Sons of Darkness

by Gail Z. Martin

  “I was following the possessed guy. He was following you. What were those other things you roasted?” Brent lowered his gun but did not holster it.

  “Drude . Minor imps. They feed on nightmares and dark impulses,” Travis replied, checking to make sure the embers had gone out. He did not need to set a city block on fire. “I’ve seen them before. They like neighborhoods like this. Plenty of anger and frustration.”

  “We need to talk.”

  Travis glanced around the diner, picking up spent shells to leave nothing behind to show they had been present. “Okay, but I’m splattered with monster guts. I can’t exactly go to a coffee shop looking like this.”

  Brent gave a snort. “I’ve seen worse.”

  “We’re only a couple of blocks from St. Dismas. You get coffee, I get a shower, and no one will disturb us or overhear.” Travis did not give him time to argue, striding past him for the door. Brent brought up the rear, moving with predatory agility that confirmed his military background.

  “Do you have to be a priest to do an exorcism?” Brent asked as they walked. They holstered their guns to avoid trouble with passers-by or the cops, but neither man relaxed.

  Travis opened his mouth and shut it again. Once, he would have said that yes, ordination was required, or at least faith. But he had renounced his vows, and his faith was fragile.

  “Depends on who you ask,” he said finally, figuring this counted toward humility, in penance for his earlier arrogance. “The Vatican says yes, but they have a job security issue. I’d say that you have to believe in…a higher power, but I’m not sure. Maybe you just have to believe in the litany itself.”

  “Huh,” Brent replied. Travis waited for a smart remark, and when it didn’t come, he looked over at his companion. Brent’s alert posture and the way his gaze scanned for danger betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “Does it have to be in Latin?”

  Travis laughed. “I don’t think so. Or at least, not since Vatican II.” When Brent gave him a blank look, Travis grinned. “That’s when priests got the okay to say the Mass in the language of their people.”

  “Did the Devil get the memo?” Brent crooked an eyebrow.

  “Whatever works,” Travis replied.

  To his surprise, the tension that had bristled between them in their first run-in had lessened. Maybe in the time since, they had rethought the benefit of back-up. Travis still wasn’t sure how he felt about working with anyone, let alone forming a partnership, but if the danger was really as big as he feared, it was suicidal to go it alone.

  Travis let them in the back door to St. Dismas. The street in front and the parking lot were full, reminding him it was the night for all of the “Anonymous” groups that met at the center.

  “Busy place,” Brent remarked as Travis locked up behind them.

  “That’s a good thing, and a bad thing,” he replied, motioning for Brent to follow him back to the staff kitchen. “Bad, because a lot of people need our services. Good, because we’re here to provide them. The goal is to work our way out of our jobs.” He dumped the old coffee grounds and washed out what remained in the pot, then made fresh as Brent took a seat at the second-hand, scarred table.

  He looked up to find the other man watching him quizzically. “What?” Travis asked with a touch of defensiveness.

  “Just thinking that you can take away the collar, but—”

  “No. I’m not a priest,” Travis said, more sharply than he intended. “Doesn’t mean that I don’t want to make the world a better place.”

  “By running a halfway house—and killing monsters.”

  He shrugged. “You’re a private investigator, chasing down wrongs the cops won’t handle. So you traded in the badge—”

  “Okay, I get it.” Brent sounded testy. He took a deep breath and released the tension in his shoulders. “We’ve both got issues.”

  “No one gets into this business unless they do.” Travis pulled out a mug and gestured toward the powdered creamer and packs of sweetener. “Make yourself at home. I’ll wash off the goop, and be right back.”

  True to his word, Travis returned in under fifteen minutes, to find Brent seated at the table. From the level in the coffee pot, Travis figured the other man was already on his second cup. “Better,” Travis said with a sigh as he settled at the table, happy for clean clothes and a hot cup of java.

  “You’re chasing the black truck disappearances, too,” Brent said.

  Travis nodded. “I heard you were in Barkeyville.”

  “Yeah. I heard you were sniffing around Cooper City.”

  “There’s more going on than just people being abducted by a psycho in a truck,” Travis replied and paused to take a sip of his coffee. It was warm and rich on his tongue.

  “No shit, Sherlock. I fought off a couple of psi-vamps near Peale. They’d been suckering in hard luck cases, feeding off their misery until they killed themselves.”

  Travis winced. “You took care of them?”

  Brent nodded. “I got called in because people are living with their dead relatives, or going postal on their neighbors. That’s why I think we would do better working together instead of marking territory,” Brent replied, with a sheepish grin. “We could both do with having someone to watch our back.”

  “Agreed. I’ll share my research if you’ll tell me what you know. I think we’ve got some kind of supernatural ‘blast zone’ out around Cooper City, but why it exists and what caused it? I’ve still got no clue,” Travis admitted.

  “I think you’re right about the zone, and we’d better figure it out fast because I have the feeling whatever’s causing it is just getting started.”

  “Thanks again for saving my ass back at the diner,” Travis said after an awkward pause.

  “That makes us square.” Brent shrugged uncomfortably. “Pretty sure we’ll have a chance to trade the favor back and forth. That green fog reminded me of a story I heard when I was on the force. Couple a years ago, there was a cop who had a hostage situation on his hands. Shot the would-be shooter, and then the cop swore a ‘green mist’ came out of the guy and possessed the hostage, who drew down on him. He claimed self-defense when he shot her, and Internal Affairs cleared him, but…”

  “I can’t imagine that went over well.”

  Brent shook his head. “It didn’t. The guy resigned, went somewhere down South, I heard. But the hell of it is, the cops here still talk about it, because he wasn’t the only one to see something weird. Our kind of weird. He was just the only one to say so out loud.”

  Travis nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me. What makes you different?”

  Brent looked away. “Demons killed my family when I was in high school. Then I had a run-in with a big-time demon named Mavet when I was in Iraq. Lost some good men. Got out of the army and went FBI. Kept running into demons, even when I left the Feds and went to the police. So…I figured if you can’t ditch them, kill the sons of bitches,” he added with a bitter smile.

  Travis frowned, remembering his ghostly visitor. “Your family…did you lose a brother? Danny?”

  Brent jerked upright, fists tightening, eyes narrowed. “What do you know?”

  Travis held up his open hands in appeasement. “I’m a clairvoyant medium. You know, ghost whisperer? And a kid named Danny showed up a couple of nights ago, begging me to warn you about danger and maybe look out for you.”

  “You saw Danny? He was worried about me?” Brent’s tension seemed to war with an almost desperate need to know.

  Travis slowly lowered his hands. “He said his name was Danny, and he looked like you, only younger. A teenager.”

  “He was eighteen. We’re twins.”

  That explains the strength of the bond , Travis thought. “He watches over you. And he worried that you might not accept help, even when it was needed.”

  Brent looked away again, sadness and regret replacing his earlier anger. “That’s Danny,” he said, and his voice tightened. “I was the one who went charging in. He
liked to hang back and strategize. We were a hell of a team.”

  “I don’t mind bearing messages,” Travis said, offering an olive branch. “He’s not always close by, but I have the feeling he’s played an active role in your life, even if you didn’t know. And he said it was important that we team up, even if you are an ‘asshole’—his word, not mine,” he added.

  Brent sighed. “I…suspected that he’s been around. There’ve been times when I had close calls, and something would happen to save my ass. I’d get a feeling things weren’t right, and so I paid attention to my surroundings and didn’t get ambushed. A couple of times there was a weird distraction—like glass breaking or something falling—right when I needed it.” He looked up. “Thanks, Danny.”

  “You know he’s not on the ceiling, right?”

  Brent flushed, embarrassed. “It’s just, I always figured he went up instead of…”

  “And I’m sure he will, when he decides it’s time to rest,” Travis replied, falling into the comforting tone he used so often in his former profession. He let it remain unsaid that given all he had seen of restless ghosts, undead and resurrected creatures and the like, his own views of heaven and hell were complicated. “But he’s decided to stick with you, for now.”

  Brent looked down at his coffee cup. “We were both supposed to go to football camp. We had scholarships to college that fall. But Danny got sick and wasn’t up to it. I wanted to stay home with him—no fun by myself, after all. He insisted that I go. The demons came…” He blinked and swallowed. “I never saw Danny or my parents again.”

  Travis regarded him silently for a moment. “Random demon attacks are pretty rare. Do you have any idea—”

  Brent shook his head. “Don’t you think I’ve asked myself that a million times? My parents weren’t the kind of people to sell their souls. I haven’t found any hidden scandal or financial problems. They didn’t even believe in the devil, for Chrissake!”

  “Maybe when we clean up this mess, I can help you figure it out—if you want,” Travis offered.

  Brent looked surprised. “Yeah. Thanks. I would.”

  Travis let it remain unsaid that he was intrigued—and a little worried—about the way the demonic had dogged Brent’s steps throughout his life. They had that in common, and Travis didn’t think it was a particularly good thing.

  “I need to go do some administrative stuff,” Travis said, draining his coffee. “We’re good, right?” He made a vague motion to indicate the two of them. Brent nodded. “So how about we road trip north-east tomorrow? I’ve finagled an interview with the family of one of the black truck abductees, and a few of my Night Vigil people alerted me to some problems out toward the State College area.”

  “Night Vigil?”

  “I’ll fill you in on the way tomorrow, if that works for you.”

  Brent finished his coffee and set aside the cup. “Sure. And maybe we can swing by Cooper City and see my cop buddy.”

  “I’ve got a priest friend out that same way,” Travis said. “Two birds, one stone.”

  “My truck or your—”

  “Crown Vic,” Travis supplied, trying not to wince at Brent’s smirk. “Gas mileage stinks, but it’s got a police engine and room for more than one body in the trunk.”

  “Fine. You can drive,” Brent said. “See you at eight.”

  Chapter Eight

  The alarm jolted Brent from his restless sleep. He slapped the button to shut off the annoying klaxon, and dropped back onto his mattress with a groan. What idiot suggested leaving at eight? Oh yeah. Me.

  A shower, two donuts, and half a pot of coffee later, Brent felt barely sentient. He couldn’t even blame his fuzzy head and lousy sleep on booze or pain pills. No, his dreams had been troubled by memories and images of what might have been. He relived the day he went to football camp, and the way Danny’s expression mingled real excitement with disappointment. Not for the first time, Brent wished he had stayed home and died with them.

  Is there something tainted about me that drew the demon to them? That keeps attracting demons wherever I go? Maybe I can get Travis to tell me, but I doubt I can talk him into a mercy killing. God, I’m tired of this shit.

  Brent grabbed the rest of the box of donuts, poured most of the remaining coffee into a travel mug, and headed out. He had stayed up late, handling as much on his investigation cases as he could, reminding himself that demon-hunting soothed the conscience but didn’t pay the rent. Still, he managed to make enough progress on his cases—and respond to several inquiries for new projects—that he could take the day out of the office with minimal guilt.

  When he pulled into the St. Dismas parking lot, Brent took a moment to get a good look at the place, since his prior visits had not afforded the opportunity. He managed a wry smile at the idea that even the halfway house appeared to be resurrected, and guessed it had been an apartment building or hotel in its previous life. The structure looked tired and worn, but clean and adequately maintained. Nothing fancy, a hand-me-down haven for folks who desperately needed a second chance. It did not escape Brent that had a few twists of fate gone differently, he might have been among its residents.

  Brent took in the sketchy surroundings, wondering whether his truck would still be there when he returned. He was glad for his alarm system and wondered if any of Travis’s friends-with-psychic-benefits had bothered to put a safety spell on the lot.

  Pushing his doubts aside, Brent grabbed his coffee and the box of donuts and headed over to where Travis waited, leaning on the Crown Vic.

  “That’s a gunboat,” Brent observed. He held out the donuts like a peace offering.

  “I prefer ‘land cruiser,’ and it’s fast,” Travis replied, but he took the box, surveyed the remaining contents, and picked a chocolate iced donut. “Thanks.”

  Brent shrugged. “Figured it’s a long drive.”

  The three-hour drive to Snowshoe, a small town just off Interstate 80, passed less awkwardly than Brent had feared. The Crown Vic rode smoothly, with a suspension that had obviously been tightened up for better handling. The purr of the big engine reminded Brent of his grandfather’s car, and a ‘classic vinyl’ playlist boomed through the car’s speakers.

  “Cake or yeast?” Brent asked, after a period of silence.

  “Huh?”

  “Donuts. This is important. Keep up. Cake or yeast.”

  Travis couldn’t help smiling. “Yeast. With icing. And sprinkles.”

  “Filled or unfilled?”

  “Hmm. That’s a hard one. Both—and I won’t turn down lemon filled if I have a chance.”

  “Coffee. Flavored or unflavored?”

  Travis made a face. “I’ll drink pretty much anything that hasn’t been on the burner all night.”

  “Yeah, me too. But now and again, vanilla is a nice splurge,” Brent confided.

  “Hamburger or hot dog?” Travis lobbed back.

  “It depends on the toppings,” Brent replied, pretending to think about it. “I want bacon and cheddar with onions and pickle on the burger, or blue cheese and onion straws. Otherwise, a footlong with chili and onions.”

  “Now I’m hungry,” Travis said. “But at least you’ve established we can stand to eat in the same places.”

  Brent grinned. “Hey, I was a cop. We think with our stomachs.”

  Brent had plenty of questions he wanted to ask about demons and the priesthood, but since he didn’t feel like reciprocating the scrutiny just now, he kept them to himself. Instead, they chatted about the music and the weather, quibbled over pizza toppings and brands of beer and agreed that the only real football teams were the Steelers and the Nittany Lions. Brent had gotten off to worse starts with partners back in his police days, so he counted the unlikely camaraderie as a win.

  The conversation gave him a chance to take Travis’s measure when they weren’t fighting for their lives. Growing up in the South, Brent had known plenty of clergy—although, admittedly not priests—but Travis didn’t remind
him of any of them. Despite the Latin and the liturgies, Travis seemed more like a soldier than he did the Army chaplains or small town pastors Brent remembered. Travis had dropped some of the defensiveness Brent had picked up on in their first encounter and seemed genuinely interested in partnering to bring down whatever big bad was causing the problem. For as much as Brent really hadn’t been looking for someone to ride shotgun, he couldn’t argue that this union made sense, and he’d already seen proof that Travis could watch his back.

  I’m sure we’ll find ways to irritate the fuck out of each other eventually, Brent thought, sipping his now-cold coffee from the travel mug. His own record with partners in the military and with the police hadn’t been sterling. Then again from their encounters so far, Travis already had seen enough to know that Brent was quick-tempered, impulsive, and unpredictable—and suggested teaming up anyhow. And he can talk to Danny. If Brent needed any additional reason to agree to work together, that was it.

  “Let’s hit that place after we do the interview,” Travis said, jostling Brent out of his thoughts. He looked up in time to spot a small mom-and-pop dairy isle. “I bet they serve killer pizza burgers and onion rings—and soft serve.”

  Brent grinned. “You’re on.”

  Travis pulled up in front of an unassuming yellow house along a quiet side street in Snowshoe. The small flower garden, neat picket fence, and trimmed lawn were the epitome of Americana.

  “This is it,” he said, double checking the GPS on his phone. “Aisha Anderson vanished from a convenience store at the highway exit two weeks ago. She was eighteen. People saw her step out for a smoke break, but she never came back in. The security camera showed her getting into a black truck, but didn’t get the plates.”

  “So what do you think the family can tell us that we don’t already know?” Brent asked as he got out of the car.

  “We won’t know until we hear it,” Travis replied. “But there’s got to be a connection to everything else that’s going on.”