Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (3 page)

Still, how had the boy known about the nickname?

Malcolm glanced across to Ulises. The old man nodded sternly, motioning him over, and Malcolm edged through the dancing crowd toward him.

"You were to stay by my side," Ulises quietly scolded.

"I'm sorry."

Ulises sighed. "I believe the loa have all arrived. It's time for us to begin our part."

Malcolm quietly followed as Ulises shared words with several of the priests and the old man posing as Legba. The fourteen loa-possessed worshippers gathered at the central post and began dancing around it, their circle growing, pushing everyone but Ulises and Malcolm away until they'd cleared a forty-foot-wide ring. The dancing loa took the chalk and cornmeal and began drawing the elaborate and swirling edges of the ring save for a narrow gap at one end. The drumbeats continued steadily as the loa worked, and the dense crowd swayed, many with hands raised.

"Stand here," Ulises ordered, and Malcolm took position at the back of the ring.

He felt awkward, the only non-moving person in the entire circle. Unsure what to do with his hands, he clasped them before him but decided it too stiff. He moved a hand to his side to be more casual but found himself holding the wood grip of the gun at his hip. Sliding his hand away, he just tried to focus on the old man slowly pacing the perimeter. Malcolm noticed the drunk teen's one visible eye watching him and couldn't help but wonder if this was about to be some terrible joke at his expense. What the hell was he doing here?

Ulises reached the far side of the ring and thrust his machete high.

The drums ceased, and the crowd parted before the unpainted gap. Priests lined the edges as the white-shirted policemen marched the three prisoners though the open valley.

A pair of loa took the bald man's arms as he entered the ring. Tears stained his dusty cheeks. Searching the crowd desperately, his eyes found a slender woman about Malcolm's age. She put a hand to her mouth as if forcing away her own tears.

The scarfed woman came next. She scowled indignantly as another pair of loa escorted her in. Finally, the beaten man in the green shorts entered the ring. He kept his eyes downcast and clutched his cuffed hands together.

A drum sounded, followed by another, loud and ominous. Ulises backed away from the three captives, Hounacier still raised.

Drums beat again, steadily like a slow pulse. The loa painted the circle closed, completing the ring. Ulises stopped beside Malcolm, and the loa escorts gently pulled their prisoners to the packed ground, laying them on their backs, their heads toward the central post.

Ulises unleashed a loud whoop, and the drums erupted into a rapid beat. A stream of musical chanting poured from the old man, the strange words completely foreign to Malcolm. The loa danced in and around the circle, unhindered by the painted lines.

Holding his machete out, sideways across his open palms, Ulises aimed the length of the blade at the bald man, then the woman, and then the cuffed prisoner. His song grew louder, faster as he repeated the chant, gesturing to each person for several seconds before moving to the next.

Hair and clothing ruffled as if caught in a gust though the heavy, sticky air didn't move. The dancers' fury grew. They jumped and twirled, circling the ring like frenzied sharks. The old bokor's voice was almost a scream as he aimed the side-turned weapon at the bald man. A tremor shuddered through his body and then ceased as Ulises focused on the woman. She began to tremble as well. Ulises continued the sequence, his voice roaring. Each time, whichever prisoner he focused on would shake as if the machete blade were arcing an invisible bolt of lightning.

The spasms became more intense. Legs and arms moved with impossible speed, a blur of skin and cloth. Malcolm jumped as the scarfed woman screamed, her shrill voice cracking into something deep and inhuman. The unseen bolt moved to the cuffed man beside her. His bound hands pulsed like a jackhammer. In the blur, they appeared to swell. A metallic pop, and one of the steel shackles blew open.

Wide-eyed, Malcolm stared in horror as the bald man's head seemed to stretch, his mouth jutting forward. One of the woman's legs elongated for a moment. Her sandal popped free and bounced across the circle. The chanting song raged around him. Malcolm's hair whipped in the unfelt wind.

With a loud rip, the man's shirt split open. A membrane of dark skin stretched beneath his arms to the base of his ribs. He screamed, the tone deepening as iron-like fangs sprouted from his mouth. Ulises howled, stamping his feet as he kept the machete blade aimed at the writhing form.

Horrified, Malcolm stepped back. Shouts erupted around him as several people in the crowd tried to flee. Policemen drew their weapons, their eyes wide with terror. Ulises continued his chant as loa danced around.

A pair of short horns burst through the top of the bald man's head. He rolled onto his knees. His legs lengthened, feet curling like hooks.

Malcolm took another step, about to run when arms seized him from behind.

"Watch, Milky!" Rum-soaked breath. "Watch her dance."

The woman in the white scarf and the prisoner in broken handcuffs both scrambled away as the beast stood. Brown, bat-like wings extended outward, nearly twenty feet across. Blade-like claws curled from the fingers atop each wing. It opened ruby eyes and shrieked a piercing scream.

Gunshots erupted as one of the officers fired his pistol, not caring about the crowd around him. Bloody holes popped open along the creature's skin then closed. The monster spun and hissed.

Ulises charged.

He swung the machete, but the beast sprung back with a flap. Leather wings ruffled as it swiped its claws. The old man ducked and spun to the side, Hounacier out before him.

"Watch her." The teen's grip loosened and slid away. "Learn the steps."

The beast lunged, snapping its jaws. Ulises lurched back, barely escaping the iron teeth, but one of the taloned wings raked his upper arm, splitting open a pair of long cuts down his bicep. The monster moved in. Ulises raised his wounded left arm, displaying his palm. The lidded tattoo opened wide, and the creature recoiled. Keeping the hand up, Ulises thrust Hounacier forward, but the beast flapped and hopped back, landing atop the painted pole.

Remembering the heavy sawed-off at his hip, Malcolm drew it and aimed the gun in both hands. He pulled the trigger. It didn't move. He squeezed it harder until his finger hurt.

Ulises ran forward and jumped, slicing the machete down into one of the beast's hooked feet. It screamed and fell backward, wings flailing. It hit the ground with a hard thump, nearly hitting the loa Erzulie. Snarling, it hobbled upright. It snapped its jaws as Ulises dove toward it. He ducked below the attack and hacked the blade into the crook of the monster's neck. Blood exploded from the wound. It thrashed, knocking the flat of a wing hard into Ulises, but he drove the blade up under its ribs.

Brilliant purple and white fire burst from the wound at the creature's neck. It spread like lit gasoline across its body. Malcolm feared it might burn the old man, but Ulises didn't appear concerned about the flames. He wrenched the blade from the corpse and stood, straddling it. No smoke came from the fire. In fact, it didn't even seem to burn.

Panting, Ulises turned and met Malcolm's horrified stare. Burning blood dripped from Hounacier's blade. Stepping over the hideous corpse, the tattooed priest approached. Blood from the wound at his arm ran down to his hand. He reached out and touched the end of Malcolm's still-extended gun, gently pushing it down and leaving a pair of red fingerprints.

Ulises glanced down at the weapon. "The safety is still on."

Releasing a breath, Malcolm let go of the trigger. His lips shook, struggling to form words. "What…what the fuck!"

Ulises didn't react to the sudden outburst. "Do you believe, Malcolm Romero?"

The loa all circled the flaming monster, cradling it. The young woman from the crowd pushed her way forward. Sobbing, she fell to her knees beside it.

Malcolm sucked a breath, trying to calm himself. His heart still pounded in his ears. "What
is
that?"

"A demon." Ulises glanced back. The loa had laid the crumpled monster on its back. Several were crying. "An asanbosam. Its soul is now burning away." He stared back at Malcolm. "Do you now believe?"

Malcolm nodded.

A smile curled at the side of the old man's lips. "Then I will teach you. I will make you a hunter."

"What?"

"I am old, Malcolm. I feel it. Someone must carry Hounacier. You are her groom, and I will teach you."

A thousand questions whirled though Malcolm's head. He stared at the monster that everything he'd ever known told him shouldn't exist. The white-shirted officers unlocked the broken cuff from their prisoner's wrist. He embraced one of them, tears of joy running down his face. The fire along the demon's body had begun to fade, and with it, its grotesque features seemed to melt back into the body of the dead bald man.

"Do you accept this offer, Malcolm?" Ulises asked.

The teenage Papa Ghede looked up from the beastly corpse. His one eye met Malcolm's, and the boy smiled. In that moment, Malcolm realized the loa was real.

"Do you accept?" the old man repeated.

Malcolm felt himself nod. He lowered his gaze to the machete, seeing a beauty to it he hadn't seen before. There was an intelligence to it. "I do."

Chapter Two

Present Day.

"This looks good." Malcolm killed the headlights and backed the SUV onto a primitive drive. Tall grass and weeds scratched against the underside, sprouting from the narrow strip between the two earthen tire trails. He stopped beside a twisted oak, its branches shading them from the moonlight above. Brake lights reflected red off a bullet-ridden "No Trespassing" sign on the gate behind them. Malcolm only hoped the resident hunters weren't there on a Tuesday night. He turned off the engine.

Pale light glowed beside him as Orlovski activated his phone. The knight tapped the screen and peered closer, his eyes invisible behind the glare on his glasses. "Message sent."

Halfway across the world, Master Alex Turgen, unofficial leader of the Valducans, would receive the simple text, "Mission go."

Malcolm kissed the crescent-shaped bone on his seashell necklace and pulled it on.

"Here." Samantha, Orlovski's student, leaned in from the back seat, offering a pair of small, plastic boxes strung on metal bead chains. A square of black electric tape masked the trackers' LEDs.

Malcolm accepted one and put it on. "Thanks." He opened the door and stepped out into a wall of Missouri humidity and around to the rear of vehicle. There, hidden in one of the suitcases, he removed a dark, navy ballistic vest and strapped it on. The shrill hum of a mosquito buzzed past his ear. He cinched on a heavy belt, making sure Ulises' old sawed-off was positioned straight across his back. His fingers found Hounacier's carved handle at his hip, and he gave her a reassuring squeeze.
Ready, baby?

Malcolm unrolled a slender wire and hooked the rubber earpiece over his ear. He snapped the throat mic on. Turning his back to the SUV, he clicked the knob atop the Puxing. "Testing. Sam, you hear me?"

"I'm right here," she said dryly from inside the vehicle.

Malcolm grinned. The joke was dumb. It was dumb the first time she did it three jobs ago. Now, it was a ritual, a light moment before the storm. "Radio," he said, feigning annoyance.

She chuckled behind him. "Testing. I read you," came through the earpiece. The girl's weird accent was a collected timeline of globe-hopping with her Australian oilman father. Twenty-three, quadrilingual, and versed in a dozen local customs. Master Sonu already had his sights set on making her a Librarian.

Dry grass crunched as Orlovski stepped around beside him. The all-black getup made him look like a disembodied head floating in the night. His short, straw-blond hair only added to the Russian's paleness. He rested a latex-gloved hand on the kukri, Amballwa, at his waist. He nodded to Malcolm's bare and tattooed arms. "You need bug spray?"

"I'm good," Malcolm said, pulling on a pair of thin leather gloves. The open palms made them fit awkwardly but left his tattoos accessible. "Ready?"

Orlovski pushed his ear bud in and nodded. "Hope they don't have any damned dogs."

"Hopefully." Most animals hated demons. Except, of course, demonkind linked to animals. Ghouls and jackals, lamia and snakes, werebeasts and their species’ breed. In those instances, animals loved their demonic masters. Malcolm didn't expect dogs with this one, whatever kind it was. "Got your papers?"

The Russian patted his back pocket.

"What's your name?" Like Sam's stupid joke, the drill was ritual.

"Eduard Lukov," Orlovski said, his voice coming in through Malcolm's radio. "I sell picture frames and am on a working vacation. You are Adam Jones, my distributor."

"Good." Shutting the tailgate, Malcolm looked in the side door. Sam hunched in the seat, peering at an open laptop, shotgun resting on the floor. "Sam, you ready?"

She gave a thumbs up.

"Keep the scanner open," Orlovski said. "Call if you see or hear anything."

Her brow arched. "Understood."

Orlovski shut the door. The dark tinting nearly masked her screen-lit silhouette.

"All right," Malcolm said, excitement tingling across his shoulders, adrenaline priming his senses. "Let's do it."

The two men followed the dirt path back to the road and headed up the rough asphalt. A large sign warning that trespassers would be shot hung from a sturdy pipe-fence gate. They climbed over it and continued on a gravel drive. Gnarled trees hid the moon, only allowing scattered pools of pale light. Their footsteps crunched quietly. The drive turned, following the hill's curve. Malcolm watched the shaded woods for movement as Orlovski led just a few feet ahead.

Seven months ago, Emily Anders, a student at MSU, went missing. Her family, desperate and frustrated at the police's lack of progress, turned to Daniel Hendricks, a local psychic.

Daniel, who was one of the few legitimate psychics Malcolm had ever known, sensed a great and evil power at work. He saw a house, a tiny cell, and an image of a black form with emerald eyes. No one ever found Emily Anders.

Four weeks ago, Tiffany Mayhew walked out of a coffee shop with a grande lowfat latte and never made it home. Two weeks later, her family turned to Daniel Hendricks. After feeling several of Tiffany's personal effects and visiting the parking lot where her car had been found, Daniel told the Mayhews that he couldn't get a good reading and returned their money. Fifteen minutes later, he emailed Malcolm what he had seen.

Orlovski raised a hand and dropped to a knee. Crouching low, Malcolm hurried up beside him. A two-story house sat at the top of the hill, silhouetted against the sky like a castle on some cheap book cover. Pale yellow glowed from three of the blind-covered windows. Bluish light flickered through a fourth, likely a TV.

Malcolm pulled open a Velcro pouch at his belt, careful to keep it quiet, and drew out a black metal tube. He extended a plastic antenna from one end and removed the lens cap from the other. He thumbed the button on the back. "Camera One is on." Malcolm unfolded the rubberized, segmented legs from the bottom and wrapped them around a slender tree. "Sam, you reading this?"

Her voice came through the ear bud. "I have it."

Malcolm peered down the top of the camera, aiming it as best he could. "You have the full house?"

"Yes. Don't see anyone outside," Sam said. "Looks like a motion light at the right corner. Stay clear of it."

"Thanks. We'll head around the side and set the second camera before going in. Let us know if you see anything."

"Okay."

Staying low, they skirted the edge of the clearing. As they passed behind a decrepit woodshed, Malcolm's foot hit an empty paint can, sending it skittering into the brush.
Shit!

The two men froze in a crouch, watching the house.

Malcolm took five slow breaths then whispered, "Sam, everything clear?"

"No movement."

Orlovski shot a cocked eyebrow at Malcolm. Thirty seconds later, they continued on.

Passing a blackened burn pile, they circled to the rear. Light shone through a back door window overlooking a narrow deck. A cinderblock building loomed twenty yards behind the house, its only opening a single metal door. A tin-roofed carport stood off to one side, sheltering the dark shape of a cargo van.

Malcolm pointed to the van, and Orlovski pulled out a stubby night scope. He peered through the eyepiece, nodded, then offered it over. Taking the monocular, Malcolm studied the vehicle in shades of luminescent green.

Daniel's vision in the parking lot had showed Tiffany Mayhew being dragged into the same windowless van, a long scrape along its left fender, license plate beginning with 'P3Y.' He'd seen the emerald-eyed shadow, a dark room, pain.

The van was registered to an Arnold Hobb, whose last known address was a duplex in Ozark, just a few miles outside the city. It had taken the hunters just a week to track him down to the isolated house. Hobb was a hefty man, mid-thirties. Contractor. They'd seen him out with another man, long-legged and thin. Malcolm had gotten close to them at a little burger joint. The cobalt scarab tattooed on his right wrist didn't detect a demon. He could have checked them with the eye in his palm to see if they were familiars. But if they were, it would only guarantee their master would know they were coming for it.

"Sam, do you see this?" Orlovski asked as he mounted his wireless camera to the top of a wide brick grill.

"Little to the right," she said. "Good. I have it."

Studying the house, Malcolm ran a gloved finger across his bristled chin. The back door looked the best. Two minutes, and they could have it swept. Sam could radio if the suspects fled. Still…they had no proof. He trusted Daniel, but if they were wrong…

Malcolm chewed his lip. He glanced back to the windowless building. It looked more like a bunker than a shed. The hunters shared a look and nodded.

The cinderblock walls stood twelve feet high, slightly tapered to one side along the building's twenty-foot length. The construction was new, maybe a year, and a hell of a lot better made than the house appeared. Malcolm frowned, noticing the bar across the steel door. It appeared even less of a shed. More like a cell. The Russian must have felt it too because his hand moved to Amballwa's handle.

A padlock held the bar shut. Malcolm removed a curved shim from a pocket and worked it down the lock's shackle until it popped open. Careful to keep it from scraping loudly, he pulled the bar aside, nodded to his partner, then inched the door open.

Blackness. The stink of sweat and filth pressed out like a physical force.

Orlovski raised the night scope and let out a long sigh. "Shit." He pulled the door open, spilling a wedge of moonlight across the concrete floor. He stepped inside. “Clear.”

Scrunching his nose, Malcolm followed. Dark shapes hung in the shadows, slowly gaining form as his eyes adjusted. Straps and manacles dangled from a gridwork of steel rings. He inspected a sturdy wooden table, angled like a medieval rack. Dark splotches stained the edges and the floor along the bottom. "I think this is the place."

Orlovski grunted. He offered the monocular, its green-lit eyepiece casting a dim glow across the room. Serrated metal hung on the wall beside them. Reluctantly, Malcolm accepted it.

The scene around them was worse than he'd imagined. Various hooks, blades, clamps, and other perverse torture implements covered two of the walls. An acetylene torch stood in the corner. "Jesus."

"What is it?" Sam's voice asked through the radio.

"Sex dungeon," Orlovski replied.

Malcolm's jaw tightened. The description barely did the room justice.

A creak came from the back corner. Malcolm drew Hounacier from her sheath. He set the night scope on a cluttered table and pulled a slender flashlight from his belt. Amballwa in hand, Orlovski flicked on his light, shining a brilliant white beam across the room.

Pegboard slats covered the wall, their metal hooks filled with leather and chromed implements. Malcolm shined his own light, sweeping it along the corners.

Another creak and a whimper. Both lights zeroed in on the right side. A twisted black harness hung to the boards. The two men shared a glance then slowly approached, lights steady and weapons raised.

A metal latch glinted, partially hidden under the harness web. Malcolm followed the seam, seeing a narrow rectangle door beneath the pegboard. Orlovski stepped to the side, nodded. Malcolm twisted the little latch and pulled the door. It opened with a loud creak.

The reek of sweat and urine poured from a shallow closet. A mound of grimy cloth covered the floor. It writhed.

Instinct took hold. Malcolm raised his machete. He saw the tangle of auburn hair and desperate, terrified eyes behind the strands. Tiffany Mayhew was alive.

"Hold," Malcolm said to Orlovski. Hounacier still raised, he pocketed the flashlight and extended his left palm toward the huddled girl.

She pressed herself against the corner, averting her eyes.

"Look at it," he ordered.

Tiffany's blue eyes slowly lifted. She looked at Malcolm then at his palm. No reaction.

Malcolm sheathed Hounacier and knelt. "You're going to be okay, Tiffany. We're here to help."

The girl's dry lips quivered. "Are…they gone?"

"No," Malcolm said. "We'll take care of them. We just need you to stay here for a minute—"

"No!" she screamed. "No! It's a monst—"

Malcolm dove in and clamped a hand over Tiffany's mouth. "Shh! Quiet."

The girl froze save a terrified tremble.

Malcolm wrapped his other arm around her and pulled her close. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

"Sam," Orlovski hissed. "Any movement?"

"Negative."

Malcolm let out a sigh. "Tiffany, I need you to stay quiet, okay?"

She nodded.

Slowly, he released her mouth. "Monsters. How many are there?"

Tiffany didn't say anything for several breaths. Finally, "One."

"One," he repeated for Sam to hear. "What does it look like?"

She swallowed and cinched her eyes. "It's…big. Claws. Teeth like…nails. Green eyes."

Malcolm nodded. "What color is it?"

"Gray, like…smoke."