Demon Master 2 (The Demon Master Series)

by Daniel Pierce

  It was rhetorical. Enoch had known many women, and rarely bothered to learn their names, let alone look at their eyes unless he craved visual confirmation of his dominance. Whether her eyes sparkled or not was often irrelevant since so much of Enoch’s pursuits were done in darkened clubs. He shook his head warily.

  “No, of course you don’t,” Elizabeth quipped, removing her gloves. “I spoke to her recently. She was positively effusive about you and your—what was the term, Joseph?”

  “Attitude while fucking,” Joseph answered matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, that. So crass. In any case, she mentioned that you beat her nearly unconscious and forced her to declare you . . . I am so sorry for my memory today. Joseph, what was she told to say?”

  “The god of fucking,” Joseph spoke again.

  “There’s that word again. Well, then. Let’s put that to the test, shall we? Joseph?” She raised a brow, and Enoch found himself clubbed savagely in the side of the head. Ears ringing, Joseph struck him again, forearm to temple, and flashing curtains of light descended on Enoch’s vision like aurora borealis. He staggered under the second blow as his senses flagged and he heard the distinct snick of something metal being opened.

  “Hold him. I want him upright and still. If he struggles, strike him in the kidney this time, but do not kill him.” Her voice was like iron and stone.

  Enoch could not even muster a proper panic as he was disabled and partially stripped of his clothing in mere seconds. His slacks were ripped away by a small but powerful hand, and the sensation of cooler air wafted over his manhood.

  Elizabeth’s voice was at his ear as his vision began to clear, and he smelled something dead on her breath, like the rank dredging of an ancient ocean. “I want you to know, Doctor, I have been waiting for this moment. Bringing you to heel has been the sweetest nectar of this past century.”

  Enoch felt her fingers busily place the Negwenya around his flaccid penis, which swiftly retracted under a woman’s touch for the first time in his depraved existence. It was of no use; the bronze and gems snugged against him as a cry of fear escaped, shifting his confident baritone into a weak falsetto. She changed the object somehow. It seemed so much smaller, like it was adapting to him.

  “Yessssss . . ..” she hissed, tasting his fear and finding it to her liking. “So close now. The cold metal is so ordinary for a man of your stature. Bronze? Why, there are doorknobs made of finer material, and yet your own treasures are at the mercy of such a humble alloy. Well, to clarify, you are at the mercy of the metal and me.”

  Her hand closed like a vise, and Enoch’s pride, his source of rendering women and men mere servants of his desire fell away, the flesh parting without resistance. Enoch gasped, only to be clubbed again by Joseph, whose hand flickered like lightning and ended with a meaty thump on his skull.

  “Stand him up.” She ordered, and Enoch was slammed against the workbench as his lifeblood began to pulse down his legs. Now Elizabeth smiled, a truly horrific sight on a face flushed with lust and hate. She dragged a finger down Enoch’s nose and motioned to Joseph, who let their victim fall to the concrete.

  “I think that nearly concludes our stay here, Joseph. Close up for me, won’t you?” she said, pulling her gloves back on and waving with her fingertips at Enoch, who was fading fast. She smirked and held one hand on the door. “I’ve never seen a god die before. I thought it would be more . . . arousing. Goodbye, Doctor.”

  Joseph drove his foot down on Enoch’s face, whose shame fled alongside his last breath.

  49

  New Orleans: Ring

  We stepped off the plane in Kenner to be greeted with punishing humidity and a light drizzle.

  “As if I need more curls in my hair,” Risa grumbled, and Wally patted her head in a smoothing motion. Risa batted the hand away and frowned, and then her ire focused on me. “What if we can’t save them all, Ring? What then?” Softness flooded her voice, and I understood why. People ended up dead around Elizabeth. It was a fact. They also ended up dead around us. Between those two uncomfortable facts, things were grim for the souls we were supposed to have come here to save.

  Lugging our carry-ons, Wally wondered, “Do we know she is here?”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. It hadn’t even occurred to me to think that Elizabeth might hide or run.

  “I really don’t know. Hell, I just assumed she would want this thing over to eat us or whatever it is she has in mind, unless there’s something else she could want?”

  We shrugged collectively and went to cab over to the hotel. We had booked a very private, well-hidden hotel in the general vicinity of where we knew the Archangels were staying or being held, if that was the case. My instincts said the latter, but Wally had disagreed from the very beginning. She knew that humanity was a mixed bag, and for every core of decency to be found in Elizabeth’s victims, there would be a truly bad seed. Risa suspected Wally was right, and in truth the logic was sound, since at least one of the Archangels would, at the very minimum, be a truly corrupt spirit.

  The cab was stuffy and smelled of rain and a dirty city. I watched drops roll along the window in pulsing, erratic patterns as we careened along the curving road that left the airport and none of us said a word. I planned on dumping our gear, taking a single backpack with a medical kit, and walking to Delphine’s home. I wanted time to clear my head of the tinny roar and dry air of the airplane, and to be truthful, I wanted a few minutes of just the three of us and no interruptions.

  Our room had a private, first-floor patio, and I didn’t bother to see the specifics, but the general impression was one of sumptuous wealth. If I lived, we would all take advantage of the enormous tub and beds, but for now, my eyes were locked straight ahead as we walked, just the three of us in a warm, pattering rain. The city took no notice of us, although being on a leafy side street helped add to that state. Risa slipped her fingers in mine, and Wally put a protective hand on the back of my arm. For the moment, I could have closed my eyes and they would guide me, safely, like a ship to harbor, but I knew that the illusion would fade when the gray light of day hit my eyes.

  “We will be with you, very close by,” Risa began. “Will you promise to listen to me if I say you must leave the room? If I feel that it is too much?”

  Wally echoed the sentiment earnestly, but I shook my head slowly.

  “I’m not sure I will be able to hear you, but even if I do, I don’t want you speaking. Not a word. That will be the really hard part.” I stared ahead as thy both protested.

  “Why, dammit?” Wally demanded.

  “Think about it, please,” I implored them. “I think, I mean, I’m not really sure, but I guess I’ll be fighting memories, ghosts, whatever. Do you think it’s a good idea to let your voices mix with the things I am seeing and hearing?”

  Wally gasped slightly, and Risa just nodded sagely as she understood the threat. “Right, you could think that we . . .”

  “. . . are enemies. My visitors from the past, my sins, call it what you want. I can’t risk that, so you have to remain completely quiet, no matter what happens. Promise me, please, because the alternative is even worse than you can imagine.”

  “Worse? How?” Wally was dubious.

  “I could live. And I could think, every time I hear or see you, I could be dragged back into this—relic. This graveyard of loss. And don’t want to live like that.”

  Before I could say anything further, Risa tugged at my hand. “We’re here.”

  Here was a stunning white two-story home set behind a black iron fence filled to bursting with a hedge. A riot of scarlet blooms covered the border, with looming oaks overhead and palm trees in between. The balconies were hemmed in the same ornate wrought iron, and the windows were all covered with Roman shades. I pushed on the gate, and it swung open to allow us access to the stone walkway.. “It’s quiet,” Wally stated, peering through the nearest window.

  “Try this.” Risa handed me a key. “Kevin came back to th
e house and said he forgot to give it to us. Delphine handed it to him after confession. He said it was a rather uncomfortable moment until she explained what her intentions were.”

  I laughed, grateful for the break in tension. A little levity seemed to go a long way in situations like these. “Ready?”

  Both of my partners looked at me with wry smiles. No one likes their loved ones in pain, and yet we stepped over the threshold together, just as we did everything. Except for what was coming. For the next steps, I would go alone.

  The doors to Delphine’s bedroom were tall, square, and solid, two unbroken sections of white wood with ancient blackened handles, but they swung inward at my lightest touch, almost as if the room itself expected me. Like it’s hungry for me, I mused. That can’t be good. Risa touched me wistfully and I let my head roll on my shoulders, back and forth, and then took two deep breaths. Wally stood to the left, Risa to the right. Before us stretched a circular room perhaps twenty-five feet in diameter, free of windows or doors save the one in which we stood. The walls were painted a soft blue, and there was a fireplace directly across from my vantage point at the door.

  On the mantle sat a single photograph in which Delphine held what looked like a breadfruit. Behind her, an African sunset framed her like a halo. It was luminous, clearly taken by a professional, and in it she seemed to be debating the next century of her life. A shadow of regret creased the edges of her eyes, and I knew that the man who had taken that photo was dead, killed by her hand. Delphine must have left bones enough behind her to build a bridge to the moon, but even so, we would save her soul by vindicating her in this life or another. The floor was as impressive as I hoped, given that it had caused death. Inlaid circles of well-worn, dark wood were interrupted by what seemed to be random, smooth pebbles, as if a stream bed had been covered over tastefully by a dance floor. In the middle of the room sat a tall bed covered in a dark blue comforter, adorned only with bold white thread at the edges. It was deceptively simple, made of black iron, and there was a single pillow perched in a lonely post at the top. A nightstand of ancient cherry wood rose next to the bed, and on it rested a leather book. A diary. I knew it in my marrow. That was it. My goal, my purpose for being here, for attempting to thwart magic and a life of regret. I sucked in a deep breath one more time and let it out in a hiss, then stepped onto the floor with one hesitant foot.

  50

  The Archangel Davis

  His footsteps echoed in the house. There was nothing alive here. It was like an abandoned museum, and Davis felt the beginning of a chill dance along his spine. A ticking hum broke the utter silence of the house, and he turned his head to stare at the lone item of furnishings, if you could call it that. A large upright freezer stood oddly in the middle of the living room. An orange extension cord crossed the hardwood and vanished around the corner, but other than that, there was no sign of human habitation whatsoever. Joseph had driven him here personally, saying that his guest was waiting, but the feel of the home, even in the bustle of New Orleans, was more tomblike than anything else.

  “Hello?” His voice met walls and died after a brief echo on the floors. No answer. He called again, louder, and began to step forward. The compressor came to a calm stop, and then the quiet deepened and Davis heard a pair of muffled thumps from upstairs.

  Again, the silence returned, and he noticed that there were scratches grooving the wood in front of the freezer. Someone is going to be pissed when they see that floor, he thought, then cautiously opened the freezer. Just what the hell is this thing doing here? And who lives here? For that matter, what am I doing here? His thoughts ran unbidden as he pulled at the handle and the door gave after a brief tussle.

  The misty interior was devoid of shelves, but the freezer was not empty, and that’s when he noticed the blood. Crystals of frozen, red fluid pooled on the bottom of the interior, rimmed with ice and puckered with impacts from recent deposits. Something is dripping. Abject terror grabbed him and locked his legs like columns under an ancient statue. His breath came in panicked gulps, and he inhaled sharply. Jesus, Davis, it’s only a freezer. Calm the fuck down. Chastising himself roughly had the intended effect, and he opened his eyes. Hanging in the freezer were shapes. No beasts, just shapes, white cloth, like a cheesecloth but tighter. Meat? He unhooked one of the objects and rested it on his knee, pulling gently at the upper wrapping, which had loosened upon being released from the tension of holding the minor weight aloft.

  And then the world went sideways. An eye, bright blue and round looked out at him from the bundle. He gave a single, savage tug at the rest of the cloth and revealed a tiny shoulder ending in a hand, pulled into the body in a pose that made him scream with insanity as he held the baby to his chest and poured every ounce of air his lungs could hold into a savage bellow of absolutely blistering despair.

  “Dear God. Dear God,” he wheezed, collapsing to his knees as the frozen, salt-rimed child dropped from his hands. He began clawing his face, crushed by the sight before him. He wondered why Joseph had brought him here, and sobbed without ceasing as his head eventually touched the cool floor, then he vomited in reaction to the carnage before him. After long, aching minutes, he began to breathe normally and consider just what in God’s name he would do.

  And then he noticed a smell. Like a mossy crypt, it was blighted, wet, and decrepit; it spoke of disease and decay. The stench intensified and he became aware of someone, or something, standing behind him.

  “Honey.” The voice cast foul air reeking of death over him. It was the voice of dying children and sin and all of the damnation that had ever been. “I’ve missed you so.”

  He turned and there stood Rudy, magnificent in his decomposition, utterly nude, and putrescent with the rot of age. His tongue slid from the side of his mouth over teeth that hung doggedly in a jaw of white bone, and his hands reached out with a rickety waving. Davis lashed out with his fist and left nothing behind; the months of shame and hatred came to bear as his knuckles crushed Rudy’s nose and skull in an explosive splat, toppling the ghoul over to lie completely still. Shaking in near disbelief, Davis rose and pulled the heavy freezer over to crush what had once been the beautiful boy Rudy, but was now a noxious pile of cannibalistic ooze.

  Davis Paladino, born a gentle, loving soul, felt steel growing in his spine, and he wiped his hands of the sour gore on a curtain as he left. Someone did this to the children, and I will find them. Rage boiled in him, red and pure, and he thought, not even God can save them from me now.

  51

  New Orleans: Ring

  My hands slid from the doorframe as my foot tapped the floor at the conclusion of a halting step. Nothing, I thought, and chanced a look at Risa, who was squatting three feet back from the entrance, but dead center in the doorway. We had no reason to disbelieve Delphine when she said the floor was totally fatal for women. Hell—it was magic, as if we understood anything about that, and one of us taking a risk of this magnitude was plenty. Wally stood behind, her arms folded in anger and fear, and I smiled slightly and brought my other foot down and—

  —oh son, he didn’t feel it at all, I promise, my father’s voice sifted upward from beneath me, soft and insistent and inside my head. He’s going to heaven with all of the other pets that people love, I promise, and the lie cut so deeply because I knew, just knew that it was bullshit. I was ten years old and well past the point that I was blind to that kind of thing, and then Tucker squealed once, a long, low canine noise of such pain that it was like I had been the one hit by the car—I’ll just take him over there to rest. Trust me, he’ll be peaceful. He isn’t hurting, son. You have to trust me—and then seeing the earth clawed to hell from where Tucker’s paws had kicked in his death throes, my dad too gentle or cowardly to put him down—and oh it hurts. Why does it hurt? Why does he walk away—

  And then my foot hits again, a full stride closer but slightly off to the side as I staggered under the weight of the first memory—

  —You’re shitti
ng me? Never? What are you, some kind of fag?—and Dave takes his fist and punches me in the balls so hard I puke as I try to tell him I don’t want to do it. I don’t want him to see him kill the kitten, and then he raises his foot again and kicks even harder and I feel my bladder go loose as the hot piss stains my shorts and their voices are ringing—What a fucking pussy! He pissed himself! He pissed himself!—and I’m reaching for them to help me up, but one of them unzips his pants and I feel the stream of urine splash in my hair, and I cry, and scream for my parents and think about what will happen when school starts again in the fall—

  —and now I really am in danger of pissing myself and my foot hits wildly again. I’ve stepped too far. I lean precariously and feel myself falling—You didn’t really think that I wanted you to talk, did you?—her laugh is wet and stinks of liquor and she pulls my faced into her enormous bosom, pulling a ponderous titty out and shoving it in my mouth—My little baby, she slurs, my own little baby with a cock to play with—and when I protest she laughs again, pure evil, and says who are they gonna believe, you . . . or me— and her hand goes down his pants, and he thinks he can hear his mother in the other room, laughing with his other aunts at the baby shower—

  —and then I do fall, hard, and my face cracks against this goddamned floor with enough force to clear my head, if only for a moment, and I see that I’m only a single step away, but I cannot make myself roll over to reach. The tears have won, my muscles are seizing, and I feel blood running freely from my nose, but I don’t think it’s from the impact. I am being killed with memory, each single image a knife of shame so sharp and pure that I nearly welcome it into me, and then I look back and Risa is crying, Wally looks green, and they both avert their eyes in what looks to me like dismissal, and my failure buries me in a torrent of all that I have ever done wrong, and all that I was too weak to resist. I buck with a keening that sounds like someone else and realize that the skin on both hands is worn off, but I can’t recall how. Please, let me do this, I ask to anyone who will listen, and in a wretched moment, something answers.