The Daemonicon Chapters: Books 1 - 3

by Ryland Thorn

  The Daemonicon Chapters

  Books 1-3

  by Ryland Thorn

  Legal Stuff

  Copyright © 2018 Ryland Thorn, All Rights Reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Each section of this book has also been published individually, as An Immortal Calling, A Demonic Disturbance, and Dueling in the Darkenss, the first three books in the Daemonicon Chapters series.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to YOU.

  Table of Contents

  An Immortal Calling

  Chapter One: Station

  Chapter Two: Wight

  Chapter Three: Lennox

  Chapter Four: Ducati

  Chapter Five: Row House

  Chapter Six: The Singed Grimoire

  Chapter Seven: Deedee

  Chapter Eight: Nathanial’s Toys

  Chapter Nine: Police Cordon

  Chapter Ten: Rear Entrance

  Chapter Eleven: Department Store

  Chapter Twelve: Hell-beast

  Chapter Thirteen: Grenade

  Chapter Fourteen: Injuries

  Chapter Fifteen: A Cornered Beast

  Chapter Sixteen: Samuel

  Chapter Seventeen: Premonition

  A Demonic Disturbance

  Chapter One: Frustration and Death

  Chapter Two: A Course of Action

  Chapter Three: An Unexpected Message

  Chapter Four: Inner City Labyrinth

  Chapter Five: Tar Man

  Chapter Six: Clouds of Putrescence

  Chapter Seven: Demon Blood

  Chapter Eight: The Tar Man’s Return

  Chapter Nine: Mario’s Pizzeria and Bar

  Chapter Ten: Panic

  Chapter Eleven: Holy Water

  Chapter Twelve: Concrete and Rage

  Chapter Thirteen: Breaking Out

  Chapter Fourteen: Apologies

  Chapter Fifteen: A Ducati in the Night

  Chapter Sixteen: Crossing a Line

  Chapter Seventeen: Emporium

  Chapter Eighteen: Wrenching and Pain

  Chapter Nineteen: Salts

  Chapter Twenty: Tentacles

  Chapter Twenty One: Glyphs

  Dueling in the Darkness

  Chapter One: Samuel’s Replacement

  Chapter Two: Bunker

  Chapter Three: Tar Man

  Chapter Four: Awakening

  Chapter Five: Questions

  Chapter Six: Torture

  Chapter Seven: Glyphs and Hellfire

  Chapter Eight: Answers

  Chapter Nine: Different Viewpoints

  Chapter Ten: Talisman and Sigil

  Chapter Eleven: Alternate Entrance

  Chapter Twelve: Abandoned Station

  Chapter Thirteen: Minotaur

  Chapter Fourteen: Hellfire Blasts

  Chapter Fifteen: Defeat

  Chapter Sixteen: A Violent Death

  Chapter Seventeen: Postponement

  Chapter Eighteen: Sorcerer

  Chapter Nineteen: Resurrection

  Chapter Twenty: Deedee’s Words

  Other Tales from Ryland Thorn

  Get in Touch

  An Immortal Calling

  Chapter One: Station

  Jackson Kade’s face is twisted in an expression of hate held barely in check. He is standing just inside the main pedestrian entrance of Coven Street station with his feet planted firmly and his fists clenched as if ready to punch. The door has slid shut behind him, shutting him in, and that suits Jack just fine.

  It is not in his nature to retreat. Nor is it his intention to do so. He is looking for whatever loathsome creature of Hell has drawn him here, and his intentions are hostile. He means to hurt, means to kill, and is anxious to get started.

  Yet he is not one to charge blindly about and hope for the best. The things Jack is called upon to face are fearsome beyond words. They would welcome such a naive approach, and would eagerly put his mortality to the test if he tried it.

  Instead, he takes his time to assess.

  “Where are you, vile creature?” he grates to himself, his words full of venom. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  Jack is wiry and looks like a bum. His trenchcoat, shirt, and trousers are rumpled and stained, and his worn, purple sneakers don’t go with anything else. He looks awful. His hair is greasy and unkempt, he hasn’t shaved for days, and his face has the weathered look of someone who spends too much time in the sun.

  He wouldn’t look out of place sitting on the pavement with his back to a wall, holding out a cup and begging for coins. Yet he may not have done well at that. Jack has a dangerous glint in his eyes, and his expression is typically one of rage or disgust. As well, he has numerous tattoos that peek out from his shirt at his neck and the ends of his sleeves. The tattoos are occult symbols of protection, but strangers wouldn’t know this at first glance. The tattoos look menacing, like symbols of hate.

  Only the pager he wears at his belt makes an obvious lie of his destitute look. Not many homeless people carry pagers. Not many people carry them at all anymore in this age of cell phones and instant contact. But the pager is mostly hidden under the flap of his trenchcoat and is not easy to view.

  To strangers, Jack is intimidating. If he did try his hand at begging, most folk would be too afraid to offer him coins. They would avoid him instead. As well they should, for the pager is not the only thing Jack has hidden under his coat.

  He has an assortment of weapons as well.

  “You’ve been busy, I see,” Jack grumbles to his unseen foe, the loathing in his tone even more pronounced than before. “Made a bit of a mess, haven’t you?”

  Coven Street station is not the biggest or busiest underground station in the city of New Sanctum. Nor is it the smallest. The main foyer where Jack is standing is light and airy and open. It is a space that reminds him of the grand ballroom of a castle, or perhaps the main gallery of a large museum. It has the same feel and the same beige color palette. There is even a sculpture in the middle of it.

  At the sight of the sculpture, Jack allows himself a sardonic grin. It is a gargoyle, a massive, kneeling creature twice Jack’s own height, complete with wings and horns at its temples. Such sculptures are common around New Sanctum, and most of the populace has no clue how scarily appropriate they are.

  There is a small collection of shops surrounding the statue. A newsagent shares a wall with a florist, beyond which is a tiny coffee shop squeezed into the corner. The ticket counter is on the far wall next to the stairs that point to the subway platform itself, and then there are toilets and a colorful row of vending machines.

  It is nothing Jack hasn’t seen a thousand times before. And yet, a station like this should be bustling. It should feel like a mall on a Saturday afternoon. There should be a buzz of excitement mixed with the stench of despair as people embark on whatever joyful or hateful errand they are there to perform. There should be children scampering eagerly about, those too young for school and with one or other of their parents in tow. And there should be workers in sight, keeping everything running smoothly.

  Instead, the station is nearly empty. There are a few people about, crouched low and whimpering in fear, but far fewer than Jack would have predicted
if all was as it should be. The word has gone out like it does in a terror event. Something vile is happening. Something awful. This is not the place to be.

  There are no police present, and for that, Jack is grateful. Police can make his life unnecessarily difficult.

  There is a security guard. An overweight, black man who looks about fifty and will get no older. He is lying on his back near the sculpture, and Jack can see even from where he is standing that the guard’s eyes are open and fixed.

  It is as Jack expected. He takes a deep breath of air that carries the foul stench of sulfur and then nods to himself. Something Hellish is in the station. The odor would have confirmed it even without the Brotherhood’s page that had directed Jack there.

  Nor is the odor the only indication of what has happened. Ever since Jack stepped into the station, he has been hearing grunts and shuffling from within the newsagent shop. He can’t see into the darkened interior, but judges that he will find his quarry, whatever it might be, waiting for him there.

  Jack Kade lets the hate flow through his veins. He knows what is to come next and relishes it. This is his chance to bring some balance back into the world. To use the rage that lives in his heart and the power that comes with it to cast some detestable creature back into the abyss.

  He squares his shoulders. For a moment, Jack looks like a remnant from years gone by. A gunfighter squaring up for a dual. Only the lack of a cowboy hat and spurs counters the impression. That, and his purple sneakers and peeking tattoos.

  He takes the time to check the weapons under his coat. He passes over the gun at his shoulder and the knives sheathed at his back, and removes a stoppered test tube from an inside pocket. It is the last one he has. It is three-quarters full of holy water, blessed by the Brotherhood. Potent enough for most things that he could expect to find himself up against.

  As he starts to cross the station floor, the pager at his hip buzzes and vibrates both at once.

  “I’m a bit busy at the moment,” he snarls at it in irritation. He never takes his eyes off the newsagent store, but can’t help wondering why the Brotherhood would seek to contact him now. It is startling that they would do so, given where he is and what he is doing. Surely, they know it is not a good time to interrupt.

  Jack doesn’t check to see what the message might be. Instead, he lengthens his stride. He has seen movement within the newsagent store and is eager to meet whatever horror it is that he has to face.

  “What are you doing?” someone hisses in his direction. It is a plump woman cowering in fear against the wall. Her eyes are wide with shock. “Don’t go in there! It killed that poor man!” she says, her voice high-pitched and filled with anxiety.

  Jack has no use for the woman’s unease. It can’t compete with his own sense of outrage that there is a creature from Hell here in New Sanctum, his own excitement and defiance all rolled into one. Yet her worry is enough to cause him to glance once again at the dead man on the floor.

  The security guard is a large man, both in girth and height. Much larger than Jack himself. And he had been carrying a gun in a holster at his hip, although the gun is now nowhere to be seen.

  Despite the man’s size and weapon, he has been bludgeoned to death. His skull is misshapen, and there is blood spreading slowly out onto the floor.

  Jack’s visage twists into a grimace of hate.

  “I’ll be fine,” he rumbles and keeps walking. He is grimly aware that there are things in New Sanctum that most people are happy not knowing about. Terrifying, monstrous things. The one that murdered the security guard must be both powerful and swift to be able to bludgeon him so.

  Jack isn’t yet confident that he knows what it is. All he knows is that it is his job to deal with it, to cast whatever monster he finds back into Hell, regardless of the danger to himself.

  More than his job, though, it is his calling. It is what he is on this Earth to do, and he will do it until the day he dies.

  No matter how far in the future that day might happen to be.

  Chapter Two: Wight

  Jack doesn’t hesitate. He can still see movement through the window and knows that the creature within is as far from the door as it is possible to get. Jack is calm, his heartbeat steady, but his hate is a flame that is burning him up from the inside. He sets his jaw and pushes the glass door of the newsagent store open.

  The stench of sulfur and rot is almost overwhelming. It is nauseating, and Jack might have started to retch if he hadn’t been expecting it. As it is, he wrinkles his nose in revulsion and surveys the ruin.

  It is like the newsagent has suffered its own personal calamity. An earthquake or a tornado couldn’t have created more of a mess. None of the shelving remains standing. Papers and magazines are strewn over the floor in complete disarray. One of the fluorescent ceiling lights is hanging at an odd angle. The only other light in the store has been damaged so that it flickers on occasionally, but it is mostly dark.

  Jack can hear terrified whimpering from behind the counter and thinks that the store person might still be alive. He also hears the rummaging of the creature he seeks. It is working its way through the chocolates and junk food the newsagent has displayed on the counter.

  It is a wight. A damned soul brought back from Hell and set loose. A repulsive creature that still possesses a humanlike form but which has lost all humanity. It is elongated, its flesh is a disgusting yellow color, and it exudes the vile stench of decay along with the sulfur.

  It is a mindless thing with a shapeless face. Hollows for eyes, no nose, and a toothless, gaping maw.

  “What in all of Hell are you doing here?” Jack demands. He is surprised. A wight is not his typical foe. It cannot escape from Hell by itself like ghouls and changelings and succubi and incubi. It is not a human with demon blood in their veins and a mind for mayhem. Nor is it a revenant, a vampire, poltergeist, or a human possessed.

  Instead, it is a creature that must be summoned by someone with power.

  Jack grinds his teeth in fury at the thought. That anyone would consciously bring such as this into his city is an insult. It is like a cancer deliberately introduced to healthy flesh, and it is an offense to everything he holds dear. Not that it is completely unique. The lore required to summon such as this is far from hidden, and the power to wield it is frighteningly common. It is just repugnant to Jack that someone has done so.

  The wight doesn’t respond to Jack’s question. It doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. Jack would have been surprised if it did. Wights have little thought other than to indulge those vices denied them in Hell. This one is a glutton and is focused on the junk food it is consuming, packets and all. The security guard had probably died while trying to stop it.

  Which is just what Jack is about to do.

  He curls his top lip in disgust. Wights are among the lesser of the creatures of Hell. Even so, they can be dangerous. They are fast and immensely strong. But Jack has dealt with them before. He knows that all he needs to do is shatter the vial of holy water against its flesh, and that will be that. The holy water will act as an acid, boiling and melting the wight’s flesh until it is no more than an awful puddle of yellow putrescence.

  It will stink like the bowels of death itself, but that is a small price to pay for ridding the city of a creature like this.

  Jack’s look of disgust turns into a sneer of anger.

  “Go back to Hell!” he growls at its back. Then he hurls the vial with all his strength.

  It is a disaster. Jack’s throw is good, but the venom in his words is like an alert. The wight is more than seven feet tall with attenuated limbs and long, skinny fingers. For all this, it retains some semblance of self-preservation, and it moves even more quickly than Jack had expected. It spins to face him and ducks beneath the thrown vial, which shatters uselessly against the wall.

  The wight responds in anger. It gives a howl that is like a wail of pain and charges at Jack with a chocolate bar still gripped in its hand. Jack snar
ls in irritation and reaches for his knives, but the creature is too swift. It is on him in less than a heartbeat.

  It is more than just a ravening beast. While most of its brains have likely rotted into sludge during its time in Hell, it still retains some semblance of thought. It still knows how to fight. Before Jack can so much as blink, the wight backhands him across the face with all of its considerable strength.

  It hurts like being hit in the face with an iron bar. Jack is knocked back into the newsagent door.

  The force of the blow rattles him. It feels like the flesh on the side of his face has been burned, and he barely keeps his feet. But it is far from the first time he has been hit in a fight, and it won’t be the last. He clings to his focus by sheer force of will and finally manages to bring out one of his knives.

  “My turn,” he mutters, but he doesn’t have time turn his words into actions. The wight is on him and is swinging its fists left and right. One blow, whether by chance or design, knocks Jack’s knife hand to the side. A fist catches him flush against the other side of his face. Jack’s head bounces back and forth like a ping-pong ball set on a spring. He has no time to recover before the wight howls at him once again, picks him up by the lapels and hurls him back into the door.

  Jack crashes through the glass and onto the concrete of the station floor. Such is the force of the wight’s throw that Jack bounces and skids before coming to a stop near the dead security guard and the gargoyle statue.

  A weaker man might not have survived such treatment. Even if he did, it might have been more than enough to take the fight out of him. But Jack has been battling monsters like this for much of his life, and he is much older than he looks. Tougher as well. Where another, if he were still conscious, might start to fear for his very life, Jack feels his anger harden into fury. At the wight, but also at himself for allowing the creature to gain the advantage.

  His body is bruised, but he knows how to fall without being hurt beyond hope of recovery. And he has not let go of his knife. He shifts his limbs in preparation for climbing back to his feet, but the wight has followed him out of the newsagent store. It is shockingly swift and determined. Before Jack can do anything of use, the creature grabs him by the left ankle, howls again, and shows him how the security guard met his death.