Demon Master 2 (The Demon Master Series)

by Daniel Pierce

  Karen pulled back to look, really look at the beauty before her, and asked, “Maybe I am, what?”

  Elizabeth smiled in an almost predatory, but not frightening manner. More like an invitation, and said, “Too human. And that is something, dear, that I am uniquely qualified to fix.”

  10

  Florida: Ring

  The last of the lingering diners left near eleven, their departure dropping Blue’s restaurant into a state of collective exhalation, and we were idly twirling glasses when Blue walked Anxo and Patricio to the table then excused herself to handle closing duties with a final, meaningful glance. I felt a palpable shift in the dynamic of our space at the presence of these two men, and I wasn’t truly sure I understood what it meant. There was the feeling associated with meeting someone who had, until then, existed only in my legends, but it was more than that, as they became much more real by the simple act of standing there smiling slightly at us as we all wondered for a moment what to do next.

  “Did you really chase Hector around Troy three times, or was that just so much bullshit?” Risa asked Anxo innocently. She really knows how to break the ice. Patricio inclined his head and they both sat, not entirely on edge at her comment but less than chummy.

  “This is the first time we’ve been recognized in, what? Sixty years?” Patricio, or Patroclus, as we now knew, asked Achilles in his deep, mellow voice.

  Achilles ignored the question and stared at me from under lowered lids, his thoughts unknown at that moment.

  “Did you know”—he poured wine for all of us in a display of manners that belied the tension of the table—“that until only recently, royalty were quite often the finest soldiers, bar none, within their respective armies?”

  Risa spoke as our resident historian. “Of course, but a cynic might say that condition was only due to their superior diet and medical care, such as it was, along with other factors that only wealth could grant in times of turmoil and war.”

  “And near constant starvation, one bad harvest away,” Wally added.

  Patroclus corrected her, serene in his assurance that there was much more to antiquity than we knew. “I’ve been performing corrective battlefield surgeries for over three thousand years. I gave the same level of care to whomever I could treat, and believe me, my opportunities were virtually limitless. Do not be misinformed about the prevalence of barbaric stupidity among the populace of the ancient world.”

  Achilles’ expression confirmed this skill, as he had no doubt been the benefit of such ministrations, if the legends were true. I wasn’t certain I could disbelieve anything they might claim at this point.

  He looked into his glass and slowly elaborated. “Hector was the finest fighter I had seen, and among the very best to walk the earth. He was tall, with a long reach, brilliant with the short spear, and even better with the sword. He could kill with a staff or a bow, anything. I saw him outside his high walls, fighting and holding back an entire line of Greeks with a bullwhip and a long knife; he was an athlete of rare occurrence and a fine adversary.”

  “And yet you beat him,” I stated flatly.

  “I did, but not because of skill or even luck. I was already well into my physical change by that campaign, and Hector wounded me twice, both which should have been mortal, but of course I withdrew, and Patroclus was there— you see, we did not disabuse the notion that Patroclus could heal like a god. It saved us from unwanted questions that we could not bear during a long, bitter war in which we were hard-pressed to maintain our hold on the sands.” Achilles was more humble than I expected, given his legend. “I regretted seeing his fine form in the dust, truly. He was a good father as well. I have killed many fathers. And sons.” He finished and then looked at us. “And you, Ring? If I am any judge, you do the cutting among your household, yes? When there is work to be done?”

  “I do,” I admitted.

  Patroclus poured more wine quietly. “And how many fathers and sons have you killed, Ring?”

  “None.” That got their attention as I saw both men deciding whether I was an intentional liar or merely stupid.

  Then the dawning on Patroclus’ face revealed that he understood. “You only kill immortals, and thus, in your estimation, that makes you innocent of murder since those souls, like us, have lost the connection to their human lives and selves? Am I correct, or is that crediting you with too much introspection?”

  “In a word, yes.” I didn’t elaborate as there was no need.

  Achilles laughed then, a warm bellow that was friendly and helped to detoxify the atmosphere a bit. “You are direct, and that I find agreeable.” He toasted me from across the table. I returned the gesture and began to relax, but only just. “You’re correct; of course, the majority of immortals are less than savory characters. I think—sorry,”—he tapped Patroclus on the hand—“we think that, perhaps, having someone to anchor oneself through the millennia acts as a bulwark against depravity. Again, it’s only a theory because there are so few immortals who aren’t wanton killers. Or worse.”

  “We know,” Risa deadpanned. “We’ve rarely made friends with your kind. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Achilles allowed as graciously as possible given the context. “Still, given your obvious advances from so many successful kills, at some point, won’t you be committing fratricide?”

  I wasn’t certain how he knew we were changing as our unusual career advanced, but there it was, and it was pointless to deny it.

  Risa spoke first. “We’ll know it when we reach that point, but we’re nowhere close, and I am of the opinion that particular event, should it ever occur, is in the distant future.”

  I changed the tack of the discussion with something that troubled me. “Chef Patroclus,” I began, “how did you design such a wonderful amusement of oysters for my particular tastes?” A little flattery couldn’t hurt, even if he had been hearing it for thirty centuries or more, the lucky bastard.

  “So you approve of whimsy at that table?” Patroclus asked me, laughing.

  Wally and Risa both joined him, and then Wally added, “I was very happy to have him eating a man’s balls for a change. Even if it was the jewels of Russian royalty.”

  “But you said you loved doing that, dearest. In fact—”Risa interrupted me with a tiny fist in my shoulder. Apparently, my grooming wasn’t up to standard, and I made a mental note to look into professional help because I wasn’t allowing either of them near my tender parts with anything sharp after that comment.

  Patroclus waved dismissively. “I had help, of course, from your friend. What is her current name?”

  “Delphine,” Wally and Risa answered instantly, flatly, and in unison.

  Patroclus and Achilles smiled at me.

  “Quite a departure from her actual name, but I doubt that tongue has been spoken since the war for the Channel Islands. The first war, that is,” Patroclus said. “That would have been around—and I’m reaching a bit here as the mirror of time is foggy tonight, perhaps the third Christian century?”

  Achilles gave his assent with a single grunt, reaching for the wine yet again. He could put it away, and without any outward effects. I’d hate to see the immortal legend in a drunken bar brawl.

  “Out of curiosity, what was her name? Her first name?” Risa asked.

  Patroclus thought and spoke slowly, as if to enunciate a word he had not used in some time. “Andiarka. A lovely name for a woman who met challenges that would have killed most men.” He held up his hands in a universal placatory gesture. “Not that I do not understand the state of affairs between your divergent interests, oh, yes, she has been quite clear in how she came to know Ring, and the reasons behind such an action.”

  “Which are?” Wally asked dryly.

  “Far more altruistic than you might think. You see, unlike Andiarka, excuse me, Delphine, well, we have spent the greatest part of our existence running to conflict rather than away. Our motivation is quite simple. Achilles has the ability to end conflicts
in the most nascent state, saving men and families, and oftentimes, empires.” Patroclus waved a hand at Achilles. “I, of course, went to heal. To learn as well, but primarily to guard Achilles against the mystics and zealots who would shriek about heresy every time they saw him survive a minor wound. You must understand, in some of these cesspools passing as kingdoms, even the kings dined with hands so filthy that it physically sickened me just to see them eat. Not everyone was fastidious, and the less learning, the filthier a society remained, leading to endless gods who they credited for everything from sneezes to famine. Often, those fools became so enthralled with their own localized pantheon that you couldn’t take a piss without rolling snake bones to find favor with some minor deity.”

  “It’s true,” Achilles began. “I once had to sacrifice a duck just to buy a pair of sandals.” He shrugged with the memory as we chuckled in amusement at the realities that living for so long could reveal.

  Risa was thinking deeply, and then she asked Patroclus first, “So you approve of her attempt to seize control of the underworld? Or wherever that kingdom exists?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Fully. I—excuse me, we—have had dealings with some of the middle management among the gods. They dwell in rarified air and aren’t to be taken lightly.”

  “Excuse me, gods?” I asked, stunned. This was new.

  “Gods, indeed. Oh, there are minor deities, more like local constables, but gods nonetheless, and they’re rather easy to handle, especially for us. They generally want very little other than control over their territory, maybe the occasional bauble, but not a terrible burden. It’s the major ones who are dangerous and irritating.” Patroclus seemed incredibly calm in spite of the topic. He and Achilles must be very formidable when working together.

  Achilles put his glass down and adopted a cringe of regret. “I fought Ares twice and never got even. She’s a total ballbuster as you Americans might say.”

  “The god of war is female?” Wally was incredulous; it went against our mythical assumptions.

  Achilles shook his head. “And how. A big woman, originally a Pacific Islander before she took office, so to speak. She has her teeth filed to points and fights with a pair of teak oars embedded with obsidian along the edges. She’s fast, strong, and wakes up in a rage. I was lucky to fight her to a draw, and the second time we danced, I cheated—I had Patroclus hamstring her from a distance with a new toy we acquired from an Aboriginal friend. Damned good throw there.” He winked. It must have been a rather dicey fight, given the breezy description. “The entire misunderstanding was over ownership of a small island chain that we needed for our shipping interests.”

  “Which islands?” Risa asked, wondering.

  Achilles paused to remember. “Now you call them the Canaries, but at the time of our dustup, we knew them by their Roman name, the Canarii.”

  I had to admit, gods seemed to do things on a scale that boggled the mind. And it seemed immortals fought amongst themselves and over earthly possessions and apparently engaged in legitimate business interests, some of which were a true surprise. These revelations were not what one might think dinner with Achilles and Patroclus would reveal.

  Risa was still curious, I could tell, but Wally dove in first. “Then you know about Elizabeth?”

  There was a chill over the table as sure as if a winter wind had blown in an open door. Patroclus nodded. “Yes. We have known Elizabeth, as she currently calls herself, for some time. In truth, since our second century. She predates us by an immensity of time, and she is an entirely different species of creature. I find her personally revolting for many reasons; Achilles hates her for the sheer pointlessness of her hobbies.”

  “How can we learn more about her?” I asked.

  Patroclus blew out a thoughtful breath. “If it were me, I’d ask a priest.”

  11

  Florida: Ring

  I found Father Kevin playing basketball on the grounds of St. Maurice’s church, dressed in gym clothes and relentlessly pursuing the ball after his rare misses. He was an inch taller than me, lean and built like a natural athlete. I walked up with my hand out, which he took in a firm grip and said hello, adding a genuine smile.

  “Father Kevin? I’m Ring Hardigan. Would you mind if I asked you for a small theology lesson?” I asked him directly as there was no sense lying to a man of God. He had keen eyes despite his smile, and I sensed an intellect that would smell bullshit from ten pews away.

  “Love to. It’s part of my job, but would you mind starting the discussion here, outside, and then, if I’ve not answered your questions fully, we can go to someplace to talk?”

  “Even better. Mind if I shoot?” Basketball, sunshine, and the architecture of defeating Satan. A typical Floridian afternoon.

  He effortlessly dunked the ball, then tossed it to me and put his hands on his hips. Despite being over forty, he was in excellent condition. I wondered what he had done before the seminary because he looked far more athletic than scholarly. When he saw my expression, he explained.

  “You’re wondering why I’m here, at St. Maurice, because your preconceptions make it a challenge for you to accept me as a priest, when all of the clergy are bookish, sometimes charmless and soft, right?” He smiled to take the sting from his words, but he was deadly accurate.

  “I played college volleyball and was on my way to a paycheck from playing professionally at the beach. I was in a tournament, maybe nineteen—no, twenty years ago, nearing the height of my potential, as an athlete, that is.” He paused and dribbled twice, hard, then went on. “It was at Manhattan Beach. There was a kid, round as a bowling ball, sweating bullets in the sun but smiling all the while. He was with his parents, who were a bit older than the rest of the crowd, but they were mere feet away from the serve line. I still remember his goofy smile, lopsided but so honest. Perfect, really, the way only kids can smile, without guile.”

  As he spoke, I knew the boy was dead. I was saddened by that fact, and it fell upon me like a shadow I had passed under.

  “It was the second game. I took my eyes off my serve for a second because I saw motion, and then I looked over at this kid, this stranger, and he’s totally blue, choking in a crowd of people around him, and no one had seen.” He stopped dribbling and held the ball, reliving the moment. It required his full attention. “I yelled at— his parents? Him? Everyone, I guess, I didn’t know how to save him, and a throng of people who did know went to work without hesitation. There were several people who were obviously cool under pressure, the real kind of pressure, not just hitting a serve or digging for a point so I could get paid to buy a Jeep. Real pressure. Too real.” He paused and I saw him dragging the memory backward so as not to lose control of it. “He died, right there, surrounded by a crowd, in the sun, with gulls crying out and people sobbing, and when they carried him away, for the first time in my entire life, I wondered what would happen next, for him. What about his soul? Do you understand?”

  “I do.” And I did.

  “So”—he shot the ball again, quickening his pace as he finished his tale—“I decided that night, if I could not have saved that boy’s life, then I would learn how to save his soul, and the next time, I would be ready. I entered the seminary that fall, and I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life.”

  “I understand. You knew that there was more to him than met the eye.”

  “Exactly, Ring. There is so much more to humanity than we see, and I aim to discover what I can in order to save whoever I can.” He said this with the air of a man who has found his true north in every possible way. “But enough about my theological transformation from beach bum to priest. What can I do for you?”

  “I have a question about something that, well, it isn’t really hypothetical, but I would like to find out historical facts, or maybe just your opinion?”

  “I assure you, I will treat your question as if we are discussing the sun itself. We can see and feel the sun, but it is difficult to quantify, in h
uman terms at least, but we know it is there, just as God is present because we are alive, aren’t we, and gloriously so?” he inquired. It was a short, easy analogy that he must have delivered before, but it didn’t sound canned, just thoughtful. I decided I liked Father Kevin.

  “I guess. I’m not entirely sure that I’m even capable of understanding such a thing. I know my limitations. It’s one of my strengths, along with finding good partners, who suggested I come see you about my, or rather, a question.”

  “Knowing limitations is hardly strength, Ring. It’s an instinct.” He seemed certain. “Look, we’re creatures of God, but we’re still creatures. I get that, and so, when we talk about certain abilities, calling them an instinct isn’t a refutation of the Lord, it’s a confirmation of our physical makeup. Do you follow?”

  “I—yes. I do.”

  “Well, now that we’ve cleared up two millennia of questions about the composition of the human soul, what’s your question?” He laughed easily at such a grandiose notion. It did seem improbable, but it may have been the heat.

  “What if I told you an evil . . . being, person, let’s say, was following a pattern where they gathered people around them to use. To use completely, exploiting them via the weaknesses that have made them sad or lonely or maybe even suicidal.”

  “I take it we’re not speaking of Lucifer because you would have said so.”

  “Correct,” I said. “It’s not the devil, or however you want to identify the devil, I guess.”

  He inclined his head, indicating I should continue while sitting on the ball in order to give me his full attention, or at least more of the appearance of that kind of focus. I sat down on the sun-scorched court and stretched my legs, keeping them carefully off the concrete. It reminded me a bit too much of Elizabeth.

  “These people who are being promised something, a sort of station or position, and then they are killed, not just physically, but their souls, too.”