The Demon Collector

by Erik Lynd

  Muscle, striated and raw, showed through the blood and Christopher could see its black, rotting teeth grinning at him. The lack of skin didn't seem to bother it.

  Behind it Christopher could see more blood demons popping up in a straight, smooth motion. A growl from Hellcat, paws drenched in red, made him turn his head. Behind him, in the room they had just left, more demons were rising.

  Flesh above, blood below.

  Once again, he was surrounded. The hunger raged in him to cut into these demons like he had upstairs, but that way led to madness. He could hack all day and eventually he would die.

  There was a door to his left. He kicked it open and saw stairs beyond. A moan escaped the demons, a wet, gurgling sound that in unison sounded like the rapids of an angry river.

  Christopher didn't hesitate, he plunged into the dark of the stairs. It occurred to him this house and now these stairs were confining. He was not a skilled fighter; that was more than obvious with just his few visits to the training books in the Library, but he was much more effective when he had more room. When he had space, he could use his quick movement and control of shadows to assist. Here his options were limited.

  They were herding him.

  As if responding to his thoughts, the Weapon became two large knife blades, one for each hand. The stairs doubled back, ending at a stone floor and a wall with a massive door. A door made of faces.

  Red and brown, the door glistened like the blood flood upstairs. Only this wasn't liquid. Faces writhed and twisted in the door, each briefly rising to the surface before fading back and another took its place. It looked like something out of the Hellraiser movies Hamlin made him watch as “research”. But these faces were not human: each was a demonic visage of anger and pain. There must have been hundreds.

  Behind him blood was flowing down the stairs like a red waterfall display. The blood demons were coming. He had to go through the door.

  As he reached for it, the handle morphed into a gaping mouth lined with needle teeth, like some sort of vicious worm. He wasn't grabbing that.

  He looked down at the knives in his hand and even as he thought it, the Weapon shifted into a massive war hammer. For the first time it changed in response to his thoughts, not in anticipation of his need. It vibrated with hatred and anger, the souls it had drunk had excited it more than ever before. He didn't have time to contemplate what this new-found control meant. He could hear the wet, gurgling moans of the blood demons.

  He released the power of Hell inside of him, channeling it though the Weapon. It almost hummed with glee as he brought the Weapon back over his shoulder and, with a war cry that would have made his Cossack trainer proud, he swung it straight at the door, feeling the power release as it smashed into the face coated barrier.

  The door burst inward in a cacophony of screeches, screams, roars and moans. The concussion of the blast shook the entire house. Plaster from the ceiling rained down on them. That door had been held by something powerful, something he had released.

  Behind him flesh demons were charging down the stairs. Where the blood had pooled by the steps more blood demons were popping up. They would be on him in seconds. Beyond the broken door was a short set of stairs, five or six steps, and then it opened up into a large room with a hole in the center.

  The room was some sort of subbasement. There were no windows and the walls were gray brick, older looking than the rotting walls above, as though this room predated the house. It had an archaic feel to it, but it was also the cleanest smelling room he had encountered. Christopher welcomed the stale, musty scent over the rot and putrid above.

  The hole was a perfectly round gaping circle, no lip or rail around it—just a shadowy hole in the ground. In this house Christopher wouldn't be surprised if it was an express route straight to Hell.

  Balls of energy—demonic essences released from the door when he had smashed it—floated through the air like sickly colored bubbles. Most of the demonic energy floated away, quickly disappearing down the hole. But one large energy ball grew and twisted into a new shape. A new, horrific shape.

  It was something out of a nightmare. It's what would have happened if Cthulhu had fucked a pile of Jell-O. Long tentacles stretched out from each side of the giant head. Huge oval eyes hovered above a vertical gash of a mouth. A mouth with several sideways jaws, each containing a layer of teeth. The mouth gaped wide, showing just how far its massive jaws could open, and bellowed out a roar.

  Tentacles whipped about, throwing off great clumps of slick slime. The monstrous head sat atop a body that was more a sickly, gelatinous mess than a real body. The tentacles were long enough to reach the sides of the oversized room. He would not be able to run past it. If he assumed his prey was in the hole, he would have to go through it.

  Behind him Christopher heard Hellcat roar as she attacked the flesh and blood demons trying to come through the door. She held the doorway, but he knew she couldn't hold it for long.

  He charged at the demon. The Weapon shifted in his hands and then he was holding two large curved blades, heavy enough to chop into the tentacles, but light enough to be quick.

  A tentacle unfurled at him and he chopped into the appendage. It was a clean slice and it fell to the ground; the remaining stump spurted a white, thick fluid that looked more like mucous than blood. The Weapon embraced the violence with relish despite the lack of a soul to damn in this demon incarnate.

  A second tentacle darted at him, then a third, and a fourth. The Weapon sliced through the air, severing one appendage and wounding another. The fourth tentacle, slightly smaller than the others, whipped around his right arm, catching it up before he could strike. It was slick with slime but tightened so quickly he had no time to pull his arm away. It crushed his bone and muscle. The blade in his left came down on the tentacle, sending it writhing to the floor.

  He darted back, his crushed arm hanging loosely at his side. He could still hold the other blade, but swinging it was another matter. Christopher felt a burning pain race down his back, and he turned to see a flesh demon, its clawed hand dripping with his blood. Christopher spun and danced out of the way of a striking tentacle, clumsily slicing into the flesh demon.

  There were too many—too many tentacles, too many demons, just too many. Despite Hellcat's viciousness and deadly claws, flesh and blood demons were starting to get past her too. One on one he could have defeated any of these demons. But there were too many...

  One on one.

  He spun back to the tentacle demon. Too many tentacles. He had attacked the tentacles like each one was an enemy, each had to be defeated to get to the real goal of getting to the stairs. But the tentacles weren't really many. There was only one real target.

  He struck at another blood demon, slicing its head off neatly. More were stepping into the room fighting their way past Hellcat. He only had moments. He put the two blades together and commanded the Weapon to become a pocket knife again, putting his new-found powers of control to the test.

  It resisted. Perhaps it was the eminent battle and souls to claim, but he could physically feel it push back. Time for the real test. Christopher pulled on the Hell seed inside of him—the source of his power—and then picturing an almost comically large hammer made of power, mentally slammed it down on the Weapon.

  Surprisingly it relented and became a simple pocket knife once again. He clasped it firmly in his one good hand and once more charged at the tentacle demon. This time he gathered his power about him and then he jumped, streaking through the air toward the head of the monster. He ignored the tentacles. They were not the target, they were a means.

  The thick, sickly green appendages whipped through the air and caught him. One pythoned around his torso, another wrapped around his thigh. Two more joined the one around his chest and another snagged his half-healed arm. But he kept the hand holding the pocket knife free, held high above his head.

  Then the tentacles constricted, squeezing him like giant snakes. Air rushed from hi
s lungs before he could stop it. He felt muscle and bone compress and pain throbbed through his whole body. He drew upon his power, sent it radiating out through his body, reinforcing muscle and sinew to withstand the squeeze. Still he felt joints pop, his ribs crack, his head throbbed from the pressure. The tentacles themselves became sandpaper as they tightened, pulling off skin like the world’s worst carpet burn.

  Christopher resisted, but he didn't struggle. The demon pulled him quickly toward its mouth. The tentacles squeezed harder and he concentrated his Hellfire energy to hold off the pressure from crushing him. The pain was intense, he felt his ribs breaking. Still he held steady.

  The demon opened a wide, gaping mouth spread sideways, its multi-jawed mouth chomping open and closed quickly, like a demented mulcher. It pulled him closer toward that mouth; if any part of him got caught in those jaws he would be shredded. But he had no intention of passing through those jaws.

  Just a moment before his outstretched hand entered that mouth, Christopher commanded the Weapon to become a lance. He pictured it in his head, something from a movie, a thick, metal spear coming to a point, with a large metal cuff to protect his hand. He didn't know if that was what a real lance looked like. It didn't matter it was the Weapon he needed right now.

  The Weapon needed no encouragement, it shifted in his hand. A large spear tip radiating power and energy sprang outward, while a cuff grew around his hand for protection. The lance crackled with energy, bands of power played across the shaft.

  The demon had no time to react; it couldn't stop the momentum of pulling its prey to its mouth. Christopher was already too close. The lance shot out from his hand and even before it reached its full length, it was piercing through the demon's maw. Its dark oval eyes widened in surprise as the lance drove into the face of the demon.

  It had been pulling him with all of its strength; Christopher used the momentum to drive the lance deeper into the demon head, through that teeth lined mouth. Even as its tentacles started weakening, Christopher drove the lance deeper. The teeth stopped chomping and the demon fell back. Christopher went with it until it hit the ground next to the hole. His lance was wedged inside its skull, the multiple rows of teeth clamped against the hand guard of the lance. Christopher crouched on its chest, hand still holding the lance.

  The Weapon, as though anticipating his command, changed back into a simple pocket knife. No resistance this time. The demon body was already becoming incorporeal, fading into nothing. There was no ball of energy to return to the collector, or to hell for that matter. He hadn't just ended the demon host, he had ended the demon itself. Christopher stepped off of it just as it faded.

  A glance over his shoulder showed Hellcat still standing, but she was injured and weakened. Flesh and blood demons were slipping around her, but she had held them back long enough.

  "Come on, follow me," Christopher commanded. He turned to the hole.

  It wasn't really a hole, it was the top of a wide spiral staircase that led down into darkness. He plunged down the stairs before the demon horde could reach him. A strangely unsettling yowl behind him told him Hellcat was just behind him. So, he suspected, was the demonic horde.

  The stairs were stone and apparently went on forever. He ran down through several revolutions of the spiral and saw no bottom in sight. Perhaps this hole really did lead directly to hell. After several more revolutions, the stone floor changed. It had started as old, but still man-made brick, now it seemed to be made of natural stone. The walls, too, went from smooth brick to the uneven surface of carved rock. He was in an area built long before the dark house upstairs.

  His body ached, broken and battered from the dark house above. He was healing, but his ribs screamed in pain with every step. He moved fast—he had to with the devils on his tail—but he wanted nothing more than to just sit down on the steps and take a breather.

  He could hear the moans, screeching, and wet footfalls of the horde behind him. No matter how worn out he was that sound drove him on. If he stopped, even for a second, he and Hellcat would be overwhelmed. At least he could save one of them.

  "Hellcat, fade," He commanded.

  She growled as though offended at his request and ignored him.

  So much for the authority of the Lord of Damnation.

  He slipped several times, sending him sliding off down the hard, stone steps. Each time was a new test of pain as he skittered across the sharp stone edge of the stairs. Just as he decided the stairs were not a gateway to hell, but hell itself, they came abruptly to the bottom and faced a large doorway. Without thinking he charged through it.

  Into a land of wonder.

  It was a massive cavern. The largest he had ever seen. The floor of the cave was the size of a small valley, complete with a small river running down its length. The cave wall, easily hundreds of feet across, stretched off into a ceiling hidden by shadows. The river emerged from the wall, close to the doorway Christopher had just passed through. The cavern floor was littered with large, moss-covered stones covered. Large, tree-like plants grew from the wall and the ground near the river.

  All this was as a blur as he ran headlong into the cave. The cavern was dark, but his enhanced vision cut though the blackness, so it took him a moment to realize there was light. He was a good fifty feet into the cave before he spotted its origin—high overhead from the top of a large stone pyramid that dominated the cave. It had taken Christopher a moment to understand what he was looking at.

  The large, man-sized bricks that made up the pyramid were old and weathered with rounded edges and moss. More moss carpeted a wide swath of step-sized stones that cut through the middle, creating an obvious path to the top. From the base of the stairs behind him it had looked like a large natural stone formation. Up close, it was clearly a man-made pyramid.

  He also realized the flesh and blood demons were no longer right behind him. He looked and saw them still coming out from the stairwell, but they were no longer running. They came out slowly, fanning out around the cavern.

  They were no longer chasing him because he was right where they wanted him. The trap was sprung, now he just had to figure out exactly what it was. He slowed to a walk as he approached the pyramid.

  He looked toward the top, where the lights were coming from. He could be at the top in seconds, but something told him to look before he leapt this time. The light came from several construction lights; heavy-duty powerlines ran down the side of the pyramid. The structure may have been ancient, but somebody had made a hasty attempt to modernize it.

  But he took in all of this on the periphery. What caught his attention, what turned his stomach to the point where he didn't know if he would vomit or scream in anger, was what he saw in that pool of hastily erected light.

  There was a big man, larger than any person Christopher had ever seen:—tall, but also impossibly wide—dressed in an expensive, perfectly-tailored suit. It was out of place, not the kind of outfit you'd wear for spelunking. Next to him a girl knelt, young, maybe early teens. She was also dressed a little formally for the location, in a long, flowing dress. Her head was bowed as she stared at something glowing in her hands.

  Christopher felt a strangeness when he looked at her glowing hands, as if there was something there he should have been able to see. Something he should have known.

  The Collector was there also, dressed in his archaic priestly clothes. The Collector grinned down at him with such a smug look Christopher wanted to punch him in the face.

  But a moment later, none of this was important. To see enemies known and unknown standing before him, he barely even noticed. It was the last figure up there that took all of his attention.

  At the top of the pyramid Eris hung limp from two short pillars like some sort of ancient sacrifice.

  22

  Dark Eris landed on the roof of the building. Her huge bat-like wings pulled into her back. She was in her demonic form, a gigantic skeleton creature with huge, leathery wings. She’d had no choice, fl
ying was the fastest way to get here. She glanced at the cellphone in her over-sized claws. Yeah this was the spot.

  She stood on top of a single-story building. The roof itself was cracked and peeling. She could feel it sagging beneath her large talon-like feet. It was rotting. She could smell it.

  In fact, the whole area smelled...off…different than other areas of the slum. The rest of the slum had its stink of course, but it was the smell of life; dinner cooking, the scent of exhaust from an old car, even the smell of refuse was sign that someone lived there.

  Here there was nothing. Not even a sound.

  That was even odder than the lack of smells. Where were the sounds of music? The sounds of kids playing in the background, a fight between a husband and wife? Where was the barking of stray dogs or people laughing?

  Nothing, just silence. It was eerie. She looked off the building. Nothing walked in the streets. She couldn't even hear bugs in the distance. It was not natural, this silence. Something was wrong. Her eye was caught by a structure across the street. A large, dark gray house. It stood alone, the buildings on either side had rotted away, leaving piles of rubble.

  It drew her attention, stood out like a black spot in her vision, but that house wasn't where the coordinates had led her. They had led her to the one she was standing on. A very plain, flat structure. She would check this one out if she found nothing then she would move on to the black house. Like knows like, and she could feel evil in that black structure.

  She looked around once more at the streets. Christopher was nowhere to be seen. He might not have even arrived. She flew here direct; he was following his nose. He could be hours away.

  Or he could be captured or killed in the building below her. She didn't know why this bothered her so much, but then again, she didn't know why anything he did bothered her. She was a demon: she delighted in torture and despair. But something or someone had a purpose when placing her in this body. It was a curse of some sort, the only explanation. If only she could remember more. But her memories of the time before she woke up in this body were fuzzy.