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

by Russell Newquist

  “You should’ve brought your phurba, Michael. It would’ve done you more good than that toy.” Michael agreed, wishing it weren’t still locked in police impound. Hands rose out of the ground near the demon. Michael knew what came next.

  The approaching sirens pierced his eardrums. Flashes of blue and red punctuated the twilight. A police cruiser raced down the nearby lawns, avoiding the massive traffic jam the same way Conor had. It screeched to a stop in front of the house. Michael took advantage of the distraction and bolted.

  “That’s right, Michael!” O’Bryan bellowed. “Flee like the coward you are!”

  The voice tantalized him. He ignored the taunt and made for the Escalade. He used the vehicle as cover, while his friends lay down suppressive fire on O’Bryan. He popped the rear driver’s side door open. Digging in the back, he quickly found what he sought. He’d pressurized it earlier, but he gave the pump a few strokes just to be sure. He slipped the tank onto his shoulders.

  O’Bryan paused for a moment, laughing and cheering on the ethereal creatures as they rose around him. Michael took the opportunity and stepped back around the vehicle. He raised the thin pipe, aimed it carefully, and gave the trigger a squeeze.

  A jet of flame streaked across the lawn. The doorframe caught fire instantly. Michael held the trigger down, aiming the flamethrower right and left as he covered the building and the lawn. O’Bryan let out a piercing wail as he caught fire, then turned and ducked into the building for cover.

  Chief Lewis and Officer Burns jumped out of the police car, slack jawed as they watched the Sigma Chi fraternity house erupt into a massive fire. They gaped at Michael as he continued to spray the house.

  The demon retreated, disappearing into the building.

  A moment later, the flamethrower clicked, sputtered a few times, and finally went out. He banged on it and squeezed the trigger again. Nothing happened. He’d run out of fuel.

  He tossed the wand to the ground and let the tank slide from his shoulders. Conor scowled. Covington looked satisfied. George and Denzel looked like they’d just seen a celebrity. Gabriel tried not to laugh.

  “You said you wouldn’t burn the house down,” Conor scolded him.

  “I said I’d try not to,” Michael answered.

  The next thing he heard turned his blood to ice.

  The cry of a dragon rang out in the night.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lacking the benefits of modern fire codes, the Sigma Chi house burned hot and fast. Michael could feel the oppressive heat even out by the street. Far closer to the blaze, the golems sizzled and hissed before melting away like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  O’Bryan exited the building, charred and burned but still moving. The demon sauntered casually toward them, but his blistered face betrayed his emotion. Anger seethed through every boiling pore.

  “What is this thing, a freaking Terminator?” George asked despondently.

  Stefan made a beeline for the Sword. The demon spared him a glance, but let him go. His attention instead remained fixated on Michael. The German friar retrieved the blade and retreated back towards his comrades.

  Suddenly Jim appeared at Michael’s side, covering him as he moved. They moved forward in tandem, quickly and calmly. Behind them, Stefan and Conor added fire support. It slowed O’Bryan’s approach, but accomplished little else.

  The roar of the dragon drew Michael up short. He scanned the sky as they charged, but it took him a moment to find it.

  “There!” he pointed out a speck in the indigo sky.

  Jim nodded in recognition as it bore down on them, growing larger by the second. Another call pierced the evening sky. As the dragon approached, Michael made out the silhouette of a rider. Long, flowing blonde locks trailed out behind her head.

  Stefan and Conor retrained their fire on the dragon. Their shots bounced harmlessly off an invisible shield. Feminine laughter rang out over the lawn. Some kind of magical power amplified the volume. It even drowned out the gunfire.

  The approaching dragon closed them in on one side. O’Bryan blocked their escape on the other. Michael froze in indecision.

  Jim broke the stalemate by charging the yellow-nosed demon with a hard, determined look.

  “Move!” he called.

  They moved. Conor led the race toward the police cruiser.

  Chief Lewis raised his pistol and shouted a warning, misinterpreting their charge. Officer Burns fished at his holster for his own pistol. Stefan and Michael gestured at the sky, calling out warnings. The chief followed their gesture.

  The cigar dropped out of his mouth as his jaw opened.

  “Burns, get behind the damned car!” he shouted. Burns hesitated. “Now, dammit, now!”

  The dragon’s gaze followed them as they ran. Then an infernal racket rose from the lawn. Everyone turned to stare at Jim Covington, as he danced on the grass, whooping and hollering. Even O’Bryan stopped to gawk at him.

  “Covington, you crazy son of a bitch, what the hell are you doing?” the chief called after his friend. “This is a piss poor time to reenact your great granddaddy’s rebel yell!”

  Jim ignored him and focused on the yellow-nosed demon. He let his rifle fall to the ground, opting instead to beat the thing with his cane.

  The dragon closed in with a screech, opening its jaws to let loose a stream of fire. The team finally reached the police cruiser. Michael dove over the hood, collapsing on the far side. George tried to imitate him but caught his knee on the wheel well, smacking his face hard as he fell. Denzel grabbed him by the collar as he trotted by, dragging his scrawny friend to cover.

  Meanwhile, O’Bryan grasped the billionaire by the neck. Covington confounded the demon by pulling him in closer rather than slipping away. O’Bryan lost it. He let out a roar of his own, rivaling the dragon’s cry. Denzel winced. George covered his ears.

  Jim locked eyes with Michael as the dragon began to sputter. The old man gave a solemn nod.

  “No!” Michael cried out, realizing his friend’s plan too late. He lurched forward, ready to save Covington from his own insanity. Conor and Peter grabbed him by either arm, pulling him back down.

  “Burn!” Covington told the demon, hawking a giant glob of spit at the creature’s face. The fluids dripped right over the giant yellow nose, as Covington continued his yell. O’Bryan laughed hysterically, ready to strike the billionaire. Before he could follow through, Covington twisted and pulled, dragging the creature straight into the oncoming dragonfire.

  “Jim!” Michael yelled, as his friend went up in flame. He tried to press in to help him. His friends joined him. The heat proved too much.

  “Michael.” Peter’s voice sounded hollow, as if it came through a bad telephone connection. He ignored it.

  “Michael,” the voice came again. Still he tried to press through the heat.

  “Michael!” He felt a hand grip his arm. “It’s coming around again.”

  He stopped. The words took a moment to register.

  They scattered as the dragon swooped around but found limited cover. Denzel plopped down behind the SUV. Peter and George managed to squeeze behind a pair of giant old oak trees. Chief Lewis squatted behind the door of his police cruiser, dragging Khalid with him. Stefan and Conor pressed against the house. Michael simply dove for the ground, confounding everyone.

  They opened fire, but to no avail. Blue light flickered in a sphere around Abigail as the lead slug splattered harmlessly against thin air. Michael cursed and covered his face as the dragon neared, closing his eyes against the flaming death soon to rain down upon him.

  It never came. The saddest sound he’d ever heard in his life replaced it.

  “Daddy?” even magically amplified, the girlish voice sounded whispered. Michael thought he heard a sob before the screeching crunch of twisting metal cut it off. He opened his eyes to see the dragon flying away into the night, Jim Covington’s SUV firmly clasped in its front claws.

  O’Bryan still burned. Mi
chael fought through the oppressive heat as he rushed to Jim’s side. His hands burned and his lungs boiled as he dragged the old man away from the flaming demon. Chief Lewis rushed over with a heavy blanket from the patrol car. They covered their friend with it.

  With his cover and concealment carried off, Denzel found himself newly exposed. Predictably, he panicked, jumping to his feet and running in circles.

  “What the hell was that?” he yelled. “Ain’t none of y’all tell me ‘bout no damn dragon! What, y’all didn’t think it might be important? Nobody thought it was worth a mention? There wasn’t time to bring it up? ‘Oh, by the way Denzel, we’re going to go fight a dragon!’”

  George stepped out from his own cover and approached his friend.

  “Calm down, man.”

  “Don’t you tell me to calm down!”

  George slapped him hard across the face. Denzel shot his classmate a dirty look. A second slap followed. Denzel hefted the chainsaw, anger flashing across his face, but the little man didn’t even flinch. He adjusted his glasses calmly. A moment later, the big guy let out a deep breath and lowered his weapon. The friends traded nods and that was that.

  Peter ignored them, firing a few shots from behind the oak. Then he rushed into the open for a clearer view. He squeezed off a few more tight, controlled rounds before lowering the weapon.

  “It’s too far,” he muttered. “Can’t risk hitting her.”

  Michael caught sight of his face as he turned away in resignation. He’d expected anger. Instead, his friend’s cold, calm expression terrified him.

  Peter wandered aimlessly, stopping at last by an old mailbox. Without warning, he tossed his head back and let out a massive roar. Then he turned and snapped out a perfect side kick. The mailbox went flying.

  When the flames died, they pulled it off.

  As the flames finally died, Michael pulled the blanket off his friend. Black char covered Covington’s entire right side. The angle of his body had kept the left side almost untouched. Michael couldn’t decide if that made it easier or harder. He held Jim’s good hand firmly in one of his own as the Chief felt for a pulse, then for breath.

  When he found neither, he began CPR. Burns radioed for help as he trotted over to join the effort. They swapped out, taking turns. Five minutes later, Chief Lewis gave up. His experience taught him it was a lost cause. Michael refused to quit.

  Burns keyed his radio again.

  “Dispatch, what’s the word on that ambulance?”

  His radio answered only with static.

  “Dispatch?” he repeated.

  Michael felt the hair on his arms rise as a sudden shadow crept over them. The wind picked up as dark clouds rolled in above.

  “I thought there weren’t any storms in the forecast tonight,” Conor noted.

  “There weren’t,” Chief Lewis confirmed. “It was supposed to be clear skies and sixty degrees. Good football weather.”

  “Abby’s doing?” Peter asked.

  “I would presume,” Gabriel agreed. He glanced up at the storm clouds on the horizon. “Pretty major storm rolling in, though. She’s got a lot more power and skill than I would have thought if she can manage that.”

  “Well, she does have a dragon at her beck and call,” Conor pointed out.

  “True enough,” Gabriel allowed. “One has to wonder where she learned all this, though. It’s not like there are many teachers out there.”

  “Money can buy you a lot of connections. You should see the kinds of favors Jim can cash in.” Michael paused for a moment as reality caught back up with him. He corrected himself. “Could cash in.”

  The ground beneath them stirred. They grouped in on each other as hands reached out of the ground.

  “We’ve got to move,” Stefan noted. “We can’t stay here.”

  “Where to?” Conor asked him.

  “Somewhere we can do an interrogation.” Stefan pointed at Khalid.

  “Stoegemoeller’s office,” Michael declared.

  “She wanted something,” Peter agreed. “She said something about a spell. It sounded like something she needed for her plans.”

  The rage that burned in Michael’s eyes rivaled the flames around them.

  “Let’s make sure she doesn’t get it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Peter led the way up Lumpkin Street at a light jog. Michael would have preferred a faster pace, but George’s asthma and their prisoner slowed them. Khalid fought them every step of the way. He shuffled instead of running, refused to do anything without explicit instruction, and generally made a pain of himself.

  He even tried to make a break for it half a block away. The escape attempt proved short lived when Denzel reached out a giant hand and wrapped it around his neck. He lifted the foreigner off the ground one handed as the little man’s feet tried to run in the air. A moment later, out of air, Khalid gave up.

  He didn’t try to escape again, but Denzel didn’t take any chances. He tossed the frat boy over his shoulder like a sack of oats and carried him. It didn’t seem to slow him down at all. But after a few hundred yards, Khalid got the point. Denzel let him down to run for himself, but he didn’t take his eyes off the man.

  Michael fought off exhaustion as they ran up the hills of Athens. His watch read seven fourteen. He’d now been awake more than twenty-seven hours. In that time, he’d fought three armies of clay golems, the yellow-nosed demon that haunted him, and a warlock and dragon duo – twice – his dead fiancée’s sister had betrayed him, and he’d watched one of his only friends die right in front of him.

  He felt every bit of it.

  Conflicting emotions roiled inside him. Jim’s sacrifice played on an unbidden endless loop in his mind, driving home the pain again and again. He tried to refocus, but in his fatigued state he lacked the mental stamina. When he finally managed to wrench away, his mind floated to Abby instead. Anger and shame set in as he realized the true depths of what she’d done to him. Then realization struck.

  I didn’t kill Katie. Relief washed over him, and a weight lifted from his shoulders. Strangely, that only made everything else hurt worse.

  Even dragging Khalid kicking and screaming, the journey only lasted a few short minutes. He felt a sense of deja vu as they crossed Baxter Street and worked their way up the hill to Park Hall. He wondered if Abby would be waiting to surprise him again. At least this time, he wasn’t running in the August heat. In November it actually felt good to run, even in Georgia.

  They stopped short at the front door.

  “Locked,” Peter called out.

  “I can radio in for a key,” Burns offered.

  “How long will that take?” Gabriel asked.

  “Probably an hour,” the officer answered.

  Lewis scoffed.

  “It’s game day. More like two.” Burns sighed and agreed.

  “We don’t have time for that,” Conor declared.

  Peter grunted and set himself, preparing to kick the door in. Lewis put a hand on his shoulder.

  “That door is solid oak, son. You’ll break your foot. Step back and let me handle it.” Lewis brought his shotgun up and pressed it against the doorjamb. “Clear!” he called.

  The others scrambled backward. A moment later he turned his head away and squeezed the trigger. Splinters and shards flew everywhere. When they looked back they found a hole where the hinges had been. Chief Lewis gave the door a gentle push. It slowly creaked open.

  They pushed Khalid through the door and followed him inside. Michael scanned the familiar building for threats. Finding nothing, they continued toward the stairs. Their footsteps echoed in the massive, empty building.

  Michael motioned for quiet as they closed in on Stoegemoeller’s office. The others pulled up to a halt behind him. He gently tried the doorknob. To his surprise, he found it unlocked. He finished the turn smoothly, rotating the handle all the way down. Then he pushed the door open gently and quietly. Light peeped out from under the door. Michael
tried to maintain an element of surprise.

  A tired, worn man looked up at them as the door creaked open. Michael trained his rifle on the decrepit stranger. Michael heard his comrades-in-arms shuffling around him. A quick glance confirmed that they’d all followed his lead. The man looked a bit ruffled as he stared down the five submachine guns surrounding him.

  The man probably weighed about the same as Michael. He didn’t carry it as well, though. His five-foot-eight frame bore enough muscle to convey some strength, but his midsection carried no small amount of extra padding. He kept his dark hair close cropped and his facial hair trimmed into a neat van dyke around his mouth.

  He wore the cheap slacks and sport jacket so typical of a college professor. His tweed jacket even had patches on the elbows. But the resemblance ended there. The large, blood soaked cloth tied around his right thigh emphasized his limp. His left arm hung in a sling. The bags under his eyes stood out even amidst the dirt smudged all over his face. His shoulders slumped forward as if he carried a great burden. Everything about his stance conveyed the impression of deep fatigue. Neurons fired in the back of Michael’s skull.

  “Dr. Stoegemoeller, I presume?”

  “Yes. And I feel thankful that I am here to welcome you.” Dr. Stoegemoeller completed the classic quote with a grin. The stocky man reached out a bloody hand toward the youth who had tried so hard to be his student.

  “Where have you been?” Michael asked.

  “Hiding,” the professor answered simply. “Here, there, and elsewhere. I have... certain items that need to be kept safe, you understand.”

  “From whom?” Conor asked.

  “Abigail,” Michael answered.

  Stoegemoeller gave an affirmative nod.

  “Her, and others.”

  “How long have you known?” Michael asked him angrily.

  “About Abigail?” Stoegemoeller took his glasses off his face and wiped them on his dirty shirt. “I’ve only known since that dragon turned my car into a smoldering husk last night. And the weather tonight confirms it. Weather control like this requires some serious power.”