Curse of the Daemon Beast

by Francis James Blair

  “Er, Collin.” Off guard, Belial had to dig fast through its host’s memories for a suitable name. This evening had taken a far better turn than he had ever expected. About damn time. “You’re rather fiery yourself, if I may say.”

  “Indeed you may!” the divine creature in the red dress purred, practically blowing in Belial’s ear. “You don’t mind sharin’ your seat with little old me, do you? I promise it’ll only be a short while.”

  By now Belial had completely written off drinking or playing cards. Yes, it had been waiting for an opportunity like this, and now one had literally fallen into its lap.

  “Oh? What do you mean?” the daemon managed to ask at last.

  The girl’s eyes glittered. “I have somethin’ much more excitin’ planned for us tonight.”

  “Is that so?” The daemon eyed the table. It had enough winnings left to afford whatever this girl was asking. Enough to get her somewhere quiet, at least. After that, what she wanted wouldn’t matter, now would it? “Give me a minute to cash out, and we can go find somewhere private upstairs.”

  “Oh come now, darlin’, don’t you at least want to get to know me?”

  “I—what?” The red dress really wasn’t the usual sort. The last thing most of the refreshment girls wanted was for a man to know who they were.

  Fine. It could play her little game. “Alright. What do they call you?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” The girl twined a finger through Belial’s hair, and the daemon had to resist the urge to moan. “Estalia.”

  That’s a unique . . . .

  Belial froze. As it watched, the girl’s image shimmered like August sunlight on the far plains, face rearranging itself, gaining a season’s tan in the span of seconds. Her hair tumbled down into twin braids. The dress shifted and changed to a leather jacket, worn and showing signs of hard travel and other, less savory things. Only the girl’s smile remained unchanged.

  The finger that had been caressing the daemon’s hair was no finger at all, and Belial felt the cold barrel of a revolver scrape against its skull. A scream bubbled on its lips, and arms rose to to cast the girl away.

  Too slow. Much, much too slow.

  Belial looked into the Pistol Wench’s eyes, and her smile looked like the gates of Hell themselves.

  “Vos.”

  Thanks for reading! Temperance will return October 2019 in

  Episode Three: Arkton at High Noon

  Appendix

  A Short Treatise on the Mechanics of Advanced Thaumatik Arts, as Prepared for His Imperial Majesty by Praetorian Ismel-An

  Innumerable thanks to His Majesty for granting me the honor to serve the empire in such a direct manner. I shall endeavor to be brief and accurate in my findings, or at least as accurate as one can be when discussing a subject such as this. Unfortunately, much of our knowledge concerning the Thaumatik Arts, referred to more often in the unconquered lands as sorcery, is steeped in myth and superstition. Despite efforts by our civil enforcement branch to educate and redirect opinion, there are many even today living under the guiding light of your benevolence that still cling to their old superstitions, hindering the ability of our administration to study this topic in-depth.

  Thaumatik Theory shares many similarities with its more basic cousin electrophysik, the groundwork for which powers everything from our train network to the factories in most major urban areas. Both concern themselves with the movement of currents, the storage of electrical charge, and the fundamental law of conservation. That, however, is where the similarities end. While electrophysik theory is limited in its usefulness to the application of Transference energy only, the Thaumatik Arts suffer from no such restrictions.

  Utilizing Thaumatik principles one can, for example, take the stored energy from a steam locomotive and convert it to any number of purposes. It might be used to reverse a gravitational flow, lifting an object from the ground, or perhaps to expand the object several times its normal size. It might be used to mirror and duplicate simple objects for mass production. It could even be used to dilate time in a restricted area, distorting the perspective of all within its range. And these manipulations only touch against the surface, the most simple uses such power could be put to.

  These claims might seem outrageous, but I assure Your Majesty that this is no idle boast. The Thaumatik Arts permit actions that bend or even downright defy the laws of natural physik. I have witnessed many of them with my own eyes, and under the “tutelage” of an arcane master from the former Finderhav province I have recreated all of the conversions listed above within my own laboratory.

  The exact workings behind this conversion are still not entirely understood. What we do know is that, through intermediary objects known as “reagents”, some process allows for the very fabric of reality to be twisted to the user's will. Already I am certain Your Majesty can understand and appreciate the many applications such powers could be directed towards.

  Most texts agree that there are twelve identifiable forms of energy, each with its own purpose and uses. These are:

  Transference - The best understood of all energy sources, this controls movement and more traditional electrophysik theory. This is the power that swings a pendulum or drives an engine.

  Primordial - Creates and controls heat, as well as life. This energy can even gift certain actions with a form of autonomy that mimics intelligence, but should not be confused for such in truth.

  Combustion - Creates or confines the detonation of materials. To state it more bluntly, it makes things explode.

  Vital - Controls the state of an object (solid, liquid, or gas), as well as its substance.

  Magnetic - Creates and controls waves and currents, the forces that underpin much of our understanding of both geologik and meteorik.

  Aural - Amplifies and restricts other energy sources.

  Demonaic - Pairs and links energies or objects. Traditional practitioners claim this is the source of their bond with their so-called “familiars.”

  Pulse - Defines range and area of effect for other energies. Creates vibrations that can influence everything from weather to human thoughts.

  Dormant - Allows for storage and containment of desired processes, or manipulation of space and distance.

  Tuning - Controls the binding and combining of objects. Useful for everything from distilling chemical mixtures to adhering objects to an otherwise smooth surface.

  Divine - Copies objects, reshaping its energy to take their form. Used both for creating objects of substance as well as tricks and illusions.

  Chronol - Time manipulation, although I hesitate to call it such. It does not appear to actually affect the passage of time so much as the target's perception of it.

  Traditional sorcery accomplishes manipulation of these energies through effigies, hand-waving, and spoken nonsense. My researchers currently are studying more direct, verifiable methods for repeating the effects that for so long have been solely the realm of the mystical elite. It is only a matter of time, and of sufficient resources, until the Thaumatik Arts can be distilled into a subject that is taught to every school-age child across the empire.

  There is also a hypothetical thirteenth form of energy, referred to by some as Galvanic Binding, that works as a bridge between the other energy forms, allowing power to be drawn from reagents and into the desired process. However, none of my studies have been able to verify this energy's existence, and it remains controversial even among traditional practitioners.

  In conclusion, Your Majesty, Thaumatik Theory is a powerful tool. It can be used to move mountains, or part oceans. It could be used to disarm, subdue, or to kill. For this last reason, above all others, it is of vital importance that a complete and controlled understanding of the Thaumatik Arts be achieved. Even now, across the Wide Sea, our agents report that use by the Federation of these powers as a weapon grows increasingly commonplace. I urge His Majesty to consider investing more heavily in ensuring that the Apterix Empire is well placed
to compete with the rest of the world against this threat to our continued liberation of Galinor and beyond.

  Thank you again for Your Majesty’s time, I await your decision concerning further funding of my work.

  Lira Ismel-An

  Praetor for the Study of Advanced Thaumatik Arts

  Acknowledgements

  Creating a book is far more than simply putting words on the page, and the author himself merely a small cog in the overall machine. The number of people involved in bringing this book to completion are almost too numerous to count. I am most indebted to my wife, who is my editor in addition to a reader and writer in her own regard. Without her constant input as well as keeping our children at bay while I pounded at the keyboard, I have no doubt this book would still just be an idea floating around inside my head.

  I am also indebted to Jin Lee for the immeasurably fabulous artwork, Sarah Evelyn for the maps that give my world definition, and all friends and family for the support and encouragement they offered during my darkest moments.

  Of beta readers I have been graced with the most amazing people, willing to give their time and energies to this little project of mine: Jamie Morrison for his words of wisdom, Henry Antenor for his constant encouragement, Ying Luo for her critical eye, Wayne Closter for his insights on characters, and John Bierce, not only for his writing advice but his knowledge of cocktails as well! I just hope you all look back on this book as fondly as I do.

  About the Writer

  James is a CPA living in Eastern Washington. He started writing in 2015 after a dream left a story in his head that he couldn’t make go away. He’s been typing at the keyboard furiously ever since, and probably won’t stop until sometime around noon on the day of his funeral. You can find updates and announcements about his works at www.fjblair.com.

  Deleted Scenes

  Author’s note: Before anyone asks, yes I did steal this idea from Will Wight. However, Will told me I could, so that totally makes it okay.

  * * *

  Temperance was starting to consider yelling out again when a length of rough cord slipped over the edge. The man appeared alongside it.

  “Don’t know if this will hold, but you look a tiny thing. Give it a pull, eh?”

  Temperance wrapped a hand around the cord, relief flooding through her, and gave the material a tug. It held, and she started to scramble up, feet kicking for purchase against the smooth sides. Her arms ached after languishing in the pit for several days, but she did her best to ignore it.

  The lip was only within inches of her grasp when she heard the first snap. The rope jerked about, then went limp in her hands. Temperance screamed and flailed at open air for several panicked heartbeats before the bottom of the pit claimed her once again.

  “What? What?” The old man peered over the edge again. Temperance stared sightlessly at the sky, a pool of blood spreading out beneath her. As the old man watched, her body twitched once, then went still.

  Sventa tried to swallow, only to find his throat had gone dry. “Well now, that ain’t good.”

  * * *

  “I wouldn’t touch those, if I were you.” Ruth jumped at the sound of Temperance’s voice and spun to face the water. She stammered something, probably an apology, but snapped her mouth shut before she began. Temperance watched as the girl’s face turned red as a beet.

  What is that about? Temperance glanced down and herself. Oh.

  You would think a country girl would be used to a little—

  CANNONBALL!!!

  Temperance looked up just in time for Astor’s front hoof to collide with her face. The horse landed on top of her, and both of them disappeared beneath surface. After a moment a few bubbles rose to the surface, but otherwise the pond was quiet.

  Ruth glanced around, then shrugged. “Can I just keep this, then?” She pulled the jacket from the tree.

  * * *

  “Daemon?” The boy looked confused. “I ain’t got no clue ‘bout that. I thought you was asking ‘bout—”

  The distant cracking noise almost didn’t register in Temperance’s mind. She might have dismissed it if she hadn’t been on edge already. She jerked her head, looking for the source as the sound faded away. When nothing else followed, she turned back to Patrick.

  The boy stood there, mouth hanging open, a look of surprise and terror on his face. As she watched, a red spot bloomed on his chest, spreading downward and soaking through his shirt in moments. He dropped to his knees, and Temperance just caught him before he hit the ground.

  “I . . . I . . .” The boy gasped. His mouth flapped open and closed like a fish. After a moment, he stammered out, “please . . . delete my . . . . browser history.”

  Temperance lowered his limp form to the ground and stared around in confusion.

  “What the Hell is a ‘browser’?”

  * * *

  With a sigh of relief Cyrus settled into the chair. He drew a single note out of the instrument, made a few adjustments, and did it again. Nodding in satisfaction, he looked to the crowd.

  “Well?” he asked. “Any requests?”

  From the back of the crowd, someone shouted, “Play Free Bird!”

  Cyrus grimaced in disgust and ignored the heckler. Temperance leaned back to look at the stars as the first few bars of “Sweet Home Ozaka” began to play.

  * * *

  “Do we have your word you will not turn those strange weapons against us if we return them to you?”

  “I suppose,” Temperance said, not wanting to antagonize the daemon while it still held the upper hand. Still, she couldn’t help asking, “Why did you sick your daemon pet after me, then?”

  “You mean Fluffy?” Ceranach looked at her with surprise.

  “Fluffy? You named that monster ‘Fluffy’?”

  “Of course! Why, what would you have named her?”

  Temperance frowned. “I don’t know: Blood-Drinker, or Killer, or Duchess. Anything but ‘Fluffy’.”

  * * *

  Belial looked into the Pistol Wench’s eyes, and her smile looked like the gates of Hell themselves.

  “Vos.”

  *Click.*

  The Pistol Wench frowned. “Vos. Vos! VOS!”

  *Click. Click. Click.*

  The two of them stared into each other’s eyes, the rest of the saloon gone silent as an open grave. Belial watched a bead of sweat slide down the wench’s cheek.

  “Uh . . .” she stammered. “Call it a draw?”