I dropped the flash bang straight into the open filing cabinet drawer below me. I stood up and walked out of the pantry, putting my back to the wall.
My earplugs muted the explosion. Jackson screamed in pain, but it was weak. I could barely hear his moaning. His blood pressure was dropping fast. I glanced back down the hole to make sure the papers had caught fire. The smoke wafting out of the filing cabinet was enough of a sign for me.
I turned and ran quickly out of the house, keeping the Charger close to my body. I didn't know if I'd need to use it again or not, and I didn't want to get caught unaware.
I got out to the street and started for my car. I was almost there when the gas line caught. I felt the explosion more than heard it. A wave ran through the ground, the vibrations moving up my feet. I turned back and could see smoke pouring out of windows. The place should be nice and charred by the time the fire department got there. I couldn't be tracked down magically, but I could still leave physical evidence behind. I didn't need my prints or DNA ending up in the system.
I made it back to the Mustang and started taking stock of my situation. My one conclusion was that my situation was FUBAR.
I fired up the engine. I needed to think. More importantly, I needed a drink.
8
I called the number Prufrock gave me on my way to the Taft House. The woman who answered offered to take a message. She probably left out all the curse words when she passed it along. The gist was to meet me at the bar. I had things that needed discussing.
I left the Stang in the gravel parking lot beside the bar and made my way inside. The Monday night usual’s were there. A few bearded hipsters sipped mixed drinks out of mason jars in the side room, taking turns sending weights down the miniature shuffleboard.
Jesse nodded at me and met me at my stool. He already had the bottle when I got there and poured me a round. I killed it in one gulp and tapped the glass. He made it a double. Good people.
I nursed my second drink and rubbed my neck. It was stiff from the scuffle with the Soul Monger. Indie rock music filled the air as I tried to relax. Everything felt tight. My body and my mind were bent to the point of breaking. I didn't need that in my life. Not even fo
r a minute.
I was finishing drink number three by the time Prufrock showed up. The human mountain in a cheap suit accompanied him. The second bodyguard was nowhere to be seen. My guess was that he was still outside.
Prufrock was wearing a black suit this time. It was identical to the navy one he'd worn before. The crisp white shirt was undone a third the way down, and the soles of his black leather loafers clacked on the unfinished wood flooring.
The two of them walked over to the bar, Prufrock pulling out the stool next to me, the Mountain posting up behind me again.
Jesse eyed the strangers. He'd seen them come out of the bar when I'd broken the glass. If he ever lost me, he'd see a substantial drop in weekly income. I always felt like that meant Jesse had a vested interest in my well being.
I could smell the Mountain's musky aftershave over the smell of the whiskey in my glass. Beneath the harsh overtones of alcohol and aftershave, Prufrock's cologne seeped through the air. It was dark and woody, and I didn't remember him wearing it the first time we met. It was pungent, like a crushed up cigar. I could see chest hair and wiry muscle where his shirt was open.
“Mr. Cain.”
“Prufrock.”
“I had assumed your message meant you'd completed the job, but I've heard that there have been no new souls in Hell.”
“Yea, about that. I have some things I'd like to talk to you about.”
“Oh yes? What would those be?” He asked.
I made him wait, sipping the rest of the drink in my glass.
“Two men just tried to kill me,” I said.
“I can't imagine it's the first time.”
“Not even close,” I said, taking another drink. “It was the first time in a very long time that an acolyte of the Lord of Hate tried to kill me.”
I looked at Prufrock.
“They seemed to be under the impression that I'd somehow violated my agreement with Moloch. According to them, it's open season on my head.”
Double-Barreled Devilry: A Deckland Cain Novel Page 12