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

by Russell Newquist

Her head jerked up and she looked him straight in the eye. He slowed to a walk as he approached, his rifle trained on her.

  “The valiant and noble Michael Alexander, rushing off to war to avenge his dead fiancée. Now you want me to believe that you’ll shoot her baby sister?” She cackled at him.

  “I already have twice today,” he answered. “I won’t let you do this, Abby. It’s over.”

  “Nothing is over!” Her eyes turned crazy again and the words came out in a tirade. “Nothing! You will be mine again!”

  “I was never yours, Abby.” The words came out in a whisper. “And I never will be. No amount of drugs or magic can ever change that. You killed Katie. You killed Jim. And now I’m going to kill you.”

  Rage washed over her face, contorting it into an otherworldly grimace. For a moment, she didn’t look like Abby anymore. For a moment, she didn’t even look human. As quickly as the anger had arrived, it faded. The smile lit up her face again.

  Damn, she’s beautiful when she smiles, Michael thought despite himself. But he could see the insanity that still infested her blue eyes. What happened to you, Abigail? She’d always been a bit of a hot mess, but he’d never known it ran so deep.

  “Do it then!”

  The outright glee in her voice sent shivers down his spine. He squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He looked down to see the chamber of his M4 locked open. He’d emptied his magazine again fighting through the undead. His left hand dropped to his vest, fishing for another magazine. It came up empty.

  Her grin widened. She must have seen the empty chamber and known he couldn’t shoot. He pulled the strap over his head and tossed the weapon aside. He reached for his pistol before remembering that he’d already lost it.

  He let out a curse.

  He wanted to punch her in the face. After a moment’s thought, he decided to do one better. Exploding into a lunge, he closed the distance quickly. His left hand led in a beautiful jab. It would have closed perfectly with the wound Dr. Stoegmoeller’s phurba had left.

  It never connected. Blue and purple light flashed as his fist met the magical energy barrier that surrounded her. He felt something crunch. Five tiny metacarpals made up the bones of the hand, he knew. He felt pretty certain he’d just broken at least one of them.

  She cackled again. A wave of blue energy sparked through him. Maybe fatigue, injuries, and the events of the night had finally caught up with him. Or maybe she’d held back earlier, both at the frat house and Stoegemoeller’s office. Whatever the reason, the pain hit far harder than it had before. He screamed as he dropped to his knees in agony.

  Off to the side, Faith struggled against her bonds. He caught her eye, and she tried to shout at him. The gag in her mouth muted her cries. Her eyes pleaded for help, but he had none to give.

  I’m sorry, he mouthed at her.

  The energy stopped as quickly as it had begun, but the pain lingered. He raised his head to meet Abigail’s gaze. She laughed at him, arms outstretched, fingers pointed toward him. Then she turned to Faith. She stepped over to the bound woman, stroking her blue hair.

  Michael heard the squelch of twisting metal to his left. He turned his head slightly and watched out of the corner of his eye as one of the Apache’s fell to the ground, engulfed in flame. His morale plummeted with it.

  “See? He can’t help you, you silly girl. And your boyfriend hasn’t come for you, just as our dragon friend said he wouldn’t.” She turned back to Michael.

  His empty rifle smacked her in the face, startling her. When she’d dropped the shield to touch Faith, he’d taken the opportunity and tossed the useless weapon at her. He fished out the baseball bat tucked in the back of his shirt as he sprinted closer, trying to close the gap before she could recover from his desperate distraction.

  The dragon swooped down, belching flame in front of him. Michael skidded to a stop as the beast landed. It hissed and roared at him. He faced down the sorceress. The crazy seeped through her eyes again. She caught his wrist in her hand, stopping it with an inhuman strength. Then she casually wrenched the bat out of his hand and tossed it aside.

  Prayer had helped him once earlier tonight, or so it seemed. He decided to give it a shot once more. He dropped to a knee and lowered his head. He struggled to find the words, and wished Peter were there. Peter had more than enough faith for both of them. Peter would know what to say. He bowed his head and did the best he could.

  Abigail smirked. The dragon eyed him hungrily. Michael felt certain that it smirked at him, too. He ignored it. He couldn’t ignore it when the beast opened its jaws and sucked in a deep breath. Refusing to give in, he rose for a final charge.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The mud felt cold as ice beneath Peter. His bones ached from the wet and the chill. Concrete, he thought to himself. He opened his eyes. It made no difference. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Maybe I’m dead, after all.

  He heard noises in the darkness. Scrapes, pops, even muted screams. Shifting, he managed to get his hands underneath himself. He came across something solid on the floor. His hand slid down the smooth, cylindrical surface. He gripped it tight. Recognizing the Sword in his hand, he pushed himself to his feet.

  The blade burst into flame.

  Peter did a double take when he saw it. He peered past the light and studied it for a moment. Instead of a Sumerian sickle sword, the weapon now resembled a simple medieval longsword. About three inches wide, sharp on both edges and the point, and straight as an arrow, the blade measured about three feet long. The pommel was long as well, measuring nearly a foot itself.

  The length almost pushed it into two-handed sword territory, but not quite. The polite would call it a hand-and-a-half sword, easily wielded with one hand or with two. The common, more popular term was “bastard sword.” He gave it a simple test swing. Whatever you called it, it balanced exquisitely.

  The simple, straight guard gave it a simple design immediately recognizable to any religious man. The Sword looked like a cross – as the craftsmen of the Middle Ages had intended.

  A wide fuller ran three quarters the length of the blade. Inside it carried an inscription in blocky, Romanesque letters. It took Peter a moment to recognize and translate the Latin. Quis et deus? it read. Who is like God?

  He recognized the inside of Sanford Stadium as memory came rushing back to him, but he had no idea how he’d gotten there. He looked around and took stock. A battle raged across the field, but quiet reigned supreme on his end. He looked up to the skybox and watched the dragon lift off into the air.

  He rushed through the nearest portico into the corridor that lined the stadium. A staircase caught his eye. The sign labeled it staircase number nine. He could take it to the roof, and then cross the skybox away from the undead army. He knew from his vision that he would find Faith there.

  On the other hand, his friends lay on the other end, surrounded and under siege. But he’d have to fight alone through a massive army of pseudo-undead to reach and aid them. Meanwhile, the true enemy waited on the roof – and he had a clear path. If he could take down Abigail and the dragon, the fight would end.

  Unsure of how to proceed, Peter knelt. He turned the Sword blade down, gripping the pommel, and crossed himself for a prayer. He racked his brain, unsure of which to choose for the situation. A Hail Mary seemed appropriate but he opted against it without fully understanding why. Instead, the words came to him as if from outside. He didn’t recognize the prayer, but he spoke it loud and strong as if he’d known it his whole life.

  “St Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Protect us against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God restrain him, we humbly pray. And do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust, down to hell, Satan, and with him the other evil spirits who prowl through the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”

  The flame didn’t dim, exactly, and it didn’t lose any of its heat or fury. Instead it seemed to simmer, settling into a calmer, more
focused state. Peter’s mind followed suit. He rose to his feet and made for the stairs at a run.

  The path turned out to be less clear than he’d thought. A pair of not-vampires confronted him as soon as he rounded the first turn. The flaming Sword cut through both necks in one stroke as easily as it would have through a stick of warm butter. Peter didn’t even feel it. He poured on the speed. Strength seemed to come from nowhere, refreshing and energizing him as he ran.

  He topped the next flight and rounded the bend onto the platform. Two dozen of the creatures stood in his way. Peter dropped into the standard chudan stance Sensei Rogers had taught him in Kendo class as he charged into the fray. The standard techniques he’d learned didn’t quite fit this blade, but against the mindless constructs they worked well enough.

  He brought the Sword high, striking through the first vampire’s head in a clean men strike straight down the centerline. He didn’t stop as the construct dropped, carrying his momentum through into an upward, angled strike straight through the next undead creature’s chest cavity. The Sword met no resistance.

  He brought it around for another shot at the creature’s head, only to find that it had already collapsed to the ground. He spared a second glance to ensure that it had ceased moving, as he moved on to the next one. This time he thrust the blade straight, piercing through the chest.

  He cringed as he finished the move. He should have turned the blade to slide between the ribs. It turned out not to matter. The fake bones gave no resistance to the Holy weapon. He snapped the blade upward and cut through the torso easily.

  When this creature, too, dropped without sustaining any head injuries, Peter attributed it to the Sword. He stopped focusing on head shots, opting instead for the easier body strikes. He spun, twirled and flowed through the mob, almost dancing. Yet the blade hit home on every strike.

  A moment later, he stood panting over a pile of dissolving corpses. He took a moment to catch his breath and then bounded up the stairs two at a time. Another half dozen of the magical creatures greeted him on the final flight. He barely noticed them as he cut through.

  The staircase ended on the upper level. He burst out onto the landing and immediately searched for the staircase to the roof. After a few moments, he found the door to the sky suites.

  He gave them a moment of consideration before bringing the Sword down on the doorknob. Sparks flew, and the doorknob dented, but remained intact. Peter sighed and raised the blade for another strike. Then he stopped and took in a sudden breath.

  Relaxing, he lowered the weapon and reached for the door with his left hand. He gave the knob a gentle turn. It opened easily. Someone must have left it unlocked during the evacuation. He cursed himself for carelessness as he examined the blade. To his surprise, the Sword was undamaged. He couldn’t find even a single scratch.

  He stepped inside and let the door close behind him. Another door inside led to a tight staircase. He took it up. This time, the door at the top really was locked. Thankfully, Peter also kept his head about him this time. He fished down for his thigh holster and withdrew the Glock 30 he’d borrowed the night before.

  He took a step back and aimed at the latch. Two quick shots into the doorframe broke the latch loose. He holstered the gun and pried the door open cautiously, afraid that the noise would bring attention. His worry proved unfounded. Between the storms, the helicopters, the dragon, and the sounds of combat, nobody seemed to have even heard him.

  He stepped out into the downpour and took stock of the situation. Battle raged around him. He watched Michael throw a rifle at Abigail and charge into melee range. Flame and sparkling energy surrounded them. Task Force 13 fought an army of vampire constructs around them. In the air, the dragon swooped around the helicopters, dodging in and out.

  The Apaches proved less nimble. A burst of dragon fire caught one of them dead on. Peter watched as it spiraled down into the stands. The metal screeched like a banshee as it folded in on itself. Peter forced his attention away. There was nothing he could do for the helicopter crew.

  The dragon swooped back toward the roof, closing in on Michael and Abigail. Whatever Abigail was up to, she couldn’t be allowed to finish. But Michael had no way to take on the dragon.

  Peter knew what he had to do.

  He covered the hundred yards or so in record time, reaching his friend just as the dragon landed. He closed in behind it and didn’t stop, stepping straight onto the tail and running up its spine. At the neck, he stopped, dropping to one knee. He swapped his grip on the Sword and raised it high, stabbing it back down into the beast’s neck.

  After his experiences with the vampires, he’d expected to meet little resistance. Evidently real creatures were made from sterner stuff, and dragons sterner still. Even his Holy blade barely penetrated the tough skin. Yet unlike everything else they’d thrown at it, the beast felt it.

  Peter nearly fell off as the dragon reared with a whine. Somehow, he managed to get a grip on the quills that jutted from its back. He gripped the Sword tight in his other hand as it came loose from the Dragon. Pulling himself into a better position, he hooked his legs over the beast’s back and straddled it like a horse. He relaxed for a moment, preparing for another strike.

  Then the dragon took to the air.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The battlefield came to a temporary halt as the blaze of the Sword blinded everyone. Michael felt a huge wave of relief pass over him. It passed quickly when he saw the dragon lift off with Peter on board.

  Yet as Abigail turned to watch in horror, he welcomed the distraction. Michael seized the opportunity. His jujitsu form went straight out the window. Instead, high school football training took over. He executed a brilliant tackle, taking her down hard on the concrete.

  She struggled and squirmed as she rolled onto her back, but she was no match for his size. He slid in on top, straddling her waist and pinning her arms down. The emerald in her amulet glowed a deep green. He let go of her wrist and reached for it, but she moved faster. Her hand shot up and grabbed him by the hair he’d let grow shaggy. Then she did the last thing he expected.

  She pulled his head down and kissed him hard.

  Caught completely off guard, he jerked his head back. As he did, she snapped her hips up, popping him upward. The strength of it surprised him, but she followed quickly with a sharp knee to his groin before he could think it through. He grunted with pain, but sucked it up. He tried to push her back over, but met with resistance far stronger than a woman her size should have borne. Too late, he realized she’d wrenched her hands free.

  She made a strange hand gesture at him. It looked like something out of the comic books he used to read as a kid. The now familiar blue light burst from her hands, hitting him like a physical force. It knocked the wind from him as it lifted him four feet into the air.

  He tried to twist to land on his feet. Unable to breathe, he couldn’t quite manage to wrest his body under control. By the time he hit the ground, he’d been able to generally get his legs under him, but his stance left much to be desired. He buckled and collapsed, hyperventilating on the rooftop.

  Abby cackled as she resumed her chant. Michael struggled to force his lungs into a steady pattern. He squeezed the air out hard, consciously, then let it relax back in – just as Sensei Rogers had trained him to. Slowly, normality returned.

  He lifted his head just in time to see Abigail complete her spell. She basked in the swirls of colored light that coalesced around her, soaking it in like a sponge and inhaling it in like a drug. To Michael’s eyes, it looked like she took a hit off of a bong.

  Watching her physical reaction solidified the impression. Abigail relaxed, her body going limp. A strange look came over her face, and a fog colored her eyes. Repulsed, he realized it was a literal fog, floating just under her lids.

  His baseball bat lay yards away, well out of his reach. But now he knew to account for her magically augmented strength. He also knew he could take her. He’d fought big
, strong guys at the dojo. He knew the leverage; he had the training. She didn’t.

  He assumed a fighting stance and crept toward her, not even bothering with stealth. Yet he remained cautious. She had to have known he’d come after her again, yet she’d left him untouched to collect his breath. Abigail had proven herself crazy, but she’d never been stupid. She knew something he didn’t.

  She turned to face him, cloudy eyes filled with psychotic glee. Somehow, her hair stayed perfect in the wind and rain. Combined with her straight white teeth, immaculate makeup, and practiced posture, she looked regal. Then she opened her mouth and ruined the effect. Real people didn’t grin like that. Sane people didn’t grin like that.

  The Joker grinned like that.

  Realization dawned on him. She’d ignored him because she could afford to. She thought she had already won. He took in the scene around him. Magical constructs closed in on Task Force 13, overwhelming them. Above, the dragon tossed Peter around like a toy.

  In the distance, he watched his classmates struggle next to the seasoned soldiers. Guilt crept over him as he watched fatigue take them. They weren’t cut out for this kind of fight. Yet he’d brought them into it anyway. They’d put their lives on the line. Sure, they’d done it of their own free will. But they’d done it because he’d asked them to.

  And he’d failed them.

  His desperate eyes darted around the rooftop. The amulet at her neck radiated power, but he’d never reach it in time. The dragon’s heavy scales repelled any attack he could bring to bear – and besides, it flew at an altitude far out of range. He’d lost his rifle, and even if he’d had it, he didn’t have enough ammunition to take on the army of constructs. The cauldron…

  The cauldron.

  Everything crystallized at once in his mind. He moved, closing in quickly. Abigail flinched. Her smile never faltered, but the crazy gleam of joy left her eyes. He feinted toward her throat, knowing what she’d assume. She took a step backward, raising her hand to her neck. She grasped the pendant and began another chant.