War Demons: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (The Prodigal Son Book 1)

by Russell Newquist

  "Pulse-pounding military and mystical action! War Demons is Newquist's love letter to fans of Larry Correia's Monster Hunter International."

  — Brian Niemeier

  Dragon Award winning author of Souldancer

  "A slow-burn mystery that explodes into a high-octane thriller, pitting a wounded warrior and his allies against the forces of evil. Jam-packed with high-intensity combat, authentic martial arts and memorable characters, the novel is sure to please hardcore fantasy fans."

  — Cheah Kai Wai

  Hugo Award nominated author of No Gods, Only Daimons

  "Newquist drills deep into the head of traumatized former soldier Michael Alexander as he tries to adjust back to normal life. The perspective is so tight that readers will feel immense connection to the character. Tension builds with the story at a pace like a landslide. At first, one’s not sure if Michael is crazy or if he’s the one at fault for a string of murders involved. Then comes the incredible action with demons, vampires and zombies! Once the plot explodes, it’s impossible to put down."

  — Jon Del Arroz

  Author of For Steam and Country

  "War Demons is a roller coaster thrill ride. It hooks you, clicks up to the peak, then sends you screaming all the way down. Masterfully done."

  — Daniel Humphreys

  Author of Fade

  War Demons

  Russell Newquist

  WAR DEMONS

  By Russell Newquist

  Published by Silver Empire

  https://silverempire.org/

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017, Russell Newquist

  All rights reserved.

  Dedicated to all the victims of the September eleventh attacks. We will never forget.

  Acknowledgements

  Like any sizable work, this novel didn’t come out of a vacuum. I owe a great debt to many others who helped make it possible.

  First and foremost, I’d like to thank my wife Morgon for helping me find the time to get it done – and also for valuable feedback and encouragement. Like so much else in my life, I couldn’t do it without her.

  To Nick Cole and Jason Anspach, who helped me retool my book launch at the last minute, I can't thank you guys enough. You've been a tremendous help.

  My editor Jagi is another no-brainer. Her input made this a far better book. Thank you for your patience, in more ways than one.

  Dr. Kyl Cobb gave an awesome presentation on eastern and western demons at DragonCon one year that introduced me to the ser na demons and really helped kick this book into high gear. Without his input, it would be an entirely different story. Please forgive him for the brutal manner in which I’ve savaged the actual Tibetan lore. This is a work of fiction, after all – but that’s still on me, not on him.

  To my beta readers – Richard and Debby – who gave me great feedback as I neared the end of the journey, I offer my deepest gratitude. You helped me polish this thing up.

  To Jon Del Arroz, author of For Steam and Country, Daniel Humphreys, author of A Place Outside the Wild, and Cheah Kai Wai, author of No Gods, Only Daimons for both truly fantastic book blurbs and also great feedback on the book itself. Again, this is a better product for your input.

  To Susan, for taking a chance on a small-time publisher.

  Finally, I owe a great debt to fellow author Brian Niemeier that he probably doesn’t even know about. Nearly two years ago, as he launched his debut novel Nethereal, he asked me for an elevator pitch for this book. His reaction and encouragement motivated me to actually get to work on this thing – and his further encouragement along the way helped ensure that I actually finished it. I can say without exaggeration that this book would not exist without you, Brian. Yours was the right voice in the right place at the right time.

  Prologue

  Tora Bora, Afghanistan

  December 2001

  The conspiracy nuts would have a field day with this one. The Major already knew that the truth would never, ever see the light of day. He could already imagine some of the crazy theories they’d spin. But whatever they came up with would never match what had actually happened over the last few days. That thought almost made him laugh out loud. Almost.

  He surveyed the strangers around him, still trying to wrap his head around everything. The Monk knelt off to the side, praying in Latin. The Major didn’t understand a word of it. But there was strength in that prayer – strength and power. It rang forth with the clear voice of a true believer. Its energy drew in everyone around him. For a moment, they all believed.

  The Old Man calmly directed suppressive fire toward the cave entrance. He set careful fire zones to ensure a clear path to safety for the last handful of fleeing soldiers. He knew his work well. Clearly he’d had military experience in the past.

  His team was the best. Today, that hadn’t been enough. Bodies littered the ground around the cave entrance. Plenty more remained hidden underground. But the official report wouldn’t show that. The casualties would show up on another report from another operation on another day. Families would be told their loved ones had died in battles they’d never fought; some of them in places the soldiers had never visited.

  Officially, those men had never been here.

  The Commander had commandeered his radio after those REMFs back at headquarters had denied him permission for an airstrike. The Major and his team called in air strikes all the time – and they’d called in plenty earlier that day. He didn’t understand why he lacked the authority for this one.

  Whoever he was, the Commander didn’t have that problem. He barked a few strange phrases into the radio, obviously code words. A brief moment later, the authorization came back.

  His soldiers held their positions, maintaining fire despite their frazzled nerves. Under the circumstances it seemed like a miracle. Yet despite their lack of preparation for the day’s horrors, they really were the best of the best. Now that they’d escaped that death trap, he knew that they would hold. He brimmed with pride at their performance today. Even by their own superhuman standards, every man among them had gone above and beyond.

  The buzzing of an incoming aircraft caught his attention. He snapped his head to the sky, and found it quickly. The propeller driven C-130 Hercules flew low for this one – right around six thousand feet. The unguided “dumb” ordinance didn’t have much precision. To be fair, a bomb that size didn’t need much precision. But it did need some, and that meant flying low. And then he saw it – the parachute popping out the rear of the plane, followed by the gleaming silver oblong blob. It even looked like one of the largest bombs ever built.

  The BLU-82 packs almost thirteen thousand pounds of GSX explosive into one package. The five thousand foot blast radius and resulting mushroom cloud often confuse observers into believing that they’ve witnessed a nuclear explosion. Developed during the Vietnam War, its ability to flatten even the flowers quickly led to its nickname. They called it the “Daisy Cutter.”

  The Major watche
d the device fall downward toward the mouth of the cave, noting thankfully that his men had all cleared the blast zone. This one would be loud. And jarring. The parachute took almost three minutes to deliver its payload. Those three minutes felt like an eternity.

  A shout rose up among the men as a shadow emerged from the cave. All went quiet for a moment, as they recognized the shape that had terrorized them in the darkness. Then the Knight emerged, injured and weary. Despite his obvious fatigue, he launched straight into a ferocious assault on the dark form. The men cheered.

  His team didn’t need orders. Every man among them knew they owed their own lives to the Knight. He’d been the one to engage that thing, buying them all time to escape. They shifted their aim and unloaded everything they had into it. Hundreds of rounds of ammunition pounded it, to minimal effect. Still, they fired away – anything to help the Knight, but most of all, anything to keep that nightmare inside the target zone.

  The Knight glanced to the sky. He clearly knew what came his way, yet he never wavered. He never even tried to escape. He knew what everyone else knew. If he let that shadowy terror escape, it would all be for nothing. So he attacked with everything he had, keeping his opponent pinned down just inside the cave mouth.

  The show ended with an explosive finale. The bombardiers knew their work. The combatants, barely out of the blast radius, found themselves blinded and deafened. If anything, the quiet that followed disturbed them even more. Nothing moved within the blast zone. His men ceased fire. What would be the point? Anything that could survive that would laugh off their remaining weapons.

  Hours later, after the blast zone had cooled, the strangers led a hunt through the rubble. The blast had vaporized everything. Not a trace remained of the shadow, nor could they find any remains of the Knight. The Major had thought nothing else could surprise him that day. He learned he was wrong when they found it. It gleamed bright after they wiped the ash off. He couldn’t find even a tiny scratch on it.

  The strangers brought it out of the blast zone and lay it in a clearing. Kneeling before it, the Monk led a prayer for their fallen comrade. The Major knelt and joined in. His men followed – every one of them, men of all faiths, even atheists. Not necessarily for God or for the Christ that the Monk prayed to, but for this man, this Knight, who had given his life for them. Soldiers, one and all, saluted a fallen comrade. Afterward, the Commander wrapped the artifact carefully and packed it up.

  Night would fall soon. The Afghanis wouldn’t support an assault in the dark, even after the bombing. After what he’d seen in the cave, the Major didn’t blame them. They’d send a team down in daylight to sift through the rubble and see if they could identify the bodies.

  The strangers joined them silently on the trek back to their base camp. But they slipped away in the night, bypassing even his watch. The Monk, the Old Man, the Commander and the Knight. He didn’t know their names or where they came from or where they went. But he knew what he’d seen in that cave, and it altered his life forever.

  The conspiracy theorists would have a field day, yes. But their wild theories didn’t have anything on the truth.

  Chapter One

  August, 2006

  Covington, Georgia, USA

  A bead of sweat rolled down Michael Alexander’s cheek, dripping onto the orange petals of the Tiger Lily in his hand. Despite the early hour, the temperature and humidity had already launched their neck and neck race for triple digits. He’d missed a lot of things about Georgia. The August heat was not among them. Despite growing up here, he’d never truly gotten used to the southern summers.

  He heard a noise behind him and turned, greeting the older man with a nod. The pair stood in silence for a time, paying their respects. His friend had spared no expense on the beautiful stone, nestled in amongst the others in the small private graveyard. Some of the well-preserved stones dated back to pre-colonial times.

  The older man broke the silence.

  “After all this time, I still never know what to say.”

  “I always know what to say,” the younger man replied. “But no matter how many times I say, ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s never enough.”

  The older man frowned at him.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Michael.”

  “If I’d made the flight, she’d have been at the airport to pick me up. She’d have been well out of the way.”

  “Sometimes we have less control over things than we think we do.”

  Michael shifted awkwardly and looked away. The point hit too close to home. James Covington let it go. The silence loomed over them for a moment. Again James spoke first.

  “How long are you home?”

  “For good.”

  Covington’s momentary shock quickly transformed into a genuine smile.

  “Finally came to your senses?” he asked.

  Michael shook his head, but his face showed a faint hint of genuine humor. “No good sense here at all. Medical discharge. I fought it all the way.”

  “Ah.” Captain James Covington, US Army retired, tapped his right leg with his cane. “I’m all too familiar with those.”

  The cane and the injury that necessitated it served as a constant reminder of his eighteen months in the Hanoi Hilton. He paused and waited for the young man to elaborate. When nothing followed, he changed the subject tactfully.

  “I’ll have a room made up for you.”

  Michael gazed up the hill at the massive house. The Covington family had lived on this land for centuries. Over time, they’d accumulated quite the fortune, becoming one of the richest families in the state. The nearby town was even named for one of them – James’ great-great-grandfather, or something. The generous offer tempted him.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got Pa’s place,” he answered.

  “You held onto it, then?”

  “It made a great rental property,” Michael shrugged. “And it was completely paid for. The last tenants left it in good enough shape. It needs a little work, but not too much.”

  “Got any plans?”

  “Back to the University to finish that history degree.”

  “Good choice. Look up Abigail while you’re up there. Turn on that charm you used to have and lure her away from that obnoxious rich boy.”

  Michael actually laughed at that one. “He must be pretty bad if you’d prefer me over him.”

  The older man smiled back at him. “You were alright, even then. I had to be hard on you. You were about to marry my little girl, you know.” He turned somber again. “Besides, that little punk boy died the same day Katie did.” He pointed at the stone. “Boys don’t become men when they hit a magic age. Men are made – in blood and pain and struggle. Abby’s pansy ass boyfriend is the son of some rich oil sheikh. He couldn’t struggle his way out of a paper sack.”

  “Probably very pretty, too.”

  They shared a laugh again as Jim nodded.

  “That always was her type,” Michael continued.

  “True enough. But I’d still much rather be welcoming you into the family. Her sister always did have better taste. Hell, considering that you were two weeks away from joining it, you might as well be family already.”

  Michael David Alexander and Catherine Virginia Covington had planned to wed on September 29th, 2001. United Airlines Flight 175 derailed those plans a few weeks early when it crashed into Two World Trade Center. Katie had been on the observation deck. All they ever managed to find of her was a half-melted cell phone. The beautiful stone before them marked an empty grave.

  Michael had called her as soon as he’d seen the news. Miraculously, he’d gotten through. He managed to keep her calm down nearly sixty flights of stairs. It proved to be forty flights too few. He’d been on the phone with her when the tower collapsed. That afternoon he’d found himself sitting in an Army recruiter’s office, bound and determined to kill Osama bin Laden himself.

  “Don’t hold your breath. I’m pretty sure Abby still holds me responsible.” And she’s right,
he didn’t add out loud.

  Covington’s eyes bored into him, and for a moment Michael felt certain that he knew. That shouldn’t be possible, but there it was.

  “I guess some things are just too much to hope for. Besides, Abby still thinks I’m some kind of racist because I’m not fawning all over the twerp. She forgets that I never liked any of the rich American boys she dated either.”

  “I don’t see how she could possibly forget. Who was that one guy? Rowan?” Jim gave him a quizzical look. “You must remember. The one who had a sex change later?”

  Covington tossed his head back in laughter.

  “Rupert. His name was Rupert. You know, Abby totally melted down over that one. I paid for a year of therapy.”

  “Seriously?”

  “She even checked herself into the mental ward for two weeks.”

  “She always was a little out of it.”

  “A little?” Jim shook his head, and then changed the subject. “Why don’t you come on up to the house, get some lemonade and fill me in on what you’ve been up to?”

  “I’ve got to make it back to Athens. My first class starts in a couple of hours.”

  “You’d better get going, then.”

  Michael agreed, but he took one last moment of silence at the grave. Covington watched somberly as Michael said a soft prayer and laid the Tiger Lily on Katie’s tomb.

  “They always were her favorite,” the old man noted. Michael agreed.

  They began the long walk up the back side of the property to the house. Out of habit, Michael had parked in between the twin garages on the south side of the house. With the morning heat rising, he wished he’d parked in the parking garage in the rear instead. It was much closer, and he already missed the air conditioning of his car. The older man eyed Michael sideways as they walked, frowning.

  “So... medical discharge?”