DAEMONEUM

by Laney McMann

  DAEMONEUM

  The Primordial Principles

  Laney McMann

  Jagged Lane Books

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  SHAKESPEARE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  ANAMOLIA

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Connect with her:

  DAEMONEUM

  THE PRIMORDIAL PRINCIPLES

  BOOK TWO

  Copyright 2016 Laney McMann

  JAGGED LANE BOOKS

  Cover Design by Amalia Chitulescu

  Edited by Mary-Theresa Hussey

  Copyedited by Carol Brown

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  First Edition: July 2016

  PRINT ISBN: 978-0-9963295-7-6

  EPUB ISBN: 978-0-9963295-6-9

  For Matt ~

  In Excelsis

  This above all; to thine own self be true.

  ~ William Shakespeare

  Chapter 1

  Hazy light encompassed the underground tunnel from floor to ceiling, making it hard to see more than a few feet ahead. Cole Spires ran his hand along the roughly hewn wall as the ground slopped downward. They’d found the entrance to the tunnel, covered in overgrown ivy vines, underneath a crumbling overpass between Crystalline and the old club Bangerang in downtown Boulder, Colorado. Taking slow, cautious steps, Cole eyed his Beta over his shoulder.

  Danny had descended into the tunnel first, but as usual Cole had ended up being the frontman. He eyed the crystal telum weapons gripped in each of Danny’s hands as he glanced back. Danny kept his footsteps in sync with his friends, and Lindsey took up the rear, her hooded, long-sleeved jacket zipped, the hood covering her long dark hair and head. Her gaze caught Cole’s for a brief second before he faced forward again.

  No one spoke. The stench underground was overwhelming. Cole would have recognized it anywhere—like a reptile who’d been kept in a dirty cage too long; still he prayed he was wrong about its origin. There were so many broken pipes and sewer systems long forgotten underground, the smell could have had a number of sources. In earlier days, the tunnels he traveled down were called hollow sidewalks, and they were all over Colorado—right beneath the city—right below everyone’s unknowing feet. They were abandoned places, like the deserted coal mines that traveled worm-like all over the state.

  “That can’t be what I think it is,” Danny whispered, pulling the collar of his shirt over his mouth and nose.

  Cole shook his head for him to hush. The tunnel they ventured down had an echo effect, and he’d rather not be overheard by anything—or anyone—lurking in the distance. The odor he could pretend was being produced by a different source than the one he feared, but the dense swell of negative energy suddenly hanging in the air he couldn’t explain away so easily. It drew all of his attention. Negative energy had one source, and energy this heavy, he recognized. It swept a combination of fury and nausea through his body. But there was no sign of a blacked gate, no rerouted Leylines that he’d been able to detect, and no vibrations tingled his fingers as he coursed them down the underground walls. No sign of Daemoneum activity. Yet he knew something was there. Everything was wrong. Out of place and out of order.

  “Feel that?” Danny tensed.

  Cole felt it. Like dry rot clinging to his bones. He didn’t answer, though, only kept walking slowly forward, placing his feet evenly on the sandy ground, as he got a better read on the energy field. The dark haze still surrounded them, so seeing was difficult and somewhat disorienting.

  On another step, Cole’s hand, slightly stretched out in front of him, moved off the wall he’d been tracking and onto nothing, only air. He stopped abruptly, as the front toe of his right foot jutted off the edge of the floor. The ground, the tunnel walls, everything in front of him, was gone.

  Danny stopped, along with Lindsey. Looking down, the floor plummeted into the same dark haze. Cole couldn’t see the bottom, couldn’t see the other side of the tunnel. The path they’d been following simply ended onto an open, black pit with no beginning or end in sight.

  “What in the hell?” Danny whispered.

  Cole edged his foot back, as well as his hand, steadying himself against the wall. “That’s a good question.”

  “Nothing opens up like this underneath Colorado,” Lindsey said in a low voice. “It has to be—” Her voice echoed at them.

  “Over several hundred yards deep,” Cole supplied. “Well over.” He picked up a rock from the ground and threw it, at what he hoped would be an adjacent wall across the shaft, but it made no sound. It hadn’t connected with anything.

  “You suck so bad at throwing,” Danny said.

  “No, I don’t. The opposite wall could be over a hundred yards away for all we know.”

  “Doubtful.” Danny lifted a rock in his right hand.

  “Feel free, my most loyal friend,” Cole smirked.

  Danny threw his stone in the same direction Cole had. For a moment there was no sound, and Cole laughed, but a second later there was a faint thunk. Danny smiled wide. “I hit my target.”

  “What target? You don’t know what you hit.”

  “I hit something,” Danny said. “You hit nothing.”

  Cole rolled his eyes.

  “You first." Cole held his arm out toward the plunging darkness below them.

  “Why me first? I’d rather not be bait.”

  “You’re not bait.” Cole laughed.

  “You think it’s water?” Lindsey edged up beside them. “Could be an old sewer line. Might have just collapsed.”

  Danny eyed her. “You jumping in to find out?”

  She made a scathing noise. “Are you?”

  Cole inhaled a deep breath. “I am.”

  “You’re what?”

  Cole glanced at his Beta. “Jumping. Well, flying. I have no qualms about being bait.” He gave a small grin and stepped off the edge of the missing floor into midair. Shifting into the large, slate blue/black falcon, the bird tucked its wide wingspan into its body and dove like a bullet straight into darkness.

  “God, I hate him sometimes.”

  Lindsey either didn’t hear Danny or didn’t care because she’d already flown past him after Cole in her avian form.

  “Oh, that’s nice, real nice,” Danny complained. “Assholes.” He stepped off the edge of the floor and shifted into the hawk as he fell through the dark haze.

  Even with the keen sight of the falcon, Cole could barely see. The bla
ckness of the pit as he flew down was nearly palpable. And the smell had gone from the familiar reptilian stench to something acrid and foreign. The thought of turning around and flying back up to the access tunnel they’d jumped from crossed his mind. He suddenly felt reckless—stupid. Angling to the side, his wings open wide, he flew toward what he thought had to be the side of the shaft or the pit—wherever they were—and reached out with his talons. He hit something solid, a wall, he guessed. Relieved that whatever nose-dive he’d just led his friends on wasn’t into the bowels of Hades that went on for eternity, he continued his downward trajectory, staying close to the wall, Lindsey quick to follow his every move, Danny fast behind her.

  In the distance, a pinprick of light shone on what Cole guessed was another wall opposite him. It was a small, round ambient light—blurred in the pitch black. Slowing, Cole skimmed his talons along the wall. Debris kicked up and fell. Dirt. Without hesitation, he sunk his talons into the wall and anchored himself like an ornamental molding. Danny and Lindsey followed in sync.

  “Is this not sketchy as all hell to you?” Danny’s yellow, hawk eyes seared into Cole’s. “We’re free-falling into the abyss!”

  “Not denying that,” Cole answered.

  “I hate you.”

  Cole laughed. “You wish you could hate me.”

  “Shut up,” Lindsey snapped. “Both of you. What are we doing?”

  “We’re going to fly down to the light. Something’s down there.” The words had barely left Cole’s thoughts before the unmistakable silver glint of a Shadow’s vapory form caught his periphery. “Shit. Nefarius.” Cole released his grip on the wall, wings wide, and dove toward the threat.

  Like a meticulously trained fight team, Danny and Lindsey took up formation, one on Cole’s left, one on Cole’s right, the three of them in the perfectly aligned shape of an arrow head, pelting downward.

  The Shadows spread out below, misty forms floating in midair like opalescent ghosts in the darkness. They ascended in a mass to meet the oncoming threat, but the Primordial held their positions. The small light still shone in the far distance behind the Nefarius, and Cole was positive they were guarding whatever was down there. Silver light rebounded in all directions like lasers through the dark. Cole shifted his trajectory, his friends followed suit, avoiding the assault, and the Shadow’s shrieked, “Primori-iii,” alerting any and all Nefarius in the immediate area of their presence. They were like wolves calling for backup.

  Knowing three against a mass of however many was already better odds for the Nefarius, Cole shifted into his human form in midair and released two well-timed shots of pure red energy into the heart of the assailants before shifting almost instantly back into the falcon. Two Shadows shredded into wisps and disappeared into nothing. Danny followed suit, his hawk form there one second, his human form there the next, as neon green energy sped from his palms, taking out more attackers, and before the Shadows could regroup, Lindsey had shifted into her human form, annihilating the last of the Nefarius in a shower of crackling yellow electricity.

  Diving downward, the three of them continued their decent into the bowels of the pit. The acrid stench intensified the further they plunged, and Cole finally recognized the smell; blood. The ambient light in the distance grew brighter, and another scream from the Nefarius sent a chill up Cole’s spine. He couldn’t see them, could only feel them, and as he altered his position in order to see where they were, the entire underground shook.

  A deep vibrational hum trembled the walls, causing dirt and debris to careen into the depths. Old wooden boards snapped and collapsed from the hollow sidewalks far above them, and fell like steel weights through the air. Barely able to see, the situation had gone from reckless to life-threatening—possibly fatal.

  The Shadow’s shrieks intensified to deafening screams that reminded Cole even more of the eerie calls of a wolf pack. Silver energy careened everywhere in the blackness. The dirt wall they kept tight against, shuddered and cracked. A falling rafter missed Lindsey by inches, and Cole shouted for her and Danny to fall in line behind him.

  “Straight,” he said with chilling calm. “In a line. As fast as you can up to the tunnel.” Cole took off like a shot, keeping an eye behind him one second and an eye above him the next. They would have no time to swerve if any two by fours came crashing toward them.

  “I knew this was a bad idea!”

  “Shut up and move!” Lindsey screamed.

  Cole said nothing, only kept his focus on where he hoped the tunnel would come into focus above.

  Another loose board hurtled through the air, speeding past them, and he swerved hard to the right, disappearing with Danny and Lindsey on his tail into the tunnel.

  The Giudecca Canal always glittered at night. Between the moon and the streetlights, the water turned to gold and had the look of an oil painting, muted and striking in a way that made a person want to stare. From the left bank of the canal, the man did just that—stared from the highest tower of the Gesuati Church. Surrounded by beautiful paintings and sculpture, he still found the canal beckoning him every evening. It was more beautiful than paint or clay. When he was a boy, he would sneak up the Church steps at night and watch the boats drift by under the moonlight just to see the water glisten.

  The man didn’t turn at the sound of approaching footsteps tonight. This was his favorite time; whoever it was would wait, and they did until the last drop of white moon had been eclipsed by the horizon, shedding a hazy dawn over the sleeping city of Venice, Italy. Watching one last boat dock along the bank of the Guidecca Canal, the man turned in silence.

  “Yes?”

  The servant hung back in the shadows, the way the man wished. He’d seen enough demons to last several lifetimes; there was no need to see another.

  “We found him, sir, as you requested.” The voice was gruff, the voice boxes of the gurgulio having never fully developed to create clear, fluid speech. Thus the meaning of the word gargoyle: the throat. It was their weakness.

  “And?” The man turned to the window of the tower, his long traveling cloak skimming the floor. Shreds of pink light illuminated the canal now, rosy like spilled blood. “Where did you find him?”

  “The abyss, my liege.” The shadow of the beast shifted across the stone wall as dawn broke. “He is not well.”

  “No. I did not expect so. But he is alive.”

  “He is, sir.”

  The man glanced over his shoulder, grayish eyes shifting in the coming light, hands folded behind his back. “Does he have it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Turning all the way around, the man faced the hunched gargoyle. In the early morning light, he could just make out the silhouette of horns, taloned feet, and sloped shoulders. Gurgulio were beastly looking creatures, he’d always thought. “Bring him to me.” The man faced the window once more.

  The brightness of the coming sunlight made him sick to his stomach. Darkness was calming, soothing. Light had too much warmth—too much life. With one last glance at the glittering water, he turned away and headed into the bowels of the ancient Church where shadows and darkness would consume him.

  Signs posted outside on the front double doors of the old Church warned visitors of contamination within the building. It would hold curious tourists and even locals at bay; the city of Venice was sinking after all, and the chambers beneath the Church were already soaked with the incoming seawater. Still, he knew the doors would need to reopen eventually. The city would demand permits of the work supposedly being done; proof must always be made to the Church.

  Stone steps clapped underneath the man’s shoes as he made the final descent into the lowest chamber underneath the Gesuati. Not long ago, this very room had been infiltrated by the Primori. Even the blacked gates hadn’t held them out. Some of the younger ones simply had too much training, too much knowledge and skill for their own good. Skill and knowledge should come with age and experience. It was to be respected, admired. He shook his head. Too muc
h knowledge can do one of two things, he thought, get a person killed, or get a person Turned. The man knew which path most chose to take once they were on it.

  Checking the grate in the ceiling above his head, he was pleased to find it was still secure. Climbing down the steep, narrow steps set into the damp stone wall, he sloshed through seawater toward a small, high window and the failed Leygate the Primori had broken through only a few weeks ago. The window was sealed as well. The Leygate blacked. At least the gurgulio were doing what they were told. The Nefarius, on the other hand, were not as compliant. A deal may have been made between the Devil’s Children and the Nefarius to work in unison, but all of the Daemoneum were unpredictable creatures.

  The man retraced his path through the seawater and froze midway up the damp steps. The side of his neck tingled, the slightest flutter, and sent a chill across his shoulders. Lifting his hand, he touched the wings on his throat that had been there since his early youth. He’d missed the twitching sensation, although he hated to admit that. It had been … years, so many years, since he’d last felt the sting of calling wings.

  Momentarily frozen in dream, he remembered the first time he’d felt the sensation. He’d had no idea what it was—it had felt as though the small wings on the side of his neck were trying to break free from his skin. Afraid, he’d run to his mother and asked.

  “When you are being called, child,” she’d said with a grin, as she stood in front of the kitchen sink washing dishes, “the polite thing to do is answer.”

  The polite thing, he remembered, irritated. Always the polite thing. Always the right thing.

  “But who’s calling?” he’d asked, covering the trembling wings with his small hand, the feathers lifting away from his skin and pushing through his fingers.

  His mother had removed his hand from the side of his neck with her damp one and said, “Free your wings, and they will lead you. Listen, and they will speak to you.”